Disclaimer: I own none of it.
Chapter Ten
Ron's Army
September 7th. Hermione awoke to the sound of falling rain slashing down against the concrete balcony of her apartment. She crawled out of Ron's still arms, hugging her nightdress around her as she battled the chill air. She wasn't sure what had possessed her to stand, or to go to the living room and stare out at the greasy streetlamps exposing the sheen of water that coated the pre-dawn darkness. The moon was out, strangely enough, peeking out from far off to the side through a tear in the fabric of clouds.
Something had been eating at her as of late. A parasite had worked its way into her body through her toe, she suspected and was slowly picking away at her soul, and she felt her body trying to grow new soul bits, but the parasite, a slightly more orange version of blood with cucumber green eyes, was just a little too fast. And so it went, she was dying. She had made a pact with a being; a dementor. And not just any dementor but the uber-dementor. It was like meeting Dracula or Jesus or something, she supposed. It was the real deal.
Free us, it had said to her. It had both begged and commanded, and she had agreed, her being swept away in the thousands of years of torment that it passed onto her - the story of its life. It had been over a month since that encounter, each day that passed, heightening the clarity of purpose to her mind that her vow had made. You can't deny it forever. You feel the currents of magic on the slipstreams between here and there. You have to settle this once and for all, one way or another. If you try to fight it, you will surely lose. She knew these things; felt them deep within herself, just as she knew she was slowly being eaten alive by the dark magic that she had unleashed within her. You are not Tom Riddle; you do not know how to control this darkness within you. go and find yourself. But how could she leave Ron? She loved him, didn't she? It wouldn't be forever, she reasoned with herself. Her departure would only be temporary; just long enough to free the dementors from their curse and, if she were lucky, save herself from destruction. It's like a Darth Vader complex, or something, she mused, her heart lightening as she came to understand that she had little choice in the matter. It didn't hurt that she was secretly excited at the prospect of taking on this challenge; possibly one of the most complex and difficult tasks set to a scholar since Riddle's discovery and modification of the horcrux rituals.
Hermione packed her belongings silently in the burgeoning light of day, the grey shadows slowly taking on a blue flavour as they waxed into greater relief. Ron remained still and quiet on the modest bed they had secured at a muggle discount outlet, the familiar sight of his sprawled form inciting a twinge of guilt, which she promptly quashed. "I'm sorry," she said aloud in the dark, her voice sounding unnaturally loud. She wasn't even sure what she was sorry for, except that there seemed like so many things that needed reconciliation. I'm sorry for loving you, and for you loving me. I'm sorry I drank blood. I'm sorry Arthur didn't survive the attack on the Burrow. Most of all, I'm sorry I need to leave you and that it will cause you pain, and that it will be at a time when you need to be your strongest. For now, you will stand alone against the rising dark, just as Britain stood when bombs rained down on British soil; when Hitler stood at her gates, the full wrath of his forces behind him. Hermione took what few belongings she needed and left for dark country.
When Ron awoke, he knew immediately that something was wrong. The scent of solitude seemed to pervade the tiny apartment that he and Hermione had nicked near the entrance to Diagon Alley. Before completing a sweep of the apartment, he knew she had left. For what reason he could not discern, though his suspicions were confirmed when he found a painfully brief note stuck to the refrigerator door via a muggle contraption known as a magnet:
Dear Ron,
I don't know any good way to say this. I am leaving for an indefinite period of time. I do not know when I'll return. I cannot give you a reason for my sudden departure, though I want you to know it hurts me greatly to have to do this. I want you to know that I didn't have much of a choice, but that I started the ball rolling on certain events and I must now see them through to their conclusion. Please understand that if I could stay with you, I would. Believe in that one thing, and please believe me that if it's at all within my power to return, I will do that and beg your forgiveness for leaving you.
