Azi watched the young lord as he swung again at the keep door. "Stay back there, girl," he had shouted over his shoulder at her as he rushed forward with the most seasoned warriors.


So there she stood, outside the outer door of Dun Crauchon, looking in longingly at the action, casting occasional enchantments on anyone with a sword or sheild. She picked him out from time to time, the blue chevron on his back easy to spot in the confusion of melee.


Normally, her heart would be soaring with glee at the thought of the devastated elven faces as they watched thier keep fall under Albion's great army. She sighed inwardly and made a quick gesture toward a passing paladin. Her mind was elsewhere tonight. She spotted Crispian again through the crowd. Her thoughts drifted to thier conversation in Camelot two days ago, of D'vena. It had to end, and by his own hand.

The pygmies screamed across the clearing again. It had been thus all day. Master Toorc, the other Seneschal to the League, would hurl some sort of magic at the tree the bloodthirsty creatures hovered near and than come running back toward the safe-point. Sanicca, skilled sorcerer of the Guardians of Val San Retour, would throw out a cloud of magic to stun the rushing mob, and then the work began. Kromly and Darnyk, both Marshals of the League, would spring forward with Crispian to meet them; pole-arm, staff, and sword at the ready. Mercurilius and Mandreland would stealth and strike. They came consistently in crowds of fifteen to twenty, and time again they ripped them apart. For the longest while, there was no healer save Darnyk, but the group had such mastery over the horde that it mattered little.

“Make at the Ready!” Toorc called to them, hands moving in spell work. He had much practice at summoning foes with his element pets and had been doing so for many campaigns.

“Think you can sober up enough to fight?” Kromly scowled, his one eye glinting in the dim-light.

Crispian glowered as his Marshal, a man he himself had bestowed the rank upon. “I am not too drunk to fight,” he muttered as he loosened his sword from the scabbard.

“Tis a change, then,” Kromly countered, hefting his polearm. “Ye be drinkin’ enough for Leftie,” he quipped as they braced for the rush of pygmies. “And he be a seasoned drinker, pup!” he continued, even as his great polearm smashed into the head of a pygmy goblin.

Crispian, turning a blow aimed at Kromly on his shield, glowered at the tall highlander. “My drink is my issue!” he blurted, sword taking a goblin down with a second blow. “And none of yours.” The thwack and noise of battle was high as they worked to dispatch a dozen or more of the little fiends before Sanicca’s stunning spell could wear off. Some did streak past and toward the casters, but Mercilius and Manderland were both upon them before a swipe of their small blades could cut the cloth of the casters’ robes.

“Just see it don’t ruin thee, lad,” Kromly said gravely as the last of this batch fell. “Yer a good lad, and a good leader. Keep yer head about ye,” he advised, hand coming down on Crispian’s shoulder, who was glad for his helm to cover how his face colored. He nodded briskly in assent and made ready for the next fight, not continuing the conversation at all.

Azi still had not arrived as the sun sank into the pool that covered much of the land of Lyonesse, long shattered and fallen. Crispian grew worried, but a few tankards took the edge off. He did not feel the insistent pressure of D’Vena on his mind and could not decide if that was for good or ill. He knew nothing had been actively done to relieve him of his torments, but still she was, for the moment at least, gone. The night passed uneasily, with many more rushes of the tiny beasts being put down. Kromly left for Darkness Falls to slay demons, and his spot was soon filled at the hunt, for many valued the learning of this place for tight-combat styles. It could make a difference on the frontier.

Mid-day of the second day in Lyonesse, the party pulled up stakes and journeyed back to the Yardley’s huts. Horses could be gotten there and the farmers were keen traders, taking in items from the fell creatures in the area in exchange for coin. Excepting a few small items of great value, and a piece of chainmail he thought a guild-member might want, Crispian sold everything. He begged time of the group to ride north and spend some time with the trainer of Armsmen at the Retreat of Lord Adribald’s. Reluctantly, they agreed to keep his place in their little group and he rode north.

The Retreat stood high on a low spot in the swamp, dominating the view of the area, but the trainer of Armsmen oversaw tower guard, and so Crispian sought his training there. It turned out he had been using less force on the upswing of his amethyst slash style and he practiced correcting that. As he worked, he saw Achou, Kayspon and Jashen heading toward the shoreline south of the Retreat, a glum faced Tobyas in their train. It pained him to see the young cleric suffering so, but he could yet bring himself to act on that particular front. He redoubled his efforts in practice until the trainer nodded in satisfaction and his sparring partner, a young recruit, heaved a sigh of relief.

Sweating under his armor, he strolled across the green to the tower to visit the healer, as he had been feeling a bit worn lately and he suspected it was from a bind-stone recovery. The healer cast small magicks on him, and Crispian immediately felt much restored and ready to again take on the pygmy goblins in their Lyonesse haunt. The sun was westering already as he headed to the stables for a horse.

A group of unkempt fellows barred his path as he approached and he drew himself up. “Might I help you gentlemen?” he asked calmly, helm tucked under his left arm.

