Chapter 11: Blind

The histories of Coulone and Darkcruigh, and the histories of many surrounding kingdoms, record the last day of the Goldenward War. King Harduc, trapped between the Wending Forest and the north fork of the Trebant, was camped with only two thousand men, soldiers of Darkcruigh and hired mercenaries. Many of his elite forces, such as the Red Blades, had scattered into the forest or to the other side of the river, still broken and wounded by the aftermath of the Battle of Trebant Ford.

The Prince of Coulone himself rode out with all his remaining forces to crush Harduc once and for all. His army was not much greater, whittled down by deserters who no longer saw the threat Harduc posed, and by the devastating casualties of the long war. But Prince Kirsan saw this as the final move to end the war once and for all, and he had the benefit of cavalry and land.

At dawn, the stories say, King Harduc received a message from his keep, informing him of the death of his daughter, Astera. Filled with rage and pain, he ordered his army to strike at the Prince, out of vengeance and out of despair. Kirsan's forces, ready to attack themselves, but unprepared for such a direct assault, rallied in the fields and farms on the northern border of Coulone, in what promised to be the longest, bloodiest, and last day of the Goldenward War.

Old soldiers used to say that the only victors of the Goldenward War were the crows.

Presto tried not to look at the flock of crows hunched around a pile of...something...not five paces from him. "Birdseed. Really...that's all it is." The stench was terrible. He gritted his teeth.

The stench was rotten, but there was also smoke, long streamers of which poured up over the horizon. Smoke meant fire. That smoke meant that there were people, alive people, either starting the fires or putting them out. Or running away. Which meant he would catch them eventually. Which meant healing for Hank.

The crows screeched and fought, pulling away briefly from the lump of flesh and cloth. Presto gagged, but as soon as the feeling of sickness came, it was displaced by another. Power surged up from his stomach, then rippled down from his shoulders to his fingertips. It scored a path through his nerves like electricity and ice and that single kiss from Varla.... The wave of it was so intense, Presto staggered. He could feel it there, dancing behind his hands, pushing to be released. It would be nothing to unleash it, to tear the sky apart and let slip the fire beyond. He realized how much he hated them. He hated seeing Hank hurt for him, hated the burning of his skin and the stench and the crows. The fire welled out, but Presto forced in back in, hard. He wasn't sure what would happen if that power got out, and what that would do to him. It might mean he wouldn't be able to find healing for Hank in time.

Presto tucked his hands under his armpits and trudged on, heading for the smoke. Nothing was going to stop him from getting help for Hank.

Venger's footsteps echoed against floors of polished obsidian, black as midnight. His shadow trailed along behind him, wringing its hands, but Venger ignored the demon. It had only to obey him, and that was enough. Nothing would ruin this day's events.

"All is in readiness, my Lord," Shadow Demon whispered as the two entered a large, open chamber. "As you can see, I have prepared it all."

Venger surveyed the room. Above, the open sky was filled with dark clouds, promising a storm. Although only a few hours after dawn, the sky was nearly black as night. The sun would not shine in this place today.

A black marble altar dominated the center of the room. Shackles dangled at each end. A groove cut from the stone ran down the center of the altar lengthwise. Upon the altar lay a curved dagger of some black metal, a ruby gleaming at its pommel. Next to it lay a bowl made of bright platinum, intricately carved with figures of humans, mortals, slaving under the whips and barbs of skeletal figures. The artist who had created the piece had gone mad in its crafting.

Opposite the altar, upon a single pedestal, sat the crystal skull that Shadow Demon brought out of the ruins some time before. The clear, transparent crystal eyes seemed to watch the table impassively.

In the wall above the skull, six large gemstones marked the corners of a large hexagram etched into the rock. Diamond, ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst, and topaz, each marking a point. Suspended in the air in front of the hexagram, held by no detectable means, hung a sturdy wooden club, out of place in its simplicity in the obsidian chamber. It shone with a golden light. The topaz of the hexagram mirrored its light, pulsing softly, like the beating of a heart.

