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

Author's Notes: Several episodes of the series are referenced in this section, with special attention paid to The Traitor and The Dragon's Graveyard.

Thanks to the Editorial Queen for the handy beta!


Through a Mirror Darkly

by N.L. Rummi

But seeing is not the same as believing.
When everything goes wrong
You're anything but strong.

Eurythmics


Chapter Two - Scars

"Eric?" Presto asked as he nervously glanced around the emptied streets of Xanaton's town square. The Cavalier was kicking outward with his leg, still trying to shake water out of his boots. "Um, don't you think we should find Hank and Sheila and get the heck outta here already? I think we've worn out our welcome!"

"In a minute!" the Cavalier grumbled impatiently as he attempted to unplug the last vestiges of melted snow from his ear with a wiggle of his pinky finger. Then he stooped down beside the unconscious Golon. "First, I want some answers!"

"Hurry it up then, Cavalier!" Diana returned, her back to him. She stood at the ready, scanning the town square. "It's not like these people are going to let a bunch of so-called 'assassins' hang around in the middle of their city! They'll be back . . . probably with reinforcements!"

"Look," Eric came back irritably, giving Golon's recumbent form a kick from his crouched position, "we came here to help somebody, we ended up getting attacked by a bunch of wackos who think we're the bad guys, and we didn't even get a halfway decent meal. I wanna know what's up!"

Golon groaned and began to open his eyes. As his vision came into focus he found himself staring up at the form of Eric the Cavalier. "All right, you!" Eric began, pointing his shield toward the man. Then he paused, blinking at it for a moment and deciding that a weapon of defense wasn't menacing enough to procure any answers from Golon.

"C'mere, Shrimp," he said to Bobby, yanking the boy toward him by the leather strap. Eric positioned the club-wielding Barbarian between himself and the man on the ground. "Now," he said, redirecting his voice back at Golon as Bobby brandished his weapon, "talk! Why did your people attack us?"

"Choros scum!" Golon spat angrily, "You dare play the innocent? It was your fair-haired accomplice who attacked Lloros! Do with me what you will; my people will not rest until your detestable Sect is wiped out!"

"Is this guy for real?" Bobby asked confusedly. "What's a 'Choros?' What 'Sect?'"

"Look, buster," Diana shot at Golon, still facing the outer square in case any villagers were preparing an ambush, "if Hank did anything, he probably saved your magician's life! He mentioned a knife. Didn't anyone in the crowd see anything besides what Hank did?"

"I'll tell you nothing, witch!" Golon shouted back at her. "You can not have Lloros! You tell Rubin that!"

"Uh, guys?" Presto warned suddenly. "I really think we'd better hit the bricks!"

The Young Ones turned at the sound of a rabble of shouting voices coming from the far end of the town square. The mob was returning, probably armed this time.

Bobby leapt forward with a shout, holding his club aloft. "Bobby, no!" Diana called. "We've got to go!"

"We can't!" the young Barbarian protested. "Hank and my sister aren't . . . ."

As though on cue, the Thief and the Ranger emerged from the alley beyond the square, the latter carrying the unconscious form of another. Without a second thought, Bobby abandoned his fight and raced forward. The six Young Ones met together at the drawbridge and fled the city – not stopping until Xanaton was far in the distance.


"Too damned trusting," Hank chided himself as Diana did her best to clean his wounded knuckles. The Acrobat hated the fact that she couldn't get her hands on any iodine or something antibacterial in this insane world. She was forced to make due with only water. What was even worse, Hank's hand probably needed stitches. But since the nearest Emergency Room was, it seemed, light years away, this would very likely be another set of scars he would just have to live with. As it was, the Ranger was very lucky that he didn't lose any of his fingers to that crazy girl's blade.

This heated thought caused Diana to reflexively dab at her friend's lacerated knuckles a bit too roughly. Hank inhaled sharply through his teeth and Diana winced at the idea that she had just caused him more pain.

"Don't beat yourself up," she said in quiet response to his last statement, trying harder to focus on what she was doing. She finished with a makeshift bandage that was actually a piece of cloth "donated" from Isolde's cape. It was the best Diana could have done, but she wished she could do more.

"So, this chick jumped you," Eric stated, reviewing the Ranger's story, "she nearly killed you, and now you want to bring her with us?" He made an open-armed gesture to where Isolde still lay unconscious nearby, bound hand and foot with Hank's arrows and tethered to a tree. "I mean, she's cute, buddy, . . . in a psychotic knife-happy kind of way," he added, "but I never would have guessed that you would go for those femme fatales." He turned to Diana. "That's two French words that I know! So there!"

The Acrobat rolled her eyes.

"I can't explain why," Hank replied as he cautiously gripped his now-bandaged hand, "but I have a feeling she's the lost soul we're supposed to help."

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"Like I said, I can't explain it, Eric," Hank shrugged insistently. "There was something about her eyes. Before she attacked me that second time, for a second there, I could just tell that she needed us to help her."

"I knew it!" Presto called from across the campfire.

"Thanks, Presto," Hank said, grateful for the backup.

"I knew I could find something better than a stapler to fix your uniform!" The Magician whipped out a needle and thread, which he had procured from his hat, and reached out for Hank to hand him the slashed tunic.

"Oh," the Ranger muttered with a sigh of frustration. Clearly, it was going to take more convincing for his friends to agree that he might be right about this. He managed to get the heavy outer garment over his head, with Diana's help, and gave it to Presto.

"Don't tell me!" Eric laughed, his attention now completely on the Magician. "You're gonna fix it! He cooks, he cuts hair, and now he sews! Presto, we're gonna have to start calling you Donna Reed!"

"Lay off, Eric," Presto responded dismissively as he sat down to begin work on Hank's over-shirt. "My grandmother's a seamstress. I think I can at least thread a needle. Besides, I'm not tailoring a tux for his wedding or anything, I'm just patching up a few holes."

Hank took the opportunity to direct the conversation toward someone who he hoped would be more likely to take his side. "How did you know to come help me anyway?" he asked, turning to Sheila.

