textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargon.v7n1

*--------------------------------- Cut here ----------------------------------*
1                                                             /
   DDDDD                              ZZZZZZ                //
   D    D  AAAA RRR  GGGG OOOO NN  N      Z  I NN  N EEEE  ||
   D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 7
 -=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue  1
   DDDDD   A  A R  R GGGG OOOO N  NN  ZZZZZZ I N  NN EEEE  ||
                                                            \\
                                                              \
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --   DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 1        02/14/94          Cir 1120   --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --          Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine           --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
 --                            Contents                                --
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
  Laraka III (Part 1)          John Doucette          Yule 13-17, 1014
  Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion   Jon Evans              Yule 17, 1014
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                    Campaign for the Laraka III
                  Decision at Gateway Keep - Part 1
                         by John Doucette

 Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 13 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      The eight Regiments  of the Royal Hussars filed  through the gate
 to the Inner Courtyard and made for the barracks they had vacated just
 eight  days ago  when  they  began their  journey  south  to join  the
 fighting against the enemy army moving rapidly north towards Magnus.
      General of  the Cavalry Count  Sir Luthias Connall  and Commander
 Sarah  Verde,  Commander of  the  1st  Royal Hussars,  dismounted  and
 entered the King's Keep. Luthias was worried. The tone of Sir Edward's
 message  indicated  that  the  scarred Knight  Commander  was  himself
 worried  about something.  And if  Sir Edward,  a man  Luthias admired
 deeply  and who  had seen  more  than his  fair share  of battle,  was
 worried, then  Luthias reasoned that  he himself had more  than enough
 reason to be anxious -- even  without knowing the reason for his hasty
 return to the Crown City.
      He and  Verde turned  a corner leading  to Edward's  offices when
 they  both literally  ran into  the man  they had  been seeking.  "Sir
 Edward, we  were just  on our  way to  see you.  Your message  said to
 return as fast as I could. What's wrong?"
      The  Knight  Commander  glared  up  at  Luthias.  "What's  wrong,
 General," he  said in icy tones,  "is that you seem  to have forgotten
 the proper  form of address  when speaking to  a superior. I  will not
 tolerate  that in  any of  my officers,  regardless of  rank. Is  that
 clear?"
      "Yes, sir," Luthias responded instantly, confused by Sir Edward's
 rebuke.
      "Excellent, General. Now, if you  would accompany me." So saying,
 Edward turned and  led the way down the corridor  back the way Luthias
 and  Verde had  just come,  Commander Courymwen  following behind  her
 commander.
      Commander Verde laid her hand on Courymwen's arm, indicating that
 Verde wanted the  two to hold back slightly so  they could talk. "What
 was that all about?" Verde asked her friend.
      "Things have  been fairly  tense since you  left eight  days ago,
 Sarah," Jan replied.
      "So I gathered. What's wrong?"
      "Some  rather high-ranking  nobles have  started campaigning  for
 Edward's  replacement recently.  That  and...other things  have put  a
 great strain  on him. He  doesn't need this  now, Sarah, not  with all
 he's got to worry about."
      "Since when  have you and  the Knight  Commander been on  a first
 name basis?"
      "We've been  close friends  for some time  now, Sarah,"  Jan said
 defensively.
      "Is that all?" Verde asked carefully.
      Jan stopped  suddenly and turned,  stricken, to face  her friend.
 "Not you too, Sarah!"
      Jan  had perhaps  spoken more  loudly than  she may  have wished.
 Edward stopped  and turned  to face the  two women.  "Something wrong,
 Commander?"
      "Er...no, sir."
      "Then let us proceed."
      "Yes, sir."  The four entered the  Hall of Warriors and  made for
 the guarded door leading to the Audience Chamber.
      Jan was  silent for  most of  this time.  She didn't  speak again
 until the group had passed into  the small waiting room leading to the
 Audience Chamber. "Sarah, what am I going to do?"
      "Relax, Coury," Verde answered. "We'll figure something out."
      The group paused  outside the double doors.  "Sir," Luthias began
 to ask,  ignoring the  warning look he  got from  Commander Courymwen,
 "couldn't you tell me what's going on?"
      Edward rounded  on Luthias. "The  King and  I are risking  a very
 great deal on  you, Sir Knight," Edward said. "I  care little for what
 happens to  me or  my reputation,  General," Edward went  on in  a low
 voice, his eyes utterly cold and  menacing, "but I will permit nothing
 -- nothing, do you understand? -- to endanger my friend and Sovereign.
 You had best prove worthy."
      "Sir  Edward,"  Luthias declared,  the  hurt  tone in  his  voice
 evident, "I would never do anything  to dishonor the King. Or you, for
 that  matter. I  will do  everything  you ask  of me  with the  utmost
 determination and all the strength I can muster in body and soul."
      The battle-scarred Knight Commander of the Royal Armies looked up
 at that intent face for  several long moments before finally speaking.
 "I  think  you'll  do,  Luthias  Connall," he  said  with  a  note  of
 satisfaction.  "Yes, I  think you  shall do  very nicely  indeed." Sir
 Edward turned to order the guards to open the double doors but Luthias
 stopped him.
      Now  Luthias was  very  confused.  He risked  a  quick glance  at
 Commander Courymwen  and the look on  her face only served  to further
 Luthias'  confusion.  Clearly  something  had happened  since  he  had
 departed eight days ago. Luthias caught the distinct smell of politics
 in the air.
      "'Do' what, Your Excellency, is the question?"
      Edward  smiled ruefully,  making the  diagonal scar  on his  face
 contort strangely. "That  is for His Royal Majesty to  say. Not I." He
 nodded to the guards and the great doors opened.
      A staff thumped  three times against the  unyielding stone floor.
 "His Excellency,  Sir Luthias Connall,  Count Connall, General  of the
 Cavalry. His  Excellency, Sir Edward  Sothos, Knight Commander  of the
 Royal Armies. Commander Sarah Verde,  Commanding Officer the 1st Royal
 Hussars. Commander Jan Courymwen, Officer of the Royal Foot Guards and
 Chief Aide to His Excellency the Knight Commander."
      The  four proceeded  towards the  throne at  the far  end of  the
 nearly  empty Audience  Chamber. They  halted at  some invisible  line
 perhaps ten feet from King Haralan  and all four bowed deeply from the
 waist as was their right as soldiers of the King. "General Connall, as
 ordered, Sire," Edward announced.
      "Very good.  Sir Edward, Commander Courymwen,  attend us." Edward
 and Jan moved to stand on the raised dias, Edward on the King's right,
 Jan to  the right  of Edward.  "There are  two others  who must  be in
 attendance. The wait shall not be long."
      Great! Luthias thought. Wonderful. I absolutely hate these things
 and now I'm  going to be forced  to stand here while we  wait for some
 arrogant,   self-important   court   functionary  to   get   here   to
 witness...well, whatever.  Why couldn't I  have been just  an ordinary
 Knight like I've always wanted? Was that so much to ask?
      Just  then, one  of the  functionaries they  had been  waiting on
 stepped from behind the tapestry hanging behind the throne.
      Marcellon, High Mage  and advisor to the King, moved  to stand on
 Haralan's  left, his  face an  expression of  anticipation mixed  with
 satisfaction.  Luthias nodded  and  Marcellon smiled  in return,  that
 mixed expression still evident.
      Perhaps two menes  passed before the second  functionary made his
 appearance.  During  this  time,  Luthias'  natural  fish-out-of-water
 reaction to any  court situation came to the fore.  Luthias prayed his
 nervousness wasn't noticeable to anyone.
      When Myrande stepped from behind the  curtain it was too much for
 Luthias. "Sable!" he burst out. Myrande  smiled and Luthias made to go
 to her but was stopped by a single command.
      "Hold!"  Sir  Edward  commanded.  "You  have  not  permission  to
 approach the throne, Count Connall."
      "Easy, Edward," Marcellon said quietly. "Calm down."
      "The  cause was  sufficient,  Sir Edward,"  King Haralan  lightly
 rebuked.  "I think  we  can  permit the  Count  and  Countess time  to
 exchange greetings."
      Luthias went  to the  dias to  greet his wife.  He took  both her
 hands in his and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "What's going on?"
      Myrande  smiled  again,  accentuating  her  raven-haired  beauty.
 "Later," she said softly.
      "Count Connall,"  the King said,  "I would not begrudge  you time
 with your beautiful lady wife, but there are pressing matters of state
 we must see to."
      "Of course, Your Majesty." Luthias cringed inwardly. He'd done it
 again,  messed  up  in  protocol matters.  "I  apologize,  Your  Royal
 Majesty," Luthias said as he resumed  his place in front of the throne
 next to Commander Verde.
      "Sir Edward," the King said,  "perhaps you should bring the Count
 up to date on events transpiring along the Laraka River."
      "Yes, Sire." Edward  then launched into a  very concise briefing.
 When  he was  done, the  look on  Luthias' face  had gone  from slight
 confusion to that of a man planning the minute details of a campaign.
      "I  take it,  then, Your  Royal  Majesty, that  I am  to lead  my
 cavalry against the enemy army on the Laraka?" Luthias asked eagerly.
      "In good  time, Count  Connall, in good  time." The  King paused,
 gathering his thoughts. "We were much  distressed to hear of the death
 of our beloved Knight Captain Sir Ailean. He was a good man and a fine
 officer.  His  death  now  renders the  Northern  Marches  leaderless.
 Granted, Lord Morion is  a good man as well and we  have no doubt that
 he will serve Baranur  as well as any man, but we  cannot have such an
 important  position  as Knight  Captain  of  the Northern  Marches  go
 unfilled. Lord Morion will not accept our offer, that much is certain.
 Therefore we have asked our Knight  Commander for advice as to whom we
 should appoint to ward our Northern Marches.
      "The Knight Commander has suggested  someone rather young and not
 primarily an  officer holding  the King's Commission,  but we  tend to
 agree with the Knight Commander's choice.
      "So what say  you, Count Connall? Do you accept  our offer to act
 as our Knight Captain of the Northern Marches?"
      It took a  moment for Luthias to realize the  full import of what
 the King had just  said. When he did, his first act  was to think that
 he must  look rather foolish with  his jaw hanging down  to the floor.
 After he'd rectified that particular  shortcoming, all he could do was
 stand in stunned silence.
      I've done  it, Father!  he thought. I've  done it,  Roisart! I've
 actually done it!  A slow smile spread  across his face. "I  -- you --
 me?"
      Marcellon heaved a  theatrical sigh. "All that  education and the
 young  man  still has  trouble  with  sentence  structure. I  am  most
 distressed at today's youth's shortcomings."
      The King  coughed. Myrande put a  hand over her face  to hide her
 smile. Courymwen and Verde did their best impressions of cadets trying
 hard not to laugh. Sir Edward, however, didn't react at all.
      Luthias  cleared his  throat and  tried  again. He  found to  his
 dismay that he couldn't seem to make any words come out this time.
      "What's that?"  Marcellon said  in a dry  voice. "You'll  have to
 speak up. Or have  you lost all power of speech  now, son? Perhaps you
 should  choose another,  Your  Royal Majesty?"  All  of the  Chamber's
 occupants again made  valiant efforts to control their  mirth. Jan was
 not as  successful as the others  and a short sharp  laugh escaped her
 lips.
      Sir Edward turned a disapproving  stare on his aide. "Sorry, sir.
 Won't happen again," Jan hastily said. Sir Edward turned his attention
 once more to  Luthias, suppressing the beginnings of his  own smile as
 he did so.
      "No! I -- thank you, Sire, for the offer. I accept."
      "Then  approach,   Count  Connall."  Haralan  stood   as  Luthias
 approached the throne.
      "Kneel," the  King commanded.  Luthias sank  to one  knee, hardly
 able to believe this was actually happening.
      "Count Connall,"  Haralan began formally,  "do you swear  by your
 sword, the sacred embodiment of  your Knighthood, to ward the Northern
 Marches with all the strength in your mind and body?"
      Luthias drew his  sword and presented it hilt first  to the King.
 "On my sword,  I so swear," he proclaimed, the  weapon's blade resting
 lightly in his hands.
      "Do you further swear to  maintain true and unswerving loyalty to
 your King, no matter the circumstances, no matter the cost?"
      "I so swear."
      "Do  you swear  to show  the same  loyalty and  obedience to  the
 Knight Commander, He who speaks with our Voice and in our Name?"
      "I so swear."
      "And do you swear to  execute your duties fairly and impartially,
 with no thought of advantage to you and yours?"
      "I so swear."
      Haralan brought  Luthias' sword  down on  the young  Count's left
 shoulder. "By my right  as King, I give you the  power to mete justice
 throughout the  Northern Marches  where you  see fit to  do so  and in
 accordance with the laws I have laid down as King."
      The sword now came down on  Luthias' right shoulder. "I grant you
 the authority  to command  and well-discipline your  inferiors serving
 with the Royal Army, both noble and common."
      The sword came down a third time.  "I charge you to act wisely in
 your duty and to bring honor upon Baranur and your own House."
      Haralan stepped back a pace. "Rise, Count Connall, Knight Captain
 of the  Northern Marches."  Luthias stood  and as he  did so  the King
 returned his  sword to  him. Diplomatic  as always,  Haralan refrained
 from commenting on Luthias' nervousness, which was evident to everyone
 present.
      Speaking softly so that only he and Luthias knew what was spoken,
 Haralan said, "Many eyes are upon  you, Count Connall. Eyes hostile to
 my wishes. Be careful. If you should fall, Sir Edward falls with you."
 Luthias  stepped back,  giving no  indication that  the King  had even
 spoken to him.
      "We  regret we  cannot bestow  upon  you your  rightful Badge  of
 Office, Knight Captain.  It was lost along with Sir  Ailean, God grant
 him eternal rest, and there has not been time to fashion another."
      Luthias grinned wickedly. "No matter,  Sire. I shall take it back
 from the Beinisonians."
      "Well said, Knight Captain. Sir Edward, you may proceed."
      "Yes, Sire," Edward said, coming forward. "Once more, the Cavalry
 Wing finds  itself without a  General to  command it. And,  once more,
 Commander Verde, I must ask you  to accept that duty you had performed
 since the death of General Tyre. I know you will perform with the same
 competence  displayed in  the past.  It  occurs to  me, however,  that
 having  the Cavalry  Wing commanded  thus,  by a  Commander, would  be
 inviting potential breakdown of the unity the Royal Hussars are famous
 for  displaying in  times when  the Kingdom  is threatened  by outside
 force. Therefore, to ensure that one voice, and one voice alone, shall
 speak for the Hussars, I hereby promote you to General of the Cavalry.
      "Congratulations, General."
      The shock and pleasure on Verde's  face was evident. She also had
 not been expecting anything such as this.
      Haralan  stepped down  off the  throne dias,  the signal  for the
 others present on the dias to  do so as well. He congratulated Luthias
 and General Verde and then, begging pressing state matters, exited the
 Audience Chamber, his guards in tow.
      Luthias immediately  went to his wife  and greeted her in  a much
 longer fashion  than he had had  time for previously. "My  God, Sable,
 can you believe it?"
      "Yes, actually, I can. I always knew you'd succeed like this. Are
 you pleased?"
      "Pleased?" Luthias  laughed, making him seem  younger. He grabbed
 his wife and spun  her around. Planting a kiss firmly  on her lips, he
 asked, "How's that for pleased?"
      Myrande chuckled and laid her  head on her husband's chest. Maybe
 he's finally returning to himself, she thought.
      "Now," Luthias asked, "what's been going on here the last week?"
      Myrande raised her head. "What happened, Luthias?"
      "The Knight Commander,"  he said in a low voice,  "nearly took my
 head off before we entered the  Audience Chamber. I've never known Sir
 Edward to display that much outward emotion ever. It can't just be the
 war."
      Sable sighed, putting her arms  around her husband. "No, it's not
