Disclaimer: All standard disclaimers apply. Don't own the series, but I do own the story. Hope it's enjoyed!
Rating: PG-13 for violent situations and mild language
Through a Mirror Darkly
by N.L. Rummi
And when we're done soul searching,
And we carry the weight, die for a cause,
Is misery made beautiful right before our eyes?
Will mercy be revealed, or blind us where we stand?
Sarah McLachlan
Chapter One - Shadow and Light
(Three days earlier)
The people of Xanaton gathered in the town square to hear the announcement. Lloros, the Mage, had come out of his period of seclusion and was returning to the city. The crowd was abuzz, and decade-old rumors were flying once again as to why their wisest elder had ever left. Rumors that would, today, be squelched or confirmed.
Some of the younger, less-informed townspeople said the man had suffered a great personal loss and had gone mad because of it. Others suspected that he simply desired a period of renewal and meditation to restore his magic. There were those who believed that Lloros had gone on a secret quest for which his seclusion was merely a cover. These people also believed that the Mage would make a triumphant return to the city with some great prize. Still others felt it was a combination of the three.
Those closest to him knew better; the ones who remembered the events that prompted his departure.
But whatever Lloros' true reasons for leaving ten years ago, the man was returning now, and the inhabitants of the city of Xanaton, which had always prospered from his magic, were eagerly awaiting his arrival. (If only to settle any wagers made as to why Lloros had gone in the first place, as well as why he was now coming back.)
Days after receiving word of the Mage's journey back to Xanaton, the people had begun to religiously gather in the town square, so all might be present at the hour of his return. After the setting of nearly five suns, the hour was at hand.
At the sound of the lookout's trumpet, two individuals raised their eyes to one of the bartizans of the walled city. It was the signal that the Mage was no more than a few leagues away. As cheers rose into the air throughout Xanaton, the two figures glanced at each other and raised their black hoods as they retreated back into the shadows. The first figure turned and stared hotly at the barren drawbridge of the city, which had been lowered to welcome the absentee Mage back into the arms of his people. The individual beneath the hooded cloak stiffened, but was eased back into a troubled calm by the hand of the other figure firmly gripping his shoulder.
"Patience, my young friend," said a man's deep voice from beneath the second cloak. "In a few short hours, Lloros will arrive. Then, you will see to it that all in this city pay for what they have done to you. You will finally have your revenge."
"Let's review, shall we?" asked the tall, dark-haired boy who stood before a group of five comrades and one unicorn. "How many times have we avoided catastrophe since seeing Dungeon Master this morning?"
A much younger boy who sat at the first young man's feet raised a balled fist, preparing to ceremonially take the tally. "Ready, Eric," he announced as he patted the small unicorn affectionately.
"Ahem," Eric cleared his throat before beginning. "One -- we avoided getting Venger's attention. Knock on wood," he added, drumming his knuckles against the nearest tree.
"Check!" each of his comrades replied in succession as the young Barbarian raised his thumb.
"Two," Eric strutted importantly before his friends as he continued his list, "we have not yet been attacked by raging Orcs, Lizard Men, Bullywogs, or any of the other random nasties living in this crazy world."
"Check!" The Barbarian's pointer-finger extended to display "two."
"Three -- we haven't run into that 'lost soul that needs to be found' that Captain Short-Stuff was blabbering about."
"Eric," came a semi-annoyed voice to the Cavalier's left. Eric turned from his swaggering to meet the gaze of the group's unofficial leader. While the blond-haired Ranger's tone had that hint of impatience that seemed to be automatically triggered by Eric's antagonism, his eyes held a look that was one of understanding and, sometimes, even grudging agreement. After all, after so many missed chances to get home, it was easy to get frustrated. Nevertheless, Hank shook his head. "We can't avoid the tasks that Dungeon Master gives us," he reminded Eric. "One of these times one of these missions is going to get us home to our own world."
"If I'm not mistaken, Hank, Dungeon Master didn't say anything about us going home this time," Eric responded. "This is probably just some random crusade to find some random someone who needs our help." He crossed his arms and looked irritably at the sky. "I'll never understand why nobody ever gets sent to help us! I mean, we're the 'lost-est souls' in this loony bin!"
Hank shook his head again. Someone should have been taking a tally of how many times he's had to get into this conversation with Eric. "I don't know what to tell you," he replied. "All I do know is that we've done a lot of good since we've been here. Can't we at least remember that?"
