Disclaimer: Legend of Dragoon does not belong to yours truly.

Legacy of Dragoon

Chapter 10: The Fire in Fletz

"So do we hafta go to this rich guy's house right away?" Pearl yawned, "I'm not even awake yet."

Soren deliberated on the issue for a moment, scratching away at his rusty, unkempt beard. After a moment his eyes lit up and he lifted his hand away from his face, as if he had found an idea in the mass of hair.

"It would be beneficial to get our bearings in this city, considering that three of us have never been here before," he looked at the rest of them, then pointed down the street, "we'll rendezvous at where we first walked into town in an hour, then proceed to the mansion from there."

He swallowed after he spoke, indicating that he did not like the idea of infiltrating such a fortified abode unprepared.

"Besides, I have something I'd like to do before we get that underway," he nodded at them and began to walk off.

"Me, too. I'll see you guys later."

It was Pearl, and everyone else present stared in disbelief. Even Soren had stopped to turn around to check if he had even heard that.

"You want to wander around here on your own? I thought you said you'd never been here before," Cross began, narrowing his eyes.

"Hey, don't get pissed! Just look here," the teenager pointed over her shoulder directly to a spot on the hilt of the massive blade slung to her back where an insignia and signature indicated that it had been made in the very city where they were.

"I wasn't pissed. Do I seem pissed a lot?"

"Maybe."

Soren inspected the mark dubiously for a moment, took a deep breath and concluded, "It originated from a forge in the southern district consisting of two three-story buildings, a creaky chair in the waiting room and an odd stench emanating from a side closet."

Cross raised an eyebrow, "You knew it down to every detail?"

"Of course," Soren said, turning to continue down the street.

Cross had been eager to agree with Angela when she decided to head for the item store. With Soren and Pearl gone, who else would he walk down the street with? His other option, should everyone have abandoned him in the road all alone, was to cower inside the nearest building. Packed with bodies as he had been the previous day, claustrophobia would have found its grasp on him again, stranding him until the hour was up and he could run for the entrance and, hopefully, out into the field beyond. Having spent most of his life in the open, it had become the only place where he was completely comfortable. Maybe someday he could get used to pressing himself irritably against busybodies rushing in the streets to save time getting to Who-knows-where, Fletz. For now, as long as he had someone to walk beside through the mass of people, he could forget about why it bothered him so badly to the point where he didn't really mind at all. He could walk aimlessly through-

"Cross!"

Thud! - Before he could snap out of his funk he had walked into a sign hanging off of a nearby wall, causing it to swing in it's hinges and crash back down on his skull as he clutched his forehead in surprise. When he lifted his hands from his face a moment later he read the letters I-T-E-M and felt like even more of an idiot.

"Found the place." He walked around the sign and into the door. A moment later a loud voice could be heard from inside of the shop:

"I told you to mount that sign up higher, you good-for-nothing..."

Angela could only roll her eyes as she entered the brightly-stocked store.

Pearl stared at the building across the street from her. Two buildings, three... stories? What the hell did he call them? Then she saw the sign, made from wood painted with pastel colours that were a poor choice to decorate a forge. But the symbol over the scramble of words was easy enough to recognize. It was indented right into the hilt of her weapon. Pearl entered through the front door of the smithy's place, taking in the simple wooden architecture of the rooms with distaste. The palace had been fine, aside from that one room, with every other room being just like home, but this place was terrible. All these straight angles and corners, and it was all made out of wood!

Something bumped into her leg and she heard a hollow creak. Looking down, Pearl noticed a short wooden chair. A slight test of pushing her hand down lightly on the seat told her that Soren had been right, it did creak.

How did he know that it was still like that? Wasn't the last time he was here like twelve years ago or something? Or maybe they just are that cheap...

She shifted her sight to the right of the chair to find the infamous closet. When she walked over to see if the chair could possibly be a fluke and Soren was wrong about the closet, she was forced to stop about two steps from the door. Holding her arm in front of her nose Pearl backed away slowly.

He was right about that, too! That doesn't make sense, twelve years and they don't clean a closet? There must be something alive in there, or at least it was alive...

"We're not actually open yet," a voice called from a door to the left of a torso-height 'window' in the wall through which the orange heat of a forge's flames could be seen.

