Author's Note: I wrote this after I finished Lord of Distractions. It's also a repost of my writing from nearly a decade ago. Hopefully I didn't miss any typos as I went through it. For obvious reasons, it is completely AU, since it was written long before Diablo3 was released.

Chapter 1

Jaresh huddled down lower in the bushes, doing his best to not shake and give away his location. Close by, he could hear the clanking noise of the golem, hunting through the forest after him. After a few moments, he heard it moving away, and he risked moving a little bit to see.

In a rush, the golem came crashing back towards him, and Jaresh leaped up, dashing away with a squeak. But golems are faster than five-year old boys, and it picked him up by the back of his tunic. "Alright, now you've earned spankings," his father's voice issued from the grille-like mouth.

Jaresh crossed his arms. "Not fair! I just wanna play some more before suppertime!"

As the golem carried the boy back to their house, Tharos' voice chuckled forth. "You have chores that you promised to do this morning, Jaresh. No more time for playing."

Subdued, Jaresh carefully climbed the spikes on the iron golem to perch across the shoulders. Always curious, he played with a reddish shard of stone embedded in the golem's forehead. Before long, the trees fell away behind him, and Tharos, his father, stood outside their cottage on the edge of the village.

As the golem slowed, Jaresh leapt off, landing with a thump in his father's arms. As promised, the necromancer turned his son over and whacked his bottom a few times with the wand. "I told you this morning at breakfast to do your chores on time," Tharos admonished as his son wailed. "Now get inside and help your mother with the cooking."

Enticed by the smells of dinner, the boy bounced inside, pain forgotten. Tharos sighed, looking at the golem. Surprisingly, the shard of Worldstone he picked up at the mountain kept the magic going. It was fortunate for the necromancer and his wife - while they certainly could afford a pair of oxen to plow the fields of their home, the golem was stronger and more dependable.

With a last look towards the setting sun, he turned to go inside. But down the road from the village came Aragon, his face troubled. "Good evening, Aragon," Tharos called out, turning from the door to meet him. "What brings you out this way?"

The farmer wrung his hands, stumbling over his words. "It's the babe," he said. "I think she's caught the fever."

Now Tharos' expression mirrored the other. "Dear angels in Heaven," he muttered. "Let me get my bag from inside, and I'll see if there's anything I can do."

"Th-tharos?" Aragon fought back tears as he stuttered. "If anything should happen to her, will she be in Heaven?"

He clapped a strong hand on the farmer's shoulder. "All children are free of sin, Aragon." Abashed, the man lowered his face. "Don't worry about it too much right now. Go back home, I'll be there quickly."

Tharos went quickly into their two-room cottage. It seemed small, but it was the finest house in the village. Oksana looked up from the fireplace, one hand absently rubbing her swelling belly. "What is it?"

"Another case of fever. Aragon's new babe." He took down the few pouches of medicine, then stopped to stare into the fire for a moment. "I'm not the one who should be doing this, curse it! I'm not an apothecary or a doctor."

She came over, wrapping her arms around him. "You're all this village has, my love. Besides," she smiled, "After defeating Baal, you said you wanted somewhere small and quiet to raise children. Being a healer is hardly the worst thing we could be doing."

"True." He patted her belly, where their second child was growing. "Keep an eye, or a leash, on Jaresh," he said, looking at their son where he carefully cut carrots into the pan.

Sighing, he hefted the bag of herbs and potions, departing into the sunset towards the village.

"But he must return to Kurast!" The messenger barely ducked out of the way as Larzuk lifted the cherry-red iron out of the fire, bringing it around to the anvil.

"No, he doesn't. Rupert runs the new cathedral out here, and the Kurast council can come here if they want." Lifting the massive hammer, he pounded the end into a proper leaf shape for a spearhead. "It's barely half-built, and they want to drag him halfway across the world?"

The messenger ducked as the chisel separated the iron head from the rest of the iron bar, dropping it into the bucket of water to hiss. "They're making him a bishop. His duties won't allow him to remain here."

"Won't allow who to remain here?" Rupert stepped in the door, slapping sawdust from his clothing. He looked up to see the messenger, and frowned. "No. I don't care what the Council says. I'm building this cathedral here, restoring Tristram, and if they don't like it, they can come here and throw me out of the Order of Paladins."