"Yeah, Eric," interjected a spectacled boy to Eric's right who was cleaning up the remains of what looked like mismatched tableware and shoving them into the interior of a green hat. "Where's your sense of decency?"
"Are you kidding, Presto?" chided the dark-skinned girl who was helping him collect the plates. "Eric got rid of that. He thought it would sharpen his other senses."
"Very funny, Diana," Eric said dismissively as he turned back to the Ranger with another long-suffering roll of his eyes. "And the road is paved with good intentions, blah, blah, blah . . . . Hank, can't I just give thanks for small favors? I'm not saying I don't want to help this 'lost soul,' or whoever it is, all I'm saying is I want to enjoy how well this day has been going for us so far." He then turned to the younger boy on the ground, who still held up two fingers. "Let's go, Bobby! That was 'three'!"
"Oh, right! Check!" Bobby replied, lifting a third finger.
"Meeehhk!" Uni, the little unicorn, bleated in agreement.
"Four," Eric continued, "we were able to find something remotely edible and actually have a half-way decent meal for once."
"Check!" Bobby responded eagerly, patting his satisfied stomach.
"Now," Eric announced, turning to the boy with the glasses on his right, "Presto, it's up to you to make this a perfect day for me."
"Me?" questioned the reedy Magician as he placed his hat back onto his head. "W-what can I do?"
"See what you can do about conjuring up some dessert!"
"Huh?" Presto said confusedly. "That's a weird request, Eric."
"Well," mused the Cavalier as he removed Presto's hat right from the Magician's head again and handed it to him, "since we're obviously not going home today, we could at least get a taste of it. I would seriously kill for a hot fudge sundae. No! Better! Some of Sonja's crème brûlée!" Eric's eyes practically lit up at the thought.
"Who's Sonja?" asked Diana, who had stretched out against a tree to the far right.
"Our cook," Eric answered her. "She makes the best crème brûlée!"
"Hhaayy!" whinnied the unicorn.
"No! Not 'hay'!" the Cavalier corrected. "That's 'brûlée,' . . . dumb animal," he added in a mutter under his breath.
"Hey!" Bobby retorted in defense of his beloved unicorn companion.
"No!" cried Eric again, obviously mistaking Bobby's exclamation for another mispronunciation. "Brûlée! Sheesh! Some people have no appreciation for the finer things!"
"Please, Eric! Give us a break!" Diana laughed as she got up and walked back toward the others. "You know one French word and you think that makes you Mr. Sophisticated!"
"Okay! Okay!" Presto exclaimed, raising his hands to settle the argument. "I'll give it a shot, all right, Eric? What's a 'broo-lay' anyway?"
"Crème brûlée," Eric began explaining in a haughty voice, "is a . . . it's . . . um . . . ."
"So much for being acquainted with the finer things," quipped a pretty redhead who had remained silent until now. Hank glanced over at her for a moment, a smile spreading across his face.
Sheila.
Out of all his friends, Hank had to admit she was on his mind the most, and it didn't always have to do with devising the best ways to each use their individual skills to survive life in the Realm, either. In fact, she had been in the Ranger's thoughts for a long time, even before they had all been brought here. A hint of ruefulness entered Hank's smile as he remembered that day at the amusement park. With Diana's help, he had finally mustered up the courage to ask Sheila to go with him. In fact, he was so happy when she accepted, he didn't even mind that she had to bring her little brother along. She had felt very guilty about Bobby joining them, but Hank reassured her that they would have plenty of other chances to do something alone.
He wished he'd have known how wrong he'd been. He probably would have done things a little differently. At the very least, he would have kissed her.
At the time, Hank the High School Senior had finally pushed aside what he felt were his obligations -- responsibilities to family, school, and future -- and done something that would make him happy. Now, however, Hank the Ranger could do no such thing. He had a troop of friends to lead through constant danger, every day risking his life as well as theirs in the hopes of finding their lost home.
Accepting responsibility was always something that had come easy to Hank. Unfortunately, this time, it meant distancing himself from a young woman who he had wanted nothing more than to grow closer to -- a woman who, in spite of the daily perils they faced, he had grown closer to -- a woman he had possibly grown to . . . . Well, he couldn't think about that. Not now. Not yet. And that was what killed him. Accepting responsibility didn't seem as easy anymore.