One of them, smiling a gapped toothed smile, peered closely at his boyish face and sneered. “You’re te one called Crispian, aye? Knight o’ the Realm and Liard over the League o’ St. Crispin?” he half-said and half-spat through his gapped tooth mouth. He reeked of cheap beer and stale sweat. His lank hair hung in clumps at the collar of his ragged jerkin and his boots were sprung out in at least three places. That being noted, he was the best equipped and kept of the six of them.

Crispian shifted his stance; tightening the grip on his shield but keeping his right hand clear of him. “Aye, I am that same, but lord I am not. I am chosen by the League as leader, no more,” he kept his face calm except for a slight narrowing of his cool, gray eyes. “And whom might I be addressing?” He assessed how the six were ranged and found it sloppy indeed if the one’s demeanor indicated the thoughts of them all.

The gapped-tooth man spat at Crispian’s feet, off-colored spittle spotting his gleaming mail boots. “We be hearin that ye keep company with boys, ye cretin,” he spoke with venom dripping from his tone. “But, praise the A’mighty, one ye defiled has found the church and now we be aimin’ to show ye the errors of your choices, ye cur!” He took a bold stance, legs shoulder wide and arms held out to the ready, right hand suddenly holding a dagger.

Crispian snorted. “Stand aside, sirrah. I’ll not be judged by the likes of thee or thine for the cost of the curse laid upon in good service to the King!” He moved his left arm, allowing his helm to drop to the ground as he drew his blade, reward of a quest and house of a great stunning magic. These men obviously knew little of the folly in challenging a Centurion-ranked Armsman, fully trained as Crispian was. “Now, stand aside. I warn you I shall pull no blow if you strike!”

Even as he spoke, two made to move at him from each side. Crispian did not hesitate in the slightest. With an upswing of his shield, he smashed one in the chin, shattering it from a force that would have stunned a troll or even a telamon. His sword-arm connected with the other, blade turned flat. The smack of steel on flesh-covered bone was loud and the man crumpled, his eyes unfocused and glazed. The remaining four adjusted to their losses, but Crispian was now in full combat mode, even if he used not killing force.

Gap-tooth swung his dagger up, and Crispian parried it with a negligent flip of his own blade, smacking the man upside his head. As happened in combat, the sword unleashed its magic and the man fell dead even as a companion of his was meeting the face of Crispian’s steel-skinned shield. The crumple of metal to flesh as a little quiet than the snap of the man’s nose and cheek bones and he fell with a ruined face.

The final two were backing off as Crispian turned on them, rage in his eyes. “Stand your ground!” he called, closing on them even as they back peddled. For all their foolishness, neither was stupid even to show his back to an armsman in a murderous range and that probably spared their lives. Crispian smote at each with a single blow, flat bladed still, and dropped them senseless to the ground. Not even breathing hard, he surveyed them all, one dead and five downed. Turning to the Captain of the Tower, he bowed his head. “I meant not to kill that one and place my pledge as my ransom.”

The Captain nodded. “Lord Adribald will hold inquiry, Sir Knight, and the Officers of the Court shall pass verdict,” he responded in formula. “I take your pledge as Ransom for ye to appear hear one month hence at the High Court of Lord Adribald.” He bowed his head in acceptance and broke a small grin. “I would have killed more than one for what they said, even if it be true.”

Crispian paused in putting his helm back on and met the gaze of the Captain. “It is true, as far as one is concerned, Sir.” He settled his helm as the Captain scowled in thought. “But I am no pederast or rapist, nor do I keep catamites.” He swung up into the saddle and settled his gear. “I shall be back for the Lord’s Court,” he called as he touched spurs to flank and rode south to battle.


At the camp, nothing much had changed. Sanicca, the skilled sorcerer, had left for Emain to fight with some Guardians of Val San Retour and an Earth Wizard had replaced him. The fighting continued and it was not until the next morn that Azi finally arrived. Her robe was spotted from the ride, but still she possessed every ounce of poise and grace Crispian admired. He bowed to her in greeting and she curtseyed with a small blush. “I thank thee for permitting me to come, Sire,” she said, a small smile dancing on her lips, for she knew how Crispian felt about such formalities.

“Nay, Sister, tis not my permission ye need, just a stout heart, for we shall learn much here!” he replied, giving her another slight bow. He reached for a topper of ale and caught her scowl of disapproval. With a shy blush, he passed the topper to Darnyk, who smiled.

“Thankee,” he said as he hoisted it, smacking his lips at the taste. The friar was aware of what was going on, but felt it not his place to stand between a man and God’s given ale, whatever the cause. Still, he had known Crispian for a long time and he did have his concerns.

Again the call came as the foes were summoned to the slaughter. Swords and polearms, spells and staves fought them off, and they fell. It had gotten to the point of almost too easy, even with the occasional death. In the aftermath, as they stood about, catching breath and checking gear, Crispian set a small kettle to boil and steeped some tea, noting the pleased expression on Azi’s face as she drank from a skin. He doled some honey into the mint tea, which Azi had given him in Camelot.