The Thief had been quiet – more so than usual. She seemed to be startled out of deep thought when Hank addressed her. "I saw your arrow in the sky," she replied after a moment. "I thought you were signaling us. I'm just sorry I didn't get there sooner." She quietly eyed his wounded hand.

"Hey, it's okay," Hank said more cheerfully. "You were there when I needed you. That's what counts." Sheila flashed a bright smile at him, but Hank had a hard time determining whether or not it was genuine.

"So," he continued as he turned back to the others, "Golon said that everybody thinks we were assassins sent to kill Lloros. What I want to know is why someone would want him dead. Especially on the day he was just returning to the city after ten years."

Diana nodded. "If someone wanted to assassinate Lloros that badly, wouldn't have it been easier to do it while he was away from the city? Away from the people who love him and would fight to protect him?"

"Golon also mentioned something called a 'choros' and somebody named 'Rubin'," Presto added from his spot where he was doing his best to mend Hank's uniform. "Who, or what, are they?"

"Good questions all, my Young Ones."

"Dungeon Master!" Bobby cried as the group turned to see the tiny sage suddenly behind them. "Are we glad to see you! Xanaton was a bust!"

"Not so, Barbarian," Dungeon Master replied. "You have learned more than you realize."

"What are you talking about?" Eric groaned. "All we got from that trip is a bunch of unanswered questions, a whole new group of people in this world who hate us, and some unwanted excess baggage!" The Cavalier shot his thumb in the direction of Isolde, who was beginning to stir.

"Sometimes, my young friends, simply asking the right questions is the first step to having all the answers." Dungeon Master eyed the girl, a saddened look spreading over his face as he sighed deeply. Without another word, the little man turned and began to walk several steps further into the surrounding woods. The Young Ones stayed close behind him, afraid that he would vanish before telling them anything at all.

When he came to a stop and turned, Uni nuzzled up to him. He raised a gnarled hand and gently patted her head, a bright smile once again radiating toward the Young Ones.

"So?" Eric asked as he and his friends gathered around Dungeon Master. "If you haven't done your disappearing act yet, you obviously have something to tell us. What's the diag-nonsense this time, Dr. Know-It-All?"

"Eric, cut it out!" This irritated rebuttal strangely came from Sheila.

"The Choros Sect is a league of assassins, to which the newest member of your group belongs," Dungeon Master explained. "That much I can tell you. As for the other answers to your questions," he paused, "they are within your reach. But be warned: You may not all be looking in the same place. Take care, my Young Ones. The lost soul must be saved, or many lives may be lost."

"No pressure or anything," Eric grumbled.

"Dungeon Master, are you saying we didn't find . . . ?" Hank started to ask, before noticing that the little man was nowhere in sight. He let out a heavy sigh. "He's gone."

As the Young Ones made their way back to camp, Hank remained behind for a moment, thinking. What was it that was vaguely familiar about that girl? And why did he, after what she had done, have this strong urge to help her? (Especially when he didn't know for certain that she actually needed helping.) If there was one thing that girl could do, it was take care of herself. Still . . . .

"Troubled, Ranger?"

Hank spun around in surprise. "Dungeon Master! We thought you left!"

"Why would you think that?" the diminutive mage joked a bit at his own expense. His amiable eyes then settled on Hank. "You have good reason to be troubled," he continued, "for your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades. A path that may be very difficult for all of you."

"Dungeon Master," Hank asked, not acknowledging the mage's previous statement, "is Isolde the lost soul that we're looking for? Or is it someone else?"

Dungeon Master smiled sadly. "She does need your help, Ranger, as well as your protection. Although she does not know it. However, I fear, that your reasons for doing so, as well as your methods, may not be fully understood by your friends at first. Stay strong, and trust your heart." With that, he turned and began to walk toward the trees.

Hank also turned to make his way back to the camp. He was surprised to hear Dungeon Master's voice once again from behind him, "Do not rebuke yourself for being trusting, Ranger. Your leadership abilities are true and you know who merits believing. The one you truly need to have faith in . . . is yourself."

When the Ranger turned around, it was to the sight of an empty trail and the sound of a gentle breeze. Feeling certain that the Dungeon Master was really gone this time, Hank turned again and walked back toward his friends.


"Where have you been, Flax?"

Hank looked down at the sound of the voice. Isolde was gazing up at him with a cocky sneer. Although she was the one bound, she had not lost her antagonizing air.

"How long has she been awake?" the Ranger asked his friends.

"Since we got back to camp," Diana replied.

"Too long, if you ask me," Eric added. "She's been nothing but a bundle of insults and complaining."

"Annoying, isn't it?" Diana asked the Cavalier.

"Yeah! I feel like knocking her out again!" Eric responded, obviously missing the Acrobat's point.

"I know that feeling," she said.

The Young Ones gathered around their campfire to eat dinner. As they had not had the opportunity to find anything more substantial, they were forced to make due with the various fruits and berries that they had been able to gather from nearby. Thankfully, the bread that Presto managed to produce from his hat was a welcome, if a tad stale, addition.

"Flax!" Isolde called from the tree beyond the fire. "What must a girl do to receive some food? Or do you not feed your prisoners?"

"We don't feed people who try to slice and dice our friends!" Bobby retorted, shooting an angry look in Isolde's direction. Uni whinnied in irate agreement.

"These are friends of yours, Flax?" the girl muttered.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Hank asked as he piled some berries onto a large leaf to bring to Isolde.

Sheila put her hand on Hank's shoulder to keep him from standing. She offered to take the makeshift "plate" and got up to bring it to Isolde herself. "It means 'light'," Sheila clarified as she rose. "Light-haired. Probably just her version of calling you 'Blondie'." The Thief strode over to where the prisoner sat beneath the tree. Hank watched her go.

Sheila placed the berry-filled leaf down in front of Isolde. "Thank you," the girl said in mocking sugary-sweetness. "At least one of you knows how to treat someone. Spend time as a serving wench, did you?" She smiled cruelly at Sheila.

"You listen to me," the Thief said, trying to keep her voice low. It came out sounding small, even to her own ears. She made a second attempt at harshness. "If you had hurt him, you would have paid for it." Sheila hesitantly raised her downcast eyes to meet Isolde's stare in an effort to prove that she meant business. "I promise you."

