25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj

Elrohir charged, screaming in rage.

Her smile still fixed, Edralve stepped neatly aside at the last moment. Her rapier flew faster than the ranger's longsword, and the dark elf's blade punctured Elrohir's leather armor on his left shoulder.

The pain wiped out everything else from the team leader's mind. In an instant, Elrohir realized how he had been baited, but the pain from the wound still slowed his reaction time. By the time Elrohir could settle into his battle routine, the svartalf already had the offensive. And she continued to press it.

Her fighting style was essentially elven. Light, fluid. Elrohir knew it readily. He had spent his early years as a warrior learning it, only to later adopt a more power-based, human-taught sword style. When the ranger was fresh, it proved unbeatable to nearly every opponent who had ever come up against it.

But Elrohir's sword work was predicated on his wearing his plate mail. Large bulky armor that could absorb the blows that his massive attacks sometimes left him open to.

He wasn't wearing plate now.

And the only thing fresh about Elrohir was the blood that he was losing.

The drow was toying with him.

The black elf kept up her parries and thrusts with an intensity that prevented Elrohir from mounting a counterattack, but she was not risking a battle-ending lunge. Not yet.

And she taunted him.

"After all these years, the legendary Elrohir finally meets his match," Edralve sang out to him in the Common tongue.

The realization that the svartalf had obviously been scrying on him- probably through Ajakstu- for much longer than he had realized was another sting to the ranger, but he willed himself not to focus on that. Edralve wasn't going to kill him with words.

But she still taunted him.

"What's wrong, Elrohir? Don't you have a miracle up your sleeve? You always do, they say. Some brilliant stroke of tactical genius that changes night into day, sorrow into rejoicing and defeat into victory!"

She feinted a thrust, too fast to dodge, and Elrohir desperately parried the arc of her swing only at the last instant.

"That's all you ever really had going for you, you know," the dark elf purred, her rapier never slowing. "A weak, petulant, so-called leader, blessed only with some odd ability to reach into a well and draw out a solution to your troubles at will."

Edralve came in again, her blade describing a pattern of cuts and slices through the air that alternated attacks and parries to attacks that Elrohir was only thinking of attempting. The ranger stepped in closer for a moment to avoid them.

For an instant, they were face-to-face, staring into each other's eyes.

"This is the day your well runs dry," Edralve said, her ebony face suddenly devoid of all attention.

She kept her eyes fixed on his, but Elrohir caught her body language and jumped backwards just ahead of the dagger now clasped in the drow's left hand.

The dagger that was coated with a black liquid that was undoubtedly poison.

Elrohir had avoided the dagger but his backwards leap had put him back in the rapier's reach. He moved to parry, but only succeeding in having his cheek slit instead of his neck.

The ranger began to retreat, his earlier rage now lost in an ocean of pain.

Edralve however, stayed with him.

"What's the matter, dearest?' she cooed. "Don't you want to dance with me anymore?"

Another lunge, barely avoided.

"Now that Mordrammo's out of the group portrait, perhaps you could be Feetla's replacement, and serve at my side?"

The rapier came in low. Elrohir kicked forward, trying to disarm her, but the blade was pulled back along his leg, its tip ripping the leather as it did so.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful, Elrohir? No more worrying about having to be a winner all the time. No concerns except how to fulfill my every desire. From the rumors I've heard, I think you'd be… up to the task. What do you say?"

Edralve suddenly stepped back. It allowed both combatants to draw breath, but Elrohir knew he was in much worse shape.

The dark elf's face suddenly grew thoughtful in the same way that Argo's often did, as if a deep thought had just occurred to her.

"Wait a moment," Edralve said.

She looked at Elrohir with the wide-eyed innocence of a child.

"You're not married or anything, are you?"

Giggling, the drow lunged in for the kill.

Argo pushed out away from the hull.

The whoosh of the crossbow bolt flying by a hairs-breadth from his face was surprisingly loud. The big ranger almost lost his grip on the tow line, but he held on and continued to climb with his hands even as his feet kept the rope swinging back and forth in a pendulum arc.

Bigfellow was a fast climber, but he had not quite reached the rail when he saw why Scurvy John had not fired at him with his crossbow again.

The pirate stood upon the sterncastle directly above Argo. He was grinning.

And the gleaming cutlass he held in his upraised hand made no explanation for his smile necessary.

The sword came down upon the railing, slicing the tow rope neatly through.