“Tea?” he offered Kromly, grinning slyly. A large steaming mug filled Crispian hand, replacing the topper which he was so fond of.

“Nay, I’ll stick with me ale,” he said, drinking from a well-worn travel skin. “But ye can have tea if you like, little man.” He grinned to show that no harm was meant, but Crispian still scowled slightly.

Thus did most of the day pass, the slaying of the pygmy goblins that infested Lyonesse, called forth by Morgana’s dread magicks, with pauses to refresh themselves from the labors. Soon, their camp housed ten valiant souls fighting the mobs from the east and another eight taking those from the west. The small strand they were on bristled with the beasts at almost every turn, and as it happened, they were overrun.

Darnyk had gone forward to startle some of the pygmy goblins, much to everyone surprise. He crept close in, his staff gripped tightly with a sweating hand. The low-lying land of Lyonesse was humid and there was no breeze to give him respite. He peered intently at the prey, but a few feet from him. He prepared to send a small annoying prayer its way. As he did so, he knew almost immediately that something had gone wrong. He sprung from his concealment, racing to his companions, and even as he heard Crispian’s shout of “Tangler,” it was evident that they would be overrun.

The numbers of goblins that streamed forth from the base of the tree was more than anyone of them thought had a liar here. Instead of the aggressive party of twelve to twenty that normally came forth, nearly two score scurried across the plain. They were leaping at the warriors even as they were engaged, swarming passed them and onto where the casters stood. There were shouts to flee and run, but few had time and only Azi made it clear of them, running along the lakeshore.

Dracarn and Belil, who had been with the western group, wheeled around in time to split the goblins, taking down those that made it passed Crispian and the others, stunning some with magic, dispatching others with sword blows. When all was still again, none of Crispian’s party stood among the living. Dracarn and Blodoc, a noble cleric of many campaigns, began to chant their prayers. They besieged the Almighty with pleas and supplications, and called the fallen back to life, an infusion of faith lifting them from among the ranks of the dead.

Crispian vomited. He always did after being resurrected. It was something his body did not like going through, being dead and called back to life. There had been times he had almost not heeded the call, but not this day. He had to find Azi, to have her restored to life. If he had only never called her to Lyonesse, she could be pouring over old scrolls and musty tomes. Now, they were not even sure where she had fallen. Dracarn and Crispian set out along the lakefront, and Darnyk and Kromly headed out as well, each taking a different curve of the shore when it broke beyond the spit. They ranged out, looking for her, even calling vainly in case she would answer.

As Dracarn and Crispian moved near some ruins from the Roman occupation, the pygmies struck, renting claws and blades against armor. Crispian was not yet fully recovered from his earlier mishap and fell quickly. Dracarn again summoned the holy mighty to bring him back to life, followed by a weak thank-you and more vomiting. Just as they turned northward again, they heard the sounds of fighting. The unmistakable sound of a stave breaking bone warned them that Darnyk and Kromly had been set upon. They rushed toward the sounds of battle, only to find the three bodies near to each other.

Kromly and Darnyk lie within feet of Azi, so close to completing their task it was almost heart wrenching. Dracarn bowed his head in prayer, raising a clench fist to the heavens as he prayed. Light seemed to engulf him, a pillar of white on white, and he called forth to Darnyk. In a shimmering pulse, Darnyk’s body seemed to rise from the ground, wounds closing as he weakly settled next to Dracarn, who set heavily down next to him.

“A moment,” the paladin gasped out “The Almighty says I have called on him often this day.” He bowed his head to clasped hands, praying silently, even as Darnyk pulled himself up with staff. He too prayed, moving his hands in a gathering motion, as if to show all the life that was around him. He pointed as Azi as he raised his hand open-palmed hand toward heaven. And it was done. Azi stood, shaking, then sitting, next to the friar, who greeted her with a tired smile.

“Let’s not be doing that again!” he chided good naturedly at her, one finger waggling at her. She turned an appropriate pink and curtseyed.

“Thank you, good Darnyk,” she said, rising on toes to kiss his cheek. The gruff young friar managed a smile at that even as Dracarn was again beseeching the Lord for the life of Kromly.

Soon, a tired group of five clomped back into the camp area, to be greeted by many happy faces. They rested from their ordeals for a bit, breaking out camp fare and drink, ales mostly. The stale, coarse bread and dried meats were munched in silence.

“An ale, just one,” Crispian amended quickly, looking sidelong at Azi, “would go do nicely after that.” He tried not to look at her, but found he couldn’t. There was something compelling about the way she watched over him. It was not a romantic entanglement, but rather a feeling of overwhelming care, like a surrogate motherhood. Crispian tried not to think about all the complications that could arise from that.

“If you want an ale, you can have one, Sir Crispian,” Azi said, a bit formally. Her tone carried no reproach, but rather a cautioning. It was like she was telling him that his limits were going to be his to test and find, and all she could do was point out when he went too far.

