It would be a waste to kill the son of Luther. Indeed, Randwulf doubted he could bring himself to do it, even at the cost of his own life and all his plans. Forcibly absorbing the son of Luther was not much more appealing. He was likely to shut himself off, like his father had done, and cheat Randwulf out of the bulk of his abilities and memories. Worse yet, his mind could rebel and deep down, Randwulf feared that his will might lose out to his determined young opponent. No, there had to be another way. If the son of Luther was too strong to be a slave, what if he could be convinced to become Randwulf's partner?

It would not be easy, but it was worth a try. The son of Luther was worn in mind and body, still struggling with the shock of Randwulf's revelation. His friends were fighting and likely dying beyond the walls of the keep. If ever he could succumb to the power of suggestion, now was the time.

First, a gesture of good will. Randwulf plunged the both his swords into the floor. The son of Luther was not the sort of coward who struck an unarmed man and even if he was, Randwulf was hardly defenseless. Yes, the move had the desired effect. The son of Luther kept his guard up, but he was no longer poised to attack. He would listen.

Randwulf was used to taking whatever he wanted by force, bending people to his will through fear. Neither tactic would work here. It would be difficult, but he was never the type to shrink from a challenge.

Randwulf could not help grinning. The boy's spirit remained unbroken even as his body was at its limits. The Conqueror reminded himself that threats would not work here. Easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar.

Ah, yes. The son of Luther was a scholar, was he not? Why not use philosophy against him?

Randwulf asked him, "And what is justice, Mark the Guardian? If I fall this day, what will happen to Gladius?"

Best not to focus on these 'crimes'. Strike where he is weakest.

There was hesitation, ever so slight. Randwulf could very well win by attacking from this angle.

More hesitation. Merely repeating words rather than speaking from the heart. Yes, this was the key. The Conqueror pressed his advantage.

Silence. Excellent.

"What has the Drunkard Prince done to deserve the throne? If nothing else, I earned this land through my own craft and might. At very least, I gave the people order."

The son of Luther was mustering his defense. Randwulf could not afford to give any ground. He was so close.

It was a dangerous gambit, but to gain the son of Luther, it was worth sacrificing his rule, if but for a time.

Predictably, the Guardian replied, "I have no desire for such power."

His virtue would be his undoing. Now to exploit it to the fullest.

"I rule through fear. People follow me because I have subdued them with my strength. There is no loyalty. My men are like a pack of wild dogs, waiting to tear me apart at the first sign of weakness. You, on the other hand, have won the respect of your companions, their love even. The people out there are not fighting for the Drunkard Prince. They are fighting for you. You are their center."

Would these honeyed words be enough? Could he twist the son of Luther's morality for his own ends? The young swordsman did not answer. Was victory his? There was only one way to find out. Walking out of easy reach of his swords, he extended his hand to the Guardian.

The son of Luther did not take Randwulf's hand. Instead he bowed his head and spoke in a low voice.

Randwulf frowned. "I have no use for Imperial, boy. Neither of us are patricians, now are we?"

The boy was more stubborn than he thought, but Randwulf was not about to give up. If anyone could be made to see the grand scope of his plan, surely it was him. Surely he would realize that Randwulf was right and embrace him.

"Our ancestors were tricked into being nothing more than the wielders of magical tools rather than becoming true masters of the elements. Because we are trained to rely on the Gems, we never learn about our true powers. I seek to end this. I have tapped into the hidden power within myself to master the very technique the warlock used to create me. I will unite all eight bloodlines into single being of untold power. This power is ours by right."

The son of Luther raised his head to meet Randwulf eye-to-eye. In his glare was the same resolve he came with, the resolve to undo the Conqueror and all he had built.

Randwulf sighed. What a disappointment. Perhaps his vision was simply too great for mere mortals. A pity.

It was such a waste, such a needless waste. Together they could have been unstoppable, but now he would have another will to subdue. It would take energy better spent elsewhere, but there was no other choice left.

Even though he had only given himself a brief moment to reflect on the thought, it was a moment's lapse that he could not afford with an opponent like the son of Luther. Even in his weakened state, he was not to be underestimated and Randwulf paid the price for not attacking right away.

The son of Luther was clutching at his chest. Randwulf felt a strange new energy, not from the Gems and not the Guardian's element. Before he could react, a stone shaft burst from the floor and thrust his body into the wall. Were it not for his armor, his chest could have easily been smashed in.

Almost as Randwulf hit the wall, a row of stone pillars rose up and struck the ceiling, separating the Conqueror from his quarry. Randwulf hung there pinned to the wall and despite the consequences of the previous lapse, he took another moment to appreciate the turn of events. It seemed that he was not the only one who had expanded his reach beyond the powers of the Elemental Knights. Interesting.

Wielding his sword, he smashed through the shaft pinning him to the wall. Upon landing, he winced just a little. That attack had a little more bite than he would have expected. Looking up at the ceiling, he saw that the throne room had suffered too much damage during the fight and would not hold up if he recklessly smashed the pillars raised by the Guardian. It was no serious impediment, but he could afford to give the son of Luther the chance to catch his breath. Indeed, he could use a little rest himself. After all, he was not as young as he used to be. At least not for the moment.

Shadowstryke only shook his head.

Even before his fall, Shadowblight's pride had been a fragile thing easily bruised. Had he eyes left in his withered skull, he would have glowered fiercely at the wizard's retort.

It was a fine question, one that undermined all Shadowblight's posturing. Before he could assert that he was simply playing with his opponent, prolonging the well-deserved torment, a shock washed over him. It was a warning. Two powers were coming together, powers that were not meant to draw close to one another. They could only be joining with one purpose in mind.

In want for a distraction, Shadowblight raised his arms and began to channel energy into a massive orb. Then, with a scornful smile, he told his rival, "Here, see if you can save your precious little puppet."

The warlock then cast the gigantic orb down to the earth, bearing down on Darkwall's keep. It was the last thing anyone would expect him to do. All the better. Yes, he might lose Randwulf in the exchange, but he was always replaceable. There were more important things at stake.

As he predicted, Shadowstryke immediately went to stop, divert or at least lessen the impact of the warlock's attack. That gave Shadowblight the freedom to tend to more urgent matters. If he was too late, years of work would be for naught. He could not let that happen. Indeed, he would not let them get away so easily.

He was lying on a wide bed in a bare-looking room. He was stripped of all his gear and shackled at the wrists and ankles. Rather than chaining him to the bed posts, which he could probably break off with little effort, the chains ran under the bed, making it far more difficult to break free.

Sitting at a boudoir a short distance from the bed was the owner of the voice, a tall middle-aged with a proud bearing and long black hair that showed a few stray hints of silver.

Struggling fruitlessly against his restraints, the Prince growled, "What is this? What's going on here?"

Instead of answering Edward's questions, the woman cradled a massive sword, much like Edward's own, gently stroking its wide blade.

Edward could hardly believe what he was hearing. Did his eyes deceive him?

How did this woman come to possess his father's sword, the celebrated blade of the Mountain Kings?

Edward spat. "I have no business with that dog's wench. Release me at once. I command you."

Contemptuously, the woman asked him, "By what authority, little princeling? Unless you have sworn fealty to His Majesty, you have no rank here. Bold of a mere commoner to make demands on the grounds of Darkwall itself."

Edward's pride would not suffer to be called a commoner. The blood immediately rushing to his head, he howled, "You wench! Be thankful for these chains!"

Not intimidated in the slightest by his howling or the furious rattling of his chains, the woman replied simply, "I am. After all, it was my order that brought you here. Once that boor Cadmus decided to disobey His Majesty, I could not risk the Drunkard Prince getting slain and made into a martyr, though I daresay you would profit more from being dead than alive."

Though Edward was doing everything in his power to heap scorn in the impudent woman, she met him measure for measure, her own subtler brand of contempt arguably the more potent.

Edward rolled his eyes. "I'm so sure you could've stopped us with a dozen chambermaids."

The woman held her chin as if she was seriously considering the option and said, "Perhaps I should have tried that."

Edward had had enough.

The woman looked down on the blade fondly and gave it another loving stroke. "A lady ought to know about her wedding present."

The woman glared at him. "Your opinion would mean more if you had the decency to die back then." She looked wistfully into the distance. "Ah, it makes for a pretty picture. Father and son, cut down on the field of battle in their valiant struggle against the barbarian hordes. The stuff of legends." Once again casting her damning gaze on the Prince, she continued, "Instead we have a coward who fled, sinking into a pathetic life of drinking and whoring and foolery. The Drunkard Prince, no, the Clown Prince."

