Got a long line of heartache
I carry it well
The list of lives I've broken
Reach from here to hell
Back luck wind been blowing at my back
I was born to bring trouble to wherever I'm at
-- Johnny Cash, "Thirteen"

Chapter Ten: Hidden Rocks

Agrias sat on the slope of a hill, bored, picking wildflowers. The sun was angling into her eyes from its position above the western hills but it didn't carry much heat today; for once she was actually glad for all the armor.

Beside her, among the long grass and occasional stubs of boulders, sat everyone else as they whiled away the time. Jasmine and Alicia lay sprawled against a slab of limestone, idly throwing flower petals down the hill. A short distance past them lay Knox and Lavian on their backs in the grass, probably watching the clouds or some such. Rafa sat at Ramza's side where, inexplicably, she'd been ever since he'd killed Malak; neither of them seemed to be talking much. Vector was the only one actually doing anything productive, as he lay on his stomach just short of the hill's crest, watching southward for anyone approaching from that direction.

Sighing, Agrias tossed her current wildflower aside, watched it flutter away in the breeze. "What if he doesn't come this way?"

Three paces away, Ramza twisted to face her. The sun slashing across his face made his pupils very small, and his eyes like polished acorns. "Could you please stop asking that?" Beside him, Rafa smiled at her lap.

Agrias grimaced. "Right. Sorry." The plan was to lay in wait for Vormav to approach, on the assumptions that not only would he accept Barinten's invitation, but that he would already be on the road and would come through their position here in Fovoham. "Even if he does come this way, though, it's not going to be easy. Vormav knows what he's doing. It won't be like fighting... Barinten, or even Wiegraf."

Ramza shrugged, gazing off across the tree-studded valley below them. "What else can we do? If the Shrine Knights control the stones, we'll have to go against them at some point. Best to make it on our terms."

She tugged another wildflower from the ground with perhaps more force than was necessary. "I know. You're right. I just... yeah." Who knows? Maybe the element of surprise will even the odds a bit.

"So get comfortable," advised Ramza, re-folding his legs under himself. "We might be waiting here for a week."

Agrias sighed. "I know. Thanks for reminding me."

Dycedarg rode at ease, controlling Mestorle with his knees alone. Above, a smudge of thin clouds glowed pink with the first fiery salute of the absent sun, leaving the rocky ground below awash with a warm twilight.

Larg rode with him, as did Zalbag on his other side, both men lost to their thoughts. A knot of fifty of the trusted Hokkentai, elite Hokuten shock troops, circled them protectively, and beyond them lay the rest of their attacking army in its entirety. Over a hundred thousand men and chocobos, a martial plague blotting out the barren land near Bethla.

He'd arisen hours before dawn, in the middle of the night, really, and expected to be up until at least that time come next morning. Bethla Garrison lay just two miles to the east, hidden among the fuzzy violet curtain of pre-dawn, and countless men would have to die in and around it before he could rest again. And that included some of the men with him.

At the thought he turned to Larg. The fool was wearing a robe, of all things, sapphire blue, highlighted with crimson and worked in thread-of-gold. He probably had nothing more practical to ride in. "My lord."

Larg jerked his head up, fluffing his pale monk-cut hair, then grinned. "What is it, Dycedarg? Are we in position already?" An idle breeze carried a veil of rocky dust between them.

Already? We've been riding for an hour. "We are. We need to halt here, and after we hear the scouts' reports we can decide which of the battle plans to execute."

"Good. Good." Larg nodded, rubbing silver-lined gloves together. "Let's make this quick. I'm getting a bit of a headache."

There's nothing quick about a battle of this scale, you fool. "Of course. I'll see what I can do."

"So many," murmured Ovelia, frowning in worry. "How many are there?"

Delita smiled to himself. They stood in some officer's study in the heights of Bethla Garrison, though whoever claimed it was absent, doubtless out commanding troops in the field. The study was small and efficiently-organized, with two neat stacks of paper the only features of interest on a modest oak desk, but his attention was focused outside. Out past the wall of arm-thick stone, through windows that were little more than arrowslits. It was just past dawn now; the fortress in which he stood left a long blocky shadow stretching half a mile westward, over rocky hills and valleys and the soldiers and chocobos crawling antlike upon them.

"Do you even know?" continued Ovelia, turning wide brown eyes to him.

"How many Hokuten?" he clarified, pursing his lips. "Almost two hundred thousand, all told, including the support types. Nearly all of what they actually control; they've stripped every fort and city almost bare to produce this." There were considerably more Hokuten present than Nanten, a fact which didn't particularly disturb him. "I doubt you can see even half of them from here, though."

"That's insane," sighed Teta on his other side. "It's like a city."

He directed a smile out the window. "More or less."

"Can you even battle this many?" asked Ovelia in a breathy voice, focusing her gaze back outside.

"Of course. There's a plan." Or, rather, the Shrine Knights had a plan. He just happened to know about it. Without shifting his gaze from the settling army outside he rested a hand on Ovelia's silk-clad shoulder. "Do you remember what to do?"

"Oh, I... yes, of course." She no longer tensed under his touch. "Get Orlandu out of the fortress in the confusion of battle. You can count on me."

"Good." Shifting, he spared her a sidelong glance and found her smiling back at him. "Good. I will." Squeezing her shoulder once, he let his hand drop.

Something poked his other arm. "Hey. I have something for you."

"Hmm?" Turning, he watched as Teta rummaged around through her belt pouch.

Shortly she produced a single flower, something with delicate yellow petals and a bent green stem. "I found this earlier today," she explained, rolling the thing between her fingers, "between some rocks in the courtyard. I guess it got a little smashed in my pouch, but anyway, take it... and be safe today."

Without hesitation he plucked the flower from her fingers and tucked it behind one of his ears. "Safe is for grandmothers and infants," he countered with a grin. "This is a battle."

Teta's face went stony with disapproval. Ovelia stared at her boots.

"But," he continued, "I'm not going to die, if that's what you mean. Thank you."

Ovelia shifted, darting an uncertain glance up at him. Weak grey daylight filtered in through the window to paint her face a more pale hue than it usually was, leaving the rest of her in shadow. "Don't you, um... don't you have to go? You're a commander."

He shrugged. "I command officers, not rank-and-file soldiers. They can handle themselves until I get there... but, as you say, there's no need to keep them waiting. Ladies." Smiling, he swept a bow at the Princess, at his sister, then spun and strode out through the study door. He could feel their eyes on him as he left, concerned, worried eyes, and almost laughed. It would take more than a battle to kill him.

Dycedarg sneezed into a gauntleted fist, then gave his forehead an irritated rub. Larg's whining about headaches had given him one as well.