Pearl was quick to get her hand behind her back and try looking polite. She didn't want to be disrespectful after all, and she didn't really know what a store being "open" meant. You could get what you wanted when you needed it in her town, it was just the same as calling on a friend. You were expected to give some of your time at least. She assumed it must mean "clean" and only nodded, hoping it was the right response. Yeah, they're not actually clean yet. That's what he meant. Thinking that she was doing pretty good with blending in, she approached the man in the doorway and withdrew her huge sword, making him flinch slightly.

"Did you make this, or do you know who did?" She smiled and held the weapon out in one hand for him to take.

"Uh, we... urgh," he squinted at the insignia on the hilt, then his eyes widened. "Yes, I know who made this. Hold on for a moment."

He took it from her and sagged under it's dead metallic weight, then lugged it into the back. A moment later he returned empty handed and rubbing his scrawny arms.

"Come right in."

The back room of the shop was very hot, despite numerous sources of ventilation in the roof. There were no windows else the secrets of the shop's resident blacksmith be open to public viewing and theft by competitors. Being a blacksmith in a town as big as Fletz must leave one prone to that sort of thing. She knew that the windows were also absent to allow a darker work environment, conducive to all blacksmiths. In a back corner was one of several coal forges encased in a chimney for both protecting the people nearby and keeping the sweltering heat in a controlled area. Seated next to the forge was a man of about only the same height as Pearl, but a much stockier build. His bare arms stuck out from within his apron like clubs and his width from chest to back must have been larger than most ale kegs. Practically cradled in his arms was her blade, and he had lifted his protective goggles from his sweaty, heat-blistered face to look intently at the finer features of the weapon.

Without looking from the weapon he spoke, "I made this sword for a good friend a long time ago. You're not him. So tell me; what has happened to Jayson Tlalok?"

He seemed weary and expectant of the news, like a mother receiving yet another empty suit of armour from some distant war.

"He had a daughter, for one," the man looked up quickly and seemed to notice her for the first time, "and two, he was attacked, poisoned, nearly killed, for his most cherished possession."

"Is that so?" the man laughed a bit, "sounds like the kind of trouble he'd be getting himself into. He was always saying he wanted a little girl to bring up in this world... and that means you're her. And it also means that if you want to know who would have done this to your father and why, I'm going to have to disappoint you. There is no way I'm telling you anything that might get you hurt, not after hearing how bad he wanted you for so long. Go home, kid."

"You didn't even let me tell you what I wanted, and already you're sending me out? Dad sure wouldn't find that very polite."

"You're right, he wouldn't," the stocky blacksmith chuckled again, "by the way, I'm Orlin."

"My parents named me Pearl. They'd want me to tell you why, but it's kind of a sappy story..."

"Haha, that's alright, I don't need to know where you're name came from to know it's a fine name!"

Pearl went on the offensive. Now it was time to get what she had come here for.

"So, you knew my Dad, Mr. Orlin?

"We were the best of friends."

"Right, so can you tell me what maybe he was like when he was younger? I've tried to get him to tell me so many times, but he just won't. Not what he did, what his dreams were, where he was born, nothin'. When I was a bit younger I figured he'd tell me when the time was right, I mean why would he want to keep it from me that bad, right? But it seemed like as time went by he just wanted to forget it more, and he would always be hiding that from me. Now, he's so sick I don't know if he'll ever get to tell me, and I've got this feeling that's so strong I can't explain it, but I need to know, okay? So you tell me."

The man next to the burning forge sat up on his bench, his hands latched uncomfortably to his knees as the sweat continued to roll off of his bald head. Pearl thought to herself that he must have burned all of his hair off.

"It's really that serious, isn't it? Jayson would have his own daughter wrap up the loose ends. How could it come to this?" The first question had been directed at Pearl but after that he seemed to be lamenting to himself. Neither of them knew that it was the opposite of what Jayson would have wanted.

"Alright. Pearl, I made this blade for your father many years ago, I don't even remember how many. We had been friends from childhood, and this forge of mine was finally starting to take off. Jayson had wanted to be a carpenter, you know, he worked with wood and I worked with steel. When that didn't pan out for him he joined the knighthood. I couldn't talk him out of it but all of a sudden it seemed like I was just waiting for my best friend to die and didn't have any way of helping him... except one. I always knew he had been strong - stronger than everyone else - so I took all the steel that I could and made this big sword. I knew he'd be the only one that could use it; it would distinguish him from the others, and he could use it to protect himself better than any other soldier out there. I was so proud of it at that time... I didn't realize how many people would die by this thing. I only wanted my friend to survive if there was a war; I already lost a brother and a father to the battlefield. I saved myself from feeling that pain, but I had to leave the power in Jayson's hands to inflict that pain on others."