Helpless, the man shrugged. "Sir Rupert, I have to return with you! The Council orders you to become a bishop."

Rupert made an offensive gesture, and Larzuk boomed in laughter as the messenger reddened. "Absolutely not, and that's final. I managed to help defeat the Prime Evils, so no bunch of priests sitting in a gold-decked temple halfway around the world can order me to do anything I don't wish to." Ignoring the protests from the messenger, Rupert stepped over to a table, picking up a wineskin and taking a squirt of the sweet white.

At last, the messenger fell silent, apparently thinking. "Sir Rupert, the Council did expect that you might not wish to obey their orders. If you do not return, they have ordered that all shards of the Worldstone here in Tristram be confiscated and returned to Kurast to be placed into their care."

"What?" Larzuk roared, narrowly missing the man with another red-hot iron bar. "They have no authority here, and no justification to do that either!"

Rupert held up a calming hand, and the barbarian slowly subsided. When he finally spoke, his voice was slow, calm, and chilling. "Go back to Kurast and tell the Council, that if they attempt such an order here, or anywhere my friends and I are, then they have sided with Hell, not Heaven."

Turning, he stalked out of the blacksmith. The messenger fled after him, and Larzuk walked to the door, still holding the cooling piece of metal with his forge tongs. Sure enough, Rupert was climbing the side of their home, where the cages for his carrier pigeons were. As the Council messenger tried to climb the ladder, the paladin irritably kicked it over.

In a few minutes, the first bird winged away into the sky, flying northwest. "Telling Garou and Jezebel first," Larzuk chuckled, before turning back to his forge and reheating the iron. Soon enough, two more birds vanished into the morning sky, to warn the heroes.

When the third bird had flown off, Rupert allowed the messenger to put the ladder back up, and he climbed down. The man was almost deathly pale. "You turned against the Council," he whispered, aghast.

By this time, a fair crowd had gathered to watch their leader square off. "Turned against the Council? Are you daft, man? Do you know anything true about my past with the Council?" Rupert shook his head angrily, and started walking back towards the half-constructed cathedral.

"First they demand I submit to their judgement for breaking paladin custom. This is after I rescue them from the effects of Mephisto's spell. After I prove them wrong, in their own halls of judgement, they grudgingly grant my request to rebuild the cathedral here at Tristram. Now that I've finally got work going, they try to call me back?

"No, no, a thousand times no!" Rupert whirled on the messenger. "Take yourself back out of Tristram, back to Kurast, and tell the Council that they should spend a little more time praying to Hadriel and Gabriel for guidance, and a little less time doing their back-room deals to make the church richer at the expense of the common people!"

With that proclamation, the entire village started ignoring the messenger. He stayed at the building for an hour, with the workers moving around him to raise the massive wooden crossbeams for the cathedral roof. Finally, with an air of defeat, the man left Tristram, climbing back onto his horse and taking the road southwest to Kingsport.

The axe spun through the air, shearing through the deer's neck and embedding itself in the tree trunk. Ron Bars trotted over, pulling free his weapon and carefully lifting the corpse of the animal. "Well?"

Ellonwye sniffed. "I still say that using an axe to hunt game is like using an arrow to shoot flies."

He groaned, tossing the deer over his shoulders. "There is no pleasing you in anything, is there?"

The old woman cackled. "Isn't it a law of the earth, that no mother ever finds a man good enough for her daughter?"

He chuckled, perhaps a little unwillingly. "Perhaps you should meet my parents. I think you would like each other just fine." He leaped over a fallen tree, waiting for the amazon to clamber over it.

Ellonwye chuckled as well. "Well, in your favor, there are many worse men that Erris could have chosen for a mate."

They slowed when they reached the amazon village. The majority of the town was gathered around the open square, and a messenger dressed in the uniform of the Kurast Council, arguing with one of the village elders. "The Council of the Holy Church of Kurast has made this proclamation, and you must abide by it!"

The elder laughed, mockingly. "Your church and council have no influence and no power in our islands. They have no right to demand our pieces of the Worldstone to abuse for their own wealth."

As they argued, Erris moved over to join her husband and her mother. "He showed up a few minutes ago," she said angrily. "Who do they think they are?"