Isolde's smile widened amusedly. "You're a gentle soul," she said. "I can see it in your eyes. You've probably never made a threat before in your life." Isolde bared her teeth. "Correct?"

Sheila stared hard into the other girl's face, trying desperately to show Isolde that she was wrong; to appear as though she could follow through with a threat if she wanted to. But after a few tense moments, Sheila could only swallow hard and back away. "My thanks again for the dinner, girl!" Isolde called mockingly after her.

"I'd like to see you reach it," Sheila muttered as she strode back to camp.

Isolde noticed that the Thief had placed the leaf with the berries just beyond the range of her feet. She scowled angrily as she stretched her body toward it in an attempt to drag it closer with her foot. The tether of Hank's arrow stopped her just short of the food. In her attempt to stretch a little further, she kicked a corner of the leaf, scattering the berries on the ground. Isolde unleashed a scream of frustrated anger as her dinner rolled away.

Hank looked up questioningly at Sheila as she sat down again beside him. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine," the Thief replied with some forced cheerfulness. She turned her head away from him to hide a grim look of satisfaction as Isolde shrieked again.


Hank didn't tell his friends about his private conversation with Dungeon Master. He decided that if their guide had intended for the others to know about Isolde and how Hank had to help her, he would have said something while they were all there instead of waiting until Hank was alone. The Ranger only hoped that keeping this secret wouldn't cause his friends to distrust him again.

"Your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades," Dungeon Master had said. Hank remembered the pain in their eyes the time they thought he had betrayed them. He cringed at the memory and hoped he wouldn't have to face that again.

"I say we bring her back to Xanaton and let them deal with her," Eric said the next morning as the Young Ones prepared to strike camp.

"We can't do that, Eric," Hank replied.

"I hate to say it, Hank, but Eric has a point," Presto interjected cautiously. "I mean, if we need to find something in Xanaton to save this 'lost soul,' it won't help if we can't go back there. Maybe if we turn Isolde in we'll be welcome in the city again and we can find what we're looking for."

"How do you know we haven't found it already?" Hank asked.

"What? You mean her?" Eric shot back. "Look, buddy, are you sure she didn't scramble your brain along with swiss cheesing your uniform? She - tried - to - kill - you! I think you're letting this good Samaritan thing go a bit too far, don't you?"

"Hank," Diana said softly, following the Ranger as he trudged away from the others and toward Isolde, "Eric may not have the best way of showing it, but I think he's worried about you. About this whole situation. I know I am. This girl belongs to a group of assassins – and you said yourself that you saw another one. What if he – or she – is around somewhere? These are people who are trained to be stealthy and trained to kill. I hate to say it, but it seems a bit out of our league."

Hank did not respond.

"Hank," Diana said pleadingly, stopping him from walking any farther and placing her hands on his shoulders to get him to look at her, "we're flying blind here and we don't know where to go for answers. At least if we go back to Xanaton we might be able to make peace or something and figure out what it is we're supposed to do."

The rest of the Young Ones gathered around them. "I'm sorry, guys," Hank said to all of them.

"You still think it's her," Diana guessed, keeping her voice down. "The one we have to save."

"I don't know," the Ranger admitted. "I really don't, but . . . ."

"Well," Presto offered, "if there's one thing I've learned in this crazy place it's that everything happens that was meant to happen. If you really want to do something for her, why don't we just set her free and go our separate ways. If she's the one we're supposed to help, it will probably be just our luck that we'll find her again. And hey!" he added cheerfully. "Maybe by then we'll have the information we need so that we can actually do something useful!"

"Set her free?" Eric bellowed, his tone uncomfortably loud among all the other muted voices. He immediately checked himself and continued in a scratchy whisper, "And give knife-girl a chance to come back after all of us? Presto, are you nuts?"

But Hank smiled. Nope, Presto was actually one smart guy. He always seemed to have a way of putting things into perspective. However, even Eric had a point. "Go our separate ways? You know, that may not be such a bad idea," Hank said to the Magician. "You guys go back to Xanaton and find out whatever you can."

"'You guys'?" Presto repeated. "Somehow that doesn't sound like the suggestion I made."

"Look," Hank said logically as he strode the rest of the distance to Isolde and released her feet from the bondage created by his light arrow, "you said yourselves, we need answers. We also need to know where we're going from here. If we split up, we'll have both." He gripped Isolde's elbow and hoisted her to her feet. She leered at him.

"Not a chance!" Bobby wailed in protest.

"Maahh!" Uni agreed.

"We're not leaving you alone with that . . . that . . . psycho!" The young Barbarian pointed his club at the girl, to which Isolde responded with a dementedly playful tooth-bearing growl. Uni jumped back and the girl sneered.

"I'll be fine," Hank promised. "If what you said is right, Presto, we should be seeing each other again in no time!" Hank's tone was pleasantly optimistic.

"Then I'm going with you," Sheila said suddenly.

The Ranger shook his head. "They're gonna need you in Xanaton," he said. "After what happened, Lloros will probably be heavily guarded. You may be the only one who has the power to get in to see him. You should try to find him and learn why the Choros Sect would want him dead."

Sheila narrowed her eyes at him. "Why don't you just ask her that?" she countered.

Hank blinked in surprise. Normally, Sheila was very supportive of his plans. He hadn't gotten this much contention from her since the time she'd been convinced he had betrayed them all to Venger. And in the weeks following that incident, she almost seemed to overcompensate for her doubt by being extra loyal. He supposed he'd inadvertently gotten used to that. The fact that one of his friends disputed his idea didn't surprise Hank – on the contrary, he'd expected as much; the fact that it was Sheila did. For a moment he was at a loss.

Hank broke away from Isolde's side, but continued to hold the tether that bound her wrists. He stepped toward Sheila and looked down at her. The Thief met his gaze with equal parts obstinacy and frustrated worry, her eyes shifting anxiously as she stared back at him. Finally, she broke the connection and focused her gaze on his bandaged hand, then over his shoulder. Anywhere but back in his eyes.