Forever loving you,
HG
Without realizing it, Ron balled his hand into a fist, crumpling the note into a compact, wrinkled white ball. He stared unseeingly into the microwave oven, unable to do anything but exist amidst the torrent of agonizing emotions that now threatened to drown him. He had understood that, somewhere between him getting captured by Wormtail and Hermione rescuing him from Parkinson Manor, things had changed. Things had changed for the worse; a wedge had formed between them, some sort of indescribable barrier that didn't seem to be the fault of either of them, but which nevertheless was there. He had even asked her about it from time to time, and had resolved to accept her assurances. he had thought he had hallucinated the flashes of amber and green light during the duel between the Colonel and Hermione, or at least was proud that she was dodging so many of them. But now, he knew better. She was dark. Little miss moral Hermione was dark. It hadn't been a curse of the Colonel's that they had taken painstaking efforts to undo after that battle at Malfoy Manor. Certainly Ron was curious as to what kind of curse could have done that to her wand and her wand arm, and he should have been suspicious right then and there for she had deflected his inquiries swiftly - too swiftly for she herself should have been more curious.
Worse yet, Ron knew he still loved her and probably would continue to do so for a long time. He only hoped that when she came back, it would not be as a Dark witch, but as simply Hermione. He could only hope for that now and move on to his more immediate problems. He needed a new wand. He couldn't even remember when his had been destroyed, but he was running on someone else's - some Death Eater's who he had managed to incapacitate - well, kill, actually - and then rob before making a break for it at the King's Cross massacre. It had been the fifth Death Eater's wand he had pilfered and used in the last five weeks. He and Hermione had fled under the onslaught of the Colonel and had managed to hide underneath one of the train cars before they discovered that it was actually being fired up, which they promptly decided to get onto, assuming that it was still going to be heading towards Hogwarts. How wrong they had been.
Ron shook himself from the recent memory and, shoving thoughts of Hermione to the back of his mind, he proceeded to rally his things and head to Olivander's. It was time for him to get a real wand, amongst other things.
Olivander had taken to hiding in a seedy part of town. Ron supposed he was trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, though it didn't help that he had magical wards and various items thrown haphazardly about. They would only serve to attract unwanted attention from any real threats. No, he should have chosen a high density environment that was reasonably safe, so that he would have as little occasion to use his wand as possible. Ron doubted he and Hermione would have survived as long as they had if at least one of them weren't adept in the ways of muggles.
Ron knocked tentatively on Olivander's front door and waited for an interminable period of time as the wards checked him over. Ron rolled his eyes at the sheer uselessness of these precautions. Death Eaters would disable them in a matter of moments. All they would do is give Olivander a few moments to flee, assuming he was on guard. Death Eaters could always use polyjuice, which was effective in tricking these kinds of wards anyway. However, Ron resolved not to say anything, for if it gave the old man some peace of mind, well, he wasn't going to ruin that for him.
Eventually, Ron was permitted inside and immediately made a quick assessment of his surroundings. One small window, room cluttered with objects of all kinds. Wands in the making were strewn about every which way. Ron inwardly grimaced. Right, he thought, because going around buying wand parts in bulk is the way to keep a low profile. He shrugged. Olivander wasn't his problem anymore, and, frankly, he was thankful he was going to at least be able to get a wand. The old man probably just needs to feel useful or keep his mind occupied, Ron thought.
After a moment, Mr. Olivander appeared from what Ron assumed was his bedroom. "Ah, Mr. Weasley," he said in a falsely cheery voice, dark bags under his eyes belying his state of being. "How may I help you today?"
"I could do with a wand," Ron said.
"Of course, of course," Olivander said. "In truth, I've been expecting you. I was aware that you were not using your wand when you rescued me from that place. I realized it was only a matter of time before you, and, maybe others, would come for assistance. After all, you will never achieve as good results with another wizard's wand."
Ron nodded. "Exactly. I could do with a couple of spares, too. I've learned the hard way the uses a wand can have as a sacrificial lamb when you're getting desperate."
"Of course, of course," Olivander repeated. "As I've always said, the wand chooses the wizard. The more you take care of it, and the longer it is in your service, the greater a force it can be when defending you. It was said that Merlin's wand cast a spell all on its own to free him when he was in a tight spot."
"So, what can you offer me? I've only five galleons with me so nothing fancy, please."
"Nonsense," Olivander responded, busying himself with rummaging through the various wands on the floor and the shelves. "I will not take your money, Mr. Weasley. If it weren't for you, I would still be a prisoner of You-Know-Who. No, no, I won't take any more than I would take Ms. Grainger's. To you both I am eternally in debt. I never realized what power I and my family has held in the wizarding world since 382 B.C. Only when it was turned to the dark arts did I become aware of how important I could be in this war. No, I won't sit idly by and wait for that monster to ruin everything that we've worked for. This will be how I can help. If you or any of your soldiers is in need of a wand, come to me and you'll have my finest at your disposal at no cost." Olivander stopped what he was doing and looked hard into Ron's eyes. "I mean it. If He wins, there will be nothing left for any of us. He is simply a madman."
