Chapter 35:

The Battle of Pao

Moonlight glinted off of his sword. Lynx stood on the swaying deck, studying the polished metal. Tonight… he would go forth and do battle. He had already sworn the oath to himself, yet he swore it again. By the love he held for his lady, the plains would fall.

A shadow moved in the background and gruff voice asked, "Well?"

Lynx said softly, "We have to wait until there's evidence of Clatt's engagement at the fortress. If we're there too early, it defeats the purpose."

Number One snorted. "Why the hell would you put so much trust in that fool?"

"He's powerful."

Number One laughed scornfully and patted his sword. "I'm powerful. He's a fool."

"If you don't understand why, you probably never will. And a fool? You still think he's a fool after hearing his strategy out?"

Number One was silent for a good long while. Lynx stood, waiting, and watching. And thinking of her. Finally his old friend growled, "I've learned a lot of things in my life. Some good, some bad. Most important one is this; don't trust it."

A smile twitched its way onto his lips. "You don't trust me?"

"No." Lynx had to chuckle at the deadpan delivery. He turned to his subordinate, but Number One's face had a very serious note to it. Lynx paused. Number One growled, "Never… never trust the things that you love. They're the ones that kill you, every time."

Lynx stood, completely still. He had always loved his honor he supposed… and Mishalea. He was loyal to his friends, terrible to his enemies… and yet… and yet there was something in what Number One said, surely.

Finally he forced the words out of his throat, raw though they were. "Old friend I never… you must believe me when I say that I… I didn't mean to-"

"Excuses don't matter a damn," snapped the grizzled, bearded old general. There was a bare moment of silence before Number One changed the subject. "So, what positions do we take?" His voice was thicker, though.

Lynx knew the question that he wanted to ask, but he knew equally well that he'd never get it out. He replied, "I'll take the center, you have the van. Fat Man holds the right wing. The left is already covered."

"So that Fat Man holds the most difficult position? I suppose he's more experienced than whoever you've found for the left but still…"

"You never liked him."

"Wrong," growled Number One. "I just never trusted him."

Lynx was silent then, for a time. What he had done to his old friend had been… cruel, he supposed. That didn't sit well with him. Lynx certainly could be ruthless but he wasn't a cruel man. He started to open his mouth, when he was riveted by the sight of an explosion of fire.

He turned, his tone curt. "That'll be Clatt. We sail in for the main the thrust."

---

Hans looked at the barren, rather desolate plateau which he had been ordered to hold. Aye, and to use if necessary. Truth be told, it was little more than a low cliff jutting out from the mountains that led back to Bustoke.

His guide was a Pao warrior, tall and sinewy. The man glanced around, strode over to the watch-fire, pulled out a flint, and started the flame. He bowed and said, "My pardons, Sir Hans. I must rejoin the vanguard. Lord Luke will be seeing to positioning, even now."

Hans nodded in return, his voice a shade stiffer than he meant it to be. "Thank you. You've been a good guide."

The man gestured languidly. "As you can see, there is everything you might need here. Food, water, your equipment, a blade should you need it, the flint, wood, and oil. Everything. As you requested."

"You've been very kind," Hans told him.

The man had already turned away and started the descent. He glanced back up, shaded his eyes and shouted, "Luck, Sir Hans. And may the gods be good."

Yes, he thought sourly. May the gods be good. Let's just hope old Hans doesn't have to do anything at all. They can just pack me off up here and hope to forget me.

Before he had left, he had tried to keep the bitterness out of his eyes.

You could have admitted my worth, damn you. Would it have been so much to bend those bloody stiff knees of yours?

Hans had never been a perceptive person and certainly hadn't always understood other people's emotions, but his own could be fairly complex. It was true that he had been slighted… and yet wasn't there something in what Luke had said? Wasn't it true that he had, in some measure, precipitated these events?

Abruptly Hans shook his head, savagely.

Luke lied. Of course he lied. He had to…

And yet, Luke had apologized in the end. The words had burst out and that seeming despair, that lost expression in his eyes… Surely it wasn't all feigned? What was it his old friend had said to him?

"It's different when you're a leader."

