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: I'm more than a little embarrassed that this took so long. An unforeseen laptop crash caused me to lose all the revisions I'd made to this chapter. The resulting frustration made me not even want to look at the thing for a long time.

I'd like to dedicate this bit to Masline for giving me the kickstart I needed to get back into this story again. Thanks, dear! (And thanks to EQ for the quickie beta.)


Through a Mirror Darkly

by N.L. Rummi

Now I keep company with wicked evil men.
My generosity is brimming but I'm still inclined to sin.

EdwinMcCain


Chapter Three - The Ice Chamber

Lloros stared wildly at Sheila. "How do you know that name?" he said in a trembling voice. "What do you know of Isolde?"

The Thief could only gaze at the man before her, mouth gaping. Lloros was Isolde's father. And he thought she was dead.

"Answer me!" Lloros cried. He seemed more desperate than angry and he took a step toward her. "Were you . . . ?" he stared to ask. "You could not have possibly known her before she died. And you could not have been among the Choros when she was taken from me. No, you would have been far too young. Had she lived, she would only be near your age now."

Sheila struggled to get a grip on herself as the distraught man rambled on. "L-Lloros," she stammered, taking a step back from him. "I'm not among the Choros at all. I told you, I'm not an assassin. Isolde . . . your daughter . . . she's alive."

The mage's face etched with pained disbelief and Sheila suddenly wasn't sure how to continue. Oh, God. Should she tell him? Isolde was the one who tried to kill you in the square yesterday.

Grief practically rolled off the man in waves; what would news like that do to him? What would Hank say if he were here? Where was Hank?

After a frantic moment of contemplation, Sheila decided to refrain from telling all the details for the time being. This man had spent ten years chasing death so he could be with his daughter again. The news that she was actually alive shouldn't be coupled with the fact that she had spent that same time plotting her own father's murder.

But why? Why would she do that?

After a moment Lloros sank to the ground. His body was wracked with sobs. "You lie," he breathed.

Sheila bit her lower lip and forced herself to take a step toward the crumpled mage. She tentatively laid a hand on his quivering shoulder. "I'm not lying, Lloros," she insisted softly. "I saw her with my own eyes. In fact, a friend of mine is with her right now."

Lloros raised his tear-stained face to look at the Thief. He cocked his head warily and she managed to give him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "My other friends are outside," she continued. "If you let us, we can help you."

Lloros stared up at Sheila and she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. His mouth set into a grim line and he slowly rose to his feet. His eyes never left Sheila. Then he turned and strode quickly to the window, where he threw open the shutters. "Stop!" he called into the street below.

Diana, Eric, Presto, Bobby and Uni had been surrounded by a circle of angered townspeople. Everyone raised their eyes as Lloros appeared in the window. "Do not harm them," the mage called down to his people. "Bring them up to me."

"Lloros, no!" Golon pleaded. "These assassins only wish to put an end to you!"

"Please, do not argue with me, old friend," Lloros responded in a muted voice. "Let these children go. Allow them to come to me."

Diana smiled up at the window. "Way to go, Sheila," she whispered as the surrounding mob opened one end of their circle to allow the Young Ones passage into the house.

Lloros turned to Sheila. "I do not know why I believe you, but I do," the man sighed. "Your eyes are as kind as my own Isolde's. Know that if you and your friends can return her to me, I shall be forever in your debt."

Sheila smiled grimly. She wanted to help Lloros . . . and Isolde if that were possible. What she didn't want was for this tortured man to discover that his daughter's "kind eyes" had seemingly been replaced by fiery hatred. The Thief prayed that Hank was all right as she heard her friends' footfalls ascending the stairs.


"Isolde tells me that you saved her life . . . twice?" Rubin asked the Ranger, resting his squared chin upon his knuckles.

"Just trying to help," Hank said neutrally as he picked at the plate of steaming mutton that had been set before him. Rubin gave an approving nod to Isolde. The girl sat beside Hank with the glow of a young betrothed, presenting her intended to her father for the first time. She was happy to have been the one to bring the Ranger here – and even more so that Rubin seemed to approve thus far.

"She also tells me that you share a similar past."

Hank narrowed his eyes and looked in Isolde's direction. Similar past? Taking note of the Ranger's apparent confusion, Rubin attempted to clarify. "Oh, you may not have been beaten or scourged as she was. You may not bear the physical scars of the wrongdoing inflicted upon you, but you and she were both driven from your beloved homes by the power of a corrupt wizard." He smiled. "Were you not?"

