Chapter 32 - An Audience with the King

"All rise for his majesty, King Jarrad I, ruler of the Kingdom of Albion," commanded the chamberlain, his voice echoing around the throne room.  It was a historical command which didn't make much sense these days, as there were no chairs in the throne room, meaning everyone was already standing.  But the large throng of courtiers and assembled dignitaries instantly silenced and stood a little more upright.

The king swept into the room, his strides were graceful and sure.  Wearing simple but elegant clothing made from silks from Khemit, and wearing a broadsword at his side, he cut an impressive figure.  His brown hair was beginning to grey at the temples but his smile was full and genuine.

He moved to the throne and sat easily.  His eyes flicked across those gathered and came to rest upon Jaeden, Chi, and Thia who were arrayed in front of his seat.  He put his chin into his hand, leaned forward, and studied the three.

The king was just returning from a break after having listened to them telling their tale.  They had told everything to the king, right from the different ways they had come to be involved with Caerdic individually, to how he had influenced their experiences and turned them against the realm.  They had gone on to explain their findings at Mount Macarack and their journey deep into the Barren Scrub to enter Callindrill's tomb and discover the truth about what the archmage was plotting.

"Sir Harken," the king called out, without averting his gaze from the three.  "Approach us."

The imposing figure of the Grandmaster of the Order of the Sun clanked into the forefront of the gathering in his full suit of plate armour.  He bowed deeply to the king.  "Your majesty, I am at your command."

"Tell us the news from the kingdom," the king demanded, finally sitting back and turning to look upon the knight.

Sir Harken proceeded to tell the king the latest information from the far edges of the realm.  In the north, he told them, the Feral had streamed out of the Jagged Peaks and swarmed down into the Furrow Hills.  They were killing the farmers and burning and pillaging the homesteads they came across.  Duke George's armies from Thistledelve were now beginning to engage them.  Sir Harken reported that knights from Castle Fortuna in the northeast were riding out to meet the threat.

He went on to say that the red-armour-wearing samurai warriors of the east were attacking the town of Eastward and had placed it under siege.  The armies of Duke Edward, supported by knights from the nearby Eastward Abbey were meeting the fearsome foe head-to-head.

The king thanked the Grandmaster for his report and bid him to return back to his position in the court.  He then turned his attention back on the three again.  "And with this background in mind, these three ... characters, have arrived telling tales out of children's stories.  They talk of a millennia-old figure of legend, the mighty Callindrill, and of how he even now stalks the lands, manipulating events and people to bring destruction upon our fair realm."

This was met with mixed reactions from those gathered in the court.  Some smirked and chuckled quietly at the ridiculous nature of the claims Jaeden and his friends had made.  Others shook their head that these three should waste the king's time when the nation was under such threat.  A few nodded as if in understanding and agreement with the stories these strangers were telling.

Suddenly a man stepped forward.  It was a breach of etiquette for someone to approach the throne without being invited but King Jarrad waved the chamberlain's protests away before they had even begun.

"Duke George. A formal welcome to Littlebook, cousin," the king greeted his relative with a smile.  "You have something to add?"

"You cannot believe the words of this liar," the Duke began, his finger pointing directly at Jaeden, his face red with anger.  "He killed my daughter!"  This last accusation was met with a few shocked gasps from members of the court unaware of Jaeden's past.

"That's not true," responded Sir Harken as he stepped up alongside the duke.  "Jaeden was responsible for your niece's life when she was killed, your majesty - that much is true.  But it is clear that it was in fact Callindrill who was responsible for the attack and that Jaeden was trying to defend her against insurmountable foes.   I, for one, vouch for his story and know him to be an honest and honourable man."

"Even if it were true that he was trying to defend Daniella when she died," retorted the Duke, his face flushing, "Are you saying you are gullible enough to believe his ridiculous lies about Callindrill having returned and that he is going to try and raise the bones of a long-dead dragon to serve as mount to the dead king Eldred?  Ridiculous!  It calls into question your judgment, Sir Harken."

The king sat forward on his throne, curious how this would play out, but Sir Harken was too dignified to enter into an argument with the Duke in this setting.  He merely turned to have the throne, saying nothing.

"Sir Harken," the king addressed him.  "Do you have anything else to report, about events here in the city?"

Sir Harken looked greatly uncomfortable, a barely perceptible flush reaching his neck.  "I do, sire," he finally answered.  "I am afraid to report that the ancient Sword of Eldred has been stolen, your majesty.  It is gone with no trace."

"I see," King Jarrad responded.  "And did you do as I bid, earlier?"

"I did, your majesty, yes."

"And, pray tell, what did you find?"

"I went into the catacombs beneath the Cathedral, to the tomb of King Eldred I, founder of this land of Albion.  His tomb had been forced open sometime in the recent past, your majesty.  The sarcophagus had been pried open, the lid removed."

"And the body of our esteemed ancestor?" asked the king.

"Gone," stated Sir Harken, simply.  

*

"Silence!" the chamberlain called to restore order in the throne room a few minutes later when it became clear order was not likely to restore itself any time soon.  He banged his huge ceremonial wooden staff on the floor to make his point.  The crowd slowly obeyed.

King Jarrad, well used to the ways of his court and fully in control, allowed the noise to subside and still said nothing.  He waited long enough that everyone was fully fixed upon him and then a moment longer.

"Our armies and the brave Knights of the Sun can deal with the attacking Feral and the attention of the Dragon clan samurai who are menacing Eastward," he declared finally.  "At least for a while," he amended glancing at the faces of Duke George and Sir Harken and reading their concerns at their forces' ability to do that for any sustained period.  "We will begin to raise the militia across the kingdom and bolster our standing troops.

"Meanwhile I will send envoys to Lord Nakamura in Sapporo and see if we cannot resolve this eastern issue by diplomacy rather than force.  The Feral will prove harder to stop.  They respect only strength, so strength will be needed to stop them."

"However, if what these three young adventurers have said proves to be true," he continued, looking meaningfully at the Duke and Grandmaster as he said this, "then the real threat is currently in the far northwest of the realm, up in Dragon's Perch.   Since the armies and knights are going to be too busy dealing with the forces summoned by Callindrill, it falls to those who discovered this plot to deal with it. 

"With that then I charge thee, Jaeden of Littlebrook, to travel to the old volcano and deal with the threat you have uncovered.  I cannot force Thia of Sylvandale, nor Chi of Sapporo to follow my command for I consider them not my subjects.  If they are true friends and if they truly believe what you have told me, then I would expect them to go with you and aid in your quest.

"What say you?" he asked Jaeden but his eyes took in all three of them.

Jaeden took a knee in front of his king.  "You have my word, your majesty.  I will stop this threat or die trying.  On my honour."

Thia looked the king in the eye.  "I may not be your subject, your majesty, but you have my word too.  Callindrill is real.  He has come back.  He does mean to destroy Albion and the lands around here.  He is a real threat to everyone, including to my homeland.  And he killed my mentor and friend, Alandriel.  I am going."

Chi simply nodded at the monarch whom he used to call king.  Inside he noted with curiosity that he felt no fealty to a man who should have been his ruler.  But he did feel respect for the king who had noted his choice to claim to be from Sapporo and respect it.

"It is settled then.  The three of you will go out and right the wrongs you have discovered, and by your own words, been party to set in motion.  May the Light guide you and protect you."

*

As the assembled courtiers slowly shuffled out of the throne room, a figure interposed itself in front of Jaeden, whose eyes were downcast.  He automatically assumed it would be the Duke, ready to remonstrate with him about his daughter's death again, and Jaeden began to frame an angry response.  But when he raised his eyes he found himself looking into a face he knew as well as his own, but had not seen in two years - not since his dubbing as a knight.  His father.

"Father," began Jaeden, not sure what else to say.  His father held up a gloved hand and the gesture was enough to stop Jaeden in his tracks.  It was a signal he would use upon the youth when he was growing up.  A signal which simply said, "shut up and listen to me."  Jaeden shut his mouth and looked at the floor.

Jaeden had been dreading this day; had hoped it would never come.  When he had been shamed and stripped of his knighthood the year before, he had not returned to his family home.  He had purposefully left the city as soon as the act was complete and had travelled as far away as possible, as quickly as he could.  He stood, eyes downcast as the two of them waited for all the assembled nobles and courtiers to shuffle out of the throne room. 

Jaeden could not meet his father's eyes, could not bear to see the shame and pain he knew would be there.  But eventually, everyone had moved on, even Thia and Chi, and the two were alone, other than for the ever-present royal guards who stood to attention in the corners of the room, part of the furniture, unmoving and apparently uncaring about the discussions of two nobles.

"Son, look at me," came the command.  It took all of Jaeden's strength and willpower to look up.  He knew to look into those eyes was to admit the failure he had become.  But he had so much love and respect for his father that he would not disappoint him further by failing to meet his gaze when asked.  Jaeden looked up.

He saw pride in the face which beheld him.  His father's eyes were glistening with the tears that his bearing would never allow to fall.  There was no judgment for past failure, there was only pride in the way his son had dealt with the terrible things fate had thrown at him.

"I am proud of you, Jaeden," his father told him, reaching out and taking his shoulders in a firm grip.  "You are a tribute to your family and this house.  You have grown into a man who admits when he is wrong and takes responsibility for his actions.  You put the welfare of others who cannot defend themselves before your own safety.  That is the definition of nobility, regardless of rank or title."

Jaeden could not speak, he simply stood and let the tears fall.  The experiences of the last few years had taught him that there was no shame in crying.

Chapter 33 - Street Rats and Ghostwalkers

Alfred blinked in the mid-morning sun, unsure if he had just seen what he thought he had just seen.  He was looking up at the familiar silhouette of the Green Dragon Inn, in the noble district of the city of Littlebrook and felt certain he had just seen a man-shaped shadow flit across the rooftop and out of sight on the far side. 

Looking up at the roof from the main street meant staring right up at the sun at this time of day.  So he really wasn't sure, but what on earth else could it be other than a person, clad in deep shadowy clothing?  A figure climbing on top of the city's most luxurious inn in shadowy clothing could not bode well at any time.  But with the realm recently thrown into war, and his own terrible experiences in the south, Alfred was on full alert.

Slipping back into habits he had not practised for over a dozen years, Alfred glided into the shadows by the side of the inn.  He moved silently as a mouse alongside the building, his senses pushed out, listening, looking, feeling for any movement around and above him.

There it was.  Just around the corner, he heard the tiniest sound.  He crept forward and lowered himself to the floor.  Peering carefully around he spotted the figure. 

Behind the inn was an alleyway, which connected two areas of housing.  It was not regularly used, but being in this part of the city was still clean and even had lamps which would be lit at night.  Now, during the morning sun, the alley was empty save for a figure which disappeared even as Alfred peeked around the wall.  

The figure had dropped into the sewers just as Alfred had looked around the corner. That would not really have bothered the ex-thief in itself.  The sewers were sometimes known as the Thieves' Byway for they were the route many ne'er-do-wells used to travel around the city without being noticed. But this figure was different from any thief Alfred had ever seen.

It was dressed from head to toe in black and grey.  Its head was swathed in dark bandages, with only a tiny slit open through which two alert eyes had looked.  And it carried a straight, short sword across its back which Alfred knew came from just one source.

The man he had just seen dropping into the sewers underneath the city of Littlebrook was a Ghostwalker: an agent of the Empire of Honshu with whom they were now at war.

*

"What you just described is a Ghostwalker, yes," Chi stated.  "And it is very unlikely there will be just one of them here."

"What are they here for?" asked Jaeden, sitting next to Alfred.  The three of them were in Jaeden's room in a house very nearby to the Green Dragon Inn.  Thia was off in the city, running a few errands.

"It's impossible to tell," responded Chi.  "You were lucky to spot one at all."

"Yes, I doubt anyone else would have noticed the figure slip over the rooftop.  It was using the sun as a shield most effectively.  I just happen to have grown up in a place where keeping alert could save your life, which is why I noticed him I think."

"They could be here for reconnaissance purposes, just checking out the city.  They could be here performing sabotage, looking for ways to weaken the city.  They could be here with an assassination brief.  It could be all three," mused Chi.

"There are some very important people in this city," Jaeden noted.

"You don't say," responded Alfred with a mock shocked expression.

"Well, unfortunately, there is nothing we can do.  We have to head out to the north, as soon as Thia is back," Jaeden told Alfred.  "We'd never get another audience with the king so soon after the last one anyway."

"I have an idea," said Alfred.  "Leave it with me."

"If you do happen to meet one of the Ghostwalkers, give them a message from me," said Chi.  "Tell them all about Caerdic and how he has manipulated everyone, including Lord Nakamura of Sapporo.  Make sure they know the message is from me."

"I shall," responded Alfred.  "If I come face to face with one of them."

And he doesn't kill you first, mused Chi.  "There is something more I can give you, though," added the Ghostwalker.  "There is a weakness in their training that you might be able to exploit."

"Go on," prompted Alfred, listening intently.

*

"Don't mess me about," Alfred demanded seriously.  "I may not look like it now, but I was once one of you.  I grew up across the street from here in the underbelly.  I know how this works.  Now lead me to the one in charge."

The urchin who Alfred had stopped was clearly still unconvinced, so Alfred pulled out a silver sickle.  "Take me to whoever is in charge and this is yours," he told the kid, making the coin dance across his knuckles and then disappear.  The urchin looked wide-eyed at the coin and then his face dropped as the coin disappeared.  Alfred reached behind the boy's ear and pulled the silver sickle out from nowhere.  The boy's face lit up again.

"Now, come on.  Take me to the man who runs this section of town," Alfred asked again.  This time the urchin nodded and scampered off into a nearby alleyway.

The young boy led Alfred around in circles for about half an hour.  If he had not grown up here he would have been utterly disoriented and lost after that time.  As it was Alfred knew exactly where he was the entire trip and was totally aware that they had finished off just in the alley behind the one they had started.

"You wait here," the boy instructed, "I will go and talk to the boss," he announced importantly.  Alfred knew that the street rat would never get anywhere near the boss.  He would speak to one of the older lads who would speak to the day master, who might speak to the boss if he deemed it serious enough.

Alfred leaned up against the wall of the alley and waited.  He knew it would not be a quick process.  So he turned to face a dark and shadowy corner, trying to get his eyes accustomed to the dark, knowing the interior of the thieves' den would be dimly lit.

Sometime later a rough-looking thug opened a different door.  He simply gestured for Alfred to enter the building he'd come out of.  Alfred nodded and moved into the dark entrance.   He blinked a couple of times but his eyes quickly adjusted as his night vision kicked in.

The thug led him along a simple, thin corridor, past numerous doors.  Some of them were open, and some were closed.  Alfred heard the unmistakable sounds of training taking place behind many of the doors.  He was impressed that this gang were so well organized.

A short while later he arrived in a room which was split in half by a big white sheet.  Presumably, the leader of the gang was behind it.  In front was a single stool.  The thug indicated Alfred should sit.

"Who are you and what do you want?" asked a strong voice in the accent of one who grew up on these streets.

"My name is Alfred.  I used to run with the Alley Rats, back in the day."

