A Collision of Fates

Chapter Nine: Night of Regrets

The two wyvern riders crouched at the top of the hill, carefully concealed within a grove of pine trees. Their eyes were sharp and vigilant, following everything that moved. The promontory offered a completely unobstructed view on the valley and the surrounding lands in any direction for miles, giving them total omnipotence over the unsuspecting humans below. But these were the lands no one knew better than them and that was the way it should be. The evening air was cold and still; no winds blew in from the mountains and there was a touch of death in air. Soon the sun would dip below the western peaks and then they would put their plan into action.

They were an odd pair, neither of them at all like the other but deadly in every sense of the word. The one on the left was tall and fit, with a long red mane of hair and a hawk-like face. His thin body allowed him to practically disappear in environments such as these. His companion was comparative in strength if not stronger, with a shorter and stockier build. Though he was far less agile than the tall one and not the ideal wyvern rider his strength made him a nightmare in the field. He was the man who would be surrounded by dozens of axe-hewn carcasses in the aftermath of a battle. His round pig-like face disappeared under a great black beard. Both were dressed in full armor, weapons laid on the ground beside them.

The stocky one spoke up. "What do you think, Brock?" he asked in his deep, guttural voice. "Should we go on and continue with the planned attack? If we signal the others, we can ready in a matter of minutes."

The one known as Brock shook his head. "No, Garet. We wait for the cover of darkness after we've disposed of their sentries. We lose the advantage of stealth and secrecy if we move in while it's still light out. Moving in now would be incredibly foolish and ill-advised. Our orders were quite clear: we are to wait."

Garet grunted. "Pah. Fine." He paused and looked down at the array of tents at the bottom of the valley. "Are you certain that he's really down there?"

"Of that there appears to be little doubt," Brock replied, not bothering to look over at his companion. "Our spies had allegedly tracked him since Ostia but they've disappeared entirely and we haven't heard from them since. Not that it matters anyway. He was spotted during a battle near the capital yesterday and even before that we spotted him flying through the mountains. Don't you remember? As a traitor he wouldn't dare come back to Bern on his own and it only seems fitting that he would be traveling with Eliwood's army. All we need to do is slip in and subdue him before he even knows what's happening."

"You're brilliant as always, Brock," the other replied. Garet turned and flashed a wicked smile. "And what about that red haired lass he was with? Wouldn't it be nice if we could get our hands on her? She certainly had a regal air about her and I can only imagine what it would be like to get my arms around her!" He rubbed his hands together in delight, anxious to have the opportunity to claim such a prize.

Brock returned the smile. "If the situation allows, we shall do so. It would be a shame to leave such a beautiful girl in the hands of an oath breaker, wouldn't it?"

Garet nodded, quite content with the way things stood. He turned his attention back to their mission. "Any more word from the informant?"

Brock shrugged, turning away again. "Nothing else since he talked with General Adholm yesterday. I suppose he thinks if anything else needs to be done it will be done on our end, not his. In exchange for giving us the deserter's location he was promised that no harm would come to him and the rest of the army." He frowned. "Despite all of this, though, the general still doesn't trust him. I don't trust him either. Why would he betray his army to sell out just one man?"

"It's just like you said Brock," Garet replied. "He doesn't want to be killed tonight or in any other skirmish he may be involved with in Bern. Perhaps he has other motivations as well. Maybe he thought it was better to hand the traitor over to us instead of telling Eliwood about him. He could expect reward in turn for his efforts too."

"Ha! Not likely! His Majesty has better things to do than deal with men who have no affiliation whatsoever to Bern, especially men who so are so willing to betray friends and enemies alike. Bern has no need for such scum. That's why we're here in the first place: to kill a traitor to the crown. This man thinks that he's in control of his own fate, but nothing in this world is certain."

"Come sunset it won't matter."

Brock raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"General Adholm doesn't intend to keep his end of the bargain, does he?"

Brock smiled again, this time broader than before. "You are exactly right, Garet. He doesn't intend to at all."