Yet, he thought as he looked at Sheila, maybe she understood. She always seemed to understand. Not just his overall reasons for doing what he did, but also his feelings from moment to moment. Their date was never mentioned, and seemed to be mutually forgotten during their daily struggles to survive. Even though Hank's and Sheila's reasons for abandoning their date were more dire than most, Sheila never made him feel guilty for the choice he was forced to make. She remained his quiet, encouraging pillar of strength, and Hank looked forward to the day that she would know this. He smiled again. He would get them home . . . and he would pick up where he left off with Sheila.
After a few seconds, the Thief met his gaze and returned his smile. The two then turned back to their bantering friends.
"It's not that easy to explain!" Eric insisted. "It's like a pudding . . . I guess. But not really."
"Gee, that helps!" Presto breathed as he twiddled his fingers over the opening of his magic hat and called forth a hazy purple light from within. "This is for Eric's perfect day!" he announced ceremoniously, almost directly to the hat. No pressure or anything! he thought in addition.
"Abracadabra! Alaca-fates!
Hat, give me something
To suit Eric's tastes!"
After the ritualistic bright light and twinkling sparks had subsided, the hat spit out its answer to Presto's request -- in the form of a small, cardboard box.
"Well, what do you know!" Presto exclaimed upon inspection of it.
"Lemme see that!" Eric said, swiping the box out of his friend's hand. "You airhead!" he groaned as he saw what the hat had produced. "This isn't crème brûlée! This is a box of Jell-O!"
"Well," Presto said in his own defense, shrugging as he placed his hat back on his head, "you did say it was like pudding."
"And you couldn't even get that right!" the Cavalier bellowed. "This is just cherry gelatin!" He tossed the box over his shoulder with a frustrated growl.
Hank intercepted it as it flew through the air. "You did say that you wanted a taste of home, Eric," the Ranger reminded him with a grin. He tucked the box into a small pouch that he kept beneath his studded leather tunic. "You never know, maybe we'll get to enjoy it some night."
"And how do you suggest we do that, O wise, illustrious leader?" Eric barked back. "It's powder! What are we supposed to do? Sniff it?"
"Nothing like a sugar high!" Diana muttered to Presto, who was unable to hold in his laughter. She then turned to Eric. "Did Sonja do everything for you, Eric? All you have to do is mix it with water!"
"And keep it cold in what?" he countered. "I don't know about you, but I left my cooler at the last tailgate party Dungeon Master sent us to!"
"I could . . . ," Presto started to offer.
"Never mind!" Eric cut him off. "Forget dessert! I wouldn't trust that dumb hat of yours to burn toast!"
"So much for our perfect day," Bobby sighed to Uni, gazing at his four fingers that he still held up.
"Four out of five isn't bad," Sheila responded optimistically.
"I think we can do better," Diana offered, turning to Bobby with a sly smirk. Clearing her throat, as Eric had done before, she supplied a fifth addition to their list: "Ahem! Five -- Eric has successfully completed his daily hissy-fit!"
Bobby smirked. "Check!" His fifth finger went up.
"There's something satisfying about a perfect track record," Diana sighed. "Wouldn't you agree, Cavalier?"
At the sound of the second trumpet, the crowd's cheer died down into a hushed whisper. Lloros was very near now. Everyone in town could feel it . . . .
None better than the two dark figures who kept a murderous vigil in the shadows of the square.
"This is it, gang," Hank announced as, after a long day of walking, the teenage travelers finally approached the gates of Xanaton. "Dungeon Master said that we would find the 'lost soul' here."
"Actually, what he said was, 'The gates of Xanaton shall be the passage to the soul,'" Presto clarified in a breezy, Dungeon Master-esque voice.
Sheila giggled. "I guess the only thing we know for sure from that statement is we'll find something in this town!" She gazed ahead across the drawbridge as the sound of cheering filled the air. "Or something will find us," she added.
Upon entering the city, the Young Ones found themselves swept up in a bustling celebration. Sheila looked around at the happy, festive people, the jolly minstrels, and the countless food vendors. The scents filling the town square were intoxicating. It had been a long time since they'd even smelled food like that. "Looks like they're having a party, Sis," Bobby exclaimed from beside Sheila.