"You don't look like a street rat," the voice noted.

"No.  My luck turned and I found a way out."

"So, what is it you want with the Scorpion?" the voice asked.

"The Scorpion?" Alfred clarified.  "I thought it was the Scorpions that ran this part of town?"

"We do," the voice replied, "And I'm the boss.  The Scorpion himself."

"Oh," replied Alfred, never having heard that the street gang had a titled leader.  He pondered something.  The voice behind the sheet was familiar, but it had been a long time.  He decided to risk a guess.  "So you're not calling yourself Jake anymore then?"

There was a pause.  "How do you know my name?"

"You used to beat me up when we were kids," Alfred replied.

"Alfred?  The little runt who always used to cross over into our territory?"

"That was me," smiled Alfred 

"That can't be right, you're far too old,"

"I've had a hard life," responded Alfred, trying not to focus on the terrors of the last few weeks.

"Blimey, things have changed.  How did you get so rich?"

"Remember the noble lad who saved me from a beating that time?"

"Yes, I recall," replied Jake, an unimpressed tone to his voice.

"Well, I lifted his coin purse.  And we sort of became friends after you all chased us into the sewers."

"By the Light, I remember that too," replied Jake.  "We never did find you."

Jake signalled to an unseen attendant who dropped the white sheet which split the room in half.  Alfred saw the boy who he used to tussle with, now a grown man sitting in front of him.  He was dressed in fine-looking cotton clothing, cut in the latest merchant fashions.

"You've not done too badly for yourself, either," Alfred noted, seeing the quality of the man's clothes.

Jake nodded.  "I saw how the different gangs were just fighting against each other and how inefficient it all was.  Put some thought into it.  Explained my ideas to a few key people.  Twisted a few arms," at this he ginned.  "Eventually everyone saw that being one big happy family was better for all."

"With you in charge," Alfred grinned.

"Naturally, yes," nodded Jake.  "But enough about that.  What brings you here wanting to speak to the person in charge?"

"Something has just happened in this city.  Something deadly serious.  And something which I believe needs your help to resolve.  I think your men with their access and knowledge are the only force who can stop this threat in their tracks."

"What threat?"

"Ghostwalkers are here in Littlebrook," answered Alfred simply.

The two men talked about the situation for a long time after that.  Jake wanted to know exactly who these people were, having heard only the children's stories about the mystical and legendary assassins from the east.  Alfred told him all that Chi had explained about their powers and abilities, separating fact from fiction.  Jake wanted to know why they were in the city, though Alfred could not fully answer that question.  Finally Jake wanted to know why he and his Scorpions should help.

"Because the Ghostwalkers are definitely here for one thing: to cause disruption.  Whether they come to assassinate someone important or to sabotage the city, the results will be the same: a city that goes into chaos and gets locked down by the authorities.  A lockdown will not help your business in any manner or form," Alfred explained.  "You need things running smoothly and orderly for your operation to function.  You need to know that bribed watchmen will stay bribed and that merchants will continue to make fat purses ready for lifting.  You need routine and predictability to make your coin."

Jake pondered the comments for a moment but then nodded.  "So, what do you need from the Scorpions?"

"You know the roof-tops, the alleyways and the sewers better than any in this city.  You used to control them all.  Now there are Ghostwalkers moving around your highways and byways.  Shut them down.  Stop them from having easy access to the city.  That in itself will make their jobs incredibly hard," Alfred suggested.

"But what about their shadow powers?" Jake asked.  "My men and boys are just that.  We are no heroes with extraordinary powers.  How do we fight that?"

"The Ghostwalkers have one weakness," answered Alfred.  "Their Void-touched powers only work in the darkness or deep shadows.  Light destroys their ability to use their supernatural skills.  Light up the sewers, Jake.  Deny the Ghostwalkers their powers and they are just men like you. 

"And this is your city. Your lads know the rooftops and sewers like no one else.  Set up traps.  Set up misdirections.  Flood the sewers with your men.  There are likely only a handful of Ghostwalkers in the city.  All we need to do is mess up their activities.  Stop them from sowing disruption in the city and we stop them from their goal."

"We?" noted Jake with a questioning expression.

"Yes, we," nodded Alfred.  "I intend to join you."

Chapter 34 - The Feral Attack

The fields burned.

Tor Bladesong took a deep breath and regarded the scene of chaos around him.  The half-orc enjoyed battle, it was a real test of a man's worth.  But this senseless destruction seemed to have no value.  The crops the Feral were destroying would feed them for the whole winter if they just gathered them in.  But instead, they set fire to them, intent on destroying that which others had created.  It was the Feral way he supposed.

Where was the army?  So far today they had encountered only farmers, and Tor found no sense of challenge in pitting his formidable martial prowess against a spotty youth with a pitchfork.  So he remained on the edges of the conflict and watched, detached, as the Feral killed mindlessly. 

His scouts had reported that soldiers in the sky-blue uniform of Thistledelve had been reported only a few miles away.  There were plenty of banners showing the green thistle on the sky-blue background, symbols of Duke George's army.  Enough banners to indicate that perhaps the vast majority of the Duke's men were marching out to engage the Feral. 

Tor thought back to the last time he had seen an army march out of Thistledelve.  He had marched alongside them as they had gone out to fight the clans of Feral who were united under his father, Trant, during the Chaos Wars.  That was some thirty years ago. This time the army was coming to fight against him.

He sighed.  Such was the power of Moktar, it seemed.  He did not relish this fight with the men of Albion but he had no choice.  The ancient rites of Moktar required him to do as the old man had commanded.  At least the soldiers would provide more of a test than these farmers, he mused as he watched a blood-crazed Feral strike down an old, wrinkled man trying desperately to defend his lands from this assault.

Suddenly the sounds of horns split the air.  The fighting stopped as all eyes turned to the south, across the Furrow Hills.  There in the distance, a thin line of blue was rising along a hilltop.  The armies of Thistledelve had arrived.  The Feral cheered as one for they too were clearly anxious to face a more worthy foe.

Tor checked his great two-handed blade with an expert eye and moved off towards the slowly advancing troops.  Ahead of him, the battle-crazed Feral poured across the fields towards this new foe, screaming their battle cries, the poor unworthy farmers just left in the dust behind them.

At least the few remaining old men would be saved, mused Tor as he hefted his blade and began to lope effortlessly along behind the charging horde.

*

Tor cut the horse from under the mounted warrior without a second thought.  He'd never really liked the huge animals.  They were unpredictable and often bad-tempered.  And they made him sneeze.

The warrior rolled and tried to come up to his feet but Tor's greatsword cleaved him in two from shoulder to hip before he'd got further than his knees.  Tor yanked his blade free and looked across the battlefield.  It was utter chaos.  Just how he liked it.

The army of Thistledelve had withstood the initial charge of the Feral with great discipline.  Tor was impressed at the way they had stood their ground and not buckled under the onslaught.  Once the charge had been stopped the true hand-to-hand fighting had begun.

Things started to fragment about that time, as battles tended to do.  The Albioners were organized and had tactics and strategies.  They worked in units and formations.  The Feral had pure aggression and battle-lust, and nothing else.   The Feral were winning.

Then the Albioners brought up their cavalry.  Nearly a hundred strong, the charge had driven a hole in the Feral flank but as the barbarians were so disorganized the charge didn't really disrupt anything.  And once the horses had stopped and the cavalry was in hand-to-hand, their advantage was greatly diminished.  The horse soldiers of Thistledelve were lightly armoured, wearing only leathers, and were armed with light, slashing blades.  They were no match for the power and ferocity of the Feral.

So the Feral were outnumbered, and their opponents were much more organized.  Standards were waved in patterns that informed the signallers what sounds to blow.  Troops moved with control and order.  But still, the Feral cut down the Albioners.

Tor looked about him.  He had travelled these hills with the Fellowship of the Light, thirty years ago during the Chaos Wars.  He knew them well.  He knew that no more than ten miles to the west of here was the hidden entrance to the subterranean dwarven stronghold of Khazagrim.  And he knew that if he looked back over his right shoulder he would see in the far distance the landmark peak that was Dragon's Perch, towering over the nearby mountains of the Jagged Peaks.

These hills were extremely fertile land, where much of the crops that would feed the realm to the south were grown.  Yet today they were covered with the blood and gore of the fallen.  Today the air was full of the screams of the dying and the battle cries of the living.  So much waste.

He shook his head.  He was getting old.  Thirty years ago he almost didn't care who the enemy was.  The Chaos Wars gave him the opportunity to test his blade against some of the most destructive forces ever to have been unleashed on the lands.  The Chaos Wars had made him.  He had revelled in the death and destruction.  Now, all he saw was waste. 

The wasted lives of those killed here who would not wake to see dawn tomorrow.  The wasted food and nutrition that was being trampled underfoot as the battle took place in a huge wheatfield, almost ready for harvesting.  The wasted time and energies of all these people were being spent on destruction, rather than creation.

But Moktar was sacred and the Feral would do as they were commanded.  

Soon it would be over, Tor knew.  The battle was turning and the Feral were winning.  The Albioners were losing shape and that was the only thing currently stopping this from becoming a slaughter.  As soon as they lost their discipline - which Tor knew they soon would - the carnage would begin.  This was one benefit of the independent and disorganized way the Feral fought - they were largely immune to bad tactics and strategies.  They just fought as a mob of individuals.

Then Tor heard a single, clear, clarion call from a high-pitched trumpet, coming from a hilltop behind him.  He knew that sound.  It sent a shiver down his spine.  The last time he had heard it was in these same hills in the Chaos Wars when the fabled Knights of the Sun had taken the field.  

The knights rode powerful, heavy warhorses, designed for battle.  They wore full plate armour with large shields, designed to withstand the attacks of swords and axes.  Even their horses were equipped with barding armour.  And the knights carried lances that could rip through battle lines when deployed at a charge.  Furthermore, the knights fought in perfect order, as one unit.   They were the one weapon that could seriously threaten the Feral.

And now, turning, Tor could see a unit of Knights of the Sun arrayed on the hill behind him.  Twenty of them.  He knew from experience there would be twenty.  And they would be more than the value of hundreds of Feral.

Suddenly things were interesting again.

*

Tor parried the heavy blow from the longsword of the knight and swung sideways, trying to take out the horse, which was his usual tactic.  His blade bounced off heavy barding armour which was unseen under the flapping white surcoat that the horse was wearing. The ringing vibrations through the blade momentarily shook Tor and he almost dropped his sword.  He recovered just in time to get the blade back up again to block the follow-up from the knight.  This opponent was skilled!

Around him, the Feral were being killed by the knights, but the newcomers were so few in number that they were having less of an impact than Tor had at first feared.  Back during the times of the Chaos Wars, there were close to a thousand Knights of the Sun across Albion.  They had made a huge difference in the battle against the hordes of the Demon Prince.  But now their number was closer to one hundred.  So many had died during that conflict and their numbers had never really recovered.

The twenty knights who had ridden into this battle were too few in number to really turn the tide.  But they had equalled things out a lot.

Tor took a different approach and simply shoulder-charged the heavy horse next to him.  He applied the whole of his huge weight and bulk to the action and the horse stumbled in the slick mud.  The knight was clearly not expecting that and he slipped sideways.  He was an accomplished rider and managed to stop himself from falling from the saddle, but then Tor slit the girth strap which held the saddle on and the knight landed face down in the mud and gore.

Tor moved past the horse, ready to finish the knight off but again was impressed.  Even wearing full plate armour and bogged down in what was now heavy mud, the knight was back on his feet, longsword held ready above his head by the time Tor had moved around his horse.

Tor nodded in appreciation at the skill of his foe and raised his own blade in preparation.  Then suddenly, he found himself lying down in the mud as the horse bucked and lashed out with both hooves, knocking the wind out of the half-orc barbarian and dropping him into the dirt.  He scrabbled to his feet quickly before the knight could take advantage and move in.  But it seemed the knight was too chivalrous to do so for he still stood with his blade raised in the ready position.

The knight whistled and the horse moved quickly to his side and slightly behind him.  "I apologize for that," the man's voice echoed through his slitted visor.  "He is trained to defend me and himself," he explained.  "He won't interfere again."

Tor nodded understanding, though slightly disappointed that the knights had not taught their members to be more practical and less chivalrous in recent years.  The man had a lot to learn but would learn it only in death today.

Tor was about to reply when a clear voice came from behind him.  "Stand down, Sir Nathaniel.  This one is mine."  Tor instantly knew the voice though he had not heard it in a decade.

"Yes, Lady Fortuna," the young knight replied, moving to his horse and quickly mounting it.

Tor turned slowly to regard the figure behind him.  Framed perfectly with the afternoon sun directly behind her was a striking figure.  She wore plate armour which had been shaped to show off her figure, yet allowed perfect movement.  She had removed her helmet which was held under her left arm, in the crook of her shield.  In the other was a raised lance, the pennant at the end flying the colours of the Knights order.

Her face was strikingly beautiful as it always had been, but Tor noted how it had aged over the years.  Cares, worries and of course the ceaseless ravages of time itself had added wrinkles and lines to an otherwise flawless visage.  Her hair was a light brown hue and hung in waves down to her shoulders.  The barbarian noted the flecks of grey in places.  But her eyes had not changed.

They were a piercing green, intelligent and observant.  Those eyes could hold a person in their gaze by force of will alone.

Tor faced her full-on and gave her a full bow.  "Milady," he greeted her.  "It's been a while."

"Ten years and more, old friend," she replied kindly, her voice soft, yet carrying over the din of the battlefield.

"And now we meet as opponents," Tor responded, drawing his blade up to the ready position.

"Why?" asked Fortuna, not moving.

"Moktar," Tor answered as if that explained everything.  He knew that Fortuna was versed enough in the ways of the Feral to know the rites.

"Moktar?  But who invoked it?  You?"

"Not me, no.  An old man from the south did.  But that is immaterial.  He won and he bid me take the Feral and invade the Southlands.  So here I am."

"Why would he do that?" Fortuna asked.

"I don't know and at this stage, I don't care," said Tor, growing angry.  He really didn't want the reasons for this crusade to be examined too closely because he knew he didn't agree with them in any way.  "Now, draw your blade and defend yourself!"

Tor stepped forward swinging his huge greatsword.  The blow was designed to miss but he knew that by attacking he would at least force Fortuna to respond and stop talking.

The aged knight dropped her lance, knowing it was useless at close quarters and drew her sword.  She had no time to don her helm so let it fall in the mud.  She squeezed her calves and her horse reared up, front hooves striking out at the half-orc in front of it.  Tor stepped back a half-step and readied himself.

The two warriors who had travelled the length of the country, fighting side-by-side against unimaginable odds in the Chaos Wars, now faced off against each other, each unsure how this would end but each determined that they would not lose. 

There was too much at stake.

Chapter 35 - The Easterners Invade

"Fire!" the command rang out across the lines of crimson-clad samurai arrayed in the darkness.  The long daikyu bows they employed twanged as a swarm of arrows launched into the air with a hum.  The arrows raced across the night sky to thunk against the stone walls of the town they were besieging.  Most struck the walls and crenelations, snapping as they did so.  A few struck the defenders, who fell from the battlements with arrows in their arms, chests and faces.