Venger touched the club with a fingertip, feeling its power. Such youth, such vitality, that power seemed to promise. For so long, he had felt his power waning, draining from his mind as age was draining life from his body. A whimper drew his attention away.

The final ingredients were there. In two cages, low to the ground, were infants. They did not cry...the spells cast on them would keep them still to the end. In two more cages, young children, boy and girl. They too lay in unnatural sleep. Next to them, a young man and a young woman, of maybe fifteen years of age. They no longer fought their chains, but hung limply from them. It was the girl who had whimpered. Finally, a man and woman of twenty-five years, grown to adulthood. The man looked defiantly at him with crystal-blue eyes. His hair and short beard were golden-blond. The woman closed her eyes and her shoulder-length red locks hid much of her face, but her jaw was clenched with determination.

Venger's lip curled with pleasure. It was a small conceit, but he was permitted it. He was, after all, going to die this day.

The guards came for her shortly after dawn. Sheila looked up with bitter defiance as they unlocked the door, and without a word walked amongst them. They kept their faces equally impassive as they marched beside her through the gleaming corridors of the desert palace. Each wore a hauberk of overlapping steel scales and carried a curved scimitar as if they knew how to use it.

The morning sun lit the open throne room. Small knots of men and women dressed in white robes watched her silently as the guards brought her before the empty throne. Sheila kept her back stiff and her chin up.

To the left of the throne, a young woman watched her, face carefully neutral. Her black hair was long, held back by a golden band. She wore a sharp knife in the blue sash at her waist. Her face, though still, had the warm, brown eyes and intelligent, precocious mouth of Aiyesha. Sheila had not been mistaken. Aiyesha watched the thief unblinking.

To the right of the throne was one Sheila did not recognize. He was a thin, older man, his head wrapped in an elaborate turban. He clearly looked disapproving, his narrow lips pursed to a frown. He glared at her.

"Kneel before the king." A guard placed a firm hand on Sheila's shoulder and pushed her down to her knees. The other guards dropped to one knee beside her.

She looked up at the sound of firm footsteps to see a tall, well-built man ascend the steps to the throne and take his seat. Her breath caught in her throat. Dark skin, black curly beard, and a gleaming scimitar at his side that he did not relinquish. Of course, if Aiyesha was here, he would be too. Sheila gritted her teeth. All it did was show the extent of Randale's betrayal. He had made her steal from Ramoud. And now Ramoud was going to oversee her punishment. Or maybe he would let her go. More likely he would let her be flogged. She braced herself for the betrayal as her eyes watched the king steadily.

King Ramoud ascended to the throne and sat down. His face could have been carved from flint and he looked at the prisoner before him. "State the charges."

The old man to the king's right spoke. "This woman was caught breaking into the palace treasury with the intent of stealing the gold intended for our alliance with the nomads. We believe that she was the one responsible for stealing it the first time it was gathered, and has been the one to plague us in recent months. According to the sentence declared by the king, she must be flogged and her left hand must be cut off."

Sheila swallowed and flexed the fingers of her left hand. She forced her hand flat again. Ramoud had not indicated he'd known her. Still, it didn't matter. Nothing did.

"Who brings testimony?" Ramoud's voice was somber and hard.

Aiyesha stepped forward, explaining what happened in the treasury the night before. From time to time, she would glance over her shoulder at Sheila, but never for long. She, too, sounded somber, perhaps a little regretful.

"Is there any other testimony to confirm these facts?" Ramoud looked around the throne room. A few guards stepped forward, one by one, giving similar accounts of the night before.

"And to the other charges? Of previous thefts?"

A single man in wealthy clothing bowed before the throne. "The night of the first theft, I saw two figures cross the courtyard. One wore a cloak of that color. I only saw for a second before they disappeared behind a pillar."

Sheila held her face rigid and cold, letting no emotion betray her. Ramoud frowned and folded his hands. "Why did you not call the guards?"

The man hesitated. "I was not certain what I had seen. It was late. I didn't..."