Hank turned his attention back to Rubin and his stomach clenched uncomfortably. Isolde must have told the man about their conversation regarding Dungeon Master – how she had likened Hank's guide to a scheming tyrant. The hungry glint in Rubin's eyes gave the Ranger the impression that the man was all too eager to believe it, too. But no matter how dire the situation, Hank needed to swallow a great deal of his conscience to agree to such a notion. In his heart, he wouldn't believe it. He couldn't . . . not for a minute. Something told him, however, that a den of assassins was not the ideal place to be playing the devil's advocate. Besides, if agreeing would help him gain the trust of these people – and ultimately win the answers that he was seeking – he would play along . . . for now.

Sending up a silent apology to Dungeon Master, Hank nodded his head.

Rubin's mouth curled even further into an amused smile. "You have come to the right place, my boy," he said, leaning back in his chair. "We can help you win vengeance against those who have wronged you. Would you want that?"

Hank's response was noncommittal. "What would I have to do?"

"For now, simply help Isolde to complete her task," the leader of the Choros Sect replied. "Hers is a very special duty – ten years in the making. If you like, we can begin the initiation ceremony right away." The man continued to grin unctuously at Hank.

The Ranger was uneasy. Considering just how distrusting Isolde had been when they first met, he was surprised by how eager Rubin was to bring him into the Sect. "Listen, Rubin," he said, "I don't want you to think that I'm being ungrateful or anything, but you don't know anything about me. How do you know you can trust me?"

Rubin's smile widened. "Good man," he said. "Loyalty is of the utmost importance here. Those who swear to follow our ways must also swear their allegiance to the Sect." He glanced over at Isolde with a nod and she obediently retired from the room. Rubin then rose off his chair and lowered his face very near to Hank's. He scrutinized the Ranger with ugly mud-brown eyes and continued to smile. "Treachery would come at the cost of your young life."

Hank stared unflinchingly back as the man's acrid breath stung his nostrils. His face showed no fear, but inside he was trembling. He wished that Korl hadn't taken his bow. "When can we start?"

Rubin straightened. "Without discipline, there is chaos, boy," he said. "Punishment for insolence or disorder is severe. You should know what to expect in the event of disobedience . . . or failure. After the ceremony, you will see the Ice Chamber."


Sheila sat in the corner of the upper room. Her hands were clasped tightly together. After several moments, she raised one, brushing her fingertips against the center of her forehead.

Hank had never kissed her before. She had certainly wanted him to, but those hopes became secondary after entering the Realm. They had never really gone away, though. Of course, the kiss hadn't been the moment she'd imagined ever since Hank had first asked her to go to the amusement park. At the time, she'd envisioned an innocent peck on her front porch – rushed, for fear that Bobby might see, after successfully shooing him into the house. At the time, she never would have conceived of passionate desperation set outside the gates of a fortified city.

Sheila had the tendency to be as dreamy as the next girl. Even after entering the Realm there were parts of her that had still secretly wished for Hank to kiss her someday. Their lives had become dangerous since arriving here, yet there was an unrefined romanticism to the setting in which they found themselves. And Hank was the hero of the piece. Sheila couldn't help but fantasize about how it might happen.

Then, suddenly, it did.

Granted, it was only her forehead, but still . . . she had wanted it.

So why did remembering it leave her feeling so hollow and empty?

Sheila chewed absently on her bottom lip. She knew it wasn't the fact that Hank had kissed her that bothered her . . . . It was why.

It was always the most horrific reasons – the ones that she tried desperately to push away – that insisted on lingering in her mind. No matter how hard she tried, Sheila couldn't shake the notion that he had kissed her because he didn't think he would ever see her or the others again. Imagining him entering alone into a guild of assassins, Sheila worried that he might be right.

Sheila started when Diana suddenly sat down beside her. The Acrobat let out her breath in a whoosh as she processed the story they had just been told. "So, we think that Isolde is Lloros' daughter," she reviewed. "And up until now, everyone in town thought she was dead."

"She was a dear girl," Golon said, not completely trusting the Young Ones yet, but still wanting to offer as much help as possible for the benefit of his friend Lloros. "She was so full of life."

"How did she . . . um . . . die?" Presto asked, feeling a bit foolish about the question since, if it was the same girl, she was actually very much alive.

