The Sacrifice (complete, unedited)

A Tale from Karnn

The Sacrifice

The towers stretched upwards, grasping the sunny sky with iron talons. The capital of the Droshan Empire, Noivro, was one of the greatest cities in the known world. The Imperial Palace was beautifully decorated with sculptured marble, the walls flowing into statues of guardians and gargoyles. On the spiked towers, crimson banners fought against the stiff wind. Nonetheless, its primary purpose was a fortress; the massive granite outer wall and intricate gatehouse gave evidence to that design. It reflected well the mentality of the first Emperor, Kond.

Past the gleaming palace, the central island of Noivro was laid out like an uneven terrace. A quick glance showed that the poor were kept out; this was the haven of the rich and powerful. Sprawling villas, the city houses of the powerful merchant families, dotted the island’s cluttered districts. A few main roads cut swathes through the buildings. Farther to the east, the barracks of the Kuvhood Legion were situated on the slight hill, at the edge of the isle. This legion never left the emperor; it was the permanent imperial guard. In the west, the other two parts of the triumvirate of powers dominated. The Cathedral of the Kasul Faith was made in a similar style to the palace, with the Hand of Humanity displayed prominently on many of the multi-faceted walls and spires. The third power was an ancient palace, built far before the Droshani Empire had arisen. It was now the meeting place of the Trissin Council, a council formed from the 17 great merchant families which controlled the trade of the Empire. When the Trissin Council had formed from the wreckage of the peasant revolution, they had picked Aklor Palace due to its exceeding beauty and splendor. A gray wall ran all around the island, only broken in four places. One was the small harbor that was used in times of siege, and for the most valuable of goods. The other three were the great stone bridges off the island, each going to a different shore of the branching river. These were constantly manned by the Kuvhood Legion, with checkpoints questioning the business of all travelers.

Farther still, on the far shores of the river, the lower city teemed with ordinary life. This is where the giant warehouses of the merchant families were protected by private armies. Dozens of markets were scattered through the millions of people making a living in Noivro. The real harbor, the economic might of Droshan, enveloped the south west bank completely. That was the direction of Old Droshan, and the birthplace of Noivro. Close to a hundred ships could be seen in the harbor at any point. Few of the ships belonged to the Imperial Navy, as the port of Korsina, on an island a few hundre miles south, was the primary naval base of the empire.

The gaunt figure turned away from the window of Iyn Tower, the giant obsidian spike that belonged to the Imperial Mage Corps. Hi voice broke the air harshly. “I have considered your request.” His black and scarlet robes hung limp in the still air.

The other person in the room was sitting in a large armchair. He wore loose fitting gray clothes and had been waiting for a reply. His languorous reply came in stark contrast to the stern voice of his superior. “And?”

“I am unconvinced. Your success is far from certain. If you fail, the price will be high. I do not wish to expend my resources in such a risky venture.”

“Lord Warv, I have calculated the odds stacked against us. I will not lose; I will personally oversee every step of the expedition, managing it to the detail. Yes, the risks are high, but to further the Empire, some risks must be taken, some sacrifices accepted. At this point, we do not have a coherent strategy for the Cronso front. Alternate plans must be pursued, and I believe that this will catch the enemy off guard, and succeed without needing to bring the full weight of our armies to bear. Obviously this would be a better option, but would necessitate recalling them from the Ghlal War, or the Zuw Crusade; undoubtedly greater threats to humanity. If I can do this, I will have achieved what so many have failed to do, with only modest resources”

“Im not sure if the Four are actually a modest investment. With additional time and training, they could be instrumental in our foreign policy. I care very little about the human cost of your venture, but them…I have plans for them…”

“The Four have not yet fully reached their potential, it is true, but this should push them to their limits, and force their growth. Besides, the Four are special, but not terribly important on the Imperial scale. Their deaths might delay your plans for a generation, but, with Droshan’s teeming population…there will be others. It’s just a matter of probability.”

Lord Warv stood for a minute. He was deep in thought, but he always looked somber. “Go then. I have faith in your abilities. Make the Emperor proud.”

“I will. I have a ship waiting.” He got up from the ornate chair and started to walk out of the room.

“One last question.”

“Yes?”

“Where have you chosen?”

“A small castle in a place called Calur Bay.”

Calur Bay

The 20 man squads progressed quickly through the castle. Short swords were bared and no mercy was shown. Their orders were clear, and accompanied by a large sum of money which effectively removed the consciences of the mercenaries. Within twenty minutes, every single inhabitant of the castle was dead, most still lying in their beds. The nearby town had been dispatched earlier that night.

The mercenaries’ leader, a man by the name of Vacthin Rothad, climbed the stairs to the ramparts. He was not unduly cruel, but he was coldly ruthless. He had dark hair, and a weathered face, but was otherwise unremarkable. The scores of deaths that night would not be troubling his conscience. There was a stiff breeze, but the warm temperature of Cronso stopped the wind from being an adversary. Vacthin gazed out at the expanse of water the castle overlooked, Calur Bay, and spared a few minutes to think about how the battle had gone. The castle had been well made and large, and should have posed an insurmountable challenge to a small mercenary group of only 500 men. Instead, it had been taken with only a few score lost. Two things had gone in their favor. Through intelligence provided by their employer, a man he still had not met, they had gained knowledge of a secret passage through a primitive sewage system into the castle. Though unpleasant, this is where a hundred of his best men had entered. They had gone directly for the gatehouse, where they discovered the second thing which was in the mercenaries favor. It seemed the Baron Hidkund was far too confident, and only posted an exceedingly minimal guard. The guard managed to raise the alarm before being cut down, but reinforcements were far too slow to stop the gate being opened. The rest of the Vacthin’s mercenaries had flooded in and defeated the reinforcements, the only real resistance the castle had offered. After that, the massacre had begun.

As pleasant as these thoughts were, they were not the real reason Vacthin was standing on the ramparts. His employer had ordered him to be on the northern ramparts, above the sheltered harbor, at dawn. There seemed to be no possible reason for this request, but Vacthin was not one to take chances with this deal. He stared out, into the Duzal Sea. He knew that over the horizon was the Isle of Jaisul and Freelancer’s Bay, the only real defense Cronso had against the insatiable appetite of the Empire of Droshan. The wind picked up again, and shifted till it was coming from the North. Vacthin squinted into the wind to watch the sun peak over the horizon. Suddenly, the wind slammed into Vacthin, causing him to stagger backwards. Fearing he would be pushed over the edge, Vacthin sank down onto his knees. After a few moments the wind fell away as quickly as it had risen up. Vacthin looked up, and was shocked to see a figure standing before him. The man was tall and well built, with a shaved head. He wore loose gray clothes, unmarked except for a small emblem on the breast. It was the emblem of the Imperial Mages of Droshan.

The man looked down and said, “What is your name?”

“Vacthin” came the stammered reply.

A broad smile creased the tanned skin of the mage’s face. “Vacthin, I am glad to see you here, it means that all went according to plan. Allow me to introduce myself, you may call me Ghant; I am your employer.”

Chilt

There was a spot of calm in the sea of people. The tavern was always packed, and today was no exception. There was one table on the back wall that its many customers did not go near. The party of six men sitting at the table looked as though they had been through every war in the past ten years, a difficult thing for even mercenaries to achieve in Cronso. They carried themselves with a smooth grace, only hindered slightly by the patchwork of scars across each of their bodies. Still, the frequent inhabitants of the tavern were used to soldiers and other people who made killing their profession. This alone would not have scared them off, instead it was the leather clothing stained completely black. Most resident knew what it meant, and what they had heard made them believe it was better to take no chances.

The six men appreciated the solitude and savored their wine, the best the tavern had to offer. The leader, a man named Barrick Kosra, looked to his right and spoke. “So, what do you have to say about our most recent contract?”

The man, who was missing his left eye and most of that side of his face, turned, and seemed to evaluate his words for a second. “There was no real difficulty in our task. This pathetic country’s king ignored the bandit warlord until he had become a real threat. He is scared of the Tanian Directorate, as he should be, and wisely decided he needed to keep his army entrenched at his borders. Thus, he paid our exorbitant fees and sent us into the forests of Kol-thra to clean out the rat nests and deal with the warlords little fortress”

Another man spoke up in a quiet, reserved voice. He was a tall, thin cavalry captain with a scar along the left side of his face; named Leviathe. “We divided our army up to combat the different forces against us, out maneuvered the warlord’s clumsy feints, and destroyed his base. A week later, one of my scout squads picked up the warlord, and we executed him, ending the threat”.

Kosra nodded slowly. “I know all that, I was commanding the invasion. The job was easy and it paid well enough. What I’m actually asking is, do you think we should move on to bigger things? This company is more than capable of handling any of the threats this country, Prokaer, or this entire region will produce”

The one-eyed captain turned in scorn, “Hell, if we had a decent mage, we’d have a good chance of breaking the Tanian Directorate.” He snorted. “These fools might have reason to be afraid of those half-crazed religious fanatics, but we don’t.”

Kosra flicked a slightly annoyed glance in his direction. “Keep up to date, Aneer. That is what Tania might have been a few years ago, but now they’ve gotten smart. They’ve copied Droshan by building up a regular army and putting all the fanatics into special squads trained by the religious leaders. Added to that, they have a growing mage cadre, and it is rumored they have almost produced a Kava mage. Anyways, we’d be outnumbered 5 to 1. In every battle.”

A grizzled old man sitting in the back raised his voice for the first time. “Anyways, which direction did you have in mind? We could drift southward, towards the Narzadra. I hear the X’action hives are starting to give the southern countries some problems.”

“I hate sand, and the Narzadra Sea of Dunes is the epitome of a sandy desert. Besides, that area may have serious problems, but it doesn’t have money. I was thinking of south-east, towards Valca.”

‘Kosra, every army that has marched into the Valca Forests has been obliterated. A few survivors have escaped whatever is in that place, but can barely describe what slaughtered their friends. In fact, since no enemy army has ever come out of that place, NO ONE knows what’s in there or anything about their tactics.” The old timer, named Gisali leaned forward. “Our greatest skill is our ability to adapt to any tactics we go against. How will we do that?”

“Have a little faith, Gisali. We would not march in blind. In fact, if other contracts come up, we will not march in at all. I do know this, though. Our company is one of the most elite forces Cronso has ever produced, and there is money to be made in Valca. That forest holds secrets... I have talked to a few of the survivors. I think I have a rough idea of what there is to gain. Imagine, what if our mages don’t fully understand the extent of the Planes?”

“Regardless, Kosra, we are only one of the most elite. There are better. Do you remember the Sons of Jinda? Twenty years ago, they were one of the most respected companies. They were the third army to march into Valca, within my lifetime. There were four survivors.”

Kosra was about to reply when he was interrupted by a nobleman walking swiftly towards their table. He was richly dressed, completely out of place in the tavern. His passage, flanked by two bodyguards, caused ripples of consternation in the crowd. He had a pompous air about him, and he ignored the stares, some in wonder, and some in calculation. He drew to a halt before their table and began to speak. His voice was quite deep, and sounded as if it was used to commanding; “Are you men the leaders of the Adnar Velniris, commonly known as the Blackhearts?”

Kosra put his head forward slightly. “We are, that should be obvious to one such as you. What business do you have with us?”

“There is a, ah, unexpected problem. The king is offering you another contract.”

‘Are you the official representative?”

“I am. The situation has arisen very suddenly, and the king would like it dealt with quickly.”

“Let’s hear it, then. Please, have a seat”

The nobleman sat down in one of the rough seats offered. His silks were a flash of yellow in a sea of black leather. “My name is Hiscari. The night before last, Baron Hidkund’s castle on Calur Bay was taken by a relatively unknown mercenary group. We have identified the leader as a man named Vacthin R’othad, but that is about all we know. He somehow managed to break the castle with only 500 men. Before doing so, he attempted to kill everyone in the nearby town. A few escaped, and brought us the news. It is believed that there are no survivors from the castle.”

Gisali spoke up. “Do you have any idea of the employer or reason behind taking this relatively unimportant castle?”

“None whatsoever. The logic behind it is a complete mystery, since Baron Hidkund is not very rich, or, was not very rich. This is one of the reasons we would like to bring a group as respected as you against the castle. Another is the castle itself, it is well made, and will take some tactical planning to bring down without a heavy loss of life.”

Kosra, paused for a few moments, and then replied. “Despite the fortifications, I am confident that the Adnar Velniris will be able to take this place with some ease. I will take my three thousand soldiers to lay siege to this castle. The only real question is the payment.”

“No way, in hell.”

Ghant let out a short laugh. “Please calm down, Vacthin. Let me explain a few things.”

“You honestly think my tiny force can keep this castle? They are going to throw an army against us. I expect them to arrive in the next two days. After which, we are going to be obliterated, overrun, destroyed. It doesn’t matter how good our strategy is, how bravely my men fight, we will be outnumbered, I don’t know, five or six times . We will be brought down, and I will be hung as a traitor. If I survive the fight. Besides, I don’t especially want an army from Droshan to land here. That would be the end of…of…the way that Cronso works right now. Probably, of Cronso itself, in the end.”

“Look, we only need to hold the castle for another week. By then, a fleet from Droshan should have broken through. I had intended to time the arrival slightly closer to your conquest of Calur Bay, but I was delayed slightly, and I did not have a good way to contact you. No matter. We can hold until they get here.”

“No fleet from Droshan has ever reached the coast of Cronso. Droshan has had some large fleets. Every single time, Droshan thinks ‘This time we will get through’ and there are more corsairs than they counted on, and the fleet is destroyed. They bounties are just too high. What makes you think they will this time? What has changed?”

“Let’s just say, we have increased the amount of resources we are willing to risk on this venture. Droshan is vast. We produce mages in the scores; armies are raised up every other month. Think that through. Eventually we will have enough to break through. This time, we are prepared to sacrifice more, and I think my strategy will catch the enemy off guard.”

“And what will happen to us, if Droshan does manage to gain a foothold. Droshan does not allow mercenaries. We will be hung as outlaws!” Vacthin was almost hysterical.

“I will arrange a deal. You will remain much as you are now, but you will change your name to Klina’sha Korval. Some Klina’sha Korval get direct orders from the Faith, but others are more…distant. Trust me; little enough will change for you.”

Vacthin looked worried but said nothing. Ghant pressed on. “Droshan is fighting wars on basically every border it has. There will be plunder, I assure you. Plus, with the exceedingly large sum of gold I am paying you, you will probably be able take a vacation for a few years.”

“I still don’t think we can survive, even a week.”

“I will be staying here to fight with you.”

“Can one mage make a difference? What rank are you?”

“Kava”

A sucked in breath, “I don’t believe you. There are what, eight real Kava mages in the entire Empire, and you just happen to be one of them?”

Ghant sighed. “You fool. Only a Kava mage of air could make the flight I did. I flew over half the Duzal Sea! I’m also a low level water mage. Together, I am one of the most adept at controlling the weather in the Empire. I was actually somewhat surprised that you didn’t recognize me. I guarantee that a few of your men will.”

A slow smile spread across Vacthin’s face. “So, what’s your real name?”

“There was a reason I didn’t tell you when we first met. I want to make my anonymity last as long as possible to the attackers. I still don’t trust you not to talk.”

“Believe me, I won’t talk. My men would probably mutiny if they knew we were doing deals with Droshan.”

The squad was half asleep, their outstretched forms catching as much of the late morning sun as possible. This was the first real rest they had had in weeks, and they had been on sentry duty for the first half of the previous night. The squad corporal, a human named Kord Siddler was the first to notice the return of Kosra. He sat up blearily and watched the train of six horses walk through the camp. A few minutes later, it dawned on him what their premature arrival probably meant. He got up, and kicked the body lying next to him.

A voice murmured, “Piss off, Sidle.”

“Voko, ya fool, wake up. The Bar’s back.” This was by far the most popular slang for Barrick Kosra.

“…Who the…cares?”

“It means, we probably have another job. We should try to get to tha point where we might be able to pack up.”

“…Got it, Boss.” Voko rolled over, and then managed to get to his feet. Sidle went round the squad waking everyone. Most were against the idea. A few minutes later, the whole squad was on its feet. Sidle looked them over. He had the privilege of leading one of the Blackhearts shock squads. It was a dangerous business, since it meant they were always going in first. Still, he couldn’t complain. The pay was good, and he had one of the most unique squads in the Company, the 26^th Shock. Besides for himself, and four other from Cronso, the rest were foreigners. The four from Cronso were named Hijaz, Fulnor, Jirl, and Drycha. Voko was from one of the Davoko tribes, far to the northeast of Cronso, and had an unpronounceable name. Thus, the squad called him Voko. They also had two outcast Ghlal, brothers named Torhaz and Jorhaz, renamed Tor and Jor. Ghlal looked like humans with an enlarged upper body, smaller legs, and exaggerated facial features. Their faces were completely hairless, with dark green eyes. A man named only as Lark came from Larese. This in itself was something for interest, as few ever left that oppressive society. He was very pale, with black hair and a grim set to his face. He was the second-best swordsman in the squad. The best was Q’ir. Q’ir was one of the Vrino Proza Qur, who often left their mountain cathedrals to become mercenaries. The reasoning for this was unknown, but they were always accepted into a mercenary band. Their average height was eight feet, and though they were thinner than any human, they were also faster than humans and just as strong. They had light brown skin covered with runes; no one knew what the runes were for. They, too, were hairless, and their facial features seemed almost delicate, especially since their heads were about human size on an extended body. He was clothed in one of his people’s traditional robes, black to match the Blackheart’s colors.