Ron Bars shook his head. "This isn't a good sign," he said. "If they're demanding pieces of the Worldstone here, what demands will they be making on Mount Arreat?"

Erris carefully patted his arm, avoiding the blood dripping from the dead deer. "I don't know. Do you think it's worth it to try travelling?"

Ellonwye sniffed. "This time, daughter, if you demand to go travelling, then I am going with you."

She laughed. "And what does my father think about that?"

The old woman smiled, a twinkle in her eye. "He and I sometimes enjoy some time apart. It is not like you do not plan to return."

Ron Bars shrugged. "I think, before we travel that way, we should send messenger birds to Rupert and Jezebel. They are closer, and probably have a better idea of what is happening."

Ellonwye laughed, watching the messenger being run out of the village by a group of warrior women. "Perhaps your friends have already sent messages here, as well."

The staff smashed against his with a rounding clack, and Garou dropped to his knees. Unfortunately for his student, it was a feint, and as the boy drew back his staff, the druid swept him off his feet. He hit the ground and lost his breath with a whoosh. After giving him a moment to recover, Garou prodded him with the staff. "Learn anything?"

Zared rolled over, glaring. "What's the point of this, anyway? I am a sorcerer. Even if magic isn't as strong without a shard of the Worldstone, I can still stop a simple attacker."

"Not if he hits you first, or with the advantage of surprise," Garou argued back. "Besides, sorcerer though you may be, a shard or two of Worldstone you might have, you still cannot cast an infinite number of spells. Ask Jezebel, you'll see."

Zared grunted irritably, tossing the staff to Garou. "Then why aren't you training me with a useful weapon, like a sword?"

He chuckled as he caught the staff. "Anywhere there's a tree or a large bush, you can get a staff. Now get out of here." Garou stacked the two staves against the wall, and whistled. Dogmeat and Stew came gallivanting inside, their litter of puppies rolling and tumbling along after them.

He gave all of the dogs some attention as he looked outside, gazing down the hill westwards towards the Gulf of Westmarch. Dogmeat licked his face, and one of the puppies yelped as another stepped on her tail. "I'm not sure if founding this school was such a great idea, Dogmeat," he mused. The dog just barked, and Garou chuckled. "Stay here and guard the house," he said, whirling a cloak around his shoulders.

Fall was fast approaching, even here on the coastline. Out in the gulf, he could see the fishing boats returning. Turning his steps towards the stone building, an old keep from ages long past, he rubbed the shard of Worldstone that made up the clasp on his cloak. The keep was where Jezebel had helped found a new, public school of magic.

In theory, the school was a place where practitioners of all branches of magic could meet, discuss how to best continue using magic in a land where only shards of the Worldstone still powered spells, and train apprentices. Unfortunately, the various factions in the school - remnants of the Vizjerei, the Zann Esu, some of the druid tribes, and even a few followers of Rathma, the necromancers - spent more time arguing and backbiting over which group was the most powerful and most deserving of additional shards of Worldstone that could be found, bought, or even stolen.

The two guards at the front gate let him in with respectful nods. Garou barely acknowledged them as he strode past, lost in thought. He and Jezebel had been over this argument several times in the past year, over whether or not to leave the school. Somewhat to his surprise, it was her presence alone that seemed to keep the groups in check and prevent open feuding.

He found the main hall soon enough, and from the sounds of raised voices inside, it was yet another debate. In the middle of the hall was a messenger from Zakarum Church, and the various delegates of the school were arguing heatedly. Finally, Jezebel raised her staff, launching a lightning bolt to bounce off the ceiling.

"Quiet, everyone!" Garou was surprised at the sheer anger in her voice. "I am head of this school, as too many of you are wont to forget." She glared impartially around the room, before returning her gaze to the messenger. "What you ask is simply intolerable. My academy will never acquiesce to such an outrageous demand."

The messenger bowed his head. "Mistress, the Council bade me warn you - if you do not comply with their demands, then they will consider this an act of war, and shall respond accordingly."

One of the Rathman priests rose from his seat, hollow skulls on his necklace making an odd chiming noise. "Given the history of the Zakarum Church, the followers of Rathma would see every shard of Worldstone ground into dust before your church controlled them." Other calls were heard from around the room, mostly supporting the necromancer.