Despite everything though, Hans wasn't ready to let go of his bitterness. Luke had proven himself to be a great general, a reputation resting on more than one enemy engagement. If they won at Pao today, Luke's reputation and Luke's fame and Luke's arrogance would be firmly rooted. And Hans would be cursed to obscurity, remembered only as the one 'unsuccessful' commander at Alterone.

His blood simmered with anger. Unsuccessful? He had done as much to free Alterone as anyone. Luke's thrust had been good, in retrospect Hans even admitted that it might have been the decisive moment that had won the battle, but it had been a collaborative effort. Luke would never have had victory if Hans hadn't seen to the distraction…

Luke had claimed the honor of that victory though and he had blamed Hans for the death of Alterone's pathetic excuse of a king. Hans's gut clenched as he brooded on the injustice of it; a bloody battle had broken out and it was all Hans could do to keep himself and Alef alive, never mind looking after his royal idiocy. Torl had blamed him too, but Hans didn't mind that so much. He understood the man, though he didn't like him much. The treachery of the king had forced Torl to taste the truth, and the truth is a bitter draught. Small wonder he preferred blaming a convenient target.

Luke though… By the gods, Luke should have clapped him on the shoulder, granted him a smile, or some sort of approval! And Torl. Well, he could understand the general, but all the same Torl should have kissed the hand that had caused Magus such disarray, but he had preferred to scorn the arse who hadn't protected his king.

As if I was a sworn sword of Alterone. And His Grace was a traitor, no matter what he did in his last minutes.

Even Alef had been silent and Alef had been there with him, in the Great Hall! It would have been in her interest to speak up and elevate her role in the battle a little bit, but she had remained silent as well.

Hans paced over to the watch-fire, upset. More than ever he was recalling Luke, not as the man he had grown to be, but as the little boy who had been Hans's friend. Bold, charming, impulsive… Yet even as a small child, in playing their games, Luke had always wanted to be in charge. He usually had been too.

They were playing at swords that day, as they had done so often. And they called out names, the names of great heroes. Both boys solemnly swore to each other that they would be great heroes when they were older. And what a game it was, using everything they had as they sparred with each other, pretending to be King Pao the Arrogant, Ternja the White Knight, and, of course their favorite, King Guardiana.

Hans shouted it first that day and rather than shouting back Luke had said, "You can't be King Guardiana. You grandfather was a wine merchant."

Hans tasted blood on his tongue.

He never thought I was good enough.

Nobody had ever supposed Hans to be good enough for anything. His father had been disappointed in him; his mother had made excuses for him. Luke had hoped to dominate him; Various had largely overlooked and ignored him. His oh so vaunted comrades of the Shining Force preferred to scorn and mock him. Only Max had ever been fair to him… and Max had never once lifted a finger when the others taunted him for having a man's weakness.

Feeling sad, and even a little scared, Hans paced back over to the edge of the plateau. He might have continued in his fruitless ruminations if fire shooting up from Uranbatol hadn't caught his attention. And so it began…

---

A rough hand jostled him to the side. Alain said smugly, "Keep out of my way, would you? I have a command to see to."

Viktor's craggy eye-brows shot up. "So ye do," he agreed amiably. "A command o' arrogance and combin' yer hair!"

The young centaur did not respond, but walked off stiffly, his shoulders tight. Viktor felt a little sorry for Alain.

I shouldn't o' taunted him. The lad's doin' his best an' it must be 'ard to get that invested in everythin' that happens to ye.

Viktor silently promised himself that he would do better in the future. He ran his hands down the rough shaft of his pick. Most of them wouldn't consider it much of a weapon… but this pick had served Viktor well all his life. Aye, in some battles too.

Slowly the miner strolled forward, when abruptly he stopped, squinting towards the water's edge. He chuckled then, and went off in search of Lord Luke.

Truth be told, Viktor supposed it was a good enough thing that it was only Alain he had to deal with. Torl and Haiden treated him like dirt and Viktor wasn't comfortable with Lord Otrant. To be fair, Lord Commander Jarl was always courteous, but Lord Commander Jarl was also far from the center. As for Sir Hans… well Viktor liked him well enough. In all honesty, however, he mostly felt sorry for him.

As Viktor sorted all of this out he finally spotted Lord Luke, mounted in the Pao fashion of course, already geared for war and shouting out orders all the while looking very lordly.