Pearl had expected this, but was shocked nonetheless. Her father's best friend talked about him like he was a murderer. Perhaps his own guilt magnified what he was saying, but it still disturbed her a little to know that her father had apparently killed many people.

"Have you ever regretted doing anything like that since then?" Pearl thought that the answer might console her. Maybe if this guy was depressed he was exaggerating a bit.

"I have not made a single weapon since. This is my last," he regarded it with a kind of hate. When he looked at it Pearl could almost see the reflection in his eyes-- the reflection of every bloodstain ever left on the sword.

"How do you stay in business if you don't make no weapons?"

"I have others who work under me for that, but that's beside the point," he fidgeted with the goggles on his forehead.

"Jayson made a lot of enemies during his time in the knighthood, Pearl. You would do good to remember that, and be careful who knows your last name. Some of the people who might come after you are too terrible for me to imagine... but what do I know? I'm just a blacksmith who sits in here brooding too much."

He coughed loudly into his fist and wiped it on his apron.

"Please don't take what I'm saying the wrong way. Your dad's a wonderful person, kid. That's just what bothers me about it; nice people like him shouldn't do that kind of work."

"He's changed," Pearl comforted, "he's a miner now."

"Miner? HA! I bet he'd love that. Listen, I'd love to tell you more, kid, but we're just about to open and I've got work to do. Now just isn't the time. Say hi to your dad for me alright?"

"Sure will," Pearl was saddened by the fact that that probably wouldn't be anytime soon. She wanted to stay and make him tell her more anyway, instead grabbing her weapon and wearily heading out the door.

The trip to the item store had proven well worth the bruise to Cross' forehead. Sagging the bag which he had been coerced into carrying were several healing potions, some healing breezes for good measure, a few attack items and some body purifiers to prevent any repeats of the previous day. None of it had been cheap, but they were still somehow left with more than half of what Soren had doled out to them from his stash. Now Angela had her eye on a book store down the street, and the wash of interest in her look made him sigh at the impending boredom. Nevertheless, he adjusted the strap on his shoulder and followed her inside.

As he had expected, there were shelves as high as the roof packed with billions of papers bound in leather, some of them appeared to be so dust-covered that the pages inside had surely yellowed over time. Framed by the long aisle in front of the entry was a checkout desk, and planted in the seat reading a book was who Cross at first mistook to be an old man. When he looked up at the sound of the bell, his red eyes revealed his true species.

A wingly.

He quickly dragged his gaze back to the volume on the desk to allow his customers time to browse. Cross found the nearest chair and rested his sack of items on the seat, giving himself a moment to rotate his arm, flexing his shoulder. How the hell does she carry this thing?

When he turned around he did not see Angela prying books off of the shelf as he had predicted but instead she had immediately engaged in conversation with the wingly at the counter. He seemed friendlier than Cross had at first taken him for, smiling as he pleasantly conversed with the inquisitive girl. As he got closer, Cross could hear what they were talking about.

"You know, most of my people can't bring themselves to read human literature, either not wanting to learn the language or just because they find it so boring and invaluable. Though I find it fascinating, fiction is unheard of to most Winglies."

"Really? You don't have any stories or legends?"

He belly laughed, a hollow sound in the sun-washed room. "My dear, in this world you tend to find that most legends aren't legends at all. They're completely true."

"Oh, Cross. This is Ozwald. He's a professor who brought a great deal of his books all the way from Aglis!"

"Aglis? What's that?"

"An ancient wingly city housed at the bottom of the ocean," the bookkeeper spoke, "the City of Magic. Thousands of years ago it was a school for studying magic arts, but it was abandoned after the original dragon campaign. It suddenly reappeared, however, and soon after the Moonfall it was inhabited by curious winglies like myself, who began learning the ancient secrets of magic."

"Charming," Cross said with little interest.

They then launched into an exchange where Angela plainly listed the array of books she had read in her studies. Needless to say, the wingly storekeeper was impressed.

