Hey everyone. If you're reading this, you are either someone i know personally, or a really amazing person. Along the way ive made, and lost, alot of fans. Ive learned alot about writing. The first chapters of Overthrow one...were terrible. It was like more than a year ago. Since then ive made alot of progress, and i hope it shows. So to the readers, i give you my thanks... sob

Anyway, schools almost done, and although i wont get to write 'cause of study for finals, butit wont be long till summer.

This story comes painfully close to the expansion of the Fable story- Fable: The Lost Chapters, HOWEVER: i came up with all my ideas BEFORE i played it. Almost all of them. The name of the sword (avo's tear) and its location changed after i played it, but the rest is all my idea- i assure you. SO- on with the show. Read, Review, and thank you.

Chapter VI: Avo's Tear

In the ancient days of the guild, there were three heroes. These were the most powerful to ever learn from the guild, and the greatest to ever walk the ground of Albion. Powerful; pure of heart they walked the globe. Yet despite their legendary powers, their iron wills, their might, their limitless glory, they remained mortal. When they lay on their deathbeds, they decided to impart Albion with one last gift. On their dying day, the three managed to combine their skills, as well as their pure souls, and forge them into a instrument of their will. This creation, a combination of their very essence, was a sword. The blade was crafted by only the greatest of smiths. Its hilt supposedly of pearl and diamond; its blade smelted by dragon's breath. After the blade was forged, and the heroes gave it their blessing, they gave it a name: Avo's Tear. It was a symbol of hope in the world of ever-growing darkness, a blade that fate was to give unto one worthy of leading the power of light to vanquish evil. Decades passed, the makers of the sword had been long perished. Now the people of Albion awaited their hero, one who would finally lead them out of the night. This hero never came. The sword, and its makers, where eventually buried where they began their journey, in the Guild of Heroes. And there they remained, even as Tarus dreamed of them. When he was in the guild himself he had heard of the three. They were the symbols of what a hero strived to be, and were legends in their very existence. The Tear, however, had managed to fall into mystery. It was only through Tarus' love of knowledge that he came upon it. Once in the library, he went to a small tattered book which described the tale of the sword and its creators. He fluttered through its pages briskly, skimming over the legendary words, taking in the tale, and the mystery.

Both men's footsteps echoed rhythmically, almost musically on the hard stone floor. As they passed each torch, a hushed roar broke into the song as Tarus and Mergoth skulked through the hall. They rounded a circular corridor, and paced up the winding stair to the library. Through more corridors and paths they went. Almost a never-ending labyrinth, yet one that filled the beholder with awe. They came finally to the door; the portal leading to the magical sanctum. All within him came to mind. He remembered the past, including his dream, and his revelation in the tavern. A silence approached as both stared at the door. "The time is nigh, Tarus." said Mergoth. The time for thought of past torments was now over. "Indeed." Tarus adjusted his poise, standing taller than before. He opened the door, and with a climactic presentation, the library came into view. "Show me my enemy. Once more." Mergoth let a small smile spread across his face. He knew Tarus' plan.

He repeated the ritual he had performed before. He then thrust out his staff and chanted the ancient words. The mist appeared, covering the books and parchments. The dusty floor now a smooth sea of mist. The mist turned silver, then clear. The previous image of Greatwood forest was no longer there however. Now Tarus looked on a familiar sight. Many years ago it would have been a comforting one, but now it troubled him deeply. Tarus looked down on the guild of heroes. Its charred walls now a base of attack for his enemy, and just a ways away from his city. The gates stood tall, yet malicious. Their gates ravaged by the battles that sprawled in its midst. The walls, equally void of life. The once majestic towers, that stood as a testament to order and reason; now a lair for the scum of the globe to bask in their perverse ways. The statues of heroes of old, once white and gleaming in the sun; charred black. "Damn them." said Tarus, placing his fists against a nearby table. The small inch of hope began to resign. The will he had built up previously, took only moments to wither away. However, when this last plan was on the edge of abandonment, again he heard the words in his head. Have faith, little brother. He closes his eyes, and sighed. "Very well. Still, it must be done." Mergoth nodded, seemingly reading Tarus' mind, seemingly seeing his plans, his thoughts. "What you are doing has a risk Tarus." Tarus went to a nearby chest. "So is going about daily tasks." His thoughts went back to the assassins. He opened the compartment and withdrew a sword. Not as majestic as those he had previously held, nor as mighty as the Sword of Aeons, yet a sturdy device powerful enough to hew down anything which Tarus should encounter. He slowly put his hand upon the blades hilt. The hard steel like a mighty column of stone. The sword he held was the one that smote Jack of Blades on that fateful day. The blade that Tarus himself thrust into his mortal foe. Once again would this blade strike down evil. "And if we let it stay so any longer, the world may never be at peace. Enough time has passed as I sit here in misery. It is now, Mergoth. Tonight the tides will turn."