X

Heath awoke to find a sword blade pressed against his neck. He had dozed off inside his tent after a rigorous spar with Kent that evening, his body sore and stiff in more places than he could count. They had practiced with real weapons as always, only this time they had gone all out and held nothing back. Exhausted to the point of collapse, he had fallen asleep on his cot and had only bothered to remove his breastplate and left his leg armor on. He hadn't told anybody where he was at. Though he hadn't thought about it, doing so had been a mistake. He should have known better. Now, with a sword to his throat, he realized how costly that mistake might become.

The cold metal brought him awake instantly and the grogginess he should have felt upon awaking was not even in evidence. There were two them in his tent, both well armed and heavily armored. The tall one held the blade to his neck and shorter one stood at the foot of his cot. Both wore crimson red armor and on each of their breastplates, brightly colored and immediately recognizable, was the crest of Bern's wyvern riders: the dragon's head with the crossed spears.

Heath's blood turned to ice and his body went rigid. No! This isn't happening! They can't have found me! I've taken so many precautions to stay hidden! This has to be a dream, another one of my nightmares. But he knew that he was lying to himself. He was fully awake and the two men before him were all too real, weapons tangible and faces unmistakable.

He recognized the tall one instantly. The shorter one he couldn't put a name to but the other, the one who held the blade to him, was the one he hated and feared more than any other: the one who had tried to kill him all of those weeks ago and led the hunt against Heath's companions when they had fled Bern. Heath cursed his name.

"Brock."

"Hello, Heath." Brock pulled the sword away and struck Heath on the temple with his right gauntlet. Heath's head snapped back as the metal hit his skull and he thought he heard something crack inside. Lights danced in front of his eyes and he struggled to stay conscious. Blood flowed down his left cheek and he turned his head around to face Brock.

"You will speak only when spoken to, you traitorous bastard!" His eyes flashed with rage and Heath had never heard so much hate in one person's voice. He put the blade back to Heath's throat. "If you speak again or even think about calling for help, I may forget myself and kill you right here and now. You've no idea how long I've been waiting for this moment."

Heath forced himself to stay calm. His pulse quickened. The day he had long feared for the past several weeks had come at last. Bern's wyvern riders had found him. His past had finally caught up to him. All of those days running and trying in vain to remain incognito were wasted. He had planned on staying with Eliwood's army until this conflict was ended and deciding on a course of action from there, hoping he would know what to do when the time came.

But now he was under the arrest of two of Bern's most powerful Wyvern Knights, each of whom was more than a match for Heath on his own. No one would come to find him; no one even knew he was here. He cursed himself for his stubbornness of isolating his tent on the edges of camp. He had no weapons, save for Salvatore that lay the foot of his cot, all but unreachable. A lot of good it did him to have his weapons nearby.

Heath couldn't keep the nervousness from his voice. "H-How d-did you find me? I didn't think that anyone would know where to look for me."

"You know, it's funny you would ask that," Brock replied, walking to the end of Heath's cot and picking up Salvatore. He balanced the lance in both hands, admiring its beauty. "You did the exact opposite of what we thought you might do. We all figured that you were wandering around Lycia somewhere or maybe even going to Etruria or Ilia, trying to blend in and disappear so that we would never find you again. But we never thought that you would actually join up with the Lycian Army; the very same army that was on its on way to Bern to fight the Black Fang! It seems fairly obvious to me. Our informant told us much about you."

Heath's heart sank. Now he understood. They had seen him the other day when he had gone out flying with Priscilla. Had he just followed his original intentions upon joining the army and not to get involved with its members, all of this could have been avoided. But he had let his feelings for Priscilla get in the way of his reason and gone out from under the protective shroud of the army. And look what had happened because of it. But what of this informant? Who had betrayed him? There were several people that were suspicious of him, but surely Brock couldn't mean…

Raven or Hector. It had to have been one of them.