Ron nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Olivander."
Now," he said, brightening up. "Onto business, as they say." He brought forward a single wand, which he held reverently in both his hands. "I'm afraid I do not have any of the fancy trimmings that come with it, like wand polishing kits or a decorative box in which to stow it. Regardless, I trust you'll find this wand to be superlatively fit for your purposes. It is my finest wand. it has been fitted for a Gryffindor of the purest heart. Godric himself would have been proud to use this wand. Thirteen inches, yew, Griffin feather wrapped in a unicorn hair. This is the first dual core wand made in over three hundred years. You will find that this wand will be the bane of any dark arts practitioner." Olivander's normally creepy moon-like eyes took on a new intensity, and Ron got the distinct feeling that he was fantasizing about getting revenge on his tormentors.
"Er, well, thank you," Ron said, gingerly taking the wand from the wandmaker's aged hands. In truth, Ron's old wand, the one he had been using since second year was a second-hand wand his parents had picked up at a garage sale. It had never worked as well as it should have, though by sixth year it had warmed up to him enough that he didn't make a fool of himself every time he issued a spell. For the first time in his life, Ron felt that inexplicable warmth that pervaded every witch and wizard when they found their true wand. A stream of pure white sparks shot out of the tip like small bolts of lightning as he waved it smoothly about in the cramped space of Olivander's home office.
"Brilliant," Ron breathed, awestruck by the incredible feeling of connectedness and warmth he felt through his new wand.
Olivander looked pleased by his response, clapping his hands together and muttering under his breath, "Excellent, excellent. Never in all my years have I seen it..." He trailed off, again slipping into another place and time.
"What haven't you seen?" Ron asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Tell me, Mr. Weasley, do you know what significance the associated colours have for the four houses at Hogwarts?"
Ron shook his head. "Not a clue."
"The colours, it has been said, represent particular traits, and are evidenced of a person's character when he or she swishes their wand for the first time. It has been said that Rowena Ravenclaw spent her dissertation trying to understand this very phenomenon. Witches and wizards, after seeing their colours come out of a wand, had started to adopt those colours in the clothes they wore, as motifs for their living quarters and even in the jewels they chose for themselves and with which to adorn their weapons. They found over time that witches and wizards of like colours tended to think alike and band together, exhibiting similar characteristics. Eventually this aggregation became codified formally as the four houses, each of which was represented by a prominent witch or wizard who evoked the distinctive colours from their wands. Even today, I can predict with reasonable accuracy which house a student will end up in just from paying attention to the colour that comes from their wand when it selects them." Olivander paused, as if for effect.
"And?" Ron prompted, somewhat impatiently.
"Tell me, Mr. Weasley, of the four Houses at Hogwarts, which one sports white as one of its dominant colours?"
Ron considered the question for a moment. He knew Gryffindor's didn't, and he was well acquainted with the Slytherin colours, which were green and silver. Huffelpuffs had yellow in them, though he wasn't sure what else, and he thought Ravenclaw's had blue. Apart from that, he wasn't terribly sure, all things told. However, he knew there was a catch somewhere and was starting to bet that Olivander was asking a trick question. "Er, none of them?" he finally answered.
Olivander smiled his creepy smile, and clapped his hands together. "precisely."
"So what does that mean, exactly?"
"White is amongst one of the rarest colours to flow from a wand. Even more rare than black. It has been said that many of the Dark Lords that the centuries have spawned have issued black from their wands when they first picked it up. White on the other hand, hasn't been recorded in the last two millennia with one exception. Do you know who that is?"
Ron silently willed himself to be patient and merely responded, "No." But I'm sure you're going to tell me.
Reverently, and, in a whisper, Olivander said, "Merlin."
With that proclamation, Ron felt an immediate attack of light headedness. Does that mean what I think it means? he wondered. My God, now what the hell do I do?