He had no time to dwell on it, though. Men were fighting, dying, all around in accordance with his plans. At a casual glance it would seem like chaos, with mounted groups of men as small as ten in number chasing one another around over bloodied stone, hoping to outflank men who were in turn trying to outflank others. Like froth in a rapids, like chaos, the storm of battle washed over the entire region around Bethla... but in a rapids, the movement of the water had structure, was governed by the layout of the rocks below it, and so it was today. He was the hidden rocks. His plans governed the chaos.

In truth, he reflected with a sour twist of his lips as he surveyed the unfolding carnage, things weren't perfect, and could never be expected to be. The troops weren't fighting as well as he'd hoped -- there had been more losses than he'd estimated -- but they'd managed to keep their discipline, to keep to the plan. Like a giant clockwork beast the battle ticked towards its preordained conclusion, with shouts and screams and clashing metal in place of musical chimes. Really, the hardest part was enduring the impatience of waiting for it to finish.

"Lord Dycedarg!" A lightly-armored runner approached, white cloak flaring around her ankles, and waved away a swirl of dusty wind. "Captain Blake's having trouble pushing against the Nanten stationed on the northern hill. He's down to twelve thousand men."

Dycedarg's lips twisted again as his eyes slid northward, to the low craggy rise in question, nearly concealed by a swarm of soldiers. "Split off five thousand from Kaplan's reserves and send them his way. And tell him to use them wisely, because they're the last reinforcements he's getting."

The girl offered a brisk nod. "Yes, sir." Turning to go, she coughed and waved once more to dispel the dust in the air. Then she swayed and dropped to her knees before collapsing bonelessly to the ground.

Dycedarg sat bolt upright in his saddle, staring at the fallen girl. His eyes were watering again, his nose tingling in anticipation of another sneeze. Something... something's not right. Another swirl of breeze, carrying with it the dry smell of rock dust, but also something... musty? Mosfungus. Shit.

He stared at the runner a moment longer, heart pounding, before recovering from his shock. "Zalbag!"

The younger man seemed to stir from some introspection, then blinked at the fallen girl before glancing his way. "Brother?"

The wind is coming from... the west? The troops upwind might be healthier. It has to be a plot to weaken us, so the Nanten can sweep out and crush our weakened forces. "Go to our western-most reserves, whoever and wherever they are. Grab them, pull back a bit, and wait for the Nanten to storm out of the fort. When they do, fall on the fort like an avalanche."

Zalbag's noble brow creased in doubt. "Why? What about you?"

Dycedarg thinned his lips. "I need to find Larg. Our plans have to change."

"But what's--"

"Go! I'll explain later!"

Jerking a curt nod, Zalbag sawed on his reins, wheeling Telepassa and bounding off towards the west. A line of dust swirled in his wake before settling or being carried off by the breeze.

Dycedarg watched his brother with narrowed eyes until he'd disappeared among the mass of troops. Good. Now, to find Larg.

Vormav rode across the rocky plains with his temper leashed by a bare thread. Golden sunlight washed brightly over stubborn grasses clinging to thin soil, over wildflowers waving in a constant wind, but if the weather had reflected his mood it would have been raining fire.

Barinten must have the stones. He must. The thought wasn't a new one, but despite its worn welcome it stoked the fires of his irritation anew. I was a fool for letting him leave Murond. He probably had them even then.

"Father?"

What does the Beoulve kid want with him anyway? Probably to kill him and take the stones. That's what I'd do. He scowled, then cleared the expression in a blink. He never let his emotions paint his face. We should reach Riovanes within two days. If those two haven't killed each other by then, I can just clean up whatever's left and recover the stones.

"Father?"

He suppressed a sigh. "What is it, Izlude?"

The young man at his side wore a worried frown, which he directed at the split and weathered rocks under his chocobo's claws. "What's going on with this Ramza guy, anyway? What's he after?" Beyond him, the robed Kletian snorted but kept his silence.

"He's after a quick death and a shallow grave. Now be quiet. I'm thinking."

Izlude rolled his shoulders in irritation but nodded. "Of course. Sorry, Father."

Putting the boy out of his mind, Vormav cleared another scowl and kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Just a couple of days to clean up this distraction, and then he would be back to pursuing the real plan.

"Brother! Where are you?" Zalbag tried not to cough as he stumbled up a rough slope. The dead and dying lay all around, some with wounds, some without, while farther away rang the constant roar of battle, shouting, blades clashing, explosions of magic. Things had gone south quickly with death in the air. "Brother?"

"Up here," came a weak answer from somewhere uphill.

With a grimace Zalbag scaled the incline, muttering curses as loose rocks tumbled away under his boots. At the peak of the miniature hill he found his brother, face pale under the beard, crouching to tend to the fallen form of Larg. Despite the corpses all around neither man wore visible bloodstains; perhaps they'd arrived after battle had swept over this place. "Brother, the reserves are--"

"Just a moment," muttered Dycedarg without moving his head, without taking his eyes off his fallen lord. "How are you doing?"

Larg summoned a smile. "A little... a little weak," he rasped. "But I'm sure I'll recover soon. I've had worse."

"That's a problem." Before Larg could do more than blink, Dycedarg drew his belt knife and slammed it into the other man's chest.

Zalbag froze where he stood, staring open-mouthed at the murder taking place before his eyes. Larg tried to struggle but was too weak; Dycedarg stabbed him again anyway, forcefully enough to lift him momentarily off the rocky ground. Blood bubbled in Larg's throat with every breath, and crimson flecks dotted his lips and chin.

When the man finally slumped, Dycedarg dropped the dagger and did likewise, shoulders rising and falling with his labored breathing. "Plant the dagger in somebody's hand," he instructed in a hoarse mutter. "Nanten, you know. Assassins."

My own brother did that? A Beoulve? Zalbag swallowed and finally found his voice. "What... why did...?"

"Quickly," snapped Dycedarg. "Before somebody shows up to...." He trailed off, scowling at nothing, then collapsed to the ground beside Larg's body.

Shit. Bolting forward, again nearly losing his footing, Zalbag rushed to his brother. Checked for a pulse and found one. Still alive. Thank God. But maybe not for long; the poison, or whatever it was in the air, would be spreading inside him.

"Medic!" Leaping to his feet, Zalbag spun around, scanning the uneven surrounding terrain through veils of wind-blown dust. A detachment of Hokuten had clustered only a few hundred paces away atop a low rise, all staring to the distant north, where swarms of Nanten were busy routing their poisoned enemies. Other groups of his own people dotted the slopes and valleys, some skirmishing with other Nanten, but for now the battle was to the north. "Medic!"

One of the officers below, a woman, turned her head in his direction and then waved an acknowledging hand, likely recognizing his clothes if not his face from that distance. Turning, she spoke quickly to her companions, and then two men in chemists' garb were running along the barren ground in his direction.

Nodding, Zalbag turned and frowned back to the north. By last count, some twenty thousand Nanten were there, butchering his weakened troops, but the last report he'd heard had been over an hour past. Dycedarg had been getting the better information. Dycedarg and Larg.