Ramoud raised his hand to cut the speaker off. "Anyone else?"

The man next to the King spoke, his voice restrained to strict formality. "She was seen in the presence of a partner in the inn in town. He fled before our soldiers could arrive."

Ramoud then allowed himself a single sigh as he steepled his fingers. "Very well." His voice was emotionless as he spoke to Sheila. "You have heard the charges and testimony arrayed against you. Do you have anything to say?"

Sheila slowly looked up, her eyes dark and cold as she stared at this man who once had claimed her as a daughter, and yet had not even acknowledged knowing her now. Well, she wouldn't betray Randale to them. She wouldn't be the traitor, even if she were betrayed, again. Her lips pursed in a bitter frown. "No. I don't. Do whatever you like. I don't care. I just don't care any more."

Ramoud sighed. "Very well."

Aiyesha stepped closer, and laid her hand on her father's wrist. "Father, please. Don't you recognize her? This is..."

Ramoud raised his hand. "I know, my daughter. I know." His voice was heavy, none of its usual laughter.

The old man to Ramoud's right stepped forward again. "Even if you know the girl, the sentence has been made." He glared at the king darkly. "You gave us your word."

Ramoud sighed. "I know, Councilor."

He looked down at Sheila again, and climbed to his feet. "I have heard the testimony, and may all men know that I swear to see that justice is done." His voice was loud, carrying across the throne room. All of the men and women in the room bowed as one in acknowledgement of the ancient promise.

"According to the testimony I have heard, I feel no doubt that the accused has stolen." A slight murmur arose in the throne room, silenced when the king raised his hand. "She has stolen...once. The testimony given does not convince me she has stolen before. Her partner may have been responsible for the previous crimes."

Some of the observers grumbled softly, but none dared argue with the king.

Ramoud sighed deeply.

"The word of the King has already determined the sentence. Forty lashes of the whip. It shall be carried out this afternoon."

Sheila dropped her head. She knew she should feel relieved that she was not losing her hand, but she could not bring herself to feel it. Of course Ramoud would not protect her.

Betrayed again.

She did not say a word as the guards led her back to her cell.

At first there was a lot of pain. Hank's back, his whole body, cried out with the agony of the arrow wound. A chill had crept into his arms and legs, and he was so tired he could barely move. But as he lay with his face pressed into the unicorn's silken mane, smelling warmth and violets, he could feel the pain diminish. It was not the numbness that had been stealing into him, but more as though the hurt were being washed out of him and down into the ground. He felt refreshed and clean, as if he had showered in the purest waterfall in the world. As the pain leeched out of him, he felt something powerful, something incredibly alive, filling the void it left behind. That life gave him the strength to sit up. He straightened on the unicorn's back and looked around for the first time.

Hank gasped. The unicorn ran with a speed unlike anything Hank had ever known. He could feel the wind blowing on his face. Perhaps it was some gift of her magic that brought each thing he looked at into perfect focus as she ran. He could see trilliums and bluebells sprouting at her hooves below him, springing from the earth in little green shoots, shedding their crumbs of earth, and unfolding in brilliant colors. As he watched, they would curl up and die, descending back into the earth to begin the cycle anew.

Swallows swooped and danced around them, laughing and singing on the wind. As Hank watched in wonder, they'd soar around him, mate, lay tiny speckled eggs, and die for less than a second before they'd hatch anew from the next generation. They learned to fly again, until the whole sky was filled with flight and music.

It was as if he was watching life, sped up and swelling all around him. He could hear the unicorn's laughter, the sound of chimes. Half-laughing, half-crying at the beauty of the world around him, Hank called to her, "What is this?"

He could feel her response inside him. *This is life. This is the world. It is of you, as you are part of it. It wants to heal you, Ranger. It wants you to know your place. I have come to teach you these things.*

Waves of life washed over him, and Hank could sense the remnants of that life in him, as it was in each living thing. He could sense the bonds that connected him to the land, buried deep in the earth. The unicorn sped on. Mountains, floating high above the earth, deserts with sparkling gem-like oases, marshes and swamps, wide open plains and forests deep as night. The unicorn's feet sent the splashing water of an azure sea streaming to either side of him as dolphins and great sea creatures emerged to watch them ride.