"Lord Luke," Viktor bellowed up at him.

Luke paused, nonplussed, and then saw Viktor below him. He responded, "Viktor? I don't have any time-"

"Thought you might be wantin' to know that the enemy's ships have come into sight, m'lord." Viktor gestured languidly towards the water.

"Thank you, Viktor, but I already happened to know that. You'd best hurry back to your place." Luke turned back and started shouting again, "Everybody in their place! Now."

Viktor stood there for a moment feeling completely embarrassed. Of course Lord Luke would have arranged to be told. After a moment or so, the miner scuttled back.

---

Clatt was finding that confidence came more easily to him with each correct tactical decision that he made. His stammer was also much less noticeable.

"Th-they're giving us f-fi-f-fire arrows!" It came out as a nervous squeak. Inwardly he cursed himself. He was one of High Commander Lynx's general's now. He'd have to be better than that.

Smacking a fist down on the railing, he screeched, "T-two c-c-can pl-play at that game! M-m-mages! Fire back! All your power!"

He peered forward. Thankfully, none of the flaming arrows had yet struck the ship, but if his men didn't give them better cover soon, it would only be a matter of time. He squinted at the leader of the opposition he'd encountered. A tall, rangy man with long-flowing hair. He was barking out orders as well, though Clatt couldn't hear the gist of them most of the time. He also roared out curses. Would that make his men more obedient, the mage wondered? He decided to try it.

Spinning around he clapped his hand on the first available target that was just moving past him. Gaining in confidence, Clatt shouted, "I said, fire y-you cringing c-cu-c-"

His voice drifted off as he stared in shocked recognition into the face of General Riker. He squeaked, "Ah, th-t-that i-is, General! I, ah…" stumbling over words he blurted out the first thing that came to his head, "l-lead a, cha-ch-charge!"

Riker studied him for a moment before asking curtly, "To what aim? Your mages would likely be killing my own men."

The words tumbled out of Clatt with all the speed he could muster. "If w-w-we k-keep s-s-sn-snip-sni-s-sniping a-at them w-w-," he paused to get his tongue under control, "Won't get anywhere!" he gasped. "T-ta-take the city! G-go-g-good w-way t-t-to turn th-the ba-b-bat-battle i-in o-our f-favor!"

Riker looked at him long and hard. Abruptly he unsheathed his steel. "As you wish."

Clatt sighed in relief. This leading business wasn't going to be so hard after all.

---

Lynx's mouth tightened with displeasure. Evidently the tribesmen of Pao had been able to reach their allies.

Aye, he thought sourly, and their troops have been stiffened by a goodly number of battle-hardened warriors.

To add insult to injury, their tactics were working. A good long van of mounted horse was proving difficult to penetrate. On both flanks, Number One and Fat Man had tried their best, but the losses were mounting.

And their ranks remain unbroken.

Lynx tried to console himself with the knowledge that it was only the first charge. It wasn't much good. His troops couldn't even retreat from the engagement without being struck hard by mages from afar. Well-protected by the ranks of cavalry and foot.

All the same… the order had to be given. Lynx snapped at his aide, "Give the order for the ranks to start retreating. And have our columns of archers lend some cover as they do."

He didn't relish this retreat. It would be a bloody business, but merely throwing what troops he had left in nigh unbreakable ranks of cavalry was the worse decision. He stood, watching as the retreat order was given. His men started to pull back, but so did…

A wordless fury filled Lynx at the sight of the charging foe. He should have seen it coming, but he had been too blindly arrogant.

Gods be good, I've let them play me. I'm fighting to their strengths, not them to mine!

He had made the unforgivable tactical error. He had played into his opponent's hand. Of course they would have realized that if he gave a retreat order and had enough time to think through his next move that their greatest tactical advantage would vanish. And now his troops would be largely caught in the shallows where their fighting would be clumsier.

Lynx swept his blade up as a mounted warrior charged towards him, catching the unfortunate man high on his chest. The lifeless warrior tumbled into the water.

Lynx, dodging a lance thrust, attacked again. The battle had deteriorated into slug-fest. Perhaps his superior numbers would be the telling force. Perhaps not. The High Commander, however, had one last, glimmering hope. Armies were often demoralized at the deaths of their leaders.