Hank tilted his head in an unsuccessful effort to get her to refocus on him. "How would we ever know that she was telling us the truth?" he asked softly, both to keep their conversation as privately as possible from Isolde and to try to regain Sheila's full attention.

Sheila didn't look at him again. She turned partially away and backed down without another word.

The rest of his friends, however, were all staring at him, each one just as reluctant as Sheila to do the thing their leader was asking of them. Hank sighed. He didn't want this either. But this was what Dungeon Master had said was supposed to happen. Your path lies in a different direction than that of your comrades.

"Guys," Hank said finally, "I can't explain my reasons to you. I'm not even sure I understand them myself. I'm not asking you to agree with me, but I am asking you to trust me." His brow wrinkled and he looked at each of them. "Do you trust me?"

After several eternal seconds, Diana sighed deeply, shaking her head with resignation. "Good luck, Hank," she said. "Please be careful."

"I will," Hank agreed. "You, too. Look, everything will be fine. I promise."

With a final glance, the Young Ones reluctantly began their journey back to Xanaton. Hank waited until they were out of sight before turning to Isolde, his hand once again gripping her elbow tightly. "Where are you taking me, Flax?" the girl demanded.

"Let's find this Sect of yours," the Ranger replied as he pushed her in front of him. "Lead the way."


Sheila glanced back to the empty trail behind her. This was all wrong and Hank knew it. Or at least he should know better than to go traipsing after a gang of assassins by himself. If any of them had tried to make a suggestion like that, he'd have been the first to shoot that idea down.

Macho . . . leader . . .guy!

And he was hurt besides.

From the beginning, there had always been a kind of unspoken hierarchy in the group. Hank, he was the leader. He took care of everybody. Naturally. But Sheila – she was the one who took care of everybody. Not just Bobby. But everybody. Including Hank. Even if that meant protecting him from his own heroism.

She always tried to be gentle about it, especially after that whole fiasco where she'd mistakenly thought he'd betrayed the group. That time in the Dragon's Graveyard, for instance, she had delicately attempted to make him understand that the hard choices wouldn't be over once they'd convinced Tiamat to aid them against Venger. That would just be the beginning.

Now, again, it seemed that Hank was making risky decisions in the interest of the group . . . or maybe even in the interest of his own sense of chivalry. (That thought caused the skin on Sheila's cheeks to tingle uncomfortably. She wasn't sure why, and she frowned.) What was worse, it had been three times so far that she had been unable to help Hank through these chances he was taking. She didn't get there in time to prevent his injury . . . and if she'd reached him any later, Sheila couldn't bear to think of what might have happened. She hadn't been able to really stand up to Isolde. And she'd even allowed Hank, himself, to push her into going with the others, when he knew darn well that he should have at least some other person with him to watch his back. If there was one thing this world had taught them, it was to avoid taking needless risks.

Well, Sheila thought as she glared hotly at the road behind them, Hank may not think he needs someone to watch out for him. She turned back to face the front with a look of fierce determination. But what he doesn't know . . . .

When Sheila turned her head, Presto looked over at her, smiling grimly as they walked side-by-side. A moment later, the Magician suddenly felt the sensation of empty space beside him. He stopped abruptly and spun around to see the Thief standing in the road gazing back the way they came.

"Sheila!" he protested, as though he knew what the girl was about to do. His words caused the others to stop and turn around as well.

"I have to," Sheila said with resolve as she took a deliberate step back in Hank's direction.

"Sis!" Bobby cried. "What about Xanaton? What if we need you?"

"With all of you together, I know you can handle it," she responded as she reached for the hood of her cloak.

"Sheila!" Diana took a few running steps back toward her friend as the Thief lifted her hood and vanished from sight.

"Diana," her bodiless voice said a moment later, "take care of Bobby, okay?"

"It's too dangerous by yourself!" Diana protested

"That's exactly why I'm going," Sheila's words ghosted through the air. "Hank may not admit it, but he needs help."

"He doesn't want any help!" Eric shouted at the air around him.

"He doesn't have a choice." Sheila's voice grew more distant as she ran back in the other direction, leaving her friends to proceed to Xanaton without her.


The first league of their journey was traveled in silence - Hank the Ranger being led by Isolde the Assassin toward who knew what. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, he thought. There's no way I can get word to my friends now.

Hank decided that if he was to discover anything about this girl or what he would have to do for her, he had to learn something about her even if that meant striking up a conversation with the person who tried to kill him.

"So, where are you from?" he began lamely.

"Nowhere," the girl responded.

"I hear that," Hank replied and Isolde turned to him.

"I am astounded by your abilities," she marveled with dry sarcasm. "And by your eagerness to point them out."

Hank laughed a bit in spite of himself. "No," he said. "It means I understand. That I know how you feel."

"If that was what you meant, Flax, why did you not just say it?" she snapped. Then added more quietly, "You speak queerly."

"I told you I understood," Hank replied with a shrug as the pair walked on. "My friends and I are from another world. We weren't born anywhere in this Realm. We were brought here a while ago, and ever since then we've been following Dungeon Master so–" Hank stopped his train of thought. Wasn't he supposed to be finding out about her?

Isolde, however, seemed intrigued. "Dungeon Master, you say? Was he the one who brought you here? Away from your home?"

Hank decided that if he was going to get Isolde to open up at all, perhaps he should start by sharing a bit about himself. "We don't really know how we got here, but Dungeon Master has been trying to get us back."

"The Dungeon Master is very powerful from what I have heard," Isolde said. "It seems to me that if he were going to help you get home, he would be able to do more than just try."

Hank's eyes gave her a sharp sideways look. What is she getting at? he thought. She really was eager to believe the worst about people. Why was she trying to instill him with doubt regarding Dungeon Master and his intentions? Man, he thought. I thought I was too trusting; this girl doesn't trust anybody at all. He did not respond to her previous statement, but continued to stare at her sideways as they walked. She did not look back at him, whether she felt his eyes on her or not.

"Perhaps we are not as different as I had thought, Flax."

