25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

The Aerie, The Pomarj

The child continued to cry.

Aslan clenched his fists again, trying in vain to shut the noise out. Even moving around the boat to get further away from the cries was difficult, despite the rescued Suderham citizens doing their best to lean against the gunwales and stay out of the way of their saviors.

The paladin looked over his shoulder again. A middle-aged woman was trying to comfort the boy, but he kept asking for his mother.

He kept asking over and over again when she would be coming back for him.

The woman's eyes met Aslan's.

"Explain it to him," the paladin said wearily.

She swallowed hard.

"With what words?"

Aslan stared back for a moment and then shrugged in resignation and turned away again.

Cygnus watched the three wizards huddling on the deck.

Thorimund, the last to utilize his read magic cantrip, was finishing up the last of the five spells that Sir Murtano had procured for them. Cygnus had ordered the scroll torn up into five pieces- one for each spell.

"Here's how it's going to be," he announced, his voice sounding strangely hollow to his own ears. "Unru, you have the invisibility scroll; Thorimund will have that burning hands he's reading; Zantac, you have the hold person, and I'll take the slow."

Cygnus turned to see Sitdale behind him. The half-elf, newly outfitted with Slimebucket's chainmail armor, was re-stringing his bow.

"Sorry, Sitdale," Cygnus told him. "You'll have to rely on your archery skills for this battle."

"Now that I've got components again, I still have a sleep and a few cantrips as well," the half-elf reminded him.

Zantac slowly got to his feet, made his way carefully over to Sitdale and cast a spell, which he finished by pulling out a small turtle shell and touching it to Sitdale's skin.

"Protection from Arrows," he murmured. "You'll need it. You'll probably be drawing most of their missile fire."

The half-elf smiled. "I always did like to draw."

"What have you got in your head, Unru, besides smart remarks and a few cantrips?"

The illusionist shrugged at Cygnus' query. "Two images and a dispel. That's all I need, really."

The tall wizard turned to Thorimund. "And you?"

Thorimund sighed.

"A sleep and this dagger Argo gave me."

Cygnus eyed Thormord's son.

"You still look too shaky to fight, Thorimund. You should stay out of this."

Thorimund's emerald eyes glared at Cygnus beneath bushy eyebrows.

"I'd rather die during battle than be executed after one."

"I think we can all agree sleep is wasted on any of The Nine, although they do have some lackeys on board. Hit them with that," Zantac offered, before fixing his gaze back on Cygnus. "And what about that telekinesis scroll?"

Cygnus shrugged again. "For now, I'll hang onto it. It's a powerful spell; I've never tried to cast anything like it, but I've got the best chance of doing it out of all of us, if things do get that desperate."

Zantac paused before speaking up.

"Have you ever seen something go wrong when a mage tries to cast from a scroll too advanced for him?" He chuckled grimly. "Zelhile calls it a mishap. Trust me; it can be worse than that, Cygnus. A lot worse." His expression lost all levity as he stared at his fellow wizard.

"It can be very ugly."

A whisper of a smile crossed Cygnus' face.

"I've seen you get up in the morning, Zantac. That can get pretty ugly, too."

From the bow, Elrohir watched as the Water Dragon slowly turned around so that the ship's stern faced the shore. A rope was hurled from the galley to a waiting guardsman on the dock, who wrapped it around one of the cleats.

"They'll be fully docked in about a minute," Argo noted.

Elrohir eyed the tactical situation. The single pier before them had no other boats currently docked, but he didn't dare risk bringing his overloaded fishing vessel alongside on the other side of the pier. They'd be shot to pieces before anyone managed to disembark.

The ranger looked further to the right. The lake was surrounded on all sides by open grassland to a depth of thirty to forty feet before it hit the forest. Moving east from the dock, the lakeshore curved southeastwards, towards them. That was good, but large boulders jutted out of the lake surface near the shore towards where they were heading.

That was bad.

To avoid the rocks, they'd have to bring their boat in almost two hundred feet away from the Water Dragon. That would leave their enemies time to react. Too much time.

Can't be helped, though. It's the best of our terrible choices.

Elrohir turned to the young man manning the sail and pointed towards the spot on the shoreline he wanted.

"Bring us in there!"

The sailor frowned. "There's a sandbar under the water there, sir. We'll run aground before we make shore."

Elrohir considered. "About how far out?"

"Running as low as we are, sir, I doubt we'd get closer than thirty feet."

The group leader took a deep breath. "Do it."

Nesco wished she had Sundancer.

Even unable to utilize the sword's special power, the weapon seemed to impart a confidence to the ranger that she was now sorely lacking.

She looked around at her teammates.