 just the war. There have been rumors going around of late that suggest
 Sir Edward and his aide are more than just friends."
      Luthias  turned   in  Myrande's   embrace  to   regard  Commander
 Courymwen. The  tall red-haired soldier  was talking to  General Verde
 and  Sir  Edward.  All  three  seemed  comfortable  in  one  another's
 presence, though Luthias could  tell that his former second-in-command
 was slightly nervous. The Knight Commander  did not often take time to
 chat with just anybody, after all.
      "Sir  Edward has  good  taste in  women, then.  I  don't see  the
 problem."
      Myrande punched Luthias hard in the left arm. "Idiot!"
      "Ow!"
      "Just trying to knock some sense into you, you blockhead."
      "What are you talking about?"
      "Luthias," she said, stroking his hair, "when will you learn that
 the  customs of  Dargon are  not  those of  the rest  of the  Kingdom?
 Remember what I told you about  how the attitudes towards that kind of
 thing are somewhat stricter here in Magnus?"
      Luthias frowned.  She had told  him, but he'd forgotten.  Come to
 think of it, when the Knight  Commander had come to judge that tourney
 in Dargon he himself had said something to that effect. "I still don't
 see  the  problem.  What's  wrong   with  courting?  Does  her  family
 disapprove?" he asked in disbelief.
      "No, it's not that. The rumors say that the two of them have gone
 past the  courting stage. Far past.  It was just those  kind of rumors
 that destroyed the Princess' marriage, or  so I'm told. There are even
 rumors, vague ones that say that Sir Edward's days as Knight Commander
 may be numbered."
      Luthias' face  took on  a grim expression.  That's what  the King
 meant, he thought. Aloud, he  said, "Unless Sir Edward's personal life
 interferes with his performance as  Knight Commander, I don't see that
 anyone has a right to criticize him."
      "Wait a  mene," Luthias  continued before Myrande  could comment,
 "how is  it that you're  so up on the  current rumors? You  were never
 much for gossip."
      Myrande  hesitated,  not wanting  to  answer.  She knew  Luthias'
 temper and she didn't want him doing anything rash.
      "There's something  you're not telling  me. And don't deny  it. I
 can see it in your face."
      "Luthias, it's nothing. Really."
      "Now I know it's serious. You never say 'nothing' in that tone of
 voice when it means nothing. Out with it."
      Myrande's lips  tightened into a  thin line. "I didn't  have much
 choice but  to become acquainted with  the rumor mill. While  you were
 gone there were those that suggested  that the children I was carrying
 weren't yours. Among other things."
      Myrande's husband's expression grew dark, promising suffering for
 those who caused her pain. "Who spread these rumors?"
      "Who knows?"  she lied. "That's  the nature of things  like this.
 Any rate, the deed is done."
      "Then these rumors have stopped?"
      "Oh yes," Myrande responded, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.
 "The King saw to it personally."
      Luthias  seemed satisfied  with  her explanation.  He decided  to
 change the subject. "Do you believe these rumors about Sir Edward?"
      "No. I know Jan Courymwen  sufficiently well to know she wouldn't
 do something  like this, if  only to protect Sir  Edward's reputation.
 And as  for Sir Edward, I  don't think it  would even occur to  him to
 make those kinds of advances towards a woman he wasn't courting."
      Luthias  let  his arms  drop  to  his  sides  as Sir  Edward  and
 Marcellon came over, having  finished congratulating General Verde. "I
 trust I am not interrupting?" Sir Edward asked politely.
      "Not at all, Sir Edward,"  Myrande responded. "Ever since the war
 started, I and the children have seen too little of you."
      "Thank you, My  Lady," Edward said, bowing. "I assure  you I will
 try to  get around to  see you  and the children  when I can.  The war
 presses heavily  upon me, My  Lady, and my  duties require most  of my
 time."
      "I'll  make a  deal with  you, Sir  Edward. Stop  calling me  'My
 Lady'. It  makes me  feel old. Call  me Sable. Do  that and  I'll stop
 pestering you about coming around to see us."
      "It's a deal, My Lady," Edward  said with just the barest hint of
 a smile.
      "Your stubborn streak's showing again, Edward," Marcellon said.
      "Yes, Old Man." Marcellon collapsed in a fit of laughter.
      "Sir Luthias,"  Edward said,  turning his  attention to  his tall
 subordinate, "I must apologize for my actions earlier."
      "Sir Edward,  there's no need," Luthias  protested. Marcellon was
 now clasping his hands to his sides he was laughing so hard.
      "On  the contrary,  there is  much  need. I  was --  am --  under
 intense pressure and I took it out on you, an innocent subordinate who
 knew  nothing   of  his   commander's  difficulties."  This   kind  of
 explanation  was not  required --  it was  dangerous, even  -- from  a
 commander to those under him, but Edward was just to a fault, a legacy
 of his  dead father. "My  deeds and  words were of  unknightly conduct
 and, as one Knight to another, I ask your forgiveness."
      Luthias, overcome that the  Knight Commander should treat Luthias
 as an equal, said, "Sir Edward, let's forget the whole incident."
      "Good," Edward said, managing a real  smile for the first time in
 two days. "Now,"  Edward said briskly, "I have some  special orders to
 give you before you depart. That is,  I will if the Lord High Mage can
 control himself."
      "Sorry, Edward,"  Marcellon said with  no hint of  apology. "It's
 not often you tell a good joke and I just couldn't help myself."
      "I'll go talk  with Jan and leave you three  alone," Myrande said
 and started to leave.
      "No, My Lady,  stay." Myrande looked at  Edward questioningly, as
 did  Luthias. "I  need both  your counsel,  both of  you being  of the
 nobility, and  possessing a  more than  significant amount  of status.
 First, I must insist that neither of  you speak of this to anyone. Not
 to Jan" -- this to Myrande -- "nor to the King" -- this to both.
      "I don't  think I like  the sound  of this, Sir  Edward," Luthias
 said evenly.
      "Nor I," Myrande added.
      "I am  not shouting from  the Forum with ecstasy  either." Edward
 fixed both Connalls with that intent gaze of his that let the receiver
 know what was about to be  discussed was in deadly earnest. "Since the
 news from  Oron's Crossroads was received,  I have been seized  by the
 impression that something other  than training and professionalism and
 morale  is the  cause for  our poor  performance in  the war  to date.
 Having thought and  mulled over the despatches in the  last few days I
 have  become convinced  that  the  enemy within  is  aiding the  enemy
 without."
      "Treason?" Luthias breathed.
      "No," Edward replied  hastily. "At least not  intentional. Let me
 explain. The reason that House Troops  are outside the imperium of the
 Royal Army  is to provide  an assurance that  the nobles have  a power
 base outside the King's control, yes?"
      Luthias  answered immediately;  military history  was his  hobby.
 "I'm not  sure I understand exactly  what 'imperium' is but  I believe
 the answer  is yes. Having the  House Troops separate was  what helped
 the Loyalist  forces come out on  top during the Great  Houses War. It
 also  helped  to  curb  King  Darian's excesses  in  the  Shadow  Wars
 afterward."
      Edward looked  at Luthias  as if  Luthias should  have come  to a
 conclusion. "And?"
      "And...I don't see what you're driving at."
      "Think, Luthias! A command structure that perpetuates a situation
 in which the left hand does not  know what the right hand is doing or,
 when  both hands  do know  what  the other  is doing  but neither  can
 influence the other..."
      "...is fine  for fighting  an internal enemy  but not  an outside
 one," Luthias  finished in sudden  understanding. "I don't know  why I
 hadn't seen it long ago."
      "Because  as you  said the  arrangement was  often necessary  for
 Baranur's survival and  that kind of history tends to  put blinders on
 those it  has benefitted. And I  do grant that things  have worked out
 when Baranur has  been challenged by external enemies  before but this
 time  is not  like  before!  This time  it  is  Beinison, the  largest
 military power on the continent."
      "There's no  need to  preach, Edward,"  Marcellon said.  "I think
 you've got him convinced."
      "And I think I know why you  are speaking to us before the King,"
 Myrande said.  "You want us  to test  the waters for  something, don't
 you?"
      "Exactly so, Lady Sable. I do indeed want the two of you to 'test
 the waters'. I  rather like that turn  of phrase. I need  to know what
 level of  opposition I  will encounter.  I know  King Haralan  will be
 difficult, but I know my friend and while he may not be a Cadhless, he
 does have a  goodly store of common sense so  convincing him shouldn't
 be  too much  a chore.  It's the  rest of  the nobility  I am  worried
 about."
      "What is it you intend to do?" asked Luthias.
      Without even a pause, Edward answered,  "I intend to ask the King
 to grant me the Edict."
      Luthias'  eyes widened.  "My God!"  he exclaimed  in wonder  that
 Edward would have the daring to go to such lengths. Noting Marcellon's
 lack of reaction, Luthias asked, "You knew?"
      "Edward came to me for advice early this morning."
      "Forgive my  ignorance, gentlemen," Myrande said,  "but just what
 is this Edict?"
      "An ancient decree," Luthias  responded, eyes never straying from
 Sir Edward's face, "that gives the Knight Commander total and absolute
 control over the entire Combined Host of Baranur, Royal Army and House
 Troops alike.  No noble may  refuse the Knight Commander's  orders, no
 matter the circumstances. To do so means instant death. In effect, the
 Military Command  Edict makes the  Knight Commander Prince in  all but
 name for so long as the Edict is in force."
      "And  if  and when  the  Edict  is  declared  to be  in  effect,"
 Marcellon broke in, "the wails of protest will drown out even the sun.
 I would think it safe to say that House Northfield would feel directly
 threatened. One  does not  make enemies  of the  most powerful  of the
 Great Houses lightly. Indeed, House Northfield might, just might mind,
 feel compelled to resort to a drastic and very permanent solution."
      "That  is  why  I  need  the  two of  you  to  begin  laying  the
 groundwork,"  Edward said,  resuming the  conversation. "Luthias  will
 feel out those nobles he comes across while leading his troops against
 the enemy. You, My Lady, will  seek opinions from those nobles here at
 the capital."
      "When do you plan to ask His Majesty?" Luthias inquired.
      "Soon. If  we can turn  things around, I may  not have to  ask at
 all. But if the situation does not improve and improve very quickly, I
 may have to ask within the month."
      "You can count on us, Sir Edward," Myrande said.
      "Good." Edward  turned his full  attention on Luthias.  "Now that
 that is out  of the way, I  will give you your orders.  They are brief
 and are  the same I  have sent on to  Lord Morion." So  saying, Edward
 produced a message packet from his tunic and handed it to Luthias.
      "Now, if you'll excuse me,  Lady Sable, Commander Courymwen and I
 have a great deal of work to do."
      "Of course, Sir Edward."
      "Knight Captain, I  leave you and General Verde  to your duties."
 Edward  returned Luthias'  salute, bowed  to Myrande,  and then  left,
 Commander Courymwen in tow.
      "Sarah, come  over here and  we'll see what the  Knight Commander
 has set out for us."
      "Sir!" General Verde  walked briskly over to  Luthias and Myrande
 from the far side of the chamber.
      "Do you want me to leave?" Myrande asked.
      Luthias thought a  moment. "No, Sable, I'd rather  you'd stay. If
 these orders  are sufficiently lenient, we  may be able to  spend some
 time together before I have to leave."
      "All right,  then," she  agreed. "General, it's  good to  see you
 again."
      "The feeling  is mutual, My Lady.  I was afraid that  after being
 away for  such a long  time as eight days  you might forget  me." Both
 women laughed,  which helped to dispel  the somber mood that  had been
 building.
      "Well, we may be gone longer this time," Luthias commented.
      "What are our orders, sir?"
      "I was just  about to find out." Luthias broke  the seal and took
 out the parchment contained inside.  Luthias quickly read the text and
 then silently held  the parchment to Verde.  Verde's features hardened
 after she read the orders.
      "May I see?" Myrande inquired.  Verde looked questioningly at her
 commander. Luthias nodded. Silently Verde handed the parchment over to
 Myrande. Myrande read  the words slowly, the  unfamiliar style causing
 her some difficulty.  The fact that some of the  letters were Galician
 instead of Baranurian also accounted for her difficulty.
      One line only was written on  the parchment in a strong hand, the
 letters  almost  block-like: "Hold  at  all  costs  -- done  this  the
 Thirteenth Day of Yule in the  One Thousand and Fourteenth Year of the
 Kingdom of Baranur by my hand,  Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of
 the Royal Armies".
      Looking over Myrande's shoulder, Marcellon  read the order at the
 same time as she. "Not an easy task."
      "We'll only  be outnumbered  two-to-one, Your  Excellency," Verde
 objected. "We may not have an easy time of it, but we'll hold."
      "You seem very sure of yourself, General."
      "Of course, My  Lord," Verde said, nonplussed.  "We are Hussars,"
 she said as if that explained everything.
      "Of  course.  Good  luck,  Luthias,  General."  Marcellon  kissed
 Myrande's cheek. "I'll be by tomorrow to see you and the children."
      "See you soon," Myrande agreed.
      "Sarah," Luthias said, "why don't you go tell Michiya to give the
 troops plenty of  rest. And then see to the  replenishment of whatever
 supplies we may need."
      "Yes, sir." Verde saluted and exited the chamber at a brisk pace.
 Neither Luthias  nor Myrande said  anything for long moments,  the two
 just  stood there  enjoying the  look,  the presence  of one  another.
 Eventually, the silence was broken.
      "Do you have much time?"
      "Just one night."
      "I suppose that's not so bad," she replied with a smile.
      "And we shouldn't be away too  long. Like Sarah said, we won't be
 outnumbered by too  much, not in military terms anyway.  And we've got
 Gateway's walls  to shelter  behind. I'll  let the  Beinisonians smash
 themselves against us and that will be that."
      "Luthias, don't lie to me. You don't believe any of what you just
 said any more than I do."
      Luthias held her head against his heart. "Sable, promise me."
      "What, Luke?"
      Luthias had to clamp his jaw  a moment; the old nickname made him
 shake with fear and the grief that he might not come back again. "If I
 die--"
      "You won't die."
      Luthias  was never  sure how  she  could believe  this. She  knew
 battle; her  father had  been a  Knight. She  had treated  wounds, and
 watched people die--watched  her own father fall valiantly  to the Red
 Plague. "I might die," Luthias admitted, and the fact never frightened
 him so much as it did now. "If I die--"
      "You won't die," Myrande insisted  tightly. "If you do, I'll have
 Michiya's head and Marcellon's."
      Luthias frowned  with exasperation.  "That won't  solve anything,
 and it won't bring me back, either."
      Myrande's  face was  getting its  customary obstinate  look. "You
 won't die."
      "Then you won't have any trouble promising."
      She sighed. "What?"
      "That you won't..."  Luthias was unsure how to say  such a thing.
 "That you won't be alone forever. That..."
      Myrande raised both eyebrows and her face took on that look which
 made Haralan remark that she would  have been an excellent queen. "You
 would have me marry again?"
      Luthias nodded mutely.
      "And who would you have me marry?"
      Luthias blinked; he had  never considered that question. "Michiya
 --" he fumbled. "Sir Edward --  hell, I don't know. Marry King Haralan
 if you can get  him, Sable. I just don't want you  to cut yourself off
 from life, and --"
      "You  don't need  to worry  about it,"  Myrande replied,  and her
 voice  was hard.  "If you  die, I  will never  marry again."  Her head
 tilted upwards,  and her black  eyes were hard  as stone. "I  won't be
 able to  endure your  death a  second time,  Luthias. They'll  bury me
 beside you." She looked over her shoulder. "You'd better go."
      Luthias stared at her. "You wouldn't kill yourself!"
      "I wouldn't have to," Myrande  stated, her voice stale. Then, her
 eyes suddenly  filled with dark  fire. "No, I'd make  the Beinisonians
 pay first."
      Suddenly,  Luthias laughed,  and he  kissed her  quickly. "You're
 right, Sable. I'd better go."
      Confused, Myrande  shook her head  and reached for  her husband's
 hands.
      "What is so funny?"
      "Oh, nothing,  but I've really  got to stop Beinison  before they
 kill me." And suddenly, Luthias found  his wife in his arms, clutching
 him tightly. "I'll see you this evening."

 Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Lord Morion kicked at a stake  in the earthen rampart, sending it
 flying. "Sergeant,"  he said harshly to  the soldier in charge  of the
 men working on that portion  of the fortifications Morion had started,
 "I want these stakes driven in  securely! They'll cause no one trouble
 the way they are now!"
      "Yes, sir!"
      Morion continued  on his  inspection of  his defenses.  When he'd
 been denied  access to  Gateway Keep  on his  arrival seven  days ago,
 Morion had all  but given up hope  of even making a  stand against the
 Beinisonians when  they came. Morion had  been a soldier for  too long
 though  to  give  up without  a  fight.  And  so  he ordered  what  he
 optimistically called fortifications built.
      The thing his men  and women had been laboring on  for close to a
 week now was finally  nearing completion. The fortifications consisted
 of an earthen  rampart two hundred yards long with  a twenty-five yard
 belt of  pits and stakes  placed in front. All  this was built  on the
 south bank of the Laraka's  tributary where Morion's force had forded,
 only a  few hundred yards  from Gateway's comforting  walls. Defending
 behind the  rampart might enable Morion  to prolong the battle  by one
 bell's time, perhaps two.
      Despite the  fact that Morion  knew the defenses were  mainly for
 show -- the morale of his  troops badly needed reinforcement -- it was
 not the unfinished state of the fortifications that worried him (after
 all,  it was  just possible  that the  rampart and  Outer Works  would
 actually stop the  Beinisonians for more than a bell)  it was the fact
 of the enemy's  absence that caused him to have  sleepless nights. The
 Beinisonians should have taken Port Sevlyn five or six days ago and if
 the enemy  general force-marched his  troops it should only  take four
 days to  reach Gateway.  But the Beinisonians  weren't here.  And that
 made Morion  uneasy. He had been  sending out patrols formed  from the
 Battalion of  current and former students  he'd raised but so  far the
 patrols had reported no sign of the enemy. Strange.
      "Well, Colour Sergeant?" he asked the man who just came up behind
 him.
      "Three patrols  ha' reported back, sair,"  the Lederian answered.
 "They've nae spotted a thing. Tha fourth patrol is overdue."
      Morion had been absently staring  across the river as he listened
 to MacLaird's report. Now, his head snapped around. "How long?"
      "Two bells, sair," MacLaird said in a tone that said the Lederian
 was having the same thoughts as Morion.
      "Double the watch, MacLaird. I'll be in my tent if you need me."
      "Aye, sair."

                    *         *         *

 8 Leagues south-southwest of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      Goren Winston  and three  guards moved  north along  the Laraka's
 west bank toward the last and only ford before Gateway Keep. The newly
 exonerated Lord of  House Winston was pushing himself to  the limit in
 order to  reach Gateway and  reclaim his birthright from  his brother,
 Ne'on as soon as possible.
      He no  longer knew his  brother. The boy  that had grown  up with
 him, rode a raft down the  Laraka to Port Sevlyn (to the consternation
 of their mother, and the amusement  of their father). The boy that, he
 admitted,  took the  brunt of  Goren's anger  every once  in a  while.
 Perhaps it was his fault, he  thought, that Ne'on had been driven away
 from the  family. Goren  was three years  his brother's  senior. Ne'on
 probably never  understood why Goren,  while he loved his  father, had
 felt so constrained  by Kald's rule, even while hunting  in the woods.
 Goren now  had freedom,  but at  the price of  his father's  life. No,
 Goren did  not drive Ne'on  to kill  their father. That  was another's
 influence, and something he had been avoiding thinking about.
      I'll think about  it later, he thought. Meanwhile,  some where in
 the back of his mind, he knew that 'later' was drawing nearer with his
 every  movement closer  to Gateway.  'Later' was  not going  to be  an
 option, when he encountered Phos.
      Whatever his feelings, Goren had to  tackle the problem of how to
 gain access  to Gateway. For  all he  knew, the Beinisonians  might be
 laying  siege at  that very  moment  to his  home. And  who knew  what
 changes Ne'on had made since Goren left. His best hope, his only hope,
 he realized,  was that Marcus was  still Castellan. If Ne'on  had left
 Marcus in his  position as Castellan, then Goren's task  would be made
 easier. If Marcus was still Castellan. If the way to Gateway lay open.
 If, if, if...
      Goren adjusted his baldric and increased his pace. With any luck,
 he thought, I should make it by late afternoon.

                    *         *         *

 83 leagues south of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      The half-noon sun  beat down on the long line  of men, women, and
 horses,  hot  and  doubly  so  for  those  wearing  amour,  which  was
 practically all of the column.  Luthias marched with General Verde and
 Sho-sho Kirinagi at the head of the eight thousand- strong procession.
      "Well, Sarah?"
      Verde thought  for a moment  then answered, "I don't  think we'll
 reach Gateway before Beinison, sir. Not unless we push it."
      Luthias made  an instant decision.  "We'll continue on as  we are
 then. No need to  tire the horses any more than  we absolutely have to
 if we're  going to  have to  fight once  we get  there. Do  you agree,
 Sho-sho?" Luthias asked through Michiya.
      Kirinagi  replied  through  Michiya, "Whatever  you  think  best,
 Tai-shu. If the  horses tire, then we shall fight  on foot. Regardless
 of the circumstances  my samurai and I will allow  nothing to deter us
 from our duty. We are yours to command."
      Luthias  inclined his  head as  acknowledgement. "How  about you,
 Michiya?"
      "It  would seem  to me,  Luthias-sama," Michiya  said, "that  the
 decision should be based on the  news from Gateway Keep. Until we know
 more,  we should  not commit  ourselves  to an  unalterable course  of
 action."
      "When's the next patrol due in, Sarah?"
      Verde shifted her reins to her left hand while she used her right
 hand to  shield her  eyes from  the worst of  the sun's  glare. "There
 should be a patrol due in sometime within the bell, sir."
      Luthias considered. He  still felt that his decision  to carry on
 as  things  stood to  be  the  best.  However,  if Gateway  was  under
 siege...no,  stick  with his  original  decision.  Unless one  of  the
 patrols brought back news that would require a change in plans. "We'll
 keep to our  present rate of march.  But we might as well  get as many
 leagues behind us as we can. Pass the order to mount."
      "Yes,  sir," Verde  said and  signalled one  of the  buglers. The
 bugle's call  sounded three times and  was quickly passed on  down the
 column. Baranur's elite mounted their horses and were soon making good
 time toward Gateway.

                       *         *         *

 Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y.

      MacLaird paced back and forth on the ramparts, anxiously watching
 for the  overdue patrol.  The patrol should  have reported  back three
 bells ago and its absence was causing the Baranurian army's commanders
 worry. That sense of anxiety had communicated itself to the troops and
 more than one occasionally looked up from whatever he or she was doing
 and  scanned the  north bank  of  the Vodyanoi  for some  sign of  the
 missing patrol or worse, the enemy.
      MacLaird decided  that endless  pacing would  accomplish nothing,
 whereas a few  bells' rest would do  wonders. He turned to  one of the
 two soldiers standing  guard near him. "Laddie, Ah'm goin'  tae take a
 rest for  a while. You and  ye're mate keep  a sharp eye oot  for tha'
 patrol. If ye see anathin', coom an' fetch me quick-smart. Got it?"
      "Yes, Colour Sergeant."
      "Good lad." MacLaird had just  stepped down from the ramparts and
 was heading for Lord Morion's tent when he was stopped by a shout from
 the ramparts.
      "Colour Sergeant! Across the river! I see something!"
      MacLaird bounded  up the earthen  steps and was at  the soldier's
 side in a flash. "Wha', lad? Wha' d' ye see? Where?"
      The soldier  pointed. "That  copse of  trees off  to the  left. I
 thought I saw something moving at the edge."
      MacLaird and  the soldier stared  for a  long time at  the wooded
 area. Nothing. "Laddie, are ye sure?"
      "I'm almost positive...I thought for sure...I...I'm sorry, Colour
 Sergeant, I guess my  mind was playing tricks on me.  I wanted to spot
 that patrol so bad."
      MacLaird picked up on something in the young man's voice. "Ye ha'
 friends in tha patrol?"
      "Yes, Colour Sergeant," the soldier said in a low voice.
      "I understand, lad. Ye've done no wrong."
      "Do you  think any  of them  are alive?" the  soldier asked  in a
 pleading voice.
      MacLaird,  in  a  surprisingly   compassionate  gesture  for  the
 normally hard man Morion's students had come to fear and respect, laid
 his hand  on the man's shoulder.  "Laddie, I wilna lie  to ye. They've
 been past  due for three bells  now. Chances are they  found tha enemy
 when they wernae ready for it. It's hard son, I know, but ye must keep
 ye're spirits up. It's  nae easy, but ye'll ha' tae  get used tae this
 if ye're tae continue wi' tha life ye ha' chosen for yeself."
      "Thank you, Colour Sergeant."
      "Dinna. Ah  was just  doin'--" MacLaird stopped  in mid-sentence.
 "Laddie," he asked eagerly, "d' ye see tha' flash o' light yonder?"
      "No...wait, I did see something. Maybe..." Just then, a figure in
 tattered  leather amour  and dragging  a  sabre from  a leather  thong
 fastened  to  its  wrist  emerged  from  the  trees.  The  figure  was
 staggering and one hand was clasped to the figure's side. The face was
 twisted in an obvious grimace of pain.
      "Great Culchanan's Ghost!" MacLaird exclaimed. He leaped down the
 stake-studded embankment and scrambled across the Outer Works. The two
 soldiers on the rampart with him were close on his heels.
      MacLaird ran  as fast as  his legs  would carry him,  throwing up
 great waves of  water as he splashed across the  knee-deep ford in the
 Vodyanoi. He slipped once on the  unsteady footing of the river bottom
 and came up soaking wet, coughing  and spluttering from the water he'd
 taken into his lungs.
      He reached the far bank just  as the figure that had emerged from
 the trees collapsed. He turned the blood-stained soldier over.
      "Aurellan!"
      MacLaird looked around at the young man he had been speaking with
 just a short time before. "Ye know tha lass?"
      "Yes,  Colour Sergeant.  We're good  friends. She's  part of  our
 Battalion."
      "Well, she's in nae good condition. Ye," he said, telling off the
 second soldier  that had come across,  "get yeself o'er tae  Evris tha
 Healer an'  tell him  we're bringing in  a casualty.  Quick-smart now,
 lad!" The soldier saluted, turned, and ran back across the ford.
      "Here," MacLaird said to the young woman's friend, "gi' me a hand
 gettin' her across."  MacLaird and the soldier  gently picked Aurellan
 up and carried her back to the Baranurian lines.