The thought turned his eyes towards the two fallen men near him, one dead and one not quite. His lips tightened in disapproval, in anger, but he kept his indignation under control. Killing Larg had been a crime, yes -- one of the worst -- but Dycedarg was family. He would have to explain later, but in private. One didn't just turn on family.

But regardless, he reflected, shifting his gaze back northward, it was all moot if the Hokuten lost the day. He'd left Sullivan in charge of the reserves, the healthy troops tasked with taking the fort, but things had changed since then. Drastically. The main Hokuten body was crumbling like rotten wood under a sledgehammer, and it would do no good to capture Bethla only to lose it again in a matter of hours.

With a frustrated snarl, he spun and bolted back down the slope, leaping down pace-high boulders, over the crystallized dead. At the bottom of the craggy peak he turned, angling along the cracked and weathered rock rising beside him, rounding the hill so he could make haste eastward, to the squads he'd seen earlier, who'd dispatched the chemists. He needed a chocobo, and they had the nearest one.

The two men were still jogging in his direction, and now slowed as he approached, clearly confused at his behavior. He preempted their questions by pointing back, towards the top of the hill. "Dycedarg is up there, wounded! Take him to the medical tent, quickly!"

The men's eyes widened at this, but the taller of the two saluted as he bolted past. "Yes, sir!"

With his brother tended to, Zalbag put the chemists out of his mind. He had to reach Sullivan, to pull back the only remaining healthy Hokuten troops before they could dash themselves against the walls of the garrison. Maybe find some masks against the foulness in the air, then turn around and descend on the backs of the Nanten attacking his main body... yes. Yes, that's the plan now. We may not win Bethla, but I won't see us get slaughtered here either.

"How's he doing?"

Kitty squeezed excess water from the pale square of linen in her hand, then lay the folded thing on the sleeping Lord Dycedarg's fever-red forehead. As much sweat as water slicked his pale features, and the heavy crimson blankets pulled tightly to his chin would ensure he stayed that way until the sickness burned itself out. "Stable," she answered, finally glancing up at the diminutive Sophia. "He'll be like this for a few days, at most, but won't get any worse."

Sophia nodded briskly, hands on her hips. Finger-length silvery hair and sky-blue eyes had managed to earn her the hearts of a few of the male medics in the Second Restorative Unit, but with a personality as cold as her eyes, not to mention her recent promotion to lieutenant, none had bothered to approach her. "See that he stays that way."

Kitty smiled. "Of course." What else would I do? Never pass up a chance to issue someone an order, do you?

Sophia nodded again. Turning to the white-and-blue striped tent flaps, she paused and spoke over her shoulder. "I shouldn't even have to say this, but he's a priority patient. If you have to, let other people die to make more time for--"

A sharp gurgling cry outside cut her off. Kitty's hands clenched into alarmed fists at her sides.

With a low curse, Sophia swept the tent flaps open and bolted outside, into orange late-afternoon sunshine and the mayhem of organized murder. Shouts, screams, running men, weapons clashing. When she was gone, the striped flaps settled back into place, blithely presenting the illusion of safety. Sophia's muted voice called desperately for backup, for reinforcements she had to know wouldn't be arriving. Shouting that there were too many, too soon. More screams sounded, some sounding very close, and booted footsteps pounded on rock nearby.

Kitty swallowed, rising to her feet, glancing between the tent entrance and the slumbering noble on the sickbed. She'd removed Dycedarg's armor but he was still a man, still heavy. There'd be no way she could get him out of here, no way to avoid the marauding Nanten and get him to safety. He was a lost cause. The Nanten would overrun everything.

Sorry, milord. You'd do the same for me. Shaking her head, she drew her belt knife, slashed a new door into the silk fabric of the tent, and ducked outside. At least alone, she could get to someplace safe.

"Sixes. I win again."

Vector grimaced and shook his head. "Lavian, I know how to cheat at dice, and I still have no idea how you're winning."

She grinned, pale blue eyes aglow. "I'm a creature of chance."

"Apparently."

Ramza sighed and flipped another coin to the trampled grass serving as their makeshift dicing surface. Part of him suspected that Vector was letting the woman win just for fun, but the rest of him doubted the man could pull off such an act without his face giving it away. After six days of waiting in the same spot in Fovoham, there was little to do but gamble and nap, and let Rafa sit next to him.

The game's other two participants likewise tossed their antes into the center. Capricious breeze tugged at Lavian's short hair, pushed Vector's plain garments around, swirled patterns into the long grass all around.

"They're here!" hissed Jasmine from where she lay at the top of the hill, on lookout. "They're coming!"

Ramza twisted around to stare at her, then nodded. Idleness leapt into activity in all corners of their camp; Knox quickly tucked away his journal, while Agrias scabbarded the blade she was sharpening and flowed to her feet. Ignoring the coin he'd just surrendered to the game, Ramza rose, then crouched low as he trotted up to where Jasmine lay.

The spellcaster rolled back onto her stomach as he approached, then pointed to the south. "See? You can just make them out past that outcropping, two... maybe three miles away."

He squinted but nodded. Three figures, little more than colored dots at this distance, making antlike progress through a harsh wedge of a valley. Mounted. "Yeah. We have some time to prepare."

"So we do."

Compressing his lips, he turned and scooted back down their side of the slope, then stood when he could do so without fear of being seen by the approaching Shrine Knights. "There are three," he told his companions, meeting every eye in turn. "I think it's safe to go with the original plan. Jasmine?"

"Right," sighed the robed woman, turning to rummage through one of the backpacks. "Rubber boots for everybody. When they get close, I'll target you guys with Bolt spells, and Rafa will do her thing, and everyone else will run over the hill and attack."

"Everyone," called Agrias in a low voice, "this won't be an easy fight. Prepare as much as you need to. Don't feel like you're going overboard, because we'll probably need it all."

Ramza gave his lips a twist as he accepted a pair of boots from Jasmine, but didn't bother to contradict Agrias. She was right, if a little overprotective.

"More waiting," sighed Lavian as she stretched out to tug off her old boots. "I hate waiting."

"You've been saying that all week, girl-girl," noted Knox, beside her. "At least this wait will be short."

"Yeah. It better be."

"Sullivan!"

"Yes, sir!" The man whirled his chocobo about, waving away a cloud of dust.

Zalbag reeled his own mount to an abrupt halt, then coughed into a fist. "Status?"

"We've penetrated both gates, my lord; the north fell just moments ago." The blade-thin officer shifted his level gaze to the solid walls of the fortress rising some four hundred paces away, past clouds of dust and swarms of mounted soldiers. "I've sent teams into both but progress is slow. Nevertheless, we'll control the garrison in less than two hours."