Even with her prior display of impudence towards him, she had taken it even farther, to far to suffer any longer.

Unable to break free and make good on his threat, Edward was unable to redress the latest insult. It only succeeded in making the woman regard him with even greater scorn, if such a thing was possible.

On top of her impudence and insults, this presumptuousness was especially grating on the Prince's nerves. She did not know him and had no right to pretend she did. He promptly told her as much.

Why was the woman bringing that name into it? It was no secret that his elder sister was named Edytha, so it did little good to feign ignorance. Perhaps she was trying to tarnish his sister's good name to taunt him further. She would likely continue whether he said anything or not, and he would rather have a word in first.

The woman shook her head. "She did not die. No, she was taken alive when the Marauders stormed Greystone. The daughter of King Edgar, his firstborn child. A kingly gift, much like this sword."

The woman looked him dead in the eyes and Edward saw it. Oh, how he wished he did not see it, but there was no denying it. Yes, twenty years had passed, but how did he not see it sooner?

The woman smiled. "Finally you see it, my dear brother. Any words of gratitude for your sister for saving your wretched life?"

Once the immediate shock had worn off, Edward was filled with a new anger toward the woman he once knew as his sister. Rather than dying with honor, she chose to live in disgrace. And she dared to call his life wretched?

Indignantly, Edytha snapped back, "I accepted my lot in life. I took responsibility for what I had become. What have you done? Twenty years of drowning yourself in ale, rampaging like a mad bull whenever liquid courage rallied your little band of drunken failures. You have done nothing but heap shame on Father's name and the memory of our hallowed ancestors. When you face them on the other side, how do you intend to justify your place in their company?"

Now this was a question he could answer with pride. His chest swelling, he replied, "Here, now. The deeds of this day will earn me my place among our ancestors."

Mockingly, Edytha asked, "How? Lying chained to your sister's marriage bed while better men fight and die?"

Edward did not let her get the better of him, not this time.

Dismissive as ever, his sister replied, "If you think you are the one who cobbled together that band of rebels, you are a more of a fool than I thought. If it was something you could have done, it would not have taken twenty years. Rather than finding yourself here in the heart of Darkwall, you would be passed out in a tavern somewhere if it were not for the son of Luther."

Touching that rawest of raw nerves, Edward lost his cool once more.

Edward felt a chill.

The Prince was talking more to himself than to Edytha. His sister seemed to be amused by this, all too eager to exploit the weak spot she had exposed.

Each of the questions weighed heavily on him, but Edytha did not stop.

Edward cursed the snake of a woman before him, masquerading in the skin of his late sister. He cursed the son of Luther for plotting against him from the start. Most of all, he cursed himself for letting all this happen. After twenty years of yearning for the Crown, it never seemed so far away.

The blast that destroyed the keep threw the castle ground into total chaos. Billowing smoke and scattered rubble put both sides in disarray. Stefan cursed his luck. He was probably dead and now there would be no reckoning. It was the main reason the fighter was inflicting more pain than necessary to dispatch his enemies. Someone had to pay, even if it would never be enough.

While Stefan was busy hunting down the next victim to fall to his arts, he found himself in a somewhat open area. There he saw the desert man Tariq. Although the desert man's face was covered, he was no doubt scowling. The feeling was mutual.

Deigning to reply in kind, Stefan said, "Neither are you, but surely we can make do." He cracked his knuckles. "I've been left wanting for a challenge. I'll let you decide whether we use magic or not."

The desert man settled into his stance. It appeared that it was going to be a contest of wills to determine who was the more impatient, who would risk making the first move. This was not the case. It was mere deception, masking his preparation to spring forward. The sudden charge no doubt caught many other opponents unaware, but Stefan's reflexes were too sharp for him to be taken off his guard so easily.

Tariq brought his blade down in a diagonal slash—which was dodged with little effort—then turned his wrist to make a quick horizontal slice. Stefan jumped back, giving Tariq enough time to bring his sword up for an overhead chop. The fighter rushed in, catching the blade in his hands before the desert man could throw his weight into the swing. Tariq struggled to follow through in spite of the interference. When that got him nowhere, he drew the dagger at his waist and swiped across Stefan's chest.

The cut only succeeded in making the fighter angry. He fiercely kicked the desert man's side and, while he was off-balance, tried to wrench the sword out of his hand. Tariq did not surrender his weapon easily and tried to stab Stefan in the arm, forcing the fighter to break and jump back. Taking advantage of the distance between them, Tariq quickly slashed with sword and dagger, but Stefan was faster, even finding an opening to deliver a solid punch to Tariq's face.

Stefan got in close, trapping Tariq's arms with his own, and then threw all the weight he could into a headbutt that was sure to break the desert man's nose. He struck again for good measure, but when he went in for a third, Tariq met him with a headbutt of his own. Hitting forehead-to-forehead hurt both of them about equally, but somehow Tariq had the presence of mind to fall onto his back and throw Stefan off him.

Stefan scrambled to his feet and charged at the desert man to hit him before he could get up. Only he was already on his feet. With his sword turned down, he held up a hand to stop Stefan's charge.

More because he was taken off-guard than anything else, Stefan stopped.

Stefan balked at the idea. "If you weren't prepared to fight, you never should've challenged me."

The fighter was not about let him go so easily.

Before Stefan could stop him, Tariq raised his sword and a sudden rush of smoke-filled air swept between them, too intense for the fighter to simply charge forward. By the time it died down enough for the smoke to clear, Tariq was gone.

Stefan spat at the ground contemptuously. "Damn coward. Just like him..."

At first, it looked like Norbert had been knocked out, but he had merely fainted and was roused by a light tapping on the cheek. The old servant looked rather disoriented, but not much worse for wear, at least as far as Mark could tell with so little light.

By the looks of it, Claudius was more or less unharmed as well. Mark took a moment to assess his surroundings. The keep was sturdily built, but it had suffered a critical blow. The swordsman could sense the powerful magic that still clung to the broken stone. As the wizard would never do such a thing, that only left the warlock, but why?

Mark was not especially eager to respond. What would he say? No doubt the Conqueror wanted to continue their duel. He was in no position to fight now. He had to get Claudius and Norbert out of harm's way.

Randwulf's voice cried again, "Answer me!"

Randwulf laughed. "You risk your life to spare your enemy's heir... You must have driven the Drunkard Prince mad. The keep will not last much longer. Damn that conjurer and his meddling!"

As if to emphasize his point, the rubble overhead shifted noticeably. Indeed, there was not much time, but what to do? Mark wondered if the same earthen pillars he was using to support the remnants of the ceiling would be strong enough to lift the overhead rubble up off them and open up an escape route. Unlikely. And the walls would probably just collapse in the exchange. Perhaps he could open up a hole in the ground. Surely the weight of the rubble would not cause the basement levels to cave in, would it?

Whatever he was going to do, he needed to hurry. While he was channeling energy into the Earth Pendant, he heard Randwulf's voice again.

Before Mark could react, he, Claudius and Norbert were enveloped in a stone bubble and thrust forward, tearing through the thick wall of rubble. He then heard a deafening crash. The stone bubble crumbled away, revealing them to be just outside the keep. There was not much left standing.

Although many of the people who had been fighting on the castle grounds were dead, the noise of battle continued to roar, both there and in the distance. Nevertheless, for a little while, everything seemed to go silent. After all Mark had been through to face Randwulf, was that really it?

Siegfried Martel was thankful for all the allies assembled over the course of Prince Edward's travels, but it was the Scotian swordsmen he appreciated most of all. The hastily assembled militia of loyalists consisted entirely of aging veterans and hot-blooded, untried youths. The Scotians, on the other hand, were professional soldiers in their prime, masterful in the sword arts and bold to a fault. Although his pride wanted to believe otherwise, Siegfried knew that without them, the loyalists would not have been able to hold the line against the Marauder advance.

Siegfried had been trained as an infantry swordsman before he was accepted into the Palace Guard, but in the years since the Battle of Greystone, he studied mounted combat and became reasonably adept at fighting on horseback. Though the mounted Allies numbered little more than twoscore, they were nevertheless useful. Cavalry had always been a weakness of the Marauders, after all.

A trumpet call was raised on the enemy side. It was the old call for a cavalry charge. The Guard, of course. They had been holding back up until now, so Siegfried had nearly forgotten about them being mixed in with the Marauders for this battle. The old captain saw the charge coming. They were rushing into the wedge between the two contingents of the Marauders in an attempt to break into the Allied formation. The Allies would not make it so easy.