---

Viktor charged heedlessly forward, laughing wildly with each foe that he laid low. Time seemed to move slowly and he could see nothing more than the move of arms, but his, he always knew, were faster, more accurate and deadly.

His pick slammed into an enemy soldier's face and the man fell, dead. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Viktor knew that the battle fever had come upon him.

Just look, me, a miner, and drunk on slaughter.

But there was no more time for thought, only that man dead and that one and that one, and that one. He crashed on towards a group that was standing firm against the onslaught, and paused admiringly. Brave men. I should go kill them!

He became aware of warriors following him, shouting, "Viktor! Viktor! VIKTOR!"

If he hadn't been so busy killing he would have laughed aloud at how they knew who he was. And that was when, like a lightening bolt, a blade blocked his pick. Standing in his way was an older man, bearded, and grizzled. He seemed vaguely familiar but Viktor had no time for that. How outrageous! How dare this man stand in his way and stop his pick?

He howled with primal frustration, but even as he rushed forward the man growled, "You're this Viktor? With a mining pick? This shouldn't be difficult."

The sound of a human voice, so very close to him, made the miner pause for a moment as the onslaught of insanity faded. But his opponent had not paused and Viktor cried out as the sword slashed his shoulder.

He spat, "Ain't like you can kill me wit' that thing, but that didn't exactly tickle!"

His opponent did not deign to reply but merely leapt forward with surprising speed for such a big, older, man and slashed horizontally. The cut would have opened Viktor's ribs had he not quickly spun his pick down, deflecting the attack.

The bearded man, unfazed, started a shuffling series of advances and retreats. Viktor took the opportunity to hop-skip forward and slammed his pick down with all his might. The man managed to catch the blow with his left gauntlet, but his left arm looked quite limp.

Viktor excitedly began moving forward again, but the man abruptly charged at him and Viktor barely got his pick up in time. Rather than retreating, the man strained against Viktor, pushing and Viktor strained back. For what seemed to be an eternity, they stayed there, when the shaft in Viktor's hand twisted and his pick slid past the oncoming blade…

---

Hans watched the battle from his plateau with a cynical eye. He had been rather more impressed than he would ever have cared to admit by the success of Luke's tactics. Even from his far outpost, Hans could see that the Pao cavalry had wreaked huge damage upon the enemy's first charge.

Catching them half in and half out of the shallows hadn't gone quite so well, from what little Hans could make out, but the attempt had still been a masterful stroke and the battle was going adequately.

He turned away. What was it he had been thinking? The truth is a bitter draught. He had ascribed that, naturally to Torl but…

I find it just as bitter as he did.

Hans had not wanted to admit it to himself, but in the end, there it was. He could rage all he wished, he could point out everything that he wished, but he was, in some measure responsible for the mess he was in. He had blown the whole situation somewhat out of proportion.

Luke is… was my friend.

Perhaps he wasn't anymore. Perhaps he never really had been. Certainly, Hans's complaint had justice in it. Many had purposely slighted and mis-construed events and Luke had never lifted a finger to stop it.

His shoulders hunched. He had not wanted to understand how deeply perception alone was at the heart of this matter, but up here, in his solitude… he could come to no other conclusion.

And that was when he heard deep panting and the sound of footsteps approaching. He looked up abruptly and, to his shock, Queen Koron stumbled into view.

"Your Grace? I thought you were-"

"No time, sir," she gasped. "No time at all. Quickly. You must unleash your arrows."

He frowned in puzzlement. "The battle is far from lost," he told her. "Might Your Grace like something to calm your nerves?"

"NO!" she shrieked hysterically. "You don't understand sir! The enemy… there's another ship pulling in, more reinforcements."

"Even so," muttered Hans. He got to his feet and started turning back to the side facing the battle. "Where…?" Even as his eyes started scanning for the sight of this new ship, something heavy thudded into the back of his head.

---

She ignored the fallen archer muttering testily, "It was time to end this farce anyway." Finally the opportunity had availed itself that she had been waiting for! She had hoped it would come while in Bustoke, posing at that old fool's niece had been tiresome. Nor had she appreciated Hans's clumsy fondling.