Rather awkwardly, he accepted the passed topper of ale, and drank sparingly from it. Since leaving Camelot three days ago, his headlong rush into alcoholic stupor seemed to have slowed, and he could not exactly figure out why that struck him as odd. It took him the remaining time they rested to nurse down the one tankard, and he found that it only slaked his thirst.

As they prepared for yet another rush, Yvain, a young paladin in service of the League, arrived. He bowed to Crispian, who saluted in return, and grasped Kromly’s hand warmly. “Lord, might I join thee in thy hunt?” he said, rather stiltingly. Crispian could not help but grin at the other man, a couple years his senior in age.

“Aye, there is always room at the hunt,” he said, extending his hand in greeting.

“Perhaps I should be going back to my studies,” Azi said suddenly. “I have learned much, but I feel I might be in the way.” Her sudden turn of mood caught Crispian off guard.

“Nay, Lady Azi, please stay and hunt on with us. There are many foes to fell and we learn with each how better to use our skills,” came his rushed reply. He found himself a little panicked at the idea of Azi leaving so, and that unnerved him a bit.

“I could fight with ye, lass, perhaps a bit to the side so ye can work on your spell use,” Kromly offered, his massive polearm leaning on a shoulder as he slicked his hair back and pulled arming coif up. “That way ye can still learn, and I can be protectin’ ye.” The older highlander saw through the issue better than Crispian. Azi was blaming herself in some way for the spate of deaths just past.

“I thank ye, Sir, but it is not necessary.” She was readying her packs, securing the items that they had gotten off the bodies of the pygmies that were of some small worth. “I think I might be slowing the process and the hunt.”

“Nonsense!” Kromly yelped, his highlander brogue twisting the word into a great oath. “Ye’ll be doin’ some fine learnin’ and te Realm cin always use more skilled finger-wigglers!” he declared, making it sound more like a declaration of war than mere praise for her skill. “Now, come aside wit’ me. As they summon in the foes, I’ll pick a few off from the edges and ye can support me with yer magic. If’n I be needin' healin’, Darnyk or Rhizzia can be healin’ me.”

He grabbed her elbow and pulled her aside as Darnyk again crept forward toward the goblin tree. Crispian stood to the ready, again his band was making ready for the onslaught, but he kept tossing glances over to where Azi and Kromly stood to the ready.

“Azi, I’m jealous,” chided Rhizzia, the highlander cleric who had recently joined the hunt party but had long been part of the League. Her bearing and manner did not seem very church like, and Rhizzia made little secret that her past was not that of a virginal maiden.

“Jealous?” Azi asked, a slight blushing pinking her cheeks. “Why would you be jealous, Rhizzia?”

Rhizzia smirked, the humor plain written on her face. “Kromly has never taken me aside for his individual attentions,” she quipped, giving a nearly lewd twist to the phrase, as was her want with most things.

Kromly scowled. “Tis not like that, Rhizz!” he protested, almost too quickly. “Do ye forget my lady wife?” he continued, his discomfiture at the line of exchange showing in his manner as well as his face.

“Aye, Lyndariel. I wonder what she would think,” Rhizzia prodded, enjoying her moment of setting the highlander Marshal to odds.

“It’s not like that, Rhizzia,” Crispian found himself jumping in, not wanting this gesture to be sullied. His tone was firmer than he had intended, and he caught the arching of Rhizzia’s eyebrow at him as it crept into the metal rim of her bar-nasal helm.

“Indeed not, Lord. I was only making light.” She bowed to him, but the speculative look she gave him did not change in the least.

“If you’re done bandying words, might we hunt?” Darnyk shot at them as he came running over the field, robes hiked up and saddles slapping the turf. “Tanglers!” he called loudly, and again, they fell into the fight, all side conversation ended.

During the next several hours, there was little talk. The routine ground on. More pygmies, sometimes led by a dread Tangler, who brought many with him, sometimes not. These smaller groups barely got the attention of the full party. Kromly complained repeatedly that Crispian or another had taken the foe he was fighting for Azi, and many slights were exchanged quickly, in high humor and jest.

At the end of the day, the fourth on the plains of Lyonesse, they quit the field; heading for the safety of Cornwall Station and some much needed rest. Packs were heavy with loot that would fill coin purses. Plans for training was laid in for most that had been down to the hunt.

Azi headed north to Camelot, bowing a good-bye to Crispian at the Yardley’s farm, the first place a horse could be had.

“Are you sure you have to be off?” he asked, his voice breaking against his will. He cursed himself under his breath. Twenty-three years old and still he could not sound like a full-man all the time, and Lord knew he was still often though a boy due to his size.

Azi smiled one her sweet, disarming smiles, eyes dancing merrily. “Aye, Lord, you have given me much to think on, but my studies do call me back.” As he raised his hand, she placed hers on it and he bowed over it to lightly brush lips to the back. She smiled again at him. He could be gallant and charming, but for her nothing more was an option, even though it seemed at time he might wish it.

“Then be well, dear Azi, and travel safe.” He watched as she swung into the saddle of the palfrey and turned its head north, riding out of Cornwall and for the city of Camelot. He sighed a bit louder than he wanted and Darnyk smacked him on the back heartily.

