3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj

"What the-" was far as Aslan got before the cloak-thing was on him.

The paladin got his shield up between his neck and the mouthful of long, thin teeth just in time, but the monster's tail came whipping around from behind, the tip slamming into his forehead. Crying out in pain, Aslan stepped back in a half-stagger. He could already feel a huge welt rising.

The cloak began to circle around the paladin, staying at what Aslan estimated to be just out of sword's reach.

It was big, Aslan noted. Its wingspan, if it could be called that, probably exceeded eight feet. It hadn't looked nearly as big hanging on the wall.

The cloak's mouth opened again. At the very limit of Aslan's hearing came a low moaning sound, as if a human voice had been slowed down to a tenth of its normal speed and distorted into incomprehensibility.

Aslan had no idea what this thing was, only that it was one of the most horrific creatures he'd ever seen. Just then, he heard two shrieks behind him.

Cygnus had apparently broken out of (or been released from) his zombie-like state. The magic-user was now screaming at the top of his lungs and heading for the door they had come in by. His quarterstaff rolled along the floor where he had dropped it.

He was not alone. Tojo was with him.

Aslan was flabbergasted. He had never heard the samurai cry out in fear before, let alone run from it. From the sound of it, it wasn't a noise that Tojo's throat had much experience in making, either. His voice cracked as he yelled, like that of a boy going through puberty. There was something almost funny about it.

Tojo runs from nothing, the paladin thought. This thing's using magic!

It was that realization more than anything that enabled Aslan to grit his teeth and stand his ground. Knowing that as a paladin he was immune to magical fear, he drew his sword and started to advance again on the creature, but the thing's tail came whipping around again at breakneck speed and slammed the top of Aslan's helm, despite his best efforts to dodge.

"All right then," he snarled, trying in vain to stave off a massive headache. "It's time you picked on someone your own size."

Nothing. Damn it!

Zantac's sleep spell had been a complete failure. To be sure, out of the corner of his eye the wizard had seen several of the slaves slump over to the floor from their sitting positions, but that really wasn't what he had been after.

He considered his remaining options. He could throw magic missiles or even a lightning bolt at the thing, but he had no idea how far they had infiltrated the fortress or had far they had yet to go after this. They had yet to meet this fearsome "Markessa." His instincts were to hold back on his spells until there was no other recourse, but that left him with few other options in the meantime.

Zantac turned his head at another noise. Three rangers and a cleric were now racing towards the battle as fast as they could, weapons drawn. They were only seconds away from joining the fray. The sight comforted Zantac, if only a little. He hefted his quarterstaff in both hands and wishing dearly that he had taken Hogeth up on his offer on combat training the one and only time the half-orc had offered it, began slowly to advance towards the battle.

What he saw stopped him cold. Aslan was gone, replaced by another figure.

Argo and Talass were similarly taken aback, but Elrohir and Nesco smiled.

Never thought I'd be that happy to see someone that ugly again, Lady Cynewine thought.

"Grock lives!" shouted a familiar-looking ogre, as he swung Aslan's sword. The cloak-thing was apparently caught off-guard by the paladin's sudden expanded reach, for the blade cut a gash over two feet long through the creature's skin. Flapping about like some grotesque bat, the monster moved slowly. It couldn't quite hover, but it was trying to stay aloft while moving around as little as possible. Now it almost looked to the paladin as if dark spots were beginning to crawl across the cloak's surface.

Aslan's bushy ogre eyebrows suddenly shot upwards in surprise.

They weren't spots. They were shadows.

As the humans looked on in consternation, the spots grew and merged. The shadows actually leapt off the cloak's surface and began to flit through the air in front of the thing, besides it, behind it. The shadows grew darker and thicker as they danced through the air, passing through each other with ease, their shapes growing larger and more detailed, more... cloak-like.

Suddenly, there were eight of the cloak-things flapping before them; each one identical, right down to the gash in each one's wing. They could no longer tell which one was the original.

"Zantac," came the rumbling voice of the ogre. "Can you dispel this?"

The red-robed mage gulped. "Sorry, Aslan," he said sorrowfully. "You'd have to ask Screaming Chicken there," he finished with a nod back towards his counterpart still sprinting for the far door.

"I'll do it!" yelled Talass, pulling up to a halt and brandishing her holy symbol.

Eight pairs of red eyes turned towards the cleric.

Just as Talass began to pray, a terrible wave of dizziness swept over her. The room spun in a circle, and her stomach twisted up into a knot. Nausea overcame the priestess, and she crumpled to the floor and vomited. A second later, Argo joined her.

The mouths of the cloak-things opened and closed in unidentifiable rhythms.

We've lost half our force.