Zalbag rubbed his forehead. Those men are lost. Nothing to do about it now. "Rally everyone who's not already into the garrison. There's been a change of plans."

Sullivan blinked steely grey eyes but merely nodded. "Yes, sir. What's the new objective?"

"Pull back. Mask ourselves up against this... plague in the air. Charge into the back of the Nanten routing our main force on the hill. They should be getting sick about now as well."

Sullivan nodded again. "Yes, sir. Lars!"

A burly red-haired fellow with a scar down one cheek jumped, then saluted. "Sir!"

"Send runners to Cain and Vincent! Relay Lord Zalbag's orders!"

"Sir!" Lars saluted again, then whipped his reins and bolted off towards the towering bulk of the garrison.

Zalbag followed the man with his eyes, then gave his lips a twist as he regarded the situation near him. Twenty thousand troops, minus whomever had disappeared into the fort already. Twenty thousand reserves, men who weren't even supposed to be part of the battle at all, originally. On the uneven hills all around, hundreds, thousands of eyes stared his way, understanding that something was happening, waiting to see what it was. Mailed fists tightened around spear shafts, hefted shields in anticipation.

Waiting for me, huh? Suppose I'd better get to it. Clearing his face, Zalbag bent to tear a strip of grey and black from his cloak. Then he stood in his stirrups, cupping hands to his mouth to address the soldiers. "Men! Everyone! Listen up!"

A faint rustle passed through the troops as the few eyes not already on him shifted his way. "As most of you know," he began once there was relative silence, "there's something in the air. Poison. It's worse farther west, which is where we're about to go, so it's only natural that we take some precautions, don't you think?" Scattered chuckles answered this as he held aloft the strip of cloth from his cloak. "So before we march back to butcher our Nanten friends, everyone here needs to find a strip of cloth, or anything you can use as a mask, and then use it as such. Tie it to your face, or whatever. If you have any water, make it damp, but I'd avoid using wine or ale if you only have liquor. We want to present a respectable image as conquerors, don't we?" More laughs arose from the gathered men. Zalbag smiled and lowered his arm. "See to it while your commanders get organized. We'll be marching in moments."

As he hopped down to the ground and reached for the waterskin on his commandeered chocobo's saddle, Sullivan shuffled closer and spoke in a low voice. "They have reserves too, sir."

"I'm aware." Popping the cork out, Zalbag trickled lukewarm water onto the wool in his hands. "I'm expecting them to attack us once we're already engaged with the main host." Turning, he regarded the officer while tying the makeshift mask on, tugging a sodden knot into place behind his head. "One of the reasons for this charge is to draw them into attacking us in a place of our choosing. If they haven't prepared as we're doing now, we'll have the advantage due to the poison they deployed against us."

Sullivan pondered this, flinty eyes thoughtful, before quirking a tiny smile. "As you say, my lord. I'll make it work."

"See that you do."

"Is this the one?"

"I think so. That's what Delita said, anyway."

Ovelia nodded, chewing a lip, ignoring the worried frown on Teta's face. Cold fingers tightened around an even-colder iron ring, from which hung a dozen heavy keys. She knew which one she needed, but as her fingers toyed with it, she found her gaze sliding to the man beside her.

Olan Durai wasn't a pretty fellow. He may have been once, with dusky skin, sharp features and pitch-black hair, but at some point he'd acquired a face full of wicked scars. One jagged right through his left eye, and the black leather eyepatch he wore over the injury didn't soften the lines of face in the least. The stark topknot atop his head would have looked more at home on an assassin or inquisitor.

As the silence stretched, his good eye slid flatly to meet her stare.

Ovelia tore her gaze away and smothered a nervous giggle. In the few times she'd been in his presence, she'd never heard him speak. "Olan, this... this is the door, right?"

The scarred man pondered this for a moment, then nodded. The lamp he held in one gloved fist cast warm and wavering shadows on moss-slicked subterranean walls.

Teta shifted, rubbing goose-bumped arms through her sleeves. "Ovelia," she whispered, "we need to hurry. I don't like this place."

"I know. I'm sorry." Ovelia squeezed her eyes shut, drew a deep breath, and let it unsteadily out. Really, there wasn't much to fear -- if she barged into the wrong cell, whoever was in there wasn't likely to be dangerous, all chained up -- but her belly was fluttering nonetheless. Ruvelia is in one of these. She wants to kill me... but then, this place is full of marauding soldiers who'd kill me too, given the chance. I can't be afraid. Delita is trusting me to do this.

Exhaling briskly, she nodded and opened her eyes. The key fit snugly into the massive lock, to her surprise, and a grunting two-handed twist clicked the lock into separate halves. Olan reached past her, tugged the thing aside, and kicked the door open.

Rolling lips between her teeth, Ovelia shuffled into the cell and waited for the others to follow with the lamp. Golden light spilled past a hard corner within, dancing and jumping as it washed from one side of the far wall to the other, eventually revealing a tall armored figure.

Cidolfas Orlandu was much as she remembered him, solid as a tree trunk and about as fancy. His captors had apparently tossed him in here without bothering to relieve him of his equipment, because armor clicked and weapons clinked as he held up a meaty forearm to guard his eyes from the sudden light. The plain brown cloak he wore in place of the more decorative standard his position surely afforded him would not have been amiss on any common soldier.

After a moment he lowered his arm to reveal a wry smile on that weathered face. "Highness. When I heard a woman's footsteps, I thought it might be you. Greetings." That same arm swept down, swirling his cloak around, as he offered a deep bow.

She swallowed, half-glancing towards Teta, then advanced a few steps towards the man. "General, we have to get you out of here. The Hokuten are attacking."

"Attacking?" His head jerked up, and pale blue eyes widened in surprise. "Now?" After a moment he grimaced. "Then you're absolutely right. There's no time to waste." Nodding to himself, he hitched his cloak and strode towards her. They hadn't even chained him up.

"Um, you..." Ovelia held her hands up, then summoned what she hoped was a smile. "You're supposed to be escaping, not joining the battle."

Greying eyebrows climbed dramatically at this. "Escaping? That's... oh, hello, Olan."

"Father." The scarred man's voice was a sandy rasp.

"That's silly," continued Orlandu, turning his attention back to Ovelia, staring down at her from his considerable advantage in height. "Why would I escape? My place is at Goltana's side, all this recent trouble aside."

She shook her head firmly. "No, Goltana's being assassinated as we--"

"What?"

"--as we speak, and you're... Delita's faking your death so that you can get out of here without anyone following you. Please, General! We have to leave!"

"Absolutely not." Orlandu's heavy brows drew together into an offended scowl. "I need to find Goltana and make sure he stays safe. After that, I have men to command and a battle to lead, apparently."