Sidle’s story was not unique among the Blackhearts, not by any stretch of the imagination. He was born in a small town in eastern Cronso. His parent had been carpenters, but had died at an early age due to one of the many outbreaks of plague, which had miraculously overlooked Sidle. He had tried to make a living in the town, but had not been extremely successful. A few years later, the town had been sacked by a mercenary group, called the Adnar Velniris. Sitting in the ashes of the town, he was completely disillusioned with his way of life. He realized that in Cronso, war was the only constant, so had caught up with the Blackhearts and joined their ranks. That had all happened 15 years ago. At some point, he had grown to enjoy his work. He had shown to have a talent for surviving, as well as the ability to keep his head in battle, so had been promoted to sergeant of a shock squad.

The main battle groups fought in formation, so used standardized weapons. Not so for a shock squad, they fought with their preferred killing tool. Sidle and the other natives all used shortswords and bucklers. Voko used a short, wide-bladed spear. Tor wielded a half moon axe and a warhammer, one in each hand. Jor had the biggest crossbow Sidle had ever seen. These were the preferred Ghlal weapons. Lark wielded an engraved bastard longsword. It looked to most like a noble’s weapon, and there were many speculations on whether Lark had stolen it, or, was in fact, a noble. Unlike most of his kin, Q’ir fought with two smaller swords, instead of the massive greatsword which humans could not use. Each was the size of a broadsword, human-sized, but fantastically light. The squad’s mix of styles had proved effective in the past, and Sidle, as he was called, knew they would again.

A captain rode through the camp, announcing that the Company would leave in an hour. “What did I tell you?” Sidle asked the squad. During the next hour, the camp dissolved. The few tents were packed up and carefully placed on pack horses. Each mercenary carried his own bedroll, as well as anything else he wanted. In the case of most soldiers, weight won out over sentiment, and they carried next to nothing. Weapons were quickly polished, and strapped on. Kosra had told one of his aides’s what their contract was, this being his preferred method of dispersing the information around the camp. At the end of the hour, the soldiers got into formation and began to march. Every soldier wore black, making the column look like a horde of ants swarming over the ridge.

The corsairs had been tipped off about a large imperial fleet leaving harbor at Korsina. This was expected, the Empire of Droshan was continually trying to gain control of more of the sea, rather than just a strip near the coast. The Empire was producing increasingly powerful warships, but there was strength in numbers. Dozens of corsairs had set out from Freelancer’s Bay, most captained by veterans of countless successful raids against Imperial ships. Many also had minor mages aboard of various types, although there were no stone mages aboard. Most ships were outfitted with battering rams, and a number of marines for boarding enemy ships.

They sailed together, like a shoal of surface-dwelling fish. The winds were in their favor: if you had a wind mage, then the wind was always in your favor. One of the few things the Grand Assembly of Cronso did was to collect a bit of tax from each of the states and reward every corsair that returned with an Imperial flag. Most states happily gave the money, knowing that it was worth the swarms of privateers that rose up to protect them from Droshan.

The corsair’s ships were well made but could not stand up to Imperial made vessels. Instead they planned to attack as a group. Flights of fire arrows as well as fireballs would be exchanged. Though devastating against sails and rigging, they usually did not sink ships, as both sides had adapted and covered the surfaces with fire resistant enamel. Several ships would ram the larger vessels from each side, and boarding parties would engage the Imperial marines. Different crews would compete for the flags, and it was not unknown for rival corsairs to fight each other on the deck of an Imperial ships. Water mages, with the ability to swim incredibly fast through the water and push ships, acted as general support.

This plan had worked dozens of times before. In general, if the imperial fleet was too large to be brought down the first time, a larger group of corsairs came to bring down the behemoths. Thus, when the group of corsairs saw only four vessels approaching through the fog, they let out a collective sigh of relief and moved in for the kill. The more cautious captains began cursing their positions, and pushed their vessels hard towards the enemies. Their confidence was shot through with pangs of doubt when they realized just how large the vessels were. They were the biggest ships they had ever seen, hundreds of feet long, and towering above the smaller ships. Their sides looked immensely thick and were completely coated with the fire-resistant resin. The deck was bristling with imperial soldiers. The pangs turned to actual fear when the corsairs realized that it wasn’t only marines they saw upon the decks; the ships were transporting an Imperial legion. Scarlet cloaks fluttered in the breeze and sunlight glittered on the silver armor.

The corsairs then noticed that a small fleet of maybe 25 normal vessels also sailed close behind the first four. The corsairs wondered at thus unusual formation, but realized that they would be able to attack the first ships before the others would be a threat.

A powerful wind was pushing the four ships, but it fell away when the ships noticed the corsairs. The corsairs soon noticed another unusual feature of the ship’s design. The first mast on the ship stuck an extra 50 feet above the other, and held an extra large crow’s nest. There was no sail on the extra bit of staff and it was coated with resin and metal. Before the corsairs could wonder too much on this, the ships drew into a ragged line, and stopped to await the corsairs.

After a few minutes of arguing, an especially reckless captain pushed his vessel forward. Greed got the better of those watching, and the corsair fleet moved forward. After all, there was strength in numbers, wasn’t there?

On cue, a figure stepped out to the front of each crow’s nest. As one, they flared yellow, bright enough to be seen from the entire fleet. All recognized the signs of a powerful Possession, but pressed forward anyways. The fire mages among the fleet began to scream at their captains, telling them to turn back, looks of abject terror in their eyes.

Pinpricks of light began to move away from the Droshani mages. They started extremely slow, but gained speed and billowed outwards, down, over their own ships. The flames started out as yellow, but soon dimmed down to red. The seething waves of fire spread farther and farther out, until the four sheets of flames joined together just above the water to form one long, roiling wave of incandescence.

The corsair ships were desperately attempting to backtrack, their captains yelling incoherently at the men. Some just stood in stunned silence as their doom approached. One fire mage swore fluent in admiration and marveled at “the raw power Droshan can throw away if it chooses.” A few morbidly realized that to blow the intense heat of a Possesion into a wave of fire, both a powerful wind elemental as well as a fire elemental would be needed. Some of the smarter crews rushed everyone underneath the decks and shut the hatches, hoping the resin would protect them.

The wave of fire hit the corsairs, roared through them in a few seconds, and blew itself out, the mages’ capacities reached. The Possession immediately left the Droshani mages, the humans lowering their outstretched arms, their elementals returning to their home plane after having used up all their power. The corsair fleet was devastated, most ships already uncontrollably alight, their resin insufficient to protect them. All had their sails burnt off, and masts incinerated. A few of the ships in the back were less damaged due to the flames having weakened by that time. These had quite a few crews returning to the deck to attempt to clear it of burning debris. Every fire mage had survived, summoning their own elementals so that they could withstand the heat. Most now stood on a sinking ship with their captain and his crew lying charred and dead around them.

The four Imperial ships formed into a diamond shaped formation and surged forward, into the immobilized fleet. Heavy crossbow bolts with tips aflame finished off the ships which might have survived. Some of the fire mages left went out in a literal blaze of glory, throwing their flames at soldiers on the Imperial ships. They were cut down by a hail of crossbow bolts. Others offered to join the Empire rather than remain on a sinking ship. These offers were accepted, and the mages were warily allowed on board the large ships. Pity was shown to no one. All corsairs either perished or were recruited, except for one.

He was a water mage on one of the last boats, and he jumped off before the wave struck. He called on his elemental and swam as far away as he could. He was picked up several days later by a trading vessel headed to Freelancer’s Bay. He survived to spread the tale of how Droshan was committing four exceptional mages, all multiple-possession, all Nora rank, on their newest venture. He explained how they had a small fleet so that it could react quickly, and how the smaller vessels were kept close to the capitol ships, providing cover from the mages. The privateers would have trouble picking off any outlying vessels, like they usually did. The Grand Assembly of Cronso issued a notice, promising 5000 gold pieces for each of the fire mages’ heads.

Sidle was marching just behind the vanguard when they reached the village of Calur. It was one of those sights which you want to forget, but sticks with you. The villagers had been cut down quickly; that, at least was merciful. Flies had gathered, and dogs had eaten bits of the carrion. A thick, repugnant smell assailed the men. Violence was part of the Blackhearts way of life, so the carnage before them did not cause most of the men pause; however, a few were less hardened to the aftermath of violence. Wide eyes peered out of very white faces, desperately trying to crush the desire to vomit. Some failed.

Kosra ordered the army to set up around the town, with one of the buildings as the headquarters. Kosra picked a house with a roof which had a good view of the castle. Thus, the first order of

business was to clean up the town and bury the dead. Sidle’s squad, the 26^th Shock, was one of the many ordered to drag the bodies out of the town, to where they would be burned.

In one of the first houses, dinner was still set on the table; the scent of rotten food overwhelmed by the couple lying on the floor. Late afternoon sun was streaming though the windows. Lark said nothing as he dragged the husband facedown out the door; the long gash across his chest beginning to collect mud. Tor looked at the walls, untouched save for the blood splatter, and remarked, “Why didn’t they torch the buildings? It’s what we would have done.”

Sidle replied, “’cause they didn’t want to alert the castle that they were there. Twenty foot flames are gen’rally noticed by pickets.”

“Yeah, so why didn’t they send a few guys back to do it?”

“Well, maybe they’re not as smart as us. Now, there is a dead woman lying on the floor without an arm. Do something about it.”

The squad sat around a fire, most in a quiet mood. As always before a battle, the darkness seemed to press in close, causing many to huddle close to the fire. The current squad had been together for about two months, formed after a vicious battle had decimated many of the shock squads. Before that, Sidle had been with Tor and Jor, Fulnor, and Lark. They were all survivors, and would gladly trust each other with their lives; especially Tor and Jor.

Sidle remembered one battle where Tor had been surrounded by three bandits. Jor had taken his crossbow and picked off two of them, while running away from two more enemies. Having finished off the last of his opponents, Tor had seen the trouble Jor was in, and sprinted back to help him out. He had thrown himself headfirst at the two enemies, and had knocked both over. Flailing around in the mud, he had managed to drive the spike on his axe into the face of the bandits. The other was knifed by Jor.

Now they sat quietly, playing Namul, a simple game involving a number of stones being moved around quickly. The entire game was pointless, but Sidle knew it helped them relieve some of their apprehension of the upcoming battle.

Sidle himself sat quietly, thinking, as he always did at times like this. He was joined by Lark and Fulnor. All of them knew how horrible battle could be, and knew that some of their squad would die tomorrow. Sidle enjoyed his work, and to an extent, enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that battle gave. Still, there were always hideous sights, and it always hurt to lose a squad member. He always felt responsible to one degree or another, and he had lost so many.

Voko had gone to sleep. He had an amazing ability to sleep at any point, and he felt that a good night’s sleep was the best way to prepare for a battle. Sidle envied his calm. Voko might have been new to the squad, but Sidle got on well with. Sidle found his easy laugh and laid back demeanor calming. At the other end of the spectrum, Jirl and Hijaz were nervous and one edge. They were fidgeting and telling jokes, laughing too loud at the punch line. They were both young men, probably about Sidle’s age when he had joined up, and shared many of the same traits. Drycha was a few years older, and was staring into the fire, lost in his own thoughts. Sidle knew that he was tired of war, and wanted to leave the Blackhearts soon.

And lastly, Q’ir. Sidle really did not understand Q’ir. When he had first had Q’ir assigned to his squad two months ago, he had asked Q’ir what he was before he left his home. The terse answer had been “scholar.” He was now sitting with his eyes closed and his lips moving silently. He did this almost every night; always under his breath in a language not known to humans. “Well,” Sidle thought, “today I am going to find out what the hell he is saying.” With this new resolve he got up and sat down next to Q’ir. As he opened his mouth, Q’ir stopped suddenly. “Say, Q’ir. I have a question I’ve been wondering about. If I'm not disturbing you.”

“What is it?”

“What are you saying under your breath every night? Are you like meditating or something? “

“I am reciting poetry.”

Sidle was surprised. “Why? Does it help you prepare for battle?”

“No. I find their intricacies pleasing to me.”

“Don’t you worry about the battle?”

“The battle has no interest to me. I would prefer to contemplate something with beauty.” Q’ir signaled the end of the conversation by closing his eyes and continuing where he had left off. Sidle shook his head in bewilderment and walked back to his blankets.

The day broke gray and dismal. A large storm was coming in from the sea, and was going to hit Calur Bay directly. The sky was a patchwork of grays, constantly shifting, and all getting darker. As Sidle watched, the first streak of lightning flashed in the distance over the sea, the dull sound of thunder arriving a few seconds later. Rain was coming; he could smell it in the air.

The defenders atop the walls of castle Calur were busy in preparation. They seemed to be hauling barrels to the ramparts. “It has to be oil,” Sidle thought. “Oil is nasty. Any way that this goes, its gonna be nasty.” Still, they were going to win. That much was obvious to Sidle; there just weren’t enough defenders. Kosra had opted for a fairly basic tactic, tried and tested before. If it didn’t work, the troops could be recalled fairly quickly. There were no obvious weaknesses to the castle, so the Blackhearts would storm three walls simultaneously. Their archers would lay down a hail of fire in an attempt to keep the defenders heads down as the ladders were raised. At the same time, a battering ram would be brought to bear against the gate. The plan was simple, so could not go disastrously wrong. It didn’t matter how well the defenders fought, they would be overrun by the vastly superior numbers. The Blackheart mages were mostly dispersed among the assault troops, where they would provide valuable support to the troops.

As he was thinking, the rain began. It started reasonably strong, and got stronger. Within a few minutes, it was being hurled out of the heavens in massive sheets, and it began to pound the dry earth, churning it into mud. “Well, at least the oil will be less effective,” Sidle thought. The visibility started to drop, such that the castle disappeared into the gloom. Sidle peered forward, attempting to see the outlines. This new weather was an unpleasant surprise, and would make the battle more chaotic, probably increasing casualties. Sidle was pulled from his depressed thoughts by the call to move out. He and his squad started to move a measured rate, all conserving their energy for the frenzied battle they expected. They would travel just behind the first wave, and were first up one of the ladders. Sidle did not expect his squad to make it through the assault intact.

From his vantage point, Kosra used to be able to see the entire battlefield. Now, with the pouring rain, it was going to be more difficult. He had sent forward scouts with orders to report back to him frequently. His commanders had their orders, everything should go smoothly.

A man appeared through the rain at his shoulder. Kosra turned; it was Jurzia, his most trusted mage. The man would never even be near kava rank, but he was adequate, and used his air elemental to be a good scout and spy. “What is it, Jurzia?”

“I don’t think this storm is natural.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit strange, this storm arriving just as we are about to attack? I’ve been getting some magical emanations from the castle.”

“I'm sure that they have some mages on their side as well.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand. That storm is hitting exactly here. That implies that this air mage brought it here. I’m a half decent mage, almost definitely better than anything these mercenaries could have, and I could never come close to bringing an entire storm in from the sea. Worse than that, this isn’t the season for storms. If this mage made the storm, well, that boasts expertise far beyond anything I’ve ever heard of on this continent.”

“Well, we’ll have to assume that it is a coincidence. Or that there was already a storm coming inland, and this mage just nudged it a bit. Still…” Kosra looked out at the storm, a feeling of foreboding filling him.

The rain was driven into their faces by almost gale force winds. It lashed out, as if attempting to drive the advancing soldiers back. “Arrows are going to be useless in this wind,” Voko screamed in his ear.

Sidle yelled back “The wind can’t go every direction. The commanders will just reposition the archers. Still, we will have reduced coverage.” He thought this over for a minutes. The forces attacking the flanks would modify their tactics and cope, but his squad, walking directly into the wind to attack a section of the wall adjacent to the gatehouse, would have little to no real cover. The archers would have to be much closer to the wall then usual, making them dangerously exposed to the defenders. The defenders arrows, on the other hand, would be imprecise but aided by the wind.

The black shape of the walls was becoming visible in front of them. Its walls, normally a light gray, looked as black as basalt through the storm. Sidle’s heart sank, as he knew that this meant the barrage would start soon. His adrenaline spiked, as the Blackheart archers in front of him began to fire at the ramparts. Most fell short, and the archers moved a dozen feet forward and adjusted their aim. The second salvo was on target, yet there was still no sign of the defenders. Sidle suddenly felt that something was going to go very wrong. Nonetheless, since the defenders were absent, the commanders ordered soldiers to the attack with a horn blast. Around the other sides of the castle, answering horn cries could be heard. The soldiers let out a ragged yell, completely drowned out by the rain, as the ladders were raised above their heads, and they began to sprint the last 100 feet.

Suddenly the defenders appeared on the walls with barrels carried above their heads. Each barrel had three men supporting its weight as they were lifted as high as the men could manage. Through his rushing adrenaline, Sidle thought “we are too far away for oil”. All at once, the defenders tipped over the barrels, and a cascade of tiny black shapes fell out.