"Maybe they were expecting us," Eric said, giving a regal wave to the townspeople crowding the balconies above.
"Get real, Eric!" Bobby groaned.
"Everybody here is so happy," Presto said. "How're we gonna find the 'lost soul' in all this?"
"Simple, dummy!" Eric replied, "Just look for the only miserable person in among the village idiots!" He inhaled deeply and his mouth watered as his nostrils caught the scent of a succulent beast roasting in a nearby food tent. The Cavalier grabbed Presto by the collar. "We'll check over here!" he offered as he started to drag the protesting Magician toward the tent. "Relax, Presto," he added. "That vendor doesn't look happy enough to me! We should make sure he doesn't need our help!"
Diana shook her head at the retreating pair. "Always thinking with his stomach," she mused. She then turned back to Hank, who had stopped a passer-by.
"Excuse me," he said to the man, "can you tell us what's going on?"
"Why, my lad!" the man exclaimed. "Do you not know? Lloros is returning today!"
"Who's Lloros?" the Ranger inquired. The man gave him a quizzical look.
"We're kinda from out of town," Bobby interjected from Hank's side.
The man laughed jovially. "Well, my boy," he guffawed as he ruffled the young Barbarian's hair, "welcome, then, to Xanaton! I am Golon. Please, enjoy the festivities, in celebration of Lloros -- our wisest and most powerful magician -- returning finally after ten long years!" With that, the man continued on his way.
"Hank?" Sheila said upon Golon's departure, "are you sure this is the right place? I mean, nobody here seems lost. Everybody's thrilled about this Lloros guy coming back."
"Maybe Lloros is the lost soul," Diana offered with a shrug of her shoulders. "He's not here yet. Maybe they'll need us to go find him and bring him home like we did with Lukion, remember?"
Hank was about to agree to the possibility when a blare of trumpets filled the air. Screams and cheers mingled with cries of "He comes! He comes!" Throngs of people began to swarm the city gates to welcome Lloros home.
"Guess not," Bobby said in response to Diana's conjecture.
"Well, come on, you guys," Hank said with a wave of his arm. "This Lloros may not be lost literally, but there's a reason we're in this city and I've got a hunch he has something to do with it." The Ranger's friends followed him toward the entrance of the city, mingling as best they could with the hordes of people who were eager to catch a glimpse of their beloved Mage.
As the four Young Ones were pushed and jostled among the crowd, Sheila suggested that they fall back and watch from a distance. "That way we can get a better look at everything," she added.
"Yeah," Diana agreed. "We already have one lost soul to worry about. We don't want to lose each other in this mob, too!"
The group of youngsters withdrew to the far corner of the crowd, near an alleyway, and watched as a lone figure stepped into view on the drawbridge. The multitude was strangely hushed as the man slowly made his way toward them. Upon inspection of the man, Hank noted that he seemed very old.
No, not old. Just . . . feeble . . . sad.
As Lloros stepped further into view, the Ranger could see that he was right. Hank's initial impression of the Mage was that he looked far older than he actually was. The man's hair was long and dark, with only a few light streaks of silver near his temples. But it was stringy and slightly unkempt. He walked with a stick, almost as tall as he was, but did not seem to lean on it for physical support. It seemed to be more of an emotional crutch. Hank took note of the man's face -- or what he could see of it in the way of detail from such a distance away. But he did not need to closely examine it to recognize the look. His features were middle-aged, but his countenance was haggard, careworn, etched with worry and sadness.
Hank's eye narrowed and his thoughts turned to home. He remembered when his neighbor, a close friend of his parents, had lost his wife to an illness. It had only been a few years ago -- although after spending so much time in the Realm it felt much longer. She had died very young and, afterward, her husband was lost without her. Hank remembered seeing the man on the sidewalk from time to time. He had begun to walk with his head hung low, hardly ever looking up and rarely looking people in the eyes. The corners of his mouth seemed to pull down, and to see him even attempt to smile was to witness what looked to be physical pain. Although still very young, he had aged years through his grief.
Hank's heart twisted. This, too, was a man who had lost something very important to him. As Lloros drew nearer, Hank could see, in addition his sunken, tired face, there was a grievous emptiness in the man's dark eyes. "I think that's who we're looking for," the Ranger said, barely above a whisper.