Ovelia shook her head again. "The plot to kill you is the High Priest's own. Delita was supposed to be doing the deed, but he's got his own ideas. He'll still kill you, though, if you show up after you've supposedly already been killed, and he says there are probably others watching for you too. And you're not a commander anymore, anyway."

The old warrior paused at this, and his scowl shifted into a more thoughtful frown. "I... see where you're coming from," he conceded after a moment, "but still, my duty is to protect Goltana. Please, move. We need to get going. I need to get going."

"No, you...." Ovelia licked her lips. I need to change his mind. What would a real princess do? A real queen? "If... if you run off to Goltana, he'll just have you thrown into a cell again, or worse, if he doesn't mistake your approach for another assassination attempt. And if he's even still alive. What would you do if you found his corpse and them someone just found you standing there?" She paused, swallowing, then pressed on. "And also, there are Hokuten all over the fort. It took the three of us a half-hour to get here because we had to stop and wait for soldiers to pass all the time. So if you go to Goltana... I don't know if Olan is enough to keep Teta and me safe."

Orlandu's face tightened at this; worried creases spread from the corners of his eyes as he studied her, clearly torn. He still believed he served Goltana, and could scarcely imagine fleeing such a position to disappear, but on the other hand, he was too honorable a man to allow any woman to come to harm under his watch.

Finally he offered a grudging nod. "It seems you have me caught, Highness. If what you're saying is the truth -- and I can't imagine otherwise -- then indeed the best place for me right now is with you. And later... perhaps... out of sight, somewhere. Underground, as they say." Judging by his dry tone, this thought seemed both to disgust and amuse him.

Ovelia slumped in relief, clutching at Teta's arm, then offered a weak smile to the old general. Thank God. I thought I was going to have to cling to his ankles to slow him down. "Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much."

Orlandu chuckled, a deep and rich sound, then gestured ahead with one gauntleted hand. "Lead on, Highness. Let us make ourselves scarce."

They came out of nowhere.

One moment Izlude was riding up another grassy slope, lost in thought, and in the next people were everywhere, screaming, attacking, as jagged lightning crackled out of the clear sky. He drew his blade and shouted, barely fending off a whooshing slice from a towering man in armor, but something found Barok under him, some arrow or ball or spell, and the beast toppled with a strangled cry.

Gritting his teeth, Izlude dove from the saddle, putting his dead or dying mount out of his mind, and managed to shoulder the ground and roll to his feet. The big knight had disappeared somewhere, leaving him to face a short redheaded monk and a lean ninja with twin glittering blades. Somewhere nearby his father was shouting, but he couldn't make out the words. Elsewhere, Kletian was chanting, his voice quiet and unhurried as always, drowned out by the mayhem of battle.

Before Izlude could do more than gauge the situation, the ninja darted forward, blades whistling, gleaming in the radiant sunlight. One struck Izlude's shield; the other bit into the flesh of his shoulder. At almost the same moment, the monk danced almost lazily forward, seeming to move far too slowly, until one boot came out of nowhere to strike him in the temple with the force of a club.

Staggering sideways, he bit off a curse and gave his head a brisk shake. Wait until they attack, he reminded himself grimly, absorb the blows, and then counter with deadly force before they can move. The Knight Blade way. Hissing, he darted a backhanded slice across the ninja's stomach and was rewarded with a spray of blood and a grunt.

And then he was in the air. Leaping.

The horizons spun in slow, majestic circles around his flipping body, cleaving the world into hemispheres of blue and green, sky and grass. Rippling wind tugged at his hair, his clothes, brought a smile to his face despite the mild pain of his injuries. He enjoyed fighting outdoors much more than indoors, where his range of motion was so restricted.

As the ground and the battle sailed ever closer, he held his blade out to one side, waiting for the right moment, watching, anticipating. Then he shouted and whipped the weapon into an overhead slash, letting his legs catch the massive stress of landing without injury. His blade bit into the cowardly ninja, throwing an arc of crimson as it rejoiced in taking the blood of a heretic. The man shouted and staggered back; Izlude laughed as he bounded a half-dozen paces away.

But somehow the monk had anticipated where he-- she was behind him, somehow; he couldn't turn fast enough to... Something pounded into the back of his head, driving him to his knees, nearly blinding him. Then something else tore through his body, a roar of earth and angry stone, exploding through a line of bare, blasted ground extending nearly to the falling ninja ahead.

He couldn't hear. No sound but the heavy pounding of blood in his ears.

His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. Before it reached the ground he was following it, toppling forward to the smoking earth before him. The taste of metal; a wet gurgling in his lungs. Dirt against his cheek. Wide eyes, staring along the ruined ground.

Booted feet raced past his field of vision, crushing the grass before his eyes before disappearing again. He could barely move now, and it was cold. Sunny, and so much colder than he'd been led to believe. It wasn't time yet; he hadn't... would Meliadoul know? Would be nice to tell her, that it didn't hurt much. Cold, but not so much pain. But with her stone, maybe it wouldn't....

Stone. Pisces, in his coat pocket. If it disappeared when he crystallized, his father would be angry.

With one foot already in the heavens, Izlude put all his remaining energy into moving his arm, fumbling into his clothes. When his numb fingers closed over something small and hard and precious, he smiled.

With a snarl Zalbag yanked his sword free from a Nanten soldier's head. As the corpse tumbled to the bloodied ground, he spun his chocobo around, glancing wildly all about, but there were no other enemies near. That had been the last of this latest squad sent to kill him.

Exhaling steadily, he shook blood from his blade and gripped his mount's reins more tightly with his shield hand. He stood in the center of a raging battle, forty thousand strong, in a bubble of calm some twenty paces across. Hokuten to his west and south, Nanten to the north and east. His masked troops had fought off the worst effects of the poison in the air, giving them an advantage over the unprotected Nanten. Warm sunset light slanted in from the west, painting the rocks orange and the blood ruby-black.

"General Zalbag!" A bearlike officer struggled through the nearest ranks of Hokkentai and hurried to salute him. "Ill news, my lord!"

"Out with it." Zalbag's gauntleted fingers tightened on his sword hilt as he scanned the banners of the Nanten to the north. Were there more than there'd been an hour past? More reinforcements? Unlikely. The last group of reserves to bring the battle to his people had been met by Sullivan's men, who'd been expecting them, so losses had been--

"It's the Lord Dycedarg, my lord. He's dead. The Nanten have overrun the medical tents."

"What?" Zalbag snapped his gaze to the other man, who shifted his feet. "Dead? Dycedarg is dead?"

The officer swallowed and nodded, averting his gaze. "A group of Nanten split off from the main group and went after the wounded specifically. There... there were no survivors."

No survivors. Zalbag met the other man's fearful dark eyes, then shifted his own gaze westward, squinting against the red sun kissing the hills. "What of the troops stationed there?"

"Likewise dead, my lord. The Nanten knew exactly how many men to bring in order to mop everything up and still move quickly."

