Hello again, readers! I apologize for being gone from this story for so long, but...I had writer's block on it. Yeah, it sucks. But, I decided to play FE again, and, LO! my writer's block disappeared! So I wrote this chapter, and it's rather foreboding. oOo...Plus, it reveals a little bit of the mystery behind some of the events a few of you reviewers have been questioning...

If you read this, please review it. Please. I beg of you. The more reviews you have, the more reviews you get. If you read it, you should review it, no matter what you thought of it. I appreciate all kinds of criticism. That's my speech for today.

...Oh, and if you think I own Fire Emblem...you are sorely mistaken. I only wish I owned it. That way I could make Lyn fall in love with Eliwood and not Hector. Oh, wait, I'm doing that with this fanfic...never mind! XD

Eight: Coven of Darkness

"...and of the battalions that were deployed at sunset, only three have returned somewhat intact, and none of those were wyvern rider talons. Your druids, sir, were doing quite well, but for some reason they are having trouble entering the Castle. They told me to tell you something about a barrier shield, sir."

Bearoth did not look up from his maps. He was staring at the plans he had made, the perfect plans to destroy the capital of Etruria, to destroy the heirs of both Etruria and Nabata at the same time. It had been a perfect plan, but Bearoth had forgotten to factor one thing into his plans–the inexcusable stupidity of humans. Without question, there was no doubt, every loss he had suffered was because of his own soldiers' carelessness and reckless abandon. And it didn't help that his commanding officers were just as human as their soldiers, but more timid than mice in his presence. He had half a mind to create Morph soldiers to replace them, but he was not as genius an artist as his master had been. No, he would be forced to trudge along the path of destiny with frail humans trailing in his dust.

"Sir? Sir?" One of Bearoth's officers, a General Cornvale, whispered, staring at Bearoth as if he expected the High Druid to respond to his pathetic report. The General had come to Bearoth highly recommended by General Murdock–now he saw the true value of such a recommendation. He would have to discuss this with Murdock at their next rendezvous.

Bearoth looked up at Cornvale, his golden eyes smoldering. "What did you want from me? Did you expect congratulations for having three battalions intact, instead of your previous record of zero! Did you expect sympathy after that weak lordling decimated your army? Did you want a poultice for a little cut you received while staring stupidly as your company got mowed down by neophyte mages?"

"N-n-no, sir," Cornvale stammered. "I came to you to...to..."

Before Cornvale could comprehend it, Bearoth's powerful hand was clasped around his neck, and he was being thrown backward, crashing into a table and shattering it.

"Answer me, wretch!" Bearoth said, his voice bubbling over with rage.

"Lord Bearoth, sir...please, I beg of you..."

For what seemed like an eternity to Cornvale, he sat, watching Bearoth, waiting for the High Druid to destroy him with his powerful magic. Then, unexpectedly, the Golem's eyes cooled, and Bearoth smoothed his robes and hair. Then, he stared at Cornvale, who was still sitting in shock, expecting every breath he took to be his last. "I do feel sorry for you, General Cornvale," Bearoth said cooly.

"Y–you do?" Cornvale said, attempting to rise.

"Of course I do." Suddenly Bearoth was there, extending his hand, helping the General rise. "Being a General of the Bern army must put a lot of stress on you."

"I...I suppose so, sir."

Bearoth nodded, his look grave. "Of course it does, much more so than battle does the average soldier. After all, you are the last one in your battalion to be deployed. You must get horrible chest pains as you watch your soldiers, some of whom you have watched from birth, get cut down by the enemy–by a kid who hasn't even reached his manhood yet." His frown turned to a mocking smile. "It must pain you terribly to just sit there and wait for someone to attack you, then, just as they are about to, sound the retreat and flee the field of battle."

Cornvale's eyes widened. "H-h-how did you?"

"Oh, yes, I know all about the battle this night. I know how, at daybreak, seeing the young Lord Roy's company, you turned tail and fled, only to come to me and give me a condescending report. In fact, I don't recall hearing you say anything about calling a retreat at all."

"But, sir–"

Bearoth raised a hand to silence him. "No, I understand, General Cornvale. Obviously, the mental strain is getting to you. Therefore, you are hereby stripped of rank and assigned to the first strike squad." Bearoth swiped both his General's cape and medal in one swipe, ripping the former with a sound that sounded eerily like the tearing of flesh. "You should hurry to the armory. Your armor is far too gaudy for the frontlines, and your company leaves in an hour."

"B-b-but sir, I beg of, give me another chance!"

The High Druid's smile only grew, and now Bearoth was wearing the most evil smirk Cornvale had ever seen. "I have given you another chance, General–or, excuse me, officer–Cornvale. Surely you realize how easily it would have been for me to kill you then, when I gripped you by the throat–how easy it would have been for me to crush your spine, to break your neck like a winter twig?"

Horrified, Cornvale knelt down unsteadily on shaking knees. "O-of course, my lord. I am forever in your debt."

Bearoth's smile disappeared. "Excellent. Now, get yourself to the armory."

"Y-yes, sir," Cornvale said as he rose, still bowing every step, and all but ran for the door.

"Oh, and officer?"

"Y-yes," Cornvale whispered, afraid to know what he was answering to.

"I hope for your sake that you live through the coming battle. You really need to work on doing away with your speech impediment. Stuttering is most unbecoming to a soldier."

"Yes, sir," Cornvale said, his voice controlled but shaky, and fled the building.