If that had been all that happened, it would not have been a great cause for worry. However, at this instant, the wind picked up to an unnatural level, strong enough to knock over dozens of the Blackhearts. Also strong enough to grasp the multitude of falling nails and hurl them at the army in a black hail. The hail hit, and the advance disintegrated. Everyone had fallen, and most were screaming, blood running freely from multiple wounds.

Sidle levered himself up. He had only been hit on the breastplate, which, combined with the wind, had been enough to knock him over, but not enough to do any real damage. Voko had taken one of the nails in his eye, and lay still. Tor had been hit in his throat and looked as if he might be making gurgling sounds, as the thick red blood welled out of the gaping rent. Jor was kneeling over him, desperately attempting to save him; a hopeless gesture, Sidle knew. Without heavy armor, Q’ir had been cut up pretty badly, but seemed alive. Jirl was losing blood fast from the side of his neck. If he received medical attention now, he might survive, but that seemed somewhat unlikely.

On the ramparts, the soldiers had thrown down the barrels and picked up bows. They began to loose arrows into the mass of soldiers. Their targets were in range, and in disarray, so they sowed devastation with ease. Sidle saw Hijaz go down, an arrow through his chest. His young face held and expression of surprise as he collapsed. The wind, which seemed to have used up its power, was dying down, although still brisk, and accompanied by rain. Sidle got to his feet, and saw reinforcements swarm all around him. Despite all that had happened to the Blackheart front line and the unnatural power of the storm displayed, the Blackhearts were ready to press on, and they easily still had the manpower to overwhelm the defenders.

Then, there was a minute shift in the storm, but one which all but the most unobservant in the area noticed. The soldiers’ hair began to stand on end as they tasted the electricity in the air. The first bolt of lightning struck a small rise about 100 feet behind Sidle, and instantly killed a tall soldier with a metal helmet. The second struck a spear stuck in the ground, causing the wood to burst into bright orange flames. The devastating streaks of light began to rain down faster, throwing the army into chaos.

When the call to retreat was given out, and each soldier felt the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth, some did not mind, happy to be given the chance to escape from the stormy hell with their lives. Others swore in frustration at not being able to deliver violent justice to the army which had bloodied them. Whatever the attitude, the entire army around Sidle sprinted to get away from the killing fields of lightning.

Half the army was trying to eavesdrop on the command building. The wall of the building was quite thin, but not long enough to facilitate many of the soldiers, and the soldiers could not be too obvious. Only a privileged few managed to hear the heated discussion within, but it was enough to get the conservation spread throughout the camp.

Kosra was not happy. His face reflected a mixture of apprehension, fear, and anger. For one of the few times in his life, Kosra felt desperation. His voice though, still rang out loud and strong. “Someone, tell me what the hell happened today.”

Gisali spoke first. “The storm was orchestrated, used as a weapon against us. I have never seen such a thing before; I didn’t think it was possible.”

Kosra looked to Jurzia, who was staring into space with a haunted expression on his face. “Well, Jurzia, you tried to warn me. What happened?”

Jurzia slowly turned to look at Kosra. “It was incredible. You couldn’t see him through the rain, but I could. In the midst of the gloom, I saw a person standing at the peak of the center tower, shining, bright as the sun. It was a Possession, but I have never seen any that bright before. He started his Possession when our squads began to charge. Then, he just, took control of the storm. Ordered the blasts of wind. Created enough friction to produce a lightning storm. When we began our retreat, he collapsed, exhausted; but still, it was one of the longest Possessions I have ever seen.”

“So you are saying one mage did all of this to us?”

“Basically. He is the most powerful mage I have ever seen. Definitely Kava air, and I think he had water as well, though I couldn’t see very well. I have only ever ventured on to the plane of Water once. And he was skilled as well: he made a series of minor adjustments to the storm, which seemed completely random to me, and it produced the lightning storm.

“Like Gisali said, I have never heard of anyone this powerful in Cronso. Really powerful mages in Cronso generally don’t get enough teaching to reach Kava. If they ever reach Kava, they either take over a small kingdom, or are killed. They definitely don’t work for tiny mercenary bands.”

Kosra looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, I really haven’t kept up with the surrounding nations. Could he have come from the east, possibly a renegade from Havnorai or Choria?”

“I think I know who he is.” Everyone turned to look at Illanri, a minor commander. He was less experienced then most, and formerly Droshani, so he generally kept quiet during meetings. The attention he was now receiving left him feeling slightly flustered.

“Well, speak up.” Kosra’s voice broke the moment of strained silence.

“When I was a lieutenant in the Imperial Marines of Droshan I heard of an Imperial Mage who fits the description of this mage we’re fighting here. Powerful kava mage, on Bacilin Warv’s inner circle. Men like that are given freedom to organize their own military operations, and, after the Imperial Triumvirate, a few high up officials, and the greatest generals, are the most powerful men in the Empire. I’ve never seen him, but his name is Laccen Borghoz.”

There was a shocked silence. “Is it possible?” Kosra breathed.

One of the other commanders quickly asked, “How would he have gotten here? I mean, pretty much nothing gets past the corsairs, right?”

Jurzia sighed and began to speak. “I can answer that. When you are Possessed by an air elemental, you lose some weight, and some form. When you have a powerful enough Possession, by which I mean, kava, you lose form and weight almost completely. You are basically a living body of air. You can then…loft yourself into the air with a blast of wind. You can fly.”

“What are you saying?” Kosra asked.

“He probably got a small boat to bring him as close as possible to the coast, then flew the rest of the way. That’s not to say it isn’t incredible; no boat could get anywhere near the coast, so he must have flown over a decent portion of the Duzal Sea.”

“Right to the castle where he had a mercenary group waiting.” Kosra finished. “He must have hired them anonymously.”

Aneer squinted forward suspiciously. “This is still all a big guess. We don’t KNOW anything”

“It is the only story we’ve had so far which fits what happened. If anyone has any other ideas, please speak up now.” The room was silent, Kosra’s question hanging unanswered. “So, we must proceed based on our guess.”

One thing still troubled Gisali. “But why would he do this? He is in a powerful position now, but without more soldiers, he will be brought down eventually.”

“I don’t know, Gisali, but we can be pretty sure that it is not beneficial for Cronso. We need to act quickly. Leviathe, take a few of your riders and go to the nearest garrison, and then on to the king of this country. This is above us, really, and we are going to need all the help that we can get. Spreading the word should bring a lot of reinforcements”

Leviathe nodded and moved off silently. He knew his cavalry would not be very useful in this battle.

“So, we’re just going to wait for reinforcement’s?” Aneer looked suitably upset at the idea.

“No, old friend. We don’t know how much time the Droshani mage needs to accomplish his goals. Despite his powerful magic, we must attempt to take the place as soon as possible.” The council fell quiet, most nodding. Grim resolution settled over the gathered; the Blackhearts were far from beaten.

The early morning mist was just beginning to thin under the harsh gaze of the sun when the Droshani lookout first spotted the corsairs. He immediately raised the alarm, and the ship dissolved into frenzied action. Since the first engagement with the raiders, the Droshani fleet had seen no one. The news had spread, and most enemies had stayed away. The captains knew that it could not last.

Wind blew away the mist and revealed the force waiting for them. More than a hundred smaller vessels waited for them in the morning light. From the markings, several of the Pirate Kings had come, bringing their fleets with them. All now waited before the Droshani feet, unmoving. None wanted to close the distance first, and be exposed to the waves of fire. Instead, they all waited, spread in a crescent, letting Droshan choose where it would strike. The majority of the ships were on the two flanks in an attempt to stop the Droshani fleet from evading the corsairs and making a run for it.

Orders were given and the fleet broke to the north, tacking into the wind, parallel to the enemy line. They hoped to be able to turn and ride the wind quickly through the weak center of the corsairs. The fleet of smaller Droshani ships was drawn forward to support the large ships. A group of corsairs detached from the end of the crescent and wheeled to charge the first ship. The four Droshani mages called out, and felt the Possession of fire surge into them. They called out again, this time to their air elementals. They filled themselves with raw power, and held themselves in tension, not allowing any power to escape, ready to strike at the time.

The group of around twenty ships that had broken off and headed towards the Droshani fleet had no sails. They did not even have masts. No crewmen stood on the enamel coated deck. Instead long sweeps were run out on either side, the long oars rising and falling quickly. Each ship also had two water mages pushing them through the water. When two of the Droshani mages unleashed their power, it rolled over the ships, damaging a few, but not stopping the advance at all.

The first wave of ships collided with the first of the four great vessels. Within seconds, five battering rams had pierced the side of the behemoth, and the port side was lifted out of the water. With a loud wrenching crack, the ship seemed to collapse, and began to sink rapidly. The Droshani captain reacted quickly, and the ordered his marines, supported by the best of the legion, down onto the corsairs. If they were able to capture the corsairs, he would have a chance to save his men. Hatches on the corsairs exploded open and pirates, armed to teeth, swarmed out. The following frenzy of violence was brutal and chaotic. Both sides were supported with mages, which quickly called on their elementals, and began to kill scores at a time.

The fire resistant ships, created by Nieslat, one of the Pirate Kings, were unable to stop any of the other great ships. Instead, they were forced to engage some of the smaller ships. Close to a dozen of these were hit with rams, and were likewise boarded.

The Commodore of the Droshani fleet saw that the rest of the corsairs were about to engage the fleet, and knew that if they stopped to fight the battle, they would be brought down by the corsair superior numbers. The Droshani fleet was not going to reach the weaker center; they would be surrounded far before then. Grimly, he gave the orders to his signalman for the fleet to wheel and attempt to break through the corsairs by going directly with the wind, no matter the number of ships that stood before them. He ordered all wind mages to strengthen and preserve the current wind. He knew that he was dooming any ships immobilized by rams to destruction.

The fleet turned and picked up speed. They began to use their deck-mounted ballistae to damage the closest corsairs. Properly aimed, the large bolts ripped large holes in the corsairs’ hulls. The fire mages began to release their energy on the normal corsairs, but always in short, efficient blasts. There was no grand display of waves of fire; this fighting was brutal and desperate.

The corsairs responded by attempting to swarm the Droshani fleet. They, too, released large waves of fire and darkened the sky with arrows. They also employed a high number of water mages to harass the Droshani ships. Like flying fish, they leapt out of the water, shattering oars as well as dragging sailors off the deck, to be drowned in the sea. Many of the corsairs had hastily added extra protection against the fire mages, and this proved exceedingly useful. Most also had taken down their sails and were relying on their banks of oars to move them in position. This proved to be their downfall, as the Droshani fleet had the advantage of speed. Several of the smaller Droshani ships were rammed and immobilized, but once the large Droshani ships were at full speed, they seemed unstoppable. They cut a swath through the corsairs, their massive hulls armed with huge curving rams that crushed any ships directly in their path. Several corsairs gave the large hulls glancing blows, but none of the corsairs got enough of a run up to severely damage the vessels.

Then they were through, and the Droshani fleet continued to flee with every sail flying. The bulk of the corsairs rapidly unfurled their sails and set off in hot pursuit. Water mages continued to dog the Droshani fleet, and would continue to as long as their own ships offered a place of refuge and rest they could return to.

The Droshani Commodore looked back at his fourth capitol ship. Sections of it were on fire, and the water around it swarmed with activity. Most of the Droshani soldiers were now either dead or in the water, where they were being slaughtered by water mages. A few fought on, on the decks of the corsair vessels, but were hopelessly outnumbered by this point. The mage, Dyrilla continued to inflict fiery destruction from his crow’s nest. As he watched, the mast, already at an angle, collapsed, throwing Dyrilla into the water and extinguishing his flame. The Commodore turned his head away.

The mood around the campfire was dismal, despite the good news that a medic had reached Jirl in time. He had a bloodstained bandage around his neck and his face was the color of ice, but he might even be able to fight in the next battle. He sat listlessly; depressed after being told the death of Hijaz. He looked lost and purposeless. Sidle was worried for him; he had seen many recruits broken by a battle like the one they had just had. You could leave the Blackhearts after any length of time, but not while the company was completing a contract. If Jirl deserted, the Blackhearts would not really do anything about it; it wasn’t worth it. However, if the Blackhearts ever ran into a deserter again, punishment was swift and merciless.

Q’ir looked exactly the same as he had before the battle. He continued to recite what Sidle now knew was poetry. Sidle wondered briefly if they had any connection with the tapestry of tattoos across his skin. They did not cover the face or hands, so Sidle only caught glimpses of the tangled web of ink, or whatever pigment they used.

But the person who seemed the most devastated was Jor. His silent mourning for his dead brother was unnerving. His face seemed made of stone, yet Sidle could see through the mask of controlled anger to the anguish within his eyes.

Another solider came running up, a skinny recruit with pale eyes and blond hair. He immediately went to Sidle and proclaimed “we’re fighting ‘gain tomorrow.”

“What?” Sidle knew they had been beaten badly and he did not expect the Blackhearts to try another direct assault.

“It’s true. The rumor going round is that the Bar figures the mage to be Droshani. ‘Cause of that, he wants us to try to take him out as soon as possible.” The youths words came out mixed with deep breaths.

“What?” Sidle knew he had repeated himself, but that was how shocked he felt. “Droshan! Here?”

“We got no idea, but we think it can’t be good.

“Damn it, even I could work that out. Even so, we can’t fight that mage. What is the plan?”

“Don’t ask me, I'm just a recruit. All I know is that we’ve been ordered to take all the metal axles off the supply wagons.”

Sidle suddenly saw the logic behind that. “With thinking like that we might have a chance.”

“Whatever you say, Sarge. I haven’t worked it out myself.” The kid looked excited. “Any chance you could tell me?”

“Shut up and get back to your duties.”

At what would have been late morning, if the enemy mage had permitted the cloud cover to clear and allow some semblance of daylight to seep through, the Blackhearts advanced for the second time on the castle. This time, they were highly staggered. Sidle knew that any mage, no matter how powerful, could not stay in a Possession for too long. After a while the mage would collapse from the strain. The Bar had known this and planned to minimize the damage while wearing the enemy mage out. After he was no longer able to effectively orchestrate the storm, the real Blackheart attack would begin.

Sidle’s squad was unfortunately one of the ones selected to go forward in the first wave. As he marched over a small rise, Sidle looked at the sky, and wished he felt more certain. His squad had their makeshift lightning rod, as well as several large wooden shields. They had been given these to help them survive whatever the enemy mage threw at them. Sidle knew that this was really a job for the Blunts, the slang term for the heavy infantry squads, but his squad had been sent to convince the enemy that they were serious about storming the walls.

Drycha looked weary, as always. Sidle promised himself that after this contract he would force Drycha to return home. Jirl looked physically better, but something behind his eyes had withered and died. His feet moved by instinct; no guidance coming to them from an uncaring mind. He stumbled several times, and Drycha had to support him. Sidle’s thoughts flicked back to the last battle, when Voko was walking at his side. A surge of regret flooded through him.

A light rain started, the storm conserving its energy for the assault. Sidle’s squad marched slowly into range of the enemy archers. The line slowed noticeably as soldiers recognized the danger and has to convince themselves to put one foot in front of the other, nonetheless. Sidle ordered his squad to put their shields up, and catch the immediate swarm of arrows. Within a few seconds the first wave passed, all arrows had either missed or been intercepted. Sidle felt a moment of pride for the efficiency of hits squad.

The defenders also rolled out new weapons which they had built. They were wooden and had the complexity of massive insects. Sidle knew that they were called ballistae, but most of the soldiers around him did not. They were not common in Cronso, as the expertise was known only to a few in the southern kingdoms. However, in the north, in the war between Droshan and the Ghlal, they were common. These proved to be more of a problem, as their large metal bolts passed straight through the soldier’s shields to skewer several Blackhearts at a time, but the defenders did not have enough to cause significant damage.

The sky darkened visibly, leading Sidle to guess that the enemy mage was unleashing his power. The army marched forward into the heart of the storm. Only a weak wind was thrown against them, but the lightning started up within a few minutes. The first lightning bolt hit a squad a few to the right, and Sidle watched as an old soldier became the first casualty, briefly wondering how he had become so callus that the sight did not even trouble him. The command was given out, and about half of the squads drove their axles into the ground. The makeshift lightning rods safely directed the rest of the lightning into the ground. Sidle looked out at the fields of darkly-clad soldiers and marveled at the harvest of lightning they were collecting. Every few seconds, another pole was struck by the angry power of the storm. Blackheart soldiers had been in some pretty bad situations before, but this made even the most veteran soldiers cower and duck their head at every thunderous crash. It was, Sidle reflected, an exceeding bizarre situation; although his curiosity was mitigated by the deadly nature of the storm.

A horn sounded and Sidle’s squad moved forward at a slow march. It was hardly the charge the enemy was expecting but the defenders had to respond nonetheless. The arrows continued to rain down but most were captured by the large shields. The Blackhearts absorbed the damage, not willingly, but they grudgingly accepted it anyways. They had absorbed a lot worse in the past, and there were always new recruits eager to join the company and fill up the ranks. As they moved forward, the Blackhearts planted new lightning rods, extending the area of safety.