Brock sighed heavily. "Heath…why is it you're with these people? Do you really think you belong here? That you're "one of them"? Don't be absurd! You are a deserter, Heath! You don't belong anywhere! You are the lowest form of life imaginable: an oath breaker, a traitor, a man without honor or dignity. You left behind everything that would ever mean anything in your entire life! You turned your back on us!" He struck Heath with the butt of the lance, bringing the full force of the weapon down on his chest. Heath heard one, maybe two, of his ribs crack and he gasped air, face scrunching up in pain. Blood oozed from the wound and seeped into his clothing, leaving a red stain on his tunic.

"I…only…" He wheezed and took another deep breath. "I fight for the good of this land…so that…no more innocent lives will be pointlessly sacrificed…"

Brock shook his head. "Don't talk like you're one of them! You're not and you never will be. Have you even told them the truth about yourself? What do you suppose they would think if they found out they had a filthy deserter in their mist? I don't imagine they would think too highly of you after that, certainly not that red haired wench you were with the other day."

His companion chuckled. "Hey Brock, do you think that if she knew, she would want to be with a more honorable man? Someone who won't leave her for somebody else? If we can spirit her away tonight, we could force her to do what we wanted and no one would even know!"

Heath became angry. "No! Don't you dare touch her! If you so much as go near Priscilla I'll-"

"You'll do what, Heath?" Brock smirked and put the sword back to his throat. "You are in no position to make death threats, Heath. Besides, she's not the reason we're here in the first place."

Heath swallowed hard. "What is it that you want then, Brock?" He kept his voice firm and steady, though he could not force his body to stop shaking. "Are you here to kill me? If you are, you might as well get it over with. There's nothing I can do to stop you from doing so."

Brock smiled. "Heath, you are such a fool! Oh, I do intend to kill you, make no mistake of that. But just think about things for a moment. Why is it that you've lived this long? Why? There's been a bounty on your head since you fled Bern weeks ago! King Desmond wants you brought back alive. Dead men have no value, after all. His Majesty is gracious enough to let you beg for your life before you get to die. He wants to hear you say why you deserted your country in such an abrupt manner." He looked over at his companion. "What do you think, Garet? Is the king's kindness unwarranted?"

Garet nodded. "I certainly think so. It matters not why Heath left, it only remains that he actually did it. Betrayers and oath breakers have no more reason to live than the livestock that are slaughtered at the end of each season." He strode over and stood next to Brock. "General Murdock is of the same mind. He would rather have you killed on sight rather than see one of his traitorous knights return to the realm alive."

Murdock. Heath shuddered. He had completely forgotten about him. General Murdock, the Wyvern General of Bern, tolerated treason far less than the king did. Murdock had, albeit only for a short while, trained Heath as a wyvern rider before being promoted. Heath respected him, but the general had a terrible temperament when it came to disobeying orders and, in this case, desertion. Death may find him quicker than he thought.

"But there is something that we must know." Brock pulled his sword away again, sheathed it and grabbed Heath by the tunic collar, pulling him off his cot and to eye level with him. "It does matter to us why you deserted Bern. You turned your back on the oaths you swore when you were knighted. You were once one of the most skilled wyvern knights Bern ever had, the strongest in your entire unit! Never once did any of us question your loyalty or even think you would desert us. You were even close to being given command of your own unit! So tell me: why the hell did you leave?"

"You both know perfectly well why," Heath responded, meeting Brock's hard gaze and ignoring the pain in his chest and head. "How soon you forget, Brock. Or is it that you'd rather not recall what happened? Don't you remember the incident that prompted me to leave in the first place? Recall that "uprising" in the country several days before I left Bern. Did you forget that it wasn't an uprising at all but a simple group of unarmed peasants in the countryside? It was a rumor and nothing more. A lie. A lie circulated by your General Adholm, if memory serves me correctly!"

Brock and Garet said nothing, furtively exchanging looks. Heath smiled inwardly. Perhaps these two weren't as tough as they pretended to be. Rough looks and hard voices only got you so far. Only their boasting as wyvern knights showed any strength at all. The true strength of a wyvern rider came from his heart and his selfless desire to help others. From what Heath had seen neither of these men possessed any of those qualities.