"Noted." Words rolled past his lips without thought. "Inform Sullivan. If something happens to me, he's next in line to command."

"Yes, my lord. Is there anything else?"

"No. You may go."

"Yes, my l--"

"General Zalbag!" A young-faced runner darted through the ranks before the other man could depart, then sketched a hasty bow. "More Nanten reinforcements! They're attacking Aurora's unit on the southern flank!"

"More? On the south?" Zalbag blinked. "How many? Where did they come from?"

"Some six thousand, my lord." The boy wrung his hands as he spoke. "They split off from the first group of reserves, taking heavy losses as they retreated to flanking distance."

Zalbag clenched a helpless fist. Shit. He and Sullivan had pondered the numbers of the reserves attacking earlier, wondering why there were so many. The enemy commander was being cautious, they'd decided. Or else he hadn't known exactly how many Hokuten there were on the hill and was playing it safe. God damn it. That was stupid of us. "All right. Tell Aurora to hold her ground for another hour no matter how many losses she takes. Pull Vincent's third division from the north and deploy them south and east. Shield wall -- hold the Nanten back to give the rest of us more time. All other commanders, execute a graceful retreat. In two hours we want to be a mile west of here, at the top of that hill. Go! Now!"

"Yes, sir!" Both men, young and old, saluted, then ran off in different directions.

Teeth bared, Zalbag reared his current chocobo -- his third of the day -- and waved his bloody sword over his head. "Hokuten! West! Fall back to me and move west!"

"West!" Two dozen voices bellowed out his orders all around, passing the word along to others more distant without waiting for runners to do it for them. Others took up the call. "West! Fall back!"

Without anything better to do, Zalbag swung his sword with a silent snarl, invoking a Ruin to cripple a few of the Nanten soldiers attacking his people, then backed off. This day is lost.

Ramza watched without expression as another Wave Fist deflect off Vormav's shield. The man was good. Too good. So good that Ramza was forced to ignore the rest of the grassy battlefield except for the brief glimpses afforded by his peripheral vision. Izlude had hacked Vector down some time back, and then had fallen himself. Kletian had toppled Jasmine with some spell or other. Agrias, the last he'd seen, had been looting Izlude's body in the middle of the battle. Whatever. She knows what she's doing. He had no time or attention to spare for the others.

Vormav swept in for another slash, cutting his blade horizontally so fast it blurred. Ramza barely managed to avoid it, dancing back, and watched his counterattack strike only empty air. The Shrine Knight was too fast, too smart, and his reach with the sword kept Ramza too far away to do any damage except with Earth Slash, which hadn't seemed to bother him much.

Another slash, this one overhead, hummed through the air. Ramza dove sideways into a roll, coming up with a kick at the other man's legs, which struck only unforgiving metal plate. Twisting his lips, he flowed to his feet to circle, ignoring the shards of his own shattered armor crunching under his boots with every step.

"You're pretty good," remarked Vormav, blurring into another series of brutal attacks, driving Ramza back and sideways. "I figured you would be, after everything, and you haven't disappointed me."

I'm so glad. Ramza kept the distaste from his face as he twisted and contorted to the best of his ability to avoid the other man's glittering blade. Why is he talking? This battle must not be a challenge for him. And really, why would it be? He has me totally on the defensive.

"Your people took Izlude down pretty quickly," continued the Shrine Knight without apparent regret touching his hard features. "It's possible they'll take Kletian down as well. I must congratulate you on being a worthy foe."

Too much talking. Waste of breath. In a momentary respite, Ramza crouched, studying his enemy with every last ounce of his attention. Strong movements, almost ridiculously strong; he could probably cut through a boulder as easily as flesh. Smooth, too, and beautiful, like water running over clear glass. A master. Only a few weak points in his armor, which his speed and experience allowed him to keep protected with his shield.

"But it hardly matters." Vormav's voice was calm, almost bored, as he shadowed forward for another volley of slashes. "I can't die, and you can't outrun me. Your death is a matter of elementary logic from here. Quite a shame, really; it's useful having you around as a scapegoat for everyone to hate."

Ramza slipped sideways around a disemboweling stab, then fired off another Earth Slash, though it left the man with only scrapes and bruises. Too slow. At this rate he'll cut me to ribbons before I can really hurt him. I have to do something else. Maybe attack the weapon again? Like with Wiegraf and Gafgarion?

A whistling slice through cool air caught Ramza's shoulder, sent a spray of blood blinding him for a moment. "Ah," murmured Vormav. "Getting tired, are you?"

Ramza blinked away the blood, diving into another roll during his moment of blindness. Yeah. The weapon, or else grappling. I doubt he has much skill in close-quarters fighting. He'll cut me once as I'm getting close, though.

Once on his feet, he crouched again, waiting for the next attack. It came quickly in the form of another forceful strike, a would-be decapitating blow. At least Vormav was too professional to toy with him.

Twisting into the slash, Ramza snapped an open palm into the other man's wrist, slowing but not completely arresting the sword's momentum; as such the edge bit into his other shoulder, but he was already moving, already completing his spin. Folded knuckles drove towards Vormav's crotch but struck the shield instead, as he'd hoped, for it made the follow-up kick into the knight's face land without any problems. In the blink while Vormav stood stunned, Ramza struck him twice more, once in the chest and once in the throat. From there it was a simple matter to run up the man's plated chest to kick him one last time in the face, before flipping a few paces back and firing off another Earth Slash.

When the smoke cleared, a bruised and bloodied Vormav picked himself off the ground and gave his head a slow shake. Ramza sighed, taking the opportunity to mend some of his wounds with a chakra.

"I wasn't expecting that," admitted Vormav, slapping dust from the tattered violet tabard draped over his armor. His face had been badly bruised, not to mention coated with dirt, and a smear of blood now slicked greying hair to his left temple. "Very good."

Enough with the compliments. While the man was still getting his bearings, Ramza danced forward again, forcing him on the defensive. One snapped punch dented Vormav's breastplate, pushed him a skidding pace backwards; a follow-up to his face resulted in a broken nose and a bloody knuckles.

Ramza kept up without mercy, favoring an aggressive, all-out offense, keeping Vormav to a harried and hasty defense. No straight lines, only curves and twists and circles, throwing off the Shrine Knight's sense of rhythm. A blocked kick to the kneecap, followed by a sweep that succeeded in throwing the armored man to the flattened grass.

I must be figuring his style out. This isn't bad. As Vormav rolled away, Ramza followed with a few kicks before leveling another Earth Slash. Apparently his enemy was another like him, someone who felt at home only on offense, only when attacking. Ramza quite understood; he had nobody to fight for. Nobody to protect. Only people to kill before--

Abruptly his knuckles struck metal instead of the flesh he was expecting; Vormav had anticipated. Without hesitating a blink Ramza shifted his attack, blurring an open-handed strike to his opponent's neck, but again he struck only metal.