After being pounded for a few more minutes, the storm suddenly lost its fury. The lightning rapidly died away and the clouds began to retreat and head for the sea. A great cry went up from the attackers; a carnal roar that defied the storm and echoed off the walls of the fortress. The same thought leapt into heads of every soldier in the gathered host: the enemy mage has spent his energy, and we can do what we are here for. Now, the charge began. Ladders were raised, and fury rose in the eyes of the Blackheart soldiers. Shields were thrown aside, casualties disregarded, and the wave of Blackhearts threw itself forward. It was so easy to be consumed by the mindless bloodlust at this moment, but Sidle knew he needed to keep his head, at least somewhat. One never knew what could go wrong.

The defenders continued to rain down destruction, their arrows catching far more soldiers, but the attackers absorbed the damage without pause. The ladders were raised and flung against the walls. The Blackheart shock squads surged upwards, the soldiers eager to let the warm blood of the defenders flow.

Kosra let a grim smile play across his scarred features. The battle was practically won; if his soldiers got a foothold on the wall, it was only a matter of time before the castle was taken. He looked over to Jurzia. In this campaign, Kosra had decided to keep the mage at his side at all times. “Well, what news on the mage?”

“I have seen nothing of him since he let go of his Possession. It seems keeping the storm here taxed him beyond his capabilities.” Kosra began to turn away when Jurzia called out, “Wait! He has regained Possession.” His rain lashed face peered forward intently, with an expression of growing horror on his face. “He is altering the storm. He is spending a lot of power very quickly! I think, wait, no that really is hail falling. From what I can tell, each piece is maybe a hand’s width in diameter. The wind is also returning, as strong as it was the first attack”

Kosra’s head felt heavy, the unreality of the news straining his thought processes. The fresh wind blew into his eyes, forcing him to squint. In the gathering gloom, he could just make out the ramparts of the wall. The ladders were sagging with the weight of Blackhearts, the first almost at the crenellations. In a well synchronized move, the defenders all along the wall lifted up their cauldrons filled with burning oil, and tipped them over the edge. The wind caught the oil, and fanned it out into bright streak on the horizon. As is died down, Kosra could see every ladder, burning, the flames licking high into the night. Tiny black shapes wriggled and writhed in the light.

Sidle could have lost his mind in the hell which descended on his squad. Their hands had been grasping the bottom rungs of a ladder when the battle went bad, when the enemy mage began the slaughter. They were lucky enough to have only a few drops of oil fall on them, but the ladder caught instantly, and human torches began to join the hail on their downward descent. When the wind picked up, Sidle knew they were in trouble. Within a few seconds of the hailstorm, Drycha was struck on the side of the head and knocked unconscious, his body disappearing into the mud and darkness. Sidle immediately rallied the squad and started their retreat. Some might have considered the move cowardly, but Sidle knew that the Blackhearts were overextended, unprotected and about to face the wrath of the elements. Also, the ladder they had been at the base of was burning briskly. He gathered his squad together and ordered them to lift their shields above their heads. The moved off, Sidle keeping order, stopping a terrified flight that would have left them completely exposed. A few other squads were copying him, but many were just running. The archers on the wall were aiming at these, their bolts finding too many targets. The squad marched around the heap of corpses, Sidle knowing that they could not help the heart wrenching cries of the severely wounded.

They were almost out of the danger zone and Sidle couldn’t believe their luck. Somehow they had made it. He took a quick headcount and realized with horror that Jirl was no longer with them. Turning, he saw Jirl as a dark shape silhouetted against the orange smear of flames. Jirl seemed to have fallen, out of exhaustion or apathy Sidle did not know. Finally, Jirl made a decision and pushed himself wearily to his feet. He turned, abandoning his shield, and walked back towards the wall. Sidle called out to him, but his frantic cry was lost in the storm. Jirl raised his arms up, baring his chest, asking the enemy for the release he so desperately sought. A crossbow bolt quickly answered, hitting the base of Jirl’s neck. Sidle turned away, and finished saving the remnant of his squad.

“Tell me” Kosra’s voice was strong, but had a hint of despair in it. He was holding his face in his right hand, a finger and a thumb on his eyes. Aneer stepped forward and began the grim recital.

“Our forces were scattered by the shock of the renewed attack. Maybe if we had the same discipline as Droshani regulars, more would have kept their heads, but most turned and ran. With the ladders burning, assaulting the wall wasn’t really a choice. His placement of the oil was brilliant; every ladder caught on fire. What caused the majority of the casualties, though, was the hail and arrow fire. The hail killed hundreds, Kosra. It knocked our men unconscious through helmets, and I don’t think anyone we left their survived for more than a few hours. I saw a few squads of mercenaries out finishing off anyone not completely dead. Anyways, in the retreat, it was pretty easy for their crossbows to hit our men in the back.” He paused. “Over nine hundred dead”

Kosra said nothing. His only action was too slowly lower his hand from his shocked face. After a minute, he stood, slowly.

“What is your command, sir?” Aneer questioned.

“Tend the wounded, let the men rest.” As he walked out of the small room he said, with defeat in his voice “I have no more ideas”.

The moon shone down on the mottled colors of the Blackheart camp. A brisk wind still blew in from the sea, bringing the sound of surf with it. Within the camp, a few fires were still lit, but most had burned down to embers, their dying smoke lost in the darkness. Save the sentries, the camp had collapsed into an exhausted sleep, and the sentries were regretting not being able to join their comrades.

The hooded figure waited in the shadow by a tent. He had evaded the sentries with ease, and now stood, taking in the mood of the camp. He quickly decided that it was rank with fear and despair. The Blackhearts, one of the finest companies in Cronso, were being defeated by a single mage, and they knew it. After its second defeat, the army had spent a day recovering and entrenching its position, a gesture most felt was futile, based on the news a rider had brought to their camp. Rumors had spread, rumors that a new Droshani fleet had won several victories against the corsairs and was dangerously close to breaking through a massive fleet produced by several of the Pirate Kings. The Blackhearts were waiting for reinforcements that would likely not reach in time to save them. Close to a third of the company was dead, and many were close to giving up. The soldiers knew the fleet must be coming to them, and they knew that, if the fleet broke through, their chances of winning against both the mage and a Droshani Legion were non-existent. They would be annihilated completely. Time was running out and Kosra didn’t know what to do.

“Well,” the figure thought, “its time to level the field a bit.” He waited until a veteran soldier walked passed and stepped out of the shadows. “Excuse me” he murmured quietly.

The soldier turned, and frowned, not recognizing the figure. The hooded figure’s cloak was dark gray, but rather conspicuously not black. “Who the hell are you?”

“It is of no importance to you. I am a…visitor to your camp. I would like to see Kosra”

The veteran drew his sword. “We don’t generally welcome visitors amongst our army at night. You’d better come with me.”

The figure laughed coldly. “But of course. As long as we are going to see Kosra”

The veteran was about to deny his prisoner his request and take him to one of the buildings converted to a guard post, but something about the icy glint in the figure’s eye stopped him. Against his better judgment, he decided that Kosra needed to see this strange figure.

Five minutes later, they arrived at the command post. Kosra had not slept in several days, and he showed it around his eyes. He looked up slowly and said “Lacro, who have you brought me?”

The figure opened his mouth before his guard could speak. “Kosra, I need to talk to you about your fight against Borghoz. Do you trust everyone in this room?”

Kosra slowly stood up, staring intently at the newcomer. “Yes, I do trust everyone in this room. Who are you and what do you have to tell me?”

“You have a problem. You are unable to kill Borghoz. Nothing you can do will win this battle.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious. I think I know the problems I am facing.” Kosra frustration showed through in the tone of his voice.

“I will solve that problem for you.”

“What are you talking about?!”

The figure continued to talk in his monotone. His voice put no emphasis on any word or syllable, making him sound almost bored with the proceedings. “I would prefer it if my presence was not known of here.”

“If you don’t tell us who you are, I will be forced to think that you are a madman trying to fool our army.”

“Instead of telling you, why do I not just show you what I am capable of?” The figure cast off his cloak and spread his arms. It seemed slightly overdramatic at first. Then he closed his eyes and spoke a word too softly to be heard.

The change took about a second. The man opened his eyes, and they were a bright glowing blue. In the next instant he underwent a complete transformation. The majority of his body became translucent water, tinted slightly blue, with his hands morphing into blades of ice. He also had a long spike of ice deep within his chest. An icy chill instantly spread through the room, the heat being sucked into the primal figure. The man mage bowed, his movement hinting at deadly grace and speed.

The few people in the room gazed at him in shocked silence. Jurzia was so awed by the mages presence that he stumbled backwards. Kosra’s eyes flickered, but then he said, “Kilvinge Drogash. The most well known Droshani renegade. It is an honor to have a person of legend in my camp.”

The Possession left Kilvinge, returning him to his unassuming human form. “So my fame has preceded me,” he remarked dryly. “Ah, well, Droshan still hunts for me, so I would appreciate it if you would keep the knowledge of my presence to yourself.”

“Of course.” Kosra paused for a second. “Are you here to kill Borghoz?”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? Laccen Borghoz; he always was an arrogant bastard. I will not mind killing him in the least. Besides, my haven of Cronso will hardly get any safer if a Droshani Legion lands.”

“In that case, what do you want us to do?”

“Assault the castle. A distraction should help me get past the soldiers, and draw Borghoz out. When he is dead, you should be able to take the castle. Do not expect to see me again, afterwards.”

“Are you confident that you can kill him?”

“No. A thousand things could go wrong. But I should be able to. It will be dawn in about 4 hours. Give me that time to get in position. When the sun crests the horizon, order the attack.”

“Any special requests?”

“No, plan it to the best of your ability. I know that you are one of the best commanders in Cronso; I wouldn’t want to interfere in what I know little about.”

“It’s settled then.”

“I think so. You will notice my actions in the morning.” Kilvinge walked out of room and disappeared into the gloom. There was a stunned silence.

“Well,” Kosra remarked, new life in his eyes, “that was a unique individual. I think I might remember that conversation for the rest of my life.” After a moment’s thought he added “Although that might not be very long.”

The dawn crept over the horizon gray and cold. The Blackhearts were in position, but the defenders had noticed their advance. Borghoz stood at the peak of the castle, the entire battle displayed before him. The Blackhearts held their lightning poles, ready to drive them into the earth, but the army was clearly disheartened. No one expected to win this day, and most questioned the logic behind their leader’s commands.

Kosra stood at his normal position on the rooftop, flanked by Jurzia. He turned and said “now we put our ally to the test.” Jurkiza nodded. Kosra gave the order for the advance.

As the Blackhearts moved forward, Borghoz began to whip the ever present storm into a fury, just as he had done before. Kosra knew the fear that must be on the hearts of his men.

Jurzia watched the small flat space at the top of the keep with magic aided eyes. He saw the instant that Kilvinge, coming through the trapdoor, called on his Possession. To him, another light, as bright as the first, flared up behind Borghoz. Borghoz half turned, and was hit by a shard of ice. He stumbled backwards; Jurzia assumed that blood must be flowing freely from the wound to the side. Several more attacks came, but Borghoz whipped his hand downwards, desperately deflecting the attacks with blasts of air. Kilvinge strode quickly forward, attempting to reach Borghoz with his blades of ice. Borghoz call drew on more power from the plane of air, and flew off the pinnacle. His form disappeared behind one of the walls. Without slowing, Kilvinge turned and returned at the way he had come at a jog.

Jurzia turned to Kosra, “Our ally has delivered. The magical storm will not bother our soldiers.” Kosra smiled grimly.

Sidle had braced himself for the onslaught of the wind, but the enemy mage was nowhere to be seen. The storm was dying down, no magical fury to drive it against the Blackhearts. His thoughts raced, “maybe the Bar knew something we didn’t”. All around him, other attackers were realizing the same thing. The squads pressed forward with new zeal.

The defenders seemed to be in disarray. They had to change plans quickly, Sidle realized. The deadly ballistae opened up again, skewering several soldiers at a time. The black wave accepted the damage and surged forward. Without the restraining wind, they seemed to reach the wall within seconds.

A heavy infantry squad to the right of Sidle’s squad had been tasked with carrying one of the ladders. It was quickly pushed upright, and before the defenders could react, a shock squad was rushing upward. Sidle shouted to his four remaining soldiers to get ready, and sprinted for the ladder. His squad following, he climbed the ladder directly after the first squad.

Vacthin’s confidence had been shattered by the absence of Borghoz. Everywhere he looked, Blackhearts were streaming over the wall. If nothing was done, the majority of his mercenaries would be killed in a matter of minutes.

Vacthin turned and ran into the keep, towards the stairs to the tallest tower. Borghoz should have been up there directing the storm. Reaching the base of the stairs, he stopped. He had left two soldiers here, but the area was now deserted. Glancing around, he saw their bodies thrown carelessly behind a pillar, their throats cut. A dark feeling of foreboding came over him.

“Vacthin!” He turned at the sudden sound, and saw Borghoz stumble into the large room from outside. Borghoz had a pained expression on his face and clutched his side, which was soaked with blood. The expensive yellow cloth was marred by a large crimson blot which grew as Vacthin watched. Vacthin stared in shock at this bizarre turn of events. “Get away from that door!” Borghoz shouted out, his face taut with desperation.

Through his shock, Vacthin had difficulty understanding what Borghoz had said. He turned just as an icy blue shape slid out of the doorway. His mind couldn’t make sense of it at first, then he realized that he was looking at a water mage, shot through with ice. The mage glanced at him and contemptuously flung out his arm. Something hit Vacthin’s chest. There was an explosion of pain, which cleared slightly after a few seconds. Through the blinding agony, he realized that he was lying on his back, having been thrown back by the attack. He managed to turn his head enough to see the ragged hole in his chest, punched through bone, into his lung. He heard some shouting but could not make out the words. Everything faded slowly as his blood formed a warm pool around him.

Sidle jumped over the top of the wall, and immediately had to sidestep a sword swing. The first shock squad had bought Sidle’s squad some space, but was mostly dead now, the few remaining soldiers surrounded, and being cut down. Sidle’s shortsword came out, and he moved towards his attacker, an older looking man with a scar across his face. Sidle deflected a swing with his buckler, knocking the man off balance, and faked an attack to the right. The man flung up his sword high, to block the attack, and Sidle thrust his sword low, slipping it under the man’s chainmail. He quickly turned away from the collapsing body and took stock of how his squad was doing.

Fulnor was just scrambling over the ramparts, the last to do so. He spotted Sidle and ran over to fight alongside. Lark was in a fight with two soldiers, each circling him warily. Jor had just smashed in a soldiers kneecap with his hammer, but was about to be attacked by another defender. Q’ir was standing by himself, having found a moment of calm. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation.

“I love this sight,” Sidle thought to himself. Q’ir’s eyes flicked open and in a momentary flash of steel, his swords were in his hands. He jumped over to one of the soldier fighting Lark. The soldier turned, parried a few blows, but had his sword flicked out of his hand, unable to match the speed or strength of Q’ir. Q’ir ran him through, and jumped down onto the stairs, then onto the ground. He began to fight three more soldiers simultaneously. His weaving sword dance was a sight to behold, as he started to cut the soldiers to pieces. Bits of flesh within sprays of blood were hacked out of the circle of enemies. Lark, given an advantage, had turned on the other soldier he was fighting, and slashed him across the face. Blood streaming freely from his face, he fell to his knees as if submitting to the killing stroke Lark delivered to his neck.

Sidle was unable to continue watching the devastation caused by his squad as four more soldiers from down the wall charges him and Fulnor. He and Fulnor got into position, with their bucklers raised in front of them.

Borghoz screamed at Kilvinge as he backed to the door. “How dare you come here! You who have betrayed everything that you used to stand for!”

“And what would that be, Borghoz?” Kilvinge’s controlled voice was the opposite of Borghoz. “Tyranny, domination and destruction? Droshan claims to serve humanity, but all it really serves is itself.”

Borghoz stood by the door, and regained some control over himself. “Why did you leave? There is no way that you actually believe in ‘serving the greater good.’ I know you too well; you have no compassion for the downtrodden masses. You don’t care if Droshan destroys other races and subjugates neighboring countries. Droshan offered you a life of comfort and power; why did you turn it down?”

“My reasons are my own, and the time for talk is over.” Kilvinge sprinted across the massive hall towards Borghoz, his gait completely fluid, as was to be expected considering his Possession. Borghoz swore and ran out of the door. A few seconds later, Kilvinge followed him. He had felt Borghoz call upon his elemental again and fly upward with its power. Kilvinge also knew that the strain of prolonged Possession was wearing him out. He needed to kill Borghoz quickly.

The first thing he noticed as he stepped outside, into patchy sunlight hitting a large ledge out from the keep, was that the Blackhearts had taken the wall. Swords swinging, they were cutting a bloody swathe through the outnumbered defenders on the lower level. Then, Borghoz fell on him.

Before he could react, a blade was driven deep into his right shoulder. Feeling it do more damage than any normal blade should do to him while he was under a Possession; Kilvinge knew that it was a cathrus blade, a blade with a trapped elemental within. In this case, it would be a si’cathrus blade, with a trapped water elemental within, so that it sliced through both the human and the elemental part of Kilvinge.

In an instant, he flowed backwards, tearing his body away from the blow. Kilvinge raised his hand to launch a projectile, but Borghoz had pulled together a powerful wind which whistled past his raised hands. Kilvinge knew that Borghoz could direct the wind to deflect any ranged attack. Smiling, Borghoz advanced on Kilvinge, his si’cathrus blade raised.