      In the healer's tent several  dozen yards back from the ramparts,
 Evris, the Baranurians' only healer,  was preparing his large tent for
 the numerous  casualties that were  certain to arrive once  battle was
 joined. Evris  was not alone,  though. He  had ten assistants,  two of
 whom had shown  that they might posses the aptitude  to become healers
 themselves given some intensified instruction in the healers art.
      None  of  his assistants  had  seen  anything like  the  horrible
 injuries the wounded  would be suffering from and  that worried Evris.
 The aging  healer had been  plying his trade  for thirty years  in the
 King's service and had seen it all. Those thirty years had taken their
 toll. Of late,  Evris had been considering leaving the  Royal Army and
 retiring to Magnus, perhaps to  a teaching position at the University.
 After this campaign, his was certain  he would retire. Thirty years of
 tending to those whose  business it is to maim and  kill is enough for
 anyone.
      The flap  to the tent opened  and two soldiers, one  soaking wet,
 carried in  a third  soldier with  a bloody  gash across  the abdomen.
 Evris pointed to  a table to his  left and the two  soldiers set their
 wounded comrade  down. "Ethros,  finish laying out  these instruments.
 You two, let's get started on this one."
      When Evris  emerged three  quarters of  a bell  later he  found a
 somewhat dry Colour Sergeant MacLaird,  an anxious Lord Morion and two
 of the force's Commanders waiting for him.
      "She's alive, but just barely and that for not much longer."
      "Can she speak?" Morion asked intently.
      "My Lord, she has received a  sword-cut to the abdomen. She is in
 a great deal  of pain and I've  been forced to give her  a potion that
 makes her very groggy. She's dying."
      "I realize  that, Evris,  but I  must know  what happened  to the
 patrol. Our continued survival may depend on it."
      "Very well, My Lord. I can give her something to bring her around
 but you must be quick, My Lord."
      "That will suffice."
      "You and one other, My Lord."
      Morion motioned for  MacLaird to follow and the  two stepped past
 Evris and entered the dark tent.
      "Through that  flap and  to your  right, My  Lord. I'll  be there
 shortly with a potion."
      Morion  nodded  and he  and  MacLaird  stepped through  the  flap
 leading to the area reserved  for the more seriously wounded. Aurellan
 was lying unconscious on a pallet, a blood-soaked bandage covering her
 wound.
      Evris entered the  closed-off area carrying a bowl  filled with a
 vile-smelling brew.  He sat on the  pallet and tilted the  bowl to the
 dying woman's  lips. Within moments,  Aurellan began to show  signs of
 waking.
      "Lassie?" MacLaird tentatively asked. "Lassie, can ye hear me?"
      Aurellan opened her eyes a fraction. "Who...where...?"
      "Aurellan, it's Lord Morion and Colour Sergeant MacLaird," Morion
 said  in a  gentle  voice. "Can  you  tell us  what  happened to  your
 patrol?"
      "Patrol?" Aurellan repeated weakly.
      "Yes, Aurellan, your patrol. Concentrate. Tell us what happened."
      "Patrol...patrol...oh, yes. Ambushed."
      "Where? When?"
      "Don't...don't re...remember. Hurts."
      MacLaird broke in. "We  know it does, lass. All ye  ha' tae do is
 answer a few wee questions an' then ye can sleep."
      "The patrol, Aurellan," Morion's stern  tone resumed, "tell us of
 the patrol."
      "Benisons," she responded in a still-groggy voice. "Ran into some
 few bells  northwest. Lots. Tried  to get  away but caught  us. Stupid
 officer.  Wouldn't  listen  when  tried  tell  him  we  should  scram.
 Beinisons  kept coming.  No  more arrows.  Keenan...Keenan went  down.
 Couldn't  save  him." Aurellan  was  crying  now, the  tears  silently
 flowing; the strength to do more than that was gone.
      "It's a'right, lass. We'll nae trouble ye anamore."
      Evris stepped forward  with a bowl half-full  of a sweet-smelling
 liquid. "Drink  this, Aurellan." Evris  helped the young  woman drink.
 She'd breathed her  last even as Morion and MacLaird  were exiting the
 tent.
      Outside, Morion  stared at the  ground for long  moments. Neither
 man seemed willing to break  the silence. Eventually, Morion's warrior
 training reasserted  itself, reminding him  that he had  a commander's
 duty to perform that took  precedence over everything else, even grief
 for a departed student.
      "The pickets should be doubled."
      "Sair," MacLaird  protested, "tha men  are verra tired.  They ha'
 been workin' on tha ramparts since before sunrise."
      "And they'll  work on the ramparts  long after the sun  sets. The
 enemy is almost upon  us. We'll have plenty of time  to rest after the
 battle." If the gods see fit to spare anyone.
      "Aye, sair. Ah'll see to it straight away."
      Morion  massaged  his  neck  muscles  as  MacLaird  walked  away.
 Consequently, it took several  moments before Morion realized MacLaird
 had stopped. "Something, Colour Sergeant?"
      MacLaird pointed. "Aye, sair, ye might say tha'."
      Morion looked in the direction  MacLaird was pointing. The senior
 Regimental commander, Commander Vroneth,  was striding briskly towards
 Evris' tent. From the set of his  face, Morion could hazard a guess as
 to what news Vroneth was bringing.  So could the soldiers whom Vroneth
 passed on  his way.  Work throughout the  camp came to  a halt  as the
 soldiers' intuition told them something was up.
      Vroneth  marched   sharply  to   Morion  and  halted,   giving  a
 parade-ground salute. "Report, Commander."
      "My  Lord,"  Vroneth  said,  "the  sentries  report  Beinisonians
 approaching from the north. Thousands of them."
      "Right." Morion sighed. "This is it, then. Stand to, Commander."
      "Sir!"  Vroneth moved  away from  the tent,  catching the  eye of
 Morion's bugler as he went.
      Vroneth stopped, facing  the camp. He filled his  lungs with air.
 "Stand...to!"
      The clarion call of the trumpet  filled the air, its rising notes
 summoning the Baranurians to the ramparts, stirring the blood with its
 call to battle.

      Marcus Ridgewater  stood on  one of the  two towers  flanking the
 gate and watched the unfolding scene in the Royal Army camp only a few
 hundred yards from Gateway.
      "Should  we stand  to as  well, sir?"  asked a  young officer  of
 Gateway's small complement of soldiers.
      Marcus remained  silent. He wanted  to answer "Yes," to  tell the
 youngster to sound  the alarm. But he  could not. For he  was bound by
 orders to do nothing. The Lord Keeper's  son - make that, the new Lord
 Keeper, Ne'on - had ordered Marcus to remain aloof from the conflict.
      Ne'on  thought  to keep  Gateway  removed  from the  war.  Marcus
 snorted in disgust. He turned to  the waiting officer. "No," he ground
 out.
      "But, sir!"
      "I said 'No'  and I meant it.  I don't expect you  to question me
 again."

      MacLaird walked  with a  steady measured  pace along  the rampart
 behind the soldiers of his Battalion. "Steady, lads. Remember, they're
 just flesh an' blood like we are. Do wha' ye're told, listen tae ye're
 sergeants, an'  show those wee  bastards wha' Laird Morion  ha' taught
 ye." His  words echoed those  of the squad  sergeants and did  more to
 ready his troops than any oration could have.
      As yet,  no enemy had  appeared. Almost a  quarter of a  bell had
 passed since the stand to had  been given. Two of the three Baranurian
 Regiments manned the ramparts along with Morion's Battalion, now under
 the command of Colour Sergeant MacLaird. Lord Morion waited behind the
 ramparts with the reserve, Vroneth's Regiment.
      An uneasy feeling had come over MacLaird but he couldn't pin down
 the  cause. It  took  him several  moments to  realize  that what  was
 causing his uneasiness was the total  absence of sound other than that
 made by  man. The Lederian pushed  his way through the  ranks 'till he
 found  himself  up  against  the   wooden  palisade  of  the  ramparts
 themselves. He stood  motionless, staring across the  river with every
 fibre of his  being, as if by  sheer force of will he  could force the
 Beinisonians to reveal themselves to him. (In the back of his mind the
 thought that  the enemy might  have wizards fluttered around  until he
 caught it and squashed it; he absolutely refused to contemplate such a
 catastrophic happenstance.)
      Very  shortly he  was rewarded  with the  sight of  the enemy,  a
 reward MacLaird would have just as well gone without. One moment there
 was nothing,  just the slowly  flowing water  of the Vodyanoi  and the
 gentle slope of the hill on the  far bank, then the hill was moving as
 three thousand  five hundred  of Beinison's  elite marched  into view,
 light sabres banging against their legs as they ran.
      The Beinisonians  stopped at the  base of  the hill, a  scant few
 yards from  the water's edge.  An elegantly armored rider  trotted his
 mount  out in  front of  the  enemy line  and rode  parallel with  the
 Baranurian  fortifications.  He was  obviously  the  commander of  the
 Beinisonian force. He studied the Baranurian defenses with an arrogant
 air. Finally,  finished with his  study, he  rode back within  his own
 lines  and issued  orders  to  a group  of  similarly attired  mounted
 officers. His  orders given, he galloped  his horse to the  top of the
 hill as his officers dismounted and moved to their units.
      The Baranurians knew what would be next in the sequence of events
 and all along the line they tensed, ready to receive the enemy. In the
 very center of the line, MacLaird  raised his hand, the signal for the
 few archers in the force to make ready.
      Across the river, the Beinisonians were arranging themselves into
 four blocks of roughly eight hundred  fifty men formed in thirty three
 ranks of fifty.  In the center of  each block was carried  an oak pole
 topped with a  golden eagle and encased in leather,  the Colors of the
 Beinisonian Regiments.  Each was  ringed by the  possessing Regiment's
 fiercest warriors.  Every man was  fully prepared  to die to  keep the
 Colors from the enemy.
      For long  moments, the only sounds  that could be heard  were the
 low but  firm voices of  the Baranurian  Sergeants as they  gave final
 instructions and advice  to their troops; the  Beinisonians, for their
 part, were utterly silent, a fact  which did much to unsettle even the
 most  stalwart  Baranurian  veteran.   Each  line  was  immobile;  the
 Beinisonians seemed  hesitant, reluctant almost, to  begin the contest
 and the Baranurians dared not take their attention away from the foe.

      From Gateway's  battlements, Marcus  saw movement in  the enemy's
 lines which  he knew  the waiting Baranurian  soldiers could  not see;
 buglers and messengers making their way to join their commander on the
 hill. "Won't be long now," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
      "Excuse  me,  sir?" the  officer  who  had earned  Marcus'  wrath
 earlier asked.
      "Nothing.  The show's  about to  begin." Marcus  felt sick.  What
 Ne'on  had  ordered him  to  do  was wrong.  Marcus  was  sure he  was
 betraying the  soldiers about to die  on the Vodyanoi's south  bank by
 complying with Ne'on's orders. He  was almost certain he was betraying
 the Kingdom. But if  he didn't do as Ne'on, his  commander and Lord in
 law, bid him do then he would just as certainly be guilty of betrayal.
      Unless Ne'on  were relieved  of his  command, he  thought, noting
 three horseman riding north along the Laraka, heading for Gateway.
      "What do  you make of  that?" he asked  the soldier at  his side,
 pointing to the three figures.
      "Someone's riding toward Gateway, sir."
      Marcus  looked at  the  soldier quizzically.  "What's your  name,
 son?"
      "Andrews, sir," he answered proudly.
      "Andrews, if  you can't make  a better assessment of  those three
 immediately, you'll  be cleaning  outhouses for  the duration  of your
 assignment."
      Andrews' face went slightly pale, and he stared intently into the
 distance. "If I didn't know any better, sir..."
      Marcus did not smile. "Let's assume you don't."
      "Well, I'd say that was Lord Goren. But isn't he in the dungeon?"
      "Officially." Just slightly, Marcus grinned.
      If Ne'on's  actions were  to cause,  or be  likely to  cause, the
 Kingdom  great harm,  then  Marcus might  be  justified in  disobeying
 orders. Further, if  that was Goren Winston, riding with  three of the
 King's  guards,  then Marcus  could  assume  Ne'on  was no  longer  in
 rightful possession of Gateway. Marcus was not too concerned with what
 might happen  to him,  it was  his soldier's honor  - and  Gateway's -
 which concerned him. Marcus had to be absolutely clear in his own mind
 that following Ne'on's  orders would conflict with his  higher duty to
 King and Kingdom - and that Goren was returning with redemption.
      Araminia grant me fortune, he pleaded silently. He stared at Lord
 Morion's personal  standard for  what seemed like  an eternity  as his
 inner thoughts maneuvered and counter-maneuvered.
      Lord Morion is not properly  under the King's sovereignty and yet
 he is ready to  sacrifice all for the slim chance  that he may somehow
 aid Baranur. And here I stand blowing  in the wind. Ne'on has been too
 long here  with his accursed Black  Hand. No, my duty  is clear. Ne'on
 may turn me into  a toad or blast me to ashes but  he will not have my
 allegiance. Only my fealty to the King  is left. I will do what I must
 and Ne'on be damned!
      Marcus straightened and turned. "Captain of the Guard! To me!" An
 answering shout and in moments Gateway's Guard Captain was standing at
 attention before his commander.
      "Captain, I want you to quietly stand the garrison to."
      "Sir?" The Captain was very aware of Ne'on's orders.
      "You heard me,  Captain. The Lord Keeper is no  longer in command
 of this  keep. There," he  pointed to  the three oncoming  riders, "is
 Lord Goren,  the new Lord Keeper.  Our duty to Ne'on  is finished. Our
 duty to the King is not."
      Marcus was  rewarded with  the largest  (and only,  so far  as he
 could remember) smile ever to grace the Captain's face. Obviously, the
 Captain of the Guard had not well-liked his orders. As the Captain was
 turning to go, Marcus stopped him with a hand. "One more thing. I want
 two score archers to  keep an eye on the Black Hand.  They may give us
 trouble.  If they  do,  they are  to be  killed  instantly. Handle  it
 yourself."
      "All of them, sir?" The Captain knew the Castellan's youngest son
 was a member of the Black Hand.
      "All that resist, yes."
      "Yes, sir."