"You know, there is a book somewhere in here that I think would interest you. Hold on a moment please," he politely requested before a pair of incandescent wings spontaneously formed on his back, causing Cross to jump in surprise at the sharp sound they made. He had only seen these type of wings once before, under less appreciable circumstances. As he started to truly admire the ethereal appendages, the male wingly floated out of sight, up to a high corner amongst the shelves.

He returned with a crisp looking book, practically brand new.

"I keep this tucked away because only the right kind of humans can truly understand it. A particular pattern of thought is required, and a rather prodigious amount of intelligence. It is a text about the ways of magic-"

Cross scoffed. "Only winglies like... well like you can use that stuff."

"According to them, not true," the clerk tapped the cover of the book with his middle and index fingers, "Humans may just be capable of magic, and have been for some time, but simply could not comprehend it. Have you ever heard of pyrokinesis or telekinesis? They are incredibly rare phenomena in humans that some great wingly scholars have discovered is a possible manifestation of magic. We've learned a lot more about it in the last few centuries than in the millennia before that. For instance, us winglies use magic through our own bodies, the sign of which is nearly always the movement of our hands."

He demonstrated by momentarily swaying his arm in a movement as practiced as the pirouette of a dancer. At the same time he rotated his wrists, his fingers flowing effervescently with the movements, creating a trail of light through the very air. The humans watched with stark amazement.

"Magic is a universal entity in itself. It resides in everything, from a lowly insect to a great and towering tree. I suppose Winglies are just composed of much more magic than other beings, and so we are much more attuned to it. Perhaps other living things could exist without it, simply relying on their physical forms, but without magic we would simply revert to our basest of elements, and wither away like dust. Humans require a different method by which to summon their own form of this power, and it requires much more inward thinking and enormous mental effort. Furthermore, the criteria for a human magic user is an anomaly we have yet to pin down. However, with the right pattern of thought and proper dedication, it can be done. I'm sure of it."

He held the book out before him and looked at Angela with a confident look to his albino-esque eyes.

"You can prove it."

She returned his glare with equal enthusiasm. "How much?"

They met in the designated spot, at the entrance of town they had previously entered through. Pearl was there first, and had already been waiting for half an hour when Soren arrived with nothing to say about what he had been doing on his own. They were chatting idly when Cross came down the street, practically dragging Angela as she read a strange book with a fresh green cover. He was grumbling something about them not having any money left and a botched trip to the weapons store. After a quick check to make sure everyone was ready they set off westbound on a street adjacent to the city gates. The cobblestone streets grew less and less populated as they went, and the buildings lining the path appeared more decrepit as they entered the supposed slums of the city. Past the end of the road a bright blot of colour could be seen in the distance, and as they neared it Cross guessed it was their targets' mansion, with a fresh paint job. Only a few paces later his guess was confirmed.

The street they were on curved to the right and formed a strange hook shape, and at the end was the gigantic mansion, directly across from them. It was several floors tall at the least, and from where the four were standing they could see it was fenced off on three sides and patrolled by guards on all four. Most of the buildings that would have been on the street as it curved around were no more than demolished remains, forcibly removed for the sake of the landowner's privacy. A field of grass stood between them and the estate like water filling a lagoon, for the city limits created such a shape.

"What should we do now?" Cross appealed to Soren in particular for the answer, "Do we try to go in the front or something?"

"No, I think that would almost guarantee certain death," Soren replied conversationally, "what do you think, Angela?"

There was no reply.

"Exactly what kind of book did she buy in that store, Cross? It has me worried..."

"I dunno, it was some load of manure about magic the storekeeper convinced her would work if she tried it. He was a pretty good salesman, but I wasn't convinced."

"Shut up," the girls' voice rose from behind the cover.

"Really? Sounds like it's worth at least a moments' examination," Soren's curiosity was piqued, and he hadn't even spoken with the convincing wingly.

"Oh, don't you start now!" The farmer sighed.

"Well, I didn't plan this far. I was expecting one of you two to think of something," he looked from Soren to Angela, who was still buried in her book and seemingly unaware of what was going on.

"I didn't really contemplate what to do at this juncture, either," Soren stared into the distance, not meeting eyes with any of them.

"What exactly were you doing for that hour we were gone, Soren? Did you go to a church to say your final prayers or were you drinking at some bar? I only want honesty from you."

"I wasn't at either of those places, is it really any of your business-"

"Are you drunk?"

"Perhaps a little! I might have drank where I went, but I'm not obligated to inform you of that!"