An instant after Argo had leapt for the railing while at the top of the rope's arc.

Bigfellow made it; even managing to draw his longsword in his right hand, but John quickly moved over to stand by Argo's new position. Again the cutlass rose; and this time the ranger's left hand was the target.

Argo threw his sword at him.

It was a move born of sheer desperation. The weapon wasn't balanced for throwing at all, but even so it came right as Scurvy's face, and the pirate instinctively threw up his own sword arm to block and stepped back as Argos' stolen weapon bounced off and clattered to the deck.

When John moved forward to attack again, Argo was just jumping down on deck.

The cutlass couldn't be avoided.

Argo knew it. Scurvy had those first precious few seconds on him, and Bigfellow no longer had a weapon to parry with. All the big ranger could do was twist his body and hope the wound would not be a fatal one.

It might have been one.

Bigfellow was trying to move backwards as the cutlass sped towards his abdomen, but he had his back to the railing, so he could only slide back and try to contort his torso.

The blade still penetrated his armor and sank in.

Argo's stomach felt like it was on fire.

He locked his auburn eyes upon his enemy's coal-black ones.

The Slave Lord roared in triumph.

But when Scurvy John pulled his weapon back, Argo came forward with it.

The pirate's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Huh?"

In Instant One, it all made sense. The accursed Bigfellow, by keeping John's cutlass in him even as he stepped forward, had moved closer.

And in Instant Two, Argo Bigfellow's uppercut smashed into his chin.

Argo screamed again as Scurvy's cutlass was jerked out as the pirate stumbled backwards.

And tripped; first over Argo's sword and then down the stairs that led up to the sterncastle.

John fell hard, his back slamming onto the main deck, but his right arm still came up with the cutlass to ward off any attacks Bigfellow might make to take advantage of the situation.

But Argo did not attack the prone pirate.

He made no move to retrieve his sword.

He said not a word to him.

Instead, Argo Bigfellow Junior turned his back to him.

Of course, it made sense. Everything Argo did eventually could be seen to make sense, although Aslan always insisted hard liquor was an indispensable aid towards that end.

The big ranger had seen the large chest that sat upon the deck of the sterncastle as soon as his face had cleared the railing. He had also noted that it had been tipped onto its side and the lid thrown open.

All their equipment was there.

He knew he only had a few seconds.

Pieces of armor and clothing went flying as the ranger burrowed through the pile like a badger. Here and there the glint of a ring beckoned to him, but Argo was interested in only one object.

Damn it, it's too big to be lost in here! Where in Tartarus is it?

"Looking for this, Pigfellow?"

A sphere of dim red light enveloped Argo from behind.

Argo spun around and stared up from his crouch.

I should have known, the ranger mused sadly as he slowly rose to his feet.

It all made sense.

He'd also seen from boarding that, unlike their last encounter, Scurvy John was now wearing two hilted swords from his belt. The thought hadn't bothered Bigfellow, because the swords were too big for the pirate to fight with one in each hand.

But although John, who had remounted he stairs, was holding only one sword aloft now, it wasn't his cutlass.

"I think Alabin will be pleased by the irony, don't you?" the pirate continued. "His brother's murderer avenged by his own weapon?

"Sorry, Bigfellow," came the mournful voice of Harve. "Looks like I've got a new master now."

A bellow erupted from Scurvy's lips as he charged.

Argo saw the tip of his own sword heading right for his heart.

A miniature sun erupted inside Aslan's head.

Bright light blinded his eyes, a roaring filled his ears; and the pain enveloped his whole body, cascading from his forehead down and turning off all his muscles.

The paladin felt the blood trickling down his face as he stumbled backwards. It was even worse than being struck by Tojo during that terrible incident in the stockade.

He was stunned. Unable to act coherently.

Aslan couldn't see Brother Kerin anymore, but he could feel him.

A fist, or an elbow, or something rocketed into his cheek, spinning the paladin around. An instant later the heel of Kerin's bare foot slammed into the small of his back.

As Aslan stumbled forward, he could feel the pain beginning to overwhelm him.

Everyplace the monk had struck him felt broken.

And the sword wound in his left side; even his ankle was flaring up again.

He had to do something.

He couldn't just stumble around while this Slave Lord literally beat the life out of him.

Aslan tried to let his faith do with his body what his mind couldn't.