"Someone set fire to the Great Hall one night," Golon said gruffly. "We were unable to put it out ourselves, so I ran to fetch Lloros. He used his magic to extinguish the flames."

"Huh. A one-man fire department," Eric remarked as he propped himself against an empty table. All the other chairs were taken.

Golon cast him a severe look. "Lloros is a Dowsing Mage," he said as he turned back to the others. "He can call upon the power of water. It is one of the reasons our city has always been so prosperous: Our lands have never known drought or famine. Our closest neighbors are many leagues away. However, with Lloros' magic, we have become self-sufficient. Evil forces wishing to subjugate Xanaton might attack us through the one thing that would leave us vulnerable." He glanced at his friend, then lowered his eyes. "We believe this had been part of the assassins' plan on that night ten years ago."

"When I returned to the house," Lloros said, his voice far away, "my Isolde was gone. Blood . . . was everywhere . . . ."

"And you think it was these Choros Assassins that did it?" Eric asked.

"I knew it," Lloros replied. "Rubin would never pass upon an opportunity to make certain I knew it was him." He walked over to a small chest-of-drawers in the corner of the room beside Sheila. Opening it, he drew out a large jagged scrap of lightweight black fabric. "I found this in her room – a piece of the trademark garment of the Choros Sect. It is known as a stealth cloak, although it is not at all as effective as yours, my dear," he said, turning to Sheila. "It is not meant to make the wearer invisible -- only undetectable. Until it is too late."

The man twisted the material in his hands. "You see, the Choros Sect is led by an evil man known as Rubin," Lloros further explained. "Their way has always been to strike suddenly, and by surprise. But, for Rubin, this is not enough. He wishes to make himself known to his victims. He only wins satisfaction if they know what he is doing to them."

"So what did he have against a seven-year-old kid?" Bobby asked, shifting awkwardly in his spot on the floor. The idea that this man would try to kill a girl who, at the time, had been even younger than himself left him very uneasy. Bobby was suddenly very worried about Hank.

"My Isolde was never his true victim," Lloros explained sadly. "It was me. Rubin sought to destroy me – to break my powers. He also desired revenge upon me, and he took it by taking the one who was most precious to me. He then tortured me for ten years more by moving his Sect underground. He became so elusive that I couldn't find him . . . to finish what he started."

"Lloros," Golon said gently.

"Rubin killed me a long time ago, my friend," Lloros replied. "But I should have known he would never permit me to rest. Forcing me to live with the pain of losing my daughter is closer to his way."

"Uh, Lloros," Eric said, "if we can ask, what happened that Rubin would want revenge on you?"

The mage sighed. "I had him banished from the city," he explained, "I discovered that he had been secretly in league with an evil sorcerer, plotting the takeover of Xanaton. He was to be executed as a traitor, but I had him cast out instead. To him, banishment was far worse than death. He repaid me for sparing his life . . . by stealing mine."

"Why would a sorcerer want to take over your city?" Bobby asked.

"Power, young one," Golon responded. "We are a wealthy and prosperous city, thanks to Lloros and his magic. Wicked forces would certainly seek to control that prosperity . . . or seek to control us by destroying the reason for our good fortune. Evil thrives on power, conquests, and people in fear. Without Lloros, our city would be vulnerable – perhaps dependent on another, less honorable, sorcerer for aid. Rubin was promised great wealth and partial dominion over Xanaton in return for destroying Lloros and helping to conquer us for his master."

"Well," Eric mused, "I guess this kinda explains why all of you were so willing to believe that we were assassins. I mean, if you thought Rubin and his gang killed Lloros' daughter, it makes sense that you would think they'd come back for him."

Golon squinted at the Cavalier incredulously. "We still do not know for certain that your . . . friend . . . is not one of them."

"Now, wait just a minute . . . !" Eric began, but Presto interrupted.

"But if Isolde's really been alive all this time," Presto said, "what's this guy's deal? Rubin, I mean. Why only make you think that he killed her?"

Sheila rose to her feet before anyone could speculate an answer to Presto's question. "We've got to go," she said. "Lloros, we'll get your daughter back." She turned and strode to the door.

Diana stared at her in surprise for a moment before getting up herself. "Let's go, guys!" she called over her shoulder. She caught up with Sheila on the stairs. "That was abrupt," she said. "What's wrong?"

"I didn't tell him that Isolde was the one who tried to kill him," Sheila replied quietly as Bobby and the others joined them outside. "I didn't know what that would do to him."