She sniggered as she seized Hans's bow and fitted an arrow to it. At least she had settled Jon the Alchemist. Carefully she dipped the oiled arrow into the fire and then, standing, released the flaming harbinger of doom. In rapid succession she repeated the process for several more arrows, chuckling as each one struck the plains and the fire spread.

She stayed, just long enough to admire her handiwork and then turned away, transforming back to her true shape. Unable to resist, she risked just one more glance over her shoulder and at the sight of the chaos, Kari smiled.

---

Lynx had been fighting his way expertly to shore, when he saw some man dueling Number One with a pick. And then the pick slid past Number One's guard and struck him in the torso. Lynx's blood froze. Number One staggered slightly, but before he could react the pick jerked up, into Number One's face and…

A moment later Lynx was running towards the man screaming as he tried to grasp the fact that his old friend was now a nameless corpse floating in the waves. This man, stooped of shoulder, bald, heavily bearded, heard him, but a second too late. He turned, his pick raised for a smashing blow, but Lynx was faster and his blade ran through the murderer's stomach.

The man looked shocked as he fell over, his arms carrying through with the motion that cracked the pick hard against Lynx's plate mail. The High Commander didn't care.

Numb, having already forgotten the vanquished foe at his feet, Lynx sank to his knees, cradling his old friend's corpse. Number One's face was a red ruin. Lynx raised his tear-filled eyes to the sky and saw fire. He stared, wide-eyed at the roaring inferno everywhere that was eating through troops on both sides.

He managed to rise to his feet, Number One's lifeless body in his arms. And that was when a great roar of flame, flew past him, though, as he followed its course he saw that others weren't so lucky, and slammed straight into his flagship, The Honor.

For a bare moment Lynx stared, uncomprehending as The Honor exploded into a worthless, flaming mass. And then a truth, a terrible, terrible truth sank in. He had been beaten. High Commander Lynx, the second most powerful man in Mishalea's chain of command had lost.

"Retreat," he screamed. And sobbing it over and over, he turned away. Lynx never looked back to see if the army had broken with him.

---

Viktor coughed blood as he fell, the waves lapping at him roughly. Funny to think how he had forgotten his own mortality for a while…

A hand seized him and a voice called, "Viktor! Damn you, you're not dying."

His eyes squinted open. He wheezed, "Lord… Alain." The young centaur was dragging him back towards the land. And towards heat, now that he thought on it. Was that just part of dying? "Don't do that," he complained. "It's not comfortable."

The boy ignored him muttering, "No true lord. H… Sir Hans saw that true enough. Why didn't I?" Alain seemed quite shaken.

Death, thought Viktor. Hans had seen death, m'boy, and you hadn't that's the truth o' it.

Viktor tried to pull back, but he couldn't feel it happening. Abruptly he tumbled to the ground. Alain, seized him again, but somewhere, the miner must have found some strength. He grasped Alain's arm and looked up into the boy's weary, sad eyes.

He looks older.

"Tell him…" gasped Viktor. "Tell boss Zylo. Never him. Puny… puny, sword arm, y'understand? It wasn't this prick in me… wasn't that did it! Tell him…" His grip tightened on the centaur's arm. "Promise. Promise me Alain."

The answer seemed long in coming. "I… promise."

"Ah," Viktor sighed. He fell back with a sort of relief. Not really quite so messy to die, as he'd have thought. Weren't wounds in the gut supposed to be extraordinarily painful?

But then that was fading too…

---

"We're leaving," Riker had told him at sword point.

"N-no we're not!" Clatt had resisted, he had reasoned, he had threatened, he had pointed out that it was his command! Riker's eyes were hard and flinty and the sword at Clatt's throat was sharp.

"Commander Lynx will need us. You've seen that fire man! We're leaving."

Clatt sulked as he thought on it. Being told what to do with his own command! But Riker was unmovable and the mage lacked the courage to find out if Riker's bluff had really been a bluff.

It didn't stop him from sulking though. He had been so close to taking Uranbatol! The last charge had nearly broken them. Of course it had. That was when Riker barreled into the cabin and shouted, "Get out here! Look at this!"

The ship had rocked violently abruptly and beams had fallen from the roof. When Clatt could see again, Riker's sword was lying on the deck, and Riker was trapped behind two beams, one with a jagged point.