"Look, my name is Hank. Okay?" the Ranger corrected, giving a small but unnecessary tug on the strand of his arrow that bound her wrists, a little perturbed by her incessant name-calling. He checked his annoyance and asked another question, "What makes you think we're not that different?"

"Very well, Hank," she replied, enunciating his name with exaggerated care. "Let us imagine that Dungeon Master has the power to send you home at any time. He must have a reason for not doing so. In keeping you here, he is like a tyrant, holding you under his boot and forcing you to do his bidding."

Hank raised an eyebrow. He found it hard to imagine their guide as a tyrant. (Or wearing boots, for that matter.) After all the missions Dungeon Master had sent them on to help people? After all the good he and his friends had done while following the little man's instructions? A tyrant? Venger, maybe . . . but not Dungeon Master.

"Do you ever think about it, Hank? If he is, indeed, keeping you from your homes and families, would you not want revenge for what he has done to you?"

Revenge? She had Hank's full attention now.

"Is that what happened with Lloros?" the Ranger guessed, focusing the conversation onto Isolde where it belonged. "You said, back in town, that I robbed you of your revenge. Revenge for what?"

"Lloros stole my life," Isolde answered without hesitation. "He killed my father and turned my people against me. He deserves my revenge. They all do."

Hank remembered the pained vacancy in Lloros' eyes as he entered the town square of Xanaton. He found it hard to believe that such a broken-down man was capable of the evil that Isolde was accusing him of. "Why would he do that?" Hank asked, sounding doubtful without meaning to.

Isolde stopped walking suddenly and Hank nearly plowed into her. Her eyes flashed angrily at him. "Who knows why wicked men do the things they do?" she snapped. "Xanaton was my city. My home. My father and I lived there happily until Lloros stole our happiness away from us." Hank listened intently as Isolde's story poured from her lips.

"To think that a wizard would start a witch hunt!" the girl snarled. "He branded my father as an evil sorcerer and had him put to death by his own people. Then he turned his attention to me the so-called devil's offspring! Do you want to see what they did to me, Hank?" The Ranger did not answer, but he did not decline either. So, Isolde turned her back to him.

"Remove my cloak," she instructed. "Loosen the fabric at my back and see the constant reminder of my hatred!"

Hank stood frozen for a moment, unsure if he had heard her correctly. He stared dumbly at the girl's back until she lost her patience. Isolde twisted her shoulders so the cloak fell to one side. When she turned her head to give him an irritated look, Hank finally did as he was told. In lieu of completely removing the cape, he smoothed it entirely over one of her shoulders and surveyed the numerous buttons that lined the rear of her high-necked shirt. There, he hesitated, somewhat from discomfort at the thought of partially undressing this girl (at her insistence, no less), and somewhat from the notion of distrust that he still had for her. Was she merely distracting him so he would fall into some kind of trap?

His sense of duty won out and he reached forward to undo the buttons, relieved that Isolde was facing the other way and could not see his fumbling fingers. It wouldn't do any good for her to see her captor as uneasy, after all. He was more than relieved, for the first time since setting out, that the others weren't here to witness the same thing. He worked his way down, not quite to the small of her back, and the girl's shirt fell open to expose naked flesh . . . and a cluster of horrifying scars.

Hank stared at the grotesque pattern of blemished tissue the scars which snaked across the girl's back. Long, thin fingers of puckered flesh stood as evidence of the kiss of a whip and the possible touch of a branding iron. Unconsciously, and momentarily mesmerized by the horror he was witnessing, Hank pressed his finger to one of them. Isolde flinched at his touch and Hank sharply pulled back. It was as though physical contact with the scars still pained her. It was clear to the Ranger that, while the wounds had healed over long ago, the emotional pain was still there. And, apparently, burning brightly as ever.

"Oh, God," he uttered in a cracked whisper.

Isolde rolled her shoulders back, causing her shirt to fall closed and cover her scars. Hank quickly fastened each of the buttons, his fingers working much more deftly this time. He was more than a little relieved that her naked back was once again covered . . . and especially that he didn't have to look at the scars any more. "When did this happen to you?" he asked in a voice that was still hoarse with reaction.

"Ten years ago," she replied quietly. "I was seven."

When the Ranger made no further response, Isolde turned back to him. "Do you see now, Hank?" she asked, a strange desperate sound in the question. As she faced him, she took a step closer, bringing her face very near to his own. "You said that you understood. Do you?" Hank could feel the nearness of her breath as well as the brush of her hair against his face as it rustled in the light breeze. "Do you really?" Her voice was deep and quiet now.

Hank swallowed hard and gripped her shoulders, easing her back a step. He thought he saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but couldn't be certain. After all, he didn't trust this girl any farther than he could throw her.

"Ten years ago," he repeated, all business. "The same time that Lloros left Xanaton. Why would he do that?"

"I told you," Isolde replied in aggravation, "no one knows an evil man's reasons. To find me and finish me off after I fled? To terrorize other innocent families? All I knew was that I needed my revenge –for my father and for myself." The girl looked away from him, her features going blank. For a moment, it seemed to Hank, a flash of pain broke through the harsh exterior. "I can't even remember my father's beautiful face any longer," she said blandly. "Only his eyes. That bastard stole my life. And, thanks to the Choros Sect, I shall soon steal his."

"Tell me about them," Hank pressed.

"They found me when I needed them. That is all you need know," Isolde responded, glaring at him again. The harsh exterior was definitely back. "They gave me the skills and the courage that I needed to carry out my quest."

Filled you with bloodlust is more like it, Hank thought. But aloud, he said something different. "Why wait until now? Why not track him down while he was away from the protection of the city?"

"My revenge is not just on him, Hank," Isolde sneered, "but on all the people of Xanaton. On those who betrayed my father and myself. Those who, on Lloros' order, killed my father and left me to die. They adore him. What better revenge than to slaughter the tyrannical shepherd in full view of the brainless sheep?"

Hank gave the girl a long hard look. "That's pretty tough talk for someone who's never killed anything in her life."

Isolde seemed taken aback. "H-how did you know that?" she stammered.