“Ye need to hunt more, Crispy, and worry less.”

 

-----signature-----

Llyn Barfog was sere and empty. It was a lonely, unforgiving place, by turns oppressively hot at noon, and icy cold at night. Jannis sighed. She hated Llyn Barfog. She grimaced at her brother, Lance shrugged.


Pacing delicately along the shoreline of the great lake, she counted her steps with care before pausing suddenly, the wind teasing her hair. She turned away from the lake into the depths of the stony hills, pacing carefully in measured strides. The land was bare, sun streaking down and baking the soil and rock.


Suddenly Jannis felt a chill and a shiver pased across her skin. She felt the power strands of the spell swing back into place as she passed through its web, vibrating again as her brother followed her through. The spell quivered a bit casting faint rainbows through the air before stilling and vanishing. So simplistic... well, Jannis corrected herself, so efficent a use of power, illusions were far less draining to maintain than the more powerful spellwards and just as effective.


The two Avalonians turned, and walked slowly up to D'Vena's retreat. Lance pushed open the door, and they walked in, noticing immediately the lack of any sign of life, a terrible pall seemed to hang over the building. Lance frowned and drew his sword.

It was feasting on years of torment, some self-imposed, some inflicted on others. It relished the base wickedness and spite of this vessel. She was more than amply suited to almost any task. Oh, and her obsessions! What delicatable tidbits of base-born wants those were. Pity the little blond man-child had not tarried longer to find out about her own hidden appetites. Yes, the deep cess-pool this one called a mind was fine fodder.


She lay staring at nothing. No servant approached, no vermin drew near her. The chill of beyond the grave radiated from her, and they all sensed it. Dogs moved in a wide berth of the building, and even the vile beasts of Lyn Barfog shunned it.


A disembodied laughter echod through the house at times, a mirthless chuckle at others. Servants cowered and hid, clutching symbols of faith hidden from the mistress but now dug out frantically.


There was a pulse, a disturbance. It twitched, feeling the life-forces pass through. A threat. She must be the one to respond. It was not ready to reveal itself. Too many things were happening elsewhere in the world. Too much at stake.


D'Vena jerked spasmodically, twitching, then slowly stood up. Her eyes focused, but she looked scared, frightened. She shuffled to the door, pulling it open, and climbing slowly up the stairs.

*entering Llyn Barfog brought back memories to the Avalonian Paladin, Lance Solaran, as he hadn't been among this forsaken place since he was very young, and a frown crossed his face as he remembered happy memories of a happier time. His aunt didn't seem quite so bad to him then, sure it might have been just his childhood desire to play and frolick that blinded him to his Aunt, D'vena, and what she was.*


*upon passing the Tower overlooking the only entrance to this District, he noticed his sister's forlorn look, and shrugged. They both knew what they were here for. D'vena escaped from the King's custody, and their Uncle Lord Adribard sent them to try to find D'vena and try to persuade her to be reasonable. Basically, Adribard knew that in D'vena's thirst for power, the Solarans were of no threat to her, thusly made them prime prospects for this undertaking. The Solaran twins had no desire for politics, they found it incredibly irritating, and D'vena knew this*


*Upon approaching the shore line, he cleared his mind, and began centering himself. He calmly let his sister do all the tedious work of counting the steps and casually walked behind her.*


*As Jannis found the entrance to the Illusion Casting, Lance looked around to make sure no non-Avalonians were in sight, then seeing the coast clear, he closed his eyes and entered the barrier.*


*The two siblings looked at one another, and without speaking a word to each other, nodded as if they both knew the other's thoughts*


*Lance went up the stairs to the huge Teak door first, and shoving the door open, the two entered. Lance could sense Jannis' uneasiness as they stood in the Foyer, and couldn't deny that he felt a bit of the same.*


*Lance drew his sword, and took the point position, with his sister following closely behind him, they approached the stairs. He looked up them momentarily, and seeing nothing, walked passed them. He approached what looked like a wall with a painting of their mother on it, and calmly approached closer and closer, then went right through the wall as if it wasn't even there.*


*A sense of foreboding came over the Avalonian Paladins as they entered this hallway, halting Lance in his steps. He stepped forward two steps and readied his sword in a fighting stance.*


*Out of the corner of his eye he saw a silhouette, yet he couldn't make out the shape before it vanished. Then he heard a shrill laughter emanating inside his head, so shrill it sent pain coarsing through his head and down his spine. He lowered his sword and looked on at his sister, trying his best to contain the agony from spreading to his face, and Jannis stood there, unaffected it seemed.*

It felt the recoil, the envigorating taste of agony. The purity of the mind, the soul was so intense, so devout. It lashed at it, pulling at it, probing the impurity it knew to be there.


She sensed it, she could feel the exultation of the contact. She closed her eyes to the joy of it, momentarily basking in the duel-meal she shared with her companion-being. But there was something wrong, something off. This was not what she sought to feed on, who she wanted to relish the agony of. This was...an essence close to her own...Avalonian, if not kin, at the very least.