"Parts of this are actually starting to make sense," Diana said, turning to face all of them. "If Rubin saw exile as being worse than death, wouldn't he want to do the same to the man who banished him?"

"Yeah," Presto agreed. "Forcing Lloros to live without the thing he loves the most would be worse than just killing him. But that doesn't explain why Isolde suddenly wants her father dead."

"Actually it does," Sheila replied. "What could be worse than losing his child for ten years, only to find her again . . . and learn that his enemy has taught her to hate him?"

"We've gotta find Hank!" Bobby said.

"How're we going to do that?" grumbled Eric. "Lloros couldn't find the Choros Sect and he searched for ten years."

"With Hank's help," Diana smiled grimly. "He may have needed to do what he had to do on his own, but he's counting on any information that we learn here. I'll bet Eric's bank account that he left us some way to find him."


The man's boots echoed hollowly upon the stone floor as he strode to the center of the large, circular chamber. Numerous free-standing torches formed a ring. They lit the inner circumference of the room and left the far walls in eerie shadow. He stood alone in the middle of the otherwise empty space and glanced around.

It was called the Chamber of Ghosts – partially because the flickering torchlight seemed to dance like ghoulish specters across the air in front of the unseen walls, and partially because the souls of deceased assassins were said to reside here. The man scoffed at the idea of the latter. There was only one dark force that he feared . . . and that one was on its way here.

"Why did you summon me, Rubin?"

Rubin fell to his knees as the menacing voice reverberated through the room. "Welcome, my Master," he cowered. "It has been too long."

"Agreed," the voice thundered. "You are most fortunate that I did not destroy you for failing me the last time."

"My Master is most generous and merciful," Rubin replied, prostrating himself.

"I make no promise that it will remain that way. Why did you call me here?"

"I seek to make amends for my failure," the Assassin said, rising to his feet. "I shall not disappoint you this time. Not only will Xanaton fall, but I have something else that you want as well."

"Continue," the bodiless voice responded with interest.

"It appears that one of the allies of your old adversary has come to be in our midst."

"Yes. The young Ranger."

"You know, my Lord?"

"Very little escapes me where Dungeon Master and his loathsome pupils are concerned."

"He seems to be seeking to protect Lloros' girl," Rubin said. "He has even offered to join the Sect . . . possibly to remain close to her."

"Let him," the icy voice dripped from the shadows all around the room. "The Ranger is a trusting fool. He would quickly waste his life to protect another. Even one as expendable as that girl."

"Are you certain about that?"

"Rubin, I am counting on it. And I am counting on you to see to it that it is done. Lloros and Xanaton will fall to me. You will have your revenge on that accursed wizard using his daughter, whom he thought was lost. And I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that Dungeon Master has lost something very dear to him as well. Without the Ranger, the other Young Ones will be broken . . . and the entire Realm shall soon be mine."

Rubin bowed his head low. "I shall not fail you again, Master."

A pair of malevolent, crimson eyes flashed from the darkness beyond the shadows. "See that you do not, Rubin. Or, I promise you, this time your punishment will be severe."

The glow of the eyes extinguished. There was a rustle of flowing garments and the pungent scent of dark magic. Rubin shuddered as he found himself alone in the Chamber of Ghosts.


Hank was very grateful to have gotten his bow back during the course of the initiation ceremony. He had felt extremely vulnerable in its absence. Of course, he had been forced to be without it before, but never all alone. Again the thought struck him that it wasn't such a great idea to be doing this without the others.

He sat alone in the cell-like chamber that Rubin had given to him as his room. All the comforts of home, he thought ironically to himself as he poked at the moth-eaten mattress with his bow. He leaned back in the rickety wooden chair in which he sat – the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. There was also a full water-skin hanging from the headboard. The Ranger took a drink from it to clear his head.

Okay, Hank, you're in. Now what do you do?

After a few moments, he heard a soft knocking upon the door. He replaced the water-skin and rose to his feet. Reaching for the knob, Hank half-expected to find it locked. This room was more like a prison, after all. The door did open, however, to the face of Isolde standing there.

"Are you settling in?" she asked.

"Not exactly the Ritz, but it'll do," Hank replied, evoking a confused look from the girl. "Never mind." He managed a small laugh.

Isolde walked past him into the room. Although Hank had seen her move with such fluid grace when fighting, he noticed that she held herself rather stiffly now. He also noticed that, for the first time, her hair was released from its tight thick knot. It now hung like a dark drape upon her shoulders. She turned to face him. The fingers of one hand fidgeted restlessly with the tips of her hair.