"Forward!" commanded Tanaka drawing his katana and jogging towards the eastern walls of the town, leading his company forward in the pitch dark.  Around him, the fearsome battle cries of the samurai warriors rang out in the night as they rushed to cover the killing ground.  Few arrows were returned as the soldiers on the walls of Eastward town had not yet reacted to the surprise attack.

The samurai of Sapporo had laid siege to the town of Eastward for over a week now.  They had advanced regularly each day and the death toll had been brutal.  The samurai had no siege engines, no catapults and no ballistae so they relied on pure numbers and the unswerving loyalty of the soldiers to their superiors.  They had brought large ladders with them to scale the walls but the town was protected by a moat, so before the ladders could be employed the easterners had had to fill the waterway.  They had brought up all manner of rocks and rubble, rubbish and waste and thrown it all into the water.   A few days of this had managed to fill most of the moat on the eastern side of the town.  This rubble had then been covered with matting to make for as stable ground as possible.   Many hundreds of samurai had died, cut down by arrows from the battlements, just trying to neutralize one section of the moat, but now the easterners could reach the huge, imposing stone walls that surrounded the town.

"Bring up the ladders!" shouted Tanaka as he began his rush to the walls.  He glanced at the skies, seeing nothing but darkness overhead.  There was a new moon tonight and thick rain clouds covered the sky, blotting out the lights of any stars.  The conditions were terrible for fighting but Tanaka had ordered the attack to take place in the deepest hours of the night.  The goal here was not to take the town but to provide a distraction.   And hundreds more would die due to his order.

"And get that battering ram up there!" ordered Tanaka, pointing to a huge tree trunk that had been brought forward.  It was protected by a framework of bamboo woodwork that stopped stone and arrows from hitting the people who carried it forward towards the great gate in the centre of the wall.

It was unheard of for a besieging army to attack at night.  The defenders already had all the advantages in an assault and total darkness just made the attackers' job even harder.  As such the Albioners only had a token force on guard that night, peering out into the darkness from the security of their walls, warming their hands by braziers, and certain that nothing would happen until the following day.  Once it was clear what was going on the alarm bells began to ring out across the town as the guards on the east wall called for rapid reinforcement.

The plan was working.

*

Ryo watched the two sentries as they stood guard on the battlements, next to a watchtower.  The young Ghostwalker was behind enemy lines and far from the planned night attack happening across the other side of the settlement.  He stood on the tiny bank of the moat in the northwestern corner of the town, looking right up at the men some thirty feet directly above him.  He was dressed in the black and grey garb of his calling and was dripping wet from where he had swum the moat moments before.

"What's happening, Elbert?" Gerald asked the man next to him on the battlements, stifling a yawn.  Dressed in navy tabards with a rampant bear embroidered on them, the two men stood warming themselves by a flaming brazier, drinking mugs of hot carrot soup.  They had been at the east wall all day, throwing rocks and stones down at the easterners as the enemy had been laying out damp matting across the now filled-in moat, and both men were exhausted.

"I'm not sure, but the alarm bells have been rung," answered Elbert as he peered across the rooftops into the darkness of the east.

Gerald jumped as he thought he saw a shadow move next to him but when he blinked and stared closer he could see no one on the battlements with the two recruits. 

Both men were in their early twenties and a month ago had been journeymen in the town.  Gerald was working as a baker and Elbert as a farrier.  When the call had gone out from Duke Edward, the two had signed up to bolster the paid soldiers who were stationed in the barracks.  Rumours of war floated down from the north: the Feral were stirring.  And then the easterners had arrived at the gates.

Gerald moved next to Elbert and looked far into the east across the town, where he could just about make out the line of the wall.  It was impossible to see in the darkness, but the wind shifted slightly from the east and he could hear the unmistakable blood-freezing battle cries of the crimson devils.  The easterners were attacking.

Shocked, Gerald dropped his mug of hot carrot soup at his feet and swore to himself.  "Clumsy idiot," he muttered, stooping to pick it up. 

As he bent over to retrieve his mug he stopped, confused for a moment.  The battlements here had a small pool of water spreading across them. It wasn't raining.  The water carried the slightly stagnant smell of the moat but what would moat water be doing pooling up here on the battlements?

Suddenly Gerald felt a sharp needle of pain in his back and looked down to see a thin, straight blade protruding from his chest, his lifeblood pouring out of the hole it had made.  A soft, warm, gloved hand came over his mouth and his legs buckled.  He was rolled over by sure hands, to look up into the slanted eyes of an easterner, face wrapped in black cloth.  As he rolled over he noticed the prone form of Elbert next to him, lying still on the cold stone, his neck at an unnatural angle. A drip of stagnant moat water dropped from the black-clothed assassin onto Gerald's face and then darkness took him.

Ryo moved the two bodies to the edge of the battlements and gently rolled them over.  They fell twenty or so feet into the street below with a soft thud.  He quickly made his way down the interior staircase to the street and moved to where the bodies were.  Quickly checking again he confirmed that the street was deserted.  He dragged them into a small culvert where wastewater ran out into the moat and hid them.  They would be visible in the cold light of dawn, but he would either be safely away or dead by then so their discovery would not matter.

Hugging the main town wall, he flitted from shadow to shadow, silent as a mouse and indistinguishable from the shadows.  He made his way slowly east, along the northern wall. 

After a while, he heard the sounds of many booted footsteps coming his way and he stopped dead still, pressed up against a buttress which supported the town wall beside him.  He blended perfectly into the deep darkness and steadied his breathing.

Around the corner came a group of men, running east.  They were pulling on bits of armour, strapping on chest plates and settling helmets into place as they ran.  All wore the navy blue tabards of the soldiers of Eastward.  They were running for the east wall, rushing to join the effort to repel the unexpected night attack. 

The distraction was working well.

Within minutes he had reached his destination.  He detached himself from the shadows of the town wall and moved deeper into the town proper.  Moments later he reached a long, straight line of oak trees.  He knew these marked the edge of the palace grounds.  Slipping between them he stopped and took a look at the palace ahead.

*

Tanaka stood under a bamboo shield, being held by two junior samurai.  He surveyed the field. All around him the climbing ladders were being thrust up against the walls and the crimson samurai of the Dragon Province were climbing.  Climbing to their deaths.

The Albioners had rallied now and had a decent fighting force on the battlements.  The first few samurai who had reached the walls had managed to get their ladders up and some had reached the battlements.  But they could not hold the position as streams of navy blue-clad soldiers pushed them back.  All those who had first made the wall were dead.  Tanaka wondered if he should have been with them.  But no, the duty of the Commander was to stay safe and direct the fighting, not to risk himself at the front of the fight.

The Dragon samurai continued to swarm up the ladders, seemingly mindless of the risks.  In fact, it was clear that to climb was to die.  But they had been ordered by the Commander to climb and so they climbed.

Tanaka wondered how long he would need to keep the distraction going.  How long did Ryo need to get the job done?  How many brave samurai would die?

*

The palace of Eastward was more a fortress than an ornate palace.  It was built in the style of an old castle and had an outer wall with crenellated battlements and an internal keep.  From his position under the oaks which marked the edge of the grounds, Ryo studied the options for gaining entry.  There were few.

He closed his eyes and reached his senses out to the Void as he had been taught by the strange old man of Albion, Caerdic.  Opening a tiny rift he sought out and drew back from the Void deeper shadows and an absence of sound.  These he proceeded to wrap around himself, making him virtually invisible and perfectly silent in the dark night.  He moved out across the manicured lawns towards the keep and no one saw his passing.

Moments later he was at the foot of the walls, hidden in deep shadows next to the entry gate.  The gate would normally have been open but he was not surprised to find the portcullis dropped and two fully armed and ready guards stood behind it, their hands on the hilts of their broad swords.

Ryo edged slowly forward, hugging the cold stone wall until he was right next to the entrance.  He kneeled down and peered around the corner.  The guards had no idea he was there.  Looking past them Ryo stared deep into the shadows of the wall of the main keep.  His Void-touched sight allowed him to see into the darkness almost as if it were a dim day, rather than the pitch black of a cloudy, moonless night.

Picking out a spot, Ryo once again reached into the Void.  This time he opened a small rift just big enough for him to channel energy through.  He concentrated on a position deep in the shadows next to the keep and softly uttered a Word of Power.  The next thing he knew he felt his whole body being sucked into the Void and when he blinked he was standing in the shadows of the keep itself.  Within the blink of an eye, he had shadow-stepped the sixty paces from the gate to the keep, right through the portcullis, across the open courtyard and past the guards.  They were still totally unaware of his presence.

Ryo took a moment to breathe.  Though he had used this strange power a few times before it still startled him and left him feeling somehow slightly stretched and unbalanced. 

After a few moments, he moved off to an arrow slit in the keep wall nearby.  If an archer chose to stand behind it, on the inside of the keep, they would be granted a full field of view across the whole courtyard.  The slit provided near total cover to any archer behind it from anyone in the courtyard. It was merely a small slit in the wall, too small for a person to fit through.   But Ryo didn't need to physically fit through.  

Moments later the young Ghostwalker was inside the keep and moving stealthily up the staircase in the direction of the Royal bed chambers and the sleeping place of Duke Edward, a member of the Royal family and cousin to the king.

*

Tanaka watched as the cauldron of the burning pitch was tipped from the battlements down onto the battering ram at the main gates.  The ram was partially protected by a framework of bamboo but was designed to keep out stones and arrows.  The whole structure collapsed and the terrible fire fell through onto the brave men who manned the ram.

Men screamed as the pitch stuck to their skins and burned them alive.  Some ran, trying to get to the moat to throw themselves in, but the samurai warriors had spent the last days filling in this section of the moat.  None of them made it as far as the water-filled section before they collapsed on the floor and their terrible screams slowly died.

The night sky was lit up a brilliant orange and the sounds of the men of Albion cheering from the battlements slowly overtook and drowned out the screams of the dying men.  Tanaka shook his head, wondering how men could cheer at such a spectacle. 

 War was brutal and the samurai were nothing if not warriors.  They lived by a strict but simple code: 

Justice. Courage. Kindness. Politeness. Honesty. Honour.  Loyalty. 

The samurai would live and die for the masters to whom they had sworn fealty.  They would never question them.  They would rather die than lose honour.  It made them the perfect fighting force.  But Tanaka could not help but feel huge remorse.  These men were dying because of his orders.  Orders he knew would lead many to their deaths.  Orders he had to give because he had been ordered to see the Duke of this town killed.  And the code meant he was honour bound to follow that order.  

Tanaka called to the signaller who stood nearby.  "Signal the withdrawal," he told the man.  The samurai didn't question the order but instantly pulled a curled horn from his belt and blew out a long deep call, followed by three short blasts.   This he repeated three times.  The call was repeated by signallers scattered around the battlefield.  As soon as it was heard the crimson-clad samurai of the Dragon Province began an orderly and controlled retreat.  These were disciplined men and they would not flee the battlefield.  Their Commander had ordered a withdrawal so they followed their orders immediately and without comment.

 Tanaka had given Ryo a distraction.  A huge distraction.  Enough men had died.  The Ghostwalker was on his own now.

*

Ryo gently pushed open the solid oak door and slipped into the silent room beyond. 

The floor was laid of smooth, polished wooden floorboards.  The walls were dark mahogany panels.  A single lamp glowed dimly in a corner of the room, throwing a tiny bit of light into the chamber.  Various items of furniture were placed around the room: a few comfortable chairs, a writing desk, a full-length mirror and a dressing table.  Ryo ignored them all and moved quickly and quietly to the bedside.

Laying asleep in the four-poster bed was a man.  Perhaps forty years of age the man had a tanned but smooth face.  A strong jawline spoke of years of combat training and keeping fit.  He had short, well-cropped dark hair and a matching goatee that had flecks of grey in it. Ryo knew the man to be Duke Edward, his target.

As Ryo approached the bed the duke awoke.  Ryo did not believe he had made a sound but for whatever reason, the man was now awake.  Piercing blue eyes stared into his and Ryo stopped short, a pace from the bed.  The Ghostwalker had his hand on the hilt of his short blade but had yet to draw it.

Incongruously the duke smiled at his assassin and Ryo was struck for a moment at the resemblance this man had to his childhood friend, Chi.  Chi was from this land, somewhere to the north of here, Ryo knew.  The two of them had grown as close as brothers during their time training in the Ghostwalker school under Ryo's father Sensei Akihiro. 

Other than Chi and the ageing mystic Caerdic, Ryo had never really seen a man of Albion this close up before.  He studied the ice-blue, rounded eyes, very different to those of the people of his homeland.  The complexion was strange, the face tanned more from exposure to the sun than any inherited trait.

Ryo saw many similarities between this man and his sword-brother Chi.  For the briefest moment, he wondered what he would have done had the order been to assassinate Chi, rather than this total stranger.  What had this man done to earn this fate?  Was it not the Dragons who had instigated this attack at the behest of the daimyo, Lord Nakamura?  Was this man truly the enemy?  And why?

Ryo blinked, brought his focus back to the present and expertly drove the point of his short blade through the heart of the man in the bed before him.

Duke Edward's eyes widened as the blade slipped in, his strong arm flashing out to grab Ryo's wrist, stopping the young Ghostwalker from moving away.  The dying man did not cry out, he simply stared into Ryo's eyes, forcing the young man to watch the life fade from his eyes as blood trickled out of his mouth.

Finally, as the duke slumped back onto his pillows, Ryo pulled the sword clear.  He wiped it clean on the bed linen and returned it to its scabbard.  Moving to the window he looked out over a deserted and shadowy corner of the battlements.  Focusing his mind on that location he prepared to shadow-step away.

But all he could picture was the face of the duke, staring intently into his.  The face asked a simple question that Ryo could not answer.

Why?

*

The lantern light flickered and started to go out.  Tanaka moved over to it and replaced the tallow candle which stood in it with a fresh one.  Though the hour was late, he knew he would not sleep this night.

He returned to the low table that was placed in the centre of the tent and knelt down on the soft cushion on one side of it.  Reaching out with his left hand he carefully pulled the long, right-hand sleeve of his kimono aside and picked up the small ceramic flask which was sitting in a bowl of boiled water in the middle of the table.  He moved the flask over to the little matching cup across on the other side of the table and poured a generous measure of sake for his visitor.  The rice wine was at the perfect temperature.  Blood temperature.  Placing the flask back into the bowl of hot water, he knelt back on his heels and placed his hands on his thighs.

Ryo, kneeling opposite, then repeated the ritual, pouring an equal-sized measure into Tanaka's cup.  The two picked up their cups, nodded to each other, raised them for a moment and then swiftly drank them down.  In unison, they replaced the cups on the table.

"You have my congratulations, Ryo.  The mission was executed to perfection.  Just as our Lord Nakamura had requested."

"My thanks, Tanaka-sama," replied Ryo, giving the Commander a senior honorific.

"Not only will Lord Nakamura be pleased that his instructions have been executed so well, I am certain that your father will be proud of you.  You have done the Ghostwalker tradition proud with your actions this night."