He passed the ways of man, fields of grain and smoke and war, then back into a forest as the Unicorn's pace slowed and came to a stop. Stunned and out of breath, Hank tumbled from her back.

"That...was amazing." He stood, still light-headed with the wonders he had seen.

The unicorn watched him silently. She flicked her head, gesturing with her golden horn towards his back.

The reminder brought back the memory of the agony of his injury and he choked as he pulled the blood-soaked bandages aside. He still felt strong, but the wound bled freely. He staggered.

The unicorn seemed to expect something. Hank was confused, but then remembered all of the life that surrounded them on their journey. "It wants to heal me." It did. He could feel the life of the small clearing pushing towards him, reaching out for the opportunity to ease his pain and bind his wounds. And all it asked was for him to acknowledge that he was part of that life. He did gladly. He reached out to the life around him. He could feel it seeping into him, knitting together his flesh as he watched. It was in him now. It was wonderful.

When he looked up, the unicorn was gone, but the air rang with the sound of her laughter. It always would.

Hank hitched his shirt shut and picked up his bow. He felt weak, but he was ready for anything. The land would give him all the strength he needed.

Eric and Diana held hands shyly, each glancing at the other when they thought they couldn't be seen. Soon, they both knew, they would have to return to the camp. The Red Blades were far from the front, awaiting orders, but expected none. They were so broken that even King Harduc would not command them to ride again so soon.

But the soldiers would find Eric, and Diana, if they were needed. For today, they could enjoy what peace just being together could bring.

The sun reached towards its apex, but no light pierced the grim storm clouds that swirled around Venger's tower of obsidian. Venger walked slowly to the table and picked up the knife, turning it slowly in his hands.

Holding it carefully, he turned to the victims chained to the wall. The man swallowed, but looked steadily at him, eyes full of wounded questions.

"You want to know what is going to happen. You want to know why."

The man said nothing, just watched him steadily.

Venger nodded once. "The ritual will begin shortly, when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky. I suppose I shall tell you what is about to occur, what will happen, so that my last thoughts as a living man are remembered and recorded." He glanced at Shadow Demon, who bowed deeply.

For a moment, the only sound was the heavy breathing. Venger swept past the altar, and put the knife back in its place. "Very well."

"Nine hundred and eighty years ago, I was born with the spark of magic. It burned strong in me. After I suffered through my tests, my parents chose to see me sent away. They were wealthy, powerful...royal. They would not risk my potential for disaster. Banished to the edge of the Empire, I was placed in the care of a wizard, a sycophant of the court a mere fifty years older than myself.

"He treated me as his own child and I learned much from watching him. But his methods for using his magic, I despised. He would only use his powers to spy on the comings and goings of the world. He would entrance or manipulate servants to follow him, but would not show me his magics. My parents' kingdom was suffering under a terrible threat, but he did nothing to protect it. He had great power, but he refused to use it near me. He seemed afraid of teaching me more.

"As I grew older, I despised him for not winning his victories on his own. I hated him for his weakness and for the way he used others. He was as fork-tongued as the courtiers in my parent's palace. He even dared lie to me, at the end, claiming I was his son in truth. More manipulations. I refused to have anything to do with his form of sorcery, what little he would show me. I struck out on my own, learned in my own ways. For I realized that he was not only controlling others; he was controlling me."

"But as I grew, my power grew. And with that power, I attracted the attention of...forces...I shall not name. I was offered the strength to escape, to strike at those who would harm my kingdom, to shun my mortal fetters of fear and uncertainty and rise to freedom from all who would attempt to manipulate or lie to me. I seized that power!