Aslan did not look tensed for battle. The paladin's body positively slumped from weariness and despair. Nesco had not seen what had happened with the young boy's mother, but she had heard about it. For the first time since she had known him, Aslan truly looked to Nesco as if he did not have the heart to fight.

She caught Bigfellow's eye. The big ranger seemed relaxed enough at first glance, but she noted his increased breathing and the tighter grip with which he clenched his sword. Nesco could tell that Argo had also noticed Aslan's malaise, but he could only shake his head at Lady Cynewine. She could see her fellow ranger's mind.

You can't help him with this, Lady Cynewine. Only victory or death will cure him.

Having turned over the rudder to one of the Suderham natives, Zantac stood side-by-side with Cygnus. Nesco watched the shorter wizard flash a quick grin to his fellow arcanist. She couldn't tell if the taller mage returned it or not.

Nesco had never seen Cygnus' son Thorin.

She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be a mother.

Trying to shake the thought loose, she looked at their reinforcements. Sir Menn, Sitdale and Unru seemed ready enough. Arwald and Thorimund were standing and talking quietly together. Sir Murtano, standing nearby, caught her eye and smiled.

Tojo was standing by the mast, facing forward. Exactly the opposite of Aslan, the samurai's body was charged with anticipation. Nesco knew Tojo was going to run and leap into the water at the first opportunity. Facing his only opportunity to regain the shreds of honor he had left to him, the Yanigasawa samurai was going to fight as bravely as he ever had before.

But how reckless will he be? Nesco wondered.

"Everyone ready!" shouted Elrohir.

All the planning, such as it had been, was over.

Physically, his team was as battle-ready as they could ever be under the circumstances.

When the boat ran aground, they were going to get onto dry land as soon as possible and then make a beeline for the Water Dragon.

The survivors of Suderham, under Slimebucket, were going to swim to shore and then make a mad dash for safety in the opposite direction.

Talass' body would remain onboard their boat.

Her husband knew he would return for her-

-or he would join her.

Elrohir knew this was the time.

This was the time for his speech.

This was the time for him to inspire his comrades; to steel their hearts for the desperate struggle that lay ahead.

A struggle against odds as overwhelming as any they had faced before.

But the words did not come.

They never seemed to for Elrohir. Not when he needed them.

The ranger saw that everybody was already looking at him.

And his first utterance was not a commanding shout, but almost that of a soft plea.

"Listen; all of you."

"I'm sorry," the ranger confessed. "I wish I had words of inspiration for you; words to cheer your hearts and lift your spirits, but I don't. All I have is fear and desperation."

He saw his friends looking at him with expressions of dismay on their faces. He knew that even knowing him as they did, they would be expecting something- anything more than this.

So Elrohir said the first words that he could.

They never even passed through his head before they passed through his lips.

He was simply another member of his audience, listening.

"But despite that; despite any doubts we might harbor, despite the tactical situation which stands gravely against us, we're going to triumph here today anyway."

Elrohir looked around and continued, becoming more animated.

"We're going to win, quite simply, because we have to! We're going to win because this is a battle we will not walk away from if we lose! As surely as putting one foot in front of the other propels us forward, we will fight and fight and fight until we are victorious!"

He hesitated and lowered his voice again.

"We are winners," he finished, simply and quietly. "We always have been. So let's show the Slave Lords who they're really dealing with."

Elrohir shot one last glance at the Water Dragon. Soldiers in leather armor were now climbing down her unfurled rope ladder onto the dock.

And for one second, on the deck near the bow of the galley, he saw a face staring at him.

A face as dark as the blackest night.

Then it was gone.

Elrohir felt Cygnus come up beside him on his right, one hand grasping the rail.

"The svartalf?" the magic-user asked.

Elrohir nodded grimly. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to expect.

He had half-thought that they really didn't exist after all. That they were only a myth.

He looked to his left.

Sitdale stared first back at him, and then over at Cygnus.

"The elven word," he said quietly, "is drow."

"We're about to hit!" the sailor yelled. "Hang on!"

The boat struck the sandbar and slid to a halt.

The sound of timbers creaking, and cracking filled the air. Even holding on as best they could, some individuals were thrown forward and tumbled to the shifting deck.

Elrohir screamed wordlessly as he leapt off the bow of the boat.

He had a brief sensation of seemingly hanging in mid-air, surrounded by his friends similarly suspended.

All flying forward.

To victory or death.

Water was spraying everywhere.

Elrohir swam forward as far as he could, until his toes felt the bottom.

He pushed himself to his feet and hit the rocky beach. The ranger was across the thin strip in two strides, and then clambered up the three-foot high embankment. His feet pounded into the grass and dug in. Each step forward was almost a leap.

Elrohir ran like he had never run before.

He could sense his companions were right behind him, but he didn't dare turn his head to look.