Hank hadn't known. Not really. He had just gone out on a limb. But if Dungeon Master was right and she needed him to help her, there must be something in her that was worthy of being saved. Hank was fairly certain by this point that Isolde was, indeed, the 'lost soul needing to be found.' She was no cold-blooded killer, and she wouldn't become one if the Ranger had anything to do with it.

Hank straightened his shoulders and summoned a confident voice, so as to cover up the fact that he had been guessing. "I just knew."

"No matter," Isolde returned as she regained her composure. She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I was perfectly capable of killing you. And I would have, if not for your interfering consort."

"C-con . . . you mean Sheila? Sheila's a . . . a friend," Hank insisted.

"As you wish," Isolde said with a shrug. "She seemed very protective of you . . . for a friend."

"I think we should start moving again," Hank stated abruptly, changing the subject. He pulled the girl's cloak from where it rested over her one shoulder and allowed it to hang fully down her back. She stood staring at him for a moment before he took her by the elbow again. "Which way now?" he asked.

Isolde's answer was drowned out by an unearthly roar. The ground shook beneath their feet and the Ranger was now holding his bow aloft, searching for whatever it was that had made that noise.

He soon found the source. Circling the sky above them was a large Red Dragon. At the sight of it, Hank's arrow grew even brighter and he took aim at the beast, waiting for it to make the first move.

It did. After circling several passes through the air, the dragon changed course suddenly and dove for them. It inhaled and Hank could tell it was about to unleash a deluge of spewed fire. The Ranger loosed his first arrow, which exploded upon the creature's underbelly. The Red Dragon howled and abandoned its attack. It soared upward again, not giving up but merely collecting itself for a second pass at its prey on the ground.

"Get behind me!" Hank shouted to Isolde as he nocked another arrow.

"Release me and I'll help you!" the girl shouted in response.

"Not a chance!" the Ranger shot back as he eyed the recuperating beast. He gave her an ungainly shove behind him with the elbow that held the arrow. "You'll forgive me if I don't exactly trust you! Besides, a lot of good that knife of yours would do against a Red Dragon! Now get back!" he ordered.

Hank stood his ground with Isolde behind him as the dragon began a second dive-bomb. He fired his next arrow at the creature's face in an attempt to blind it long enough for them to escape. Instead, the dragon quickly unleashed its own flaming breath, intercepting the arrow in midair and overtaking it. The remainder of the flame sped toward the two figures on the ground below.

"Move it!" Hank shouted as he thrust Isolde out of the way. The girl toppled back, out of range of the blaze, while the Ranger leapt forward. He somersaulted upon hitting the ground in an attempt to get behind the airborne dragon, hoping to be able to fire on it from the rear.

He rose to one knee and spun around to get his eyes focused on his target. He easily centered his gaze directly on the posterior of the beast since the Red Dragon had apparently made up its mind that Isolde would be its first victim. The girl struggled to get up from where Hank had shoved her without the use of her hands. The Ranger realized that the dragon was moving too rapidly and, although he would have no problem hitting it and driving it away, it would most likely not be before the monster had devoured the girl.

"Isolde!" he shouted urgently. "Get out of there!"

Isolde managed to stagger clumsily to her feet in time to look up in terror as the Red Dragon opened its jaws to unleash its flame upon her. She screamed. Hank took desperate aim as the fire began descending.

The girl's scream was abruptly cut off by a jerking grunt as she seemed to be struck in the side and hurled several feet away from where the blazing flame struck the ground. Without taking the time to question what had just happened, Hank let loose a fusillade of golden bolts in the beast's direction. On impact, the Red Dragon circled, yowling, into the sky and eventually vanished behind a distant mountain.

Hank got up and ran to where Isolde lay prone on the ground once more. "What happened?" he asked. The girl groaned as though a weight had just been lifted off of her back. Hank watched as a shimmer of cascading light appeared on the ground beside Isolde, which quickly materialized into Sheila as she removed her hood.

"Wh . . . wha . . . ? You . . . ?" Hank stammered. "I thought you had gone with the others."

"You're welcome," Sheila groaned as she rubbed her shoulder and rose to her feet.

"Thank you," Hank corrected himself as he reached down to help her stand the rest of the way. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought you could use some help," the Thief replied, bending down a second time and helping Hank lift Isolde off the ground.

"Your timing is impeccable, girl," Isolde taunted with a grunt as she rose, to which Sheila merely replied with a cold sideways look.

"Did Diana and the others get to Xanaton?" Hank inquired of Sheila.

"I . . . I don't know," she replied reluctantly. "I didn't go with them."

Hank sighed, but didn't seem angry. If the truth be known, regardless of what he had said earlier, he was very relieved to have Sheila with him. "Maybe we can rendezvous with them later," he said.

"If Xanaton is where you truly wish to go," Isolde offered, speaking to Sheila as if to shoo her away, "you'll find it on the other side of that hill."

"What?" Sheila responded, annoyed. "That's impossible! It took me nearly an hour to get here."

"See for yourself, girl," Isolde replied. "And don't feel as though you need to hurry back."

"We'll all go," Hank said, taking the dark-haired girl by the arm again as the three walked toward the hill.

Sure enough, on the other side lay the city of Xanaton. Hank rounded on Isolde, "I thought you were taking me to your Sect! If you were just going to lead me back to the city, we could have stayed with my friends. It would have been safer!"

"Are you saying you would give up the time we spent together, . . . Hank?" Isolde sneered, raising an eyebrow to Sheila. The Thief scowled in response.

Ever the peacemaker, Hank stepped into the tension between the two women. After flashing a quieting glare at Isolde and an apologizing look at Sheila, he turned from them and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Besides," Isolde's voice said from behind him, "the Sect is not far off. Another mile, perhaps two."

"So, you've just been leading me around in a big circle?" Hank demanded. "Why didn't you tell me it was close to Xanaton?"

"You never asked me where it was, Flax. You simply ordered me to lead you to it." The girl smiled playfully.

The three youths turned as a multitude of wild cries suddenly filled the air. Someone in the lookout bartizan of the walled city must have spotted them, for now several armed men were racing out of the city gates and making their way up the hill toward them.

"Oh, no!" Sheila cried. "We have to get out of here!"

