25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj

At the last possible instant, Elrohir dodged the lunge of the drow's rapier, but he'd had to hurl himself to the side so violently that he overbalanced and fell over.

Instantly the ranger tucked into a ball and continued rolling. He felt a woosh overhead that told him Edralve had just missed him again.

Elrohir gained his feet and whirled around to face his opponent, but she had already closed in on him again. She was too close to use her longsword, but her left hand clutched, not her dagger, but the object which lay at the end of the chain around the dark elf's neck.

It looked like a black triangle made of iron, with an upside-down "Y" symbol in yellow anchored to the triangle's sides. It was clearly an unholy symbol of some kind, but Elrohir didn't recognize it. The svartalf thrust it upwards towards him.

Elrohir couldn't seem to move or act. He knew it all took place in a split-second, but the party leader was used to acting during battle even during so short a timeframe.

But now, everything just seemed to be overwhelming him.

And then Edralve spoke again.

"Fall," she commanded simply, her voice husky, her red eyes boring into Elrohir's, her lips curving upward again in her predatory smile.

Elrohir could feel a sudden compulsion rising within him.

And then he acted on it.

The ranger's left hand shot out to the side of Edralve's head and grabbed one of the horns of the svartalf's helm.

"Next time," he growled, "say please."

And with that he yanked the helm clean off the drow's head while simultaneously slamming his forehead down to smash against hers.

Argo never even knew Sir Menn's shield had gotten into his hands, but the big ranger brought it up just in time to catch Harve's blow.

The shield rang and was knocked out of Bigfellow's hand; he hadn't had time to secure it, but it gave Argo just enough time to duck low and move.

And by the time Scurvy John was ready to swing again, Argo had retrieved the sword he had thrown at the pirate earlier. He parried, but John kept up a furious barrage of blows, forcing the big ranger backward. Argo almost stumbled as he backed down the steps from the forecastle to the main deck but managed to keep his footing. That was all the big ranger could do at this point, though. Scurvy's attacks with Harve seemed to form a near-glowing curtain of red light, and it was all Argo could do to fight defensively; and stay alive, if only for the moment.

"Why didn't you ever fight that well for me?" Bigfellow grunted as their swords clashed again, a poor but workable pained grin in place.

Harve might have replied, but if so the sword's voice was lost in Scurvy's bellows. The pirate's sallow face was positively radiant now with savage glee.

"Where are your famous witty quips now, Pigfellow?" he shouted as he continued to push the ranger back. "I'm sure you've prepared some erudite dying curse to haunt me with! Better use it now; if you wait, you may not get the… chance!"

Argo had faltered momentarily as a spasm of pain from his still bleeding gut hit him and John had swung with his last word. Bigfellow's late parry had been just enough to partially turn Harve's blade, but the impact had still sent the ranger stumbling backwards; now bleeding from his right temple as well, to trip on the handle of one of the Water Dragon's closed hatch doors and land on his back on the deck.

With a wordless roar, Scurvy dropped to his knees right on Argo's chest. The pirate held Harve our horizontally as he came down.

The blade's edge was right in line with Argo's neck.

The ranger brought up his own sword at the last instant, but John's weight pushed both weapons down now. Argo had his blade with the flat towards him, but it was being pushed so hard into the flesh of his neck that the edges were starting to draw blood.

Scurvy John's face now boasted an ecstatic smile.

But Argo still managed to speak, although in little more than a croak.

"You know… what your problem is, John?"

"No! Perhaps you will tell me before I kill you!"

"Your problem," Bigfellow ground out, "is… that you're too emotional."

Scurvy laughed. "This, coming from you?"

Argo couldn't nod with his head, so the big ranger did so with his eyes, even as he exerted all his legendary strength in an attempt to throw John off of him. The pirate held firm, however.

"Time… and a place for everything… spend too much time thinking about vengeance… and you miss your real opportunities… what you thought you wanted… leads only to the grave… or worse."

He locked his auburn eyes with his opponent's dark ones.

"That's… what happened to your last master, John… could have had it all, but he couldn't resist passing up… an opportunity to attack us… even when he wasn't prepared… only got him a one-way journey… to Hell. You'll only get… the same."

Argo didn't know what the effect of these words might have on John. In truth, the ranger had no plan at this point. Every second was merely stalling for time, trying to delay the inevitable.

But he knew that he never expected the calm, almost casual smile that played across John's blackened lips now.