Bearoth watched him go, then went back to his maps. He had to assume now that all of the information he had recieved from his spies was correct. He really had been hoping that Cornvale would have had a better, truthful report. He shouldn't have done so–it was just setting himself up for disappointment.

As he studied the maps, he searched them for flaws. Castle Meroven was still standing firm, mostly thanks to the accursed Falcoknights of Ilia, and his fellow Druids reported a gigantic magical barrier around Castle Reglay. Neither situation was very hopeful, nor very encouraging. So far, the Etrurian campaign was going far worse than the Sacaen one. Then again, as soon as he had set the plains afire, he had known the cowards would run for help. He just hadn't dare expected their Lady, a wench by the name of Lyndis, to run to Eliwood for assitance. It was yet another hitch in his plans, and yet it was one he should have forseen.

He slammed his fist down on the maps. "Damn you, Master Nergal! In your haste to conquer them, you unwittingly drove them together and bonded them forever. You have made my campaign that much harder, and I curse your grave for it!"

He quickly controlled his breathing again after that last outburst. It was now a half-hour until the first strike sqaud–the former General Cornvale among them–would attack Castle Reglay, and he had nowhere for them to attack.

Suddenly, he felt five other presences appear in the room, all with strong quintessences. His own golems. The puppet had created his own puppets. While they weren't nearly as perfect as Nergal's–after all, he could not, in a proper state of mind, create something as perfect and powerful as himself–they were still potent pawns.

"Ssssir," the one called Vernyn whispered. It was an unfortunate side-effect of his use of dragon quintessence–harvested from the hidden land of Arcadia–that his golems spoke with a lizardesque lisp. "Do you have our orderssss?"

"Yesss, from whensssse will our next meal of blood come?" said Xavus.

The others–Nessus, Qerus, and Ultin–began whispering excitedly at the prospect of harvesting more quintessence, however weak it was.

"Silence!" Bearoth ordered. "Sentinels of darkness, you have gathered to hear your orders from your master, so do not give them to yourselves!"

"Of courssssse," Qerus whispered.

"Now," the High Druid said, "you are no longer needed here."

Moans of dissent grew among the golems, and Bearoth held up a hand to silence them. "Do not misunderstand me, my loyal minions. I have uses for you elsewhere."

"But ssssir," Nessus protested, "I can sensssse the little noble's quintessence in the casssstle. With your power, we could break the sssshield and kill him!"

"No!" Bearoth yelled, and the five golems shrank back in fear. "The lordling is mine, do you understand? For that is the way my master has designed this world's downfall. Even if it is as the spies say, and the heroes of the last war were forewarned of this conflict, they cannot imagine the scope of this imminent disaster. But for this all to work, for the final conflict to fufill the prophecy properly, the lordling must mature and learn his true nature. That means, in other words, he must stay alive. Do you understand me?"

"Yesss," the golems agreed.

"Now, then," Bearoth began, as if the last exchange had never happened, "Nessus and Qerus, you will take a company of magicians to the Nabata desert. I must find the lost Sanctuary, and I cannot wait much longer. The portal at the Dragon's Gate has been regrettably destroyed, and I have need of another. Surely the old Archsage had a way to commute to his beloved Arcadia. I want you to find it. Do not return until you have found it."

"Yesss, Master," the two said, and disappeared in twin flashes of light.

"Ultin, Vernyn, you must take over command of the Lycian invasion. General Murdock will be displeased that I have reassigned him, but I am currently rather displeased with him. Order him to report to the Bern Manse immediately and wait for instructions."

"Assss you wissssh," they said in unison, and vanished.

Finally, he turned to Xavus, and touched his icy fingers to her equally cold skin. A smile crossed his face as he looked at her blood-red lips and night-black hair. "For you, my sweet, I have a special task, one that the others have no knowledge of. The spell I have placed on the sweet Princess of Bern will need to be recast on the full moon. It is likely that the impudent King Zephiel will attempt to interfere. You must not kill him, but beyond that...I care not how you deal with him." He kissed her full on the lips, a gesture he had learned from his Master, but she did not respond like that wench Sonia had. Instead, she responded indifferently, and suddenly Bearoth could no longer feel her within his embrace.

His face hardened again, and threw up his hood. The sun had risen, and he hated the sun. Regrettably, he would have to force his hand now. The youngest Heir of Roland was hiding from in Castle Reglay, protected by the Heir of Athos. As long as the two heirs were together, there was little chance of destroying either. Two bloodlines flowing in one place was too strong an Old Magic to be undone by the New.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He strode over to the map and searched for the other Heir of Roland that he knew of, the child of Hector. He scanned his enchanted map, simultaneously reaching out with his magic, trying to find her quintessence. The quintessence of Hector's daughter was not present in the land of Etruria. But, to the west...faintly, yes, it was there.

The frown on the High Druid's face suddenly turned into a wide smile. His troops had their marching orders, so the futile attack on Castle Reglay would commence with or without him. This new plan required immediate and decisive action if it was to work, and would cut a sizable portion of his timetable away. Yes...it would work. Now he chuckled and readied his things, picking up a tome or two of his own design–in case the foolish nobles of Ostia tried something stupid.

Bearoth raised his hand. A hexagram appeared on the floor beneath his feet and, in a flash of light, the High Druid disappeared from Etruria entirely, moving on the paths of magic to the Ostian capital–and towards the undoing of Elibe.

oOo...if you guess where the next chapter will take place, I'll give you a Christmas cookie! lol no seriously, i'll email it to you. lol jk

Have a Merry Christmas! This chapter is my gift to you!