He hadn't realized that Diana had heard him until he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to her and she gave him a gentle nod. The excitement of the crowd was almost palpable and Hank thought it was strange that he, someone who had never met Lloros before, knew there was something wrong with him, while his own people didn't seem to notice. They quickly swarmed the Mage as he stepped off the drawbridge and their unleashed cheers filled the air once more.
Had Hank not turned away from Diana and back to the crowd at just that moment, he would have missed it. As he shifted his gaze toward Lloros, something caught his eye -- a bright, fleeting flash, like sunlight glaring briefly off a watch or a mirror. The Ranger squinted the eye that caught the glare and noticed two cloaked figures emerge from the mouth of the alley to his left and make their way swiftly, almost seamlessly, through the dense crowd.
Funny, he thought, I didn't even see them there before.
"Hank?" Diana said questioningly as the Ranger broke away from his friends and stepped quickly toward the crowd of people surrounding Lloros. He did not respond to the Acrobat; he just couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Unable to see the dark pair anymore, he spotted a nearby wagon and climbed into its bed so he could look above the heads of the multitude.
His eyes scanned the area below him and finally settled on Lloros. The man was greeting the townspeople, halfheartedly it seemed, as he continued to walk. Hank couldn't see the cloaked figures anywhere. Maybe I'm just imagining things, he thought. Sometimes, in looking so hard to discover the meanings behind Dungeon Master's riddles, they were all guilty of making mountains out of molehills at some point or another. He was about to hop back down off the wagon bed and rejoin Diana, Sheila, and Bobby, who had gathered at the bottom, when he saw something again: the same fleeting bright flash, this time coming from the center of the mob.
Hank's stare focused on Lloros . . . on the area directly behind him . . . on the glint of the suns' light on a raised dagger.
In an instant, the Ranger's bow was at his cheek, arrow of light magically appearing as Hank's fingers sought the once non-existent bowstring. His eyes took a fraction of a second to seek their target . . . then he released.
Screams of terror filled the air as Hank's arrow struck the ground behind Lloros. Much to the Ranger's shock, the dark figure with the blade was no longer standing there. Hank stood upon the wagon with another arrow nocked and ready as his eyes scanned the area below him for Lloros' vanished assailants. It wasn't until Sheila began screaming his name that he snapped out of it. Then he realized his mistake.
"ASSASSINS!"
The cry rose up from the crowd like a curse. At first, the Ranger hadn't thought that the townspeople could be referring to him. His protective instincts, which drove him to save Lloros from the phantom blade, were now the very thing causing him to look quite guilty in the eyes of the people of Xanaton.
While several members of the mob shielded Lloros and began to usher him away, most of the others began to advance on Hank and the others.
"Hank!" Sheila screamed again, "what happened?"
"They must think I was the one who tried to kill Lloros!" the Ranger shouted as he backed up a step on the wagon bed and reluctantly turned his drawn arrow toward the advancing crowd.
Diana's magic staff extended to its full length in her hands with a glowing hum as she struck a combat-ready stance. She kept her eyes on the crowd but directed her voice upward to Hank. "Why did you—?"
"I saw something!" Hank cut her off as he continued to search the area below for the real conspirators. "A knife! Someone was about to—"
"It's them!" a husky voice shouted from across the town square. The Ranger recognized the man who had first welcomed them to Xanaton. The former look of warmth and friendliness in his eyes had been replaced by disbelief and hatred for these newcomers who had dared to attack the town's beloved Mage. "Assassins! They have come for Lloros! Get them!"
His club brandished, Bobby unleashed a wordless battle cry as he struck the ground, knocking the advancing masses off balance momentarily. "Tell them you didn't do it, Hank!" he shouted as the Ranger leapt down off the wagon.
"I don't think they're going to listen, Bobby!" Diana returned, preparing to ward off the coming attacks of the nearest townsmen who had scrambled to their feet and begun to lunge at her.
"Not after what they think they saw me do!" Hank added, drawing his arrow up. "Get back!" he shouted into the crowd. A few of them hesitated briefly upon seeing Hank's drawn arrow. Hank pointed its tip in several directions in an attempt to herd the crowd back. As he did so, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a dark cloak slip around a far corner of the square. "Keep them busy, Diana!" he shouted to the Acrobat. "I'm going after the real cause of all this!"