"Very well Tarus. Go."

And off he went. First into his room, in which he gathered his equipment. He traveled lightly, only wearing a light mail suit and a black, hooded cape. He then weaved throughout the hall, and with a final nod to Mergoth he walked briskly out of the front door.

The night was dark as pitch. The snow had stopped falling, yet the clouds remained a thick veil over the stars. Perfect conditions for Tarus. He walked softly, gathering his thoughts, bringing his training into mind. Images flashed into his head of technique and practice. Thoughts of maneuvers and weaponry. He stepped into the stables. His horse stared at him through the darkness.

Out he rode. With a nod to the gatekeeper he was off. Into the black forest he flew. The black trunks whizzed by like a sea of crows flocking towards a cornfield, anxious to clean the ground of its fruit. Tarus kept his head low, letting the wind blow around him, keeping his eyes trained on the path to the Guild of Heroes. The horse galloped rhythmically under him, panting furiously as it pushed ever harder against the ground. Barely anything could be seen in the dark, but soon, a row of bright lights broke into view. Through the trees Tarus could see an approaching line of light, flickering back and forth in the distance. As he approached the gates, Tarus looked up at the Guild, its walls covered in crude torches lighting the path for the guards that patrolled the fort. Tarus felt a deep sadness as he slowed his horse to a trot and looked upon the sight. This was once his home, and the only stable thing in his life. Now it seemed a heap of rot and festering evil. A mound of waste and remnants of food lined the outer walls. Emptied buckets of ale thrown about the wall. Broken glass, and carcasses of already gnawed on game; all manner of filth had been tossed out from the city. Tarus had stopped his horse and sat atop the steed, eyeing the seen from a distance.

His goal lay within this city of destruction and evil. It would not be an easy task either. Guards with covered faces, and crude halberds paced the walls, as they spoke in a crude tongue to each other. It was hard to tell what lay beyond this wall, the only hint to the interior was the stench. The smell of rot and burning flesh came to Tarus' nostrils. It wrenched his insides to think of what caused this smell, but he shook off the thoughts not wanting his imagination to wander into those depths. His horse however, would not tolerate the smell. For a moment, the steed shook its head and pounded the earth nervously. The small noise alerted one of the patrols. Tarus froze. He slowly pulled his hood down over his face, and crouched low in his saddle hoping his presence wouldn't be noticed. Eventually the guard resumed his walk, yet the man, or creature, had heightened its guard.

Tarus slowly dismounted, and tied his horse behind a cluster of small trees. He then walked, stealthily and half crouched. He eyed the guards with primal instinct, anticipating his plot to infiltrate this facility. His steps landed softly on the forest floor. He followed the tree-line that led almost to the wall, until he came to the point of empty land. He had come to the tree-line, where he would be forced to make a dash to the wall. He eyed the patrols. It was a disciplined route. The men hit their mark mechanically, pacing in a way that allowed only an extremely small window of opportunity for Tarus. He waited until he could anticipate the next move. Eyed the guards with primal intensity, and animal-like instinct. The moment came. He breathed deeply and lunged out into the field. He dug his feet into the ground as hard as he could, almost flying through the grass, trying with all his might to make it to the wall. He was only paces away when a vat of waste came flying from the opposite side of the wall. It spread across the earth before him, catching him off guard. He felt his foot slip slightly. He quickly fell, his head slamming into the ground. His head ached deeply, and his ears buzzed loudly. Almost unconsciously he dragged himself the last few yards to the wall. There was no doubt in his mind that the guards had heard him. Tarus was sure he had grunted in addition to the noise caused by the crash. Colors and shapes flashed past his eyes. He shook his head, ridding himself of the shock.