She looked younger this way – more innocent.

"Hank," Isolde said. Her previous aggression was gone. The girl suddenly seemed awkwardly shy as she cast sporadic glances at him coyly through her dark lashes. "I wanted to speak with you about—"

The girl's words were cut off by a sudden adolescent scream. Hank's face jerked toward the door and he stepped away from Isolde, who didn't seem shocked or concerned by the abrupt cry. "Hank!" she called as the Ranger ran out into the hall. He headed in the direction of the uproar. She followed a few steps behind him.

Hank pushed his way through a crowd of young assassins who had gathered in the main hall. There, he found the one named Korl lying on the ground, curled into a fetal position. Isolde caught up to Hank just as the Ranger's eyes focused on the form of Rubin towering over the boy. There was fire in the man's eyes.

Hank watched as the assassins' leader drew his foot back. The Ranger's body jolted in response to the swift kick that Rubin delivered to Korl's already quivering form. Angrily, he made an instinctive move toward the man to stop him. Isolde's hand caught his arm.

"Don't, Hank," she said. "It must be this way."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Hank shot back at her as Rubin struck the boy again. He tried to pull away, but she held him fast.

Isolde stared at him hard and said, robotically, "Without discipline there is chaos."

"What?" Hank gasped, not sure he believed what he was hearing. "That's no reason to beat someone within an inch of their life! He's just a kid, for God's sake! What could he have done to deserve this?"

"It matters little what he did," Isolde responded, numbed to the fact that Korl had stopped yelling out in pained protest and now lay motionless. The swift kicks, however, still came. "Rubin protects us. If we disobey him, we must be punished."

The Ranger stared at the boy as he received his so-called punishment. Feelings of desperation ate through him. How could he just stand by and watch? How could he justify doing nothing? But then again, would making a move on Rubin blow his cover? He would never get to the bottom of whatever it was he was supposed to do if he made Rubin suspicious by interfering. Hank clenched his fists tightly and stood as a tortured spectator beside Isolde. He was convinced that the knuckles of his left hand had begun to bleed again from his intense grip.

Rubin finally paused and rolled the boy onto his back with his foot. He got down on one knee beside Korl. The youth was now a mess of blood and bruises. He emitted an agonized whimper.

"Remember this, boy," Rubin whispered cruelly, "and do not disobey me again." He grabbed Korl by the collar and raised a balled fist above his face.

This time Isolde could not hold Hank back. Unable to watch any more, he leapt forward and gripped Rubin's arm as the man strained to bring his fist down upon the wounded young man.

"That's enough," the Ranger spat, powerless to hold in his anger.

Rubin glared up at Hank and sneered as he rose to his feet. "No stomach for discipline, boy?" he asked with some hostile amusement. "You are new here, so I shall overlook your insolence this once. But it is time that you learned how I handle disobedience." He took a few steps past Hank and the crowd of youngsters parted to let him pass. When he was just beyond them, he stopped and turned.

"Bring him," he said to Hank, "and follow me."

Hank gently lifted the motionless and only semi-conscious Korl off the floor, supporting him with his shoulder. He half-carried, half-dragged the boy as he followed Rubin farther into the cavern. Hank could feel the floor descending and he knew they were headed deeper underground.

Rubin led him to a heavy wooden door where he was instructed to put Korl down. "This is the Ice Chamber, boy," the Assassin explained. He lifted the wooden barricade and pulled the door open. Hank immediately felt an intense cold rush out of the room. It was so much at first that it took his breath away. After the initial shock of the chill subsided, he was able to breathe again – hot breath that came out in thick frosted clouds.

Rubin stepped away from the door. "Bring him inside," he instructed, gesturing with an open palm toward the frigid room. Hank stood rooted to the spot. He squinted at Rubin as though he hadn't heard him right.

"Come, brother," Rubin ordered, twisting the word into a snarl. "An important task faces you tomorrow. You wished to join our Sect. Would you now betray our traditions? I told you that without discipline there is chaos. To be a member of our brotherhood, you must not only believe that, but you must also be willing to act upon it." Rubin's eyes blazed again as he stared Hank down. "Now, bring - him - inside!"