Sidle knocked the shield aside and thrust his sword into the enemy’s stomach. The man made a gurgling sound and slid wetly off the end of his sword, spilling his entrails on the ground. Sidle did not wait to watch his writhing death. The next attacker was already on him, and he threw himself at the new challenge, sending himself into a rage. After a few strokes, each hacking at the other desperately, not feeling the jarring blows or the nicks, Sidle got an opening and cut deeply into his opponent’s side. The man went down, but flung his sword out to get a weak hit against Sidle’s shin. Sidle swore and collapsed, blood gushing freely from a gash which displayed the white color of a bone. As he fell, he drove his sword into the chest of his enemy. Despite the pain, he was thankful the enemy soldier had not had the strength to break the bone, but merely slice through the muscle.

He looked over and saw Fulnor, who he had been fighting beside before the current rush of enemies had overwhelmed them. He was locked in combat with a skilled fighter, both breathing hard with minor injuries covering their body. Jor was about to be cut apart by two soldiers. “No…” he thought to himself.

Another Blackheart squad, a dozen black coated regulars, swarmed over their position, shortswords rising and falling swiftly. They cut down the last of the opposition, then stopped to help Sidle’s squad to their feet. Lark seemed to be fine, his skill keeping him alive. Q’ir was gone, killing soldiers in some other part of the castle. The squad of regulars had a medic with them, so Sidle’s injury was roughly tended.

The sergeant of the other squad grinned down at Sidle. “Well, I think that’s about it. Most of the mercenaries came out to fight, and you were fighting some of the last. We won.” Sidle laid back and closed his eyes. After two defeats, they had done it.

Kilvinge swished backwards, evading the stroke of the blade. He parried the next blow with the blade issuing from his right hand, but the si’cathrus blade cut through the ice as if it only had an illusion of solidity, and delivered a gash along Kilvinge's side. Kilvinge seized the opportunity provided by their close proximity to dodge to the left and drive his other hand towards Borghoz’s throat. Borghoz grasped a higher level of Possession and lost corporeal form, his body turning into air. His clothes and blade, both possessed by a very minor level elemental, matched Borghoz’s transformation and lost substance. Kilvinge flung himself back and desperately searched for an advantage.

Inspiration flashed through his mind. Kilvinge began to prepare himself for the next attack. Borghoz reappeared just to the left of Kilvinge, the blade, solid once more, striking upwards, aiming for just below Kilvinge’s ribs. Kilvinge’s moved to a lower level of Possession, without ice, and flowed to the right of Borghoz, narrowly avoiding the weapon. He swept past Borghoz, then flowed around Borghoz’s back. He wrapped his arms around Borghoz’s face, forcing one arm down Borghoz’s throat.

Borghoz tried to take a breath and choked on water. He grasped for his elemental and managed to alter his substance to air, barely. The action was clearly a great effort, and he only managed to hold the full Possession for a few seconds. He reappeared a dozen feet away panting and coughing. The two mages eyed each other, neither moving, both desperately trying to regain some energy. Borghoz panted out, “so this is the end. One of us is going to die in our next clash.”

Kilvinge was barely managing to hold onto his water Possession. The unique kind of weariness that only mages could know hung on all his limbs, slowing them down and kindling a growing fire in his muscles. The material plane was slowly rejecting the elemental, making Possession feel wrong. He knew that he couldn’t reach to his air elemental and he doubted that he could get back to the depth of possession necessary to manifest ice. His voice grated out, “all your great plans…. How will Warv react if I kill you?”

Borghoz laughed softly. “I don’t know, but I doubt that he will let you live. Tracking you down and killing you will become even more important than it has been. He might even recall Scathra from the Zuw Crusades. You know you don’t stand a chance against that bitch.”

Kilvinge’s eyes narrowed to slits, his memories apparently not pleasant ones.

“You know what the biggest joke of all is?” Borghoz leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Even if you do kill me, it won’t make a difference. A legion is going to land here within the next day, and you know that this part of Cronso doesn’t have any armies worth mentioning.”

“There is no way your fleet will break through the corsairs.”

“I’ve sent the Nihan Four”

Without warning Kilvinge lunged forward. Borghoz had been waiting, his talk just buying time, since he was far less injured then Kilvinge, and the cathrus blade was raised in front of his crouched body in an instant. Kilvinge didn’t try to avoid the blade, but only moved slightly to the side and jumped the last few feet. Borghoz was caught off guard, and did not have time to slash his weapon upwards; instead, it passed cleanly through the right side of Kilvinge’s chest. Kilvinge literally flowed around Borghoz, water passing around both sides simultaneously. Again, he covered Borghoz’s face with his arms, cutting off air to his lungs. Borghoz tried to gain a Possession and failed. He began to flail around, desperation giving him strength, but Kilvinge was stronger, and he had come too far to give in now. Fingers clawed at his throat but slipped straight through Kilvinge’s arms. Borghoz, reached behind himself and drove the knife into Kilvinge, hurting himself in the process. Again and again he struck, Kilvinge shifting to try and avoid the damage. Borghoz’s struggles became weaker as he drowned; the knife blade clattered on the floor.

With a sinking feeling Kilvinge realized that he couldn’t hold his Possession any longer. Involuntarily, his elemental slipped away and both of them collapsed onto the ground. Kilvinge suddenly became much more aware of the wounds tattooing a pattern across his body, and lay on the ground struggling not to pass out. Borghoz was desperately sucking air into his lungs. He crawled over to the cathrus blade and picked it up in trembling hands. Kilvinge raised his hands weakly, but without a weapon, he knew his chances were slim.

Over the corner of his eye, Kilvinge saw a tall figure enter the room. Turing his head slightly, he caught sight of a Vrino Proza Qur dressed in Blackheart livery. Borghoz, half sitting up, also turned, his blade raised.

Q’ir stepped forward and decapitated Borghoz in one clean stroke, far too fast for Borghoz to react. The head bounced once and rolled off the ledge, its slightly surprised visage disappearing from view.

The Droshani fleet stayed at full said, attempting to punch through the corsairs. The corsairs had realized at this point that the only way they could bring down the enemy was through uninterrupted assault. And so they came in waves unrelenting. The Droshani battled incessant exhaustion. They needed the protection of their mages, but the mages could only do so much. Fighting a type of exhaustion that others could not fathom, they conserved their strength, saving it up for the moments when strictly necessary to save a vessel from swarming predators. Sometimes, they could not even accomplish that, and members of the fleet were picked off.

Most sailors, on both sides, had never seen so many water mages before. Any careless Droshani was pulled off the deck and drowned. During the first night, twenty or so had made some type of agreement, and stormed a smaller vessel. The attack was swift and merciless, with half the crew thrown overboard before the captain realized the danger. After that, the Droshani made sure to have their own water mages probe the surrounding water at all times. Fire mages, katanas in hand, stalked the decks.

The commodore was worried. They could outpace most of the corsair vessels, but every few hours another group waited at the horizon, and the Droshani fleet could not turn aside, only attempt to break through. He slowly shook his head. Orders were orders, but this venture seemed foolhardy in the extreme.

Kosra walked slowly through the castle, professionally appraising the carnage. The mercenary company had fought hard to the bitter end, ensuring a profusion of dead bodies scattered upon every surface, the only consistent adornment the color of blood. He had succeeded, with the Rav’kul’s help. His contract was fulfilled; he could collect the ransom. He wondered if Kilvinge wanted any of it; he would oblige a reasonable sum, if asked. He couldn’t have done it without the man, and now…. He could leave. He could order his mercenary group to loot the castle efficiently and march away as fast as possible. Since he didn’t know the Droshani mage’s full plans, it was probably the safest thing to do.

And yet. He tried to think who would take up the task of fighting a Droshani army, if one was actually coming. Prokaer, with the threat of Tania on its doorstep, would be hesitant and divided. Their king would not act decisively, and he would probably refuse to ask for help. Droshan would open its bottomless coffers, and mercenaries would flock to them like flies to honey. And it would all be based from the foothold they would gain, here. Kosra shook his head angrily. How could he know for certain? Yes, a few rumors had come through, of a new Droshani fleet, but the corsairs had never lost. The last bit of information which had come to the camp was that the Droshani fleet was running fast, and being harassed constantly by a huge number of corsairs. They couldn’t last….

Aneer ran down a staircase in front of him. “Sir! One of my boys found the mage. He’s…cut up pretty bad. I guess the fight was a bit harder than he expected. Anyways, he’s asked to speak to you, as soon he can. Like I said, he’s half dead.

Kosra set off at a brisk walk. Within a few minutes, he entered a small room with several blackhearts standing around Kilvinge. In the corner, a Vrino Proza Qur crouched, sharpening one of his blades. A medic was working on binding the mage’s wounds. Blood had already soaked through a cloth tied around his side, and the medic was swiftly working on another deep gash on his shoulder. His entire body was covered with cuts. A very white face encircled Kilvinge’s tightly shut eyes. Kosra called out to him, and they cracked open.

“Haha. Well, that went well didn’t it? I sure kept my presence a secret.”

“You asked for me?”

“Well, yes. The last thing Borghoz told me, before this soldier of yours beheaded him….”

“Of mine?” Kosra turned to look at the blackheart in the corner. The vrino looked back at him with unemotional eyes.

“Yeah. We were both rolling around on the floor, too weak to grasp our elementals, and he walks in and flicks his sword out, beheads Borghoz before he can blink. Anyways, Borghoz told me that he sent the Nihan Four with the legion”

This seemed almost anticlimactic to Kosra. He cocked his head to one side and said “Im sorry, I don’t know that much about Droshan. What is the significance of that? Who are the Nihan Four”

“Well, um,…where to begin? Around 6 years ago, four very similar mages emerged in the Academy: Jonyatho, Kovax, Philine, and….Dyrilla, that’s it. They all specialized in fire, and all looked like they would get close to kava. That in itself is not unusual; but they all managed to get a find some mid level wind elementals as well. As I am sure you are aware, fire and air together prove to be devastating against armies. 3 years ago, there was an uprising in the outer district of Nihan. The Imperial legions were not in a position to respond quickly, so to stop the rebellion spreading across the northlands, Bacilin Warv sent in these four mages. Only these four. It was their first real engagement, and they were cut loose, and given leave to do whatever they wanted. It… was a blood bath. The Four put down the rebellion viciously and without mercy. At the Battle of Mur, the Four killed over 2 thousand men in one, massive wave of fire. They city of Neub burned; it is estimated that there were 95% casualties. It was all wooden…all they had to do was light the gates on fire, and there was nowhere for the civilians to run…. Anyways, after this, they returned to Noivro in fame, or possibly infamy, as the Nihan Four. Does that answer your question?”

There was silence in the room, broken only by the sound of a sword being sharpened. Kosra looked slightly pale. “And they are coming here? Can,..Can they break through?”

“I am not sure. Even for them, it will be hard; they will be under constant attack, and they cannot remain under Possession forever. Still, I would estimate that it is a very real possibility.”

Kosra’s face made its decision. “What can we do to fight them, and the legion?”

“You don’t have much of a chance. They mages will probably be less important than you think, at least in the initial attack. They will be worn out from fending off the corsairs. Yes…you need to do the most damage to them as soon as they land, before they have time to recover. If the mages are given just one full night’s sleep…you are dead. All dead.”

“How? How can we fight them?”

“Get, everyone inside the castle, obviously. Use the ballistae to sink ships as they coming in, if possible. There is a large pier here, right? Destroy it: force them to beach the ships and wade through the water. Possibly plan for a counter attack then. Generally prepare for a siege, but bear in mind that waves of fire will lash the top of the wall. If you can think of a way to kill the mages…you might be able to turn the battle. I doubt it.”

“And you? Will you fight with us?”

“If I can…but don’t count on my help. Large scale battles are not my specialty, and I can only kill the enemy mage if I can sneak up undetected. If they see me, well, ice melts.”

Kosra bowed slightly. “We are indebted to you for your help. We will provide you with the best medication we can. I hope you will be able to help us. Oh, can I send my best mage to your side? I think he would benefit from anything you have to tell him.”

“Yes, you may. I can’t promise to be awake very much, but it will give me something to do while I am.”

Kosra walked out, new purpose in his step, a grim set to his face.

Sidle was getting patched up and looking forward to a good night’s sleep when the word went out. The Droshani army was definitely coming, and Kosra believed they would break through. Another rumor surreptitiously made the rounds as well: Kilvinge Drogash, the famous Droshani renegade was here. He had cut a deal with the Bar and killed the enemy mage. Details on how that happened were unclear, and it was hinted that he was still in the castle.

When Q’ir finally made his way back, he remained silent on what he had found in the other parts of the castle. Sidle asked him and Q’ir replied “I sacrificed more enemies.” Sidle did not have the will to question him more after that.

The Blackhearts had been thinned out, many squads having been decimated or exterminated. Kosra ordered a complete consolidation and reorganization. Sidle was assigned the last three survivors from another one of the shock squads. The first was a bright, cheery Tanian, who obviously enjoyed killing a lot. Sidle could just imagine him, with the same smile on his face, now cast into a sadistic light, as he gutted some hapless enemy soldier, or peasant, or anyone he could get away with. He was armed with the standard shortsword and buckler, but obviously preferred a long curved dagger which he kept fingering. He pronounced that his name was Rolac Felt, and he would die in a shock squad, because he liked it too much to leave. He accompanied by a young woman from eastern Cronso, named Salish Bukhar. She seemed pleasant and fairly average, but Sidle detected brokenness underneath the exterior. He put her down as one of the many within the company who had witnessed something horrific and joined to lose themselves in the violence. They became reckless fighters, valuable, but someone to watch.

The last was by far the best addition the squad had acquired in a long time. A large man with dry, flaky skin and a bald head, Sidle quickly placed him as a stone mage. His given name was simply Dorn, and Sidle immediately liked him. All of the additions appeared to be valuable fighters, and Sidle could see how they had survived the destruction of their squad.

Sidle’s squad was ordered to the harbor. They took part in the destroying of the dock, and then began digging trenches in the sand. They were worked hard, but given sufficient time to recover from the last battle. When the sun went down on the cove, preparation s were well underway, but Sidle doubted they would ever be ready to face what was coming.

Kosra had repositioned the ballistae, and some of his Blackheard engineers had looked them over and taught their working to a few squads. They cheerfully promised Kosra they would be able to reproduce them for the Blackhearts next battle. Considering their imminent destruction, this did not cheer Kosra up. The injured were being tended as best they could and Kilvinge was sleeping, now being tended by Jurzia. Kosra now regretted sending away Leviathe, but one of his lieutenants could lead the Blackheart cavalry on the beach. The blackhearts only had a few hundred light cavalry, but they were fresh and ready to partake in some slaughter.

The Blackhearts had moved all of their supplies into the castle. The walls were restocked with ammunition and the other implements of defense. The walls would be defended by the same soldiers who had so recently stormed them. Kosra had tried to think of a way to protect the soldiers from the magical barrage, but all he could come up with was lots of covered buckets full of water.

He was standing on the top of the keep, looking out into the night. A cool wind ruffled though his hair, and he almost felt able to relax. Gisali walked up behind him. Neither said anything for a while. Gisali spoke up first “have you made any plans for trying to kill the enemy mages?”

Kosra sighed. “I don’t think there is much we can do. I’ve ordered the ballistae teams to take any shots on the mages they think they can make. Besides for that...well, we would lose any sally. They can stand behind bow range and pound the walls.”

“Not true. They will have to stop if they ever want to assault the walls directly. And they should be tired from fighting corsairs…”

“It doesn’t matter. They can lash at our walls until they collapse. By that point there will be so few of us left alive; they will have no difficulty storming the walls. “

“What if we keep most of the force inside the castle? Only send them out when they begin the assault.”

Kosra pondered for a minute. “It will require good timing, and it will be risky. We need to be able to harass them as they land, as well as actually defending when they attack….I will work out. It’s a good idea. Still, we are going to lose.”

“Yes, that is probably true”

“Then we will all die. The entire, bloodthirsty, occasionally noble, mostly glorious, legacy of the Adnar Velniris will be annihilated. It will just cease; a story with a definite end. “

“No. We will die, but our legacy will live on. We will stop Droshan here. We will leave them so weakened that even the Prokaerian army will be able to eradicate them. We will be remembered.”

Kosra turned to Gisali, a haunted look on his face. Weariness seemed to drag down on every part of his body, the hunched back and blackened eyes betraying the nights he had gone without sleep. “Did I make the right choice? Is it worth it? Am I betraying my men by leading them to certain death? The sacrifice....is so high.”

“Yes, yes it is. Nonetheless, we will do this so that others will not have to. So that it doesn’t take the destruction of several countries, each full of innocents, to finally put a stop to this.”

Kosra laughed slightly. “When did we stop being a mercenary company?”

“When you chose to stay. Our contract was completed, we could have run. I trust that you made the right decision, that this is right…but, if some of the company deserts, don’t be surprised.”

“I know. I think I will get some sleep then, to greet my doom with slightly more energy.”

“Droshan will learn to respect Cronso because of us.”

“Let us hope so. That is one thing you can say about Droshan; they are scarily good at learning from their mistakes.”