The thought rang through Aslan's mind like a bell. The paladin tried to filter out the sound of retching behind him and studied the movement of the cloak directly in front of him. He didn't know if it was the real one or not, but he intended to find out. He saw his moment and swung.

The cloak's tail swung up and out in an apparent blocking move. Aslan had the option of altering his stroke, but he declined to do so. He just wanted to make contact.

His sword passed like smoke through the creature's tail. Seconds later, the entire creature devolved back into shadows, which flew off to join whatever other shadows were closest.

One down, seven to go. Aslan ponderously turned around, trying to keep the remaining cloaks from flying behind him. This ogre body was powerful, but he couldn't move even as fast as he normally could in plate mail. He prayed that his thick ogre skin would be enough to protect him.

Zantac yelled as he charged forward, ducking under a tail swipe and swinging his quarterstaff at the cloak fluttering in front of him.

It was only sort of a yell really, coming out almost as a yodel. What he actually wanted to do was scream in terror, but he thought a good strong battle cry might give him a veneer of heroism while still letting him shout. Fortunately, his aim was better than his voice. His quarterstaff struck only shadows, which quickly scattered.

"Talass! Are you all right?"

The cleric, now on her knees, glared up at her husband, who had pulled up alongside her. Elrohir grimaced as he saw the heaving of his wife's stomach, the foot-long tube of drool hanging off her lip.

The anger in her eyes.

Stupid question, he thought.

"Don't worry!" the ranger shouted out. "We'll take out these images one at a time! You'll be all right soon, you'll see!" Preferring the gaze of an inhuman monster to his own wife's cold stare, Elrohir waited for his moment that would enable him to get inside the nearest cloak's defenses and take the swing that he knew would dispel it.

"I'm fine, Elrohir. Thanks for asking," he heard Argo croak out. Elrohir didn't turn around, but he could hear his friend's pained smile in his voice. Argo and Talass would be okay, he knew.

Or rather, he hoped.

The ranger risked a quick glance behind him. Tojo and Cygnus were now running up the ramp that led towards the door, but apparently in his panic Tojo decided that the ramp wasn't big enough for the two of them. A quick shove of his shoulders sent the tall mage crashing into one of the slaves, who still showed no reaction even as he wound up in a tangled heap with Cygnus on the floor. Without a backward look, the samurai plunged through the open doorway and was lost to sight.

Elrohir moved in on his quarry. The thing's tail swung around but with a resounding clang, his shield deflected the blow without a problem. It was only as he thrust Gokasillion at the creature's flesh that he realized he hadn't been expecting to hear a clang.

Uh, oh.

The shock was enough to alter the angle of his stab by about an inch, which was as far as Gokasillion was able to penetrate before the cloak shifted and pushed the blade off.

Suddenly, teeth filled Elrohir's vision. The monster's mouth clamped down on his right arm, punching right though the armor. The ranger cried out in pain as he felt the thorn-shaped teeth puncture his skin. He struggled wildly, slamming his shield repeatedly against what would have been the creature's head, if it had had one.

After too many moments, the cloak pulled back. Elrohir was sure that only the metal coverings over his arm were still holding it in shape. He still had some use of it, but it hurt; a white-hot burning which made the ranger's eyes tear.

Blood now dripped down the mouth of six flying cloaks. Lights and shadows danced wildly around the room, as the images seemed to fly back and forth and through each other. Elrohir knew there was a good chance that the cloak-thing fluttering in the air in front of him might no longer be the real article.

Then again, it might. He wondered how many more chances he might get.

"Three down!"

The cry came from Nesco. Elrohir looked to his left, just in time to see the last fragments of shadow from a dispelled image fly off. Somewhat disturbingly, they vanished into Lady Cynewine's own shadow. She glanced over and flashed her fellow ranger a brief smile, which buoyed his spirits somewhat. Elrohir turned back to the aberration facing him.

"Your friends are illusions," he stated loudly. "Mine aren't. Let's see who wins."

Aslan smiled a big, ugly, ogre's smile as he heard Elrohir challenge the monster. There was no visible reaction from any of the five remaining cloaks, and the paladin had strong doubts as to whether the creature could even understand the Common tongue, much less speak it. That didn't matter, though. He knew that had been for the benefit of Elrohir's teammates. He was trying to pump up their morale.

And somewhat surprisingly, Aslan found it was working.

Keeping the big grin on his face, he addressed the nearest cloak.

"Time to put you back on the rack!" the paladin roared and brought his sword around for another slice, hoping to perhaps down the beast with another gash in its wing.

He never made it. The monster's red eyes fixated on him, and Aslan suddenly felt all the strength leave his body. A fatigue such as that he had never experienced settled thickly over him. Aslan's long ogre arms dropped to his sides, his sword scraping along the floor. His heavy head drooped down until it nearly touched his chest.