Hank spun to the left and released his drawn arrow directly into the ground at the base of several townspeople's feet. They fell back, and the Ranger hurdled over their prone forms, taking off toward the alley. As he neared the corner, he felt a jerking tug at the back of his neck. The front of his leather tunic tightened sharply around his throat and cut off his wind as the feeling of whiplash pulled him backward and onto the ground. Dazed, the Ranger rubbed at his throat, then glanced up to see what had happened to him.
Towering above him was Golon, the very man who had welcomed them in the square earlier. The jovial smile Hank remembered had mutated into a hateful sneer as he glared down at the fallen Ranger.
"You dare come to our town in the guise of friends in an attempt to kill Lloros?" the man spat. "You will pay dearly, Assassin!"
Before Hank could protest, Golon's head suddenly jerked forward, then lolled back a bit, his eyes rolling back behind his lids. He slumped to his knees and fell flat onto his stomach directly in front of Hank.
"Can't leave you alone for a second, can I?"
The Ranger's eyes trailed upward to see Eric standing behind the now-unconscious Golon, wielding a large, partially eaten ham hock in his hands. The Cavalier eyed up his makeshift weapon before disgustedly tossing it to the ground beside the fallen man. "Seems like a waste of a perfectly good dinner to me!" he grumbled as he offered Hank a hand to help him up.
"Thanks, Eric," Hank replied as he shot a look over his shoulder to the alley behind him. "Go help the others. I'm going to see if I can put a stop to this!" The Ranger turned and, retrieving his bow from the ground, ran into the shadows of the byway.
"Aye, aye, sir," Eric retorted with a mock salute before spinning in the other direction and racing over to where Diana, Sheila, Bobby, and now Presto were warding off the angered townspeople.
As Hank rounded the next corner, he came to a dead stop. The side streets of this town were like a labyrinth. The Ranger could see at least four paths in front of him, which separated further into several others. What was worse, the clustered buildings, although not very tall, were so close together that much of the sunlight was barred from the alleys.
This is no good, Hank thought to himself. Whoever they were, they were hard enough to see in broad daylight. How am I going to find them in here?
Nevertheless, the Ranger drew his arrow for light, and proceeded toward the nearest path.
Presto, finding himself cornered by several angry men, looked to his friends for help. But they were having troubles of their own. Diana was engaged in a tug-of-war with a burly man who had managed to get a hold of her staff while Eric was shielding both himself and Sheila from the onslaughts of several others. Probably the only one who was having any success at taking on several people at once was Bobby, who continued to keep attackers away from him and Uni by striking the ground incessantly with his club. But even that could only be kept up for so long.
"Presto!" Diana cried strainingly. The man with whom she had been fighting had ceased trying to pull her staff away from her and was now pushing down upon her with all his strength, forcing her to one knee. "Presto!" she cried again as she struggled against the man's weight, "try your hat!"
"O-okay!" the Magician muttered warily as he removed his hat and waved his palm over the opening.
"Alacazam! Alaca-bob!
What I need's a spell
to cool down this mob!"
"Yaaahhh!" The young Wizard concluded his spell with a scream and ducked his head as the nearest person made a grab for him. He instinctively raised his hat out in front of him, its opening aimed toward his attackers. Instantly, a deep chill filled the air. Presto peeked up to see what looked to be a blizzard pouring out of his hat. Large snowflakes and fierce wind spiraled around him and soon extended throughout the entire town square.
"The Assassins have their own wizard!" someone shouted. "Run! Lloros will save us!"
Chaos erupted as the panicked townspeople scattered, for fear of being touched by Presto's magic. As quickly as they had begun their attack on the Young Ones, the crowd dispersed to seek protection from their own Mage.
"Bunch of chickens," Bobby said. "Fraid of a little snow!"
"A little?" Eric bellowed, finding himself knee-deep in a drift. He turned to Presto. "How about turning it off now, Jack Frost! I can't feel my feet!"
"Hey! D-d-don't knock it!" Presto replied through chattering teeth. "I got r-r-rid of them, d-d-didn't I?" He shoved the hat back on his head, pulling it down around his ears until the snow stopped falling. By that time, his hair and the shoulders of his robes were completely soaked.
Grumbling as he struggled to free his legs from the pile, Eric accidentally fumbled backwards into a nearby food tent, bringing a wash of quickly-melting snow down onto his head from the low roof. "I think your twiddling needs some tuning," he muttered as he spit out a mouthful of slush, which was running from his hair down his face in sloppy rivulets.