Nor the slight lessening in the pressure on his neck. Bigfellow was still pinned flat, but Scurvy was no longer trying to decapitate him.

"One way, Bigfellow?" John asked, surprising Argo with the softness of his voice as much as hearing the pirate address him by his actual name.

"Are you sure?"

There were very few times in Argo's life when he felt a fear of something worse than dying. He'd seen death since childhood, but this terrible emotion bypassed that completely as it poured into his chest.

He felt like a wineglass being filled with poison.

"I might be going to Hell," John suddenly admitted, a rare pensive look on his face, his eyes wandering off into the distance.

But then those black eyes shot down again at Argo, and the gloating in John's voice; a gloating which somehow seemed to be coming from a source outside the pirate's own stores of courage, kept the ranger pinned down more effectively than a whole crew of pirates might have done.

John thrust his face to within inches of Argo's.

"But Hell is coming for you," he hissed.

The pirate straightened back up suddenly. Argo tensed to make one last effort to throw him off, but the pirate suddenly made a move with Harve that Bigfellow didn't anticipate, and the big ranger could only watch with a fresh cry of pain as his sword went flying out of his hand again.

Scurvy's left hand clamped down hard on Argo's neck. His right hand raised Harve to strike.

Seeing Aslan writhing on the grass in pain, Brother Kerin slowed down as he approached his fallen adversary. The monk used the time to regain his breath.

For his part, Aslan was in utter turmoil.

While a part of the paladin's mind still welcomed his imminent death, another part stubbornly, and selfishly, refused to give in, looking both at his approaching executioner and all around at the battle for some tactical edge he might have overlooked.

Aslan saw no edge. What he did see, however, were his friends. Fighting, losing and very possibly, soon to die just as surely as he was.

He tried to examine Brother Kerin again, but the paladin's numerous wounds seemed to have sapped his ability to concentrate. To his immense irritation, all Aslan could do was to stare stupidly at Kerin's worn and grimy grey belt and think, they really don't match his robes.

In fact, I'd swear that was the same belt Brother Milerjoi was wearing. He had grey robes, so it matched.

Milerjoi probably died during the quake. But why would Kerin take only his belt?

The Scarlet Brotherhood monk had stoppedright by Aslan's feet, looking down at him with a cold smile.

A symbol? A badge of office, or of station? I thought monks didn't care about such things.

Brother Kerin was moving again.

And why am I even wondering about such a stupid thing? I'm about to die, and my last thoughts are of clothing?

Kerin bent down over him.

Clothing…

With one hand, the monk grabbed Aslan's head and pushed it back, exposing his neck. The monk's right hand clenched into a fist with the knuckles pointing right at the paladin's throat, the middle knuckle extended slightly.

He seemed to be studying Aslan.

And while he was doing that Aslan dropped his sword, reached out and grabbed hold of Kerin's belt and yanked sharply.

With a satisfying rip, the fabric tore, and the grimy piece of linen came off in the paladin's hand.

Kerin screamed soundlessly, his eyes opened wide on the torn piece of cloth in Aslan's hands. He seemed to be in shock.

Aslan took the opportunity to force himself to smile through his pain even as he took each end of the belt in one hand.

"Never rely too much on one thing, Kerin."

And with that, Aslan looped the belt around the monk's neck and twisted.

Cygnus looked desperately around.

Elrohir was still battling Edralve on the pier. On board the Water Dragon, Scurvy John had forced Argo down from the forecastle, so Cygnus couldn't see them any more from his current angle. But it sure sounded like John was getting the better of things.

Zantac was frantically backing away from the woman who'd just emerged from the lake. Brother Kerin had Aslan down. Theg Narlot was pounding hard on Sir Menn. Blackthorn was clearly winning his combat against Nesco and Arwald. Unru was no where to be seen, and Cygnus knew that neither Sitdale nor Thorimund were in a condition to make a huge difference.

When Cygnus turned his attention back the older wizard leaning almost casually over the railing of the Water Dragon and staring almost bemusedly at him, the tall mage made up his mind. Lamonsten could not be permitted to go to the aid of his fellow Slave Lords. Cygnus was going to fight this fellow magic-user to the very end.

No matter how soon that might be.

Conscious again that he was still wearing only a loincloth, Cygnus pulled one of the two scrolls that he had placed under the cloth immediately after gaining dry land. They were still probably soaked beyond usefulness, but he had no other options left.