Garou was about to open his mouth and respond, when Munin whirled into the room, flapping across to alight on his shoulder. Tied to his leg was a scrap of parchment. Most of the room fell silent while he read the paper.

Letting it fall to the floor, Garou strode forward. Most of his fellow druids watched him from their table. "Bring this message back to the Council of Kurast - if they persist in such an unreasonable and unwise course of action, they might very well hand the keys to our world over to Baal and his brethren."

As he turned around, the messenger sneered, "You would know so much about that, wouldn't you?"

Calmly, the druid looked back over his shoulder. "I faced down five of the seven leaders of Hell. Moreover, four of my friends who stood by my side feel as I do. This would not be the first time that your church has been misled by demons." He turned again, striding for the exit.

"Traitor!" The shout echoed for several moments in the great hall, and no one moved, watching the reaction of Garou and Jezebel. "Do you truly think it is wise to go against the will of the Church of Zakarum, the messengers for the angels in Heaven?"

To almost everyone's surprise, Garou started laughing, a deep, happy, innocent laugh. "Oh, you poor boy. When you've actually seen an angel or two, and talked to them, then maybe you won't be so proud of that title." Still chuckling, he exited the room, Munin preening on his shoulder.

Some minutes later, Jezebel met him in her office. She took comfort in his embrace, shaking with weariness and exhaustion. "Do you think that the Council would truly be so rash?" she asked him quietly, eyes closed.

He guided her to a chair, tossing his raven towards the cloak rack at the door. "It would not be the first time that a group of humans had followed a truly unwise course with the best of intentions." He stroked her back, kneading away the tension. "That was a message from Tharos. He says that the fever grows in the eastern part of Entsteig. It might soon become an epidemic."

She raised her face worriedly. "Could all this truly be the cause of breaking the Worldstone? The kingdoms of humanity fragmenting, diseases sweeping across the land, and this madness put forth by the church?"

Garou shook his head. "More likely, it is the last attempt by Hell to throw this world into chaos, before magic fades and our world becomes unreachable by both Heaven and Hell." He kissed her gently. "It will pass."

She smiled thinly. "I hope so. Oh, I do hope so." She kissed him again, and a third time. Smiling a little more broadly, she turned, and threw the bolt on the door, leading him over to the cot in one corner.

Sareal stood at the doorway to the cell, staring through the small grate at Maffer Dragonhand. Even after the Compelling Orb had been smashed, the demonic alterations of his body had left the former priest insane. The new Council had gone to some effort to subdue, rather than kill him. Sareal had spent months down here in the caves beneath the temple, listening to the fallen priest rant.

Sometimes it had been incoherent, but occasionally he would catch a few words that sounded sane, or even brilliant. Once he had started writing down those scraps, and putting them together, he had realized the true plan that he was meant to do.

When Tyrael had shattered the Worldstone, pieces flew all over the world, landing all over every land. Even now, the Church was financing great expeditions to cross the Great Ocean to the south, and to the far eastern side of Kehjistan, to discover and bring back what pieces of the valuable stone that they could.

Only a few pieces had not been scattered across the world. Since Baal had begun, if only briefly, his corruption of the Worldstone, Tyrael had taken the corrupted pieces and hidden them around the world. From his research and divinations, Sareal knew there were five pieces, and he had four of them now secured in a vault below these caves. Once he had all five, and enough pieces of the original Worldstone, then his plan could go into effect.

Light flared from around the corner, and the priest turned irritably. "Eminence, are you down here?" a voice quavered from behind the lantern. "Not good for your health to be wandering about down here, you know."

He grunted again. "The blessings of Heaven will protect me, Wulfe. I have nothing to worry about on this mortal earth while I am doing their bidding." He almost turned back to the cell door, but the scaled Maffer had fallen into his half-sleep state.

The old man shrugged his hunched shoulders slowly. "As you say, Eminence. We common folk can't be so risky without the blessings of the angels." He turned back towards the stairs, leading his master back upstairs, into the sunlight.

Several hours later, sometime during the wee hours of the night, Maffer awoke. Howling in fury and fear, he threw himself around the cell, smashing into the walls and tearing at the steel door that barred him from freedom. "Lies," he screamed out, "lies, all lies, he tells through my lips!"