"Guys!" Sheila demanded, interrupting their bantering. "What happened? What was that all about? And where's Hank?"
Eric looked toward the alley into which the Ranger had disappeared a few minutes ago. His eyes trailed down to where Golon still lay unconscious on the ground. He slapped his sodden hair back out of his eyes and turned to Sheila. "I don't know where Hank went, but I'm sure he can take care of himself," he responded. "I do think I can find out the answers to at least two of your questions, though."
Eric, followed by the others, cautiously and deliberately made their way to the downed man.
Hank's eyes darted back and forth, searching; although he did not even know what it was he was searching for. Whomever he saw trying to assault Lloros in the square, they were very good at not being seen. So much so, that the Ranger wasn't even sure that the two dark figures were still here.
As Hank pressed onward through the shadows, he hoped that his friends had been able to handle that angry mob. Even though finding the real attackers seemed hopeless, he knew that it was the only way to prove that he and his friends weren't the ones to blame.
The Ranger heard a rustle of cloth behind him. He spun around, the arrow that had been providing his light in these dark alleys now blazing even brighter and poised for firing beside his cheek. After so long in the Realm, Hank had discovered that the intensity of his arrows often matched the graveness of the situation and, especially, the Ranger's emotional reaction to it. It was as though the bow knew his thoughts and responded in kind -- matching his fervor and even his level of fear.
There was nothing behind him. Although he seemed to be very much alone, Hank could not help but feel a bit embarrassed by the strength of the arrow's energy in response to his own nervousness. He mentally berated himself for jumping at the first noise like a frightened kid -- never really acknowledging that a teenage kid was, in fact, exactly what he was.
Hank heard the noise again and looked up. Several laundry linens flapped above him in some of the chilly wind that had reached this far into the winding side streets. Hank eased his grip on the bow a bit, bringing it down to his waist as he listened to the air around him. The light arrow lost intensity as he relaxed, but did not vanish completely. This was very fortunate for Hank.
Another sound behind him caused him to spin back in the other direction -- just in time to parry the strike of a long, undulating dagger aimed at his face. Uttering a surprised strangled cry, his arms shot defensively out, thrusting the bow forward. Hank released his drawn arrow straight into the air as he reflexively shoved his weapon upward to block the attack that came down at him.
As the arrow exploded in the sky above in a bright burst of light, Hank's assailant hesitated, briefly distracted by the blast. The Ranger took the opportunity to take aim at the figure before him. The person froze, head tilting within the confines of the black hooded cloak.
"Hold it right there!" Hank demanded, leveling his arrow straight ahead. From what he could see, this person was probably one of Lloros' attackers from the square. But where's the other one? his mind asked fleetingly. However, had he really taken the time to focus on the possibility of another assailant, he may have missed the next strike that came at him.
He saw a slight movement in front of him and took a shaky step back. A white hot pain shot across the clenched knuckles of the Ranger's left hand, causing him to drop his bow. The arrow released, ricocheting off the cobblestone pathway and pinballing between the buildings, out of sight. With a growl of pain, Hank clutched his hand as a deep crimson liquid slowly seeped through his fingers. He stared in disbelief at the person in front of him, whose blade was now stained red along one edge. What the . . . ? I never even saw the guy move! Hank glanced down at his lacerated knuckles and quickly realized that if he hadn't taken that step back, the blade could have slashed right through his wrist.
His attacker didn't waste any time and didn't give Hank the luxury of digesting what had just happened. In a flash, the knife swung at the Ranger again. Hank leapt back, but not before the blade caught the shoulder of his leather tunic, creating a thin slice in the fabric. Hank stood stupefied at his present condition. If I don't get the upper hand soon, I'm dead! he thought frantically.
After always being the one to strategize and think through situations carefully since arriving in the Realm, Hank surprised himself by falling back on an instinct that he had not resorted to for a very long time. Hank waited for the blade of the knife to be momentarily drawn away from him, then he reached back in time to his days on the football team. He raced forward, shoulder first, and made jarring contact with his assailant's body just below the sternum. The impact lifted the person slightly into the air for a moment, then Hank tackled him to the ground, pinning the hand gripping the knife off to the side.