"I thought you of all people would have a more mature response to that. Come here, I'm gonna--"

Something in the air created by the tension of their highly difficult mission and the realization at that point that they were not prepared whatsoever for the situation caused the two men to clash for an instant, despite the significant size difference. Cross was flung back in the scuffle, pinwheeling his arms to try and gain his balance before he fell backward into the grass, and disappeared.

"Where'd he... what'd you... how did that...?" Pearl stuttered.

Soren was taken aback. "My goodness. That wasn't what I expected to happen at all..."

Angela had finally looked up from her book. "Hunh, where did Cross go?"

A brown-haired head emerged from the grass at the edge of the road at the same level as their feet, giving the illusion that Cross was lying on the ground. He was, in reality, standing.

"This is trespasser's weed! A patch of this grew between my old farm and the neighbouring one. I'd use it all the time."

"How far did you fall down there?" Soren asked with a concern that bordered on apologetic.

"Ah, this stuff has got to be nine feet tall, and I don't even think we're in the thick of it. Hey, let's see how close we can get to the mansion in here! It's worth a shot, right?"

Pearl looked at Soren, shrugged and jumped in without another word. The lumberjack stared into the grass after her.

"We'll have to be particularly careful in here... but he's right; it is worth a shot."

He took a few running steps before leaping in after the other two. Angela had re-immersed herself in the book and simply plodded in the general direction she had seen everyone else go, finally tripping on the unexpected drop into the grass. The inside of the mass of vegetation was clustered with too much of the weed to see far in any direction, but they could easily follow each others' voices. Cross led the way to the mansion, guiding them with his voice at first and finally linking hands with the others in single file to keep them all hidden under the camouflage, without anything to give them away. Eventually he made them all stop, and quietly he slid through the trespasser's weed on his own to the very edge. He parted two sections of grass in front of him with a practiced stealth and peeked into the yard beyond. Soon after he turned around to whisper to his companions.

"There's a small ditch to climb before about four yards of lawn between us and what I think is a basement door. No fence."

"Does it look like two doors that open outward, almost built into the ground?" Soren checked.

"Yes."

"Is it latched shut?"

"I couldn't tell."

"Damn... alright, it's definitely a basement door, but we can't get in if there's a lock on the latch."

"Well, there's a guard patrolling the lawn we got to be careful of, but I think if we run up quietly enough when he's turned the other way, he shouldn't notice us. He looks pretty tired, probably not feeling the most alert..."

"Now's the time, then. Let's all go up at once."

The four of them lined up along the side of the ditch, still hidden in the grass, and when Cross signalled them they all burst through the brush and rushed to the boards in the ground. Soren reached them first and found no lock on the latch to betray their entry. He held a single door open on it's hinge as the other three ducked inside and closed the door after himself while the guard was still looking in the other direction. Considering they had done it in broad daylight, the operation was flawless.

Dust-laden steps led into the dark basement which was alive with the sounds of wildlife. Slightly perturbed, the foursome crept cautiously around the first corner to a disheartening sight. Locked up in steel cages stacked to the ceiling were animals never seen in Serdio. It was a collection of rare and foreign fauna, saved as either exotic pets or awaiting a more horrific fate. He heard Angela gasp behind him and out of the corner of his eye he could see Pearl trying to avert her eyes. As much as he wanted to free the pitiable creatures that were whining and shreiking, while not favoring the growling ones, they would have to be forgotten for now. It would cause too much of a ruckus for their cover to remain intact, so he lead the way through the prison, making sure not to look into the cages to spare himself the grief. After rounding a corner in the maze formed by the hundreds of cages, he noticed a staircase leading up to his right. Just as he was preparing to go up, another guard entered the aisle between him and the stairs, saw him, and turned to run up the stairs and raise the alarm.

Exploding with a rush of adrenaline at nearly being caught, Cross bounded up the stairs after him, grabbed the man by his shirt, turned and flung him back into the basement. The man yelled in surprise, but was stunned long enough for Soren to pin him on the ground under one enormous boot. Pearl brandished her sword menacingly, causing their prisoner to gulp loudly. Cross swore he could even hear it over the racket of the imprisoned creatures.

"You're gonna tell us where your boss is, and we're not gonna chop you up into tonight's dinner," Soren rattled a nearby cage, "for these hungry babies."