"A Choros Assassin runs from no one!" Isolde shouted, screaming a battle cry of her own. But with her hands still bound behind her, she could do little else.

"Get back!" Hank shouted to both of them as he drew his arrow. "Take cover!" He released the illuminated dart toward some of the charging townspeople.

Isolde seemed strangely confused when the tail of the arrow merely surrounded the men, roping them together and stopping them in their tracks. Why, with a weapon so powerful and seemingly capable of so much damage, did the Ranger not simply kill the transgressors?

Her moment of surprise was just that: a moment. For in the next instance, Isolde and Sheila found themselves surrounded by several more enraged townspeople - those that Hank alone wasn't able to ward off. One of them made a lunge for Sheila, who lifted her hood and vanished as the man's arms passed right through the spot where she had been standing.

Isolde managed to kick one man in front of her, but was caught by another from behind. With her hands tied, she could make no move to protect herself, and she could only shriek and squirm violently in the man's grasp. She heard Hank's voice shout for her to get down and she ducked her head, feeling her captor's grip release as he was blasted by a light arrow and pinned by his clothing to a nearby tree. A second arrow, following in rapid succession, tore through the bondage around Isolde's wrists, causing it to dissolve. The Assassin took a bewildered moment to look at her freed hands before turning to the Ranger, who was being besieged by several attackers.

"Go!" he shouted to her. She drew her blade. Hank shook his head as he took aim at another of his assailants with his bow. "Go, I said! Run!"

Still bewildered, Isolde managed to force her legs to move. She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and, while she didn't disappear as Sheila had, her retreating form seemed almost unnoticeable.

Hank fired again at the men in front of him and turned abruptly at the sound of an assailant's shout behind him. He tried to raise his bow again, but was surprised to see the man lurch forward, as though kicked in the posterior. The Ranger stepped to the right as the man tumbled past him down the hill. In the next moment, Sheila appeared by Hank's side once more.

"You've got to get into that city," he called to her as more people started to pour across the drawbridge. "Find the others and find Lloros!"

"Not without you!" Sheila objected.

Hank gripped her shoulders tightly. He looked jerkily from her to the rushing mob, then directly back to her eyes. "You're the only one who can get in now," he insisted, softly but urgently. "They won't let me in unless I'm in chains or dead, apparently. I have to go after Isolde and find the Choros Sect."

The shouts of the men pouring through the city gates caught Sheila's attention, but she turned quickly from them back to Hank, her eyes insistent and panic-wide, pleading with Hank to reconsider.

The Ranger looked fiercely back at her, continuing to hold her gaze with his own. "Please do this for me, Sheila," he said quietly. "I need you."

With his eyes on her like that, Sheila felt an odd twisting in her stomach. She'd forgotten how intense they could be when Hank set his mind on something and she suddenly felt very small and heavy under them. Not unpleasantly, however. It was as though she were being pressed down by lead weights into warm soothing water. His eyes burned with a crystal-blue passion, as they did when it came to his beliefs, his duty, his . . . .

Abruptly, Sheila felt Hank's fingertips press harder into her shoulders. It should have been painful, but she didn't notice. In fact, even the raucous cries of the encroaching mob swirled into a hazy dullness in her mind. At that moment, Sheila was torn. Part of her was convinced that she would unquestioningly do whatever this man said; the other part practically shouted at her that she would be completely crazy to leave his side.

In an instant, however, the decision was made for her. At another cry from the crowd, Hank hastily loosened his grip on her and pulled back slightly. (And just when had he gotten that close to her, anyway?) The world around Sheila snapped brusquely back into focus as Hank released her shoulders completely and gripped the hood of her cape, pulling it over her head for her. As she vanished from sight in a glow of silvery luminescence, Hank, not relinquishing his hold on the rim of her hood, paused a moment, then pulled her to him and placed a hurried kiss on her invisible forehead. He released her just as quickly and raced down the other side of the hill in the direction that Isolde had gone.

Sheila stood dumbfounded for a moment as Hank vanished from sight, swaying a bit on her feet. Then she gripped her hood with one hand to prevent it from slipping off, and sprinted toward the gate of the city.


When he was sure that he had lost his pursuers, Hank slowed a bit to take stock of his position. He was no longer sure where Isolde had gone. Regardless, he continued to walk blindly straight for what felt like a long time, picking his way along a path in the brush. The forest around him was thick and dark and the Ranger needed to draw his arrow for light.

Of all the stupid . . . , he rebuked himself for allowing the girl to go free. He'd be lucky if he ever found her in–

Hank froze as the blade of a spear appeared just under his throat. His eyes shifted to where he expected to see more citizens of Xanaton surrounding him. What he did see when he turned his head slightly was the face of a boy not even his own age.

"Not another step, intruder," the boy said in a voice that seemed to be in the throes of puberty. "Or it will be your last!"

Hank lowered his bow and dissolved his arrow, deciding that if he were going to get out of this, much less get inside the Sect, the last thing he wanted to appear was antagonistic. With the arrow gone, everything around them was so much darker now.

"I – I'm not here to hurt you," Hank said, trying for reassuring. "I'm a friend . . . of Isolde's." For as much as he had grown to sympathize with the girl, it was a bitter pill for Hank to swallow to say that he was friends with an Assassin.

"If you can't prove it, I'll cut out your lying tongue!"

Being threatened by a kid who had the same crack in his voice as Presto would have seemed almost laughable had Hank not been in the dire situation himself. Frantically, he tried to think of a way to prove his claim as the boy's blade pressed closer to his throat.

On impulse, the Ranger glanced down to his left hand. "This is a piece of her cloak!" he said strainingly, lifting his bandaged hand for the boy to see.

The young man eased the pressure on Hank's neck. "We shall see," he growled as he redirected the spear's point to the area between Hank's shoulders. "Now walk!" he commanded, yanking the Ranger's bow from his hand.

Hank obeyed and allowed himself to be led into the opening of a hidden grotto and down a slope to a dismal cavern below. The dim glow of torches didn't do much to provide light as the meager flames waved like oily splotches in the inky darkness. They burned sporadically along the walls as the two youths descended. Hank could begin to feel a heavy dampness upon his skin and clothes. The path opened up into a larger chamber, which contained several similarly dressed people. As Hank's eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took in what he could of his new surroundings and prayed it wouldn't be the last thing he saw.