"My mentor knew. He understood what I had taken hold of, and was desperate to stop me. I do not know what source of power he seized upon, but he too finally chose to grasp at power in order to thwart my aspirations. Since that time, you mortals have called him The Dungeonmaster.

"For centuries we fought. In our battles we learned from each other. His first action was to rally the nations together against me. But fear works as well as lies and promises to gather armies, and I no longer hesitated at such a direct threat. My armies of orcs cracked the nations.

"We fought with spells, and areas of the land remain scarred with the magic of our ancient battles. We fought like gods! I crushed The Dungeonmaster beneath my power, but he would still send out forces and rally to oppose me.

"And then...after nearly a thousand years of battle, I find myself dying. My power has been slipping away from me like blood from a black heart. I believe Dungeonmaster too watches his power drain away, but it takes little power for those willing to manipulate and lie to find forces to ally with you. And so, now, he is strong and I am weak. My armies are scattered. Fear no longer drives them as it once did. You have forgotten me.

"No more. I need not use others to find a new source of power. Eventually, Dungeonmaster will diminish and die, and then he will send no more forces against me. But I...I will live. Forever! Unlike previous spells I have cast to retain my youth, this victory will be eternal...for I shall allow death to take her price. I shall freeze my body at the point of death now while I still have power left in me. I shall place my soul there, into the crystal skull. The skull has the power to command all of the dead that rest in the rotting places of the earth. But it will only obey the soul within it; it hears no other command. It shall become my soul, and I shall arise anew, with new armies to meet any challengers that Dungeonmaster might arrange with his last lies!"

Venger stood, overwhelmed for a moment with the vision of his future glory. Then he took one deep breath.

Shadow Demon whispered, "It is time, My Lord."

Venger nodded once. "Then let the ritual begin."

He walked to the altar and began to chant as Shadow Demon opened the smallest of the cages.

Once again, the guards came and took her from her cell, and Sheila went with them silently. She could lie to herself and say she was not afraid, but she had felt the lash of the whip before, and seen how it could tear up a body. She was frightened. She poured all of her strength into retreating back into the shadows, hiding her fear and emotion.

Now she was alone. The fear scrabbled with claws at her heart, and she pressed it down. No emotion. Now she was alone, she could die. It didn't matter any more.

The guard behind her spoke softly. "Girl, it is difficult, but the whip will hurt more if you hold yourself as rigid as you are. If you remain this rigid, your own body will contribute to the strength of the Punisher's blows." He sighed when he saw that Sheila would not respond.

The guards did not speak again. They led her to a large, basement room, isolated and undecorated, with crates pressed against the wall as though its normal purpose was storage. One of the pillars in the room, a squat, ugly thing, had an iron ring imbedded in it. By the pillar stood the largest man Sheila had ever seen. The only other person present, other than the guards, was a tall man, in plain, simple robes, hooded and cloaked. He stayed silent, and Sheila could not see his face.

The guard who had spoken to her before sighed as he shackled her wrists to the iron ring overhead, and stepped back briskly. In a measured tone, he recited to the nearly-empty room, "You have been found guilty of the charge of theft from the Royal Treasury. The required sentence is forty lashes of the whip, to be completed with the striking of the noon-day bells. By the mercy of the council, your punishment has been seen fit to be private, so that none but your family need bear witness your shame. May justice be served." The guard turned crisply on his heel, signaled to the other men, and marched out of the storeroom.

The door shut behind them.

Only two others remained behind: the large man who carried the whip, and the cloaked figure. Neither looked at her, but remained impassively turned away, waiting for the bells.

Sheila let herself sag against the cool stone of the pillar. 'How has it come to this?' Fear and regret stirred in her heart as the minutes ticked by, and now, with only these two present, it seemed so useless to maintain the facade of icy strength any longer. These two would see that facade shattered soon enough in her cries of pain. They did not care. 'People cared once...I remember. My mother, my father...my brother. They loved me. They wouldn't have left me alone.'

A tiny voice inside her answered her thoughts. 'They were not the only ones who loved you'.