"He's in his study on the third floor, probably. Blue door. Can't miss it," the subordinate whimpered without hesitation, eager to save himself.

"Going up there's a bad idea though. Boss just hired a new body guard, an' if he's getting as much bang as he gave buck, you're all gonna die. Ha ha, there's what, four of you? No question, you're goin' to have a real hard time with h-"

"I've had enough out of your mouth," Soren lifted his foot away from the man's chest. "You'd better lay there a long time, because if I see your face again today, it'll be the last time it looks the way it does now."

Without another word they all turned to make their way up the stairs, with Pearl bringing up the rear as her companions climbed ahead.

Cross stood before the blue study door the basement guard had spoken of. It was, in fact, double doors with an exquisite entry decorated by carvings and thin lines of gold paint. Nailed to the wood was a sign written in dainty hand which read: Please knock and wait to be answered. This had to be it. They had fought their way up two floors, through twelve armed guards and one frightened butler. Their enemies had been cast aside with relative ease, rarely dead but all incapacitated in more than a few ways. It had seemed almost too easy, despite their great strength for such deceptively small numbers. Not one of their enemies had expected four people – two men and two women – to possibly be able to infiltrate the well populated stronghold and plunder the riches of its inhabitant. That had been their downfall.

"Everyone ready? I think I know a few questions I want answered."

Grumbles of affirmation from behind him. A quick look over his shoulder and he could see the ready faces of his entourage behind him – all except for Pearl. She had underestimated the impact of a life-or-death struggle, where you had to either kill or be killed. In the critical moment, though, she had pulled through and defended herself, sweeping three men aside with the flat part of the wide blade. Cross turned back to face the door and took a deep breath. After a brief pause, he breathed in again, twisted one of the polished golden knobs and yanked the door open in one motion before rushing in spear-first.

What was beyond the door was a long rectangular study – more of a library considering the stacked shelves on either side of the room. The tall roof and curved shape to the ceiling almost made it feel like a cathedral. At the opposite end to the door was a glass window that took up the entire wall and through which could be seen the prairie beyond the city limits, ablaze with color in the afternoon light. Rays of the amber light poured through the window, casting a light source on a huge desk neatly placed before the window. There was someone seated at the desk and what appeared to be a woman standing to his left, slightly out of view... but no one else.

"Ah! What's this? It seems we have company, and hardly unexpected at that," the quavering voice of an insect spoke from behind the desk.

"Hardly... unexpected? You must be Bouillard."

It felt like a steel ball inside of Cross' chest was slowly expanding, working its way up his throat and out of his mouth. The excitement of the battle in the hall was a part of it, the other was anticipation of squeezing anything he could out of their target. He had lain in bed the previous night, tossing and twisting in the sheets as though he were covered in invisible snakes and his writhing was an attempt to match theirs. Every hateful image he had ascribed to the mercenaries in the fields or the church of Soa was being imprinted on whoever he had to track down for the King. It had been building up inside of him from the day he was beaten and thrown into the woods, consuming him and growing every time he even touched on the thought of that day. Now that the respected monarch had pointed him the right way, Cross simply could not wait to break off running in that direction to make sure that everyone in the church never forgot what they did to him.

"I am he. And I say you are expected due to the highly raucous nature of your arrival. I could hear the commotion from downstairs before you even invaded this floor. And what curious invaders you are! You hardly look like knights, and are even too shabby for Neo-Dragonians. What could possibly compel a ragtag bunch like yourselves to break into my mansion at your own peril, as if it were some kind of bedraggled market for you to plunder for paltry rewards?"

Despite the fact that he was cornered, the suitor spoke in a mocking, condescending tone on the verge of laughter. This did not unsettle Cross in the least, in fact it goaded his rage like a lion taunted by its tamer. The wealthy man stood up from his seat and formally clasped his hands behind his back. His tailored suit showed his spindly, malnourished frame yet was dignified and proper on its own. It did not sag or seem to cling desperately to his long and stick-thin structure, but fit perfectly - a sign in itself of his wealth.

"You shut up! We're here to ask some questions, rich boy, and unless we get our answers, all this money of yours isn't going to mean a thing!"

"Haha, you are impassioned, I see. And you refer to me as a boy when it is you who appear to be the boy. Tell me, young man, how old are you? I bet you scream like a spoiled girl when you're hurt..."