The next morning trudged onwards. Preparations continued, and increasingly crazy ideas for killing the mages were passed around Kosra’s circle. The tension mounted, creeping throughout the camp, an additional occupying army. It resonated in the air; every word the soldiers spoke was terse, cut short. The heat, uncharacteristic for this conflict since they had fought Borghoz, now returned with a vengeance and attempted to stifle all activity. This only increased the discomfort of the soldiers, as fear, a greater force, drove them onwards into frenzied activity, and denial of the heat’s ambition.

Some Blackhearts deserted that day. No one had much of an idea of what was coming, but if the rumors were true, it was something to inspire dread. Kosra had been acting strange; he should have left when the contract was finished. Since the contract was technically completed, there should be no repercussions for leaving. On the chance that they would have to fight an overwhelming force, they, left. The number was comparatively few; most stayed for loyalty to Kosra. The lack of definite information also lead to many staying who might have left had the true nature of the situation been known.

Sidle spent the morning gasping, up and down the beach. As soon as a trench was finished, another was started; anything to break up the advance of the soldiers. During low tide, the blackhearts rapidly dug out a trench which would be covered at high tide. Although they knew the waves would partially obscure it, it would still prove an unseen obstacle if the long awaited foe came during the next change of the tide.

In the early afternoon, their guess was validated. The ships were sighted; a smear on the horizon rapidly transforming into a flickering streak of mage fire, a hint to the fearsome struggle the corsairs must have given to the Droshani. A chill spread through the blackheart ranks. Stillness settled on the beach and ramparts for a prolonged moment, shattered by a few quiet words from Kosra. The wait was over; the soldiers moved to their previously assigned positions quickly and efficiently. Sidle and his newly enlarged squad were assigned to the first row of hidden trenches.

The ships were more clearly visible now. There were three large ships leading the rest, each covered with small fires. Several elite corsairs were keeping pace and lashing the sides of the larger vessels with multiple, small plumes of fire. These seemed to have very little effect to the enameled sides of the large ships, but as the blackhearts watched a there was a brief flare on the mast of the one of the large vessels. A huge blast of flame engulfed one of the corsairs. It fell away from the chase, crackling with dimly visible orange tongues. Apparently the Droshani mage was conserving his power, but still had some left. The ballistae mounted on the castle walls began to pound the Droshani fleet, severely damaging several smaller vessels.

Sidle’s attention was shifted to a figure, wrapped in tattered brown robes walking out from the lines. The figure limped out into the surf, dark drops scattering from his strides. Sidle had never seen him before, and did not understand his audacity. The figure stopped, and stared at the approaching ships. He gestured with his hand and spoke, his voice a rasp amplified through Elemental power. “Droshani soldiers, you should recognize me. I have…replaced Borghoz. You should not have come here.” The weakness of his voice coupled with his arrogance only increased his creepiness. He stood without moving as the huge vessels, still exchanging fire with the corsairs, ran aground. The ships smashed against the beach, splinters scything out in all directions, the bow collapsing in on itself. The figure suddenly dissolved. He became water and spilled into the sea, the churning waves hiding any trace of him.

The blackheart defenders released a wave of crossbow bolts. The trenches all along the beach were filled with defenders releasing an iron hail against any visible Droshani soldiers. More ships were approaching and running aground. Sidle heard orders being shouted, obviously the Droshani had not expected needing to launch an amphibious landing. Nets were thrown over the sides and the Droshani marines, most suited to fighting in the sea began to swarm over, the bolts taking a deadly toll.

A few seconds after the marines hit the shallow water, they began to die. They were pulled, one by one, screaming under the water and resurfaced with their throats cut or their necks broken. A predator lurked beneath, bloodying the surface of the waves. Sidle saw Droshani water mages slide overboard and enter the fray, as well as several from the corsair vessels. Soldiers poured out of the ships like an upset ant nest, with the remaining Droshani ships also crashing into the beach. Without a better tactic, they released their thousands of soldiers as fast as possible, hoping to force a landing by weight of numbers. The entire beach was a wall of smashed wood, with soldiers clambering through the gaps. The arrows continued to sweep out, in a continuous stream. Fire mages on both sides sent plumes of steam into the sky. The entire scene was chaos, and in the middle of it, the figure Sidle now guessed was Kilvinge, slaughtered without cease.

Many of the corsairs turned away at this point, as the vessels grounded themselves. They did not want to engage in fighting of this nature, and figured they could not easily acquire the flags. Others attacked the vessels furthest from the shore, with some success.

Without warning, new suns burst into existence, light spilling out of the crow’s nests of the three massive ships. Blinding fire spilled out, and down. Sidle shouted, “Down!” Huddling in their trench, Sidle felt the intense heat sear his back, blisters rapidly forming. In a few seconds it was over, and Sidle peered down the trench. Small fires were being put out, but Sidle knew that that was the least of their worries. Sticking his head up, he saw the Droshani forces streaming through the shallow water, the momentary respite giving them enough time for the first to make it to the beach. Aneer, given charge of the beach defenses, screamed “Forward!” The cry was taken up across the lines. Adrenaline surged through Sidle.

They were up and over the edge, and running towards the Droshani. Dorn was growing, his skin hardening to grayish stone. Dust fell away from the behemoth now pounding along next to Sidle. Just where the waves were breaking, they hit the first attackers. Dorn pulled the massive hammer off his back and swing it in a wide arc, smashing the skull of a Droshani soldier into white and pink splinters. Several arrows, coming from the Droshani archers now filling the decks, hit Dorn and shattered.

This was not a battle of finesse or skill and the duels were short and messy. The light glittering off the waves blinded the fighters and the rolling waves hid the sand beneath, which swirled away from the soldiers’ boots to deny them a firm footing. Sidle thrust his blade through an out of breath soldier, and almost fell as he freed his sword from the enemy’s entrails. Stumbling away from the encounter, his nose took in the filth slopping into the water from the dying bodies. Another figure ran at him, but was hit by an arrow. Sidle hacked downwards with a brutal finishing blow.

To his right, Dorn pounded slowly forward, aiming at three Droshani soldiers. They looked at the approaching stone avatar with eyes filled with fatigue, then turned and began to splash farther to Sidle’s right. Unfortunately for the soldiers, their desperate efforts were in vain. Dorn’s size and bulk allowed him to push his way through the bloody surf with ease, allowing him to overtake the fleeing Droshani. The first turned and swung his sword at Dorn’s torso. Dorn caught the blade in his hand and punched the soldier’s face with his other. There was a crumpling sound as blood spurted away from the shattering bones. The crushed face disappeared beneath the rolling waves. Dorn readied his hammer again and attacked the second. The soldier blocked the downward blow with his sword, but was unable to withstand the strength of the blow. His wrist snapped and he was beaten down, screaming, before succumbing to a second stroke of the hammer. The third soldier seemed to accept his fate, but before he died, he cried out “Lom-ah! LOM-AH” the slang for a stone mage.

Looking around, Sidle realized that they were being overwhelmed. He swung his sword and snarled to keep a Droshani back, but more were arriving every few seconds. Through some spray, he saw a small group of Droshani, armed with flails and massive pickaxes. Dread filled his heart instantly; the only reason his squard was safe now was because he was near Dorn, and that advantage had been negated. “Dorn!” he shouted. “Dossers! Fall back!” They began to warily stumble backwards; their retreat anticipating Aneer’s call to fall back by only a minute. The Doss squad, trained to bring down stone mages, pushed forward without fear of being flanked. Their flails had extra long chains to entangle the limbs of a stone mage, and every soldier was handpicked for exceptional strength. Other enemies managed to flank the squad and engaged Sidle and Q’ir. Q’ir, as agile in the water as on the ground, weaved among the soldiers, easily cutting through their clumsy blocks. Nevertheless, he and Sidle were unable to prevent the Doss squad from reaching a tiring Dorn. The chains wrapped around his arms, and the pickaxes closed in to deliver the finishing blow. Rolac and Salish turned and reentered the fray, diving low over the water into the group of Dossers. Rolac’s face was twisted into a maniacal grin, his short gutting knife springing into his hands as he stood up in the midst of the Dossers, spray dripping off his hair. In an instant he had slit one of their throats, his speed giving him an advantage over the heavily armed, bulky Dossers. Salish had succumbed to the bloodlust, and recklessly twirled around, a sword in her right hand, and a dagger in her left. Two more Dossers went down in the whirlwind of movement. Dorn was flailing, trying to break free of the three flails holding him, the fourth flailing having come off when its user was killed by Rolac. Unfortunately, Dorn was not a kava mage, and his Possession was rapidly failing. A massive Dosser, holding a pickaxe, stepped forward. In his mind, Sidle was screaming in frustration, although no sound passed from his lips besides his panting breath. The swing cleanly hit the side of Dorn’s head, the hardened metal point shattering the stone, sending chips flying. Dorn swayed, and collapsed, his body reverting to flesh and blood as the elemental fled the plane. Salish’s next blow decapitated the Dosser who had delivered the killing blow, and Qir finished his execution of yet another squad, but it was too late.

They had reached the beach, and were faced with the chaos of the Blackhearts in full retreat. They had played their hand, and delivered horrific damage to the Droshani army, but now it was time to reach the castle, or be cut down to the man. Glancing behind him, Sidle saw the waves swarming with Droshani soldiers, and the archer fire from the decks continued to take a toll on the exposed Blackhearts. “Run!” he shouted, and his squad took off, dodging through the bodies and iron hail, over the sand. After everything they had been through, adrenaline gave them energy their bodies didn’t deserve.

The retreat of the archers and shock troops was covered by a long cavalry charge down the length of the beach. Sidle did not have time to look back, but it seemed to be devastating to the chaos of exhausted soldiers dragging themselves out of the waves, most with their squads scattered or dead. Nevertheless, the cavalry drew a lot of enemy fire, ending with a blast of fire from one of the Kava mages. A fifth of the starting number of cavalry followed the infantry into the castle.

Although many Blackhearts were cut down by Droshani arrows, pursuit of the fleeing Blackhearts was limited. Aneer’s plan had been successful, if costly and he led the tattered remnants of his force back into Calur Castle, the gate shutting as soon as the last Blackheart had entered.

The wind whipped through Kosra’s hair as he watched the mass of enemies swarming around the harbor. The chaos was rapidly being replaced with strict military order. Regiments of soldiers formed, their perfect rectangles impressing Kosra. “This truly is the finest fighting force in Karnn” he thought to himself. His ballistae continued to fire upon the Droshani army, but the ships were already beached, and the soldiers soaked up the damage effortlessly. The soldiers spread themselves out, so that each bolt only killed one soldier, if that.

He turned as Kilvinge climbed onto the vantage point where he had recently attacked Borghoz. Kilving collapsed onto the ground, his wounds still bloody. Nonetheless, it was a miracle how fast he had recovered from his fight with Borghoz. “Or,” thought Kosra, “not a miracle, just clever elemental use and resilience”.

“How many did you kill, in the waves?” he enquired politely.

Kilvinge shook his head panting. “I have no idea. Dozens, hundreds. Maybe a hundred and fifty, before they pinned me down and drove me back.”

“What will they do now?”

“Set up a camp beyond the range of your ballistae. Attack tomorrow morning, when their mages and soldiers are relatively fresh.”

“Can you kill the mages?”

“No. They will be too heavily guarded tonight; they know that I am here. However…”

“What?”

“Once I have rested for a few hours, I will go out and raid the camp, killing a handful of people. They will be expecting this, and raise the alarm as soon as they see me. Immediately, I will retreat, and wait for it to die down. And then I will attack again. And again. In this way, I will prevent the soldiers from sleeping soundly, and I will be able to kill a handful.”

“That sounds effective. Well, I guess you should rest. I will go oversee preparation for defense. Somehow…the Blackhearts need to be fireproof.”

Sidle’s squad was assigned to sleep in the strip of grass between the keep and the wall, along with most of the army Despite, his intense tiredness, he was unable to sleep for a while, the screams of Droshani soldiers echoing off the walls. Sidle didn’t know what was happening, but the general consensus was that Kilvinge Drogash was mounting periodic attacks on the enemy camp. Their squad sat around a campfire, huddled in their blankets, their limbs aching from overuse and small wounds. Sidle replayed Dorn’s death over and over in his mind.

Looking over, he saw that Rolac was asleep. It seemed that living without a conscience had its advantages. Lark also seemed unconcerned, and was slowly drifting off to sleep. Salish’s eyes were wide open, and unseeingly locked on an object in the distance. Her rigid, tense form made her seem almost catatonic and Sidle doubted she would even hear a question.

That left Jor, Q’ir and Fulnor to engage in conversation. Sidle asked Fulnor what he was thinking about.

“Im not sure I want to die here.”

“What?” Sidle enquired.

“Don’t you see? The Bar wants to go down in history as the man that stopped the Droshani invasion. But…we aren’t going to survive this. We may weaken the Droshani. We might take most of them with us, and I think that’s what the Bar wants. To go down fighting.”

Jor cut in “Its true, the Bar has always tried to take good contracts. I mean, contracts where we were doing the moral thing.”

Sidle interjected, “But..”

“No no, I realize. We’ve down some pretty cold stuff. We’ve been ruthless to the point of cruelty. But I think he tried to avoid that. Recently the Bar has seemed restless, and the rumors are that he has been talking about trying to do somethin… ‘more fitting to the ability of this company’. He wants….glory. He wants to be remembered.”

Fulnor started again, “Like I said. Look at the size of the Droshani army. Even with what we did to them today….we’re not gonna survive. After our losses against Borghoz, they close to double our …oh, about fifteen hundred, left. Maybe if they didn’t have their mages….Doesnt matter. I don’t wanna die here, and I think the Bar is abusing our trust in him.”

“The Bar has never lead us badly,” Sidle replied.

“Maybe, but he is sacrificing us, all of us, to go down in glory. Do you think we, the soldiers, will be remembered? No, it will be Barrick Kosra, who gloriously sacrificed his army to save Cronso.”

Sidle stared at the fire. “I just haven’t had time to think about it, it’s just been…one fight after the next. But you are right, we aren’t going to survive. I don’t think it’s possible.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Fulnor snapped.

“I dunno. It seems unreal to me. Like…my mind can’t comprehend that this is a battle we won’t win through.”

Jor began, “I realized this a while ago. And, no, it doesn’t bother me.” Questioning faces looked at him. “Cronso, has been a good life me. If this place is conquered by Droshan, well, you know their ‘religion’. The Droshani army has been in a war to exterminate the Ghlal since they were first formed. So. Yes, I am an outcast from Ghlal society, but I would hate to see a refuge for the Ghlal destroyed. My people may need this place, depending on how the ‘War of Righteous Extermination’ ends. So, yes, we will die, but my actions may help save the lives of many of my people. Besides, with Tor dead…” A humorless smile creased his face.

Sidle slowly shook his head. “If I was going to care, I should have done so before the Droshani fleet arrived. We can’t leave now. We have no choice. So…it’s inevitable, I won’t waste time worrying. We always knew this was dangerous work.”

Fulnor spat. “This isn’t dangerous, where we have a reasonable chance of dying. This is suicide.”

“So why didn’t you leave before the Droshani got here? There was a wave of desertions, you coulda gone with ‘em.”

“Cause I didn’t know what was coming! No one did, ‘cept the Bar. If he had told us…”

“He didn’t declare the contract completed. He had the right to command us like he did.”

“The contract was over, we took the damn castle. He shoulda told us”

The conversation lulled for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts. Sidle noticed that Qir wasn’t meditating, or whatever it was that he usually did.

“Q’ir”, he said in a low voice, “what are you thinking about?”

Q’ir paused a minute. “I have listened to your conversation, and I must concur. Thus, I feel that time is running out. I will be unable to finish my task. This thought fills me with mild sadness.”

There was an expectant silence. The awkward pause stretched on unbroken. Sidle asked “well, what is your ‘task’?”

Unexpectedly, Q’ir launched into an uncharacteristically long speech. “I was appointed to the council of elders in my nasha corakhur, roughly translated, ‘cathedral-city’. This was a great honor, and I accepted while displaying my happiness, but I was told that I needed to perform one task to prove that I was suitable. I was required to leave the city to join a mercenary band, with instructions to contemplate the meaning of the word sacrifice, and to return when I felt that I understood it. I have fought for close to a year, I have killed so many men, and still the finer points of the meaning elude me. If I die tomorrow, I may not have the chance to accomplish what is required of me. Failing the council’s request is an unpleasant thought.”

Fulnor spoke. “Even if you do understand, you are still going to die. You aren’t going home to be an elder. Why do you care?”

Q’ir cocked his head to the side, his equivalent of a shrug. “There is no returning without obtaining the satisfactory understanding entrusted to me. I am dead to my brethren until I succeed. Death is one path to end my journey.”

The last statement brought about a complete silence, and Sidle managed to fall asleep, even with the screams of Droshani soldiers washing over him like the light from the dying fire.

The final day of the siege began with a wing of Droshani cavalry chasing a weary Kilvinge back to the castle. His agile form clung desperate to the rope lowered over the wall as he was pulled back up, his feet scrabbling on the rough stone surface. Having accomplished their goal, the cavalry wheeled and turned away from the danger of ballistae fire. Kilvinge muttered something about sleep and stumbled off into the keep. By this point, the entire army accorded recognition to the tall man with ice blue eyes. Blackhearts stood and watched in silent reverence, their eyes betraying the hope and respect they placed in a man who had become a legend in his own lifetime. His evident exhaustion and retreat from the battleground put a chill in all of their hearts.