"And surely you remember what happened next." Heath had them right where he wanted them, growing more confident now. "The king himself ordered that these so-called rebels be put to death. Every wyvern knight on that frontier was expected to answer the call, including yourselves. Both of you were under orders from General Adholm to kill these people, even after seeing that they had no intention of fighting at all. They literally turned and ran at the sight of us! They were terrified of us. But all you saw were people that had rebelled against the crown and then rained savage death upon these innocents!"

Heath knew he was getting in deeper than he should but he pressed forward anyway. "When my unit tried to stop you, General Adholm condemned us to die for our treason. What's more, he spread the word that we were to hang for slaughtering innocent lives. Just the thought of being publicly humiliated in such a fashion terrified us. We would receive no quarter from the king or forgiveness from the people. With nowhere else to go, we turned our coats and ran while the lot of you received commendation for your actions. We had no other choice."

Heath felt Brock's grip on his tunic lessen slightly. "My unit didn't kill those people. You and your murderous pack of curs did. You know the truth of it as well as I. By telling yourselves these lies for so long you've become convinced that what you think is the truth. You don't even bother to think about how things truly happened. How pathetic. You and your king wrongfully condemn me for the murderous acts that you committed. So you tell me Brock. Who's the real traitor here? From what I can tell, you and Garet-"

"SHUT UP!" Brock had heard enough. He released his grip on Heath's collar and punched him in the face, followed by a kick to Heath's abdomen. Heath doubled over and dropped to the floor, gasping for air and clutching his stomach in pain. His vision blurred and his head spun like a tornado. He couldn't take much more of this. If we was going to have any chance of escaping with his life he would need every ounce of strength he could muster.

Brock glared down at him. "The words of a traitorous knight mean nothing! If you had any recollection of the vows you swore, you would remember that a knight is to follow his liege and lord to the very gates of the abyss. It does not matter what deeds we are ordered to perform. A knight is in no position to question the knowledge of his superiors. Our allegiance to the crown is clearly more important to us than it ever was to you!"

"And if you possessed any shred of common sense you would realize that's a weak argument at best," Heath said, rising shakily to his feet and leaning next to the cot to steady himself. He positioned himself near the pillow at its head. "All I see in you is arrogance and a misguided sense of loyalty to Bern. They say that blind arrogance sows the seeds of its own destruction. Something tells me they were talking about you. You two think yourselves knights. You don't know the meaning of the word. A knight's duty first and foremost is to selflessly serve and protect the people of his country. That I do remember from the day I was knighted. A knight lives and dies by the lance he holds and in service to the people. He is loyal to the king, yes, but only if that king is just in his rule."

Heath rose up to full height and Brock stepped back slightly. "Allegiance is a two edged sword. Both sides must be upheld lest the blade falls asunder. That is why I left. I could not continue to protect a man who put himself before his people. Your king and Bern itself are not what they once were. Your king has committed such atrocities that would make even you question your loyalty, things that go far beyond killing innocent people. The other knights and nobles know this, yet they turn a blind eye to the matter. King Desmond is worthless and nothing more than a thief. He recklessly abuses his power and cares nothing for the people he leads. Bern would be far better off with Prince Zephiel in his stead."

Garet thrust his arm out and wrapped his massive hand around Heath's neck. "You dare insult His Imperial Majesty, maggot? Your king? Men have forfeited their lives for less."

Heath shook his head. "I already told you. King Desmond is longer my king. I've no desire to serve such a man or a country that commits crimes and passes them off with some ridiculous form of justification. Bern is dead to me. I renounced any ties I had to it when I left, taking only Hyperion and my lance with me. It is true: I am a deserter. Nothing more. But I have come to terms with that now and I will no longer further the corruption of Bern's nobility. Kill me if you will, but I will not go quietly back to the capital."

Garet squeezed harder, the veins on his arm popping out, brow furrowed in anger and concentration. Perhaps Heath had said too much and gotten himself in deeper than he could handle. But what needed to said was already said. No further words were necessary. If his two adversaries decided not to kill him here, he would at the very least slip into unconsciousness from Garet's death grip. The result would be the same either way, he supposed.