A flash, sunlight on steel. Another, too quick to follow.

Choking back a shout, Ramza stumbled backwards, reeling, then actually fell to his backside. Something was wrong; something was.... With the blood now sheeting down his face, it was hard to see, but he had no problems making out the stump where his left hand used to be.

"No!" Ignoring the corpse of Izlude, Agrias leapt into motion, bolting across ten paces of trampled and blood-splattered grass. Then she dove into Vormav, tackling him into the ground to prevent a finishing blow to the crippled Ramza.

The Shrine Knight grunted as they rolled and grappled; his sword sought to snake its way into her belly but she kneed it aside from her superior position, all the while hoping to crush his neck with one plated forearm and a teeth-bared grimace. Her right hand remained closed in a tight fist over the Zodiac stone she'd taken from the dying Izlude before he could use it. She hadn't had time to identify it, only to see that it was blue, like Aries.

Something cold bit into her side. He had another blade, then, probably a dagger. Against her will she tensed, grinding her teeth as she leaned harder into Vormav's throat, hoping to bat away the weapon with her free hand, but in that moment of reflex he lunged, and she went flying. Arms flailing, dizzy, flying, like she'd been thrown by a bear.

The ground struck her without mercy, and something snapped in her shoulder. Stars flashed through the blurring sky in her vision, while sparks danced up her right arm. She gasped; the Zodiac stone slipped from numb fingers. Damn it!

Growling, she fumbled around through stalks of flattened green grass and spared a wild glance upwards. To her surprise Vormav hadn't followed her; instead he had picked himself up from the ground to face a limping Knox, looking dwarfed beside the brutish knight. As she watched, Lavian hurried over as well to level her blade at the Shrine Knight, showing no signs of pain on her cool face despite the blood covering half her person. Alicia lay face-down in the grass some distance away, near the robed Kletian, who lay twitching and choking on his own blood. Rafa stood still as a statue, one hand raised, lips slightly parted, chest frozen in mid-breath, the victim of some spell or other.

"Agrias." Knox turned only his head, speaking over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Vormav. "Get Ramza and the other wounded out of here. Lavian and I will hold him back."

"That's stupid," she snapped, still searching for the damned stone. Where is it? I dropped it right here. Vormav was more than a match for any two of them, she suspected, but if she herself joined the fight they could kill him and tend to the fallen... but that meant finding her sword again -- she'd lost it rolling on the ground with Vormav -- and using it with her left hand besides, since her right arm was broken, which meant no shield, assuming she was even able to find the new stone at all, but even so--

"Agrias." This time it was Lavian who spoke. "Just do it. We'll catch up with you later."

She hesitated, opening her mouth, but Lavian's blue eyes slid to meet her own. Eyes cool as the depths of the sea, sad, smiling. She knew.

Swallowing, Agrias glanced to Knox; as if sensing her gaze he tore his attention from Vormav long enough to nod once at her. Calm as you please. He knew too.

She stared into his murky eyes a moment longer, then offered a tight nod. Everybody made choices, and you couldn't second-guess everything. "Fine." Ramza still lay a short distance away, nearly unconscious from shock, but Vormav and Kletian had dismounted to fight, and as the chocobos were probably trained for travel rather than war, they'd wandered a short distance from the fight and were busy grazing. Izlude's mount had fallen, though, and was nothing but a pile of blood and feathers. Get Ramza to a live bird and throw him to the saddle, then Alicia and Jasmine, and Rafa should wake up soon. "Fine." Twisting, she met Lavian's gaze, then Knox's. "Good luck."

Neither bothered to reply. Instead, Knox raised his massive blade and charged the dirty and dented Shrine Knight, while Lavian circled in to attack him from behind.

Agrias put them out of her mind, finally returning her attention to the ground to find the stupid... oh, there it is. A gleam of sea-blue amid the grass and dirt, complete with an etched symbol. Pisces.

Grabbing the stone with her good hand, she tucked it into a belt pouch and hurried to where Ramza lay staring at the purpling sky. Behind her, blades clashed in a metallic song she knew all too well.

Delita sat atop a low rise, hands folded across the pommel of his saddle, watching with a small smile as his swarming troops beat back the retreating Hokuten. It was almost dusk now, and his men fought uphill, with the orange sunset glow in their eyes, but it wasn't enough of a hindrance to help the Hokuten at all. Without doubt the enemy commander, whoever he was at the moment, was hoping to find the top of the hill a defensible camping place for the night. And perhaps he would... after dispatching the extra four thousand Nanten troops hidden behind the rise, who would fall on him as he backed onto the hilltop. And after that, quick-moving Nanten archers would be raiding the place all night long, rotating in and out of duty, to make sure no one among the Hokuten got a full night of sleep.

Then, come dawn, with his men sick, exhausted, tense to the point of snapping and surrounded on all sides by enemies, the Hokuten commander might attempt a last-ditch offensive to regain the garrison. By that time, of course, those Nanten poisoned today would have been administered antidotes stocked well beforehand in anticipation of the Church's treachery, and would be rested besides. After watching his men get cut to ribbons by tight ranks of Nanten buoyed by advantages in numbers, morale, organization, health and terrain, the Hokuten commander would likely be well-disposed to signing the rather generous surrender papers Delita had prepared for him weeks in advance.

And that would be that. Once Ovelia could be moved safely back to Zeltennia, and the inevitable few assassination attempts failed, the war would be over mere months after it started. "Not too shabby, compared to the last one."

"What was that?" rasped Olan beside him. "Didn't hear you."

Delita blinked, sparing a glance at the scarred fellow, then waved a dismissive hand. Warm light left fuzzy and indistinct shadows over Olan's hard face, and likely over his own. "Nothing." Gripping his chocobo's reins, he turned the feathered beast back towards the garrison and started moving at a leisurely pace. Olan turned to follow, and Delita threw him another sideways glance as they walked. "This thing is over, for us. In half an hour I want the senior commanders of the third through seventh divisions in my study, and I want to know what our losses were -- exactly, down to the very last man -- and what the status of each squad is. After that I think they can manage on their own for a few hours while I catch some sleep. You should get some too."

"Of course." Olan's voice, as always, was flat and hard as the stone over which they rode. "Consider it done."

Delita nodded, reaching to touch the flower Teta had given him before the battle. She'd be worried, of course, the silly girl, after he'd told her not to, so the relief and pleasure on her face upon seeing him alive would all the reward he needed. Ovelia, too, would be relieved, not to mention proud at accomplishing what he'd asked her to do, though as usual she'd try and fail to keep her feelings from her face. Her averted gaze and shy blushes would be just as worthwhile as his sister's hug would be.

Gah, these women are going to turn me into a softie. Snorting, then ignoring Olan's curious glance, Delita started whistling something that sounded merry and let the screaming roar of battle fade behind him.