The ranger's vision bounced up and down as he concentrated on going still faster with every pump of his legs. His heart pounded in his ears. Every beat sounded like the striking of a huge drum implanted in his chest.

He was about a hundred feet or so from the Water Dragon now.

But the Slave Lords had already begun to disembark.

Seven guards held a front line abreast, just past the dock. All seven were cocking and aiming light crossbows.

Damn, thought Elrohir.

They were all running far too quickly to even attempt to dodge.

But the soldiers didn't fire.

Another figure stood behind them. He was only intermittently visible as he passed behind his troops, but it clear to Elrohir who he was.

Theg Narlot was not tall. In fact, he was shorter than many of his men. He was the shortest orc, either half or full-blooded, that Elrohir had ever seen. He wore leather armor overlain with a tunic depicting the symbol of Suderham; the slave inside the triangle of chains. He had a longsword in his hands, and was apparently shouting orders at his men, although the ranger couldn't make out the words.

Behind them, at the point where the dock met the grasslands, was another figure.

Elrohir's first impression was that it was Brother Milerjoi. The man was about the same size as the monk. He was unarmed, and wore similar robes, although these were a bright scarlet in color. Only his belt was grey.

It wasn't Milerjoi, though. Although this man was balding, his remaining hair was black, cut short and bristly. A short strip of it ran partially down, almost reaching his forehead.

He wore a black domino mask on his face.

The man moved his body through several positions that Elrohir had seen Tojo do sometimes before entering battle.

But unlike Brother Milerjoi's calm detachment, this man was scowling at them.

Still onboard, Scurvy John stood near the stern, readying a heavy crossbow.

At amidships was the so-called Lamonsten the Lazy, studying the approaching mob with the tactical eye of a wizard.

And furthest away, near the bow, stood Mordrammo, the High Priest of The Earth Dragon.

Next to him was Edralve.

The first drow Elrohir had ever seen was remarkably short; or perhaps she merely seemed that way standing next to Mordrammo. Edralve's head barely cleared the railing on top of the ship's gunwale. The dark elf was wearing an unusual helm of some black metal that covered only the center of her head down to her eyes, with curving, pointed cheek guards. Two horns, vaguely like those of a unicorn, of some unknown beast curved upwards from the helm.

She had long, flowing hair the color of newly fallen snow. Elrohir couldn't see the rest of her.

And just as the ranger was deciding where exactly where he was going to charge, a voice rang out right in front of him.

"STOP!"

Elrohir brought himself up to a halt.

It hadn't been a magical compulsion; at least, not that he was aware of, but perhaps this time it was the Slave Lords who sought parley.

Perhaps, he thought, they've weakened themselves more with their infighting than we dared hope.

In any event, still no missile fire came their way.

The voice had not been familiar, but Elrohir suspected it had come from Lamonsten; the wizard no doubt employing a ventriloquism spell.

The ranger glanced behind him. His friends were all there, but he was surprised to see both Aslan and Tojo in the rear. He had supposed the samurai would be in an unstoppable fury by now, desperate to regain his lost swords and his lost honor. Apparently, he had decided on a more calculated approach towards that end. That fact warmed Elrohir's heart, but the paladin's absence from their front ranks could only mean that Aslan's depression was finally getting the better of him.

And there was no more time for speeches.

At that instant, one of the Slave Lords spoke again, but to everyone's surprise, it wasn't Lamonsten.

It wasn't even Mordrammo.

And the person who was speaking wasn't even addressing them.

"Well, Your Sacredness, you've fixed us all but good, haven't you?"

Even from over a hundred feet out, the rage in Mordrammo's frame was evident as he turned to the smaller figure next to him.

"Silence, you trollop! We have already agreed we will speak of this later! We show one united face now, or you die where you stand!"

"You agreed, Mordrammo; I said no such thing," the svartalf responded calmly. "The particulars of our situation rest squarely on your shoulders, as does the death of our city."

Mordrammo was speechless.

So were his fellow Slave Lords.

As were Elrohir and his companions.

"What?" the High Priest finally managed.

"Still willfully blind?" Edralve queried, an edge to her voice sharp as a dagger. "This goes beyond your loathsome attempts to paint me as a traitor, Mordrammo. As part of your so-called master plan, you led the Furyondans here!"

"I am not responsible for The Earth Dragon's anger at them!" bellowed the cleric.

"It's not them he's angry at, you pathetic fool- IT'S YOU!"

Mordrammo clutched the railing of the ship for support.

"Me?"

"Of course!" Edralve shot back. "You've been so concerned with outmaneuvering me and entrenching yourself as leader of The Nine, you forgot your duties as High Priest, didn't you? The acolytes told me you've been neglecting the ceremonies!"