Sidle’s squad, and the majority of the army, was ordered inside the keep. A murmur of surprise spread through the ranks, but Sidle immediately recognized the intelligence behind the tactic. They would be ordered to sprint to the walls as soon as the Droshani squads had advanced, and additional ladders had been placed on the inner side of the wall, to help them in this task. Still, if they weren’t careful, the Droshani would be on the wall before they managed to climb the steps. Sidle saw a few squads being handed huge, crude wooden shields and ordered to the wall. He turned to Fulnor.

“Where did they get tha shields?”

Fulnor shrugged, uncaringly. “I heard a rumor that the Bar had a few fire mages sneak down to the ships last night and cut them out of the sides of the big, beached ones. Coated with resin or somethin. Should be fire resistant.”

Sidle pondered this revelation for a minute. “That would make sense. Do you know who came up with the idea?”

“Gisali, maybe? I dunno”

Sidle’s squad was packed into the great hall with hundreds of other soldier. The heat was stifling, and the minutes dragged by ponderously. He heard shouts from outside and the drums signaling the Droshani army to form up. Next, he heard the telltale roar of the initial bombardment. The attack from the fire mages lasted for about 5 minutes, and at several points flame spurted through the high windows in the great hall. When the furious noise stopped, a tense, expectant calm fell upon the Blackhearts. A few seconds later they heard the horn from above their heads and the tension snapped, the inner gate thrown open and the blackhearts swarming through.

Blinking in the light, Sidle saw that there were a few Droshani already on the wall, and the singed Blackheart squads had thrown down their shields and were forming pockets of resistance. Blackheart crossbow men, entering the courtyard, fired a volley up at the attackers, before following the shock and regular squads. The path to the stone stairs leading up the wall opened in front of Sidle and he sprinted upwards. Reaching the parapet, he was faced with a downward Droshani sword swing. Q’ir jumped from behind Sidle to the top step, in humanly impossible leap, and parried the blow.

Q’ir’s blades shined in the sun as he drove the Droshani soldier back. The soldier was a scarred veteran and managed to hold off Q’ir’s attacks for half a dozen paces backwards. Q’ir faked, then struck low and slapped his enemy’s sword out of his hands. With his left hand holding the hilt of his sword, Q’ir pushed the terrified soldier onto his back on a crenellation. Slowly, almost lovingly, he caressed the soldier’s neck with the blade in his right hand. The soldier choked and struggled, but was held firmly in place by Q’ir’s left hand, his frantic motions ceasing as his red blood flowed over the stone. Sidle had a sudden image of an animal being sacrificed on an altar and shuddered. He knew that he would never look at Q’ir the same way again. Q’ir leaned in to his victim and quietly asked “what does it mean?” Apparently not receiving an answer or revelation, Q’ir disappointedly threw the Droshani off the wall into the mass of enemies below.

Sidle left Q’ir and Lark to handle the soldiers to his right, and led the rest of the squad to charge left on the parapet. To his right, Sidle caught glimpses of the seething ants nest coming towards the wall, and knew that they needed to immediately break the initial ladders. Ahead of him, Droshani soldiers were streaming over the wall like a wave of molten lead. They had almost overcome one of the shield squads; its membership already cut down to three. A bestial roar escaped Sidle’s lips as he charged, ducking only slightly as crossbow bolts whizzed a few feet about his head.

His sword leapt forward and cut down the first opponent. Salish’s mind had once again checked out, gone to a happier place, and her bloodlust propelled her into the enemies, miraculously unhurt as she dueled with two enemies. Whoever she had been in her previous life, someone had taught her swordwork well. Her distraction gave Rolac the chance he needed to twist his shortsword into the small of the back,of one of the soldiers attacking Salish, the scream emitted was high pitched and shrill. In a disturbing way, Rolac and Salish made a great team. Salish’s insanity drew the attention of everyone around her, and Rolac cleaned up. Fulnor, as always, stayed at Sidle’s side. Never aggressive, he allowed enemies to attack him and defended with his buckler, looking for openings. As Fulnor solidly protected Sidle’s left, Jor ran for the ladder, clearing the path with his axe. Sidle dueled with a second soldier, decapitated him, and ran to help Jor.

Sidle slid under an opponent’s guard, and impaled him. The blade skittered across the chain mail, found a weakness just below the navel, and slid sickeningly into the man’s stomach. He gasped, and weakly tried to swing his sword at Sidle’s neck; an easy deflection followed. Sidle, used all his strength to push through the small gap in the armor, and the Droshani collapsed forward on to Sidle, his sword falling out of weak fingers, the scent of his death filling Sidle’s nostrils. Sidle wriggled his sword, and managed to push the dying soldier away.

Sidle’s squad converged on the ladder. A chaotic symphony ensued; a song of swords rising and falling, and the failure of armor. Blood spurted onto the rough stones of the parapet and drenched the stage with a scarlet covering. Sidle’s bloodlust matured and blossomed into a cold, dispassionate rage that led to the destruction of several Droshani soldiers. The ladder was first reached by Jor, who bent down to give it a forceful push. It slowly moved away from the wall, and picked up speed as it headed towards the excitement below. A jarring crash echoed away from the walls, the heavy wooden frame devastating the Drohani squads beneath.

Sidle killed the last of the Droshanis to gain the wall most recently, and stopped to catch his breath in the brief lull in the fighting. The assault had only lasted an hour or so, but the blackheart’s were buckling under the pressure. There were not enough defenders left, and the mages had mostly recovered. The surprise at hearing Q’ir speak broke through the situation. “I think I understand now”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Sidle wearily turned towards his best soldier, probably the only reason his squad had survived. Along the line, a horrified cry of “Possesion!” was taken up, and Sidle frantically looked around for one of the fire-resistant shields. Finding one, he ducked down, pulling Q’ir with him. Flames broke over the battlements. A groan of pain escaped Sidle’s clamped teeth and screwed shut eyes. All it once it past, and cool air soothed the light burns all over his body. Q’ir fearlessly stepped upright, and patted out several fires eating his cloak. Sidle hoarsely grunted out, over the screams of Blackhearts not lucky enough to find shields, “what…did you want?”

I have killed so many men, attempting to learn what the Council wanted, but now I think I understand. It seems I won’t be returning to my city after all. I wonder if they expected this.”

Alarm spread rapidly through Sidle. “Q’ir, what the hell are you gonna do? Don’t do anything stupid!”

Q’ir smiled softly. Thank you for teaching me.” Then he strode to the edge of the ramparts, and grabbed one of the ropes the Droshani had cast over the crenellations with a grappling hook. He leapt off the wall, using the rope to slow his fall. Sidle heard an increase in screams from below his vision and rushed over to watch.

Q’ir was fighting a squad of soldiers singlehandedly. His swords were a blur as he parried and thrust. Q’ir’s fighting style had always been beautiful to Sidle, but now he was taking it to another level. He had abandoned himself totally to the intricate movements, no longer worried about life, concentrating totally on the fight in the present. The sword dance claimed a few of the Droshanis; the fatal strokes barely noticeable in the speed of the combat. All at once, Q’ir had the advantage, and the remaining members died in flurry of delicate thrusts. Within seconds Q’ir was running towards the battering ram, the few wounds he had received not hindering his movement in the slightest.

A dozen more soldiers rushed out from around the gate to stop his advance. Reaching the first, and not slowing, Q’ir blocked the sword stroke with one blade and eviscerated the man with the other. The Droshani man collapsed on to his knees, the blood bubbling out of his mouth almost the same color as his bright red hair. Q’ir spun, did a fast thrust into another Droshani’s chest, pivoted with the dying soldier still on his left sword, to engage a third enemy. Droshani armor was world renown, but Q’ir was too strong, too good at exploiting the weaknesses inherent in any armor which allowed its user to fight. Finishing off the dual in a flurry of blows, he kicked the second soldier off his blade. Most of the remaining Droshani soldiers were armed with the more normal short spears. Normally, this would have given them an advantage against a sword-fighter, but Q’ir was able hack the ends off, rendering them ineffective. Another squad died, their lives’ currency spent in a few desperate heartbeats.

Now, nothing separated Q’ir from the sweaty soldiers pushing the battering ram. Some, over the roar of battle had noticed Q’ir, and now looked around desperately, their pale faces turning to hopelessness. Most continued to strain against the gate, oblivious. Q’ir leapt forward and began to systematically slaughter the soldiers. After years of combat experience, carnage rarely disgusted Sidle, but this was one of the exceptions. In a few brutal moments, Q’ir had brought the battering ram crashing to the ground, and the soldiers manning the other side were either running for their lives or pulling out shortswords. The Blackhearts on the wall took advantage of the disruption of the armored formations and picked off dozens of the Droshani with expertly placed arrows. Sidle felt a surge of pride as the Blackhearts momentarily turned the battle at the gate, and began to butcher the nearby Droshani.

Out in the mass of Droshani, Sidle caught sight of a figure wrapped in dull robes. Normally, the color would have allowed him to blend in with the surrounding army, but a burst of wind had fanned out the cloak, revealing the differences in garb. Dread crept into Sidle’s heart as he realized who the man must be. His mind raced, and he quickly grasped something he could do. With a heart filled with sorrow he ran towards the nearest ballistae. Upon reaching it, he screamed to the squad manning it “I see one of the enemy mages. One of the real ones. He is going to come into range; we have a chance at killing him.”

The young sergeant flicked a glance of annoyance at Sidle. “We have tried. In the initial magic assault we tried several times. It’s no use, they are high level Wind, and they bat the bolts out of the air like leaves.”

“I know, I know, but he is going to be distracted. There he is, line up the shot; its gonna get a lot harder to see him, and we have one chance to make this good.” Convinced, the squad moved into action. Sidle stared out at the battle, “this has to work….”

Q’ir’s blades had taken the lives of most of his attackers. While continuing to weave and parry, he saw the unmarked mage step out from his own soldiers. Q’ir’s eyes met the mages, and a flash of mutual recognition took place, each seeing death in the other’s eyes. Q’ir shook off his attackers and began sprinting towards the mage at an inhuman speed. His feet danced over the bodies lying strewn across the ground, making the distance between them disappear rapidly. Fear flashed into the mage’s eyes, and he immediately called upon a Possession. Hastily conjured flames ripped out from his hands. The wave, too quick to be precise, fanned out in a large swathe. The seething flames covered the entire area overlooked by the gatehouse. Any Droshani left alive were caught in the onslaught, and perished to the friendly fire. As their screams echoed off the walls, Q’ir fell to his knees, flames running rampant over his body. Seeming to stare directly at the mage, he slowly collapsed, a blackened shell cracking open as it struck the ground. The enemy mage had called upon his elemental too quickly, and lashed out too violently. He could not sustain the Possession, and it fell away as he watched his opponent die a dozen paces from him. In the background, the battering ram began to surrender to the flames licking its sides.

“Now,” Sidle screamed. The ballistae sprang to attention as it released its pent up energy. The enemy mage raised his eyes, saw the bolt in a flash of recognition, and grasped for his elemental. The second before he fell under Possession, the bolt struck his chest. A furrow of earth was raised by the impaled mage as the momentum dragged him backwards. His broken corpse came to rest a dozen feet from where he was standing.

Sidle fell back against the wall. “Why is this so much worse than any of the others?” he thought. Slowly, numbness spread throughout his body. He had made Q’ir’s sacrifice count; Q’ir had died to accomplish something. He had to believe that. Through the fog assaulting his mind, shouts reached his ears, warning him that the Droshani army was about to launch another attack, despite losing one of their cornerstone mages. The Blackhearts were decimated, the defenders thinned to a level that made repelling the storming army laughable. “We will lose…now. Our time has come. My time has come.” Sidle pushed his rational thoughts away and climbed onto legs far beyond complete exhaustion.

Sidle fought on. Everything was a blur. He was surrounded by so many Droshani, so many Droshani…. Rational thought had fallen away with the assault; he had no idea what had happened to the other members of the squad. He dodged, parried, and threw himself at another soldier. A flurry of blows, and the young, idealistic youth fell away screaming, blood gushing from the side of his neck. A blow struck Sidle across the back, causing him to stumble, but he barely felt it. Spinning he snarled and threw himself at the attacker. Another soul rapidly fled to the void. Looking around, there was fear on the faces of the Droshani he could see. An officer stepped forward, the smooth motions hinting at skill and experience. Sidle dimly realized that color was draining from the world, and wondered on this oddity. He was struck in the side and flung to the ground, but it was only a nuisance. He got back to his feet slowly…so slowly. The world had slowed down, its inhabitants caught in treacle. Everything resolved itself in his mind; he saw the battlefield as if it had crystallized. He began to laugh at the ease and obviousness of it all. Stepping forward he dodged the officer’s attack and decapitated him. The fool had been too slow. Now he was moving through the surrounding men…swinging…swinging. He saw himself being splashed by dark liquid, but he didn’t feel anything. He was standing alone; everyone else was lost in the swirling darkness outside of his vision. “It’s so quiet,” he thought to himself. It was a solemn moment; a moment of stillness and religious significance. The silence grew to a deathly roar and began to swallow him. He was falling…falling….

The Droshani soldiers looked at each other in disbelief. “Who the hell was that guy?” someone declared. He had two quarrels in his back, one in his side, and sword wounds on his chest deep enough to show the organs. Still he had fought on, and killed Captain Lacorus. He had finally stopped, staring at nothing, then crumpled to the ground, a peaceful expression on his face. The man’s rampage had cut down close to two squads, and no one had been able to kill him outright, his wounds finally taking the life that had tenaciously held on for so long. A sergeant came along to replace the ones the man had killed and shouted “we need soldiers to storm the keep. Forward! For Humanity!” The soldiers saluted and moved off.

Sidle’s body lay surrounded by crimson and silver, the blood mixing with the tattered Droshani uniforms. Unknown to him, he had been watched by the Blackhearts in the keep, a brutal symbol of defiance, a gesture of contempt to the skill of the Legion. Stillness surrounded the body of the last Blackheart to hold the ramparts, as if to hold the site of the death sacred, sanctified by blood and sacrifice.

Dull thuds echoed through the keep. The majority of the Blackheart remnants were huddled in the great hall, waiting for the battering ram to break down the inner door. A few still held the upper walls, but the Droshani bombardment had intensified, and it was suicidal to remain in sight of the archers and fire mages. Kosra stood in the center, in shock. For all his words decrying the hopelessness of the situation, he had started to believe they had a chance. And he had been proved wrong. He could offer no words of comfort to the soldiers surrounding him he had led to their deaths.

The x^th shock squad slowly reformed in Sidle’s absence. There were few remaining: Fulnor,Lark Jor, Salish, and Rolac. No one spoke, because all knew what was coming, and all tried to deal with it in their own way. Fulnor muttered angrily to himself, Lark sharpened his weapon without emotion on his face, and Salish seemed as dead to the world as always. A half-smile spread across Jor’s face. He was finally at peace with his brother’s death. Rolac seemed disappointed, but not upset or sad.

Kilvinge appeared out of the gloom in the corners of the room. He hissed “this is the squad of that hellish Vrino, right?”

Fulnor turned slowly. “Yeah, Q’ir was one of ours”.

Kilvinge’s face creased slightly, the emotions unreadable. “This is a lost cause, and Kosra has lost his will to fight. It pains me to abandon this fight, but not enough to make me throw away my life. I owe Q’ir a debt, so I will pass it on to you. I can get a couple of you out. Who wants to come? I probably won’t be able to take you all.”

Fulnor immediately interjected “I want to leave. Please take me away from this insanity”. There was a moment’s pause in the conversation, no one willing to speak next. The hushed air in the main hall made speaking above a whisper scandalous.

Jor shook his head. “I don’t think I can come. My brother’s dead, so… I don’t really want to leave this place. I don’t know if I agree with what the Bar did, but I like one of his ideas. I think a glorious death will suit me just fine.” The absurdity of the last statement hung in the air unaddressed. Kilvinge wondered if the Ghlal warrior actually believed his own words, or just clung to them desperately to give meaning to his brother’s death. Either way, he doubted Jor would actually think of his death as glorious in the last few moments.

Finally Rolac nodded and declared “why not, Ill probably have more fun if I get out of this little…predicament. Hehe” It was high, unpleasant laugh. Several members from other squads involuntarily looked over and muttered to themselves. The blackheart collective consciousness was on a knife edge.

Surprisingly, it was Lark who finished his deliberations next. His voice, as always, was rough from lack of use. “Yes. I thought that I would die here, and I was not adverse to the idea, but since the opportunity presents itself…I think I shall repay some old obligations.” Despite the unique motivations presenting themselves, no one else had the energy left to care. The triviality of Lark’s past was swept away in the grim light of their impending doom.

The group turned slightly to stare at Salish, who barely seemed to register the existence of the people around her. Salish eventually seemed to notice the expectation directed in her direction and woke up slightly. The change was almost imperceptible. She let out a sad laugh. “I joined this company to die. Why would I want to give that up? I’m looking forward to my peace.” There was no surprise at this statement.

Kilvinge spoke “excellent, that worked out well. Let’s be on our way as quickly as possible.” He moved off into the shadows, with three members of the squad following.