Ryo initiated another round of sake, reaching out and filling his uncle's cup once more.  Tanaka reciprocated and once the two had downed their cups Ryo spoke.  "Are you sure?" he asked vaguely.

"What do you mean, my nephew?"

"Are you sure we have done right, uncle?  I killed an unarmed, defenceless man tonight.  In his bed.  What honour have I brought our clan this day?"

"Be careful what you say," warned Tanaka, instinctively lowering his voice.  "We do as we are instructed," he said.  "It is not our place to question why."

"But do you not ever wonder what this is all about, uncle?" asked the young assassin, his voice also lowered.  "I have done my duty, but I simply cannot understand the purpose behind our actions."

Tanaka cut off any more conversation by pouring Ryo another sake and broke protocol by pouring one for himself too.

"Tonight you ordered many brave men to their deaths," Ryo continued quietly after they had drained their next cup.  "All so that I could kill one man in his bed.  It is madness, uncle.  I just cannot fathom it."

Tanaka stared long and hard at his nephew and then simply nodded.  "Neither can I, young Ryo.  Neither can I."

Chapter 36 - The Battle of Littlebrook

"Pull back!"

The shouted command echoed down the shadowy sewer tunnel, and Jake hoped it would reach most of his men.  The Scorpions were not skirmishers and fighters, they were alley rats and urchins.  They were facing well-trained, Void-touched devils from the east who knew how to bend the darkness to their will.  The Scorpions had numbers on their side.  They were on home ground.  They knew these tunnels better than any. 

And still, the encounter was going against them.

"Pull back!" he shouted again, before ducking into a side tunnel and running down the mucky, stench-filled passage toward an escape ladder.  His torch spluttered in his hands, nearly burnt out after the hour he had been down here.  Had it really been that long?

Reaching the bottom of the sewer intersection he found a half-dozen or so street rats already gathered around the ladder, preparing to climb out.  They looked scared and exhausted: an exact mirror of his own feelings.  He was determined not to let that show and blanked his face.  He had to show courage to these poor men and boys.

"Get climbing lads," he urged.  "Time to get back to the surface.  We gave them a good bloody nose!" he smiled grimly, though he didn't really believe his own words.  A glance at Samuel, one of the older lads nearby, told him none of the others believed them either.

It was time to regroup, above ground.  Time to take stock and plan afresh.  Their current strategy was clearly not working.  He had to speak to Alfred.

*

"We need an angle, Alfred," Jake began.  "We can't match them in the sewers.  I know you said we need to fill the tunnels with light, but our torches just seem to throw shadows and shade, which appears to be just the environment these Ghostwalkers thrive in.  We need to reconsider."

"I was beginning to think the same," agreed Alfred, scratching at his grey stubble.  "Chi told me that light takes away their advantage, but actually our lights are not strong enough.  We can't stop them in the sewers with torches."

The Battle of Littlebrook had been raging for nearly two weeks now, and hardly anyone in the city was even aware it was occurring.  Virtually the entire thing was happening beneath their feet, in the sewers and tunnels below the city.  The few encounters that did not happen there, took place on the rooftops of the city above.  And in the middle, the city continued, blissfully unaware that daily skirmishes were taking place for control of the city's less pleasant highways and byways.

A score of Ghostwalkers from the Dragon Province had descended upon the city, their goal still unknown.  Just over a hundred Scorpions had faced them, and the street gangs were well overmatched.  The Ghostwalkers were deadly assassins, the most skilled also having shadowy Void powers at their disposal.  The Scorpions were thieves and ne're-do-wells, vagabonds, and burglars.  Any direct encounters were extremely one-sided and not in the Scorpions' favour.

"I have an idea," said Alfred thoughtfully, "but I am really not sure if I can pull it off."

"What is it?"

"You know the Royal Sewers?" asked Alfred.

"What, the sewer system which takes all the royal crap away from their highnesses and dumps it down below with the rest of ours?  What of them?" asked the Scorpion leader.

"Well, if the rumours are true, those sewers are lit with magical lamps provided by the Church of the Light, right?"

"If what they say is true, yes, so?"

"I'm thinking if we can lure the Ghostwalkers into those tunnels, we really can remove their advantage.  Then our numbers will tell."

"Okay, it makes sense.  But the Royal Sewers are sealed off from the main sewers.  They are manned by royal staff.  There is no way into them that any of us have ever managed to find out.  How do we get access?"

"I'm going to ask the Queen," said Alfred.

*

"If you had come here asking this request a year ago, I would have laughed into my kerchief," the queen smiled over her porcelain coffee mug.  "But these days are different, very different," she continued.  "Mystical assassins in the sewers of the city," she mused.  "And now, you say that bringing them into the tunnels beneath the palace is the way to defeat them?"

"Yes, ma'am," Alfred bowed his head, trying to keep his clammy hands steady.

They sat in one of the many drawing rooms of the Royal Palace, surrounded by more wealth than Alfred had seen in his lifetime.  Both were perched on comfortable armchairs, patterned in a floral design that made Alfred's vision swim.  A low mahogany table was placed between them and a steaming pot of coffee rested on a perfectly white, smooth linen doily.  Alfred's full mug of coffee rested on the table next to the pot, untouched.  Behind him, silent and unmoving was one of the ubiquitous royal guards, ready to pounce at a moment's notice, should the man do anything which might be deemed to be a threat to the queen.

Alfred had been near this room before - once he had waited in the corridor outside here as his master, Caerdic the coffee purveyor, talked over the latest beans with the queen.  But he had never met her directly and was feeling quite distressed.  Only the thought of the young urchins who were depending on this conversation kept him from getting up and running away.

"What if their target in the city is someone in this very palace?" she asked him suddenly.  "My husband, the king, for example?"

"I understand the risks, ma'am, I do.  But we simply have no other options available to us.  Master Chi tells us that only light can defeat their powers and in the shadows of the sewers, our torches only seem to help these easterners, not hamper them."

"Ah, Master Chi was once one of them, was he not?" she asked.

"You are well informed, your majesty."

Queen Rachel of Albion took a long sip from her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair.  Her eyes moved past Alfred to look out of the northwest windows of the room, in the direction of the Cathedral of the Light, deep in thought.

"Excellent coffee, this," she commented at last.  "A bean from the Upper Kingdom of Khemit, according to your old master, the coffee purveyor.  Very strange to think he is actually a thousand-year-old wizard returned to life," she continued to herself, shaking her head slightly.

She paused and then shook her head again as if to clear a long and distracting train of thought.

"I will not allow you access to the Royal Sewers," she told Alfred finally, putting her empty mug down next to his.  "It is simply too dangerous for my family.  We don't know why these men are here, but letting them under the palace is not wise in any way."

Alfred felt his last chance slip away.  He would have to tell Jake the fight was over.  He would not be responsible for the deaths of the street urchins and alley rats who currently fought the Ghostwalkers beneath the city, so he would suggest they disengage with the easterners and leave the sewers to the enemy.  He had failed.

Part of him wanted to rage at the queen.  Part of him wanted to tell her that without her help the city would now be undefended.  Part of him wanted to scream that without him and the lowest classes of the city, the Ghostwalkers might already have achieved whatever nefarious goal they had come here for.  Instead, he slumped back into this chair, deflated.  

"But you will not leave here without my help," the queen continued. Alfred looked up, his hope rekindled.  "You are right that the tunnels beneath the palace are lit up.  Magically so in fact.  Many years ago the priests of the Church here somehow created small glass balls which contained tiny fragments of the Light.  I have no idea how they did it, but those light globes are what light the Royal Sewers."

"So, I will not allow you and your fellows access to the tunnels that are magically lit.  Instead, we will remove the magical lights from the Royal Sewers and give them over to you.  Each light globe is only the size of a thumbnail, but it gives out huge amounts of light, as much as to make you think it was high noon on Midsummer's Day.  Perhaps with those you can turn the tide of the battle against these Ghostwalkers?"

*

"How is that possible?" Akihiro asked one of his men.

"I do not pretend to understand it, Sensei," the Ghostwalker replied, bowing deferentially to his master.  "But the light was blinding.  Even with my eyes closed it affected my vision.  And worst still, it was impossible to open a rift to the Void and summon the shadow I needed to escape.  If it had not been for the fact these gaijin are untrained boys I am not sure I would have gotten out.  As it was I struggled my way back here, head spinning from the light."

Akihiro had brought his men back to their temporary base to regroup.  It was a cellar under a big inn called the Green Dragon and served as the short-term operational centre for the group.  One concealed door led out into the sewers from here and a wooden staircase led up into the inn.

His men had easily captured the wife of the owner of the establishment and were holding her to ransom to ensure the cooperation of the landlord.  For now, the plan was working and Akihiro knew he didn't need to remain here too long.  It was against the Ghostwalker principles to kill unnecessarily, and he hoped and expected the lady to be released unharmed soon enough.  As long as her husband continued to behave. 

He glanced over to the corner of the cellar to where she was sitting on the floor, her arms and legs tied, her mouth gagged.  She was huddled in between some beer barrels and crates of wine.  She looked terrified.  Of course, she would be.  She would assume she would be killed soon.  But that was not the Way of the Ghost.

"We need to find the way into the under-palace," Akihiro reminded his men.  "Where are we on that front?"

"We have mapped all the sewers, Akihiro-sama," replied Tomiko softly.  One of the senior Ghostwalkers under his command, she was gentle and slow in voice and manner, but swift and deadly when the need arose.  The contrast was striking.  "There is a definite rectangle area where no tunnels lead, and our calculations indicate this fits precisely under the palace grounds."

"That would make sense.  But how do we get in?" he asked.

"I begin to suspect that the two are not linked, Sensei," she replied.

Suddenly Akihiro's hand shot up in warning.  His fingers made the quiet sign in the silent hand language of the Ghostalkers and instantly everyone around him stopped, holding perfectly still.  In the now near-perfect silence, a tiny splash could just be heard, filtering through the concealed door from the sewers.  Someone was in the tunnel outside.  

Prepare! Akihiro's fingers commanded silently, and the men and women around him moved slowly to their pre-allotted positions.  If whoever was outside decided to enter this cellar they would be met with the full force of the Ghostwalker contingent.

*

Alfred put his long, dextrous index finger to his lips as the young street rat accidentally dragged a grimy foot through the edge of the sludge running down the centre of the sewer tunnel.  The noise was tiny but Alfred suspected the easterners were supernaturally perceptive.  He would prefer absolute silence for his plan to work.

"You're certain he came this way?" he whispered almost imperceptively into the boy's ear.  "Do not speak, just nod or shake your head," he continued quickly as the boy opened his mouth, about to reply.  The boy shut his mouth and nodded.

"And he went through that wall?" Alfred whispered again, indicating the concealed entrance which led to the Green Dragon cellar.  Again the boy nodded soundlessly.

Alfred put his thumb up to the boy, smiling his pleasure.  "Now, time for you to get safely away, George.  Return to the lads.  Great job," Alfred praised him almost soundlessly.  Thankfully, George softly padded off into the darkness, a spluttering candle in his hand, showing him the way. 

Alfred stood alone, silently, in the utter darkness for a long while, allowing his eyes to adjust so he could find the opening mechanism, and trying to build up the courage for what he was about to do.  He knew it was suicidal, but he could see no other way.  He just hoped Master Chi was right.

Not allowing himself any more time to consider the craziness of his plan, he reached out and pulled on a section of the wall opposite.  Putting his shoulder onto the masonry nearby he shunted energetically once.  The section of the wall that Alfred was pushing on swung open with a loud creak.  The wine cellar of the Green Dragon lay beyond.

Instantly Alfred opened his palm and sunlight burst forth.  Almost sent reeling from the change of light, Alfred called out the words Chi had taught him.  "Yame, Akihiro-sama!  Chi-san!"  He stepped into the room and hoped he would not die.

*

Akihiro had never experienced anything so painful in his life.  He had suffered numerous injuries and countless dislocations in his life but the searing agony brought on by the stab of sunlight bursting into the cellar was almost enough to render him senseless.

Only the words called out in terrible Honshu, with a thick and almost unrecognisable accent, cut through the pain.  Stop Akihiro! Chi!  

"Hold!" the Ghostwalker master called out to his group, hoping to stop them from killing whoever had just stepped into the cellar.  Fortunately, his group were either supremely well-trained or was still reeling from the light too much to do anything about the new arrival.

Recovering more quickly than everyone around him, Akihiro moved smoothly forward, still utterly blind, and grabbed the body ahead.  The man smelt like a barbarian and was the wrong size and shape to be Chi, so Akihiro put him into a swift lock, rending him utterly immobile.  He pulled the man into the cellar and commanded his men to shut and block the concealed door in case others followed.

Once the man was restrained, the door secured and the terrible light had been taken from the man's hand and covered up, Akihiro began to relax.  It seemed from the lack of follow-up at the door that the man had come alone.

"Who are you and why do you come here?" Akihiro asked directly in the course language of the barbarians.

"I am Alfred, a friend of Chi, your student.  He bid me send you a message," responded the barbarian in his own tongue.

"Go on," commanded Akihiro.

"Chi says that you have been cheated.  The old man, the advisor, Caerdic, is a sorcerer and has put Lord Nakamura under a great spell.  It is Caerdic who has engineered this war, not the will of the great samurai lord.  Chi bids you return home to Sapporo and save your honour.  He says that there is no honour in following the orders of a gaijin trickster."

Akihiro took a step back.  He closed his eyes and sent his mind back into the past, recalling every occasion he had seen Caerdic, remembering the events and actions.  Akihiro had an exceptional mind and had spent decades training it to recall facts and figures.  As he played things back in his head, looking at events with this possibility in mind, it rapidly became clear to him that this was certainly a possibility.   And if it was true, this man was right, there was no honour in being used as a tool for a trickster gaijin sorcerer.

Besides, Akihiro mused, these demon light-balls have changed the rules of engagement.  All our advantages have now been removed.  One of the key rules of the Ghostwalker was to know when it was time to abandon the mission.  It seemed that the time was now.

Akihiro physically moved the barbarian next to the other hostage they had and kicked him to the floor.  The man dropped painfully to the stone-flagged ground next to the woman with a grunt of discomfort.

"Tie him up, same as her," he ordered Tomiko and she instantly obeyed.

"What now?" she asked him, "What did he say?", as Akihiro was the only one in the group who could speak the barbarian tongue, fluently.  Tomiko thought she had followed the conversation, thought she had heard the words Caerdic, and sorcerer.  Something about betrayal or trickery perhaps?

"Now," replied Akihiro, cutting through her thoughts, "we pack up and go home."

"And these two?" she asked him, indicating the woman and Alfred trussed up together in the corner

Akihiro thought for a moment.  They had seen too much.  They knew too much.  The man especially was a threat to their group.

"Kill them," he said emotionlessly.

"Hai, Akihiro-sama," responded Tomiko, drawing her short, straight-edged blade.  Two swift strikes later and the two hostages were dead, their lifeblood seeping out onto the cellar floor.