A single guard had taken notice of the small disturbance. He walked to the edge of the wall cautiously, eying the darkness before him. Tarus looked up at the guard from the ground, awaiting the painful moment when the patrol would look down at him. Tarus could do nothing but wait. Silence crept up like an assassin, bringing with it a painful uneasiness. Tarus pushed himself closer to the wall, squeezing up to the cold, hard, stone. He tried to go closer to the wall, almost trying to burry himself into it. The muddy ground coated his body, the frigid earth chilling him, while the situation chilled his insides. He closed his eyes, almost wincing, awaiting the moment. Yet it never came. The guard decided not to pursue the noise he had heard. Instead he spoke something to a fellow guard. The words were foreign, and made a sound painful to the ears. It was a harsh tongue, and at the same time filled with muted malevolence. Both guards let out a small laugh and then turned, climbing down the wall's stair, and into the guild of heroes. Tarus sighed in relief. It had seemed that he had carried the same lung-full of air for an hour, and had finally let it out in relief.

Now to get over the wall. Tarus had known, and remembered this place his whole life. Every inch of the guild was imprinted on his mind. It was with this knowledge that he had planned his attack. Aside from the gate, he knew, there was only one other entrance into the Guild of Heroes. Tarus knew of a collapsed segment of wall near the south end of the fortress. Tarus hoped the wall would be rough enough to climb on, and headed silently along the area to see. He snuck, with his back pressed against the stone, and carefully edged his way along. It took him only a short while to come to a wall with a deep crater etched into its side. Jagged stones and eroded rock, coated in damp moss, were piled high. Tarus took a short look to either side of the collapsed wall, and lept onto it. He dug his hands into the side, feeling the groves and edging his way up, still unsure of what he would find within the walls. He came to the last stone on the wall, hoped for the best, and leapt onto the parapet.

He was taken back at the sight. Tarus quickly dropped to the floor in order to remain hidden, but he found it was hard not to from the shock. Within the walls of the former Guild of Heroes was not a mere army, nor a horde of men. It was a sea, a seemingly endless mass of black shapes; moving silhouettes in the darkness, highlighted only by massive fires surrounded by the remnants of a half-consumed feast. Tarus was so shocked, his mind didn't seem to comprehend the sight. It was the largest band of troops he had ever witnessed, or even imagined. Not only could he see men, but giants, creatures, siege weaponry, and more. Men dressed in ragged clothing, adorned with foreign garbs and weapons. Creatures who crept about, speaking in the same scratchy voice that the guards used. Weaponry never seen on Albion; massive polearms, and mighty steel battering rams upon which a group of the shadowy men ate their fill upon. Tarus now saw; Skorm was not toying with this onslaught. This was truly a force to be reckoned with. Surely the army would be able to overthrow Bowerstone. There was almost no doubt. Tarus' hope grew thin. Nonetheless, a stand would have to be made. He carefully eyed the bottom of the shoddy wall. No obstruction was seen. He pulled his cloak tight to the body, and leaped. He hid the ground hard, it was a ten foot drop at least. As soon as his feet made contact he threw himself to the wall. There was little light to reveal him, but nonetheless, flickering orange light danced near him ready to shout his name to the army of Skorm. Tarus carefully maneuvered along the wall past the light, and wove through the waste and unused weaponry that scattered the inner walls. Tarus soon realized that he would have to come excruciatingly close to the dark army. Soldiers and guards, talking amongst each other, walked throughout the complex maze of weapons and troops. Tarus found himself throwing his body to the ground, ducking behind a pile of longword in order to avoid capture.

Capture was truly the worst of his worries. The list of things that could go awry was endless. He couldn't stop the thought that remained branded into his mind. As he sat behind a demolished store house, waiting for another patrol to pass, thoughts of torture went through his head. He remembered a time when one of his many mortal enemies had locked him in his dungeon, inflicting pain and torture with an ungodly ruthlessness. Tarus could only imagine what sort of pain Skorm could create. Not only the torture worried him. For once, Tarus felt true feelings for his kingdom. What would become of Albion if he failed. Surely death and destruction would follow if Tarus were to be captured. Tarus took another look out at the black sea. He believed the world entire would look this way if he failed his task, making failure all the more impossible. Failure was not an option this time, he thought as the patrol past.