"Help me," begged the general. Clatt started to extend his hand, when he had a better idea.

He bent down, picked up Riker's sword and stammered, "N-n-no." At that he thrust the sword through Riker's chest. The blade fell from his hands, as abruptly, the terror of having committed murder came home to him.

Clatt took several deep breaths. There was nothing to fear, of that he could be certain. He could say that Riker had been pierced by that beam, after all. Or, better yet, have nothing to do with the body at all. If Riker were found later, it would seem quite natural for him to have been killed by this accident. Best of all, the blade was already stained from the battle, so no need to do anything about that.

Clatt carefully put the sword back where it had been, safely out of Riker's reach. He then slipped out of the cabin, hoping that the chaos outside would be so great that no one would know when he had come out on deck.

As he peered at the plains, the mage was momentarily struck dumb by the sight. Lynx's army was in full retreat and fires… well they burned on the plains. It looked as though the Shining Force was trying to control them.

A voice shouted, "Ho! Ho! Toss me a rope!"

Clatt peered over the rail, and, to his surprise saw Fat Man, running waist deep in the water after the ship. The mage dutifully tossed the general a rope. As Fat Man started to make his way up he gasped, "It's all lost! Where's Riker?"

"Oh." Clatt had forgotten about that. "He's dead. You can't talk to him." Fat Man gaped at Clatt for a moment before the mage blasted a sphere of energy into his former colleague's chest.

Clatt watched Fat Man fall back into the water and then shrugged it off. Why shouldn't he be High Commander Lynx's only general anyway?

He turned his back to the rail and noted with satisfaction that the men were running all over the place paying attention to nothing. That was something at least. Another voice rang out then, this one hoarse and tired, "A rope."

Clatt peered over the rail again and there was High Commander Lynx, carrying… Number One? Well, he wouldn't have to engineer anything with that, at least. He tossed the rope down and Lynx managed it, barely, as he dropped Number One on the deck.

His voice was exhausted. "See that my old friend is well treated. Riker? I saw Fat Man's corpse."

In the delicacy of the moment, Clatt's nervousness returned to him. "R-r-r-Riker? M-m'lord." He thought wistfully of the moment when he had killed Fat Man, so confident. He hadn't stammered then. He managed, "D-d-d-dead."

Lynx sat, his shoulders scrunched together as he stared at Number One's lifeless form. He didn't seem to hear anything. Clatt ventured, "M-m-m'lord? O-orders?"

Lynx didn't even look up.

No matter, thought Clatt resolutely. Regaining in confidence with his rivals successfully slain and his command restored, Clatt went about ordering the full retreat.

---

Consciousness was slow returning. A caustic voice remarked, "So. The traitor joins us at last."

Hans's eyes cracked open. He thought vaguely of his last memories and then struggled to come upright, unsuccessfully, as he spluttered, "Reinforcements she said! Koron."

A hard kick came from behind. "Silence, dog."

Slowly Hans's wits returned as his eyes made note of the scene before him. Pao had been turned to ash, it seemed. Koron sat, seated on a makeshift wooden throne a dozen feet from him, with Xotho standing to her right.

The warrior's eyes met his and they betrayed that same curiosity, that spark of interest that Hans had noted the night of the banquet. There were… what, perhaps eight other Pao tribesmen there? Not including the two who flanked him. That was when he noticed, his hands were bound and he was kneeling. He attempted to rise, but the man to his left kicked him again.

And there was Luke, haggard and grey-faced. Luke's eyes were sad and small, his voice hoarse. "Oh Hans."

That did not, Hans thought, bode well, but he began anyway. "Your Grace, I-"

"Silence!" shouted Koron. There was no mercy in her gaze, only cold, focused anger. "It would seem that subtle treachery was not enough for you."

At last Hans grasped the implication. He gestured at the landscape in wordless fury and choked, "You're blaming me for this?"

Koron met his incredulity with steel. "You are on trial for your life sir. It would behoove you to say as little as possible. I will still grant you a clean death."

A slow contemptuous smile flitted across Hans's face. "Men say I have shit for honor because of Alterone. And you presume to give a trial without hearing my evidence. Very just, Your Grace."