Her eyes snapped open, fingers moving in a gesture, as she whirled down the stair. Her lips peeled back to expose white-pink gums as a near insane rictus seized her.

"Primus Scopus Restituere!" she moaned out, giggling at the end. Her finger stabbed at the small, golden hair figure inside the milky dome even as it sought out the mind it had but recently touched.

Azi watched the young lord as he swung again at the keep door. "Stay back there, girl," he had shouted over his shoulder at her as he rushed forward with the most seasoned warriors.


So there she stood, outside the outer door of Dun Crauchon, looking in longingly at the action, casting occasional enchantments on anyone with a sword or sheild. She picked him out from time to time, the blue chevron on his back easy to spot in the confusion of melee.


Normally, her heart would be soaring with glee at the thought of the devastated elven faces as they watched thier keep fall under Albion's great army. She sighed inwardly and made a quick gesture toward a passing paladin. Her mind was elsewhere tonight. She spotted Crispian again through the crowd. Her thoughts drifted to thier conversation in Camelot two days ago, of D'vena. It had to end, and by his own hand.

((back in sequence now))


Crispian hacked at the door, listening to the yelled commands of Laraleloth. She was snapping out orders left and right, instructing, coordinating. All the things a good commander did. The Hibernian keep door was falling quickly as the ram slammed into it again, springing the seams of the wood and they were through!


The surged up the spiralling ramp, midgardians and hibernians falling to blades and spells. The Midgards were trying to sneak in through the confusion and dislodge the Albion force, but it was not to be. They rushed the Lord, swords slashing into his body, even as he tossed Albion warriors and casters aside. Finally, with a great cry, he fell. The blood-slick floor heaved under Crispian's feet for a moment and he staggered out the doorway.


He had trouble focusing. His eyes shifted about. Who was still running the ram? Where was that pounding coming from? He yanked his helm free, sweat running down his face. Were Hibernian keeps always this warm?


Again, the pounding. It seemed like there was another right after each blow, like an echo. He careened down the ramp, hugging the wall, sword dragging tip-down on the ramp. Finally, with a misstep, he fell the near two stories to tower floor. He landed with a loud crash, armored arms and legs akimbo.


Azi rushed to his side. "The Lord did not make ramps for you to fall off of, Crispian!" she jibed him, as she inspected for broken bones hidden under armor. But he was standing, shaking his head.


"The good Lord made stairs for us to walk down, not these twisting ramps," he joked, allowing the pain from his head to blend with that from his back, legs and knees. He greatfully accept Azi's arm under his own for the support, but how long could he mask what he felt from her? And thank god Auntie Mir and Oaklief were in the Falls instead of on this raid.


He stumbled with her out of the smoke and carnage. His left leg dragged a bit, wrenched from the fall, and he could not make his eyes focus for more than a couple of seconds it seemed.


Then it was there again. The SMACK against his mind, as sure as a ram-blow to a door, and the echo, a deep wretching agony, a near scream of terror. He felt a recoil, a purity, an anchored faith and resolution. He winced, staggering into Azi.


"Are you alright, Lord?" she asked, easing him down near the ruined gates that craftsmen were already trying to patch.


"Fine, I'm fine Azi," he murmured. His eyes closed as the blows rained in again.


'ou have to beat me first, bitch!' he thought with utter rage. 'Me first!' he hurled at the force pounding into his mind, and then felt the full force a blow that left him near gasping for breath from the force.


"Lord!" Azi exclaimed, calling for a cleric.


Crispian slumped back to the wall more, sagging a little to one side. With a pained swallow, he marshalled himself. "No, I'm ok, just get me up."


He shuttered off the pain and agony he felt, making for the safety of home. Tomorrow, there was more to do out in the Frontier, he thought. Tomorrow, just focus on that. He shuffled a step in front of the other as they moved off.

 

-----signature-----

The day was a blur. A run on the relic. Death near a lake. The pulling power of the Bind Stone. The weakening retching that always followed.

The room was cool, lit by some source he could not see. There was a glowing milky light that suffused the place. Was he dead? Had the bind stone magic failed, as it sometimes did?

“Not dead,” said a quiet voice. “But we needed to talk, you and I.” He looked about, and there was a man. He was cowled and hooded. A prominent nose dominated his face over a ragged beard shot with gray. Hooded eyes of a smoldering brown looked dispassionately at Crispian.

“Who are you?” he asked, hand creeping toward where a sword should hang. But there was none. He look at his waist and then noticed he was stripped of all armor, clad in simple peasant cloths much like he had grown up in. No, exactly like what he had grown up in. The outfit even that he had come to Camelot in. “Where am I?” he asked, bewildered.