Jor looked over to Salish. “Well, my girl, I never go to know ya that well, but looks like we’ll be goin out together.”

“Yes, we shall.” A smile of expectation spread across her face.

“Lets make it bloody and glorious”

“Whatever delusions make you happy. You just want to die, like me”. They did not speak again.

Kilvinge quickly led them to a small gate leading out the back of the keep. It was barred from within, but Fulnor frantically raised it. Kilvinge stepped out first, and contemptuously executed the squad waiting for them. Fulnor became slightly more pale, but stayed as close to Kilvinge as he could. Rolac laughed in sheer glee at the killing. Lark’s expression did not change.

The gloom was penetrated by a shattering ray of light from the broken door. The battering rams were fulfilling their purpose, and the Blackhearts prolonged moment of expectation was over. Salish strode forward purposefully and hid to the right of the door, behind one of the pillars. Jor unclipped his oversized crossbow from his back and readied a bolt. To his right side, in easy reach was a battle axe, to the left a warhammer. They were Tor’s weapons, which Jor had taken from his lifeless corpse. Each had been cleaned quickly in the last few minutes, but were still nicked and stained with blood. The sounds of Droshani sergeants exhorting their soldiers could be heard. The roar grew louder as the door finally crumpled.

A hail of crossbow bolts entered the room. Minimal damage was taken, as most Blackhearts were crouched behind some kind of cover. A column of soldiers advanced into the room, shields held high. Jor sighted along carved wood of his crossbow, saw a thigh covered only by chain mail, and fired. The heavy bolt tore through the chains with ease, throwing the soldier back into his companion. A small scattering of Blackheart fire joined with Jor’s shot, inflicting some damage, but failing to disrupt the integrity of the formation.

As Jor was reloading, he saw Salish throw herself out from behind the pillar. Her charge was utter suicide; the surprise and momentum carrying her into the Droshani column. A sword caught her side as she pushed past, but she was beyond caring. She swung he shortsword and dagger to either side, hamstringing two soldiers, and creating a hole in the column. She threw herself on the back of another soldier, blades pushing up underneath the armor. The moment of confusion past, and as she turned backwards, a youth ran her through, her light armor giving way to his muscle-bound thrust. She grinned, dropped her sword and pulled herself forward on the blade, her dying act a quick upward slash with her dagger. The youth had an incredulous look on his face as the weight of Salish speeded his fall to the ground.

Kilvinge reached the top of the stairs, and looked over the parapet. Only a few Droshani waited below, near the edge of the cliff. “Hurry”. The word was tersely spoken. He handed the trio a rope, then jumped over the edge. He pushed his air possession to its limits and slowed himself with an updraft. He still hit the ground hard, but he rolled away from the impact, and was immediately on his feet, running at a nearby squad. Against small numbers of opponents, he was just too fast; his blades of ice flicking in and out faster than the eye could follow. Their gargled screams were music to the ears of the three Blackhearts scrambling down the ladder as fast as they could. They quickly rejoined Kilvinge. He spoke “stay low, we are going to run along the edge of the cliff, away from the beach, and try to reach the cover of that scrub on the other side of the castle.”

Jor had the chance to fire his beloved crossbow one more time before the Droshani soldiers were all around him. With a roar, he grabbed his close combat weapons and charged the formation. A searing momentum was imparted to his shoulder, but the crossbow bolt only slowed him for a second. He savagely beat down the first Droshani he reached, and turned to kill another. Within a few seconds, he was covered with wounds. He lashed out in every direction; surrounded completely. A sword sliced into the side of his neck, and he was thrown to the ground. His axe fell from deadened fingers. He struggled to his knees and used his hammer to break the knee cap of a soldier, who proceeded to fall onto Jor.

Jor wrapped his arms around his enemy’s torso, the smell of sweat and lived-in armor filling his nostrils. The soldier snarled and drew a short knife; Jor’s side began to endure quick jabs which broke partially through the chain. Jor squirmed his right left arm until it could grasp the soldier’s throat. Adrenaline drew his fingers together viciously, crushing the soldier’s windpipe. Still on his knees, Jor pushed the dying corpse to the side and looked up.

Three Droshani soldiers stood a few yards in front of him. Their uniforms were slightly different, and they held crossbows. As one, they raised and took aim. Jor smiled grimly. Of the three bolts, two entered into his ribcage, one into his skull. Jor was dead long before his shattered body hit the stone floor.

Fulnor and Rolac struggled to keep up with Kilvinge, while Lark easily loped along beside him. They ran through the scrub, the sounds of the battle behind them growing faint. “When are we stopping?,” Fulnor gasped.

“Tomorrow” was the reply. “If you want to stay with me”

Unsurprisingly, all three did chose to stay with Kilvinge.

Kosra crouched at the back of the hall; a wound several years earlier had excluded him from any real fighting. His army was dead, the last few dying just in front of him. He had failed them. “No,” he thought, “I chose this.” He had to believe that his precious Blackhearts had died to fatally weaken the Droshani army. Otherwise…life was a cruel joke.

He stood up and walked forward without fear. Several Droshani raised their weapons, but didn’t attack since he was unarmed. A hooded figure turned, and spat. “Were you the leader of these mercenaries?” Kosra nodded slowly. “Damn you, you cost us over half of our army. My best friend, Jonyatho, is dead because of you. The greatest soldier I knew, cut down by a ballistae.” Kosra shrugged. “What the hell happened to Borghoz?” His voice dripped with venom.

Finally Kosra spoke, “Kilvinge dueled him. They were both half dead and one of my mercenaries came up behind him and cut off his head”

“Kilvinge…that bastard….HE SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN HERE!” The screamed words echoed through the hall. The man seemed on the verge of insanity. “What a disaster…what a joke…Borghoz, you led us to our deaths…” His eyes flicked back to Kosra. “Well, at least someone is going to pay for this…travesty!” He strode forward, drawing a mage katana.

“This is it.” Kosra thought, then said quietly, “Droshan can go to hell.” Golden flames grew around the katana. The blade swung at nearly a perfect 45 degree angle, barely slowing down as it passed from Kosra’s shoulder to side; the intense heat melting all in its path. The wound cauterized immediately, and the two halves felt apart and collapsed onto the ground. A small puff of ash rose from the body, grainy against the dim light of the main hall. The Droshani mage turned away, and sighed in despair.

Kilvinge suddenly stopped. They had gradually turned away from the coast, and were now jogging mostly inland. “There are mages coming,” he declared. “I feel them.” The others stopped and wheezed for a few minutes. Soon enough, they could all hear sounds of a marching army.

“Should we hide?” Rolac inquired

“No. I expect this army to be friendly. Or, if not, I’ll cut our way out. Either way, I’m sure I match their mages.”

Rolac grinned “I guess there are a few disadvantages to being around you. Wont the mages sense you?”

Kilvinge stared at him for a minute, emotionless. “They won’t sense me if I do not call upon a possession.”

“Come on” Fulnor said, “ lets go up that ridge; see what’s coming”. The other members of the party followed the suggestion, and in a few minutes they peered over the top.

Below them lay a shallow, wide valley obscured by clouds of dust. Stretching from edge to edge, countless cavalry and infantry crawled rapidly forward. A massive army was fast marching towards Calur Bay. It seemed to be a coalition, but the most prominent color was white. Dozens of white banners bearing an intricate golden symbol dotted the army. Also present was what the Blackhearts recognized as a few regiments of the Prokaerian royal guard. Fulnor spoke hesitatingly “the white…that’s…”

“yes” Kilvinge interjected “those are Tanian Directorate forces. It seems the king was forced to cut a deal with the fanatics. I doubt they will leave this kingdom anytime soon.”

“ Looks like the king just traded being ruled by the Kasul Faith for being ruled by the Church of Tania. I hope he did well out of it.” Fulnor said sourly.

Riders noticed their presence and broke away from the bulk of the army. Fulnor spoke excitedly, “those are Blackheart colors!” As they drew closer, Rolac managed to identify Leviathe, the cavalry captain.

Before the cavalry had crested the rise, Kilvinge drew up his hood and said “do not say who I am. I am merely a blackheart with a scavenged gray cloak.” The others grunted their assent.

Leviathe reined in sharply, wind whipping his black pennant out behind him. “It is surprising to see a shock squad on scouting duty. What is the news from the front?”

There was an awkward silence. Finally Fulnor spoke up “the Adnar Velniris…is no more. We are survivors, fleeing the utter destruction of the mercenary company at the hands of the Droshani expedition fleet we feared.”

Rolac cut in “We gave them hell, but it wasn’t enough. Still, I don’t think the army you are with will have any trouble cutting them up. Just concentrate on bringing down their fire mages. I think there are two left, almost Kava.”

Leviathe hadn’t even heard Rolac. His thin face had turned the color of ash. “Kosra…dead? The company is gone?”

“A lot went wrong since you left. I don’t know why Kosra decided to commit suicide and set the company up for a last stand. I think…” Fulnor trailed off.

“It doesn’t matter what you think. I should have been there at the fall; at Kosra’s side.” Leviathe snapped. “Why are you here if he ordered a last stand?” Another awkward pause. “Are you deserters?”

“Some may call it that,” Fulnor retorted, “but we did not leave until victory was hopeless and we would have thrown away our lives for nothing!”

There was a cruel look on Leviathe’s face. “Kosra obviously thought it was worth something.” He fingered his cavalry sabre. “I should put you all into the ground for deserting while on contract.” Nobody moved. Kilvinge let out a small sigh of exhaustion; he preferred to not kill Leviathe, but if it came down to survival, Leviathe would not leave this ridge alive. “Never mind. But, get out of my sight. You disgust me.” Leviathe wheeled his stallion and rode off, back towards the coalition army.

Kilvinge grunted “come on. I don’t want to kill anyone else today. Let’s do as the man asks.”

Early the next day, the band of four travelers reached a small town. Kilvinge had kept them at a grueling pace, and they had only slept for a few hours during the night. On the outskirts of the small collection of houses, he slowed. “Well, this is where we part ways. I have fulfilled what I intended, by getting you to safety. I want to resupply here, then I shall disappear.”

Astonishingly, Lark spoke. “Might I inquire where you plan to go?” The voice was as rough as the gravel they were standing on.

“I need to go to ground and hide for a while. Droshan is not forgiving. There will be assassins on my trail shortly.” Kilvinge’s tone was guarded.

“I have an idea. I think I can offer you sanctuary in my home country, if you help me deal with a few matters.”

“Deal, with a few matters?”

“I have a few enemies I need killed. I don’t think they will cause you any difficulty.”

“What is your home country?” Kilvinge drew him aside so the others couldn’t hear.

In his ear, Lark rasped “Larese.” Kilvinge stepped back and stared. Finally, a smile spread across his face.

“I think we have a deal. I have desired to go to that place for a long time.”

Rolac stepped forward , “my lord mage, I do not know where you plan to go, or what you plan to do. However, I am currently unemployed, and I am in awe of your skills. I would be honored if you would take me on as a bodyguard. I swear to faithfully defend you while you sleep, and in the instant before your possession sets in. I offer myself as a tool, which you may use against your enemies, when you alone do not suffice”

A mild expression of surprise creased Kilvinge’s face, which probably implied that he was shocked. After a few seconds, he simply replied “yes.”

An expression of delight crossed Rolac’s face, complemented by his signature high pitched giggle. No one staring into his eyes at this moment could doubt his insanity. “This is going to be fun.”

“Well, I’m not coming with you” Fulnor spat. “I’m gonna go to that inn over there, and sleep for a few years, not join another suicide mission.” He stalked off. Uncaring stares followed his back as he walked away.

Epilogue.

Sounds of merriment in the tavern below slowly brought Fulnor back to consciousness. His head ached terribly, and he was sore from the rapid flight. Darkness filled the window; he had slept until late at night. He managed to contort upright and pushed the door of his tiny room open. Gales of drunken laughter greeted him from the stairs. He staggered down the stairs, almost tripping on a worn step. He stepped into the warm chaos of the dining room and found a place at a half empty table. He ordered ale and downed it in one motion. He ordered another, and nursed it slightly more slowly.

Gazing around, he dimly became aware that the crowd was more festive than usual. He looked towards the other end of the table and grunted “hey, whassa deal tonight? Why so much….people?”

The blond haired drunk grinned. “Well, my friend. You see…there was a great victory this afternoon. The king, and the Tanians swept down on Calur Bay…and drove the Droshani into the sea. Killed ‘em to the man. Yeah, that’s right, there were Droshani here. Pretty scary, huh?”

A gray haired man sitting next to him, who was considerably more sober, turned over to explain. “The news is pretty shocking. That famous mercenary company, the Blackhearts, are all dead, but they had a last stand against a droshan army. I’d heard some rumors about the pirate kings having trouble, but I never expected them to actually make it.”

“Man!” the drunk said while shaking his head “we ain’t nevvah gonna forget this day. Them Blackhearts; we gonna remember what they did”.

The ale was soothing Fulnor aching head. “So, the army of Tanians and Prokaerians, they didn’t have any trouble?”

“Well, not too much” the sober man replied. “I heard that the Droshani mostly managed to retreat inside the fortress, but the fortress itself was in pretty bad shape, so didn’t offer much difficulty to our boys. There were just, too few Droshani left to combat the thousands we sent in.”

“And the mages? The fire mages?”

The eyes set in the weathered face narrowed, “the mages…yeah, they killed a lot of men, but got overrun in the end. Heard some Blackheart captain who had gotten the help, Levith maybe?, was in the thick of the attack on the mages.” He shook his head. “They say he was pretty much suicidal. And he got his wish; he was cut down in the fighting, but not before he managed to stick one of the enemy mages. Got behind him somehow.” The man paused. “But if you don’t know anything about the battle, how come you knew about the fire mages? And are you wearing black leathers?”

Fulnor suddenly realized that he had made a mistake. Any type of cheap clothes, bought in the town would have been better than continuing to wear the Blackheart colors. “I…” He broke off, unsure of what to say.

“You were there, weren’t you? You’re a Blackheart.” Thankfully the man said it in a low voice, so only the drunk heard him. Fulnor nodded tiredly. “Why are you here?”

“I…deserted. I had a special chance to get out, and I took it, before the final attack. It was suicide to stay there”

A sad smile creased the old man’s face. “Well, that may be, but I thank them for their suicide. I don’t doubt that I would have died in the wars that would have followed from a Prokaerian defeat.”

“But since Prokaer allied with Tania, wouldn’t they have had enough, either way? The coalition army was bigger than I expected.”

The old man shrugged. “It’s difficult to know. Maybe. But you Blackhearts made it certain; you hit them before they had a chance to consolidate their power. Or at least, that’s what I’ve guessed from what I know.”

They lapsed into silence. The drunk had fallen asleep, and drool pooled on the dark wooden table. On the other side of hectic room, a large bearded man stepped on to a table, and called for silence. His voice boomed out “Lads, tonight, we drink to the Blackhearts. Without their sacrifice, we would probably be refugees right now, fleeing a war zone. They didn’t have to do what they did. But, for some reason, their leader decided to stay and fight to protect us, to protect the Cronso way of life”

“You mean, thievin’ and banditry?” someone called out. Raucous laughter filled the room.

“Shut your mouth, Jevry. Look, these men deserve our heartfelt…gratitude.” He swayed on the podium slightly. “So, give a moments silence, and drink to the memory of the Blackhearts!” The room fell silent as the men drank deeply.

Fulnor couldn’t stay there any longer, shame filling his body. He forced himself to wait a few minutes in silence, before he lurched to his feet and headed for the door. He ran into the innkeeper, who asked “Are you spending the night here?”

“Yeah… I guess so.”

“I’ll have to have some more coin.” Fulnor’s hand clawed through pouch, encountering mostly air. With a sinking feeling, he realized that he had almost no money left; he had obviously not been paid for his most recent contract. He wondered briefly how he had overlooked this detail. He found the required coin and paid the innkeeper. As he walked back to his room, the muted clinking of the coins reminded him just how little distance they would go.

Back in his room, Fulnor sat on his bed in silence. His thoughts visited grim locales, mostly centered on his lack of a future. “I am alone” he said softly, “everyone I knew for the past decade is dead.” An intense feeling of desolation entered into him, and his mind played out the images of his friends dying. “Sidle…Q’ir…Salish…” He stopped, and silence returned to the room, broken only by the occasionally harsh laugh from below. The laughter haunted him, reminding him of the shame of the toast in the room below. The image of Leviathe pushing his mount into the mass of Droshani, desperately driving towards…his own death, flickered through his mind.

He drew his short dagger from its holster, and twirled it in his fingers. Moonlight glinted off its sharpened edge. The entire room was bathed in bluish light, putting a macabre edge on the events. His body rocked forward and back as he continued to play with the blade. His face was made of stone, but his gaze showed his weariness and age. Deep creases marred what had been a handsome face 20 years previously. Gray hair sprouted in uneven patches, giving evidence to the harshness of the previous years. Finally, a single tear sallied forth from his left eye.

A moment later, his aching mind reached a conclusion. It only took a few seconds, and his dagger was covered with blood; the scarlet seeming black in the moonlight. He laid back and closed his eyes, the twin crimson blots spreading rapidly through the stained yellow sheets, away from his wrists.