The paladin dug in his right foot into the grass as hard as he could and pivoted, spinning around. Aslan's sword came slicing right-to-left in a wide arc.

Brother Kerin yelped and jumped back. The wound was trivial; little more than a slight gash along the chest, judging by the miniscule amount of blood that seeped through the rip in the monk's scarlet robes.

But it was enough to halt Kerin's relentless assault. He took the opportunity to gain breath while mocking the paladin again.

"Is that the best you have, Aslan? Why not use your Talent against me? Oh, that's right!" Kerin chided, slapping his head to his forehead in mock realization. "You don't have it anymore!"

Then he was on the attack again.

The monk seemed to be everywhere at once. Aslan's sword deflected one attack, but two more would strike home at seemingly the same instant.

Kerin didn't even stop his verbal assaults. Every blow came accompanied by a fresh accusation.

A fist to his face.

"You've made yourself reliant on only one thing, Aslan!"

An elbow jabbed into his neck.

"You've doomed not only yourself, but your friends as well!"

A head butt.

"You brought them here, never telling them how weak you really were!"

A spinning roundhouse kick to his chest.

"How useless!"

Aslan stumbled back again, as weak in spirit as he was in body.

The paladin's legs gave out, and he landed on his back in the grass.

Blood, pain and sweat all obscured Aslan's vision. All he could see of the monk was a scarlet blur, bisected by the thin grey line of his belt.

Aslan couldn't fight anymore. He could barely move.

He knew Brother Kerin was right.

Desperate not to let down his friends, he'd tried to convince himself that Elrohir's words of encouragement were true. That he really had something to offer them other than his Talent.

But he didn't.

And as Brother Kerin moved closer to finish him off, Aslan could almost feel the beginnings of something pleasant.

An acceptance.

Brother Kerin wasn't just his opponent. He was a divine executioner, sent by Lord Odin to punish Aslan for the sin of his pride. Since the age of twelve, he'd been so intent on developing his Talent-

-that he'd forgot to develop himself.

Aslan waited for the final blow to fall.

Horror began to take shape.

Cygnus was as unable to look away from the visage in front of him as he had been when Iuz himself had appeared at the Brass Dragon on that terrible day.

It was not lost on the wizard that on that day, someone had died.

The swirling mists were now definitely coalescing into a humanoid shape as it moved slowly towards him. Cygnus didn't know what the final result was going to be.

But he knew he wouldn't be able to stand the sight of it.

The Aardian mage tried to focus on something else.

On anything else.

Thorin. The thought of his son gave Cygnus momentary strength, but it quickly evaporated when he thought of his son as an orphan.

He couldn't do that to him. It would be a betrayal to both Thorin and Hyzenthlay. To the promises he had made to both of them.

Cygnus had to fight.

He had to resist!

The phantasmal killer was going to be a human. Cygnus could see that, although the features had not resolved themselves that.

It was only about ten feet away now, advancing resolutely.

And Cygnus let his mind go.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

And while he kept up that inner mantra, the magic-user's mind searched through as many images as he could find, looking for something that would help his subconscious mind believe it as well.

Because that was the part which controlled his breathing. And his heart.

A sharp pain shot through Cygnus' chest, breaking his concentration.

The image. It was. It was…

And just as Cygnus was about to scream, of all things the smug, smiling face of Argo Bigfellow Junior filled his mind's eye.

And he instinctively knew why.

And Cygnus did scream, but it was not the death shriek of a man frightened to death.

It was a roar of conviction. Of belief.

Or rather, of disbelief.

"Illusionist, let the sham be exposed!"

The phantasmal killer vanished.

Cygnus and Lamonsten eyed each other.

Then the tall wizard stretched out his hand and beckoned to his fellow mage.

"Come on then, illusionist," Cygnus sneered. "Let's see what else you've got."

Lamonsten frowned, but his eyes narrowed.

"I have enough."

Zantac looked around.

Things seemed to be going as usual.

Which meant they were in desperate trouble.

Cygnus seemed to have shaken off the killer, but every fighter they had was engaged in melee combat; and from Elrohir to Sir Menn, they all seemed to be losing.

Zantac began to move back towards the shore, trying to gauge the battlefield from different vantage points. Trying to decide what to do.

He saw Sitdale coming towards him.

"I've still got your protection, Zantac," the half-elf said as he drew alongside. "I'll try to draw the soldiers' fire if they come out of the fog cloud."