"What was that?! I'll put enough holes in you for a-"

"Cross! Calm down, we still need to interrogate him," the wizened voice commanded from behind Soren's beard.

"Cross? Is that your name? Hm, I swear I've heard it before..." Bouillard pondered for a moment, "oh, well. There was a phrase my late father told me as a boy, and it was that 'wealth does not come without its share of misgivings.' I guess you lot are just one of those misgivings."

He lifted his right arm and flicked his fingers inward - a distracted gesture. On demand the woman who had been standing off to the side stepped into the golden beams of light shooting into the room and crossed her arms. Her skin was an odd hue, seeming both orange and dark brown, making her as exotic as any creature Bouillard had collected in his basement. Her folded arms emphasized a pair of swords strapped to her waist, one on either side.

"And like any such nuisance, you will have to be dealt with, regardless of the mess. Oh well, blood can be cleaned up. It shan't stain the wood floors, will it?" He glanced over at his bodyguard as if expecting an answer, then chuckled smugly. She continued to look bored and slightly irritated in the presence of the suitor.

"We're not here for your money, Bouillard! It's our understanding that a large sum of your wealth belongs to the church of Soa and you're going to tell us why, exactly, that is!" Soren boomed in the expansive room.

Bouillard's face soured at this, a break in his pompous disposition.

"You're in no position to be making demands of me, sir. As long as there is still a bodyguard between yourselves and I, you hold no command over me."

"Come on! You actually want us to fight a belly dancer? Why don't you just answer the question?" Pearl added in.

The hired guard appeared to take offence at that remark, despite the fact that she did look like a belly dancer, with attractive white harem pants that clung to her thighs and waist but billowed out at the calves, ending in a cuffed ankle. Her back-length black hair was kept from her face with a red headband that seemed tribal in appearance, adorned with bright orange markings that matched her blouse and the sheaths of her weapons.

Henri Bouillard gave an exasperated sigh.

"Ikaika, earn your pay. Deal with them."

The exotic bodyguard nodded and as she stepped forward withdrew a single-edged black falcata from its sheath. The blade of the strange weapon pitched forward as it reached the point, creating an indent shape closer to the hilt but appearing to get thicker towards the top. It somehow looked old and barely functional but still brutally dangerous. With her other hand she unsheathed a long rapier that appeared to be untouched. The exquisitely crafted gold rings and knuckle bow - as opposed to a round cup - were not stained or tarnished, and the blade glinted like a new silver dollar in the blazing light.

"This should be easy. She looks like she can barely hold those," Cross muttered with irritation.

"I believe it would be appropriate to assume that his confidence is not unwarranted," Soren cautioned.

As she advanced her speed picked up and she broke into a run towards them. Her quickness was not affected by the weapons at all.

"I should have guessed," Cross sighed. None of this was ever easy.

Ikaika's target appeared to be Pearl for admonishing that belly dancer comment. As she quickly closed the distane between them, Pearl attempted another wide swing with her sword to keep the attacker at bay. When the deadly chunk of metal made a sweep, creating a large rush of air, the bodyguard lithely performed an aerial cartwheel over it. She landed directly in front of Pearl, in a perfect position to strike with those swords. The momentum of the aerial gave her enough force to swing the falcata in an overhead arc once one of her feet had touched the ground, but a wooden shaft shot out to block the blow. She immediately turned and made a horizontal swing at Cross' waist, which he barely avoided. Pearl quickly recovered and the two tried to simultaneously attack their foe, who backpedaled and countered with equal efficiency. The way she wildly swung both blades in arcs, circles and feints was almost like a dance and confounded both of her attackers. Pearl soon became frustrated, wound up and delivered an overhead strike of her own. Ikaika arched backwards and did a handspring over the desk, which was easily split in two with a resounding crash. Bouillard was still standing behind it.

"EEK!" he screeched.

"Last chance, you coward!" Cross threatened the tall but skinny man before him, "tell us why you-"

Out of nowhere he was slashed across the forearm. Damn, she's quick! The bodyguard leaped up and kicked Pearl away from her blade, which was firmly lodged in the floor. Now Cross was on the defensive. He backed away, parrying what seemed like hundreds of blows from the relentless attacker. When he tried to make a thrust to gain some breathing room Ikaika rotated her wrist, sliding her sword up the shaft of the spear, controlling it as the tip spun in circles. Even though he was gripping it in both hands, Cross couldn't control his weapon at all, and then his hand was cut open between his thumb and forefinger, causing him to drop his spear.