But no one was there to hear him.

The members of the village were gathered around their small graveyard, set into the side of the rocky hillside. Aragon wept, his arms around his two other children. Tharos did not cry, but his face clearly spoke of his own grief and anguish. "Friends, we are gathered here to lay to rest this poor child. She is with the angels in Heaven, and her body now returns to nourish the earth."

His ceremony was a mixture of his own Rathman rites, and the burial customs of the Zakarum church. When he finished speaking, Aragon and his wife lowered the tiny casket into the ground. Chanting the ritual prayer, everyone filed past the grave, throwing a handful of dirt on top, until the wood was completely covered.

Tears still rolling down their face, the family stayed by the grave, quietly accepting the insufficient words of condolences, the only thing their friends could offer over such a tragedy. Soon, the hole was filled, and Oksana put a comforting hand on Aragon's arm, leading the farmer and his family back to their home.

For almost an hour, Tharos stood in the middle of the graveyard, listening quietly to the faint whispers, echoes of the dead. Finally, he turned his eyes to the sky, glaring upwards with grief and anger. "Why?" he whispered.

"It is not something we can change," a familiar voice said from behind him. Tharos turned slowly, to look at Tyrael. "This fever is natural, not demonic."

He spat angrily at the angel, though twenty feet separated them. "What comfort is that to have lost their families?"

"I have no comfort to give, Tharos," he spoke dispassionately. "That is not my job. Their souls are in Heaven, and that is no longer concern of the living."

"Then why are you here, Tyrael?" Tharos glared, absently rubbing the shard of stone on the metal bracelet he wore. "Tell me your reasons and leave us be."

The angel was silent for several moments, turning to look east. "I bring warning to you," he said. "The Zakarum church is being mislead by Belial. The head of the Council believes that he can purify Baal's taint from the Worldstone and put it back together."

Tharos chuckled. "And what business is that of mine?"

"You are marked by Baal's blood." Tharos blanched, rubbing the scar on his arm. "You, and all your friends. To complete the ritual, the Council believes that they must sacrifice all of you."

"They want to bathe the Worldstone in human blood?" He laughed bitterly. "Shouldn't a priest know that would only make the evil more powerful?" Shaking his head sadly, the necromancer turned away, starting to walk down the hillside.

"That's not why I'm here, Tharos," the angel said, halting him. "The Church has gathered four of the five corrupted pieces. If they bring back the fifth piece from the Frozen Sea, then Baal will be able to return to this world."

He stood silently for a moment. "You think the demon will return to our world. And when the magic has faded, remain here."

Tyrael almost smiled then. "If the magic fades, this world will be like poison to angel and demon alike. If Baal returns, he will do everything he can to further corrupt the shards of Worldstone, and to kill every last mortal that he can."

"I understand, Tyrael." He stood for several moments. "I'll write to the others and warn them as well."

"They have already been warned." Suddenly, the angel fell silent. "Prepare yourself," he said, almost angrily. Tharos whirled around in silence, but Tyrael had vanished. In the afternoon air, he heard approaching horses, galloping.

Suddenly afraid, he raced down the hill, moving at his best speed for his home. Luckily, the door was open, Jaresh pulling weeds in the rows of wheat. "Get inside the house!" Tharos shouted, skidding to a stop and almost tripping over the threshold. "Get inside!"

Terrified, the boy dashed inside, huddling in the corner. Oksana looked up with surprise as Tharos suddenly threw open an old chest, that held their armor and weapons from adventuring days. "Hurry, put these on," he said, tossing armor her direction as he struggled into his own armor.

"Tharos, what is it? What's happening?" Struggling with the plate armor, she managed to strap it partially into place around her. She caught her weapons as well, flipping them in her hands before tying the sheaths to her legs.

"Tyrael just showed up to warn me in the graveyard." He lifted out the giant skull, pulling it around his face. "Apparently, the Most Holy Church wants to ritually sacrifice us over the corrupted pieces of Worldstone."

Suddenly, the hoof beats came up to their door and past. Oksana risked a look outside the window. "They must not know exactly where we live," she murmured, tying on a dragonhide sash.

Her husband strapped his shield into place. "Lucky for us. But if we don't hurry, they might just burn the village to the ground." Both prepared, they set off at a jog up the road to the village.