Cygnus unrolled the scroll with the spell of slow, and cast it towards Lamonsten, his eyes darting towards his foe as soon as he had finished, searching for the tell-tale signs of an afflicted target.

There were none.

At first, the Aardian mage thought the scroll had indeed been ruined by the water. But then he realized that Lamonsten had simply counterspelled it. From a distance of almost seventy feet, he had realized what spell Cygnus was using, and dispersed it with all the effort of brushing a fly away.

And now Lamonsten began to cast again.

Zantac wasn't so much backing away as trying to run backwards.

Despite her leather armor, the tall woman pursued him easily. Her longsword, already dripping with Zantac's blood, moved into position for a killing blow.

The Willip wizard stopped suddenly, whipped out the scroll Cygnus had given him and read it.

Slippery Ketta's sword came down, cleaving the parchment roll neatly in half.

But it was two barren scraps of paper that floated down to the grass, devoid of all writing.

Zantac had gotten the spell off in the nick of time.

And Slippery Ketta was caught, held where she stood; leaning forward, her sword arm still outstretched.

Sitdale and Thorimund, who had been near Zantac, wasted no time when they saw that Zantac's foe had been immobilized. Sitdale ran off to help Sir Menn while Thorimund hobbled off towards the fog cloud. As the latter mage reached it, three of the warriors emerged, coughing and staggering. With a jet of flame from his scroll, Thorimund dropped two of them instantly, but the third; the one whom Elrohir had trampled earlier, swung at the mage. It wasn't a solid hit, but in Thorimund's weakened condition, it was enough. The son of Thormord dropped to the ground.

I've got to help him!

Zantac quickly looked back at Ketta. The woman's face was frozen in her last triumphant look, but her eyes could still move. Not surprisingly, there was no sense of triumph in them anymore.

Feeling like he was in a dream, Zantac stepped up to Slippery Ketta and pulled the dagger out of the hilt attached to one of her boots. The wizard looked at the weapon in his hands.

I know what I have to do. There's no time to lose. She might break the spell at any moment.

Trying to will his hand not to tremble, he placed the point against the soft skin of her neck.

Her eyes watched him.

Zantac closed his.

I know what I have to do.

Arwald was down.

Nesco couldn't tell at a glance if the wound was mortal or not; the fighter was still conscious, but it was plain that the man was no longer able to fight.

Blackthorn didn't seem inclined to leave the matter to chance. He stepped directly over his felled foe and raised his spear high.

An instant later, the ogre mage roared with fury as Nesco stabbed him again with her sword, this time in his right thigh. Blackthorn swung his spear around, but the ranger was too close. Blackthorn started to back away to get into attack position again-

-when Nesco abruptly turned and ran.

Blackthorn was so startled his reflexive jab at her fleeing back mixed. He hadn't expected this. Not that it really mattered. The oni watched with growing bemusement as he realized where his prey was heading.

Pathetic.

He set off after her.

"Tojo."

The Yanigasawa samurai now lay on his stomach, watching with seeming disinterest his fleeing life's blood stain the grass in front of him. He had somehow pulled Blackthorn's other spear out from behind and seemed to be calmly awaiting oblivion.

But his head raised as he heard his name.

Nesco Cynewine, breathing hard, was bending down beside him.

The ranger's eyes were filled with tears; some from pain, she was sure, but most from shame.

Tojo was going to die, and so was she, and so were all her friends, and all because she was too stupid to figure things out on her own. And now here she was, begging a man who was too weak even to move to make it all right again, even though she knew that nothing was ever going to be all right again.

Seeming to draw all his remaining strength from his wrecked body to his violet eyes, Yanigasawa responded to Nesco's one-word choked plea by calmly fixing his eyes directly on hers without any hesitation.

Then the samurai's mouth opened again. Some more blood trickled out.

But so did four words.

"Nesco-sama," said Tojo in a harsh whisper, "Oni wa sato."

Nesco blinked.

"What?"

"Oni wa sato," Tojo repeated.

Panic coursed through Nesco. She couldn't believe this. He knew she didn't understand Nipponese!

"Please, Tojo," she yelled as Blackthorn approached. "I don't understand what that means. We're out of time. Please, speak my language!"

The ranger finished in a near-shriek, but Tojo's hand quickly but gently closed upon her wrist.

They gazed into each other's eyes for that last second as a dark shadow looming over Lady Cynewine informed her that she was out of time.

"No, Nesco-sama," Tojo whispered as his voice left him. "You must speak mine."