Hank whispered a prayer of forgiveness to anyone or anything that could give it for what he was being forced to do. To Korl, to Isolde, and especially to his friends. God forbid they ever learn of the part he was playing in the torture this boy had to endure. He lifted Korl carefully off the ground again and placed him on a waiting bench just inside the room. For a moment, Hank stood there beside him. Then he removed his outer tunic. He draped the heavy leather over the boy, hoping it would help to ease the cold. Afterward, Hank turned and left the Ice Chamber.

"How long does he have to stay there?" he asked, too sickened to even look at Rubin.

"You may fetch him in an hour," the Assassin replied with satisfaction. "You have done well, my boy."

Hank wanted no part of that praise. "So what's tomorrow?" he asked. He kept his back to Rubin.

"Tomorrow you shall accompany Isolde to complete her revenge," Rubin answered. "It will be your first true test as an assassin. Succeed in helping her kill Lloros, and your position in the Choros Sect will be secured. We shall all reap the rewards once Xanaton falls. Prepare yourself well tonight, Hank."

The Ranger did not reply as he walked away from the Ice Chamber. He heard Rubin close the heavy door and bolt it shut. Hank began a tortured count of the minutes until he could return to let Korl out.


Nearly an hour later, Hank sat in his room again. His chin rested on his tightly clasped hands. The hour could not have dragged by any slower, but it must have seemed like an eternity to Korl. The Ranger winced in shame at what he had done simply to keep Rubin from getting suspicious of him.

"You will adjust to our ways," a voice said softly from the door. Hank had neglected to close it, and Isolde had watched him silently for several minutes before speaking. He turned his head and held her eyes. She seemed to take his prolonged stare as an invitation and she moved inside the room. She sat upon the bed so she could face Hank. "It just takes some time."

"Tell me you don't mean that," he replied blankly. This girl, the "lost soul," whom he was supposed to protect, couldn't possibly be that hard-hearted.

Isolde shrugged and Hank looked away from her to stare at the floor.

"We have all faced the Ice Chamber at some point," she explained. "You will, too, eventually. Sooner, no doubt, if you do not learn to trust Rubin's judgment," she added as a cautionary afterthought.

"It's barbaric," Hank muttered with a shake of his head.

"It is not as bad as you imagine," Isolde replied. "It is simply a part of life here. And the Chamber is not, as you might think, merely a form of punishment. It is a source of life as well. The underground glacier provides our drinking water, in addition to an effective means of disciplining insubordinates."

Hank lifted his face to look at the girl across from him. Imagining her enduring an hour in that freezing room sent a reflexive chill down his spine. He held her eyes for several moments, causing Isolde to begin fidgeting again beneath the scrutiny of his gaze. She looked away and focused on her fingers, which toyed with each other uneasily in her lap. Unconsciously, she raised one hand to push a tendril of long hair back behind her ear.

"You don't have a problem with what that guy did?" Hank asked. He spoke softly, trying to appeal to this new gentle nature that Isolde had only recently revealed to him.

Abruptly, Isolde's expression hardened. The demure girlishness melted away at his words, only to be replaced by the stern countenance that Hank had first met. She stood up abruptly. "Whether I like it or not does not matter," she lectured angrily. "You had best not speak ill of Rubin, Hank. He saved my life ten years ago, and I owe him my obedience and fealty." She strode to the door and stopped before exiting. But she did not turn to face Hank again.

"Get some rest," she said, considering the previous matter closed. "We leave tomorrow morning at dawn. You'd best hurry down for Korl before you go to sleep." With that, she left the room and disappeared down the hall.

Hank couldn't shake the feeling of foreboding about tomorrow's quest. He had seen Rubin become a madman before his eyes. He thought back to the previous hour. Looking into Rubin's face, Hank could have sworn that the Assassin had received some kind of perverse amusement from watching the Ranger struggle to hold himself back from rescuing Korl from his beating . . . and even more so from ordering Hank to place the boy in the Ice Chamber.

Hank had not trusted Rubin to begin with, but after tonight's horrific display of absolute power, he couldn't help but think that something terrible was going to happen tomorrow. If this was the man to whom Isolde swore loyalty, Hank would need to keep a closer watch on her.

He rose off his chair so that he might make his way back to the Ice Chamber to retrieve Korl. As he stood, his hand went to his waist, where he kept his small supply pouch. Usually, it was under his outer tunic, but since he had given that to Korl to keep the boy warm, Hank finally noticed it. An idea struck him.

As he left the room, he grabbed the water-skin that hung by his bedside. Then Hank quickly made his way to the Ice Chamber.

To be continued . . .