      On  the hilltop  on the  Vodyanoi's north  bank, the  buglers and
 messengers had reached the Light  Infantry's commander. A breeze began
 blowing up from  the south, stirring the water slightly.  At a command
 from their leader, the three buglers lifted their brass horns to their
 lips and blew a single note.
      The standard  bearers of  each Regiment  in the  Beinisonian line
 reached up and removed the leather casings from their Colors. The wind
 caught them, making them snap and flutter.
      Morion  signalled his  own buglers  and the  Baranurians unfurled
 their Colors.
      On the  hilltop, the  Beinisonian commander  raised his  sword in
 salute. The enemy's  horns sounded once more and the  enemy line moved
 forward into the water.
      "A'right, m' wee bairns," MacLaird said, "make ready."
      At a  silent signal  from their  officers, the  Beinisonians drew
 their  sabres en  masse.  When the  enemy  were approximately  halfway
 across a single note sounded from the hilltop. With a mighty shout the
 Beinisonians hurled themselves at the ramparts.
      "Now!" MacLaird shouted,  dropping his arm. Here  and there along
 the line, bow strings thrummed  and arrows dropped among the advancing
 Beinisonians,  felling  a few  of  the  enemy,  too  few to  make  any
 difference.
      The  Beinisonians pounded  across the  ford throwing  up a  great
 spray of water. The leading edge  of the charge reached the south bank
 and immediately  disappeared into  the staked  pits the  defenders had
 dug; perhaps three-score of the enemy fell screaming to their deaths.
      The survivors  of the first  rank advanced more carefully  on the
 ramparts now  just a few yards  away anxious to avoid  their comrades'
 fate. Not everyone was successful in avoiding the pitfalls and another
 score went to meet their ancestors.
      The enemy  wave was  at the  earthen embankment  now, frantically
 clawing their way  up towards the waiting defenders while  at the same
 time trying  (unsuccessfully in some  cases) to avoid the  stakes that
 made the slope look like a massive, elongated pin-cushion.
      The first  of the Beinisonians  reached the top and  the smithy's
 din of combat rang out in all its  fury. Men and women up and down the
 line staggered back or fell clutching at slashes and cuts. More than a
 few,  Baranurian and  Beinisonian alike,  lay sprawled  in death.  The
 fighting  was bitter  and the  Beinisonians  were taking  most of  the
 losses. Boiled  leather just  could not compete  with chain  and scale
 mail in close-quarter fighting.
      After what seemed like forever to  those on the ramparts, a bugle
 sounded,  three notes  rising in  successive octaves,  the Beinisonian
 signal to retreat.  The enemy flowed back across  the Vodyanoi leaving
 four hundred dead and wounded. The Baranurians counted their losses at
 nearly two hundred. The fighting had raged for almost a full bell.

      MacLaird was relaxing on the ground after having issued orders to
 remove the dead  and dying. Morion came up and  sat beside his friend.
 "Water?" he said, offering the Lederian his canteen.
      MacLaird snatched at it like a drowning man grabs a rope. Raising
 the canteen to his lips, he downed it in one go. "Thank ye, sair. Tha'
 was much appreciated."
      Morion smiled. "What do you think?"
      MacLaird thought  for a moment  before he answered. "Ah  think we
 can hold these wee buggers from now 'till Burgondonan. It's when those
 other lads show up tha' we ha' soomthin' tae worry o'er."
      "My thoughts  exactly." Morion stared  up at the sky,  gaging the
 sun's position. "I'd say we've no more than four or five bells."
      MacLaird  swallowed the  chunk  of bread  he'd  been chewing  and
 looked at his  lord. "Aye," he agreed without emotion,  "tha' be aboot
 wha' Ah'd guess."
      "I'm sorry, MacLaird."
      "Sorry? For wha' are ye needin' tae be sorry aboot?"
      "For getting us  into this. I could have stayed  out of this war,
 you know. But my honor wouldn't let me."
      "Sair, we ha'  been together now for more years  than Ah like tae
 count. Ye ken why Ah left my clan." MacLaird paused, the moment making
 him feel uncomfortable.  It was unusual for the  pragmatic Lederian to
 make  such a  speech. "Sair,  we  saved each  other tha'  day in  tha'
 forest. Ah dinna ken  it then but Ah do now. Ye ha'  been my Laird an'
 it ha' been my duty an' my honor tae help ye preserve yours."
      "Thank you, Colour Sergeant. But my honor seems to have gotten us
 killed this time."
      "Wha' better  way for a  soldier tae meet  his death than  tae go
 down fightin' for a good cause again' o'erwhelmin' odds?"
      Morion sighed. "I'm getting too old for this."
      MacLaird leaned  close and spoke  in low and gentle  tones. "Tha'
 lass  will  be  a'right.  Lady  Kimmentari ha'  a  good  head  on  her
 shoulders.  She'll scramble  before  anathin' cooms  within' reach  o'
 Pentamorlo."
      Horns brayed, shattering the early afternoon respite.

      The second  round of fighting had  been raging for just  over two
 bells when Morion felt the ground  begin to tremble. Then he saw them.
 The cries of the wounded, the grunts and groans of the combatants, the
 death screams,  the clash of  steel on  steel, all were  banished from
 Morion's senses as his brain confirmed what his eyes were seeing.
      The crest  of the low  hill on the other  side of the  river came
 suddenly  and  menacingly  alive  as rank  upon  rank,  Regiment  upon
 Regiment of Beinison's  heavy infantry rushed into  view, sun glinting
 off shields and armor.
      "My God!" Vroneth breathed. "Is there no end to them?"
      Morion did  not answer. He  was far  away from Gateway  Keep. His
 world was  a blue-skinned woman whom  he loved dearly and  now knew he
 would never set eyes on again.  The vision passed. He realized someone
 had been speaking to him. "What, Commander?"
      "Your orders, sir?" Vroneth repeated softly.
      "Orders, Commander? What good will orders do now?"
      Vroneth was shocked. "But, My Lord! We must do something!"
      Morion was silent  long moments. "Quite right. I  don't know what
 came  over  me."  He  turned  to  regard  Gateway's  battlements.  "If
 only...but  that will  not happen.  Ready your  men, Commander.  We'll
 commit all our reserves.  Our only chance now is to  meet the enemy at
 the ramparts with everything we have."
      Vroneth saluted  and moved  off, giving  orders to  his officers.
 When all  was ready, Vroneth signalled  to his bugler. At  the bugle's
 call the eight hundred men and  women of Vroneth's Regiment marched to
 join their comrades in the fight for the ramparts.

      "Any word  from Captain  Greerson?" Castellan Ridgewater  asked a
 junior officer standing nearby.
      "Not yet, sir."
      Damn! Marcus  swore. I'd feel a  damn sight better if  I knew for
 certain the  Black Hand was gone.  "No plan survives contact  with the
 enemy."
      "Sir?"
      "Nothing. Are the catapults and ballistae ready?"
      The officer made a quick visual check. "Yes, sir."
      "Good. Set  your sights on  the Vodyanoi crossing." He  turned to
 another officer.  "Make ready  to open  the gate. And  keep an  eye on
 Goren... it appears he has company."

      In  the Keep,  a member  of  the Black  Hand was  at that  moment
 looking out  one of  the high,  narrow windows  that were  really more
 arrow slit than for gazing out of.
      "Are you in  or out, Mak?" asked one of  four Black Hand soldiers
 sitting on the floor in the midst of a dice game.
      "Just a moment," he replied absently.
      "Come  on," pushed  another.  "I've only  got  another two  bells
 before shift."
      "What has you so interested?" the first asked.
      "Something's  going   on.  They're  moving  the   catapults  into
 position."
      "What?" The first soldier joined Mak by the window. "Are we under
 attack?"
      "Don't think so."
      "What, you think the Castellan's finally found some balls?"
      "Maybe. We should let Clay know about this."
      "Right. Let's go."

      MacLaird  snarled  as  he  swept   the  head  off  a  Beinisonian
 skirmisher. The Lederian's armor was  splotched with blood, not all of
 it the  enemy's. In the  best tradition of the  men of Lederia  he had
 given himself  to the battle rage  and the Beinisonians were  paying a
 terrible price for  it. Few there were among the  enemy Regiments that
 found the courage to go up against the seemingly insane apparition.
      To his rear a  bugle sounded and all at once  the pressure on his
 Battalion  eased  as  Vroneth's  Regiment came  into  the  line.  Then
 MacLaird saw the glittering wave of the enemy heavy infantry Regiments
 rolling over the Vodyanoi. "M'anam don sleibh!"
      The  Beinisonian light  infantry were  thrown back  by the  added
 weight  of Vroneth's  warriors but  that meant  little. MacLaird  knew
 those heavy infantry Regiments had sealed the Baranurians' doom.
      Several yards away  to right of center Lord Morion  looked not to
 the enemy but to his camp -- even now being dismantled by his order --
 and its wounded. Morion did not truly  despair of dying, it is a thing
 all soldiers  know comes sooner  or later. He  knew he would  make his
 death a worthy one, but his being  was permeated by a fear of the fate
 of those  who lay helpless  on their blood-soaked pallets.  Morion had
 heard  of Port  Sevlyn's fate  and fully  expected his  wounded to  be
 slaughtered.
      "Vroneth?"
      "My Lord?"
      "Pass the word. There will be no retreat. We win here, or die."
      Vroneth saluted gravely and moved off to inform his officers.

      Goren raced  full speed toward  Gateway Keep, six  advance scouts
 following his  group of four. As  he sped along the  river's edge, his
 horse almost frothing with exertion, he saw a sight he'd never forget:
 Gateway's main gates  were opening. "Marcus, I love  you," he thought,
 and urged his men to ride faster.
      The six  Beinison scouts  behind him were  persistent, he  had to
 give them  that. But coming  up the back  trails of the  Laraka, where
 Goren  had grown  up,  he  had spotted  them  and out-maneuvered  them
 easily. The Laraka  flowed north until it met the  Vodyanoi, where the
 latter joined it  and turned it west. Gateway was  on the eastern rock
 base where the two rivers met.  Fortunately for Goren, the rest of the
 Beinison army  was on the other  side of the Laraka  and the Vodyanoi,
 not between Goren and Gateway.
      As they continued toward the keep, Goren saw six men line up with
 bows, draw, and take aim.
      "I hope they recognize us," yelled  one of his men. "Or at least,
 are damn good archers!"
      "They're in Gateway," was Goren's  reply. "I'd put Marcus' troops
 against the Legions of Death if I had to." A flight of arrows streaked
 across the sky, landing thirty yards  behind them and just in front of
 the pursuing  Benosians. "If that  doesn't give them  second thoughts,
 they won't have time for thirds!"

      Inside the  object of so  many people's desire,  Captain Greerson
 moved carefully  out of  sight among the  buildings close  against the
 keep overseeing the  final positioning of his archers.  A quick glance
 at Gateway's siege engines told him he had little time. A quick mental
 review of his dispositions left him less than totally satisfied but he
 decided they would serve. They'll have to, he thought.
      The main gate to  the keep opened and the bulk  of the Black Hand
 emerged. Their attention  was on the busy heavy catapult  crews in the
 bailey.  They  totally failed  to  notice  Greerson's force  concealed
 nearby. Swords drawn, they advanced on the catapults. Mak, the soldier
 who  first  noticed the  garrison's  efforts  at changing  allegiance,
 opened his mouth to speak.
      An arrow  sprouted from his neck.  He stopped, a shocked  look of
 disbelief on his face.  He fell choking on his own  blood. He was soon
 joined by many of his fellows as Greerson's troops opened fire. Caught
 out in  the open and  now leaderless, the  Black Hand died  before any
 organized attempt at resistance could be made.
      Even before  the last of  the Hand was dispatched,  the catapults
 had begun their deadly song.

      At the Vodyanoi crossing, the wave of steel-clad Beinisonians was
 at the halfway point  when a series of low dull  thuds issued from the
 direction of the fortress-waypoint commanding both Vodyanoi and Laraka
 rivers.
      With heart-stopping  suddenness huge  gouts of water  were thrown
 into the air as boulders the size  of small huts found their mark. The
 first few  ranks of  the enemy disappeared  almost without  sound. The
 green-blue waters of the Vodyanoi turned crimson.
      Morion  spun and  stared, slack-jawed,  at the  sight of  Gateway
 Keep, its great gate swung wide  and beckoning. It was several moments
 before he  or anyone  could react  to what  their eyes  transmitted to
 their  unbelieving brains.  Morion pushed  and shoved  his way  to his
 bugler's  side  as  another   salvo  from  Gateway's  catapults  arced
 overhead.
      "Sound retreat!" The bugler raised his instrument to his lips and
 blew a discordant sound. "Spit, boy,  spit!" The young soldier wet his
 lips and again tried, this time with more success.
      So  ended the  Baranurian army's  organized defense.  The bugle's
 call  to retreat,  combined with  the promise  of Gateway's  beckoning
 gate,  shattered the  defending force.  The discipline  that had  held
 through so much for  so long fled as a wisp of fog  on a blustery day.
 Where  once there  was  a line  of battle  ordered  into Regiment  and
 Battalion, now there was a mob  of desperate men and women frantically
 trying to reach the safety of Gateway Keep.
      Here and  there among the chaos,  a sergeant or officer  tried to
 rally  their troops.  Most met  with failure.  A few  did succeed  and
 Morion pushed  and shoved his way  to the nearest group.  He found the
 leader of the  group, a Captain, by the simple  expedient of colliding
 with her.
      "My Lord!" the Captain exclaimed with some surprise.
      "Good work, Captain!" Morion praised. "How many have you?"
      "Between three- and four-score, My Lord."
      Morion quickly  assessed the  overall situation,  such as  he was
 able to  amidst the  confusion, and  the state of  the body  of troops
 before him. "They're shaky."
      "Yes, My  Lord," the Captain  replied in  a voice that  said she,
 too, was shaky.
      "Well, no help for it. Can you hold them?"
      "I  don't  know,  My   Lord."  Seeing  Morion's  expression,  she
 amplified. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but that is the only answer I can give
 you. Some will stay...I'm sorry to have failed you, sir."
      "Worry about  recrimination later, Captain. Right  now, we've got
 to get some sort of line established."
      "With what?"  The Captain pointed  at her  troops, drawn up  in a
 loose square. "Look at them, My Lord. The enemy has not yet gained the
 rampart and already they're wavering."
      "Well firm them up, Captain! Because wavering or not, in whatever
 numbers you can  muster, you ARE going  to form line! There  is no way
 that ,"  he said, gesturing at  the packed mass before  Gateway's main
 gate, "is going  to make it inside before the  Beinisionians come over
 that rampart over there. We have to buy time for those at the gate and
 for the  wounded to  get inside."  To the  Captain's doubtful  face he
 replied, "You don't have to hold  the entire enemy army. When they see
 a force deployed, they will also deploy and that will take time. A few
 menes, even a few moments, can make a difference."
      "Yes, My Lord," the Captain said sullenly.
      Morion regarded her intently for  a moment then issued additional
 orders. "Gather  what you can to  you. Force them to  deploy then fall
 back, then deploy again and so on."
      "Where will you be, My Lord?"
      "I'm going to try and get  some people together to help Evris get
 the wounded moved. We can't leave them for the enemy."
      "No, My Lord."
      "Good  luck," Morion  wished  then turned  and,  with his  bugler
 following, waded into the maelstrom.