He continued his journey through the guild in this way, hiding and sneaking past any guards he encountered. Finally he came to the main structure of the guild. The building which once held the sleeping quarters and various libraries. The area closer to this building was less saturated with Skorm's minions. Tarus dashed the last few yards to his objective, and took shelter behind a wall; only a few paces from Avo's Tear.

Avo's Tear lay in the grave of the heroes that made it. In a decorated ring of square sarcophagi, was the sword. It lay in the cold hard earth, but the way it was rumored to be proclaimed remained somewhat of a mystery to Tarus. Tarus' plan was to approach the burial site and see what happened from there. The only obstacle in the way of this plan was the large ring of soldiers currently feasting almost ontop of the tomb. It was here, almost standing on his objective, that Tarus found his first difficulty on this journey. The group of men numbered about ten. They were dressed in black robes, as was most of the army. They spoke the same harsh tongue, and ate the same pungent food as did most of the army. But these ten were not the only ones that worried Tarus. It would be extremely easy for these troops to alert the entire army, which meant definite defeat. As he sat behind the small wall, he withdrew his sword. No matter the risk, he would have to do this. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like a raging river. He breathed deeply. It was now that Tarus would strike the first blow in the war to come. He lept over the wall. The unsuspecting men lept to their feet dumbstruck. Before Tarus hit the ground he cleaved a skull in two. Blood flew through the air. A splatter of scarlet fell across his cheek. He then spun, his blade shredding through the robes of another two. Now on his feet he fought madly, unleashing flurries of blows. Sparks flew from iron striking iron. Shreds of armor were flung through the air. All but two had perished by his hand. These last men eyed Tarus through hooded brows. Both were apparently the most skilled of the group. Suddenly fearing that these two would alert the rest of the compound, Tarus lept forward. His blade had no sooner entered the first man's chest that the other had landed a glancing blow on Tarus' shoulder with a fearsome mace. A crack from deep in his bones echoed through him and into Tarus' skull. The blow threw him to the ground, reeling in pain. The large man raised his weapon with a growl. With his last ounce of will Tarus flung himself out of the way, and fell a deep wound into his foe. The massive man hit the ground, the force throwing dust and debris out from under him.

Tarus gaped for breath and clutched his shoulder in pain. He fell to the ground and breathed deeply, trying to ease his suffering through will. It barely worked. The only thing that made him rise was the feeling of hard stone. He crawled to his feet and looked upon the graves before him. The three finest heroes lay before him, finally at rest in the earth. He found himself bowing slightly in reverence. These were his idols during childhood at the guild. Their life filled with mystery, power and all the feeling in between the two. It was here that his plan ended. Now what, he thought. He stepped forward, and examined the stone sarcophagus for clues. He found none. He stood amongst the bodies of his enemies. Their stench permeating their air, their corpses illuminated by their campfire and chilled by the freezing winter air. Tarus had no abilities to aid the situation, he only looked on at the tomb, waiting for something; perhaps another gift from fate.

Fate was once again generous. "Tarus." said a voice. The voice was a combination of many sounds. All of them peasant, yet all of them haunting as well. Tarus said nothing. "You are pure of heart." it said, "Although the past has left you with many scars. Yet deep within you there is something." The voice spoke as if it were examining Tarus, calculating his life. It made Tarus somewhat uneasy, but the splendor was enough to remove this feeling. "We are who you believe us to be. The heroes of old, and we have long been seeking one to carry the torch into the darkness." Uneasy silence. "It is you, Tarus." a light grew in the silent night. It hovered in front of Tarus, brilliantly it shined. The voices then ceased. And the light instantly vanished. A sword lay at his feet. He knelt down. He gripped the blade's cool hilt. It was a mystical weapon to hold.

Avo's Tear, like the Sword of Aeons, filled one with power. Yet this blade was unlike Skorm's. It did not fill Tarus with fury and malice. Instead, Tarus suddenly felt at peace, in a serene feeling of focus. Sounds became more acute, as did his other senses. This was indeed a blade worthy of legend. He cast his other sword aside, took a last look at Avo's tear, and placed it at his side.