The order was passed down. Though fighting was pitched on the front line, fresh troops moved in and split the formation where the two Marauder contingents met, where the riders of the Guard were heading. They formed a pocket to allow the Guardsmen in. They would be in for a nasty surprise.

As the Guardsmen plunged into the Allied formation, the men lining the pocket thrust out their spears, creating a wall of sharp points that no horse would dare challenge. Some of the spearmen closed off the pocket so the Guardsmen could not escape. All that was left was to finish them off.

Siegfried was pleased with the result, but there seemed to be too few riders for a charge that was surely meant to break up the stubborn Allied lines. What then?

He saw it before it was too late. Well over a hundred riders coming unannounced to hit the western flank. The first charge had been a decoy.

Siegfried hastily shouted new orders. "Spears, pikes, to the right! Guard the flank! Horsemen, to me! We'll best them at their own game."

The Allied riders mustered around Siegfried while any available spearmen and pikemen moved to outer line of the western flank. A few of the more zealous riders would have gone that moment, but Siegfried stopped them before they could ruin his plan with their impetuousness.

The Guardsmen charged with halberds lowered to plow through the Allies with their crossbowmen fired bolts into the ranks to weaken the defenses. Once the all the Guardsman formation had gotten around the Marauders, Siegfried swung his sword down sharply.

To make up for their inferior numbers, Siegfried had the riders wait until they could strike at the Guardsmen's flank, turning their own tactic against them. If they were Marauders, they might have been quicker to react and adapt to the change in circumstances, but the Guardsmen's lackluster training left them ill-equipped to respond to the turnabout. Even more to the Allies' advantage.

The riders moved in quick, not giving the crossbowmen the time to line up their shots. Fighters on the ground hurried to the riders' aid, lest the Guardsmen pull themselves together enough to overwhelm the greatly outnumbered Allied riders.

Siegfried was in the thick of it until he saw the man leading the Guardsman charge, none other than Captain Terentius himself. That was one he had to take for himself at any cost. After cutting deeply into the neck of the Guardsman he was fighting, Siegfried withdrew from the roiling melee to intercept Terentius, who seemed to be trying to flee.

Siegfried got around in front of Terentius, pointing his sword directly at him. The challenge was issued. Terentius could not possibly decline. Even if he was that much of a coward, he would never be able to command another fighting man for the rest of his days. Whatever motivated him, the Guardsman Captain raised his halberd to meet the challenge.

Like two knights in the lists, they charged at each other. Because he wielded his halberd two-handed, Terentius did not have a significant advantage in reach, which was all the better for Siegfried. The old captain swung widely, striking Terentius' side, but not before his opponent thrust the point of the halberd into Siegfried's gut.

The exchange of blows unhorsed the two of them. For a moment, Siegfried feared he had taken a grievous hurt, but looking down, he only saw a dent in his cuirass. Had the armor been but a little thinner or the thrust more forceful...

Terentius had dropped his halberd when he fell, so he drew the sword at his side the moment he got back on his feet. Siegfried was all the more confident now. Even though the Guardsman Captain was quite a bit younger, the likes of Terentius could not hope to best him in a swordfight.

The Guardsman Captain clumsily parried Siegfried's first swing, but it left him open for a follow-up attack. The old captain sidestepped and slashed downward, cleaving the buckles holding the front and back of his breastplate together. Terentius made an all too hasty swipe at Siegfried's neck, but it was easily dodged. Inverting his sword, Siegfried hooked Terentius' neck with the crossguard and tried to force him to the ground. In a rare display of quick thinking, the Guardsman Captain turned his blade and stabbed at Siegfried. The old captain had to jump back. It was a close call, but it put him right where he wanted to be. Siegfried thrust his sword deep into Terentius' side, just below the arm. He reckoned he skewered the Guardsman Captain's heart, for he fell limp almost instantly.

Taking his boot to the body, Siegfried drew out his blade. The old captain stood triumphant over the new one. He did not waste much time to regard the body of his fallen enemy. He was not worth it.

Siegfried spat on the carcass at his feet. "May the carrion birds claim you, dog."

He was a firm believer that it was best to avoid a fight whenever possible. He was no warrior, and though he had already gotten his hands dirty, he knew his abilities were better used to disrupt the enemy. Taking the scrawny Ignatiy with him, he sought out buildings on the castle grounds that would be particularly helpful to the enemy, like the armories, and set them ablaze.

Shortly after using Ignatiy's bomb contraptions to explode a smithy, Jasper caught sight of a figure he recognized as the so-called Green Bandit Roque. He was not part of the teams that infiltrated the castle, but any help was welcome given how much the odds were stacked against them, even if the Green Bandit's vaunted abilities were questionable at best.

Jasper moved closer to hail Roque when a dagger came flying past him.

It was the thick of battle and someone as inexperienced as Roque was likely to be jittery, so Jasper was not worried too much about the stray dagger. Then a few more flew his way and the Green Bandit rushed at him with a dirk drawn and ready to make a few extra holes in his hide. Jasper drew his own knife to intercept the initial thrust. Up close, it was clear that what Roque had done was no accident. He had every intention of killing Jasper.

Jasper felt the ice shoot through his veins. If that mad dog Svenson were cut loose...

As if reading the thief's mind, Roque grinned evilly. "I just remembered how fond you are of that little nun. What a pity. Then again, she might still be alive if they have not finished sporting with her."

Jasper saw red. He could have flayed alive that grinning devil before him, but any moment wasted on Roque was a moment better spent flying to Teresa's side. He left the hated Green Bandit to whatever business he came for. The thief could always settle the score later. Teresa came first, always first. Perhaps he could warn her in time. He had to try.

The lines of battle had blurred, putting Ally and Marauder in a great bloody mix. Reason to fight all the harder. Breandan felled foemen left and right. His sword sang as it spilled the blood of the enemy.

All was going well until he saw one of his swordsmen struggling against a burly, bearded axeman. Another man came to his aid, but neither lasted long. One was killed outright, but the other was only wounded. Before the axeman could finish him off, Breandan rushed to the man's aid. He intercepted the axeman's wicked-looking weapon and the two exchanged a few blows. The axeman clearly had not expected such a formidable opponent, but rather than being angry or frustrated, he looked delighted.

He spoke Bannish, so Breandan responded in kind.

The axeman was more than happy to oblige.

Breandan recalled the man from yesterday's briefing. Sven Leifson, one of the Five Generals. He appeared every bit the brute he was said to be. Killing him would be a great benefit for the Allied side, not that Breandan would have declined a challenge from even a common foot soldier. He was not expecting a proper duel in the heat of battle, but he would take it all the same.

He held up his sword as he answered the axeman's challenge. "Ah am caad Breandan," he declared, "o' the Hoos o' Bruis, Keing o' the Scots. Ah've cam tae this laund tae repey a debt o' honor. Tae slay a beast leke ye, Ah'm glad fra it."

With the formalities out of the way, the two opponents clashed with a roar from either side. They exchanged a couple blows, but then the axeman changed tactics, hacking away too furiously for Breandan to counter. He was thrown onto the defensive and Breandan knew all too well that once an axeman put a swordsman on the defensive, the swordsman's chances of victory dropped dramatically.

To stop the axeman's onslaught, Breandan gave him a swift kick to the gut. It was not as effective as a blow to an unarmored man, but it connected with enough force to stop him. Before Breandan could retract his foot, Sven gave a quick strike with his axe. The blade cut through Breandan's greaves and stuck in his shinbone. Paying no thought to the pain, not even crying out, Breandan brought down his sword, stabbing right through the axeman's neck and burying the point into the ground.

When the axeman stopped moving, Breandan twisted axe blade out of his leg and leaned heavily on his sword. The pain of his injury was just now hitting him, but it was a small price to pay. With the death of one of the Five Generals, the Allies were one step closer to victory.

Jasper did not get involved in the fighting. It would have only slowed him down. He could not afford even a moment's delay, even though it might already have been too late. He could not think about that now. He could only think about running.

As he ran for the treeline, there were a few more arrows to dodge. Rowanites, Amazons, maybe. A normal person would be hard-pressed to dodge one of their arrows, but Jasper was just a touch faster than any normal person.

More arrows and a couple javelins sent his way as he entered the forest. They would do well not to waste their precious ammunition on him. After all, who in Randwulf's service would possibly dress like him? No time to worry about that now. Hurry. hurry, hurry.