      "Goren, you  blasted fool!"  Marcus yelled as  he worked  his way
 down the stairs to the courtyard. His  lord had just made his way into
 Gateway - probably would have died without his help - and didn't bring
 half the forces  Marcus had instructed him to months  before. "What in
 Muskadon's name are you doing? Damn  good to see you, but where's your
 escort? I told you to come back  with a regiment of men and the King's
 seal,  and demand  your rightful  place.  Burn my  ashes in  Rise'er's
 feast, boy, you're lucky I opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered
 them shut and the garrison to stand down. If I-"
      "Marcus!"  Goren's  voice  finally   made  its  way  through  the
 castellan's barrage of  dialogue. He looked at  the castellan, smiled,
 and grabbed  him by the  shoulders. "It's good  to see you,  too. Now,
 where's the rest  of the force? With all those  men outside, I counted
 on at  least three more  regiments in  Gateway... did you  deploy them
 before I got in?"
      Marcus'   expression   turned   dark.  "Your   blasted   brother,
 self-proclaimed Keeper  of Gateway -  you took care of  that business,
 now, didn't you?" When Goren  nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered
 the garrison to  stand down, and not to allow  access to Gateway. Just
 recently, I countermanded that order.  The catapults and ballistas are
 firing on  the Beinison army  now, but I'm not  sure how long  it will
 take Morion to move his troops in  - and the Benosian's will be making
 for the entrance as fast as he will."
      Goren grasped the  parchment from inside his cloak  and handed it
 to the Castellan. "This is the  King's hand, and his decision to place
 me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for
 me  -  and gather  archers  by  the gate.  I'll  return  in menes,  Ol
 willing."
      As Goren  turned towards his  father's mansion, Marcus  yelled to
 him, "Watch your  brother, boy... he's not to be  trusted." Damn fool,
 he thought,  Morion and his troops  don't have menes. "Captain  of the
 Guard!" He waited for the man to signal from the parapets. "Gather the
 two archer companies and all the  horse you can muster. We're going to
 get our hands dirty on this one!"

      MacLaird stood in front of a group of soldiers from all units and
 glared at them with sword drawn.  By dint of force of personality (and
 outright physical threat) the Lederian had gathered twenty-two to him.
 He wasn't satisfied with their morale, but it would have to do.
      Off to his left and toward  the ramparts, a bugle sounded -- hahn
 taa-ree -- the signal "Form on  me!" MacLaird smiled, a wide, vicious,
 happy grin. He sheathed his sword and bellowed commands to his force.
      "Hurry, Colour Sergeant!" Morion exhorted.
      "Sair!" MacLaird  turned to his troops  and spat out a  stream of
 invective that would have melted stone. Morion, MacLaird, and close to
 two-score ordinary  soldiers were  desperately, frantically  trying to
 move Evris' field hospital and the wounded within.
      Niceties were set aside for  greater concerns. Those who were too
 badly  wounded to  walk were  carried gently  but swiftly  towards the
 safety of Gateway Keep. The dying were aided on their way with a quick
 sword-stroke or dagger-thrust.
      The hospital was  mostly torn down and moving  when the catapults
 stopped.

      "Keep form, men!" Marcus yelled as  he and two hundred archers of
 his own  training were riding toward  the enemy lines from  behind the
 Baranurian ranks.  Already, swarms  of Baranurian soldiers  sped past,
 some desperately lunging through the line of make-shift cavalry riding
 their way.  Marcus silently hoped  no men  died of stupidity  in their
 attempt to gain Gateway's safety.
      Seeing the hospital was  already broken down, Marcus concentrated
 on the main bulk of the front  line. At about three hundred feet, with
 hundreds  of  fleeing  soldiers  around  him, he  gave  the  order  to
 dismount. "Concentrate your fire at the front line, enemy rear.
      "Ready!" Two hundred bows pulled  back, aiming at where the enemy
 was deploying a force  meant to wipe out one of  the few small patches
 of resistance left in the  Baranurian force. "Aim!" Arrows steadied on
 their  rests. "Fire!"  Two  hundred arrows  swarmed  through the  sky,
 casting a small, fast-moving shadow of  death over the troops until it
 struck its mark. A few of the enemy were killed, more wounded, and the
 advancing force slowed.
      "Captains,  choose  your targets  and  command  at will!"  Marcus
 screamed as he  mounted his horse. From his position,  he could barely
 make out the  form of a commanding officer nearly  quarter of a league
 away. The wind was  at his back. It would be a major  set back for the
 enemy, he  thought. Hefting his own  great bow, he chose  a long arrow
 from the quiver. More draw for more distance, he mused. He pulled back
 on the string, meeting the arrow's nock with his chin.
      As he took aim, he remembered hearing stories of incredible feats
 of archery, and  how his childhood had been charmed  with their heroic
 lore.  Galthamon, in  the Great  Houses  War, had  slain a  commanding
 officer from half a league away with a great bow. The Legion of Death,
 two regiments of archers, had defeated  entire armies on their own. He
 gauged the wind another moment, and fired.
      The arrow  seemed to  be in the  air for an  eternity as  it sped
 towards its  target. Marcus  had adjusted  for wind,  distance, height
 difference... to  no avail.  It struck the  ground harmlessly  an easy
 twenty feet from  the Beinison officer, barely noticed by  an aid, and
 considered  a random  shot by  all around.  The officer  did, however,
 quickly remove his presence from the sight of the enemy army.
      Marcus thought  all those stories  about Galthamon were  a little
 over  stated, and  returned to  the situation  at hand.  His force  of
 archers were causing a noticeable gap between the enemy and Baranurian
 troops.  Morion's  mobile hospital,  looking  over  his shoulder,  was
 almost at Gateway. In fact, there  were very few troops between he and
 the enemy, and all of them were moving towards safety.
      "Cease  fire!" he  yelled. "Mount  up, and  ride for  Gateway. In
 form!"

           (to be continued...)
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                  Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion
                       Yule 17, 1014 B.Y.
                         by Jon Evans
                 (b.c.k.a. <godling@sytex.com>)

               Gemstone Expedition, day 94, Lieutenant
          Howen, reporting: we spent six weeks in the
          cave of the magicians, healing our wounds and
          re-stocking our supplies with theirs.  It
          took longer than expected to recover from the
          damages... I guess the injuries went deeper
          than we thought.  Hanlar blames it on Lord
          Ne'on's gem - a two-foot, purple, uncut piece
          of something I've never seen before.  I told
          him it was the altitude and the thin air, and
          we left the next morning.
               Everyone seemed to feel better just
          leaving the cave.  But three weeks later, the
          gem is still glowing, we're losing weight
          rapidly, and one of the horses just up and
          died.  No explanation.  The other horses
          bucked their way free, and bolted.  That was
          three nights past, and we've been walking
          ever since -  I only hope things go well
          until Gateway.  Our water supplies will run
          short in another day or two, but we should be
          able to make it to the Laraka by then, and
          our going will be easier.  We should be able
          to scavenge both food and water at the river.
               For the past few days, there have been
          large dust clouds to the west, and swarms of
          buzzards.  I sent a scout to find out what's
          going on.

      "Lieuten't," Hanlar spoke  from the opening of the  tent, his six
 foot frame filling the space between  the flaps. "Scout's come back. I
 think you might wanna take this 'un in yuir tent, sir."
      Howen  looked  at  his  junior   officer,  a  man  who  knew  the
 disreputable men in this mission better than himself, and beckoned him
 in with the scout. Walkins, the man who Hanlar had picked for the job,
 looked shaken, a little pale, and out of breath. His black matted hair
 was speckled with  bits of grass and  brush, and the mud  on his knees
 was dry, but dark. Running for  two days, Howen figured, and trying to
 keep out of sight of whatever it was he saw.
      "Go'n, Walkins,  tell the Lieuten't  wha' ye saw,"  Hanlar pushed
 the  man forward  a bit.  Walkins stepped  with the  push, and  looked
 wide-eyed at Howen. He looked back at the Sergeant, then started.
      "S'like this, Sir... there's a batch o'  bad luck - bout a keg o'
 pitchers - comin' this way - ow!" He clutched his shoulder as the pain
 from Hanlar's punch made its way into his muscle.
      "This  ain't the  sewers o'  Magnus, ye  scum! Talk  odd to  'im!
 Sorry, Lieuten't," Hanlar added, "the rats  o' the land 'ave their own
 language. Pitchers, see... beers, drinks,  what 'ave ye... they's town
 guards to thievin'  scum. Keg o' pitchers, must be  lots o' guards. Or
 troops."
      "Aye, Cap'n, and bad ale is they."
      Hanlar  scowled a  moment, then  looked at  his Lieutenant.  "Not
 flyin' Baranur's colors, sir."
      Howen looked  at his sergeant,  the lines around the  man's eyes,
 the chapping of his  lips. He'd been through a lot,  lately - they all
 had -  and was  in no shape  to assault  an enemy army.  If it  was an
 enemy,  and not  some envoy  travelling in  from Bichu  or some  other
 realm. Too far  north and west to be Beinison,  surely. "Walkins, what
 direction are they headed?"
      Walkins  leaned  forward  and  almost  whispered,  "Straight  for
 Gateway, I'd bet me mother's knickers."

               *              *              *

      Riding North to  Gateway after his brief audience  with the King,
 Goren Winston felt clean for what  seemed like the first time in ages.
 He had a horse  to ride, three men who knew him, and  he was in charge
 again.  It felt  comfortable, despite  the circumstances.  How he  and
 three of his uncle's House Troops were to enter Gateway, depose Ne'on,
 and fortify it  against any possible invasion were  only small matters
 when he thought of Phos.
      Phos, the Demon. Not in the sense that he ever thought of demons,
 but then he had  never met one, or even thought  much about them. This
 one seemed  more like a mad  war general. He couldn't  explain it, but
 from the brief  time Phos had exposed himself to  Goren, Goren felt as
 though he  knew Phos; at  least, a little  bit. Goren knew  that Phos'
 entry to this world couldn't be allowed. It could cause more harm than
 this whole  war. He  only wished he  had been able  to talk  with Lord
 Equiville about  dealing with the matter,  but the High Mage  had been
 unavailable for the one afternoon Goren had spent in Magnus.
      Then,  of course,  there was  Rho.  She wasn't  nagging him.  She
 wasn't preaching  Stevenic platitudes  to him.  She wasn't  giving him
 orders or telling  him things that made no sense.  The only thing that
 bothered Goren  was that she simply  wasn't there, and he  didn't like
 that. He liked  her not being there.  He didn't like the  fact that it
 bothered him. He'd have to talk with Marcus about that one.
      If his father were alive, Kald would  tell him to take her to the
 hunting  cabin, light  a  fire,  pour some  wine.  He  smiled when  he
 remembered the  first time he  had done that.  In his naive  youth, he
 thought they  would just sit  by the fire  and drink wine.  Maybe talk
 about hunting, which fascinated him  and therefore must be fascinating
 to everyone! He smiled again, and pulled himself out of those thoughts
 as one of his men rode up from ahead.
      "Lord Keeper!"
      "What is it, Wilkes?"
      "I estimate we're about two bell's from Gateway, my lord."
      The guard looked nervous. Their  position relative to Gateway was
 obvious.  Goren  had  travelled  the  road  many  times  in  the  last
 twenty-four years of his life. Goren lifted the iron cap from his head
 to wipe back  the brown hair falling  in his eyes. "Yes,  I'd say that
 was about right. Is there a problem?"
      "Well,  sir, to  be  honest..."  The guard  looked  around for  a
 moment, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.
      "Wilkes,   when  communication   breaks  down,   problems  become
 catastrophes. Catastrophes cause irreversible damage. Great men become
 great by avoiding the collapse of communication."
      "Your uncle always told us that, Lord Keeper."
      "Good, then what's the problem?"
      "I think the war has made its way to Gateway, my lord."
      Goren halted his steed. "Excuse me?"
      "The  war, my  lord.  When we  get over  this  ridge," the  guard
 pointed to the hill he had just  come over, "you'll see Gateway in the
 distance.  Looks like  some  troops  have dug  in  outside her  walls,
 probably Beinison  since they're not  being let  in, but I  could have
 sworn  I saw  Baranur's  colors.  The Winston  flag  still flies  from
 Gateway, though, my lord."
      "You didn't see Beinison colors?"
      "No, my lord, but there's a hill not two leagues past the joining
 of the Laraka and the Vodyanoi."
      "I know it well, Wilkes, it's on the west road to Port Sevlyn."
      "There's one more thing, Lord Winston."
      Goren sighed. "Yes?"
      "My lord, if you'll look at the sky behind you..."
      Goren turned and looked up.  The slightly cloudy sky was darkened
 by rising dust some distance behind.  But for the trees, they might be
 able to see the  cause from the hill top. Goren  sighed. He guessed he
 had fifty leagues or less on the forces behind him.
      There were forces stationed outside Gateway, which probably meant
 Gateway was full.  Two regiments normally made  up Gateway's garrison;
 another five  could be squeezed  if the surrounding  population didn't
 expect  protection.  Figure on  six  regiments  inside her  walls.  If
 Gateway was being  fortified by the King's men, then  Port Sevlyn must
 be in danger of falling. That didn't make sense - Beinison is south of
 Baranur, and Gateway Keep is  north of Magnus, Baranur's capital city.
 The battalions at Gateway must be on their way east, to the Duchies of
 Pyridain and Westbrook.
      One  thing was  certain, he  didn't have  time to  sit there  and
 wonder about it. "Let's ride for Gateway, full gallop."