"They can perform them just as well, as I instructed them to!" Mordrammo retorted.

Edralve laughed, her voice silky.

"I think your god disagrees with you, oh High Priest, since they're all now dead, along with everyone else. I'm no High Priestess," she shrugged, fingering something around her neck, "but I would never shunt aside my worship of The Elder Elemental Eye in favor of political games. Face it, Mordrammo; you led our enemies to our doorstep, and now we're all paying the price for your hubris!"

The drow moved backwards as she spoke, out of sight of Elrohir and his friends.

"Now what shall we do?" her voice was heard.

"If you can put your childish fantasies on hold long enough, you piece of trash, I'll show you." Mordrammo snarled at the black elf, and then returned his attention to Elrohir and the others while reaching beside him and lifting his dragon helm over his head.

"And now, Furyondans," the High Priest boomed, "witness your-"

A gasp tore loose from Mordrammo's throat, and his body jerked.

The dragon helm dropped from the cleric's hands. It bounced off the galley's railing and dropped into the water.

The High Priest didn't seem to notice, however. He was staring, his gaze high, seemingly looking at nothing.

Elrohir saw Lamonsten and John gaping.

Edralve appeared again at Mordrammo's side.

She was smiling now.

Slowly, the leader of the Slave Lords turned his head to look at her.

In the dark elf's right hand was a bloody dagger, which she held out for Mordrammo to see.

The High Priest opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was blood.

"There's been a referendum, my dear Mordrammo," purred the drow, "and we've decided on a change of leadership."

And with that she clamped her mouth over his in a horrid kiss.

Elrohir stood in horror. In a far corner of his mind, he knew this would be the perfect time to strike and gain the element of surprise against the Slave Lords.

But his gaze couldn't leave that terrible scene.

Blood dripped between their lips onto the railing.

Finally, Edralve pulled away, swallowing.

The svartalf tenderly cradled the back of Mordrammo's head with her left hand.

For just a moment, a sad smile appeared on that black, blood-smeared face.

"I know you've been dying for my kiss for years."

The smile vanished.

"So die."

She pushed him over the railing.

As he fell, the High Priest's eyes rolled up in his head.

One last sound came from his throat- but it sounded like a throaty growl.

A mote of light appeared around the cleric's falling body- and then another.

Hundreds of glowing pinpricks swirled around him, spinning faster and faster.

Then he flashed white and disappeared.

There was no splash of water.

He's not invisible, thought Elrohir. He's gone.

"Now," Edralve said calmly as she addressed the remaining Slave Lords, wiping her blade clean with a handkerchief, "you can attack me as the Furyondans kill you from behind, or we act together and give them the gruesome death they so richly deserve. Which shall it be?"

"Depends," the voice of an unfamiliar woman came from somewhere on deck they couldn't see. "Is it still about to happen?"

In response, the black elf turned to Lamonsten.

The wizard glanced at her, and then turned his attention back towards Elrohir and the others.

He wasn't casting, but a great big smile suddenly appeared on the wizard's face.

Elrohir didn't like that smile.

"Oh, yes," Lamonsten said. "In fact, I'd say just about- now!"

"Look out!" Elrohir yelled, not knowing from what or where, but a terrible fear filled the ranger's body even as his eyes whirled about, seeking an unknown threat.

And then he heard the gasp.

From the rear.

Elrohir couldn't help but cry out.

Nor could Argo.

Or Cygnus, or Zantac.

Or Nesco, or Sir Menn, or Sitdale, or Unru, or Arwald, or Thorimund.

Aslan didn't cry out.

But he and Yanigasawa Tojo locked eyes.

One in horror and one in pain.

One in guilt and one in shame.

Aslan opened his mouth, but no words came out.

It was too late.

Yanigasawa Tojo opened his mouth- but only blood came out.

Tojo only looked once at the tip of the spear that was protruding from his chest.

The samurai turned his head.

At eye-level, a katana and wakazashi dangled from a hip tantalizingly close to him.

The samurai looked upwards.

Coal-black eyes stared down at him. Dark brown, greasy hair dangled from above a face covered in blue, warty skin.

The ogre mage towered above Tojo, grinning. In his hands he carried another spear, even larger than the one he had stabbed Tojo with.

The samurai crumpled to the ground and did not move again.

"Now then," Blackthorn raised his head to smile at Elrohir, "I believe we were discussing the loss of things near and dear to us."

Black steam came from his mouth.

"Say goodbye to life."

The svartalf shrieked with laughter.

In a pure tactical response, Elrohir glanced back just in time to see the dark elf make a grand sweeping gesture encompassing the ranger and all his friends.

Who, Elrohir realized, might just have their last and fatal mistake.

"Kill them!" Edralve screamed. "KILL THEM ALL!"