Sure enough, the soldiers had surrounded the village square, dragging people out of their houses to keep them at lance-point. "I won't ask again," their leader shouted angrily, holding a gilded helm under one arm. "Where are the necromancer Tharos and his wife, the assassin Oksana?"

"We're right here," Tharos spoke quietly. Surprised, the soldier yanked his horse around to face them, and two of the soldiers turned as well. "What does the Church of Zakarum want with two peaceful farmers?"

Scorn was etched across the soldier's face, but fear peeked through his eyes. "By the order of the Council of Kurast, you are hereby placed under arrest for treason against the Church." He waved his other hand, and the two soldiers started forward.

"The Council has no jurisdiction here," Tharos said, his voice still quiet. "Take your men, and leave us in peace." Though his spread and empty hands seemed peaceful, his wand was safely tucked away on the inside of his shield. "We wish no fighting here, but we will not leave our home."

Full of sudden anger, the man slammed his helmet into place. "You will return with us, foul necromancer!" Yanking his sword from the saddle, he gave a shout, and all of the soldiers but one turned to confront them.

Oksana snapped her fingers. From the roofs of a dozen homes came a blistering crossfire of lightning, leaping between the metal-armored men. Ghostly spirits shot forth from Tharos' wand as well, ripping insubstantially through them, breaking their spirit.

In less than a minute, only one soldier still stood, his eyes wide in shock. With deliberate care, Tharos lowered the wand at him. "Return to your Council. Tell them that future idiocy is unbecoming of leaders of their stature." With a whispered word, he cursed the soldier, sending him riding away in terror.

The villagers stared at the two warriors, dumbfounded. "What have you done, Tharos?" Aragon whispered.

Closing his eyes sadly, Tharos waved his wand. The ground gaped open briefly, swallowing up the bodies of the fallen. Remarkably, most of the horses were unharmed. "Tyrael appeared to me in the graveyard, and warned me they were coming." With a quick glance at his wife, he continued. "We have to leave now. The Council is being misled by Belial, and we must take up arms again."

He almost turned to go, when Oksana spoke. "Aragon, we cannot take Jaresh with us. Care for him while we are gone, and tell no one outside this village he is anyone except your son." The farmer's eyes widened in shock, but he managed to nod.

Selecting two of the horses, they mounted, and rode slowly to the west. "We should try and meet up with Garou and Jezebel first," she said, loosening the straps on her armor a little bit.

Tharos merely nodded in silence. When the sun set, they were many miles past their village.

Boris snorted as he carefully sliced away a thin peel of wood. Placing it back into the contraption, he tightened the small brass gear the armorer had made for him. Then, with a grunt of muscles, he picked up the giant machine, struggling to move it out into the hallway.

Students flattened themselves against the wall as he went past. Boris stood almost seven feet tall, an anomaly in the Viz-Jaq'taar training school. He could hear students gossiping and snickering behind him, but it had never bothered him.

Soon, he was crossing the courtyard towards the old monastery. It was the only place he could test out his latest invention, and he grinned at the sudden discomfort on the faces of the instructors as he stepped inside with it.

Students scattered as he dragged it up to the line. "Boris, by the blazing circles of Hell, what are you doing now?" Natalya crossed the room, arms crossed.

"I think I have it fixed, Nat," he said cheerfully. Disregarding her shout of protest, he grabbed the handles, and yanked on the triggers. With a roar, the first lightning bolt fired, and the rotating chambers spun about as he cranked them, launching bolt after bolt at the far wall of the cathedral.

Fortunately, the stone wall was almost six feet thick, and had been reinforced numerous times over the life of the school. The constant hammering of bolts threw stone chips everywhere inside the danger zone. When Boris finally stopped cranking, it fell silent, and he patted it with a giant hand affectionately. "I told you, I fixed it."

With a sudden yip, he pulled his hand away from the heated chamber. Holding his hand gingerly, he knelt down to inspect it. "You need to change the traps inside fairly frequently, but otherwise, this is the perfect thing to mow down an army of demons." He nodded sagely, before blowing on his burnt hand.

Natalya gave a scream of anger, throwing her arms in the air. "Boris, how many times have I told you, there will be no army of demons! The Prime Evils were banished back to Hell, and they can't come back into our world."