               *              *              *

      "Captain  Clay,"  Ne'on's  voice  called  out.  "I  require  your
 assistance."
      Clay  turned from  his  conversation with  Marcus Ridgewater  and
 opened  the door  to Ne'on's  sanctuary. He  didn't usually  engage in
 conversation with Gateway's castellan, but he and Ridgewater had found
 a common point of interest  in Lord Morion's troops. Stationed outside
 Gateway's  walls, Morion's  men didn't  have a  chance of  holding out
 against the  Beinison forces on  their way. And, without  Morion's aid
 inside  the keep,  the two  thousand  under Ne'on's  command would  be
 devastated as well.
      Before  entering the  Lord  Keeper's  quarters, Bartholomew  Clay
 turned to  the Castellan: "Marcus, it  is Ne'on's order that  we stand
 down. And, it  is to his Black  Hand that you will have  to answer for
 any action against him."
      The captain  closed the door  to Ne'on's sanctuary,  shutting the
 confused  castellan out,  and himself  in. Ne'on  was standing  by his
 table  of vials,  powders,  and  live animals.  The  wizard likes  his
 components fresh, Clay thought. He advanced to where Ne'on was staring
 at a bottle of crystal-blue liquid. "What is it, Lord Keeper?"
      Ne'on turned to Clay and frowned. "Your ignorance baffles me," he
 said. "Haven't you, in all your years of sword play, ever required the
 assistance of  a magical potion? To  cure wounds, ease the  pain, that
 sort of thing."
      "Yes. But, they  were an opaque blue,  maybe blue-green depending
 on who sold them. Not clear like that one."
      Ne'on slammed  the bottle onto  the table, nearly  shattering it.
 "That!" he exclaimed, his eyes  burning with intense excitement. "That
 is  the presence  of  the  Stone! Come..."  Ne'on  nearly  ran to  the
 inscription  of  the mystic  circle  on  the  floor. "We're  about  to
 complete our business in Gateway. This time tomorrow," Ne'on stared up
 into oblivion, "the stars will be within my grasp."
      Clay took a good, long look at  the man who was employing him. He
 had done  this the first time  he had met Ne'on,  just outside Magnus'
 infamous fifth quarter. Then, he had seen only a second son of a minor
 noble -  a son  who wanted  his brother  out of  the way  for monetary
 reasons. He had been  used to dealing with men like  that - there were
 many second  sons in  Baranur's seventeen duchies.  A few  had already
 employed Clay to make them the first son.
      Now, however, Clay saw something  different: either a man of some
 magical skill  who was not fully  in touch with reality;  or something
 undescribable,  filled with  potential  but frustrated  by the  limits
 of... He  didn't know. If Ne'on  was the first, life  in Gateway would
 soon  cease to  be a  comfortable  thing for  Clay. If  Ne'on was  the
 second, then  someone had better  make sure whatever was  limiting him
 continued to do so. Either way,  Clay thought, it's almost time I left
 Gateway to its own fate.
      The Captain's thoughts were  interrupted by Ne'on's words. "Clay,
 bring my black-handled  dagger, the red incense, and  the Lederian red
 wine.  They're over  by the  window. You  know what  to do  with them.
 Afterwards, clear the table with the  animals and bring it to the edge
 of the circle. I'll need it to support the Stone."
      As  Ne'on  sat   cross-legged  in  the  center   of  the  circle,
 concentrating his will  in preparation of the  spell, Bartholomew went
 to the window to gather Ne'on's items. From there, he could see out to
 the main  towers of the  bailey, and  the catapults which  were moving
 into attack positions. Gateway was slowly, and quietly, standing to.
      Bartholomew Clay smiled as he pondered the situation, and brought
 the items Ne'on had requested within the circle. Marcus knew the Black
 Hand would move  against him when his actions  were realized. However,
 the present force of the Hand numbered only twenty, give or take a few
 of the  youths. The regular  guard, on  the other hand,  numbered over
 2000, and were all but fanatical followers of the castellan.
      Clay  slowly and  meticulously  placed the  dagger  on the  alter
 within Ne'on's circle.  He then replaced the ashes in  the burner with
 the incense Ne'on desired, and filled the ceremonial goblet with wine.
 He took his time, more than was necessary, making sure the salt on the
 altar was  plentiful, and the candles  weren't so low they  would burn
 out in less than a bell. He even checked to make sure the altar itself
 was facing East,  even though it hadn't been moved  since Ne'on placed
 it  there over  a year  before.  When Clay  heard the  sound of  boots
 running down the hallway outside, he knew his patience had paid off.
      Captain Clay opened  the door before Mak, one of  the Black Hand,
 could  knock: disturbing  Ne'on prior  to his  spell casting  could be
 dangerous. "Outside, and  quietly," the captain said  to his sergeant.
 Once outside  the room, Clay  shut the  door carefully. "Now,  what is
 it?"
      "Captain, it's the castellan," Mak answered.
      "Is something  wrong with  him?" Clay  feigned ignorance.  He was
 certain  Ridgewater would  take steps  to insure  Gateway's protection
 from the Black Hand and he had no wish to be involved.
      "No,  sir. He's  ordered the  catapults into  position. In  a few
 menes, Gateway will be involved in that mess outside!"
      "Hmmnn...  gather the  Hand  and commandeer  the catapults.  When
 that's done, take a few men and  arrest the castellan. By order of the
 Lord Keeper."
      "What are you going to do?"
      "Ne'on's ordered me  to stay here and assist him,  I've got to do
 just that. Now go, and hurry up. You don't have much time."
      As  Mak turned  and  ran down  the  hall, Bartholomew  re-entered
 Ne'on's sanctuary. He  was sending those men to their  deaths. He knew
 it, and he didn't care. They were mostly low-life scum, to him, and if
 Ridgewater didn't  get the  reaction he was  expecting from  the Black
 Hand  he'd know  something was  up. Besides,  their deaths  would give
 Marcus the impression that Clay was as  good as dead. As soon as Ne'on
 began his second spell - one which  Clay had been told would take some
 bells - the former captain  of the soon-to-be-extinct Black Hand would
 be working his way out of Gateway. To where, he didn't know.

               Gemstone Expedition, lost track of the
          day, Lieutenant Howen reporting.  If all
          things come in threes, then only my death
          remains.  Funny how you get philosophical
          when situations are desperate.  The first
          tragedy occurred with the Beinison force's
          advance scouts.  We were taken by surprise
          four times by relatively small groups; they
          were, however, better trained, armored, and
          fed than our more sizeable force.  The fifth,
          and last attack took place more than two
          bells ago - this time we were ready,
          foregoing movement in order to fortify our
          position.  The entire attacking group - only
          a squad of light infantry - were killed, with
          heavy losses inflicted on our side.  We now
          number only four.  We lost Hanlar in that
          last skirmish; a man without whom I would
          have failed this mission, or at least already
          been dead.  Hoping to avoid further contact,
          I've ordered the men moving again - straight
          for Gateway.
               The forest and hills are excellent for
          hiding.  Often, this works against the people
          doing the hiding.  When we emerged form our
          cover, only leagues from our destination, we
          were greeted with a horrendous sight: Gateway
          under siege.  This was the second tragedy.
          There seems to be a force of about three
          Baranurian regiments outside her walls.  They
          are defending themselves valiantly against
          the light infantry of Beinison, but the heavy
          infantry have just begun to close.  Shortly,
          the massacre will begin, and our deaths will
          follow.  That will be-

      "Lieutenant Howen," a voice called,  and the Lieutenant looked up
 from his log to  see a virtual ghost. Not more than  six feet from the
 leader of  this expedition  stood the wispery  form of  Ne'on Winston,
 Lord Keeper of Gateway.
      "My  lord?"  Howen  answered.  He could  not  believe  his  eyes.
 Certainly, between the  bloodshed he had witnessed,  the starvation he
 was suffering from,  and his lack of  sleep he must have  gone mad. It
 was the only answer he could imagine.
      "Do not be afraid, Lieutenant, I offer salvation." With a wave of
 his hand,  Ne'on formed a shimmering  circle in front of  Howen. "Call
 your men, carry the stone through the circle - you soon will be within
 the safe walls of Gateway. Hurry now, this area is not safe."
      The image faded before Howen could reply. "Men," he called, "pick
 up the cursed stone and follow me."
      The three  remaining members  of the Black  Arm hefted  the stone
 with the poles they had been using to carry it. They were weak, tired,
 and  hungry, but  blood pumped  excitedly through  their veins  at the
 sight of salvation. The lieutenant  ordered his men through the circle
 first, not concerned with his life  now that escape was so close. When
 the stone  entered the circle,  however, only it  disappeared, leaving
 Howen and his three men behind. The lieutenant began to cry.

      As a large, purple stone appeared from out of nothing and floated
 toward the table, Clay stared at his lord. "You deserted them."
      "Of course  I did,  Clay -  I never intended  for them  to live."
 Ne'on looked reproachingly at the  captain. "Is something wrong, Clay?
 Haven't you ever left a man to die before?"
      "I kept my word, Ne'on. I may be a mercenary-"
      "Assassin, more accurately."
      "As you wish. But if I make a promise, I keep it."
      "Your right,  Clay," Ne'on mocked. "It  was terrible of me  to go
 back on my word. I regret it, truly. Satisfied?"
      Clay spat on the floor. "You have no dignity, Ne'on." Clay turned
 to leave.
      "Leave now, Clay, and you won't be coming back."
      "That is how I intended it."
      "Well, then, good bye."
      A sphere of  complete blackness formed around  Ne'on's head, then
 launched itself in Clay's direction. Bartholomew jumped quickly to the
 right, swinging  his sword at  the dark  sphere. The ball  of darkness
 flew  past, striking  the  door  to the  corridor  and enveloping  it.
 Instantly, the  door burst in flames  and was reduced to  cinders. The
 black ball was gone.  Clay leapt to his feet and  dove head first into
 the hallway. As  he ran from the room, he  could hear Ne'on's laughter
 following him.

               *              *              *

      Goren  and the  three guards  of House  Winston were  riding full
 gallop, as much to make haste to Gateway as to lose the advance scouts
 following close  behind. Goren hoped  that close proximity  to Gateway
 would deter the Beinison squad, but when they got to within quarter of
 a  league from  the keep,  the scouts  were still  at their  backs. He
 thanked Nehru the pursuers didn't have  bows to shoot him in the back,
 and cursed his lack of foresight for not having brought any himself.
      A loud  horn rang out from  Gateway's parapets at about  the same
 time  ballistas  began firing  their  heavy  load into  the  Vodyanoi.
 Looking ahead, Goren noticed the gates  of Gateway were opening, and a
 barrel-chested  man  in scale  armor  was  waving  to Goren  from  the
 parapets. "There's home,  men! Run 'em dead if you  have to, but we're
 almost there!"  As Goren and  the guards  made their way  into Gateway
 Keep, five  of Marcus' archers  convinced the Benosian scouts  to head
 back to camp.

      "Goren, you  blasted fool!"  Marcus yelled as  he worked  his way
 down the  stairs to the  courtyard. "What  in Muskadon's name  are you
 doing? Damn good  to see you, but  where's your escort? I  told you to
 come back with a regiment of men  and the King's seal, and demand your
 rightful place. Burn my ashes in  Rise'er's feast, boy, you're lucky I
 opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered them shut and the garrison
 to stand down. If I-"
      "Marcus!"  Goren's  voice  finally   made  its  way  through  the
 castellan's barrage of  dialogue. He looked at  the castellan, smiled,
 and grabbed  him by the  shoulders. "It's good  to see you,  too. Now,
 where's the rest  of the force? With all those  men outside, I counted
 on at  least three more  regiments in  Gateway... did you  deploy them
 before I got in?"
      Marcus'   expression   turned   dark.  "Your   blasted   brother,
 self-proclaimed Keeper  of Gateway -  you took care of  that business,
 now, didn't you?" When Goren  nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered
 the garrison to  stand down, and not to allow  access to Gateway. Just
 recently, I countermanded that order.  The catapults and ballistas are
 firing on  the Beinison army  now, but I'm not  sure how long  it will
 take Morion to move his troops in  - and the Benosian's will be making
 for the entrance as fast as he will."
      Goren grasped the  parchment from inside his cloak  and handed it
 to the Castellan. "This is the  King's hand, and his decision to place
 me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for
 me  -  and gather  archers  by  the gate.  I'll  return  in menes,  Ol
 willing."
      As Goren  turned towards his  father's mansion, Marcus  yelled to
 him, "Watch your brother, boy... he's not to be trusted."