A shuffling of feet outside of his tent got his attention and his eyes darted toward the front of the tent. Brock and Garet had apparently heard it as well and all three of them froze. They waited for a few more moments and still heard nothing. Whoever was outside the tent was remaining silent, waiting to see how things played out. Maybe it was just the wind, Heath thought.

Then a voice penetrated the silence. "Heath? Are you alright?"

It was Kent. Garet turned his head on the direction of Kent's voice and Heath acted instantly. He reached out and pulled the dagger out from underneath his pillow and thrust it into Garet's neck. Blood spurted forth, spraying the entire tent. The bulky wyvern rider screamed in agony and dropped to the floor, nearly taking Heath with him. Brock was already moving, shielding his eyes against the crimson fountain of blood erupting from his dying companion, fleeing toward the rear of the tent. Leaving the dagger embedded in Garet's throat, Heath charged after Brock as the other dropped Salvatore and fled the tent. But Brock was much faster and was at the forest's edge by the time Heath burst out of the tent.

Brock screamed out to his companions somewhere within the forest. "Commence with the attack! Burn this camp to the ground and find the deserter!" Glancing back at Heath, he smiled and disappeared into the trees.

Realizing there was no help for it, Heath charged back into his tent and retrieved Salvatore. Kent was there then, dressed in full armor and sword unsheathed in his left hand. He recoiled at the sight of Garet writhing around on the floor and looked at Heath in disgust. Heath hastily put on his breastplate and strapped his spare blade to his belt.

"Heath, what's going on?" Kent demanded, still unable to take his eyes off he dying man. "I heard shouting coming from inside your tent and I thought I would come check on you-"

"There's no time!" Heath replied curtly, shoving his way past Kent. "This entire camp is going to be under attack! We have to warn the others!" The two rushed out of the tent in a frenzy, leaving Garet to drown in a pool of his own blood.

They ran as fast as their bodies would allow, encumbered by the weight of their armor and weapons. Heath pulled out the whistle from his pocket and blew into it hard. He hoped that Hyperion would be there in time but the odds were against them. They were too far away from the center of the camp. Heath could already hear screams in the distance and the roars of wyverns rent the air. They were going to be too late. Heath cursed himself once again for setting his tent up in such an isolated location.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Heath and Kent finally rushed into the main camp. The area was complete mayhem. Wyvern knights and soldiers of Eliwood's army alike were everywhere, embroiled in a battle for their very lives. There were dozens of the former, outnumbering the latter at least two to one. Many of tents were ablaze and weapons glinted in the firelight. The heat was immense and clouds of smoke billowed into the air, obscuring the moon and the night sky from view. Upon seeing Heath, several of the dismounted wyvern riders rush him from all sides, charging in recklessly with no concern for their own lives whatsoever.

"Kent! Back-to-back!" He pressed his shoulders against Kent's own and prepared to meet the attack. They came at them all at once, surrounding the two of them in a tightly formed mob. Heath and Kent withstood the rush almost effortlessly, putting the tactics they had practiced in training to good use here. Kent swung his blade with absolute perfection, cutting down three wyvern knights in a matter of seconds. Using Kent as his support, Heath acted as an impenetrable wall, tossing his enemies to the side with Salvatore and impaling them with the spear point once they were vulnerable. They broke against Heath and Kent's defenses like water against solid rock.

But their stand did not last long. A wyvern rider flew down from the smoke screen above them and flew straight into them, forcing Heath to jump to the side. The wyvern's teeth barely missed his unprotected head and Heath could smell the horrible stench on its breath. Kent battled his way past several more enemies before fleeing off into the tents, hoping to draw some of fighting away from Heath and the others.

Heath disposed of the remaining enemies around him and sprinted toward the maelstrom in the center of the camp, hoping Hyperion would find him there in the light of the fire. He stopped dead in his tracks, however, when a wyvern rider dove out of the smokescreen in front of him and flew directly towards him.

It was Brock. His red mane of hair was unmistakable even among the dozens of riders around him. His wyvern was bigger than any Heath had ever seen, with jet black scales and aptly named Obsidian. Lance lifted in his right hand, Brock glided over the soldiers fighting below him and directed Obsidian lower, skimming just above the ground.