She wanted to deny it, but... 'Presto. Diana. Eric.' She paused. 'Hank.' A wash of memories misted her vision with images of the hundreds of little ways her friends had shown their love.

...

"This is stupid!" Eric wailed as he threw himself in front of the torrent of flames from the dragon's breath, sheltering her behind his shield.

...

"Here! I know it's not very good..." Presto grimaced as he held out the lopsided green and purple polka-dotted flower and brought a smile to her face despite her throbbing ankle.

...

"Well, us girls have to stick together you know!" Diana smirked as she returned to the bathing hole after chasing the boys off with her staff.

...

"Sheila, I would never betray you," Hank gazed steadily down at her in the moonlight, sincerity shining in his warm blue eyes.

...

A lonely tear trickled down the young woman's cheek. 'But I'm still alone.'

The voice in her heart did not taunt, but it refused to be silenced. 'You are alone because that was the choice you made. You left them alone. You gave up on them. You would not let them follow.'

She wanted to protest, but it was the truth. She sagged in the chains, resigned.

A bell tolled, the deep tone carrying softly into the quiet storeroom.

The man with the whip stepped up behind her. In a deep, flat voice, he rumbled, "It is time."

The man in the cloak straightened, and reached out a dark-skinned hand to hold back the other. "Yes. It is time for the punishment to be meted out. Unbind her."

Confused, Sheila twisted her head to look towards the cloaked figure. The man with the whip reached up and loosened her shackles. She pulled away from him with fear, looking at both men without comprehension. "I don't understand."

The one who had ordered her unbinding lowered his hood. It was the dark, strong features of King Ramoud. The king did not answer her directly, but turned and spoke to the man who carried the fearsome whip. "Punisher, you know that it is my right to stand here as close family of this criminal."

The Punisher nodded once.

"She is my daughter."

The Punisher nodded once again.

Ramoud stripped off his cloak completely. Sheila could see that he was clad only in a pair of plain, white trousers, and the muscles of his back and chest rippled with the same strength he had had when he first appeared to her at that Oasis, so long ago. Ramoud's voice rolled with the power she remembered. "Then you know that it is my crime, more than hers, that she is being punished for this day. I abandoned my daughter when she needed me. I failed to teach her and guide her in the paths of honor. She was too young, and I let her leave by herself, without my protection, into the ways of danger. I failed in my responsibilities as a father." He paused, filling his lungs with a deep breath. "I therefore demand to claim the punishment that is due to her, that my guilt may be shown and my responsibilities be fulfilled."

The Punisher nodded a final time. Ramoud walked forward, and allowed his hands to be locked into the shackles that once had held Sheila's wrists. Sheila's eyes were wide with surprise, quickly followed by concern and a flood of tears as the whip was raised.

"One."

The whip cracked, before Sheila could even realize what was happening. It struck like a bolt of black lightening, and where it landed, a welt of red flame burned across Ramoud's dark skin. The king gave a small grunt, but said nothing. Sheila covered her mouth with her hands.

"Two."

The whip struck again.

'Why is he doing this? He is the king...why is he doing this for me?' Watching the blows fall, Sheila could imagine them falling across her own skin. 'How much they must hurt...'

The quiet voice from before answered her. 'He is doing this because he loves you.'

"Five."

Her mind clawed at the question, scrabbling for the answers. 'He's the king. If he didn't want to see me scourged, why didn't he just order me set free?'

The other voice in her head, the reason, had a calm answer for her. 'Because he is the king. It is his responsibility to enforce the law.'

"Eleven." A slow trickle of blood was beginning to drip down Ramoud's back, but he kept himself steady and made little more than a grunt when each blow was struck.

Sheila felt the hard shell of ice she had held around her heart shatter as Ramoud's pain struck at her. 'He does not deserve this. He didn't steal anything. I deserve this punishment.'

That quiet voice inside her was unyielding. 'Yes. You stole, and ran away from your friends, and made some foolish choices. But. . . .'