The giant man shook his head. "Diablo's Soulstone wasn't accounted for. And as long as the shards of Worldstone are around, demons can be brought back." He cocked his head, smiling mockingly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have been sent out last month."

Her lips narrowed as she glared at him. "Fine, there might still be demons, and corruptible mages, around for a while. Why are you still working on these, these," she stuttered for a moment, hunting for the right word, "toys?!"

He drew back a little bit, affronted. "Once the mages are gone, there is no more use for our order. Even now, as magic fades from importance in the world, we have less use for new students." He sniffed, carefully testing the heat on his device before picking it up. "I, for one, am not content to simply sit around here, practicing and practicing for nothing!"

Hefting his contraption again, he stormed out of the cathedral, returning to his workroom.

Early in the morning, shortly before dawn, Rupert crawled out of his bed. Larzuk murmured something sleepily and pulled the fur blanket back over his head. Moving quietly, he dressed in the crisp fall air, slipping outside. By the time the sun had risen, he was already down by the cathedral, measuring out blocks of stone for the base of the walls.

More people came as the morning sun climbed the sky, taking up the tools of construction. He smiled with pride as he looked at the finished skeleton of roof timbers on the cathedral, and the rear of the structure had in fact almost been completed. It was an astonishing amount of work for a scant two years.

Rupert threw himself gladly into the day's work, helping out with kind words as well as muscles. This was what he truly considered to be the work of a paladin - helping out people in need, not just from physical menaces, but also by strengthening their spirits.

Shortly before noon, he looked up as a cawing raven alighted on the top of the frame. Shading his eyes against the sun, he looked up, catching what looked like a scrap of parchment tied to the bird's leg. "Munin?" he called at the bird. Sure enough, it cawed back, dropping down and landing on the pile of bricks nearby.

Hurriedly, Rupert untied the note and read the shorthand. Garou had confirmed his plan. With a heavy heart, he shredded the scrap of paper. "Please, everyone, listen to me," he called out as he stepped up onto a pile of timbers. "The Council in Zakarum is making a grave mistake. Because of this, I need to leave Tristram for a while." He hesitated a moment. "When I leave, all the shards of Worldstone here must go with me."

There were cries of protest from around the construction site and the edge of the village. "Please!" he shouted, and some of the voices subsided. "This is not something I do lightly. When I return, I will bring back as much as I can. But if the Council comes here, they will confiscate it, and you will never see any of it again." He looked around at the people he had come to lead in the last two years.

Everyone looked frustrated, but a few of them broke off into the village. Rupert followed them, going first to the forge. Larzuk stopped his hammering when he came inside. "Well?"

He nodded. "We're going to meet up with Garou and Jezebel. I asked the villagers to give me all the Worldstone. I don't trust the Council," he said.

Larzuk laughed. "And so what if you don't? They don't have power here. And even if they call you a traitor and kick you out, you can start your own stinking Council here, if you must." He clapped a callused hand on Rupert back, before turning back to the forge. "When do we leave?"

Surprised, Rupert looked back at him. "You're coming with me?" Smiling ruefully, he shook his head. "What am I saying, of course you are. If the Council sends warriors here for me, they'll be just as happy to take you back instead."

Larzuk waved the glowing red iron piece as he curled the end for a hinge. "Right you are. Besides, it'll be good to see Ron again." With a sputtering hiss, the metal dropped into the bucket of water, and Larzuk tossed his thick forge apron aside. "Well, let's get moving then."

Between the forge and their house, they collected the dozen shards of Worldstone that the village had to offer. Without them many things would not function, such as the magical spells to purify water or the lifting cranes for the cathedral construction. Still, such things had been done without magic before, and still were in most corners of the world.

Bidding a sad farewell, they set off on the road north to meet with their friends.

Garou sat next to his wife as the leaders of the magical academy discussed their war plans. "I know it is not the most favored plan," the Rathman priest was saying, "but a force of skeletal warriors will make an excellent physical defense of the school. We must have a better plan for defending the ground than hiring a handful of mercenaries and throwing spells around."

"Griez did an excellent job defending Lut Gholein when it was under siege by demons," one of the Vizjerei said in rebuttal. "What makes you think he won't be able to defend this fort?"