"One of the things Merlin was famous for was his ability to tap into some of the purest light magic that exists. It is said that he called to arms a hundred patroni to fend a village from dementors. No witch or wizard since has been able to call forth more than a handful, the most numerous being Albus Dumbledore, who was reputed to have effected four patroni during the Grindelwald years. Even more importantly, there are other spells the likes of which have never been properly executed since Merlin himself. The knowledge of them has simply collected dust in the archives of the most prestigious museums in the world. I believe that Hogwarts may even carry such a scroll in its special collections section."
"Special collections?" Ron asked. "I've never heard of that."
Olivander laughed a reedy, raspy sort of sound. "Hogwarts is one of the oldest and most magically powerful buildings in England. There are parts of it that may never be known to students. Some of the foremost seminars and conferences take place there over the summertime. I remember they hosted the annual Wandmaker's Conference back in 1992. It was the sixth time it was ever held in Britain this past century, and the sixteenth time it was held at Hogwarts in the last five."
"Do you know of any such spells?" Ron asked.
Olivander smiled. "That is a very good question. As a wandmaker, I have made it my business to know a great deal about magic, and have engaged in scholarly aims. Two years ago, I happened upon an article regarding one such spell. I remember the author, Lord Byron, if memory serves me correctly, was arguing over the rather contentious issue of whether or not there is a shield that can block all offensive magic. As you may be aware, it is reported that the unforgiveables are unblockable. This, of course, is a simple fiction designed to illustrate some of the more pragmatic qualities of the three curses. It is possible to summon an object to intervene in the flight path of the cruciatus. If one is skilled enough, one can do the same for the killing curse, though few are reckless enough to attempt it. Similarly, one can conjure solid objects to block the killing curse, though this is even more foolhardy than summoning an existing one."
"Why is that?' Ron asked, now intrigued. He had never taken to magical theory, but ever since the duel with Narcissa, wherein he had seen her deflect the cruciatus with a magical shield, Ron had continued to wonder about those very large and critical holes in his magical education.
"Why is it reckless?" Olivander asked, and, when seeing Ron nod, continued. "The way in which the unforgiveables work is different from other curses. While most conventional curses operate by inflicting physical wounds, the former three of which we speak operate by connecting to you through your magic, and thereby accessing your very soul. When you summon an object, you connect yourself to it through your magic. The link you share with it can be traced via the unforgiveables to your body, thereby making it difficult to use magic to defend yourself. Of course, you could always hurl an object manually in the way of the incoming spell, or you could simply try to dodge it. Summoning objects can work in select cases, though it requires a skilled wizard to execute the task. This is because you have to disconnect yourself from the object before it comes into contact with the curse in question. This is problematic, because, in addition to the fact that disconnecting yourself in mid-spell requires masterful fluency in magic generally, it also means that you will lose control of the object before it hits the curse. This adds an extra dimension to the task. You would need very good coordination in terms of how you apply speed and direction to the summoned object so that it manages to continue along its course in a timely fashion in order to intercept the curse."
"Doesn't sound very likely, does it?" Ron asked.
"No, it isn't. You could of course, simply conjure an object to absorb the spell, but most wizards will never command such skill with magic so as to do it reliably. The ability to stabilize a conjured object so that it remains after you disconnect is the difference between temporary and permanent conjuration. Similar principles apply to transfiguration, though it is not nearly as difficult for witches and wizards. Presumably, a shield designed to deflect soul magic could block the curses. This was the subject of Lord Byron's article, for, according to one of the many scrolls on Merlin, there is reputed to be such a shield. Lord Byron has argued that magics that manipulate the soul and the body are mutually exclusive and that such a soul shield, if it were able to block the unforgiveables based on repelling the spell's magical essence, then it is unlikely that it would be able to be used to deflect other curses of the darker variety that are used to damage a person physically. Like the bone shattering curse, for example."
Ron was feeling suitably impressed. He wondered what else he could learn from the aged wizard. "So tell me, what is this spell?"
"Ah, yes, it's name. It is known as the Aegis Shield."
"How do I get it to work?"
Olivander laughed again. "I hardly think I am the right person to instruct you, Mr. Weasley. No, no, I doubt there's more than three or four people in all of Britain who could give you any idea. My only suggestion would be for you to practice the Patronus Charm and try to identify any distinctive differences between casting it and casting other spells of the ordinary variety. The only thing I could really add, and it is from personal experience, is that the patronus Charm tends to leave one feeling rather refreshed, which is unique in and of itself. Most spells tend to drain a person of their energy. Magic that operates on the soul does the opposite. Indeed, even the Unforgiveables create a sense of euphoria in the caster, though I am told it is short-lived and gives rise to addiction."