At long last he caught sight of the camp. If there were any benevolent gods in the world, he prayed to them that he was not too late, if only to warn them before the freed Guardsmen attack. He leapt, sailing over the palisades, and scrambled for the hospital tent. Surely she would be there, and there she was. She was standing outside, with one of the wounded Guardsmen near her. It was not too late.

There was no time for finesse. The thief threw himself bodily at the Guardsman, knocking both to the ground. He drew his dagger, intending to finish off the Guardsman before any of his comrades came to join the fray.

Before he could slit the Guardsman's throat, Teresa cried out, "Jasper, wait! Stop!"

Confused, Jasper did stop. The Guardsman offered no resistance, which gave Teresa time to explain.

Jasper breathed a sigh of relief. "Thahnk Gow... Oi woz sew wurri'd."

Realizing he had attacked and nearly killed the very man who saved her life, Jasper got off the Guardsman, helped him to his feet, and sheepishly apologized.

There was a look in the Guardsman's eyes, almost like he regretted the fact that Jasper had not killed him. Maybe it was just the thief's imagination. Whatever the case, he did not get to think about it because Teresa started talking to him.

Jasper scratched his head. "Oi doan reckon thay kin affohd tah," he said. "Thayah owtnumbah'd pritty bedly. Thay kin't beh sendin' peple beck fis wey i' th' middle o' fin's."

Jasper rarely found himself agreeing with clerics, but the monk was right. It was too dangerous and he did not want her to put her life at risk, not when it could be avoided.

Jasper recognized him as the one who spoke with Mark the night before. Tough old goat to go out on the battlefield at his age, and without a weapon to boot.

The one monk from before seemed no happier with this turn of events. "Brother Teofilo! I must protest! Our numbers are diminished as it is. We cannot risk any more of our brethren's lives!"

The friar was not so easily swayed, though. "Our numbers mean nothing if we forget our purpose, Brother Philippus. Our lives are in God's hands. Our time will come when He decides, not a moment sooner and not a moment later."

This seemed to be enough to silence the monk's objections. Teresa, the friar and a few other volunteers went into the hospital tent to gather supplies. While Teresa was loading what she needed, she spared a moment to grab the sleeve of a man patrolling the inside of the tent.

Jasper never failed to be amazed at the change in her whenever she set her mind to the task at hand. She stopped being a timid little mouse and became something greater. Of course, just because she was more assertive in this from did not mean she warranted his protection any less.

Shouldering her medicine bag, Teresa smiled. "Well then, let's go."

Brenok had a remedy, though. He had just the thing to spill blood and pile on fresh corpses. His master was too busy playing with his old friend to utilize all his resources. As the last surviving apprentice, it was Brenok's duty to pick up the slack. At least that would be his excuse.

Not far from the castle gate was a hatch on the ground. Brenok had opened it before, but he had done it from afar and only lured out a few of the master's pets. Now was the time for him to open it wide and loose each and every one of them. They had been cooped up for far too long.

The hatch swung open and it did not take long for the smell of blood to draw them to the surface. Now the real fun would begin. The thought alone was enough for Brenok to smile from ear to ear.

A relatively calm spot had been secured in the rear of the main formation, near the moat. How long that would last was anyone's guess. Drusus and Reinard were already there.

The dour knight simply nodded, seemingly lost in thought. Maybe Reinard was in a more talkative mood.

Ulfson spat on the ground. "Damnation. Did you see what happened to the castle?"

Reinard shook his head. "We don't know. The fighting's too heavy inside to get any information. And now all these hellspawn running around..."

Ulfson could not believe it. They were Randwulf's Marauders, the dreaded wolf-feeders who had crushed two kingdoms. How could this happen? Wild rumors were flying about, military discipline breaking down. They were but a half-step from total chaos.

Speaking of wild rumors...

Unbelievable.

Reinard stared out onto the battlefield. "These rebels are putting up more of a fight than we bargained for."

Reinard's suggestion. The runner had said something about it, but Ulfson did not believe it. In fact, he nearly gutted the runner on suspicion of him being a rebel agent. No Marauder could possibly think it up, after all.

Drusus was stone-faced, unmoved at the thought of what that could mean. "Our reputation counts for little if we are all dead," he said. "Once those monsters are gone, we can regroup and crush the rebels outright. Too many of their number harry us from the forests while we contend with the main force. This will draw them out."

Reinard seemed to be losing his patience. "Don't you get it, Ulfson? Even if we can defeat the rebels and the monsters at the same time, what then? We'll be lucky if even half our numbers survive. Think of how long it will take to train replacements. How will we defend the kingdom until then?"

Defend the kingdom... It was a funny thing when Ulfson thought of it. He was one of the original Marauders, a wild mountain bandit forged into a true warrior under the harsh tutelage of the Wolf of Cygnus. He owed his loyalty to Randwulf alone. The Marauders were his home. And yet, after twenty years, Gladius had become their land and the idea of holding loyalty to a place did not seem so foreign.

Reinard smiled. "Thank you, Ulfson. My man should be meeting with the rebel commander now."

It was madness. The Allies and Marauders were still locked in their bloody combat and all the while the warlock's creations preyed on both sides. The vile Threshers would swarm on formations of men like locusts to a wheat field, and the brutal Red Demons wreaked havoc far and wide, each with the strength of ten men and the fury of the hells' blackest devil.

A change of strategy was called for, and to that end the field commanders assembled to plot their next move. Whatever they did, they needed to do it quickly. Only they were having a difficult time coming to a consensus. Then help came from an unexpected quarter.

One of Siegfried's men approached the assembled commanders with two enemy soldiers in tow. He saluted the old captain and said, "Captain Siegfried, we've got two Marauders here. Came waving the white flag."

Siegfried sneered at the hated Marauders. "Ready to surrender, are they?"

The senior of the two Marauders, a lieutenant by the look of him, asked Siegfried, "Are you the leader of the rebel forces?"

Drawing himself up, the lieutenant said, "I come under the authority of General Reinard of the Spearman Division. As you should already know, the warlock's creations are butchering the men of both sides. It is the General's conclusion that the warlock has betrayed the King. I am here to offer a truce until these monsters are wiped out. Once the monsters are destroyed, we will hold an armistice until contact with Darkwall can be restored."

Incredulously, Siegfried asked, "And how can I trust the Marauders to keep their word?"

Siegfried spat on the ground. "Any man who willingly serves Randwulf has no right to call himself a Gladian."

Desperation broke the lieutenant's composure and he cried out, "Our men are dying, sir, needlessly! What would you have us do!?"

The Marauder was right. Men were dying needlessly. If the Marauders stuck to their word, their combined forces could easily wipe out the hellbeasts and the lull of the armistice would give them time to regroup. If Randwulf had been killed in the attack on the castle, it might be enough to force the Marauders to surrender. It was a chance worth taking.

Siegfried looked at the other field commanders. They knew what he meant to do and nodded in assent. Siegfried then turned to the Marauder lieutenant.

The other Marauder saluted. "Yes, sir."

Sergeant Bertram stepped forward. "Captain, I'll go."

Bertram smiled grimly and said, "If not, I know I'll be properly avenged."

Siegfried saluted Bertram for his courage. "For Gladius."

Proudly, Bertram returned the salute. "For Gladius."

Still, she needed to get to him somehow. It was difficult to rescue someone out of a collapsed building in the middle of a battle, though. She had to thin out the enemy a little more and gather some help.

She did not get far when she had to dodge a body flying at her. She recognized the crumpled heap as one of the volunteers from Watercress, the Sons of Greystone or whatever they called themselves. Looking just ahead, she saw a hulking figure assailed by three or four men. Though armed with spears and javelins, they could not stay clear of the giant's reach, or the reach of the massive club it wielded.

Sonia knew there were no giants on her side, so it had be an enemy, possibly one of the warlock's monstrosities. It pounded one of the men into ground like a tent spike and batted another away like a ragdoll. Sonia rushed to the survivor's aid, sending a couple fireballs ahead of her. The fireballs hit their mark, but to no effect. Was the giant protected by some sort of ward?

The smoke cleared a little and Sonia got a better look at the giant. It was no creation of the warlock at all, but a man. He was huge, at least nine feet tall and rippling with thick muscles. He was bare-chested, sporting intricate tattoos that exuded magical energy, the wards that protected him from her spell, no doubt. His whole right side was plastered with burn scars and long, healed-over cut ran from his waist all the way up to his forehead. It was not quite as horrific a sight as the mangled Tardos they fought in the Wasteland, but the giant was terribly disfigured all the same. Then Sonia remembered who he was from Giles' briefing. He was called Ursus and he was one of Randwulf's special operatives.