"Korl!" a voice shouted from the far end of the room. Since Hank's eyes were still getting used to the darkness, he had to squint to see what was going on. He managed to make out the form of Isolde running toward him. As she neared, the blade in his back lessened.

"Korl," Isolde said again, "you may release him. He is a friend. He saved my life." Again, Hank's stomach turned at the thought of being considered a friend to people who were trained as murderers.

Isolde finally arrived directly in front of him, a bright smile on her face. It was a strange thing to see, since the girl hadn't done much more than sneer and smirk hostilely since Hank met her. The smile actually looked lively, genuine. It might even make her look pretty if she made a habit of doing it.

"I had a feeling you would come," Isolde said. "I had a feeling that you understood." She tightly gripped his hand, another strange gesture. Her fingers were cold. "Come, Hank," she said. "There is someone I wish for you to meet."

The Ranger allowed Isolde to lead him to another chamber where a lone figure sat with a table of food spread before him. He was an older man, much older than the youths that seemed to make up most of the Sect.

"Isolde, my dear," the man said as the two entered the chamber, "who is this?"

"This is the one I was telling you about," the girl replied. "I believe that he can help us."

"Ah, my boy," the man said, rising from his chair and drawing closer to Hank and Isolde. "She has told me much about you. Welcome, friend, to the Choros Sect."

"Hank," Isolde announced with a proud smile, "this is Rubin."


Sheila found the others backed up into an alley as more of the angry townspeople rushed by to join the commotion outside the city. She slipped into the byway beside Bobby and removed her hood.

"Sis!" the boy exclaimed excitedly. "You're okay! Where's Hank?"

Sheila frowned worriedly, but she managed to summon a dutiful voice. "He's gone to find the Choros Sect," she reported. "We got ambushed outside and Hank ran off after Isolde." The Thief quickly explained what had happened since she and the other Young Ones parted company. Well, . . . most of what happened.

Diana stared heatedly out into the street. "Well, Hank may not know it," she said, "but he's probably provided us with about as good a distraction as we're going to get."

"Yeah," Presto agreed, "this town's been going ballistic ever since the cry went up that the 'assassin' was back!"

"Luckily nobody's noticed us yet," Eric said as he directed Sheila's attention to a house across the square. "That's where Lloros is. Now that you're here, we have a better chance of getting inside."

"Do you have an idea as to how we can do that?" Sheila asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do!" the Cavalier responded. "The four of us . . . ."

"Maaah!" Uni bleated in annoyance.

Eric rolled his eyes. "Okay! The five of us are going to charge the house and create a distraction so you can get in and talk to Lloros."

Sheila nodded in agreement and reached for her hood.

"Sheila," Eric stopped her and she turned. "Be careful, all right? And if there's anybody in there besides Lloros or if he tries something funny, just get the heck out of there. We'll try something else."

"Thanks, Eric," the Thief replied. "I will." She lifted her hood completely and vanished.

"Ready?" Diana whispered with a raise of her hand. "NOW!"

The Young Ones came racing out of the alley, weapons at the ready, and sprinted for the front of Lloros' house. "Hey!" Bobby yelled in surprise. "Nobody's trying to stop us!"

Too soon.

As the youngsters approached the door, their path was blocked by Golon and several other townsmen who exited the house. "I told you that you would not reach Lloros, assassins," the man snarled. "We will stop you no matter what it takes."

"Bring it on!" Bobby growled as his club hummed in his hand. In the standoff, no one noticed a set of silent footsteps make their way around the Mage's protectors and into the building.

Sheila looked in each room, holding onto her hood carefully. After checking the entire ground floor, she silently made her way to the upper level where a single room sat at the top of the stairs. Sheila gingerly turned the knob and peeked in to find a man sitting alone.

He turned his head as the door opened and Sheila closed it quickly behind her. She then removed her hood. "It's okay," she said, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "I'm a friend."

The man silently stood up and lifted his arms slightly away from his body, his eyes cast downward. Sheila took a step back, half expecting the Mage to cast a spell. When he did not, she spoke again. "Are . . . are you Lloros?"

"You have found me," the man replied in a sweet, gentle voice that seemed almost relieved. "Finally, you have found me. My life is now in your hands. Make it quick or slow . . . as you wish. But just do it, I beg you."

Sheila was very confused. "Lloros, I'm not here to hurt you," she tried to clarify. "My friends and I are not the assassins you and your people think we are."

"Why?" Lloros immediately crumpled, beginning to sob. He collapsed back into his chair and his body trembled, making Sheila extremely nervous and uneasy. "For ten long years I went searching for death. Not even here can I find it! In the place where it already stole my life!"

"Your . . . life?" the Thief questioned taking a few unconscious steps toward the distraught Mage. Lloros raised his eyes to meet Sheila's. She could see a fathomless sadness in them . . . and something else.

"Ten years ago I set out on a journey," he explained. "Many of my people think it was for meditation or mere reflection upon my grief. They are fools. I left because I wished to find the Sect who murdered my reason for living . . . and beg them to take my life as well." The man doubled over in uncontrolled sobs. "I wish only to be with my daughter again."

Sheila didn't know why Lloros was telling her all this. Perhaps he thought she was lying and that she actually was an assassin sent to claim his life . . . and he wanted her to. Perhaps he was hoping that she, one who was not a loyal city-dweller, would take pity on him and grant his request for death, whether she was an assassin or not. Or perhaps he simply needed to unload some emotional baggage that he could never share with his people, who would forbid that their beloved mage have such thoughts. Whatever his reasons, Lloros allowed Sheila to look into his dark, pained eyes and see into his tortured soul.

And in those eyes, the Thief saw something else. Something that Hank, too, had seen but couldn't quite place. Something that Sheila herself had gotten a very good look at last night in the light of the campfire.

"Your daughter?" she quietly repeated in a breathed whisper. "Oh, God . . . . Isolde!"

To be continued . . .