"With respect," Jezebel interrupted, "This school is not designed to withstand a siege like Lut Gholein is. Second, while skeletons might provide a temporary bonus as ground forces, these will be Church warriors coming against us. They will be led by paladins."

Quiet, unhappy muttering echoed softly in the room. Finally, one of the other druids stood. "Then your entire plan can be summed up by 'Wait and hope for the best,' and we must abide by this?"

Garou leaned forward. "It's not an easy thing for any of us to swallow. But the alternative, as Tyrael told me, is to allow Baal a chance to return to this world." He stared down the other druid for a moment. "We will have other allies before the church can reach us."

"For now, we must continue to plan, and do what we can to fortify our school." Jezebel looked around the room sternly. "The Church will not have an easy time bringing an army against us here, so far from their stronghold, so time is on our side for the moment." Slowly, the other school leaders began to leave their seats, still discussing plans in dispirited tones.

Once they were gone, Jezebel slumped in her seat, pillowing her head in her arms. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered.

Garou rested his head next to hers. "Life is a difficult thing sometimes, Jezebel," he said quietly. "But look at what you have accomplished. No one else could have brought these groups together at all, let along had them working alongside each other for three years." He stood, pulling her to her feet as well.

Smiling just a little, she nodded, turning back to her office. They had a little time left to plan.

Ron Bars stood happily at the prow of the clipper as she shot through the waves. Ellonwye clutched the rail nearby, uneasy in the rough seas. "What are you so worried about," he called over the wind and the crash of the surf. "Another day and we'll be in Kingsport."

She glared in his direction. "Do not mock me, boy," she chided, looking back over the rail into the sea. "I have spent more time on a ship than you have spent away from your homeland. Things are not right." Indeed, many of the other amazon sailors aboard were ill at ease about the storm and the behavior of the seas.

He frowned, stepping back towards her, sure-footed even in the swells. "What's the matter? What's wrong with the seas?"

Glancing around, Ellonwye gestured him closer and lowered her voice. "You have spent a few years on our isles. Do you remember, three years ago, when the peak of Philios belched liquid fire?"

Remembering the volcanic eruption well, and helping to evacuate one village bare minutes before the lava had arrived, gave even the tough barbarian a shiver. "The seas were rough like this just before it happened, as well. That is why I worry."

A sudden panicked shout from the crow's nest made everyone look up. "Hard to port," he screamed, "turn hard to port!" As the ship started to lurch around, Ron Bars pulled his mother-in-law back from the railing.

Not a moment too soon, either. Just past where they had been came a sudden jet of sulfurous smelling steam. As the ship moved further away, other people moved to the stern of the boat, looking back on the sudden outpouring of steam and lava at the surface of the water.

Once Erris had helped secure a sail, she came over to join them, gazing back at the giant plume of mixed ash and steam. "That's going to be a navigation hazard at night," she said quietly. "Do you think it's something magical?"

Ellonwye scoffed. "Nonsense, girl of mine! The lava comes on its own schedule, not subject to man or magic. Someday, ten generations from now, that place will be an island, though a tiny one." They all stood watching it a moment longer, until it blended into the growing twilight.

Sareal sighed as he let Wulfe take off his ceremonial robes of office. "What a horrid day," he muttered to himself as his manservant undressed him and prepared the bed. "I never dreamed that these men, all of whom fought or fled in the face of Mephisto's power, would still be so cowardly and foolish."

"It's hardly surprising, Eminence," Wulfe said quietly as he fluffed the pillows. "They're scared about taking a risk." As he pulled back the blankets, the priest watched him for a moment.

"Yes, I suppose that's true," he said. "Still, is it really so hard for them to believe that the angels have sent me a sign of how to restore our world?" Stretching, he sighed. "Enough deep thought for the night. Send her in."

Sareal waited in his nightshirt as Wulfe tottered to the door and admitted the girl. Marked on her forehead was the symbol for thievery. It wasn't a permanent mark; that was, it could be removed with a special compound that the Church controlled carefully. "Are you ready to atone for your crimes?"

Her face stoic, she nodded, and began undressing. There were many benefits to being the head of the Council, Sareal thought as she knelt, naked, before him. Many benefits.