The Ranger clutched his attacker's wrist as tightly as his bleeding hand would allow, lifting it above the ground and striking it hard against the cobbled stone of the alley to force the hand to release the blade.
It did -- and was accompanied by a scream of fury from his previously silent adversary . . . . The wild cry of a woman.
Hank hovered above her in shock for a moment. He snapped instantly back to awareness and used his knee to pin her other arm to the ground. With one hand free, he was able to yank the hood of her cloak from her head, and finally see the face of the person who had tried to kill him.
It was, indeed, a girl. The thing that struck Hank the hardest was the fact that she was practically his own age -- if not a bit younger. As he removed her hood, the girl's thick knot of black hair tumbled out onto the ground beside her head. Her dark eyes flashed with malice as she glared up at the Ranger. She struggled under his weight, her thin boyish frame squirming to free herself, and she emitted a shriek that reminded Hank of a cornered animal.
After several tense and eternal seconds, the girl relaxed in Hank's grip. Turning her head to the side, she almost seemed to sink, defeated, into the ground below her. As her body calmed, Hank took a moment to finally get a good look at her. Her body was wrapped entirely in a black cotton fabric. It wasn't loose-fitting, but not so tight as to hinder maneuverability. Parts of her clothing were trimmed in a deep red, which matched the band that held her thick, black hair away from her face. Her cloak was made of a lightweight fabric, which had flowed easily with the girl's movements when she had been on the attack.
"Who are you?" Hank demanded, glancing around and remembering that he had seen two of these rogues in the square. There was no telling where the other could be.
"My name is Isolde," the girl answered. Her voice was high and deceptively sweet, not at all complementary of the savagery of her previous actions. She kept her face turned from Hank for a few more moments, gazing at nothing in particular down the alleyway. After several seconds, she turned back to him, her face stained with tears. "Please . . . ," she muttered beseechingly.
Hank's brow knotted and his face softened as he looked down upon her. They were both still panting heavily from their battle, but as their breathing evened out, she started to look less and less like a cold-blooded killer. Her watery eyes almost seemed to beg the Ranger for his help.
Maybe she had been forced into her actions. Hank couldn't help but think that that could be the case. They had met so many people here in the Realm who had been forced to do terrible things against their will. This girl . . . she seemed trained to kill, but she looked so sad, so . . . lost.
Lost? The lost soul? At that thought, Hank eased off a bit, loosening his hold on her.
Isolde smiled gently up at him . . . which quickly morphed into a wicked sneer. "Fool!" she growled as she yanked her hand out of Hank's bloody, and now very slippery, grip. Her free right hand dove beneath her cloak and the Ranger floundered backward off her as a crooked scythe came slashing across his chest.
Hank emitted a strangled cry as the hooked blade caught onto one of the studs of his leather armor and tore his tunic open. He stumbled back onto the ground and gazed upward at the girl who now towered over his supine body. He couldn't see where his bow was laying, but his hand still groped wildly for it. He didn't dare remove his eyes from the murderous girl above him.
Isolde took a step toward him, turning the scythe playfully in her hand and giggling maniacally. Her face hardened as her eyes came to rest on Hank. "You robbed me of my revenge, meddler!" she snarled as she raised her weapon. "Now you die!"
The Ranger scrambled back as she advanced, spinning his head desperately away from her to seek his weapon. He heard a sudden pained grunt and twisted back in Isolde's direction in time to see the girl pitch forward and fall onto her hands and knees. Her blade skidded toward him across the cobblestone and Hank moved to intercept it. He hadn't quite risen to his feet when his eyes met Isolde's. There was something familiar about them. His vision lingered there for a split second until the girl's head whipped back in an arc as though kicked. She toppled backward and landed sprawled on the hard ground of the alley, motionless and unconscious.
Hank was finally able to release a pained breath and sank back down to the ground as the ordeal ended, dropping the scythe from his limp fingers. He gazed ahead into the empty space in front of him until, in the next moment, he found himself looking into the materializing face of Sheila. She pushed the hood of her magic cloak all the way back, gasping for breath as she looked at him, her eyes huge and frightened.
The Thief knelt beside Hank and took his bloodied hand, which he reluctantly surrendered to her. She cringed at the sight of it and shook her head as though it pained her to see. Sheila then glanced over to the still form of Isolde.
"My God, Hank," she breathed, "what happened?"
To be continued . . .