Heath panicked. He back away slightly, holding his lance tightly in both hand. There was nowhere to run. He was stuck out in the open and no place to duck for cover. It would take nothing short of a miracle to dodge Brock's attack, though he may have one chance…

"HYPERION!"

Hyperion burst out of the smoke to Brock's left and slammed into Brock's wyvern with a thunderous crash. Hyperion was far smaller than Obsidian but just as strong and the impact threw Brock from his saddle and sent the wyvern rider tumbling to the ground, lance coming free of his hand. Heath rushed forward, anxious to take advantage of the situation. Hyperion struggled fiercely with Obsidian, claws slashing and jaws snapping angrily. The two fell into the fiery inferno of a nearby tent and rolled into the forest beyond, tree limbs snapping apart as they did.

Already Brock was back on his feet and drawn the broadsword strapped across his back. Instead of remaining in the same spot, he charged at Heath, screaming wildly. He brought the blade down on Salvatore and Heath blocked the blow with the shaft of the lance.

"Heath! I am going to kill you for what you have done!" Hatred flashed in Brock's eyes and he struck time and again, each blow more aggressive than the one before it. Heath was forced to draw the sword at his belt to block the strikes. "I've killed every single one of your companions and now you will be next! Garet's death is on your head! Since that is the case, allow me to remove it for you!"

He swung the broadsword at Heath's neck with stunning quickness but Heath was faster still. He ducked away from the blow and swung his own sword out, a diagonal upper cut that slashed open Brock's unprotected abdomen. The steel blade ripped through flesh and bone and the wyvern rider fell back, clutching his stomach as blood flowed freely from the wound. The broadsword fell to the ground and Brock dropped to his knees.

"Ha…ha…I've lost." Brock gasped, coughing up blood as Heath stepped forward. "I suppose this is my judgment for…my complicity…in this evil." He looked up at Heath. "I never thought I would die by your hands, Heath. You were the greatest out of all of us and when you turned traitor I didn't know what to think. I hunted you for weeks, just wanting to hear you say why you deserted Bern before you got to die. Garet and I thought we could force you to change your opinion of the king before we took you back to the capital. The thought never entered out minds that your convictions were so strong you would kill us before even listening to us." He forced a weak laugh. "Ah, what a severe miscalculation we made…"

Heath shook his head. "Brock, if you had truly thought about why I left then maybe you would not have branded me a deserter in the first place or even hunted me down. My companions and I were never the ones truly at fault. As with Garet, you deserve nothing more than slow and agonizing death. But you have shown that you possess some of the honor that befits a wyvern knight of Bern. So as my last act of compassion, I will make your death a swift and merciful one. Have you any final words?" He raised his lance.

"She's dead because of you."

Heath frowned. "What do you mean? Who are you talking about?"

Brock closed his eyes and smiled. "It's ironic, really. You tried so hard to protect yourself and the others around you and yet you're the reason it's happened. You thought to protect them by not telling them your secret, only wanting to save them from yourself. In the end it didn't matter."

Brock opened his eyes. "I'm talking about that girl you're always with. Priscilla, was it? I found her in her tent. I held a knife to her and tried to take her but she wouldn't have any of it. Tough girl, that one. She struggled and tried to run and call for help. Deciding it was more trouble than it was worth, I ran that dagger through her body and fled. I knew she was important to you, Heath. You told me that much earlier. You stole Garet from me, so I thought what better way to punish you than to take the life of the one you loved?"

"NO!" Heath thrust the lance down through Brock's chest, just under the breastplate. The other man let out a scream that sent chills down Heath's spine. The spear point protruded from Brock's back and was shining in the firelight. Brock's face was turned toward the sky, mouth still agape, eyes hollow and lifeless. Heath held the weapon in place for a few more moments before pulling it away. Brock's corpse crumpled to the ground and did not move again. At last, any ties he held to Bern were severed.

Remembering Brock's final words, his thoughts turned abruptly. Priscilla!