      Bartholomew  Clay never  thought  he'd see  Goren Winston  again;
 certainly not in  the fine-clothed garb of a  nobleman. Goren Winston,
 however, seemed to be looking forward to their present situation. Clay
 was running down  the corridor from the direction of  what appeared to
 be Kald's  old quarters. Goren,  albeit tired from running  the horses
 near to death,  was armed, armored, and feeling healthier  than he had
 in months.
      "Clay," Goren called. He couldn't  remember the rest of the man's
 name, or his title,  or very much at all about  the man. His familiar,
 long blonde hair,  and his left-handed sword  - what was left  of it -
 were all Goren needed to jostle his memory.
      Bartholomew stopped,  surprised at Goren's appearance,  and noted
 the sword by his side and the  armor on his person. The captain of the
 former  Black  Hand,  Ne'on's  personal  guard,  and  the  Black  Arm,
 Gateway's now-defunct elite  militia, held his sword in  front of him,
 anticipating an attack. Looking down the length of his blade, however,
 he noted the farthest half was  missing. Had Ne'on's black sphere done
 that?
      "You have me  at an advantage, Winston. My blade  seems to be..."
 He chuckled, "incomplete."
      Goren drew his  own blade, strong and trustworthy,  and stared at
 the man.  He was  terrible with  a blade, and  knew Clay  could easily
 defeat him,  normally. Goren  rationalized that  this made  them even.
 "You had the  advantage, a year ago,  when I was drunk  in Magnus. And
 again, while I lay  in shock in the dungeon, did you  tell your men to
 stop  kicking me?  Did  the  bludgeoning I  received  inspire pity  or
 remorse on  your part? You  have a sword, broken  though it is,  and a
 dirk at your side. Use them."
      As Goren  advanced, swinging clumsily  at Clay, the  captain back
 peddled down the corridor. He recognized  the lack of skill in Goren's
 footwork, the complete non-mastery of blade control. In some respects,
 he thought,  this made  Winston more dangerous  than someone  who knew
 what he was doing. Bartholomew thought he might die, this day.
      "I have an offer for you, Winston. My life for yours."
      Goren almost laughed.  Clay was obviously not in  the position to
 bargain, but he seemed ernest. He wondered. "How do you mean?"
      "In Ne'on's  sanctuary, he's  preparing a spell.  Something about
 bringing  Phos into  the world.  He sent  eighty men  to their  deaths
 already, getting  some damn spell component.  My guess is, as  soon as
 Phos gets here, we're all dead. I can't stop him, but maybe you can."
      "How would I stop Phos? He's..."
      "Not Phos. Ne'on. Of course, you'll have to kill him."
      That thought  struck Goren  hard. He'd thought  he might  have to
 force his brother to rescind the seat.  Maybe push the man who used to
 be his  little brother around a  bit, scare him into  complying. Death
 had been there,  in the back of  his mind, but he  had foolishly hoped
 banishment would  solve the problem.  But that simply would  have been
 hoping for someone else to take responsibility.
      Clay  continued. "Not  just  any death,  either.  You can't  take
 chances. You'll have to chop his head off his shoulders. Let his blood
 pour out on the floor until his  lifeless body falls in a heap. That's
 the only way you can be sure. Phos has to be stopped, and your brother
 is in the way."
      "I can talk to him. Ne'on will listen to me."
      "Maybe once,  but not  now. The spell's  already started.  If you
 don't get in there soon, it may be too late. As it is, you can't waste
 time fighting with me. My life for yours."
      "If you're  still in Gateway  when I get  out of that  room, I'll
 have you killed."
      Clay smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

      When  Goren  entered what  used  to  be  his father's  study,  he
 stopped. The  trophies along the wall  had been torn down  in place of
 shelves littered  with potion bottles  and books. Where an  ornate rug
 used to  be, a red pentagram  had been inscribed within  a circle, the
 rug  rolled up  in one  corner. And,  over the  flames burning  in the
 fireplace was a cast iron kettle of no small size.
      Ne'on  was   there,  too,  sitting  in   the  circled  pentagram,
 concentrating  on something  -  the  stone glowing  in  front of  him,
 perhaps. Candles were  lit about the circle, and a  small altar burned
 incense and coal in the center of it all.
      As Goren stepped  forward with sword in hand, a  voice filled his
 head with  doubt. "Can I  kill my brother?" it  asked. "How do  I know
 what he intends  to do? Clay told  me? Who is Bartholomew  Clay that I
 should  trust  him? He  was  probably  lying  to  save his  own  life,
 worthless and puny that it is. And Ne'on is my brother."
      He answered  that voice. "What  else is there? Phos  has revealed
 himself to me. Phos has already told  me of his plans to gain entry to
 this world, and to destroy anything  and everything he can. Ne'on was,
 as near as  I could tell, in  Phos' total control the last  time I saw
 him."
      The  last time  I saw  him was  seven months  ago. Phos  might be
 nothing.
      He killed my father. He tortured me in prison.
      I switched  the cups. The guards  tortured me in prison,  as they
 probably do  every prisoner sentenced  to life. He's your  brother, by
 J'mirg, you can't kill a man when he's not looking!
      Goren suddenly started toward the  circle again. "I don't worship
 dark J'mirg, Phos - get out of my head!"
      A reddish form appeared over the  glowing stone in the circle. It
 seemed more human than the last time Goren had seen it, but the flames
 were still  evident in its eyes,  and fire seemed to  drip like saliva
 from its over-sized  jowls. It was Phos, as he  intended to enter this
 world.

               "Greetings, Kald's eldest son;
                  You've come too late, I've won.
                This life new shall I make;
                  This worthless world I'll take.
                Immortality 'waits,
                  With death's and blood's complaint.
                J'mirg's son shall entrance gain,
                  Peaceful Lordsrealm's plane."

      Goren  continued toward  the  circle, but  something  - Phos,  he
 guessed, or  the magic  Ne'on was  using to summon  him -  stopped his
 entrance. The  circle protected Ne'on  from harm while  Ne'on summoned
 the world's damnation. Kind of ironic, Goren thought.

               "Entrance this circle ye,
                 Been forbade while armed thee.
                Ghastly goals no easy task,
                 With th'hands must lift death's mask.
                Given you choice has he,
                 Ne'on dies, but not me.
                Releas'd am I, his head gone,
                 With his head, I'm undone."

      Goren looked  at Phos. The  demon - so  Goren called him,  for he
 knew no better -  had lied to him before. But it  was rhyming. Why did
 that  stir something  in his  memory?  Rhymes were  sometimes used  in
 spells. Was Phos taking the time to cast a spell, while Ne'on summoned
 him  here? If  so,  and  he understood  Phos'  words correctly,  Goren
 couldn't enter  the circle  armed. And  if he  didn't stop  Ne'on, the
 bloodshed outside would propel Phos into Lordsrealm.
      So, Gateway  would be safe  anyway. He  could just sit  there and
 wait  for Ne'on  to finish  the spell.  Ne'on didn't  have to  die. He
 didn't have to  take Ne'on's throat in his hands  and squeeze the life
 out  of  him. But,  what  would  happen  in Lordsrealm?  According  to
 religion, Lordsrealm  was where  all the  gods -  at least,  from that
 religion - resided. So, if Goren  sat back, and watched the spell come
 to completion, Phos would eventually disappear into his reward.
      Reward for  murder. Reward for  deaths which, if Goren  could, he
 would prevent.  And how many  deaths were needed? Would  the thousands
 massed at Gateway  be enough? How about just the  Royal Duchy? Even if
 it numbered  only tens,  or one, it  would be too  much. It  was evil.
 Ne'on, Goren had to admit, as much  as he loved what Ne'on used to be,
 was evil.  He played in  this willingly.  Goren dropped his  sword and
 entered the circle.

               "Thy step sounds in the fire,
                 As sour notes from a lyre.
                With your hands must death make,
                 And Ne'on's life thee take.
                Make no haste, time is still,
                 Take pause, gather your will.
                The spell nears its bright end,
                 Life is precious to defend."


      Goren looked  up at Phos,  whose form was beginning  to solidify.
 The air within the circle grew heavy with heat and a smell like embers
 from a cedar fire. He watched as Phos breathed his first breath of air
 on Makdiar.  He looked at  his brother, helpless, still  entranced and
 oblivious to the imposing death in both Phos' and Goren's presence. He
 still could not kill - Ne'on was, after all, his brother. Someone with
 whom he had grown, and learned.
      Goren grabbed  a small  pentagram and the  incense on  the table,
 feeling the pain as  the incense burned in his hand.  "To any god that
 will  listen, give  me  the strength  to send  Phos  back to  whatever
 damnation he came from!"
      Goren made to grab the  Stone of Strength, completely ignorant of
 its powers, but Phos was already complete. With a swipe of his massive
 arm, Goren  was knocked  back three  feet to the  edge of  the circle,
 colliding with the same force that had  kept him out of the circle the
 first time. Blood trickled down from  his nose, but for the most part,
 he was only dazed.
      Phos stepped toward him, grabbed him by his armor, and lifted him
 to face level. "You could have  run, little human. I would have spared
 your life  - one  Winston was  enough for  my plans.  If you  had left
 Gateway, you  could have lived a  full, long life. But  trapped within
 this circle, you are mine to devour, piece by piece. Body and soul."
      "Think  again, Phos,"  Goren replied,  "I don't  know much  about
 magic, but if I can't physically leave this circle, neither can you."
      "Don't  be obtuse,"  Phos smiled.  Reaching  his arm  out to  the
 circle's perimeter, "Of course I ca-" His arm was stopped by the force
 of the magic circle. "The little gnat."
      Dropping Goren to the ground, Phos stepped over to Ne'on, who was
 still half in a trance. Phos grabbed Ne'on by the neck, lifting him up
 to face Phos,  and breaking Ne'on's concentration.  "Little gnat, what
 are you doing?  Release this spell, or I shall  painfully remove vital
 organs from your body."
      Ne'on half smiled,  though the pain he was  already suffering was
 evident. Phos' grip on  his neck was not gentle. "Heh  - first spell I
 ever cast without you, Phos. Tied  this circle into your being. Didn't
 think I  could do it,  but you're stuck here,  just like me.  Till you
 die. Ow! Heh...  Hello, brother. Nice to see you  again. Sorry you got
 stuck her- ulg."
      Phos stuck his finger down Ne'on's throat and grabbed his tongue.
 Ne'on  screamed and  flailed, teears  running  down his  face. With  a
 sickening, wet,  ripping sound,  Phos removed  the greater  portion of
 Ne'on's tongue and dropped it  on the floor. Ne'on's breathing gurgled
 as  the blood  welled up  in  this mouth.  "Did that  hurt? No,  don't
 answer. I can see that it did."
      Goren grabbed the stone from Ne'on's altar: the Stone of Strength
 which had been abducted by Ne'on from the Nar-Enthruen. The Stone into
 which, in a desperate attempt to ward off the Black Arm, the remaining
 magi had  poured their powers. The  Stone which, as the  Black Arm had
 transported  it  to Gateway,  slowly  sapped  the  life force  of  the
 surviving  members of  that  expedition.  And the  Stone  which, as  a
 component of  Ne'on's last spell,  had been actively  conducting magic
 like heat through metal. Goren grabbed  the stone and, lifting it with
 all his might, brought it forcibly up against Phos' head.
      The stone impacted with him  and Phos writhed in agony, screaming
 as his life  was sucked into the Stone. He  resisted the Stone's pull,
 desperately grabbing at the floor, the  altar... to no avail. His life
 dimished even faster. As Phos' power decreased, the Stone's increased.
 The pulsing  rock began  to heave  with powers it  was never  meant to
 contain. A crack formed around its base where Phos' head had met it in
 a downward stroke, and a brilliant  light began emanating from it. The
 air was pierced  by a shattering sound, purple light  filled the room,
 and  fragments of  stone exploded  into the  confines of  the mystical
 circle.
      When  Goren regained  his sight,  and his  sense of  feeling, the
 trickling wetness in  his left thigh caught his attention.  A shard of
 the  Stone had  plunged  deep  into his  leg,  searing  his skin  upon
 entrance. His leg was nearly useless. As he felt about the rest of his
 body, noting only minor cuts through  his armor, he heard Ne'on's weak
 groan.
      Ne'on lay in a pool of blood. Not having worn any armor, his body
 was  pierced numerous  times by  stone fragments,  the worst  of which
 being a long, thin  shard in his right eye. The  blood oozing from his
 wounds was  slow, partially cauterized  by the hot stone,  and Ne'on's
 death was a painful, slow one.  He reached out toward Goren, trying to
 touch his  brother's arm, but his  hand fell short and  dropped to the
 ground.
      Goren wasn't sure if Ne'on even saw his brother, or if it was the
 memory of Goren's  position which had caused him to  reach. He watched
 while Ne'on's  blood coagulated, the  body trying desperately  to heal
 itself even after  the life had gone from it.  Goren might have closed
 his eyes,  if he could think  about it, but the  image was commanding,
 not letting him look away until the blood had stopped.
      A footstep,  some hands grabbing him  and pulling him out  of the
 room. Someone  was talking  to him,  but he  couldn't hear  the words.
 "Ne'on's taken care of," was all he could say.

      It was several menes before he was aware of his new surroundings.
 Marcus had brought  him into the hall, and was  feeding him mutton and
 wine, trying  to get Goren to  feed himself. The hall  was filled with
 officers from Gateway's  garrison, and from what was  left of Morion's
 troops.  Morion  himself  was  sitting two  chairs  down  from  Goren,
 concern, exhaustion, and regret etched in his face.
      Goren started when he saw everyone staring at him. He didn't know
 what to  say, but when Marcus  offered him more food,  he declined. "I
 don't think I  want to eat, right  now, thank you Marcus.  I feel very
 strange. I watched my brother die. I did the right thing, and he still
 died. I don't know what to do."
      "Well, Lord  Keeper," Morion started  in before Marcus  could say
 anything, "if  it's not too  much trouble,  you could start  by taking
 command of this keep. There's work to be done, strategies to be worked
 on. I don't  know what kind of  ordeal you went through  in there, but
 the situation has only slightly improved out here. There's twenty-four
 Beinison regiments outside  trying to get into Gateway,  and only just
 over  three of  ours holding  them there.  The siege  engines will  be
 arriving in  a day or two,  and if we don't  get reinforcements, we're
 all going to be dead no matter how many right things we do."
      Goren looked  blankly at  Morion. "I don't  know that  much about
 strategy. I didn't realize Gateway was under siege, when I started out
 from Magnus.  The King himself, to  the best of my  knowledge, doesn't
 even know the problem. I spoke with him six days ago."
      Morion swore.  "Well, we sent  out messengers last week,  and the
 week before that. Most recently, we sent one out two days ago, telling
 Haralan -  the King,  excuse me  - where we  stood, which  was outside
 Gateway, looking like easy killing."
      Goren looked to Marcus. "You sent the archers out to help them?"
      Marcus nodded.  "Aye, boy. Lord  Keeper. Sorry, but to  me you'll
 always be the  son of my best friend." He  paused, cursing himself for
 having brought  up Kald's death at  a time like this.  "Anyway, I knew
 the squirmin' Benosians were pressing Morion hard in his retreat - and
 I must say, your lordship, your troops are in need of training if they
 ever  want to  try a  retreat, again  - so  I commanded  the companies
 myself. We had  a full two hundred archers on  horseback, riding about
 one hundred  feet in front  of Morion,  and we showered  the Beinisons
 enough to  slow them  down while  Morion made  his way  in. I  hope to
 bloody Saren some two or three companies went down in the hail we sent
 them."
      "I  doubt it  was  that  much, but  it  was greatly  appreciated,
 Castellan." Morion said. "I lost some fine troops of my own, trying to
 organize that mess when the gates opened."
      "So, here we are," Goren finished.  "Bottled up in Gateway and no
 help in sight."
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1  (C)    Copyright  February,  1994,   DargonZine,     Editor   Dafydd
 <White@DUVM.BitNet>. All  rights revert to the  authors. These stories
 may  not  be  reproduced  or   redistributed  (save  in  the  case  of
 reproducing  the whole  'zine  for further  distribution) without  the
 express permission of the author involved.