A shaft of confusing light pierced the heavy black clouds of Sheila's newest guilt. 'But?' The voice was her...the her that she knew she called on when she was helping others. 'But...' She lowered her hands from her face and looked at Ramoud.

"Twenty-one."

Ramoud lifted his head against the pain and his jasper-brown eyes looked steadily at her. He winced as the whip came down again, and then twisted the corner of his mouth up into the smallest, saddest of smiles. Sheila could see, along with pain, Ramoud's love, his disappointment, and, strangest of all...forgiveness.

'But?'

The voice was silent for a long time, as if her own mind was having a hard time accepting the truth. 'You...I...deserve punishment for stealing....but...not...not for Bobby.'

Sheila burst into tears as the flood of emotions swept over her. "Bobby! I killed Bobby!"

"Thirty-nine..."

Ramoud's voice was tired, as he answered her, filled with pain. "That...price...then....it has been paid also."

"Forty."

The whip came down a final time. The Punisher quickly dropped the lash to the ground and hurried to unfasten the king's chains. Blood flowed freely down his back, but he managed to straighten and move over to Sheila, kneeling beside her, wrapping the sobbing girl in his arms.

"He would not want you to punish yourself forever. Oh, my daughter...." His voice shook with pain and compassion, "Oh, my daughter...I am sorry."

Sheila clung to him and wept.

It was happening again.

Presto recognized the feeling within him, the blood growing hot, the seductive call of the flames within his reach. Just as it had in the village. No, it was not the same. It was a thousand times worse. There, he had been angry at a casual insult. But now he knew the reason for his hatred and anger.

The slaughter was everywhere. Bodies, tumbled and broken like leaves tossed aside in a storm. Blood drenching the hem of his robes. Offal and flies. And, oblivious, seeming to be blind to the horror that surrounded them, they were still killing each other.

When he had seen the first men on their feet, not moaning and dying, he had called out to them. "My friend needs help! He's been shot! Please somebody, help me!" How pathetic his words must have sounded to the soldiers. They were trying to stay alive themselves, fighting on with arrows sticking out of shields and bodies. Their own friends and companions were dying at their feet. They didn't answer him; they lurched away from him where they could.

Presto could not see the feverish gleam of madness in his own face, a face smeared with blood and sweat and horror and despair.

The air was filled with the ringing of steel on steel. Presto knew he should feel afraid. If he were wise, he'd run as far as he could from this bloody battlefield, back to Hank, and wait for the fighting to end. But he couldn't leave these people fighting a terrible battle that he knew, in his heart, had no reason behind it. 'All this slaughter for nothing!' He had to stop it somehow.

He stumbled forward, into the heart of the fighting. The anger inside him bubbled up in fresh, hot waves. Mounted horsemen reared and stabbed at each other.

The fire spilled through, billowing around his hands, and the horsemen and soldiers near him backed away in fear at his burning eyes and furious expression. But the battlefield was a sea of chaos, and only those closest to him could see.

"STOP IT!" the young man screamed. "STOP THIS NOW!!"

The shout rose above the hoarse battlecries and screams of the wounded, but no one stopped the desperate combat.

The power poured from Presto's burning heart, fueled by the horror of the battle, the rage at the desecration of man by man, the worry for Hank. Presto's own sense of isolation, and fear of his abilities. Visions of a dream he'd once had spilled into his mind, of Eric, mounted on a steed like these, bearing down on a pike-carrying Diana, oblivious to the battle.

"I WILL STOP YOU NOW!!"

The fire poured from him in waves across the battlefield.

Captain Durnst gave a hoarse battlecry as he tried to break through the cavalry and footsoldiers to reach King Harduc's side. Of all the days of fighting in this bloody war, this was the worst. The sounds of death and dying were a nightmare undertone to the cacophony of swords and armor. What a foolish waste!