Knox dropped to his knees, coughing blood into the grass. Sparkling stars swam in his doubled vision, and his legs shook so much he could barely keep upright. Numb, blood-slicked fingers could still grip his sword, but all he could do with the thing was plant it in the ground and make sure he didn't fall the rest of the way over. Lavian lay beside him, just a few paces away, staring with wild eyes in his direction. She was still breathing -- quick, shallow, bubbling breaths -- but she wouldn't be for long. There was fear in her blue eyes, the first he'd ever seen there. Not the fear of dying, but that their efforts hadn't been enough.

He forced a smile with face muscles that wouldn't move as well as he'd have liked. We did fine, girl-girl. They made it. We'll talk about it in a few moments, on the other side.

A shadow cut abruptly across his vision, silent and looming. Swallowing, Knox glanced up and squinted against Vormav, nothing but a silhouette against the radiant orange of the setting sun. With his helmet long since shattered, an errant breeze pushed a few locks of hair into his eyes, and he shook them away. "We're not afraid of you, Lucavi."

"Hmm. Pity."

Rafa sat cross-legged under a starry black sky, cradling Ramza's head in her lap. It was a cold night in the hills, windy; she'd thrown her blankets over him as he slept but kept his bandaged arm out. He would want to see it when he woke. Blood had soaked the pale linen black, but it had clotted for now, and the same was true of the gash across his face. He'd been lucky not to lose an eye too. The thought tightened her throat, made her swallow, and once again she brushed sandy hair from where it lay over the bandages covering half his face.

"How far away are we?" asked Vector in a low, hoarse voice. His entire abdomen was a mass of blood-soaked linen, and his posture was stiff with pain where he sat leaning against a pale boulder. "From where the fight was?"

Agrias didn't bother looking up from where she was bandaging a grimacing Alicia's head. "Couple miles."

Vector stared at the Holy Knight for a moment, then returned his attention to the ground. Beside him, Jasmine remained motionless where she lay, as pale as her olive skin would let her be. Until she woke, or until Agrias recovered somewhat, all healing would be the old-fashioned way, by means of potion and bandage.

Rafa shifted her gaze back to Ramza's shadowed face. He looked so... worn, so beaten now, lying like any other man might in a battlefield infirmary. Even the parts of his face not shrouded in bandages looked sorry, all dirty and scraped and bruised, like he'd rolled down half a mile of hill.

Wake up. The persistent breeze had pushed his hair around again, and once more she brushed it back. Wake up. People need you.

Moments slipped past. Agrias finished bandaging Alicia, and the redhead sat up somewhat unsteadily, holding a hand to her head as if dizzy. Vector sat so still Rafa decided he'd fallen asleep.

Eventually Ramza's one uncovered eye flickered open. For a moment he tensed, glancing every which way without moving a muscle, before finally staring up at her and blinking, seemingly confused. Likely he hadn't expected to wake up with his head in her lap. Or perhaps at all.

Before she could speak, his face tensed. Starlight glittered in the shadows of his uncovered eye. "What happened?" A bare whisper, so quiet the wind almost swallowed it.

She hesitated, watching him, gauging his condition. "You... you're hurt," she whispered back.

He remained silent for a moment, eye wide and owlish, unreadable, before lifting what remained of his left arm to stare at it. Vormav had sliced cleanly through skin, muscle and bone alike, cleaving off Ramza's hand and half of his forearm, and the slash across his face had cut deeply, angling between his eyes and down across his left cheek. Even with magical healing, he'd have a scar.

Eventually his brow furrowed in apparent confusion as he twisted his arm one way, then the other. "It... it'll come back, right? Someone can heal it back?"

She bit her lips, then forced a smile as her fingers caressed his cheek. "That's not... not really how magic works, Ramza." Her words came out hoarse, almost husky.

"Yeah. Of course." His crippled arm fell back to the blankets, and his good eye slid wearily shut. "Just my luck, isn't it? Ah, well. What about everyone else?"

"They're...." She trailed off, aware of Agrias shaking her head quickly off to the side, but didn't tear her gaze from Ramza's face. "Look, Ramza, you lost a lot of blood. You need to sleep more now, okay? We'll talk about it when you're up on your feet." There's nothing you can do now.

"No, I...." He frowned again, opening his eye again, somewhat slowly as though already battling slumber. "I need to get...."

She placed a gentle hand on his chest, holding him down. "Sleep. Okay? I wouldn't say this if you didn't truly need the rest. If... if you tried to stand now, I think you'd faint."

His frown deepened into a scowl before fading to an expression of mild annoyance. "Fine. But... when I get up... I'm...." He trailed off into an indistinct mumble, then fell totally silent, already asleep. His head rolled sideways, against her calf.

Boots whispered among grass as Agrias approached to stare down at him. "We should move again."

Rafa nodded. "I know." One more time, brushing hair away from his face. Someone needed to look after him, if he wouldn't do it himself. "Can we wait a few moments? If we move now, he'll wake back up."

Silence stretched. Across the makeshift campsite, Alicia watched on with a scowl, almost a glare, directed at Ramza.

Eventually Agrias sighed, then squatted on her heels. The moonless starlight left her face a collection of cool marble shadows. "Fine. But remember that there are other wounded here. He's not the only one who needs attention."

Rafa slid her gaze sideways to meet the other woman's, then without a word focused back on Ramza. Fingertips on the rough bandages over his face, on the sandy stubble lining his jaw.

"Fine," muttered Agrias again, holding up her hands in a gesture of placation. "Of course you know that. I just... yeah. We'll give him five minutes."

Rafa nodded. Agrias stood upright and, after a moment, left.

Rofel stood among the deep shadows atop a stony cliff over Bethla, staring down at the settling chaos below. Thousands of dead, surely tens of thousands, just in one day. Armies and powers shattered like ships against coastal rocks. A nation devastated, brought to its knees as its left and right arms tore each other apart in a frenzy of shortsighted bloodlust.

He smiled.

But all was not ideal. The plan required death, savage orgies of death, enough to blot out the sky with vultures, to drown the fields with blood, and some of those deaths had to belong to some unfortunate individuals. Unfortunate because they had other uses. Of those allowed to survive, the pool of available tools was shallow and bitter.

At the thought he turned his attention to the stone in his hand. Even in the ethereal starlight it glittered as though unable to conceal some inner illumination of its own.

Capricorn was lonely. It needed a home.

Not just anyone would do; Capricorn, like the others, was choosy. It had conditions, standards. A healthy body. The will to power. A certain philosophical flexibility. Or, failing those, the most dangerous of weaknesses: trust. Trust of the stone's giver.

Not just any home was suitable.

Without expression he tucked Capricorn back into his coat, then stepped between the threads of reality to another place. Perhaps one of the others would have a worthwhile suggestion.