Then, all of the sudden, the Gems pulsed, flooding her mind with old memories. She saw the giant as a younger man, before his disfigurement. She saw fireballs fly out and strike him. He burned, but he did not die. Not heeding the pain of his charred flesh, he charged forward. The sword of the Defenders was batted away and from its perspective Sonia saw her father with main gauche in hand. Boosted by the power of the Gems, he leapt higher than any normal man, opening that long gash that ran nearly half the length of the giant's body. It was a grievous cut, but not fatal and not enough to stop the enraged Ursus. All it took was one solid, brutal hit and her father went down, never to rise again.

While Sonia was consumed by the Gems' memories, Ursus seemed to be struck by his own memories of that time. His one eye wide in surprise, he held his head as if the memory was going to burst out of his skull, moaning as it all came back to him.

With that final howl, Ursus charged at Sonia faster than she would ever have expected from the lumbering brute. He brought down his heavy club to crush her then and there, but the fencer was ready for him. She raised her buckler, projecting a blazing red-orange disc to bear the brunt of the blow. Even though the disc hovered a few inches above her buckler, she could feel the clubstrike when it landed. Ursus struck again and again in surprisingly quick succession. The club caught fire and the giant abandoned it, tossing it aside as he delivered a he delivered a sharp kick to the fencer's gut that sent her flying back like a rock skipped across a lake.

The wind knocked out of her, Sonia had to struggle to her feet as the giant came at her. Lighting her rapier, she made a thrust at the giant's belly, but he caught the flaming blade and gave it a quick tug, pulling the fencer into his waiting knee. Her armor did little to lessen the shock, but the pain had just begun. Before she could recover, Ursus took hold of her wrist and yanked her arm, dislocating her shoulder with a loud pop. Sonia could not help but to cry out in pain and drop her rapier. Ursus then lifted her up by that same arm, deaf to her screams as it twisted in his pitiless grip. He silenced her screams with a hard slap, followed by a backhand to the other cheek. Then he did it again. Slap. Backhand. Back and forth.

In spite of all the pain, Sonia mustered the energy to plunge her main gauche into the giant's wrist. He only grunted, but reflex forced him to release her. He stared at his wrist briefly, plucked out the main gauche and tossed it away. Looking down at the fencer contemptuously, he kicked her like a dog. It would have surely spilled her guts were it not for her cuirass. Sonia the Defender was a formidable warrior, but she was only human. With her weapons out of reach and all the damage she had taken, there was not much more she could do. It seemed like the brutal giant would claim another generation of House Leon.

It would not have taken much to finish her off at that point, but Ursus was not content doing something simple like crushing her head underfoot. He went to a dead horse lying nearby and actually managed to lift it, albeit with some difficulty. Because of the considerable weight of the horse, Ursus could only walk slowly. All the din of fighting around her seemed to die away, leaving only the heavy footsteps of the giant.

The fencer was not about to die like this. She saw her rapier nearby. She had to get it. Only her legs were not cooperating. She could not stand, nor even crawl about on her knees. All she could do was pull herself forward with her good arm. All the while, the footsteps drew ever closer.

Just a little bit farther. If she could just get her hand on her rapier, she would have a fighting chance. She would somehow draw on all her power and overwhelm the wards protecting the giant. She would give him the blazing death he so richly deserved.

Closer, closer. Sonia to her rapier. The giant to her.

The hilt was almost within her reach when a booted foot stood in the way. She looked up to see a man with his arm outstretched. She looked back to find Ursus with a throwing axe lodged in his forehead. First the giant's arms gave out, dropping the horse unceremoniously on the ground, then his legs as he fell to his knees. Finally he fell forward, collapsing with a might crash.

Sonia looked back to the man, who in turn looked down at her.

How did he know about that? He did not look old enough to have seen the Battle of Greystone for himself, nor had she seen him in the rebel camp. She would have recognized him with the distinctive purplish scar running under his eyes. That scar...

She remember now. When they were attacked by pirates, she had fought with a man with the exact same scar. Only he was different now, well-groomed with a proper set of clothes and outfitted like a professional soldier with a cuirass, greaves and bracers. He was no longer the ragged pirate, half-crazed like a mad dog. He looked at her in aloof pity, with just the faintest trace of contempt.

The words of the seer Lucius echoed in Sonia's mind.

It was impossible, but there was no other explanation. Could it be? Was it really...

The pirate smiled. "So you remember after all. You were so little when I... left."

It was him. Her brother Leonard. He was supposed to be dead, long dead, but there he was. Alive and well after all these years.

Sonia had to struggle to speak, to ask him, "What... What happened to you?"

"Well, that was not for me. Pirates live by a rather simple code, you see. The strong live to exploit the weak. All I had to do was prove I was one of the strong. I broke free, killed my overseer and five other crewmen before they were able to stop me. Normally an outrage like that would earn a man a quick and painful death, but Captain Bloodeye saw my potential. Of course..." He pointed to his scar. "There was a token punishment for the crewmen I killed."

He looked out into the distance. "Raiding and pillaging is fun and all, but I was born for a greater purpose. It was like I was in a dream these past twenty years, but then someone was kind enough to wake me up. Now here I am."

Leonard walked over to the body of the fallen giant. Stamping down on Ursus' neck, he wrenched his axe free and then hacked off the giant's head. Straightening himself to observe his handiwork, Leonard shook the blood from the axe and then hooked it to his belt.

The memory flashed in Sonia's mind. She was still a small child snuggled next to her cousin when she was woken up by a scream. It was one of the maidservants. Leonard was there and he was holding a knife. She did not understand it at the time, but over the years she came to know what her brother was doing there that night, what he meant to do.

Leonard scowled. "Father was unfit to lead House Leon. If I hadn't failed, he would have come to appreciate what I meant to do. If not for that damned Luther..."

Enraged, Leonard ran up to Sonia and backhanded her. It had taken the greater part of her remaining strength just to get up on her knees and the blow nearly knocked her over, but she was able to hold her ground.

Worked up as he was, Leonard was closer to his old persona of the mad-dog pirate. However, the sight of his battered sister seemed to tug at what little humanity he had left. He calmed himself, letting out a sigh. His face showed some signs of shame at what he had done, but only a little.

Anyone else on any other day would have found themselves knocked flat for saying that to her, but even if she had not been beaten so soundly by the giant, Sonia would never be able to raise a hand to her brother. The unexpected weakness before him, the storm of emotions being reunited with him at last, the threat of what he planned to do, they made her desperate.

Leonard shook his head. "You've let that Aran whelp deceive you, but it's you who will see... in time. Deceived or not, you're still my sister and I'm going to take care of you. Wait here. Once I've finished my business with the Aran whelp, I'll treat your wounds."

Not far from them was the sword of the Defenders, lying where Sonia dropped it. Leonard walked over to it and picked it up. It took a moment, but the Gems responded, flickering faintly but acknowledging him all the same. Sonia did not understand, but Leonard did and was more than happy to explain.

Sonia tried to rise to her feet, but her legs would not cooperate. The pain was so great and her body so weak. She had to stop him, but there was nothing she could do. She could only continue to beg fruitlessly as he disappeared into the haze.

It was too late. It had been too late since that day all those years ago, maybe even before then.

Vincentian hoped to find some of the companions of the son of Luther, to neutralize the only real threat among the enemy's number, but it was difficult to find a mere handful of people amidst this chaos. Then she appeared. The Darkling.

There was plenty going on both within and beyond the castle walls, but all that faded away. The world around the two dhampir vanished, leaving them and them alone. For years they had been here in Darkwall, him above and her below, but ever since they were first separated twenty years ago, not a single word had passed between them. Until now.

Vincentian raised his visor. All he could say was her name.

Absently, he recalled that she liked to call herself 'Adrienne' ever since she became a rebel, debasing her proper name to fit in with her vulgar confederates. It made no difference to him, though. His sister was still his sister, no matter what she chose to call herself.

While he was at a loss for words, she had no trouble coming up with something to say.

Embarrassed and ashamed, Vincentian bowed his head.

The wave of embarrassment passed and Vincentian looked up to meet Adrienne's eyes.

With her dhampir speed, she darted forward, faster than any human could possibly react. Of course, Vincentian was no mere human but a fellow dhampir and every bit her match. Still, he was taken by surprise and it was enough of a lapse for her to get in a good, solid punch that sent him flying back.

Vincentian got up, his jaw mending and the blood drawing back into his mouth as he walked back to Adrienne.

Adrienne crossed her arms. "I guess that'll have to do." Then, quite contrary to her character, a faint smile crossed her lips and she breathed a sigh of relief. "We can finally end this nightmare."

