25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY

Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj

Despite taking a terrific beating, Aslan was still hanging on.

Brother Kerin had still not managed to dislodge the paladin's stranglehold on his neck using the remains of his belt, but the monk had somehow managed to rise to his feet, taking Aslan along with him. The two continued to grapple, both straining to their utmost.

But in a flash, Kerin's right elbow smashed into Aslan's left cheek. A second later, Kerin had swung his right forearm upwards, and the back of his clenched fist impacted into Aslan's forehead. The paladin staggered back a few feet, relinquishing his grip on the cloth, which his opponent tossed aside.

"Fool!" Brother Kerin snarled, his voice still hoarse and his neck still sporting an ugly, purplish band. "Even without my monk's belt, I'm still more than a match for you!"

Then he leapt.

Even though he still seemed impossibly close to Aslan to attempt a kick, the monk's right leg extended straight out, while his left leg seemed to propel his body almost vertically into the air.

But the paladin had seen a certain samurai employ the exact same maneuver before.

Aslan ducked low and dodged to the side. Despite missing, Kerin managed to land nimbly on his feet, but by that time Aslan was facing him again, his sword once again in hand.

"You're still nothing without your Talent!" Brother Kerin screamed and attacked again, his fists a flurry of motion.

Aslan had little time for anything than a slow retreat, parrying the monk's constant stream of blows and the occasional kick almost constantly.

Every one which slipped through his defenses and landed felt to the paladin like he had run full-tilt into an iron wall.

Aslan knew he could not win. He was operating on his last vestiges of physical endurance, and although he might have been able to defeat the unenhanced Brother Kerin in melee combat while he was fresh, he had no chance of doing so now. He had been struck so many times and in so many places, the paladin felt like he was immersed in a sea of pain, and that he might dissolve any moment into disconnected pieces of agony before death mercifully released him.

And the worst part was that Brother Kerin was right. The monk was merely speaking aloud what Aslan's own dejected mind had been telling him over and over ever since he had awoken in the caverns underneath The Aerie an impossibly long time ago.

He was nothing without his Talent.

Aslan was continuing to parry and retreat, but he wasn't even planning a counterattack. His mind, refusing to cooperate, continued to reprimand him.

You can't save your friends. You can't even save yourself.

Aslan leaned backwards as Brother Kerin's hand slashed by his face like a knife.

Even if any of them survive, what will they think of you?

The paladin, trying to appease the voice in his head, swung at Brother Kerin, but the monk nimbly sidestepped the attack and darted in close. Before Aslan could react, Kerin had grabbed him in a headlock and was trying to hook his leg behind Aslan's to trip him.

Aslan stopped trying to loosen Kerin's grip on his neck and jabbed upwards with his right hand, index finger extended. He couldn't see where to aim, but he thought if he still possessed even a shred of genuine faith left, then his hand would be guided as all his actions, in and out of combat, had been.

Once upon a time.

He heard the monk cry out in pain as the paladin's fingers jabbed him in the eye. Aslan wriggled free and moved to circle around Brother Kerin. The monk glared at him with one angry eye while massaging the other with his hand.

What can you do with faith?

The question Aslan asked himself was in his own voice, but the words had belonged to someone else. Not any of his close friends, but his mentor, Svorlin.

Despite being together nearly every day for almost two years, the young Goliath had not become close friends with the elder paladin. Not from a lack of desire on Goliath's part, but Svorlin seemed to keep everyone at a bit of a distance; even the women he would take from time to time to satisfy his desires. Svorlin was not a cruel man; indeed, he had shown a respect for life Goliath had never seen in any individual beside his mother, but his handsome face rarely showed a happier expression than a grunt of approval and a thin, fleeting smile.

The only exception was when he prayed.

Goliath had never felt more inadequate than when the two knelt side-by-side in daily prayer. Whether in a great Asgardian temple or in the depths of a Rekamifokan forest, the young paladin's apprentice could feel the waves of piety emanating from his mentor. Svorlin. The older man's eyes were closed, and a beatific smile seemed to erase many of the age lines that crisscrossed the old paladin's face.

And Goliath, who due to the gift of his Talent felt he had even more reason to give thanks to the gods than Svorlin did, still struggled to match the generosity which his mentor offered his very soul daily to the Aesir.

And once, when they had been ambushed by hobgoblins shortly after breaking morning camp, Svorlin had astounded Goliath by what he had been able to do to the ogre the hobbies had used as their shock trooper.

Faith versus evil, young Goliath, Svorlin had said afterwards, wiping the blood off his blade. 'Tis no contest.

Brother Kerin was advancing on him again.

"You know I'm right, Aslan," the monk said, his face now lit by a cold smile as he settled into his fighting stance again. "You know you have nothing left."

Aslan didn't feel stronger.

His wounds did not heal.

But if he was going to die, he no longer welcomed the prospect.

He didn't feel empty anymore.

The paladin's hand tightened on the hilt of his longsword.

"I have one thing left, Kerin," Aslan said softly, as much to himself as to the monk of the Scarlet Brotherhood. "I have faith."

"That won't save you!" Brother Kerin shouted. The monk launched himself to the attack, his robes a crimson blur from his incredible speed. "You know I'm right!" he shrieked with triumph as his incoming fist slipped past the paladin's attempt to parry, aimed right between his eyes.

Aslan caught Kerin's fist in his left hand and stopped it cold.

The monk's eyes widened in surprise. He tried to yank it back, but the paladin held it firm.

"Not right," Aslan whispered. "Smite."

Neither of the two men were really sure what happened next.

Somehow, Brother Kerin had wrested his hand free and stepped back.

And somehow, Aslan's sword, which hadn't even been in attack position, was sweeping around in a wide arc. It didn't strike where Brother Kerin was-

-but it did strike the position where the monk had dodged to.

Aslan would swear he'd seen the briefest possible flash of light.

Brother Kerin was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards through the air.

Aslan blinked, both pain and the adrenalin rush of battle pouring back to him in an instant.

Kerin was picking himself off the ground, staring with disbelief at the blood which was seeping through the wound in his side. He glanced up at Aslan. The two men locked gazes.

And then Brother Kerin of the Scarlet Brotherhood turned and ran off into the forest.

Fatigue instantly replaced the paladin's depleted adrenalin. Aslan swayed on the spot, but he remained upright and looked around.

There was still so much more to do.