Aslan couldn't move. He couldn't polymorph. He couldn't teleport. He couldn't even muster up the energy to speak.

Maybe it can understand us after all, the paladin thought. Me and my big mouth. Me and my big fat, ogre mouth.

"Aslan? Aslan!"

Zantac's eyes grew wide as he realized "Grock" had fallen under some kind of magical effect. Cursing himself for his choice of spell selection, his limitations as a wizard, and just cursing in general, Zantac charged towards the nearest cloak and swung his quarterstaff at it, but it nimbly dodged away...

...right into Gokasillion's sweeping arc. The sword's white light cast the dispersing shadows of the false image back into other shadows across the room. Elrohir made sure to give Zantac a look of appreciation before turning and smiling at Nesco, who had moved up to stand by him. "We make a good team!"

"Umm, we are the team, Elrohir!" she replied, a mixture of humor and worry creasing her features as she swung at another cloak-thing but missed.

Argo Bigfellow was debating whether there could possibly be anything left for him to throw up on the floor. He was reasonably sure that he had vomited every meal he had ever eaten, plus a few of his father's.

His muscles were still too weak to try and stand. Wallowing in his own mess, Argo managed to get up on all fours, which he considered a major accomplishment. Through eyes trying to squint shut from the acrid smell, he could see Talass, only about six feet or so away, also on her knees. She had vomited less than Argo, but her continuing dry heaves had been just as debilitating. The cleric was looking at him, a misery plainly written in her face that Argo knew she didn't like to let others see. Her utter uncaring of that fact now somehow touched the big ranger, but he didn't know how he could help Talass feel better when he couldn't even help himself.

"That's it, my good lady." His words came out slowly and painfully, from a burned, cracked throat. "From now on, I'm doing the cooking."

Tears rolled down the priestess' swollen face, but somehow there was a smile there, too.

Talass' eyes wandered from Bigfellow's face down to the pinkish goo that covered his hands and knees, and then back up to meet his gaze again.

"A man of action."

Despite his absolute best efforts to avoid it, Argo's laughter touched off a round of his own dry heaves, and he toppled over onto his side again.

"Quick! Back to back!"

Elrohir barked out the order as he, Nesco and Zantac braced themselves.

The four remaining cloak-things had surrounded them.

"We do get free resurrection, right?" Zantac squealed, more panic than humor in his voice.

"Don't talk like that!" Nesco snapped at him. "We're going to get out of this!"

"Look out!" Elrohir yelled as all four cloaks suddenly launched themselves at the trio, their tails swinging.

Streaks of white light shot past the startled adventures. They tore into three of the fluttering creatures, and when the kaleidoscope of light and shadows had faded, all three were gone. Only one cloak-thing remained.

"Nothing to say?" came the voice behind them.

Zantac scowled. Despite the monster before him, he cast a hard look at Cygnus, who stood smirking about thirty feet back.

"Yeah. You missed the only creature that's real. Your aim stinks."

Cygnus smiled, but said nothing.

"Let me show you how it's done," said Zantac, turning back and starting to incant. In truth, a portion of the Willip wizard was annoyed. It had never occurred to him to use his magic missiles to destroy the mirror images. Now he was determined to make up for his lack of foresight by punching several large holes in this cloak that no tailor would ever be able to repair.

As he expected, the tail came whipping around. Nesco was to his rear, but the mage saw the glow as Elrohir's sword tried to deflect the attack, but the swing fell just short. The tail slammed into Zantac's magical shield. The magic-use had thought he would able to take the blow, but the force that leaked through his magical protection was still enough to break his concentration and ruin the spell.

In an instant, the thing was on him, it's maw clamping down on his outstretched arm and shoulder. Zantac had no time for his scream of frustration.

Only one of agony.

Cygnus blinked. For a split-second, everything had gone black.

He blinked again. It almost looked as if tiny patches of darkness were flying about the-

Again, darkness. Only for a second.

By the High One, the wizard thought. It's the cloak! It's throwing shadows at us!

The dark spots were, not surprisingly, most numerous around the cloak-thing itself and those in melee with it. Cygnus looked at the open doorway and saw what he had fervently hoped to see.

Yanigasawa Tojo slowly walked back into view, stopping in the open doorway, taking in the scene before him.

Cygnus hesitated. Tojo's mask of inscrutability was completely gone. The samurai looked haggard, he looked tired, but most of all, he looked ashamed of himself. He looked as if he wanted to-

Zantac screamed again. Nesco was flailing away at one side of the flying cloak, while Elrohir was trying to flank it. The thing was shaking madly now and worrying Zantac along with it. Cygnus saw the blood now. Lots of it.

He turned back to Tojo. The samurai was watching this tableau, his loyalty and his honor visibly battling for control. He was shaking like a leaf, but he did not move.