Akihiro took one last look at them, saddened that it had come to this.  It's the nature of war, he reminded himself.  And now he had to return to Sapporo. Lord Nakamura had brought great shame onto the Dragon clan and the fief of Sapporo.  He might be samurai, and one of the elite at that, but no one escaped the rules of honour.

He had to pay.

Chapter 37 - Personal Honour

The two champions stood in the mud and faced each other resolutely. 

One had a huge two-handed greatsword in his strong, powerful hands, the blade held high above his head in the ready pose.  His dress, visage and countenance marked him as Feral.  His stance, easy breathing and calmness marked him as highly trained in the martial arts.  His heritage, part orc, marked him as Tor Bladesong.

Across from him stood a beautiful woman, clad from head to toe in silver plate armour.  Her tabard was white with a yellow sunburst.  The same symbol emblazoned her shield.  Both were flecked with dirt and blood.  Long, blonde hair streamed past her shoulders, touched with grey in places.  Her piercing eyes bore into her opponent.  Lady Fortuna, Countess of the Black Swamp, stood with the tip of her longsword down.  She, too, appeared calm, but her eyes showed sorrow and regret.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Tor," the countess began. "How many times have we stood together to fight the common enemy?  Why should we be at odds now?"

Tor didn't drop his guard or change his grip, but his eyes grew slightly less determined as the knight's words began to drain his resolve.  "Many times, milady," the half-orc grunted.  "But things are different now, Moktar has been called.  The Feral must answer the call.  It's our birthright.  I could no more ignore the call than you could denounce the Light," he told her.  The countess nodded solemnly in understanding. 

Around the two opponents, a crowd was slowly building.  Soldiers from Thistledelve stood with Knights of the Sun.  Across from them, behind their leader, stood a growing crowd of Feral.  In this part of the battlefield, hostilities had ceased as the armies came to regard this face-off of their leaders.

Fortuna took note of the calming battle in the area and made an offer to her long-time friend.  "Perhaps, if we cannot resolve this with words, we can with a duel?  Single-combat, you against me, to represent our factions.  You for the hordes of the mountains, me for the armies of the south."

Tor cricked his neck side to side to loosen up an old muscle and considered.  "What happens after the fight?" he asked simply.

Fortuna pondered.  "If I win, you take your men and return north to your mountain homes.  You agree never to raid the kingdom again."

Tor nodded, that was reasonable.  "And, instead, when I win?" he asked with a toothy grin.

Fortuna paused.  She wondered what was in her power to grant and what Tor would accept.  She was not formally in command here.  Whichever lord the Duke of Thistledelve had sent into the field would have that position.  But, he was nowhere to be seen right now.  She was the highest-ranked person in sight and leader of this contingent of the Knights of the Sun.  She was also a personal friend of the king and the head of the famous Fellowship of the Sun.  So she had a lot of political power and her offer would likely be supported by the kingdom.

The ironic thing was that Tor was a member of that same Fellowship who had saved the kingdom all that time ago.  He was one of the reasons the kingdom still stood.  As such, Tor also understood all of Fortuna's political power and the limits of her scope.

"You know I cannot offer you too much, old friend," she told him.  He nodded almost imperceptively.   "So, I offer you the Black Swamp and all my lands, including my castle and the fertile fields which surround it."  It was not a huge offer, but Tor knew it was everything she had to give.  "With ownership of that land, you could change history for the Feral," she pointed out.  "You could move most of your people down out of the inhospitable mountains and onto the edge of the fertile Furrow Hills.  Life could change for the better for your wives and children.  And of course, you could live in a castle like a knight," she smiled.

Tor had always wanted to be a Knight of the Sun.  It was how they had first met when the young half-orc from the north had come south trying to become a squire.  But the archaic and unfair rules of the knights had forbidden one of the Feral, and one of mixed orc blood from joining them.  So Tor had pledged himself to fight alongside Fortuna, then newly knighted, and show the Knights of the Sun what they had missed out on by refusing him membership.  The two had been sword companions from then until the end of the terrible Chaos Wars.

Tor nodded in agreement.  He knew that the Feral would gain much more than this if they were allowed to run rampant across the north of the kingdom, and it was possible the men under his command would be unhappy with this compromise.   But the powers of Moktar were to invade and that he had done.  He was growing old and tired, and the idea of sitting inside a warm castle over the coming winter with a roaring fire and roasted venison in his belly was appealing.  "It is agreed," he said loud enough for all those gathered around to hear.

Fortuna tried one more gambit, fairly sure it wouldn't work, but knowing she had to at least try.  "To first blood," she offered.  "The first to draw blood wins, and no one else needs to die this day."  Least of all one of us two, old friend, she thought, her eyes silently pleading with the barbarian.

Sadly Tor shook his head.  He knew this was a step too far.  He felt he could persuade the Feral if he ended this with personal combat.  After all, personal challenges of strength were a constant in the north.  But the Feral demanded them to be to the death.  No Feral would consider Moktar complete over a duel to first blood. 

"No, milady," he replied clearly.  "Today, you die at the hands of High Chieftain Tor Bladesong, and the Feral take your lands.  Only this way can the rites of Moktar be appeased!"  A huge roar went up from the barbarians arrayed behind him.

Lady Fortuna bowed sadly to her old friend and turned to Sir Nathaniel who was standing nearby.  "My helmet please," she politely requested, and the young knight ran forward, her great helm in hand.  She took it from him and, quickly tying her long hair up behind her, she pulled the helm down over her head, hiding her features so no one could see the immense pain in her eyes.  She knew Tor would fight to the best of his ability, and for her to survive this and save the north of her kingdom, she would have to kill one of her oldest and dearest friends. 

If he didn't kill her first.

*

"She's not taking advantage of his bad leg," Nathaniel observed.  "She must know about it, but she's not using it."

Alena nodded in agreement as she sat her small grey, keeping the animal calm with reassuring but light contact through her calves.  

"Why not?" asked Nataniel, truly confused.

"Honour," she replied simply.  "She will not take advantage of his weakness to defeat him.  She will try and beat him by pure skill alone."

"She'll lose," the other knight replied simply.  "He's too powerful if she doesn't use every benefit she can get."

"We shall see," Alena replied.  "Not all fights are won by the bigger, stronger brute," she reminded him, smiling.  Many times she had bested Nathaniel when they were squires, using her greater speed and agility to defeat his superior size.  Though Nathaniel certainly won most, occasionally she would surprise him.  "We shall see."

The fight was approaching its climax, as everyone who watched could see.  Fortuna was the more skilful of the two, though not by much distance.  Tor was the stronger by far.  As both tired, his strength was becoming more and more telling.  The countess was struggling to get her shield up to block the powerful blows the half-orc was landing on her.  It was only a matter of time before one slipped past her defences.

The ground beneath their feet was thick with heavy mud now.  Fortuna's light feet and more agile movement were getting more and more impaired as the quagmire deepened.  Her arms were tiring and her reflexes slowed.  Tor was also tiring but his fighting style was more direct, requiring less footwork.

Eventually, it happened.  Tor swung two blows in quick succession.  Fortuna parried the first with her shield but could only bring her longsword up to attempt to stop the second.  Her strength was no match for the huge half-orc.  His blade crashed through her defences and down onto her helm which crumped inwards under the blow.  Fortuna collapsed backwards and fell onto her back in the mud.

Tor moved in swiftly and kicked her sword out of her grasp, disarming her.  He stood over her, his huge blade held in two hands above his head, ready to strike down.

"I yield," called Countess Fortuna, raising her hands in surrender.  "You are the victor, Tor."

Tor lowered his blade down to his side but still stood over her, making no move to let her rise.

"Kill her!" came a shout from behind him and the call was repeated.  "The fight is to the death!  It is our way!"  Tor frowned but slowly raised the blade again.

Behind the countess some of the Knights of the Sun dropped their visors, and lowered their lances, preparing a charge to defend their fallen leader.

"Hold!" called out Lady Fortuna, her authoritarian voice carrying across the battlefield and over the shouts of the Feral.  All quietened around the two warriors.  "You have won this fight fairly, High Chieftain," she told Tor.  "Swear to me that you and your men will stop raiding the kingdom, and you may take my lands and castle, and kill me now to seal the agreement," she told him, her voice somehow staying steady.

"No!" came a new voice as a man stepped forward from the side.  He was not a Knight of the Sun but was dressed in chainmail.  He did not wear a soldier's uniform.   

Tor instantly recognised him as the man who had defeated him in single combat on Midsummer's Eve. "What have you to say, Jaeden of Littlebrook?" he asked.  All eyes turned to the newcomer.

"High Chieftain Tor Bladesong, you wage this war on the Kingdom of Albion after Moktar was invoked.  But I am here to tell you that Moktar was invalid!"  A stir went up around the Feral as the soldiers of Thistledelve looked on nervously. No one was sure how this would play out.

"A sorcerer, an evil and vile man, once known as Caerdic, also known as Callindrill, influenced the events on Midsummer's Eve using his foul magics.  The reasons for this war are false!"

Tor narrowed his eyes and looked at Jaeden carefully.  "Explain," he demanded. 

Jaeden went on to describe how Caerdic had used subtle magic to influence the circumstances of the Midsummer moot and the sequence of events which had led to the declaration of Moktar.  He explained that Caerdic was in fact the ancient Callindrill.  As they listened the Feral grew increasingly angry that their holy rites had been influenced by an outsider.

"Enough!" Tor finally commanded loudly.  "I have heard enough.  I formally declare this Moktar null and void."  He reached down and grabbed Fortuna's forearm pulling her up out of the mud.

"Men of the north!" he called out to the horde assembled.  "Return north to your homes.  Our cause here has been a dishonourable one.  We must tarry no longer in the soft south but return to the harsh mountains where we belong.  These Southlands will make us weak!  Go home where we will stay strong!" 

There was no cheer, but at his command, the Feral disbanded.  They began to head off across the fields northwards in small groups.  They skirted the scattered armies of Thistledelve and gave the few pockets of mounted knights a wide berth.

Within days the Feral had left the northlands and would not return for many years.

*

"Why did you not use my bad leg against me, milady?"  Tor asked Fortuna as they sat around the campfire later that evening.  "You know you could have made things considerably harder for me if you had."

"It would not have been honest, Tor," Fortuna replied as she sipped on a glass of red wine her squire had poured.  She was dressed now in a light chain shirt and leather greaves, her plate armour discarded and being dutifully cleaned and polished by her aids.  Her helmet had needed to be sent off to a local forge to be remade.

Tor was running a whetstone down the long blade of his greatsword, preferring to take care of his equipment himself.  He shook his head and smiled.  "Honest?  It might have given you a chance," he laughed.  "In battle, you should always fight to win.  Take every option available to you," he told her.  "You gave up an advantage and it led to your failure."

"On the contrary," Fortuna replied, conscious that her squire and some of her senior knights were listening to the discussion.  "If I had cheated, that would have been a failure.  As it was, I stayed true to myself and the honour of the Knights of the Sun, even in defeat.  It would have been the easy option to use my knowledge of your bad leg against you.  But taking the easy option is the first step along the road to ruin.  Life is not easy, and to pretend it is, does not prepare you for the biggest test of all: death.  At least this way I was prepared to go to my death, knowing my honour and dignity were intact."

Tor shook his head.  In the thirty or so years he had known Fortuna, he had never understood this mentality.  But that was why she was a leader of the Knights of the Sun and why he led a band of chaotic and blood-thirsty Feral.

"But enough talk about our fight," Fortuna said, changing the subject.  "I want to know what young Jaeden and his friends here are planning," she finished, looking across the fire at Jaeden, Chi and Thia.

Jaeden took a bite from the chicken leg he was holding and replied.  "We plan to go to Dragon's Perch," he answered, looking up at the night sky where the faint silhouette of the huge extinct volcano could just be made out in the moonlight. 

"Callindrill is heading there to try and raise the bones of Ashardalon in a ritual to create a dracolich," Thia explained.  "We are aiming to stop him."

"So you are going to try and defeat the greatest wizard this kingdom has ever known, and stop him raising the bones of the greatest dragon to have ever lived as an undead creature under his control," Fortuna summed up.  "Good luck with that."

"I wish to go with them, milady," Nathaniel said from the edge of the firelight, stepping forward with Alena.  

"As do I," Alena added.

"I am sorry," Fortuna contradicted, "but I cannot allow it.  You are both needed here in the northlands.  The Feral may have left but the damage they have done is huge.  The soldiers of Thistledelve have taken a big loss with many of their numbers dead.  My own company is reduced by a third.  We need to restore law and order to the northlands and I can't allow my two best knights to run off to fight an archmage.  I wish I could."

"Well," came in Tor.  "I am not a Knight of the Sun.  No man controls my destiny.  I am High Chieftain of the Feral and I make my own rules.   This Caerdic defiled the sacred rites of Moktar, and I intend to make him pay.  Besides, it's been a long time since me and my trusty blade were tested against the powers of magic."

"What are you saying?" asked Thia.

"I'm coming with you," replied the barbarian king.  "And Callindrill had better watch out."

Chapter 38 - Seppuku

Akihiro moved into the camp alone.  His team of Ghostwalkers remained camped and hidden in a small copse a short distance away.  There was no need for their presence to be advertised to the soldiers of the Dragon army.

He glided silently through the tents and campfires and was soon approaching the main command tent where he knew his brother would be eating his evening meal.  Dressed in a normal kimono with his twin swords strapped at his side, he moved up to the two guards outside the tent door and bowed to them.  His bow was short, but not disrespectful.  The two samurai returned it with deeper bows, knowing this to be their commander's brother and, importantly, a member of the elite caste.  He was one of the few people with the standing to enter the command tent unannounced and without any checks.

Akihiro pushed the tent flap open and looked around.  Tanaka kneeled on a cushion, a pair of chopsticks in hand and a simple porcelain plate of food in front of him on the low table.  A small sake cup was next to the plate.  Stood behind him was a servant who held a small bottle of sake in hand, waiting to refill his master's cup if needed.  Other than that no one was inside.

The tent was sparsely furnished and contained only the minimal items a commander would need in the field.  As a samurai from one of the oldest families in the province, Tanaka could have demanded whatever luxuries he wished when out in the field, but he elected to only take the bare minimum.  Akihiro approved of his brother's decision.  It was efficient and effective.

"Konbanwa, Tanaka-san," he greeted his brother formally, bowing deeply.  How are you this evening?

Tanaka stood and returned the bow, just as deeply.  "Konbanwa, Akihiro-san," the polite response came back.  Tanaka sat back down and signalled for his brother to sit next to him.  "Please fetch my brother a drink and a plate of food, Saburo-san," the warrior ordered his aid.  The servant bowed silently and moved to the back of the tent to prepare another plate and gather another sake cup.

"What news from the south, brother?" asked Tanaka when both were settled.

"Treachery and deceit," answered Akihiro simply.

Instantly Tanaka dismissed his servant.  He knew some things were best discussed alone.

*

The red army was in full withdrawal.  Long lines of samurai and common soldiers marched in ordered columns along the rocky trail which led from Sohei Bridge towards their home town of Sapporo.  Crimson banners with a black sunburst fluttered in the breeze at regular intervals along the group.  A few elite samurai commanders rode horses alongside their men, but most walked.  The samurai were at the front of the column, the regular commoners followed in their wake as was their position.