“Who I am is not important, and where we are could be anyplace you like,” the man said, settling on a bench that became a rock as the room became a lake shore in Lyonesse, near to the sunken house of the clerks. “Is this better?” he asked, mouth quirking in a near smile. “Or this?” and they were suddenly in the warm, cozy suite that Mirashta had raised them in, he and Jashen. “Or this?” and they were in the cluttered room of a tavern in the Shadow Guild, a sleeping Tobyas on a narrow cot near at hand. Then, back in the room. “If it matters, I can make this anyplace you wish,” he said, hands resting in his lap calmly.

“What is the purpose of this?” Crispian asked, mouth going dry in near fright. If he had blade and shield, he thought, I could put this being down and be free.

A tongue-clucking sound from the man brought his attention back. “You cannot kill me with steel or stone, Crispian. I am not of that Realm you war in.” The man smoothed his robe out and let his hands rest again on his lap. “I am here only to help you, but not in a fleshy way.”

Crispian scowled at him. Had he not been through enough these past weeks, even with the brief respite of the past two days?

“Yes, you have been through much,” the man said, plucking the thought right from his head. Crispian looked up in shock. “It is easier if you just speak it out, Crispian. It takes energy to do all of this, you know.” The man leaned on the wall and watched the youth.

“You are here to help me?” Crispian ventured tentatively.

“In a way,” the man said, hands again smoothing the front of his robe in an absent-minded gesture. “I am here to give you some idea of what is happening, if not why it is happening.” He paused, leaned back in comfort.

“You mean with all of this?” he asked, gesturing toward his own head. The man nodded, eyes closed for a moment. “Then speak on, man! For the torment has been great, and I fear what comes next,” Crispian implored, his voice beginning to shake.

The man open his eyes, looking at the warrior-lord. “You stumbled upon something corrupt, and becoming more so, and foiled a plan, a desire, that was very dear to it. It wants recompense.” He paused again. His eyes met the keen, honest look of the lad’s gray eyes. Oh, how he had loved another with those eyes. The man sighed. “You are being the means of exacting that recompense.”

“I don’t understand,” Crispian muttered. “All I did was aid some friends in trouble, turned an evil aside,” his eyebrows nettled together in thought and the man almost gasped.

“Do you think evil defeated is evil gone, Crispian?” the man prodded, barely moving at all, but intently watching every move of the Briton’s face. “If so, you have much to learn. There are those who think, from examining the nature of the world around them, that evil and good are finite things, with sometimes shifts between them. An evil defeated can reshape, sometimes into good, or sometimes into more evil, even greater evil.”

Crispian stood, grimacing as he followed what the man was saying. “That makes no sense!” he snapped. “If, if,” his mouth worked soundless for a second, “If you defeat evil, if, if you put evil down, then the evil should just be gone!” he declared, pacing in front of the seated man, who smiled slightly.

“If that were so, boy, don’t you think the pygmies would be extinct? The Predwyn bridge safe of boulderings? The demons of Darkness Falls cast down?” The man tilted his head a bit to one side. “That is a foolish notion we can visit later. For now, what you need to know is that what you did has a price.”

“A price? For doing good and right? For being pure of intent?” Crispian challenged.

“Pure of intent. An interesting way to view those events.” Again, a smile quirked but one side of the man’s face. “You used means and tools hardly pure, boy,” the man said, face growing stern. “And she wants her revenge on you all. You can pay your price or all of it, but you must decide.”

“I don’t, I don’t understand,” Crispian pleaded.

“Watch,” the man whispered.

A Tableau appeared and scene came quick to it. Crispian, hale and well, cheerful and happy, but apparently dispossessed of station, in a small home, far from the centers of the Realm. He was repairing a harness for a horse, and Tobyas was chopping kindling not far away, bare chested in the late day’s sun. Then a great guild hall, and a somber, serious Crispian reviewing documents, smiling at members of the League, but content, not happy. Next, a street crowded with the traffic of the day, with people bustling about on errands and tasks, and against a wall, in rags, Crispian sat. His florid complexion showed the signs of years at hard drinking, and he begged coins from those that came near, a pathetic, broken once-warrior.

“But, none of those are what I want,” he complained, knowing he would not give up the League, but nor could he see his life devoid of romance and intimacy, of the commitment to one person. He also would not accept that he would throw his life away to ale.

The man looked at him almost devoid of any expression. “It is up to you, boy, as to how you will pay the Price that this being has set against you.” He watched as Crispian churned over in his mind what he had seen and heard. The boy set his jaw firmly, squarely and met the man’s eyes without hint of a flinch or recoil.

“I will not allow another to dictate the terms of my life to me through her spite or wish for revenge. And I cannot see letting my friends, whom I aided, shoulder the burden for me, although I would do so for them.”

The man nodded gravely. “So you choose the path of continued suffering, then?” He pinned the boy in place with his eyes, holding him in full attention. “And you know what that could mean?”

Crispian saw that last vision, of him drunken and broken. “Aye, and will fight against that happening with all I can, and every tool at my disposal.”

The man nodded again. “So let it be. You have made your choice in this battle then, Crispian Jasper Pontiff. Draw up the battle line of your soul, for you have pitched it against the foe. But, I warn thee, if you fail, your soul will be the Price,” and with a movement of his hand he returned the lad to Albion, staring at the spot where the boy had been.