Durnst's only satisfaction as he hacked his way through the field was that his men, the Red Blades, were safely away from the fighting. He wished he could be there himself, but even a mercenary company had honor. He could not allow his employer to die without having the Red Blades at his side. Rather than order his tattered troops out to die needlessly, he rode himself, hoping to convince Harduc to quit his madness and leave the field. And if he did not...the Captain had made arrangements. The new Captain of the Blades would be inexperienced. But he was strong, and willing to learn. He would be able to lead the Blades well.

His horse reared, panicked, and Durnst pulled him up tight. A young man, white robes drenched in blood, strode past him, screaming, towards the knot of battle where King Harduc and Prince Kirsan struggled in their mad fight. Fire poured off his bare hands and dripped to the ground, but he seemed oblivious.

Durst could barely make out the words, but it seemed like he was screaming for the battle to stop. He reached out to the lad...

And a wave of light and pain washed over him.

At the instant of the release of the flames, Presto realized that the control had slipped. It had escaped him. 'COME BACK!!'

Somehow, he mentally reached out, clutching at the strands of fire that were pouring off his body. He felt as those he was trying to pick up a boulder with his fingernails, scrabbling to bring the spell back into him. It was too much.

'Burning...they'll burn....the heat....the LIGHT!'

A dim memory of physics, from a past so long ago and a world so different than the Realm that it could hardly follow the same rules, flashed into his mind. Gritting his teeth, Presto poured himself into a transformation, converting the heat from the racing flames into light.

'The Light!'

The pain was gone as swiftly as it had come, but a brilliant white light followed it, before Durnst could even close his eyes or open his mouth to scream.

He slammed his eyes shut, but they hurt anyway, a sunburst of brilliant oranges and whites fading into darkness behind his eyelids. He gripped the reins of his horse hard to keep it from rearing with panic.

When he slowly opened his eyes, the darkness remained. He could hear his horse's frightened breathing, the moans of pain. But the sound of fighting had stopped.

And somewhere at his horse's feet, he could hear the sound of a young man, crying.

Commoners carried tales of the Basilisk to distant lands, a monster awakened in the battle whose very image caused blindness. But seven hundred veterans of the Goldenward War's final battle had a different story to tell, for the historians who recorded it. A story of the day they followed King Harduc, mad with the pain of his daughter's death, onto a bloody battlefield stretched across acres of open farmland. A story of hearing a scream for the battle to end, and then a wave of heat, a brilliant light, and a darkness that did not end.

King Harduc dropped his sword to the ground and wept from empty eyes. Prince Kirsan of Coulone was thrown from his horse, and suffered a broken leg. How do you fight a war when your army has been struck blind?

The historians recorded both tales , of course. It was their duty to remember such things, even when the blind veterans of the Goldenward War had passed away. They recorded how the healers and farmers emerged cautiously onto the battlefield to find the wounded, the dying, and hundreds of men stumbling blindly, or sitting confused, staring blankly into space.

And at the center of the strange effect...a golden-haired ranger, a wizard in white...and no answers.

The magic club pulsed with power, drawing and focusing the might found in the six glowing gemstones around it. A shaft of pure, golden light struck the crystal skull on the plinth, and it shone in the blackened room with a brilliant glow.

The winged figure of a man stepped into the beam, but the skull continued to glow. The figure, who had been called in the days of his life Venger, raised a golden bowl to his lips and drank deeply.

A thick red liquid spilled over his lips and down his throat, staining his fangs red. He coughed at the bitter taste, but drank until the bowl was empty, and threw it to the ground beside him.

The poison was swift. He could feel it boiling his throat and belly, sending tendrils around his heart and tightening about it. The tendrils squeezed, and the muscles in his arms and legs constricted in agony. Still Venger would not cry out, chanting unholy rites. His throat constricted and the chant dampened to a mere whisper, and then, finally Venger screamed.

His body slumped to the ground. The beam broke past him and surged back into the glowing skull, but as it went, it carried with it some black and twisted fragment of Venger that remained, hanging in the air, as he fell. The golden light of the skull turned an angry violet, beams of light radiating from it in the darkness.

The lifeless, winged body on the floor twitched and rose awkwardly.

And then it laughed with triumph.