Tucked into the ranks of the common soldiers, Ryo marched along with others of the Ghostwalker company.  He was wearing simple leather armour and had a spear in hand.  He walked quietly, as was usual, and let his mind wander over the events of the last few days.

His childhood friend, Chi, had managed to get a message to his father that the whole war effort had been manipulated by the ancient gaijin advisor to Lord Nakamura. 

It was not unusual in the last twenty years or so for the Dragon clan to attack the western kingdom of Albion.  Since his ascendence to the position of Emperor, the Light of Heaven had made it clear that he wanted to gain territory in that region.  Lord Nakamura's master, Lord Tagashi, the daimyo of the whole province, had orchestrated a few attempts to annex areas over the years, often using Nakamura's men, as Sapporo was the nearest town to Albion. 

But this assault had been entirely Nakamura's idea.  Or at least that was the message which had been passed to his samurai.  Now it seemed that the idea had been implanted in Nakamura's subconscious by the sorcerer.  And nothing could be worse than the dishonour of being manipulated by a gaijin.  Ryo could not see how Lord Nakamura could survive this.

*

Akihiro and Tanaka rose from their deep, kneeling bows, leaving their swords on the floor by the shoji door and walked carefully forward to the edge of the raised dais where Lord Nakamura knelt.  The samurai lord was surrounded by a circle of kneeling samurai, wearing the crimson uniform of the Dragon elite, his personal guard.

"Thank you for the honour of your time, Nakamura-sama," Tanaka started, using the honorific to show the lord's status as a vassal of their daimyo.

"Your presence honours us, Tanaka-san," the lord responded.  "What is it you came to talk with me about?"

Tanaka noted that this was the first time he had spoken with his lord for many years without the ever-present company of the old advisor, Caerdic.  He wondered where the old man was, and if there could be any truth in the young lad, Chi's, incredible claims about the sorcerer's heritage.

"It is about your counsellor, Caerdic," Tanaka replied.

"Indeed, what did you wish to tell me?"

Tanaka proceeded to carefully and precisely explain what he knew about the advisor.  He explained exactly what had occurred, where, when and how with respect to the old man.

Lord Nakamura listened on, his face impassive.  As the tale continued and became more damning, Akihiro noted that the lord's face grew slightly flushed.  He was impressed with the warrior's self-control, for the story Tanaka was retelling meant one thing only: Nakamura had been deceived, and through that deception had taken the samurai of the daimyo and used them for his own ends.  Worse still, this was due to the corruption of evil magic.

There was no way Nakamura could refute the facts.  In a couple of places, early on in Tanaka's telling, Nakamura had stopped the warrior and asked for clarification on something he was saying.  But as the tale unfolded, the lord knelt still, his breathing increasing almost imperceptively, and his face growing dark.

Finally, it was over.  Tanaka had completed his tale and it was certain that Lord Nakamura had been deceived by terrible and evil magic, the direct result of which was that the lord had ordered an attack on Albion without the consent or approval of his daimyo.  It was a fatal error.

"Thank you for your formal report, Tanaka-san," Lord Nakamura replied when the samurai had finished.  "You are dismissed."

Tanaka and Akihiro bowed deeply, took five steps backwards, and then turned and moved to the shoji door.  They collected their swords and took their leave.

*

The courtyard was quiet.  Deathly quiet.

A single cherry tree stood to one side, the blossoms having long ago faded, and the leaves now turned golden brown as the early autumn took hold.  A few stray leaves had fallen since the gardener last cleaned up the courtyard, but no non-samurai would be permitted in the courtyard for this event, so they would remain fallen for now.

Tanaka looked around briefly.  Rows of crimson-armoured samurai knelt in perfect and orderly lines. Their armour was polished, the lacquer gleaming in the weak afternoon sun.  Ahead of the rows of warriors a low cedar platform had been set out.  It was about ten paces square and less than knee-high.  It was plain and unadorned.

From a low building to the side a shoji screen opened and out processed a small group.  A priest of the Light led the group, dressed in a simple white linen kimono.  He was followed by Lord Nakamura, ruler of Sapporo.  He too wore a simple white kimono, but he had a single short tanto sword tucked into the obi belt. 

Following the pair was the final figure.  Dressed in full ceremonial gosuku armour and wearing his family's ancient daisho swords, Lord Tagashi Goku, daimyo of the Dragon clan walked imperiously behind his vassal.

Tanaka watched as the impassive Nakamura followed the priest to the platform.  It was exactly the right size for three men to stand.  The three men took up their positions.  The priest was to the left as Tanaka looked.  He had a prayer wheel in hand, and some smoking incense in a small pot.  

Lord Tagashi took up his formal position on the right.  He stood, tall and erect, proud and defiant.  A black eye patch covered his left eye.  His right hand rested on the hilt of his katana and the other on the obi into which it was tucked.

Lord Nakamura took up position between them.  He ceremonially knelt down between them, facing his men.  Slowly he drew his ancient tanto blade from its position in his obi and laid it carefully at his side.  He then opened his kimono, revealing a slightly corpulent frame, that had gone to fat in his later years.  He pulled the kimono off his shoulders, bearing his chest and stomach to the courtyard.

Reaching down to his side he picked up the tanto and slowly drew it from its ivory sheath.  The blade was razor sharp and glinted as it caught the sun.  He took a deep breath in, steading himself and straightened his shoulders and back, rising up proudly. 

He had erred, hugely, and brought dishonour on himself and his family.  Only by committing seppuku could that honour be recovered.  That required him to go to his death following the samurai code: Never show fear, never show pain.  He would die without the slightest emotion showing on his face.

Lord Tagashi, daimyo of the province, had done him the huge honour of offering to be his second.  It would be his responsibility to make sure that Nakamura would not have the chance to show pain or fear.  When the time came, he would end Nakamura's life with a swift blow of his katana.

That time was now.

Nakamura took one last, deep breath and then plunged the tanto deep into his gut, on the left side.  He pulled the blade sideways across from left to right, opening up his stomach and gasped for air.

Beside him, Lord Tagashi moved.  Without moving his feet, he drew his katana in an upward arch.  Lord Tagashi was an expert in the art of iaijutsu, the skill of drawing a blade and attacking with it in one motion.  The blade connected perfectly with Lord Nakamura's neck.  Honed to a razor edge it cut right through the neck, taking the head clean off the shoulders in one blow.  

Lord Nakamura's head rolled onto the smooth cedar platform, a look of perfect calm remaining on his face.

The seppuku had been perfect.  Lord Nakamura's honour was restored.

*

"Tanaka-san, I wish to make you an offer," the daimyo told him.   Tanaka was kneeling in the main audience hall of the Sapporo castle.  Kneeling on the dais before him, where his master Nakamura had normally been, was the master of the whole Dragon province.

"I am at your disposal, Togashi-sama," he replied with deference.

"You served Lord Nakamura faithfully for many years.  Now he is no more and his line is ended.  I need someone to replace him as my man in Sapporo.  I need someone faithful and honourable of course.  But I need more than that.  I need someone with intelligence, cunning and wisdom.  I need someone with contacts and the skill to use them all."

Takana remained still, his eyes remaining downcast.  He knew he had nothing to say in this exchange yet.  He was waiting to hear exactly what his lord was offering.

"I do not need an ally here in the west.  This town is critical in the defence of the Dragon Province.  It is critical in any plans the Light of Heaven might have in expanding to the west.  No, I do not need an ally here.  I need something more."

Tanaka forced himself to breathe deeply and calmly.  He was not sure what was coming but it sounded significant.

"Tanaka-san, I want you to swear fealty to me and my line.  Do this, and I will give you Sapporo and the district to rule over in my name.  I want you as my vassal.  What do you say?"

Tanaka bowed deep and long, honoured beyond anything he could say.  It took all his self-control to remain composed.

"I am at your command, Toagshi-sama.  It is agreed."

Chapter 39 - Dragon's Perch

The huge, extinct, volcano loomed ominously above them as they climbed its exterior. Jutting out from the side overhead was the curiously-shaped ledge which gave the mountain its name: Dragon's Perch. The strange rock formation had been created over a thousand years ago when the volcano had last erupted as Callindrill faced the great dragon Ashardalon and the mountainside had split open.  Now it was covered with grasses, bushes and even a few hardy trees.  It was the target of the group's ascent.

Jaeden pressed on grimly.  The climb was tiring but the knowledge that just ahead lay the cause of most of his agonies drove him forward.  The great wizard Callindrill, known to him as the coffee purveyor Caerdic, was deep inside the volcano's belly.  Callindrill had controlled the terrible giant who had destroyed Lady Danielle and ruined Jaeden's life.  Jaeden meant to make him pay.

Next to the warrior strode a towering figure.  Jaeden was big at just over six feet in height, but the half-orc alongside him was half a foot taller again.  A wicked tattoo of a greatsword marked his face and a matching blade was strapped across his back.  Tor Bladesong may have been over fifty years of age, but his own anger was the furnace which stoked his energy.  Callindrill had tricked him into enacting Moktar and taking the Feral to war.  Now it was time to repay that duplicity.

Behind the two warriors moved a graceful and lithe man.  He appeared to be climbing the steep slope effortlessly and moving optimally.  Chi was a Ghostwalker of Honshu, possibly the only gaijin to ever achieve that title.  Callindrill had tricked the lord of Sapporo into attacking Albion, which had cost the honourable lord his life.  Chi was another who desired revenge upon the ancient wizard, for honour was all to those of the east.

Finally, at the rear of the group, came a half-fey woman.  Thia Moonsong was an Orator, a skill long-lost in this part of the world.  She had been an apprentice to Alandriel of Sylvandale and that kindly old archmagi had been mercilessly killed by a terrible undead aberration created by Callindrill.   Another one of those the lich had manipulated, she climbed the mountain for revenge.

Soon a gaping split in the mountainside became apparent ahead.  Darkness lay beyond it.  In that darkness, the group expected to find their nemesis.  They all instinctively quickened their pace.

Passing through the huge crack in the mountainside the trail led down into the depths of the volcano.  Ahead of them, the craggy path opened up into a huge central chamber, soft daylight just about illuminating the cavern beyond.

This was the ancient lair of the great dragon Ashardalon, known to the men of Albion simply as Blaze.  Once upon a time, this chamber would have been festooned with coins, jewels and gems, enough for multiple king's ransoms.  And, of course, at that time a huge and deadly terror would have sat atop the treasures.

Now the valuables were all gone, stolen away over the centuries by brave treasure hunters.  And where once the giant dragon would have lain, now all that was left was a gigantic skeleton.

The size of the beast was jaw-dropping.  The skull alone was bigger than a farm wagon and horses.  The total length of the skeleton was perhaps a hundred paces long.  And even now, over fifteen hundred years after its death, the bones of Ashardalon were enough to evoke a sense of dread and fear in the group as they made their way down into its lair.

Then they noticed the purple and black necrotic flames dancing across the bones and heard the rise and fall of a voice incanting an ancient and terrible Ritual. 

Callindrill was raising Ashardalon as a dracolich.

*

Chi stopped dead in his tracks as the complete understanding of what was happening hit him.  Ahead, Jaeden and Tor drew their swords and rushed at the ancient arch lich, shouting their war cries.  Behind them, Thia was moving into a position to add her skills to the battle.

Suddenly, moving out of the shadows ahead to intercept the group and stop them from reaching Callindrill, two terrible figures appeared. 

On the left was a walking skeleton, dressed in rotting purple robes which must have been extremely opulent at one time.  On the figure's head was the ancient Crown of Alban, the golden circlet that King Eldred I wore to signify his kingship.  In his hands, he held a formidable-looking sword.  Clearly, this was the first king, raised from the dead as a terrible skeletal warrior.

On the right was a similar figure, dressed in matching ancient purple robes and with an identical crown atop its head.  That skeletal figure was somehow recognizable as female and in her hands was a short ivory rod which crackled with arcane power.  She must be the undead form of Queen Lynna, the king's wife and the lover of Callindrill.

The undead royalty moved to stop Thia, Jaeden and Tor from reaching Callindrill.  No one had noticed the stealthy Ghostwalker.  Cloaking himself in deep shadows from the Void, Chi moved away to the side, beginning a long, slow circle around, trying to circumnavigate the central fight and approach the chanting Callindrill unobserved.  He moved slowly and carefully, prioritizing stealth over speed.

He just hoped he would reach the arch lich before his Ritual was completed.

*

Jaeden charged across the rocky floor, to suddenly skid to a halt as the skeletal form of King Eldred moved to intercept him.  As the two faced each other Jaeden realized the old king was wielding his sword left-handed.  A brief glance showed Jaeden that the king's right hand was a broken mess.  It looked almost as if the bones had melted and fused.  Jaeden recalled the murals in Callindrill's tomb showing where Eldred had saved the wizard from a lightning strike and had been crippled for life in the process.  Jaeden had just enough time to consider how utterly improbable his current situation was before the skeleton swung its sword at him. 

Jaeden blocked the attack easily but was thrown backwards by the sheer force of the blow.  He did not expect to be hit that hard.  Recovering quickly he looked at the blade the old king wielded.  It was a hand-and-a-half sword, set with three diamonds in the pommel.  Jaeden instantly recognised it: the fabled Sword of Eldred that had, until recently, been in Sir Harken's possession. It was now back in the hands of the one for whom it had been forged.

Jaeden didn't know if it was the enchanted power of the skeleton or the magical blade itself that was so forceful but he knew he would have to be at his best to survive this, let alone get past the king to stop Callindrill and his ongoing Ritual.

Next to him, he felt the imposing figure of Tor rise up and swing his greatsword in a lightning-fast and almost impossibly strong downward arch, aimed for the skeleton king's skull.  Eldred moved with exceptional speed and easily countered the powerful blow.  Jaeden could see they were in deep trouble.

*

Thia Moonsong allowed the two warriors to take a slight lead into the fight ahead.  She knew her martial skills were too limited to be of use in the titanic battle being waged and she decided she would be more of a liability in the front line, so she moved safely back a little.  She quickly noted that Queen Lynna had taken a similar approach, and worse still, the undead sorceress was chanting the words to a spell, her skeletal fingers gesticulating intricately.

Thia opened a rift to the Void and summoned pure arcane energy from beyond.  Focusing it into herself and channelling it into one barely-contained cluster, she looked directly at Lynna and spoke a word.  A thunderclap split the air and Lynna was rocked back on her heels.  The spell on her lips died as Thia unleashed her counterspell.  The queen's magic was stopped.  But more than that, Thia also noted how king Eldred faltered slightly when Lynna's concentration was broken.  Was there a link between them?

*

Jaeden was fully on the defensive now.  He realized that Tor was the more aggressive of the two of them and probably more likely to land a telling blow.  He also felt that his armour and the addition of a shield meant that he was better equipped to handle the ferocious attacks the undead king was meting out.  The Feral leader wore no armour and carried no shield.  His was a more direct style, focused on attack, never on defence.