“Be brave, my son,” he said, as a tear ran down his cheek.

 

-----signature-----

Azi ducked into the catacombs again, fleeing for her life from the ghostly Legionaire. Something was terribly wrong. Her bolts had been missing all night..


Perhaps as she had feared, she had become spoiled by the great night of learning with Crispian and Kromly and the other members of the League. The learning had come so easily that night, and was such fun. A blush came o her cheeks as she remembered Crispian, offering her a mug of mint tea. She chuckled to herself as she recalled the puzzled looks on her guildies faces seeing the young lord drinking tea amidst the pygmys.


Azi peered back outside. The legionnaire had lost interest and was returning to its post near a standing stone. She stepped out again, conjuring a ball of flames, and gestured toward another legionnaire whose eyed glowed bright yellow in rage. The firey bolt hit it hard, and she quickly released an icey blast, slowing his charge. Another gesture and shout, and the ghostly form fizzled and crumpled.


She smiled with satisfaction, glad of the distraction from the recent troubles of her dear friend.

Crispian walked into the Guild hall, full from the fights of the passed days and puzzled by his strange vision. Aceramar greeted him with a bow. He saluted.


"I spoke to Arguyle MacFadden," Aceramar said. "He told me to tell you that you are not the Savior of Albion, but a cog in the machine."


Crispian snarled. "He would not know a savior if he descended from heaven!"


"And," Aceramar pressed on, "you are to attend him in his estates in Snowdonia." He scurried away as his lord and seneschal scowled.


Crispian turned and left the Guild hall, annoyed now. He stalked the street and nearly collided with Glenin, of the Wayward band. He had gone to the forge from habit and she was laboring over weapons, as he was want to do from time to time. He bowed.


"Hail Lady Glenin," he said, taking his own tools up. She smiled at him. "How fare you?" he asked, setting down with mithril and hammer.


"I am well," she smiled, "and you?" She looked closely at him, not even trying to disguise it.


"I am well enough," he said, straddling a bench to work a bit of mithril into better form. She nodded, muttering "good" under her breath as she worked a weapon into form.


Crispian scowled suddenly. "That pig-farmer is trying to ruin my League!" he said, hammering at a part that would not fit.


Glenin barely looked up. "Who? Arguyle?"


"Aye," he muttered.


"What is he doing?" she asked, appearing not to watch for a reaction.


Crispian hawked in laughter. "He says I am to attend him at his estates." His brows closed together in concentration.


"Well, go!" she said, fixing more attention on him. "Find out what's happening!" Her work was immediately forgotten.


"Bah!" he scoffed. "Like I want to be with that hairy ape of a man!" He slammed hammer into metal.


"He is nice," she said quietly, "and nae that bad." She set hammer aside.


"No," he said, shaking his head, "she tells me he is evil." His voice dropped to a low whisper, eyes going a little unfocused.


"Who tells you?" Glenin asked, her fighting senses honing in, watching for the smallest change.


He shuddered, a physical wave sweeping him. "D'Vena," he said quietly, knowing that no member of the Wayward Band would not know of her.


Glenin spat. "He nae evil," she snarled. "She is evil," she said, grabbing Crispian's hand. "e shouldn't listen to her." She watched as he recoiled, pulling hand from her grasp.


"I hear her," he gasped, "in my mind, always, and the laughter!"


"Well," Glenin pressed on, "ye need to to get rid of her!" Her simple view of the world saw it as a fight, you defeat the foe.


"Oh Lady Glenin!" he sobbed, breaking slightly, "if only I could! But she is HERE!" he said, pressing his fingers against his temples.


"And think o' the lies she is tellin' you!" she pressed, harder, holding his gaze. "Confusing you!" She watched him, a scowl of near rage crossing her face. "e need to see another sorceress!"


He gasped in near physical pain. "I...I...I can't push her out. She is always there, mocking me, my ife, my love!" he almost cried out, holding the woman's eyes to his own.


"e can push her out," she said, a firm whisper. "e HAVE to!" her scarred hands again grabbed his. Her eyes softening at the sight of such tormnet.


"She assaults me!" he choked out. "She drived forth these, images, all my FAILURES!" he cried, as other smiths looked over at the pair, only to look away as Glenin surveyed them.


She looked at him, a tenderness in her eyes. "Bah!" she said. "Everyone has them. Ye just letting her get to ye! Go, see Arguyle. He can help ye."


Crispian's head snapped up, a lance of pain seering his mind. "That man!" he sneered. "He ruins what he touches!"


Glenin drew back, as if struck. "He disn't!' she exclaimed. "But I must think on this." She stood, looking down at the young man before her. "Let me think on this. Somethin' must be done." She patted his shoulder.


"She mocks me," he said, grabbing her hand and kissing it. "Until later, Lady Glenin."


She patted his arm. "e'll get through this," she said quietly.


Tear filled eyes met hers. "I pray so, Lady Glenin," and he released her, watching her cross the courtyard.

 

-----signature-----