Ron finished his dealings with Mr. Olivander and left the apartment shortly thereafter. He had been given much to think about, and realized that he needed help, whether it be from books or from others. He and Hermione had taken a quick spin by Grimmauld Place, only to have discovered that the Fidelius that had once hidden it had been taken down - probably upon Dumbledore's death, and so they didn't dare chance going inside, lest Death Eaters had usurped it. Ron and Hermione had intended to slip onto the Hogwarts Express on the first of September in order to try and reach their Head of House. They had figured that at least she would have been able to give them some instructions on how to proceed. However, that had quickly been derailed as Voldemort had taken control of the train. And now, having survived five major encounters with Death Eaters over the past five weeks, often in enemy territory, Ron suddenly felt like he were at a loss. it was as though there was no direction for him to go; no sign post or adult telling him what his next steps had to be. It had all seemed rather clear when they had come across information on Olivander's whereabouts to simply go after him and bust him out. He supposed that neither he nor Hermione regarded their lives as anything special in the grand scheme of things. They were expendable and so neither thought much about their own safety - at least not in any terms greater than any ordinary person would think of their mortality. And with a war on, they had both been dedicated to the work Dumbledore had started. The work they knew they were bound to get involved in for one reason or another.
Ron was simply walking down the cracked cobblestone steps, absently listening to the sound of music wafting out from open windows, inhaling the noxious odour of car exhaust on the otherwise desolate asphalt turf. Kids decked out in leather and metal pushed aggressively past him, a girl among them giving him a speculative look, as if to ask, "Who the hell are you?"
Ron simply shrugged it off, hardly concerned about it. He discovered, to his surprise, that he both pitied and envied the muggles around him. They lived their lives in the absence of a guerilla war and so were free from the mental and physical torments that such things brought to the people who suffered through them. Ron had no illusions that he would have nightmares for years to come if he managed to survive the onslaught. Still though, he wasn't sure he would want to trade it for a life of simple luxuries, for he knew that, if his turn came to indulge in grease packed bags of fish and chips and sleeping in on Monday mornings and playing Quidditch in the afternoon or simply waiting for someone else to come by and drop off money or food or whatever, he would want to know that his reprieve was well-deserved. Not that any of those thoughts mattered now, he thought, grimly. What war is there left to fight? He was starting to realize with growing dismay that the Dark Lord didn't seem to have any opposition. Who was going to stand against him now? The aurors? He'd already proven that he could take any one of them down, if for no other reason then by the fact that he had waltzed into Amelia Bones's home and killed her, despite her being an exceptionally gifted witch. Ron doubted if the old transfiguration professor was up to the task. Moody, maybe? He was a soldier, not a leader. Tonks? Remus? Shacklebolt? Scrimgeour? The Dark Lord knows them all. he knows them intimately and in ways they don't even know themselves. Hell, he even knew Dumbledore. He will wait them out, push their buttons and draw them into a web and crush them. There's nothing they can do to fool him, to trick him, to outsmart him. It will take something else. Ron was confident that the Dark Lord had taken innumerable steps to secure his location. He had only briefly glimpsed at the inconceivable magic that He had used to guard his fortress. To guard Technoparc, the dreaded city of despair. Only through his overconfidence will we bring him down, Ron realized, and that thought, he knew, was decidedly glum. the stupidest thing you could ever do in chess was sit around making moves waiting for your opponent to screw up. It was a fool's game to play like that and it only worked if you could lull your opponent into a false sense of security.