Zantac nodded, but couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Unru pull out his spell scroll, incant and vanish from sight.

The Willip wizard couldn't help but feel a little bit envious of Unru's more secure position, but that vanished when he saw Lamonsten's eyes dart over.

He sighed and beckoned Thorimund over to them.

"Thorimund, detect," he ordered his fellow wizard when he came up. "I think Lamonsten can still see Unru. If your friend tries one of his impulsive moves," he finished up by looking back at Sitdale, "he may wind up paying for it with his life."

The half-elf was about to reply when his eyes went wide with alarm.

He was looking over Zantac's shoulder.

Zantac spun around, just in time for his left shoulder to receive the sword strike that had been intended for his back.

The Willip wizard cried out in agony and backed away, almost stumbling in the process.

The woman who followed him was tall; perhaps six feet soaking wet, as she currently was. She was very thin for her height, and her lanky frame showed against her skin that wasn't covered by her leather armor. A mass of bedraggled brown hair adorned with seaweed covered half her face, but one piercing brown eye bore into him. A longsword currently dripping with Zantac's blood was clenched in her right hand. The woman wore thin brown gloves that curiously were bone-dry, unlike the rest of her.

The Slave Lord looked back over the lake that she had just climbed up out of and then hollered out to her companions.

"Be careful- they're coming!"

That done, she turned her attention back to Zantac.

"Let me guess," muttered the mage. "Slippery Ketta, right?"

The woman smiled a mirthless smile.

"Let me guess," she replied. "Inconsequential Dead Man, right?"

Without even a tensing of her legs to warn Zantac, she suddenly leapt straight at him.

The pain was overwhelming.

As much as the wound itself, it threatened to shut down the mind as well as the body.

It was pain that could not possibly be endured. It was pain that bespoke of approaching death.

But if there was one person present on this entire battlefield who knew what death felt like, it was Nesco Cynewine.

And this wasn't it.

Not just yet.

Just as Blackthorn began to lift his spear upwards, Lady Cynewine grabbed the shaft with her left and took a step backwards. The wound wasn't as deep as the mortal one she had received back at the stockade.

With a manic expression of glee on his horrid face, Blackthorn lifted, but all of a sudden his human prey wasn't attached to it anymore. The sudden lessening of weight caused the ogre mage's weapon to fly up quicker than he intended and distract him momentarily.

Then Blackthorn was distracted again; this time by Nesco's sword plunging through his chainmail shirt and up into his gut.

Even as he roared with pain, the ogre mage knew that Nesco had shifted her position, and that she and Arwald were now flanking him. The oni felt the fighter's sword slam into his back, but it left little more than a scratch.

Blackthorn began to pull back again to be able to use his sword again. This time, he shifted to a more defensive position, and his two opponents were unable were unable to score an effective blow against him.

Nesco threw everything out of her mind except tactical considerations.

We have to keep hitting him. He'll heal all we've done to him otherwise!

But the ogre mage was fighting smarter now. His spear spun around him with amazing spear. Nesco caught the flat of the weapon's head across her cheek, hard enough to knock a tooth loose.

Growling in an almost animal anger, Nesco spit blood out of her mouth and concentrated where to aim her next strike.

It was then her attention went back to the swords Blackthorn wore on his hip.

At first she thought they were Tojo's daisho, but the scabbards of these weapons bore a different design than those of her samurai friend. It took a moment for her mind to call up the memory.

Icar! These are Icar's samurai swords! But why doesn't he use them? They'd be of much more use to him in this fight than that long spear! And if he doesn't know how to wield them, why wear them in the first place?

She wasn't sure why she did it.

Nesco's head seemed to turn of its own volition.

It was only a quick glance, but it was enough to show him lying about thirty feet away now.

Yanigasawa Tojo lay where he had fallen, Blackthorn's second spear still embedded in his chest.

The samurai's body had not moved, but his head had apparently turned as well.

He was looking straight at Nesco.

Tojo's lips were moving, but there was not the slightest chance in The Nine Hells of Nesco being to hear him at this distance, and in this clamor.

But somehow Nesco knew it had something to do with that very same daisho she had just noticed.

And as Arwald screamed again from Blackthorn's spear plunging into his chest, Nesco also knew that she either had to get over to Tojo; tactically a near-impossibility, or figure out this puzzle on her own.

Her battle- indeed, the entire battle- might very well depend on it.