Vincentian removed his helmet, the sword slung across his back and the one strapped to his waist. He unhooked his cape and unbuckled his cuirass, letting it all fall to the ground.

Drawing a silver stiletto from his boot, the Dark Knight looked to Adrienne and asked, "Are you ready?"

Adrienne simply nodded, pulling back her hood and drawing an identical stiletto. For two who so often hid their faces from the world, the time for hiding was over, here at the end. Their eyes met and did not stray as they drew closer. They who had suffered torment beyond anything a common man could imagine or endure, they sought a longed-for release. And they would have it.

Standing at arm's length, both placed their free hand on the other's shoulder while the knifehand drew back, poised and ready for the final strike. They were born together, lived and suffered together, and now they would die together at long last. It would be quick.

Lost in their own world, absorbed in this promised day, their preternaturally keen senses did not avail them, did not warn them of the approaching threat. They did not see or anticipate the heavy blade with its hooked tip as it came cleaving through Vincentian's left arm and Adrienne's right. Ignoring the loss of his own arm, the Dark Knight looked down to see Adrienne's knifehand still gripping the stiletto. His own knifehand was empty. His stiletto stuck out of Adrienne's chest as she fell backward.

Vincentian rushed to her side, crying, "No, Adriana!" Hastily he wrestled her stiletto from the severed hand and held it out to her. "Take it! You have to finish it!"

She did not respond, only staring up at the sky. Vincentian put the knife in her surviving hand, trying to close her fingers around the hilt, but she would not grip it as she needed to.

Tears streamed from her eyes. Curling wisps of smoke rose up as they burned her skin, so much more delicate than his own. Her body stilled and the stiletto fell from her slack hand, never achieving its intended purpose. Vincentian could only stare helplessly as a hateful voice spoke nearby.

In a flush of anger, Vincentian turned to meet the loathsome voice of his father, only to be taken aback by what he saw. His father, Cadmus Martial, with the blood of his own children staining his blade, was no longer the man he was when he set out this morn. Indeed, he was no longer a true living and breathing human. The blood did not pump in his veins. His heart did not beat. He was pale as a corpse with an open wound in his neck and bloodstains running down his armor.

Cadmus sniffed, "Someone got a lucky shot in, but the warlock still honors his pledge to me."

The pledge, that hated pledge. The source of all their family's misfortune.

The Dark Knight glowered at the abomination before him. "And all you had to do was murder your wife and sell your children to that conjurer."

Pointing an accusing finger at his son, Cadmus said, "Your mother would have kept you hiding in the dark your entire life. She was a monster and a disgrace. You should be thankful the warlock saw some value in you two. Because of what I did for you, you were able to surpass the limits of your wretched kind and enjoy a seat of honor in this kingdom. If your sister had not clung her rebellion like a fool, she could have joined us at the top."

The Dark Knight rose to his feet. Ice was in his glare, revenge in his purpose. He would make amends for his years of cowardice. It would end here.

His other arm had long since reattached itself and now it was time for his trusty blade to perform one last service. Cadmus swung at Vincentian, but his father's living death did not make him any faster and the attack was easy to avoid. Vincentian picked up his sword Twilight, raising it just in time to intercept another swing. There would be no holding back. Cadmus stood no chance.

Vincentian smashed through Cadmus' blade on the first stroke and hacked off an arm at the shoulder on the second, taking the other hand with it. Cadmus stared blankly at the stump where his right hand once was when Vincentian thrust the point into his gut, piercing his breastplate as if it were nothing more than copper leaf.

The Dark Knight drew out the blade, shredding the viscera with its serrated edge. Even in his living death, it was more than Cadmus could take. He fell to his knees, but perhaps because he could no longer feel pain, he was able to maintain a defiant front.

Vincentian did not say anything. A sweep of his blade took Cadmus' head, finishing the monster once and for all. After everything that had happened, the death of one of his chief tormentors should have given him some measure of relief, but the victory had an empty feel to it.

A raspy cackle drew Vincentian's attention to the accursed warlock hovering nearby. There was his archenemy, the one who deserved to die above all others.

Vincentian tightened the grip on his sword. The warlock cackled again.

The warlock then glided over to Adrienne's body, inspecting the damage from a distance. He scowled and looked back to Vincentian with those empty sockets of his.

All Vincentian's anger, all his hatred, along with the dark magics bestowed on him by the warlock, he channeled them into his blade. Then, hoisting it like a spear, he hurled it at damnable warlock, hoping to pin his carcass to the ruins of the keep destroyed by his own treachery. If only it were so.

However, with a wave of the warlock's staff, the sword stopped in midair, quivering briefly before bursting into a million pieces. Steel splinters flew at the Dark Knight like little javelins, but the pain was nothing more than a minor distraction compared to the sinking of his heart. In the end, he could do nothing to avenge the years of torture. All his strength was for naught.

Drawing on the true power of the Darkness, the warlock gathered his energy before loosing a purplish bolt of lightning that surged into Vincentian's body, blasting it apart in an explosion of blood, flesh and bone. The warlock cackled again, watching the tiny chunks of flesh try to pull themselves together. Truly a marvel, the deathless killing machine he created.

He did not get to admire the Dark Knight's regeneration for long when a beam raked across the ground, narrowly missing the warlock. He looked up to see his rival waiting for him.

It was just as well. A loose end that needed to be tied up, long overdue.

The thinning of the enemy's ranks would be a relief to any normal man, but not for Stefan. No matter how many Gladian pigs he killed, it would never be enough, but so long as they were there for killing, it would quench, at least in part, his burning thirst for vengeance. Now he did not have even that.

He continued to stalk the grounds, looking for someone, anyone to kill. Of course, even if he did find someone else, there would be little satisfaction in it. So long as his true nemesis was out of reach, it was all rather meaningless.

All of the sudden, Stefan was face-to-face with Brenok. The fighter could not believe he had gotten the drop on him like that. Even with all his witchcraft, for him to hide his presence so completely from someone with Stefan's training...

Surprise quickly melted away in the fires of burning anger.

Normally, that would have been a killing blow, but Stefan's hand simply passed through the illusory Brenok. The apprentice reappeared a short distance away and Stefan lunged forward reflexively, aiming to smash in that grinning face. Another illusion. Brenok kept appearing again and again. Each time Stefan attacked the moment he saw the apprentice, not even attempting to distinguish illusion from the real thing.

After going through a good half-dozen in this fashion, the Brenok Stefan attacked did something different. He dodged, an indication that this one was probably the real thing. Stefan did not relent. Rather he attacked with even greater fury. Aided by his magic, Brenok easily weaved in and out of the blur of kicks and punches.

Holding up his hands in a display of mock surrender, all the while avoiding the fighter's lethal barrage, Brenok addressed Stefan like a schoolboy trying to talk down an angry classmate.

As angry as ever, frustrated that his expert blows were not connecting, and confused at the apparent nonsense he was hearing, Stefan sputtered, "What kind of fool do you take me for, traitor!?"

Brenok ducked to avoid a kick that would have liked to knock his head clean off. "Steady on there. I've never served anyone but myself, so I've betrayed no one."

With that Stefan threw himself at Brenok with even greater intensity than before. It did not avail him any, though. Anger can be useful for a fighter in moderate doses, sharpening his aggression, suppressing softer sentiments that could interfere with decisively felling an opponent. However, too much anger leaves him blind, easy prey for cooler heads. Brenok may not have been a fighter, but he knew that much and Stefan's unbridled rage made his task all the easier.

His voice as steady as ever, the apprentice said, "You're wasting precious energy. And for what? I'm not the one you want and you know it. You may hate me, but you hate him more."

Stefan stopped. Underhanded fiends would have taken advantage of the opening and launched a quick, cowardly strike, but Brenok was in an entirely different class of underhanded fiend, a class far more cunning and sinister. He had Stefan right where he wanted him and grinned broadly as he pressed his advantage.

Stefan gritted his teeth. "I haven't forgotten."

From within his robe, Brenok pulled out a small orb of black crystal on a thin golden chain. Although ten years had passed since he last saw it, Stefan instantly recognized it. A pulse of its power sent a shudder through his whole body. The Hell Pendant. But how?

Brenok swung the Pendant back and forth like a pendulum. Whether he wanted to or not, Stefan could not help being transfixed by it. With each swing, it gave off another pulse that shook the fighter to his core. Although the Omnimancer Kyrios had not been fused with the other Pendant Bearers for long, it was enough to leave a lasting impression. However faint, the power of the Hell Pendant had a hold on him and each pulse of its energy was like a voice in the distance calling out to him, calling him to come closer.