In all likelihood, the Dark Lord was growing more secure as time passed. The only problem was that the security he was creating for himself was very real. He and Hermione had managed to do some very skillful work surviving and evading Death Eaters right under their own noses, and, of course, managing to rescue Olivander. The problem was that, for all the blows they had delivered, it was all for naught. None of it was permanent. The Dark Lord would simply regrow his forces, rebuild the destroyed property should he need to. He was infinitely patient, if nothing else, and that alone made him extremely dangerous. Ron tended to view their battles as training exercises for himself and Hermione. They had grown a lot in the last five weeks, it seemed. While Ron didn't exactly regard his time under the cruciatus as a cherished memory, he did recognize the importance it played in forcing him to acknowledge certain facts, and to accept and make decisions in light of them. Already, he could feel the beginnings of a plan taking shape in his mind. If what Olivander said was true, then he had some sort of secret weapon he could use to turn the tables in a duel. The problem was, no matter how powerful he got, he was still just one person. Besides, from what he understood about pure light magic, it really didn't have the kind of bite to it that dark magic had. Specifically, he doubted he could use it to actually kill anything, which was fine by him. However, it did suggest that he wasn't going to find an easy answer in the form of a single spell. No, he couldn't do it alone. He supposed he'd always expected Harry to be the one to lead, and now that he'd gone AWOL without a trace, there didn't seem to be anyone left to do it. Worse yet, Ron knew that it really didn't matter if he went around picking off one Death Eater after the next. It would hardly matter to the Dark Lord, who would simply rebuild his forces over time. No, if he was going to go after the Death Eaters, he was going to do it properly and make sure that they delivered deathblow after deathblow. They would strike in ways in which the Dark Lord would never recover. That was how you won at chess; it was how you won at war. You kept taking and taking, one square at a time, one pawn, one hill, one valley, until you cut off all lines of communication, all access to resources, all places to move. And then, checkmate. And in order to do that, Ron was going to need soldiers. Lots of them. The kind of soldiers he could trust with his life; ones who were loyal and properly trained in combat. He would need spies and researchers and a constant supply of innovation, for the war against Death Eaters would not be won out in the open on the fields of farmers. No, it would be waged in secret, deep in the urban jungles of society, at night in the dark whilst his enemies slept. Each strike would be carefully arranged to achieve maximum strategic and tactical precision. If all went well, the Dark Lord would never even know his pawns were being cut down like grass, all the while unaware. Yes, Ron thought, the glint of battle in his eyes as he stared off into the distance, a giant dump truck on wheels trundling by and kicking up sand and dust into the autumn sunshine, all the while Ron standing oblivious. Yes, he thought. He would need a cadre of elite soldiers. A division of special infantry troops that he could command and send to execute sensitive missions with uncanny accuracy. Yes, he would need men and women alike. He would, quite frankly, need an army.
Neville Longbottom was sitting in a really big, poofy chair. It was his favourite chair, as a matter of fact, and he often spent long hours in the day sitting quite comfortably in it and doing his schoolwork, while he was there over the summer and Christmas breaks. It was a bright canary yellow, which had the power to blind anyone if they stared at it too long, and he rather liked it that way. Anybody with any kind of fashion sense, would have regarded the gaudy thing as a design nightmare, even without the wings on its back or the lone sky-blue polka dot on the seat cushion. It wasn't that Neville lacked fashion sense so much as it was simply that it was his. he had picked it out when he was four years old, though his memory of the event was a bit fuzzy. His grandmother had taken him out of the manor for the first time since she had gotten custody of him, and had, in preparation, lathered him in every single kind of pediatric protective charm known to the magical world, including everything from extra-sensitive magical sunscreen to full-body cushioning charms. Undoubtedly it was very comfortable, though it clashed horribly with everything else in Longbottom Manor, which was generally designed to be austere, much like Mrs. Augusta Longbottom herself.
Neville was startled out of his musings by the tell-tale ringing of an incoming floo call. He made a customary check into the polished mirror surface to see who it was that was calling. Since Dumbledore's death, they had upgraded their floo security to keep people from barging in. Personally, Neville suspected that it would do very little to actually stop skilled Death Eaters, but he supposed that if it made his Gran happy, he was not going to say anything ill of it. Scrambling onto the buffed hardwood floors to get a better look at the individual, Neville was surprised to see that it was not really a person at all, but a single sheet of paper. Neville ran it through the jinx and curse scanning wards, and, when seeing that it came out clear, he made a series of taps on the surface of the mirror that was used to check the individuals on the other end of the floo line. The mirror glowed blue briefly before emitting a short hissing sound that signalled the lowering of the wards. From there, he simply waited until a sheet of parchment fluttered out of the flaring emerald flames. he mused at the irony of watching paper saunter nonchalantly through that which was meant to burn it. Looking down at the paper and reading through its contents, his eyes bulged for a moment in surprise, then consternation, and, finally, hardened resolve. So it was, the first soldier' of the Phoenix Army was called to serve.