The ex-knight tried all he could to put himself in harm's way, between Tor and Eldred, but doing so was taking its toll on him.  His shield was bent and battered, almost to the point of being unusable.  His chain armour was split open in places.  He was bleeding heavily where those slashes had ripped holes in the chainmail.  Every attack the undead warrior made was accurate, fast and unnaturally powerful.  It was taking all Jaeden's skill-at-arms, and a lot of luck, to stay alive.  And he knew his luck would only last so long.

Fighting alongside the youngster, the veteran half-orc barbarian allowed a grim smile of admiration to play across his face.  He sensed what Jaeden was doing, and why, so he played his part in the unspoken strategy and tried to make his blows count.  He had delivered four or five slashing attacks which would have split a normal man from shoulder to hip - especially one who carried no shield and wielded their sword with their off-hand.  But the undead warrior had moved with unearthly speed and power, and parried every attack.  Tor was fast running out of tricks.

*

Thia stopped trying to affect the melee directly and instead concentrated her attention on the queen for a moment.  Once she had focused all her awareness on the undead sorceress, she noticed something that gave her suspicions substance:  every time the king attacked or parried with supernatural speed and power, Lynna flicked the short ivory rod in her hands and a glint of necrotic, arcane energy played across its surface.

The queen is empowering the king, she realized.  Kill the queen and the king becomes vulnerable!

"Jaeden!  Tor!  Listen to me," she shouted, using her Oratory powers to give her voice added volume and a little degree of compulsion.  "Kill the queen!  She is the key.  Focus on her!"  

She was rewarded by seeing the warrior and barbarian both instantly manoeuvring across the battlefield to bring Queen Lynna into melee range.  If it was possible for a skull to show signs of fear, she believed the queen was showing it.

*

Jaeden sidestepped and put himself, once again, between King Eldred and the huge half-orc.  Another powerful blow came crashing down onto his shield, finally cracking it in two.  The blow passed on and smashed into Jaeden's chain-clad shoulder and the power was enough to make his knees buckle.  He collapsed to the rocky ground, stunned and vulnerable.

But this time, the half-orc stepped away from the king and engaged the queen directly.  She was not warrior-trained.  She did not benefit from wielding a powerful arcane sword.  And she did not have a controller, empowering her attacks and defences from afar.  Tor's blade rose and fell in a signature lightning-fast strike.  It was too fast for Queen Lynna to react, too fast to see, and too fast to stop.

The blade cut right down into the tattered royal robes she wore.  It crashed down into her skeletal shoulder and smashed right on through to her opposite hip, cutting her skeleton completely in two.  The ancient arcane and necrotic magic which had fused her bones into a working skeleton and given it force, dissipated as the frame broke apart.

The undead sorceress monstrosity that was Queen Lynna collapsed and broke into pieces.

Standing above Jaeden, King Eldred raised his ancient and powerful blade high, preparing to finish the opponent in front of him.  Jaeden knew his time was up but was pleased to see at least he had helped even the odds.  Tor had killed the queen.

Then the skeletal body that was the old king toppled sideways, the sword falling from his left hand to clatter to the rocky ground.  Jaeden blinked, did a double take and then rose unsteadily to his feet.  He had more lives than a cat, he mused.  He grabbed his own dropped broadsword, ripped the broken pieces of his shield from his forearm, and moved alongside Tor.

Suddenly a deafening shout rent the air across the chamber. 

Jaeden looked up to see the shadowy form of Chi, standing directly behind the arch lich Callindrill.  Callindrill was in mid-casting of his Ritual and Chi had just appeared out of nowhere to punch Callindril directly in the back at full power.  Jaeden expected the wizard to collapse in agony but Callindrill seemed to totally ignore the attack.  Chi shook his wrist as if in considerable discomfort, and Jaeden guessed that the Ghostwalker's surprise attack had been foiled by some sort of magical shield on the old wizard.

Worse still, the gigantic skeleton of Ashardalon appeared to be nearly completely covered with the strange black and purple webbing of crackling evil energy that Callindrill was weaving.  Jaeden was no expert in the arcane but he guessed that when the web was complete the Ritual would finish and the great dragon would rise as another undead servant of the evil lich.

He moved up alongside the half-orc, Tor, clapped him on the shoulder and nodded.  The two warriors strode purposefully forward towards Callindrill, determined to stop his Ritual before it was complete.  Thia moved into position alongside them and the three heroes advanced.

None of them noticed the skeletal form of the old King Eldred rising silent as the grave behind them.  The king picked up his fabled sword and moved into the shadows, following them.

*

Jaeden, Tor and Chi threw everything they had at the terrible spell weaver.  They attacked with swords and fists, high and low.  They tried to grapple, shove, strike and distract.  Every attack they launched seemed to be stopped by Callindrill's magical defences.

Some defences simply blocked or foiled the attacks.  Others literally threw the companions backwards through the air.  Some attacks Callindrill seemed to ignore and existing protective magic just appeared to stop.  Other strikes forced the wizard to interrupt his Ritual to flick a dismissive finger in their direction to defeat the attack.

Once, Callindrill actually paused his Ritual long enough to summon a series of five magical images that perfectly mirrored his actions and could not be differentiated from the real wizard.  The companions had to destroy each image individually to dispel them until only the real wizard remained.

Through all this, Callindrill's concentration on the major Ritual never wavered.  He occasionally delayed or was forced to pause in his chanting.  But still, the Ritual continued.  Still, the arcane skin of pure necrotic power was gradually spreading across the bones of the great dragon.  Once that skin was complete, the dragon would rise again after fifteen hundred years, magnificent again.  More deadly than ever.

"Keep going," encouraged Thia, lacing her words with Void-touched power to enthuse her companions with ever more energy and morale, despite feeling the battle was a losing one.  "If we can just keep distracting him he is bound to make a mistake," she continued.  She knew her friends were buoyed and empowered by her words, but they sounded hollow to her ears.  She truly saw no way they could defeat the abomination.

She realized that none of the companions had any sure way to penetrate the arch lich's magical defences.  He had the power of the Void to shield and protect him.  The group had mundane and ordinary blades.  Or, in Chi's case, just his bare hands.  Callindrill did not really need to pay much attention to the attacks against him because they were not able to penetrate his magical wards, so it was impossible to break his concentration.  How long would it take to force him into a mistake?  And how long did they have before the terrible Ritual was complete?  Thia was increasingly convinced they were going to lose the race.

*

Unseen in the shadows behind the Orator a skeletal figure advanced.  Tattered purple robes helped hide it in deep shadows and part of its undead nature meant it made virtually no sound as it crept.  It approached the melee purposefully, its ancient blade in hand.  It had one purpose now - revenge.

King Eldred reached the edge of the fight and raised his sword ready to attack.  Stepping from the shadows he swung the archaic and immensely powerful blade down with one terrible strike.  The blade crashed into a wall of powerful arcane wards and protections, capable of stopping all but the most incredible magics.  These wards had been erected by the archmagi Callindrill himself and there was virtually nothing in this land that could penetrate them.

But the Sword of Eldred had been crafted fifteen hundred years ago by the same hand.  He had imbued it with all his most potent hexes and enchantments. It was the one thing which could break through those defences.

King Eldred I, wielding the fabled sword his best friend had forged for him back at the beginnings of the kingdom, drove the point of the blade directly through the place Callindrill's evil heart would have been, had he still possessed one.

No one saw the king until it was too late.  The blow fell and they were amazed to see it pass right through the evil lich's guards and wards.  Callindrill screamed, not in pain, but in extreme frustration.  Then the lich's body simply collapsed into dust before their very eyes.

From nowhere a wind suddenly came, buffeting the companions, lifting the dust and carrying it up towards the skyline above.

Below them, the necrotic web, which had been slowly encasing the huge skeleton of Ashardalon the Great, fizzled, spluttered and dissipated.  The Ritual had failed.

*

"What in the Light just happened?" asked Jaeden as the wind died away.

"I think Callindrill was killed by the only thing that could stop him," replied Thia.  "An exceptionally enchanted blade.  Namely the Sword of Eldred."

"So, it's over?" asked Chi, wiping his brow and taking some steadying deep breaths.

"Unfortunately not," answered Thia gravely.  "As you know Callindrill is a lich.  This means he is essentially unkillable.  Even now his body will be reforming in this tomb, far to the south.  It will take many days for the arcane power to rebuild it enough for his spirit to reinhabit it, but it will certainly happen."

"So, how do we stop him, permanently?" asked Jaeden.

"We need to find his phylactery," she said.

"His what?"

"The one thing which stops a lich from dying when his body is killed is his phylactery.  When he undertakes the Ritual to become a lich, he picks an item.  Something of significance and importance to him.  Something which is capable of holding a soul.  When his body dies the soul is transported to the phylactery to recover there until the body reforms.

"In order to permanently destroy a lich you need to find their phylactery and break it whilst the soul is inside."

*

"So we are in agreement then?" asked Jaeden a short time later.  "We all think that the most likely place that Callindrill would have hidden his phylactery would be his tomb, deep in the desert to the south.  We need to return there, find the item, whatever it might be, and destroy it.  And we need to do this before his body reforms or we'll need to fight him all over again."

All nodded their consent, save Tor.  "I am done," he told them.  "I have taken my revenge on the evil lich for forcing us into Moktar.  I am also too old for this stuff," he smiled.  "I will return to my homelands and leave the future heroics to you, youngsters," he told them.

"There is one more thing, brave warriors," came in a voice, gravelly and otherworldly.  The companions turned as one to regard the skeletal form of the king.  He stood next to the huge skeleton of the dragon, his sword in hand.

Jaeden's hand went instinctively to his own blade.

"Do not fear, young knight," the ancient kind told him, raising a melted skeletal hand to stay his action.  "I am no threat to you.  Indeed, I can feel the magic which binds my spirit to this decrepit body is fast fading.  I have just moments left."

"What is it you want?" asked Thia

"I have two boons to ask of you," the old king said.  "And, in return, I will give one back."

"Go on," she prompted.

"Firstly, please take my body and that of my wife back to Littlebrook.  I pray thee inter us together in the royal vault, side by side for all eternity.  Even though she betrayed me in life, I forgive her in death and would spend my forever by her side."

"Consider it done," replied Jaeden instantly.

"In return, I gift thee this blade, Jaeden of Littlebrook," the king said, holding his ancient sword out to the ex-knight.  "I pray it helps you in the most unexpected ways.  I feel you will need it in your coming trials."

Jaeden was honoured beyond words but stepped forward reverently to receive the blade from the old king.  "Thank you, sire," he told him.  "I will see it is returned to Sir Harken, the Grandmaster of my old order when all this is done."

"And what was the other boon you desired of us, your majesty?" Thia asked the old warrior.

"Go and destroy that traitor Callindrill, once and for all!"

Chapter 40 - Callindrill's Tomb

"Here we are again," noted Jaeden.  "Shall we just head on in and see what happens?"

The group had just tied their mounts up to the exterior of the facade of Callindrill's tomb, deep in the Barren Scrub all the way across to the south of the kingdom.  They had travelled here as swiftly as they could, briefly stopping off in Thistledelve, Waymeet and Littlebrook, only to replenish supplies.

"Perhaps, this time we should take some light with us," Chi suggested.  "I took the liberty of borrowing one of the Queen's arcane light balls from the sewers back in Littlebrook," he told them.  "I thought they would come in useful.  I believe the creatures and tricks we meet in this dark place are more likely to be hurt by this pure holy light than we are to benefit from travelling in my Void-summoned shadows."

"Works for me," said Thia nodding.  "I would rather be able to see what was coming."

Jaeden put his shoulder to the enormous door which barred the tomb from the outside world and was surprised to find it moved far more easily open this time.  "Seems to have loosened up," he observed.

"Or someone has made it easier to get in and out since we were last here," Chi added as he took out the light globe and shone it beyond the warrior into the tomb.

"Always with the happy thoughts," quipped Jaeden, drawing the Sword of Eldred and stepping into the tomb ahead of the others.  He had a brand new suit of chainmail and a fresh shield in hand, picked up from the market in the city a few days before.  They had yet to see action and he looked like the pristine image of a hero.

"The body will be regenerating wherever the archlich's sarcophagus lies," Thia told them.  "Of course, that is not necessarily where the phylactery will be hidden, but I guess it is as good a place as any to start."

"Where would the sarcophagus be, then?" asked Jaeden, starting to walk deeper into the tomb, leading the group.

"When we were here last time there were two tunnels leading off the main square chamber with the frescoes up ahead," Chi reminded them.  "We only looked down one which led to the chamber where Alfred and Alandriel were being held."  The others nodded in recollection.

"So, logically it makes sense that the sarcophagus would lie down the other tunnel, the one we didn't explore," concluded Thia.

*

The short, thin tunnel led downwards at a steep angle.  There didn't seem to be any good reason for it but they followed it regardless.  Presently Jaeden, who was upfront with sword and shield readied, could see that the passageway was opening up into some sort of chamber.  Being the direct type he strode forwards and into the room.

As Chi's light globe lit up the room, Jaeden could see it was clearly a burial chamber.  Frescoes lined the walls, again a riot of colours as they were in the main chamber they had just left.  These depicted all manner of items, artefacts and objects that Callindrill had clearly forged, crafted and designed.  Alongside these were more pictures of myriad creatures, aberrations and monsters that he had created.  The centrepiece of the display was Callindrill, shown here as a skeletal lich, and his lover and first follower, Queen Lynna, in the form of an undead sorcerer. 

In this mosaic, Callindrill held a staff, depicted crackling with arcane energies.  That famous staff had been lost centuries in the past but local legends of Albion told it had been recovered a few years ago by the renowned Camero, himself a local archmage. 

Before the pair was a depiction of the Sword of Eldred.  The blade was shown without a scabbard, the long cross-piece in place and the three diamonds tipping the cross-piece and acting as the pommel.

In the centre of the room was a sandstone sarcophagus, seemingly carved from the bedrock.  There was no lid to the coffin so Jaeden approached tentatively.  Inside was a skeleton.

The skeleton was complete, and as Jaeden watched he saw ligaments slowly but inexorably, winding themselves together, attaching bone to bone in the body.  Some muscles had begun to reform, connected to the bones by long tendons which grew as he watched.

"Amazing," said Thia from next to him, making him jump.  "You can actually see the exact formation of the quadriceps femoris," she observed.  "Look how the muscle tissue is stretching as the tendon pulls it tight.  I could learn so much from this," she observed.

"Errr, reality check," countered Jaeden.  "When that body completes - which is going to be a lot sooner than any of us were expecting by the looks of things - we are going to be in trouble.  Where the heck is this phylactery thing?"

"Good point," Thia conceded.  "We should look.  And quickly."

"I suggest perhaps now is the time to bring in the shadows," offered Chi.  If Callindrill does soon rise, at least they might give us some cover, some chance to hide and escape or perhaps launch a surprise attack."

"Agreed," said Jaeden.  "Can you help us see in the dark again?"

"Yes, of course," replied Chi.

The Ghostwalker put his light globe away into a pocket and the tomb was thrown into utter and complete darkness.

Or at least it should have been.