As he swung the Pendant, Brenok spoke in a hypnotic voice. "Focus, Stefan. Focus on your anger, your rage, your hatred. Think of everything that should be yours if not for him. Focus on your hatred for him. Feel your rage, let it take shape. Feel the change in you. Can you feel the change, Stefan? Feel it!"

The Pendant gave off a pulse stronger than the ones that came before it. It felt like an iron hand squeezed Stefan's heart. His mind went blank and the strength left his legs, causing him to fall on his knees. He caught himself before landing face-first in the ground. It had begun.

First it felt like hundreds of thick worms were burrowing under his skin, writhing and twisting at an increasingly frenetic pace. While Stefan screamed in incredible pain, his muscles swelled to twice their normal size, tearing his clothes to tatters. The color drained from his skin, leaving it white as chalk. His hair grew long and thick, like a lion's mane. His jaw stretched out, extending into a short muzzle. His teeth twisted into sharp fangs and his nail grew into black, stubby claws. The whites of his bulging eyes flushed blood-red and the transformation was complete.

Drained from the ordeal, the changed Stefan stared at his clawed hand before touching his face. He screamed anew, this time not in pain but horror. What had happened to him? What had he become?

The creature that was once Stefan turned his head in the direction Brenok was pointed. He sniffed the air, catching the scent of his prey amidst the jumble of other smells. Without another thought, he sprang forward, on the hunt.

Rapt in the delirium of his triumph, Brenok burst out in his maniacal laughter. Everything was crumbling down all around him and he would have it no other way. He would reign as king of the chaos and tragedy of this day.

Reflexively, although in truth he was not so sure, Mark replied. "I'm fine." He looked around, more than a little confused. "What happened?"

It all came back to the swordsman. Randwulf had apparently sacrificed himself to save Mark and Claudius. Mark passed out shortly thereafter. Either he hit his head on the way out or it was an after-effect from when the keep was first hit.

How long had he been out? Being among the rubble had apparently protected the trio from all the fighting, but there was no telling how things were going. He could still hear the noise of battle in the distance, but things seemed rather quiet in the immediate area. He did not know if that was a good sign or not.

Claudius was still unconscious, but this place seemed to be relatively safe. Worried about his companions, Mark picked up his sword and prepared to head out.

Very much afraid for his sake, the old servant grabbed his arm and cried, "You mustn't, my lord! You are hurt! You are in no condition to fight!"

Mark would not be dissuaded. Recognizing Norbert's genuine concern for him, he was firm but gentle in his reply.

Norbert bowed his head. "No, my lord."

Mark smiled. "And may He preserve you as well."

The swordsman had barely stepped away from the rubble when a wind blade flew at him. With his shield lost in the ruins of the keep, Mark was barely able to deflect the attack with his sword. He grabbed the Earth Pendant with his free hand. Its barrier would be the surer defense against any more magical attacks.

Mark knew who was behind the wind blade and soon Tariq the Assassin emerged from the haze blanketing the castle grounds. Their eyes met and Tariq pulled down the mask covering the lower half of his face for the first time. Mark took it as a sign of the gravity of the impending duel.

Mark went into a fighting stance, still gripping the Earth Pendant. The Assassin had been a formidable adversary back in the desert and was not likely to have gotten any weaker between then and now, only this time Mark was already exhausted from fighting Randwulf and still disoriented from being unconscious so long. He was none too sure about his chances, but if he wanted to come to his companions' aid, he would have to go through Tariq first.

Before the duel could commence, Mark saw a hulking figure appear behind the Assassin. At first, he thought it was Edward, but then it did something Edward could not possibly do. With a single swipe of its hand, the figure batted Tariq aside. The Assassin flew into the rubble, his body slamming against one of the larger slabs of masonry. He lay crumpled on the ground, completely still. Mark could not tell whether he was dead or simply unconscious, but he had more pressing concerns.

The figure stepped forward, revealing a twisted corruption of the human form with bulging muscles, sick whitish grey skin, blunt claws, and a shaggy mane. It vaguely resembled the Red Demons Mark had faced before, so he figured it was one of the warlock's creations. Then it did something no conjured beast should be capable of doing. It spoke.

Mark saw something hanging from the creature's neck, a small crystal orb, blue as the open sea. The Water Pendant. His guts tightened as the terrible realization hit him.

The transformed Stefan lumbered toward him, slowly, deliberately, hissing, "Yourrr ffault... Alwaysss yourrr ffault..."

Still reeling from what had become of his friend, Mark's head swam in confusion. How was this his fault?

Stefan continued to walk forward, not stopping. Neither quickening nor slowing his pace. Simply advancing. Mark had to do something, had to bring him back. But first he had to stop him.

Mark's heart sank. After their bitter reunion in Arma, he had hoped for a change in the fighter's heart, prayed for it, done everything he could to show his good will. In spite of his best efforts, it had come to this.

Stefan vehemently and sloppily spat on the ground. "Not ffrriendh... Trraitorrr..."

Mark was not having any of this. He threw down his sword, then drew the knife from his boot and cast it aside as well. He held his arms open, accepting whatever may come.

Stefan stomped the ground angrily. "Pickh it upp! I khan't khill you iff you dhon't ffight!"

Just as Mark expected. No matter how his shape was changed, no matter how bitter his anger and resentment, he still adhered to his code. He was still a man of honor. There was still a chance for Mark to get through to him.

This only made Stefan all the angrier. He furiously tore at the earth, howling in frustration.

With a bestial screech, Stefan charged forward on all fours, kicking up dirt in every direction. Mark had to fight his instincts to not dodge or make a dash for his sword. He still believed Stefan's self-control would win out in the end. Then again, if Mark truly had betrayed his friends by returning to Gladius and if that betrayal had turned Stefan into a monster, then accepting the fighter's wrath was the only way he could take responsibility for his crime.

Stefan launched himself into Mark head-first, hitting the swordsman with all the force of a battering ram, knocking him flat on his back. Pinned to the ground, Mark saw the mad rage in Stefan's wild red eyes and realized that there was no hope of the fighter coming back to his senses. He was lost, and Mark would soon pay the price for losing him.

Stefan opened his jaws wide, baring twin rows of crooked fangs. Out of reflex, Mark shut his eyes, but he quickly corrected himself. He could not turn away at the last minute, Now more than ever, he could not afford to avert his gaze.

He looked back at Stefan to find that he had not moved. Some drool dripped down from his fangs, but that was all. His body was all tensed and ready to strike, but nothing happened. Was this a change of heart? Was Mark's willing sacrifice enough to still the burning hatred within Stefan's heart? Sadly, no. That was not it at all.

Stefan's head suddenly jerked upward and eyes burst into geysers of blood. A choked gurgle was the only sound that escaped as Stefan's limbs went slack and his body fell forward onto Mark. Panicked, Mark rolled Stefan off of him, getting up and shaking the fighter by the shoulders.

It was too late. He was already gone. Despite everything, Mark considered Stefan to be a friend to the very end. He wanted to save the fighter, but he had failed.

Considering how Stefan died, it did not take Mark long to figure out who had dealt the fatal blow. Just then, he heard Catherine's voice echo from the depths of his mind.

Mark was at a loss. He had been in love with Catherine ever since they travelled together to thwart the Omnimancer's ambitions, but so had Stefan. Mark shut himself off from the world for years, and then he left on the eve of Byrn's tragic fall. Stefan, on the other hand, had remained at Catherine's side all these years, leaving only briefly to further his training, all so he could serve her better. However, his faithfulness did not win him the prize he so fervently sought.

Mark knew Catherine did not reciprocate Stefan's feelings and deep down he knew there would come a time when she would have to make her choice clear, but he never wanted it to be like this. He never wanted to trade his life for Stefan's. He had failed his friend and now there was nothing he could do. With the weight of his guilt bearing down on him, the swordsman could not fight back the tears even if he tried.

His sister... Although it was a crime against their ancestors for a woman to wield the hallowed gear of the Defenders, her heart was in the right place and he would forgive her. Taking the side of their family's hated enemy was harder to forgive, but once the Aran was dead, she would see the error of her ways.

The Gems were not telling him much. In time they would recognize him as their rightful master, once he won the contest of wills. In the meantime, even though they resisted him, he could use them to seek out other Elemental Knights. Of course, there was only one Elemental Knight he meant to find.