His words provoked greater anger. One of the warriors screamed, "You near committed fucking genocide!"

Han's voice was sharp. "Oh, really? Where then is Jarl and Torl? Where is Otrant? Where are the rest who would be concerned if the charge was so serious?"

"They are tending to their fallen. Fallen at your hands sir." Koron's voice was ice-cold.

"Fallen at my hands? You idiot! Whatever else you may believe of me, Your Grace, I am not a stupid man. I would never have attempted such a half-witted scheme." In his anger, he forgot the words he meant to say, of how he had met Koron and a blow on the head. Instead he shouted, "How do you think I got that wound on the back of my head? Why did your men find me bloody unconscious?"

"You could have caused that wound yourself."

Her self-serving answer only served to enrage him further. "Call on witnesses to attest to my character, then," he spat. "Lord Commander Jarl will speak, aye, Viktor of Bustoke." He added, "Alef! Call Alef!"

Koron's eyes tightened. "Do not think to escape justice with your pretty words! Near all of my tribe are dead at your hands and your own precious friends too! It's a shame you call for Viktor, he crossed swords with Lynx and died for it. Your own treachery killed Alef."

"What?" His anger was near simmering now. His gaze shifted to his one-time friend.

Luke would no longer meet his eyes. The dwarf was fairly radiating shame. He muttered, "Alef… Alef turned her power to sink one of Lynx's vessels. Last thing she could have done. Would have died in yo… the fires, else."

Koron abruptly slammed her fist down on the arm of her makeshift throne and screeched, "Enough!" She pointed an angry finger at him, "Your self-serving lies go no further! You shall be put to death now! Xotho!"

At that, the greatest of the injustices Hans had had to face, something inside of him snapped. As one of the Pao warriors was pulling him to his feet, he jerked his arms up, catching the man on the chin. The warrior fell backward, his head at a crazy angle.

Koron screamed, "Kill him!"

The other Pao warrior came at him, blade in hand, but Hans threw himself forward. His arms still got sliced. But the ropes came loose and his hands were free. With a growl of pure rage he lunged at the warrior. The man fell, hard and Hans came up with his blade.

He ran the warrior through. At the last, Luke bestirred himself. "Hans, no!" Before he could move, Luke was atop him. Hans slammed all of his weight backward and heard a crunch. He staggered upright and looked at Luke… unconscious he thought… hoped…

For a moment Hans felt remorse but then he reminded himself, No. That bastard would have let me die. Hans had had enough of the bloody cold. He would never accept anything again.

Hearing a sound behind him, he turned around the sword slashing open the face of the closest warrior. The man fell to the ground, screaming. Hans bounded towards Koron, blade raised. She cowered and screamed, "Xotho!"

Xotho easily blocked the cut, and then turned, his sword sweeping down in a deadly arc, killing a warrior coming up behind Hans.

Koron gaped in terrified silence. Xotho smiled easily, "What do you say, Lord Hans? If you join me-" He never finished the sentence.

Hatred gripped Hans at the self-serving schemer. He, Hans, was standing up for his own justice at least. Unthinkingly, Hans seized a large rock and crashed it into Xotho's head.

When he looked again, Koron was gone. He turned to the remaining warriors and the rest was murder with a red smile.

---

Hans was walking along wearily. He had fled the scene of massacre. No longer would he feel remorse. Hans had always done what was necessary and he was finished being lied to and used. Even Jarl… well he had probably had some insidious purpose the whole time. Like Lord Max. Doubtless it had been Lord Max who had been behind Luke.

It was very late and his old life had been left behind. It was, he thought, symbolic that Pao had ended in ash as had the last of his illusions. He was close to the water now. And that was when he walked right into her.

Queen Koron stared at him in a numb sort of horror. Behind her was the shadow of Uranbatol and if he went there… Jarl.

Lips twitching, Hans growled, "Run." Koron still stared at him and that, somehow, he couldn't stand. "Run," he told her.

And just as suddenly she turned and dashed towards the shape of the fortress. For a good long moment, Hans paused, staring towards Uranbatol, holding the bow-string back. At last he released it, and, after a moment of looking along to satisfy himself of the result, Sir Hans formerly of Guardiana turned and walked away.

Queen Koron was quick… but not as quick as an arrow.