Instead, the perfect darkness was broken by a faint pale blue glow.  Jaeden looked down at the handle of the Sword of Eldred to see the biggest diamond, the one fitted into the end of the hilt, glowing almost imperceptively.  He put a hand down to touch it and drew it away rapidly.  The diamond was ice-cold to the touch.

"What's happening?" asked Thia.

"I'm not sure but something is going on with the sword," Jaeden replied.  "Chi, can you bring the light back?"

Chi pulled the globe back out of his pocket and bright light flooded into the chamber again.  In that light, the pale blue glow was lost.

"That's curious," said Jaeden looking at the pommel.  Slowly he drew the sword from its scabbard and examined it closely.

"What is?" asked Thia coming alongside him.

"The big diamond," Jaeden pointed.  "It's no longer clear and flawless.  It's very slightly opaque and there seems to be a tiny crack running along it."

"It looks normal to me," Thia replied, looking closely.

"Trust me," Jaeden responded.  "I have cleaned and polished this sword more than a thousand times in my position as Sir Harken's squire.  That diamond has changed.  Something is different."  He tentatively touched the diamond with his hand.  "It's slightly cooler than normal," he noted, "but not as cold as it was just now in the darkness."

Thia reached into her pouch and pulled out a red apple.  She briefly polished it on her trouser leg and then took a big bite, deep in thought.

"I don't want to interrupt this interesting conversation," commented Chi, but this body appears to be almost rebuilt to me," he said, indicating the sarcophagus.

"Hang on," said Thia excitedly.  "When did this diamond change?"

"I've no idea," answered Jaeden, "I haven't studied it closely before."

"Is it possible it changed after we killed Callindrill up in the Dragon's Perch?"

"I suppose so, why?"

"I think the diamond is the lich's phylactery!" she exclaimed.  "It makes perfect sense.  Phylacteries need to be expensive and of the best quality.  A diamond like this one fits that requirement.  Gems are a well-known choice for this purpose, diamonds doubly so due to their clarity.  Phylacteries need to be personal.  They also need to remain hidden."

"I guess it makes sense," replied Jaeden.  "So what do we do now?" he followed up moving over to the sarcophagus.  "Chi is right, that body is a lot more formed now than it was a moment ago."

"We need to destroy the gem," Thia told him.

"Okay, here we go," Jaeden declared.  He lifted the sword high into the air and brought it crashing down, pommel first, into the sandstone sarcophagus.  A chunk of the tomb broke off and fell to the floor.  The diamond was unharmed.

"It will take more than brute force to break a phylactery," Thia told him.   "Something obtuse and unusual. But what?"

"I have a thought," said Chi beside them.  "Something Callindrill told me himself, many years ago, when teaching me how to summon and control the shadows.  He said something which will always stay with me."

Jaeden and Thia looked at him.

"'Never forget, the Light and the Darkness are enemies and there to balance each other.  The shadows are masters of both'.  That is what he told me," the monk recited.  "I never have forgotten that lesson."

"It might just work," said Thia, her mind racing.  "Chi, can you summon the shadows here, into this room?" she asked.

"Of course, it is a simple task for me these days, due to Callindrill's training."

"And Jaeden," she continued.  "I want you to summon two memories to mind.  One sad, as sad as you can think of.  And one happy, your best and fondest memory.  Can you do that?"

Jaeden nodded.  His mind flipped back to a trail in the mountains, to waking up from unconsciousness to see the broken body of Daniella across the path from him.  It was the start of everything that had gone wrong for him.  She was his charge and his responsibility.  Her death had led to his being stripped of his knighthood and his fall from grace.   

His mind moved on then, to a time more recent.  He was in the throne room of Littlebrook Palace.  He was alone with his father and was expecting to be told how disappointed his father was in him.  But quite the opposite, in the biggest show of affection and emotion his father had ever demonstrated, he had told him how proud he was.  It was the best moment of his life, better even than the day he had been knighted.

Both these events had transpired directly because of Callindrill's actions manipulating him, he realized.

Thia closed her eyes and opened a small hole into the Void.  It was easy to do now after the long hours of training and some of the hints and nudges Callindrill himself had given her.  She pulled arcane power from that distant place, but only a little to start.

From there she reached out with her feelings, seeking the shadows that Chi had summoned and controlled.  She gently separated out the Light from the Darkness as she gathered that balanced energy.  It was taking all her mind control to keep the two separate but years of training under Alandriel had given her a strength of will that few possessed.

Next, she opened her senses to feel Jaeden's emotions.  She was almost overwhelmed with grief as she felt the negative emotion he was emanating.  She could not see the memories he was reliving but she could feel the pain as something solid and tangible.  She draw that pain into herself and added it to the Darkness she had gathered from Chi.

Next, she felt Jaeden's positive energy as his thoughts shifted.  It was hard to imagine how much pride she was feeling coming from him and she realised then just how much love must be in Jaeden for whoever was making him proud.  She assumed his parents, but she didn't know for certain.  She could not read the memories, only the emotions.   Again, she drew them out and pulled them to herself.  She combined them with the Light.

Thia took a long, deep breath.  She switched her focus now to the Sword of Eldred.  Opening her eyes she looked deeply into the diamond on the pommel.  It was then that she realized what the dark, whispy smoke was inside the diamond:  the very soul of Callindrill himself.

She took a further deep, steadying breath.  She mentally gathered all the light and positivity in one side of her mind.  She gathered all the darkness and pain in the other.  She focused totally on the gem ahead of her, the phylactery of the greatest lich to have ever lived.

Opening her mouth, she screamed.

The Word of Power burst forth from Thia like a thunderbolt from the skies.  Driven and powered by all the Light and Darkness the three of them could combine.  Focused by the power of all her years of magical training.  Made real by the Word of Power that Callindrill himself had helped her unlock. 

The effects were stupendous.

The magical diamond atop the hilt of the Sword of Eldred shattered into a thousand shards.  At the same time, a rift slashed open in the air before Thia, a tangible, physical gate to the Void.

There was a terrible keening scream as the soul of Callindrill was ripped from its phylactery.  It had nobody to inhabit.  It had no receptacle to enter.  It had nowhere to go.

The whispy, dark soul was sucked upwards, against its will.  Still keening the soul passed into the rift and was sucked back into the Void.

A huge thunderclap exploded around them as the rift snapped shut.  Silence descended.

Callindrill was no more.

Epilogue

"Be thou a knight," declared King Jarrad I.

Sir Jaeden of Littlebrook rose from his place kneeling before the throne and bowed deeply to his king.  To the king's right stood Cardinal O'Connor, head of the Church of the Sun, resplendent in his full white ceremonial robes.  To the left stood Grandmaster Sir Harken, clad in gleaming plate armour and with the fabled Sword of Eldred strapped to his side.

The imposing leader of the Knights of the Sun broke protocol and took three steps forward embracing Jaeden in a huge bear hug.  The gathered nobles and courtiers burst out into a tremendous and impromptu cheer as Jaeden returned the embrace.

Among the courtiers, Jaeden's parents wore beaming smiles on their faces, their pride evident for all to see.  Nearby stood Chi of Sapporo, dressed in fine but simple clothing.  Next to him was Thia of Sylvandale, wearing a long, red dress, her hair worn up to show off the upswept ears which marked her as fey.

Later that day the three friends gathered together in the common room of the Green Dragon Inn.  Sir Jaeden had bought the last round of drinks and they all sat enjoying a very good bottle of Pembrose Red, a new wine imported from the far-off continent of Lucarcia.  Stories told that the First Consul there, Lord Reynard Ferrand, was very fond of this particular variety and as such its popularity was soaring worldwide.  After sampling a few glasses Jaeden could easily understand why.

Thia raised her glass.  "To us," she toasted simply.

"To us," the other two repeated, clinking their glasses together in the middle of the table.  Each took a sip and sat back, reflecting on what had happened over the last year or so.

"It's been a mad time," Thia commented, putting into words what they were all thinking.  "I don't think it's really sunk in yet."

"Agreed," replied Chi.  "A lot has changed and I know I will never be the same."

"Quite," she responded.

"What about you, Jaeden?  Or should I say, Sir Jaeden?" Chi smiled.

Jaeden blinked, where he had been miles away.  "Sorry, I was just thinking of absent friends," he replied without smiling.  All three of them knew that Alfred, Jaeden's childhood friend, had been killed in the Battle of Littlebrook.  And they had discovered he had been killed by Ghostwalkers who had trained with Chi in Sapporo.  It put Chi and Jaeden's relationship in a difficult position.

"I'm so very sorry, Jaeden," Chi told him sincerely.

Jaeden looked up at Chi over his glass of wine.  "It's not your fault, Chi, I know.  You were not there and could do nothing about what happened.  I don't blame you at all."

Chi nodded.  They had had this conversation many times in the last few weeks, since returning to the city and discovering what had happened there.  But it didn't make the loss any easier.

"War sucks," was all Thia found she could say in response.

*

"Travel well and may the Light protect you," Sir Jaeden performed the valediction for his two friends.  They were just outside the north gate of the city of Littlebrook, on the King's Road.  Chi and Thia were mounted on their travelling horses and Jaeden was on foot.  He was wearing his new, formal plate armour, with the white tabard of the Knights of the Sun over the top.  Next to him stood his trusty steed, Dancer.

The three friends had just embraced and Thia and Chi had mounted.  They would ride north as far as Waymeet, in the centre of the kingdom.  There they planned to split up - Thia heading west and returning to her home of Sylvandale, Chi turning east to return to Sapporo, his adopted home.

The sun had not long ago risen in the east, and the two wished to get an early start.  They were keen to get this last leg of their journey over and done with.

Jaeden was to remain here in the city of Littlebrook for now.  Sir Harken had appointed him a new role where his responsibility was to determine how the Order could grow its numbers without distilling the quality of the knights it ordained.  He was looking forward to the challenge.  He knew it would take him across the kingdom and maybe beyond, and he hoped he would get to travel to the fey city of Sylvandale and the eastern town of Sapporo in the process.

"We will see you before you know it," Chi promised with another smile.

"Indeed, I don't plan to be stuck in the forest for the rest of my life," Thia responded.

"I thought your queen had forbidden any fey to leave the woodland realm," observed Jaeden.

"She has," Thia replied.  "And I intend to change her mind on that one.  Sylvandale can stay isolated no longer.  As we have discovered this year, isolation can only lead to a lack of understanding and knowledge.  That leads to the potential to be too easily manipulated by those two would do us wrong.  We need to embrace our neighbours and become friends with Albion again."

"I look forward to it," replied Jaeden.

With a final handshake goodbye, Chi and Thia nudged their horses north up the paved road towards distant Waymeet.  

And from there, home.

*

"Welcome to the new School of Oratory!" announced Thia Moonsong proudly. 

She was standing in Alandriel's old study.  Upon her return to the city, she discovered that the aged archmagi had gifted her everything he owned in his will.  All his quarters and rooms in the magi enclave were hers.  His quills, scrolls and inks.  His expensive reagents and components to the Rituals he had mastered over the centuries.  His spellbooks and grimoires.  And of course his extensive library and all its contents.  She had never been richer, both financially and in knowledge.

But more than that, somehow Alandriel had set in place a lasting legacy for her.  Before leaving Sylvandale, he had penned a missive to the masters of the strict Academy of Magic in Sylvandale, explaining that Thia Moonsong, the apparent-failed apprentice mage, had in fact, rediscovered an ancient and powerful branch of magic that had long been lost to the fey.

It took her a bit of explaining to get the council of archmagi to understand what she could bring to the art.  It took all her patience to try and explain that her powers were not to be learned in a book.  In the end, it took a demonstration of the power of her voice to really make them stop and take notice.  Now here she was, opening a school in the long-lost art of Oratory. 

She looked around at the half-dozen nervous-looking young fey before her.  Moving to the sideboard she selected a particularly juicy-looking red apple and began to polish it with long, sure strokes on her trousers.

"Be prepared to un-learn everything you have been told about magic and the structures that need to be in place to summon and control it," she told the students.  "Sometimes, all you need is raw emotion and the right words,"  

She bit into the apple, smiled, and then began to teach.

*

Chi performed the full kneeling bow of maximum deference to the lord who knelt before him.  The crimson-clad samurai who circled the lord in a ring of protection might have been surprised to note their lord returned the bow with equal respect.  But most knew Chi, or at the very least had heard of him.  He was a barbarian from the kingdom to the west, but he had come to the Dragon Province at a young age and been raised in the Monastery of the Way.  He was gaijin in looks only.  He was a fully-fledged master in his own rights now.

Rumours had it that this gaijin was more than just a master of the Way, of course.  The rumours told that he was a powerful Ghostwalker master and leader of a cadre of secret spies and assassins.

In any case, the way Lord Tanaka returned the bow showed all that Chi was a man of honour and respect.

"Come forward, Chi-san, old friend," beckoned the samurai kneeling on the raised dais.  "I would speak with you of important matters."

Chi rose and moved up to the edge of the samurai circle.  Tanaka motioned with his hand and the samurai guards opened ranks to allow Chi to proceed up onto the dais to kneel at Tanaka's side.

"Tell me all that has happened in the Kingdom of Albion since last we met," asked Tanaka.  "I wish to learn all."

Chi and Tanaka talked long into the evening.  The Ghostwalker told his lord all that had occurred.  He left nothing out. Where needed, he explained the political significance of some of the things he was describing, but Tanaka frequently already understood. It was clear the older samurai had a decent grasp of the internal politics of their neighbour.

"Chi-san," Tanaka said when they were finally done.  "I find myself with a small problem."

Chi raised a questioning eyebrow.

"As you know, our daimyo has asked me to take over Lord Nakamura's role here in Sapporo."

Chi nodded.

"But I find myself missing an advisor.  I can see the huge benefits that having an advisor who understands the complex and confusing habits and customs of our barbarian kingdom neighbours.  So, would you do me the honour of accepting this position in my household, Chi-san?"

Chi bowed deeply from his kneeling position.  He held the bow for a long time.  Rising up he looked Tanaka in the eye.  "It would be my honour, Tanaka-sama,"

*

The silent figure moved deeper down the simply-carved corridor.  The flickering torch it carried cast scary shapes onto the walls, but the man was not worried by shadows.

Moving purposefully onwards, the man, who was clad from head to toe in full plate armour of an archaic design, entered the final chamber.  The burial chamber of Callindrill.

Sir Mangarak, disgraced former Grandmaster of the Order of the Sun, and worshiper of the Demon Prince, moved straight up to the open sarcophagus in its centre.

He placed the torch by the side of the coffin and looked down.  The nearly-reformed body of the arch lich lay in the sarcophagus, motionless and inert.  There was no light in the eyes, no blood in the veins.  The body was unmistakably dead, an empty vessel.

Sir Magarak leaned into the coffin and reverently lifted the body from its resting place.  He moved it respectfully onto his shoulder, balancing it carefully.  

Picking up his spluttering torch in his other hand, the powerful warrior strode out of the Tomb of Callindrill into the sunlight.  Turning south he headed off deeper into the Great Desert to the ancient ruins he had claimed as his own.

There was great power to be found in the bodies of arch liches, he knew. 

Even dead ones.