Feeling more at peace than before. As if nothing really mattered, he began his trek back the way he had come.

He had no sooner left the shrine of the three heroes, when a loud shriek filled the air followed by a deep rumble. The sound was as if the globe had split in two. Tarus' feeling of tranquility quickly vanished as he hit the ground eying his surroundings like a hawk. Hoping he had been seen, he lunged at the nearest wall, nervously awaiting his fate at the hand of Skorm. Nothing more occurred. Tarus realized the shriek did not involve him, but he was nonetheless intrigued by its source. The sound did hit him hard. It was bone chilling, making one's insides churn, but despite the temporary fear it had caused, Tarus eagerly followed the call. The dirt was hard, and cold under his feet as he walked. Snow still lay on its surface, and ice filled its abscesses. Haunting silence filled the void in absence of the shriek, even the wind held its tongue. As always, the air smelt of rot and filth, yet it seemed more stale than before. It was a truly uneasy feeling, and Tarus could sense it deep within him. He paced through the guild, following the path toward the shriek. Eventually he wove his way to the main hall of the guild. Its entire far side built completely open in a welcoming display. The edges of the wide gate were worn, some scorched, but it remained a beautiful sight. This was where the piercing noise came from. Silently, in the deep of night, Tarus began the walk to the great hall. No encampments lay here. The entire side of the guild was eerie, the noise from the opposite end could be heard over the roaring sounds of the far off encampment. He was about to take a step into the hall when a burst of energy filled the air. It was violently sudden.

He barely noticed it, for the speed of the instance was mind bending. All his mind perceived was that a blinding light engulfed his vision, all sound within his ears was deafened, and he was struck hard in the chest with a force of unthinkable strength. The next thing he knew, he was laying sprawled upon the frosty earth ten feet away. He rolled over onto his stomach. He had been unfortunate enough to land on the same shoulder that had only moments ago received the large mace wound. He breathed deeply, collecting himself. His ears rung loudly, his vision was blurred. Still he had not gotten over the shock. But as he regained consciousness, and let his eyes glide upward to the hall, his mind needed no inner help collecting itself.

Before him was what can only be described as a light. A light whose gleaming fury was brilliant enough to light the whole of Albion as bright as the sun. The fury would have done so too, had it not been inside.

It was a dismal way to illuminate things. The light that spread through the guild was a deep red, like the blaze from a low fire. As it shined, the creatures in contact with it seemed to feel uneasy; specifically Tarus, who could barely withstand this awesome occurrence. The snow seemed to melt, if only slightly, the trees grew only a shade darker, and the beyond was silent in fear. As his eyes did their best to adjust, Tarus watched with horror at the chaos brewing in the great hall. A literal pillar of fire was visible through the frenzy of light, and perhaps just as frightening, a silhouette kneeled within it. From his angle, Tarus could see the figure of a man. His definite features impossible when viewed against such brilliant light, but defiantly a man. His shadowy face, bowed in reverence. The scene was utterly terrifying. Even more so were the occurrence to come. Still squinting in response to the unearthly situation, Tarus watched from afar.

Then came the voice. "THE TIME IS NIGH." The sound shook the soul of the earth itself. It was the voice of Skorm. The silhouette could be seen speaking, but his words went unheard from Tarus' position. After the silhouette spoke, the voice came again. "BECAUSE OF THE WIZARD! WE CANNOT STRIKE WITH YOUR MEAGER FORCE. I GIVE YOU FIVE DAYS. ONLY FIVE, AND THE SWORD MUST BE IN YOUR POSSESSION. I TAKE IT YOU NEED NO MORE KNOWLEDGE OF THE PUNISHMENT OF FAILURE. " The silhouette spoke once more in response.

Tarus sighed. There was no time to waste. Five days would be barely enough he thought as he rose to his feet. He wheezed from the damage due to his encounter with the soldiers, and this unholy blast of energy. Holding his deeply bruised shoulder he ambled off into the distance. Into the silent dark Back the way he had come, and in the same manner. Time ran short. He knew this.