As his foe was about to deliver the final blow Soren appeared and pushed her back with his ax placed horizontally in both hands.

"We don't want to harm you, miss. Please yield and let us converse with Bouillard, and when we have our answers your employment to him will be meaningless."

"I'm under contract to protect Mister Henri Bouillard at all costs," she finally spoke, and her voice was stern yet beautiful, "and if I gave up now, I wouldn't be that reputable to my future employers, would I?"

Before Soren could issue a rebuttal she attacked again, forcing him backward as she chipped away pieces from his wood axe. He soon stumbled, and she took advantage of it and push kicked him into a bookshelf. His entire weight fell backwards into the wooden structure, crushing blocks of wood and burying the huge man under a waterfall of books. As she watched the last of the volumes bounce dustily off the top of the pile, Cross saw an opportunity and boldly took it. Unarmed, he took off at a run and threw his full weight into a tackle aimed at the female bodyguard. It struck home, knocking her off both feet and sending each of her weapons to the floor with a hollow tink. What happened next he couldn't have expected. She scrambled immediately to her feet and when he rose as well she wrapped one hand around the crown of his head and pulled him in close, her elbow digging painfully into his chest. His left arm felt trapped as well but he couldn't tell how, it all seemed like some bizarre hug to him. With amazing speed and strength she twisted one-hundred eighty degrees around and used her hips to whip him off the ground and clinch throw him into a nearby decorative table, the legs of which snapped immediately as Cross' full weight destroyed it. Stunned and winded, he lay helplessly in the debris of the table.

Triumphantly now the bodyguard stood over the defeated boy, who had been only that; a boy. Wild and desperate, inexperienced for sure. For a moment she may have even admired him for his will. What others would have taken for stubborn, she at once knew was passionate. It was in the midst of relishing this victory that she suddenly found herself unconscious.

Pearl cracked her knuckles after the blow to the base of their adversaries' neck. She did not take pleasure in sneaking up from behind, and silently hoped she hadn't struck too hard.

Angela could be seen tending to the injured Cross, and Soren had just begun to dig himself out of the mountain of books. A skeletal shadow moved across the brilliantly lit bay window, but as it reached the shelves on the left side of the room Pearl cornered Bouillard, who froze with fright.

"Hey, please... listen, d-don't hurt me. I ain't the one who attacked you, right?"

His hands were raised in surrender, and Pearl noted that his big words had left him along with his pompous attitude.

"I'm thinking of hurtin' ya, unless of course you answer the big fella's question; why's it that you keep paying the church? What can you tell us about what's going on in Serdio? How many people were killed?"

The room took on a somber silence. Henri Bouillard's face was stricken, then defeated. His oily, combed hair had fallen into his face, and he messily wiped it back, but it simply fell down again. Cross had recovered enough to be listening intently, and though nobody noticed, Ikaika had begun to awaken on the floor and could hear as well.

"I always gave them money because I had plenty... more than I even needed for all this... but they gave me more than the money could ever be worth! You couldn't even understand!"

"I don't understand, and I don't care. You've gotta be pretty tight with their inner circle, so you have to know what they're using your money for."

He ran his thumb and forefinger over the thin moustache outlining his upper lip, his eyes treading as carefully as his words.

"They'd use it for any number of things. This time they told me they were using it for hiring some soldiers, but they didn't say what for..."

"Liar!"

"Alright! Alright! They were sending them to the fields! They were t-t-told to take any land, or life, that was there. Official documents were issued, i-it was all so expensive. But it was for a purpose... something a stupid peasant like you couldn't wrap your head around if you tried-"

As he had spoken Bouillard had slowly backed into a narrow bookcase and shifted one of the books with his hand. The panel of shelving rotated around to reveal a blank surface that Pearl couldn't break through no matter how hard she tried. Her knuckles bled after the effort, and as Angela began to wrap them in bandage she could hear Bouillard's shrill laughter as he fled down some secret passage.

Oh man, it has been a while. I have been tied up in school a lot, among other things I also like to do. But I can't get this story off my mind. I always want to keep getting back at it, but rarely find the time. It's weird. But I apologize for the slowness. To make up for it I powered through as much as I could and in 2 weeks came up with a double-whammy; my treat for you. Anyone who keeps reading this... well, you're just awesome. Thanks