He rushed through main camp, straining his already exhausted muscles. Heath began to tire after only a few moments but kept going, spurred on by his fear and determination. He vaulted over bodies and around supply wagons and tents. The battle appeared to be over, the remaining wyvern riders in full retreat. People gave him strange looks as he ran past, wondering why he was in such a hurry. Everywhere he went the destruction was terrible. Almost everything had been destroyed or incinerated by the fires. Tents lay in ruins and bodies littered the ground, the latter which he could not tell if they belonged to his army or Bern's.

This is entirely my fault, Heath thought in dismay. Everything that's happened is all due to my foolishness and selfishness. Please, don't let Priscilla be the one to pay for all of this! He finally emerged into the clearing where Priscilla's tent was at, his eyes searching frantically.

At first, he didn't see anything. The fires here had already burned themselves out and the entire area was covered in darkness. These tents hadn't been entirely destroyed, the fires extinguished before they could spread. It appeared that this area had been hit first and whoever had been here before was now somewhere else. He couldn't see the outlines of any bodies on the ground and it was very possible Brock had simply been lying to him. Maybe Priscilla was elsewhere at the moment…

Then he saw her. A shift in the wind blew the smoke away to the east and revealed the brightness of the night sky. Priscilla was lying on the ground, body fully illuminated in the moonlight. She was unmoving, curled up next to her tent. Heath rushed to her side and dropped to his knees, throwing Salvatore off to the side.

In one hand she clutched the bloodied dagger that Brock had used to stab to her and in the other she held her Mend staff. Her left side was torn open and her clothes were soaked with blood. Bruises covered her face. Her hands were bloodied and the skin on her knuckles had torn away. She had struggled valiantly to escape with Brock had attacked her, but to avail. Anger boiled from inside of Heath upon seeing her like this, furious that anyone could treat a girl this way. While he was glad Brock was dead and gone, Heath cursed himself for not killing him sooner.

Heath gently turned her over and bent close to her face. Tears welled up in his eyes. "P-Priscilla?" he choked.

She stirred and opened her eyes. Upon seeing him, she smiled. "Sir Heath…I'm glad you found me…I didn't think anyone would come for me."

She was still alive! Heath shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Priscilla! This is all my fault! If I hadn't been such a fool, none of this would have happened. I should have been the only one killed tonight. If I had, you wouldn't have gotten hurt." Taking the dagger from her hand, he carefully lifted her from the ground and held her in his arms. He brushed the hair from her eyes and fought back the urge to cry but already tears were running down his cheeks. A feeling of immense failure washed over him. How could he have let this happen?

"You mustn't say such things, Sir Heath. I'm glad you are unharmed. I wouldn't want you to get to get hurt again while I wasn't around, would I?" She closed her eyes again. "But why did this have to happen? Who was that man in the red armor? He mentioned your name, Sir Heath. Did you know him?"

Heath swallowed. "He…He…" Heath couldn't bring himself to finish. He couldn't bear to tell her. Not now. Not while he had such precious little time left. He had to get her to Serra or Lord Pent before she lost too much blood. Time was against them and if he didn't get Priscilla out here, she would certainly die.

Priscilla reached out to touch Heath's face. Her skin was as cold as ice. "Heath…I…I don't want to die. Please, you mustn't let me die. You promised that you would protect me…"

"I won't let you die, Priscilla. I made a promise to protect you no matter what happened. I intend to keep that promise." He rose to his feet, gently cradling her in his arms. He still held the dagger in his left hand. "I need to get you back to the others, Priscilla. I'll take care of you." Leaving Salvatore on the ground, he turned to head back from where he came.

Heath had taken no more than two steps when he stopped dead in his tracks. Raven and Erk were standing at the edge of clearing, weapons held ready. No one spoke but Heath could tell what they were thinking from the look in their eyes. They saw Priscilla's limp and bloodied form and the red dagger in Heath's hand. Heath was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Heath was about to tell them the truth but Raven's scream cut him short.

"NO! Heath, you craven dastard! What have you done?"