The reluctant Gems guided Leonard to the man he sought. He had been waiting for this day for far too long. He approached the Aran from behind, identifying him by the glint of the blue gems on his pauldrons. More than that, there was power radiating from the Guardian's gems and resonating with those in the Defender's blade. It was the first time Leonard felt the power of another Elemental Knight. He did not plan for it to last long.

The Aran was kneeling over some grey-skinned monster. What was he doing? Crying? Pathetic. Was that his sword lying in the grass, unreddened after hours of fighting? Worse than pathetic, it was shameful for the one who was supposed to be his archenemy, whose continued existence had tormented him all these years. Was this really the son of that hellbeast Luther? He was more a woman than even Sonia. He was not worthy of a proper duel. Leonard would not even issue the challenge demanded by the Warrior's Code. After all, such a lily-livered man, one who would weep over mere monsters, could not even be called a warrior.

Were it not for the great vengeance to be exacted, the Aran would not even be worthy of dying by the ancestral blade of House Leon. It would be quick. One decisive thrust and six generations of dishonor would be wiped clean. Here, now. At this very moment, he—

A gloved hand clamped on Leonard's mouth as he felt the sharp pain of a knife plunge into his neck. Whoever had taken ahold of him was strong enough to keep him from struggling too much, not that there was much he could have done anyway. It was all so sudden, and he was already starting to feel light-headed. Who on earth could have gotten the better of him?

Through the corner of his eye, he could see the blade sticking out of his neck and the hand that gripped it, still pressing down, trying to dig ever deeper. He saw the red gem at the end of its hilt and recognized the blade, knew its owner. His attacker. His killer. How? Why? How could it end like this? Why did it have to end this way?

His vision dimmed and he felt the blade of his forefathers slip from his fingers. The questions repeated themselves. How? Why? He never heard the answer.

The noise was enough to rouse Mark. He looked at her with a tear-streaked face, without the slightest clue of what had just happened or what had nearly happened. He could never know. He was the sort who would blame himself for the rest of his life. That was her burden.

Mark looked at her and Sonia knew her face betrayed her. Even beaten bloody as she was, he was perceptive enough to see through all that.

The fencer held up her hand to stop him.

She turned to walk away, but she did not know where she was going. She did not make it far before her legs gave out on her. She fell to her knees. She was in immeasurable pain, but even with the thrashing she had received, the physical pain paled next to the rending of her heart.

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought them back with all her might. She had made vow and she did not intend to break it, not even now.

The memory came back to her. She had just started her training under Killian. Fencing is no easy art, especially for a mere child. When she received her first serious injury, she bawled up a storm, but her master was having none of it.

If anything, this only made her cry all the more. Killian's demeanor softened and he got down on one knee to meet Sonia face-to-face. He then went to work calming her. It was no mean feat, but he was able to bring her down to quiet sniffling. He placed a hand on her cheek and smiled gently.

Even at that young age, Sonia had a fierce sense of purpose. Wiping away her tears and putting on the bravest face she could muster, she gave her master a firm and decisive nod. Killian grinned, this time not out of kindness to a crying little girl but the pride of a master proud of his disciple.

Remembering her vow only made it harder, but Sonia could not hold it back any longer. She surrendered to despair and the tears burst forth unlike anything she ever knew. She was broken, defeated.

Thinking about whatever had attacked him, he remembered his purpose. Fearing he had missed his chance, he rushed out only to find the man he sought, the Nasrani, not far from where he left him. He was kneeling over the carcass of a hideous beast. Was that the thing that attacked him? Good that it was dead, but what was the Nasrani doing?

It did not matter. There was one thing that needed to happen. One thing only. Tariq threw down his scabbard. The Nasrani's corpse would be the new sheath for his blade.

In a loud voice he shouted, "Nasrani! You will not escape my vengeance while I still draw breath! Pick up your sword and fight!"

The Nasrani did not get up. He just stayed there by the creature's side.

Still nothing. Tariq got closer and saw that the Nasrani was crying, actually shedding tears for the beast. It was unseemly for a warrior to behave so. This was not how the worthy opponent he acknowledged was supposed to act. Though he was a mere infidel, he had to have some measure of pride. Surely that would stir him.

Any man should have met such words with steel, but the Nasrani did not move. Tariq drew closer still.

No answer.

Although he was frustrated and angrier than ever, he noticed that the Nasrani did not have his sword. Tariq walked over to where it lay. He did not touch it with his hand, for the sword of an Elemental Knight was rarely kind to the touch of any save its master. He kicked the sword over to the Nasrani. Even that was dangerous, but fortunately it was not enchanted to harm any unwelcome hands, or feet in Tariq's case. Again the Assassin goaded the Nasrani to take up his sword.

The Nasrani did not pick up the sword. It was more than the Assassin could bear. He held his blade up to the Nasrani's neck, the edge scraping against his jawbone.

Raising his voice enough to be heard, the Nasrani asked, "Hasn't there been enough death for one day?"

Tariq had hoped that the Nasrani would arm himself and end this, but instead he bowed his head and clenched his fists.

His fists quivered as he growled, "No more... No more!"

With that shout, the air erupted in burst of electricity. The Nasrani snatched up his sword and charged at the Assassin. The blast of magic and the sudden explosion of aggression took Tariq off-balance. He only narrowly blocked a forceful swing of the Nasrani's crackling blade. The electricity travelled through Tariq's sword and into his body. The muscles of his arm spasmed and seized, but not so much that he could not block the follow-up.

A new surge of electricity left the Assassin unable to move fast enough. It would have been an easy opening for a killing strike, but the Nasrani loosed another blast of electricity as before, knocking Tariq further back. Lightning bolts sprang from the Nasrani's sword, rending the earth to Tariq's left and right. Next the Nasrani loosed a large orb of electricity right at the Assassin. Tariq used his power to raise a shield, but the orb burst through the barrier and struck him square in the chest. He flew backwards, flopping on the ground briefly in a new wave of spasms. Smoke rose from his body as he struggled to his feet. He felt numb from head to toe, but it was not over yet. The Nasrani was still coming.

The power radiating from the Nasrani was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Was this the same man who refused to face him only moments ago? It was not possible. He was more djinn than man, a shaitan terrible to behold. Yes, that was what it was. He was not human, so how could any mortal hope to prevail against him?

Fighting uncooperative limbs, Tariq loosed a wind blade at the Nasrani, then another. Two swift strokes of the Nasrani's sword and the wind blades were cut apart. Impossible. He was not human. There was no hope of victory.

Terror-stricken, the Assassin no longer thought of avenging his father or upholding his family's honor. With a sweep of his sword, a crosswind rose up to mask his retreat. His mind wholly focused on fleeing, his pride had no chance to compel him to stand and fight. Though his legs were like lead weights, he ran. He ran for all he was worth. He would keep running until he was far beyond the reach of the demon-man. Only then could pride return to assail him for being a coward, but until that time came, he ran.

The warlock laughed scornfully. "Why do you concern yourself with those vermin? They are nothing more than insects."

Shadowstryke shook his head. "I knew you were a lost cause, but I did not realize you were so far gone. I knew you were depraved, but I could not have imagined the depths of your depravity. You leave me with only one choice."

The wizard drew the rusty blade at his hip. Such a simple, unassuming weapon was easy to overlook, but now that it was drawn and awakened, Shadowblight immediately recognized it for what it was.

Red Martyr, the keepsake of their master, Shadowstar. A common sword taken from a long-forgotten battlefield, it had been infused with the great power of the Grandmaster himself, but with that power came a terrible cost.

The wizard flew forward and though the warlock tried to dodge, he could not save himself from the point burying itself deep in his stomach. Flakes of rust fell away as the blade glowed iridescent and electricity arced between the two of them.

Clutching the blade with his skeletal fingers, Shadowblight screamed, "Are you mad!? You will kill us both!"

His face taking on the aspect of an ancient war god, there was no fear or wavering to be found in Shadowstryke. His path was set the moment he drew Red Martyr. No, it had been set all those centuries ago when he fled with the blade in hand in hope of one day confronting the traitor and avenging their fallen brethren.

Whatever powers bestowed on Shadowblight by his dark master, they did not avail him. Betrayal had no hope of conquering loyalty in the end. Self-service fell to self-sacrifice. That was the lesson of Red Martyr as it lit up the sky like a second sun, exploding with a deafening boom like a hundred thunderclaps. In its wake, it left nothing behind. All that remained was the battlefield below and the mortals who struggled there. They would have to find their own path. Whether they rose to glory or succumbed to folly, it would be the choice they made and not the one made for them. Such was the parting gift of the wizard Shadowstryke and the end to the Battle of Darkwall.