Damn you for your code of honor, Cygnus thought. You stay with us even though you know we lack what you crave. Forgive me for what I am. A manipulating bastard.

"Tojo!" he yelled out at the top of his lungs. "It's killing Zantac! We can't stop it without you! Please, Tojo! Your friends need you! Help them! SAVE THEM!"

For an instant, Tojo looked as if he might literally shake himself apart.

And then he was charging, his katana already out, his battle-cry echoing off the walls. Tojo leapt as high as Cygnus had ever seen him go, over the heads of his companions. The cloak-thing released Zantac. Its bloody mouth quivered as its red eyes fixed themselves upon the samurai.

An instant later, one of those eyes exploded in even more red as Tojo's katana punched right through it and out the backside of the creature. The samurai plowed into the cloak, and both of them went down in a flurry of fabric, robes, teeth, swords and shadows.

Cygnus picked up his quarterstaff and joined the others as they gathered around the whirling mass on the floor. Suddenly, despite the damnable split-second blackouts, the scene became clearer.

"Elrohir!" Nesco gasped. "It's enveloped him!"

It was true. The creature had wrapped its cloak-like body completely around the samurai, preventing him from attacking. Elrohir raised Gokasillion, but Nesco grabbed his sword arm.

"No!" Lady Cynewine yelled. "You'll hit Tojo!"

Elrohir, frantic, turned to her. "Then what do we do?"

"This," replied Cygnus. More streaks of white light from his outstretched hand tore into the cloak, ripping small holes all over its body. Although the samurai was still laying on his back, Elrohir watched as Tojo's hands appeared through one of the holes, grabbed hold of the monster's backbone, and snapped it in two.

With a wrenching sound that hurt the mind more than the ear, the cloak-thing went limp and the shadows fell. Before Tojo even started pulling the creature's body off of him and rising to his feet, Cygnus looked sternly at the other three.

"Say nothing of my panicking earlier." His voice was low but sharp.

Zantac looked confused, and more than a little disappointed. "Why?"

"What happened to him also happened to Tojo."

The quartet turned to the sound of that announcement. Talass, leaning on Argo as much as the latter was leaning on her, swayed uncertainly on her feet, one hand still clutching her stomach. Her face was stern, but her eyes softened as they alighted upon the samurai.

"Keep his honor," she said.

Cygnus went over to Aslan, who had begun to flex his muscles again. The ogre bent down low as Cygnus whispered in his ear.

The party had regrouped. Aslan had reverted to his normal form and healed the others. Tojo, sporting what appeared to be a cracked rib from the cloak's deadly embrace, had initially flinched when the paladin approached him. Aslan would have none of it, however, and had grabbed Tojo's arm with one hand while placing his other hand on his chest.

"Together, Tojo," he had said simply, looking deeply into the samurai's violet eyes. "Always together. You know that."

Talass had frowned on witnessing that exchange. Aslan. He knows more than we do, she thought. She decided that this was not the time or place to ask, so instead she turned to Elrohir.

"What about the slaves?" she asked, indicating with a sweep of her arm the still-entranced prisoners. "I might be able to free one of them from this effect, but that'd be about it."

Her husband sighed while looking over the silent captives. He was ashamed to admit it, but in a way he was glad that the cloak-thing's death had not restored them to normalcy. They wouldn't get far with three dozen non-combatants trailing them about.

"Leave them here," he ordered. "Slaves are valuable commodities. They're worth something to the slavers like this. Freed, they'd be cut down before we could save them. We'll have to slay Markessa and dismantle this operation first. Then we'll come back for them."

"This isn't all of them, Elrohir," Aslan said quietly.

The others stared at him.

"How do you know?" asked Cygnus.

In response, the paladin made his own sweeping gesture at the prisoners. "Remember the caravan full of slaves heading here? I don't recognize any of these people from there," he finished, his eyes meeting Nesco's.

Lady Cynewine dropped her gaze and stared down at her feet. He's right. Maybe I was wrong about Highport. It wouldn't be a surprise- I've been wrong about so many other things.

Argo had opened the far door and reported back. The damnable corridor continued on.

"Back in formation, people. Back in formation." Elrohir's voice was dull from fatigue.

Slowly, the twin columns assembled more one time. Talass caught Tojo's eyes for a moment, but then the samurai quickly dropped his gaze to the floor. The cleric couldn't help but think that without his stone mask, Tojo looked so- young. Talass knew that he was only a year or two older than Caroline, but the samurai had always seemed so much older, so much more poised.

Now, he seemed only sad.

Talass' breath caught in her throat from a sudden realization.

He's not going to make it out of this fortress alive, she thought. I don't know where his dishonor comes from, but he thinks only death in combat will redeem his soul. Heldenster's offer of resurrection won't work if Tojo doesn't want to come back.

She could only think of her vision again.