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: Although I've had this chapter written for some time, I've found that the editing process has caused it to take a very different turn than I'd originally intended. (Thanks, EQ, for the help and advice.) Of course, this means the rest of the story will be a little different than I intended as well – though, hopefully, for the better.
Bring a hankie . . . my original warnings from Part One still apply. I hope you enjoy.
Through a Mirror Darkly
by N.L. Rummi
There may come a time
When I will lose you;
Lose you as I lose my light
Days falling backward into velvet night
Paul Simon
Chapter Four - Heroes for Ghosts
"Hank's been here all right," Presto said as he stooped to examine the forest shrubbery. The Young Ones had been determined to find the Choros Sect the night before, but were forced to stop when it became too dark to see the trail that Hank had left. When dawn broke, they were able to resume their search. "It's a good thing Hank thought to singe the bushes every couple feet with his arrow."
I only hope we're not too late, Sheila wanted to say, but couldn't bring herself to utter the words aloud. "I wonder how much farther," she said instead.
"All I know is we better find this place soon," Eric characteristically griped. "Otherwise I'm gonna be one cranky Ca— Yaaahh!"
The others turned quickly at Eric's cry to see several dark figures advancing on them from behind.
"I guess it wasn't much farther after all!" Bobby exclaimed, raising his club. He took a swing at the nearest assassin, who jumped back to avoid it.
"Abra-la-crackin'! Send these creeps packin'!" Presto commanded his hat. It manifested a hail of objects that caused the attackers to flounder away from him. Presto blinked as several assailants tumbled to the ground, tangled in a mass of flying garments, while others were pelted by what looked like old luggage. The Magician grinned at his hat's strange sense of literal humor and placed it back on his head.
Sheila squelched the advances of two assassins by using the oldest trick in the book: She vanished out from between them just in time for them to ram right into each other. As she reappeared beside Bobby, the boy began to laugh.
"At least we know the Orcs aren't the only ones dumb enough to fall for that!" he said. His sister also giggled.
Diana took a swing at one dark, cloaked figure. Sweeping her staff in a wide arc, she caught him in the back and sent him sprawling on the ground. He got up and ran for the deeper part of the woods. "We've got them on the run, guys!" Diana shouted back to the others with a confident grin.
The Acrobat's smile turned into a surprised grunt as she was suddenly struck from behind and tackled to the ground. A pair of arms pinned hers to her sides. As she was forcefully raised up again, she felt the cold sensation of a blade at her throat. Her eyes frantically scanned the scene surrounding her, and she noticed that her friends had run into similar trouble:
Eric, warding off an attack from the front, had also been seized by two from behind.
Presto had been brought down by a weighted bola thrown by one of the assassins. It was now tangled around his legs. His hat had landed on the ground, beyond his reach.
Bobby's club had been yanked from his grip as he drew it back to take a swing at the attackers in front of him. When he spun around to face the assassin, he found himself being threatened by his own weapon. Uni cowered at his side.
Sheila was cornered against a tall rock by four cloaked figures.
It was clear to Diana that the first group of attackers had been a distraction. She squirmed, and her eyes settled on the Thief. "Sheila!" she yelled, "Quick! Get out of here!"
Sheila locked eyes with Diana, then turned back to her assailants. "GO!" Diana shouted again. As the assassins drew in closer, Sheila gripped the hood of her cloak, pulled it up over her head, and vanished without a trace.
Diana breathed a sigh of partial relief. Then she felt the blade press closer to her neck. She gingerly turned her head as much as she could to get a look at her captor. The Acrobat found herself staring into eyes that were even younger than her own. He's just a kid! They . . . they're all children!
"Take them to Rubin!" Diana's attacker's voice shouted beside her ear, causing her to wince. As the four Young Ones were led away, Diana hoped that Sheila would be all right.
Hank and Isolde walked in silence toward Xanaton. The light of the first sun had begun to brighten the beautiful landscape, but the Ranger still had a very uneasy feeling about today. He kept thinking about what Dungeon Master said: That the "lost soul" must be saved or many lives would be lost; That Isolde needed his protection even though she did not know it; That, in his heart, he knew who could be trusted and who couldn't.
He was also wary of the fact that Rubin had sent him alone with Isolde. If the Sect leader didn't trust him – as the Ranger was certain he did not – why would he allow Hank the opportunity to stop Isolde from following through with her revenge? Hank didn't like this.
In addition, he was worried about the others. He hadn't seen or heard from them in two days. He had half-expected to see them long before now – especially after he had left that trail for them to follow to the Sect. His stomach turned as he wondered if Sheila had made it safely into Xanaton. Was she still there? Did she manage to get to Lloros? Was she okay?
He shook his head. Get a grip, Ranger, he thought to himself. You can only focus on one thing at a time. And Isolde was here right now. Hank decided that he couldn't help her if he couldn't talk to her. "Listen," he said finally, "I'm sorry if I said something wrong last night. I guess I'm just not used to . . . "
"We must be silent," Isolde cut him off, crouching behind a cluster of bushes.
"Sorry," Hank whispered. "I'm not up on my assassination protocol. Guess I should have studied the handbook, huh?"
Isolde may not have gotten his joke, but she did smile a little. At the very least, Hank had succeeded in breaking the façade of anger she had been wearing since last night. In fact, her entire appearance had seemed more severe this morning: her hair was no longer draped upon her shoulders, as it had been last evening, but pulled back into a tight knot, the way it had been when Hank had first met her. Everything about her was hard and functional again. She had lost some of that shy innocence she had allowed to surface last night in Hank's chamber, and he regretted making her angry by revealing his hostility toward Rubin. Perhaps if he hadn't, it would have been easier to get through to her now.
"I suppose we are still far enough away from Xanaton that silence wouldn't matter," Isolde reconsidered. "I am surprised that you are doing this, Hank," she added as she settled herself upon the ground, an action which the Ranger took as a signal to rest. He did the same. "As I said last night, it didn't seem to be in your blood. I am grateful that you do understand my need to do this."
Hank didn't say anything. Now that he had her speaking, he couldn't think of the right words to use to talk her out of this madness.
"Another thing surprises me as well," Isolde continued. "Rubin always insists upon coming along for the kill. I am surprised that he did not join us this time. He was with me before, in Xanaton. He must truly trust you, after all." She offered Hank a faint smile. "You should be honored."
"He always goes?" Hank questioned. That other cloaked figure in Xanaton's square was him?
"Yes, always," Isolde nodded. "As I said, he insists upon it – to protect us. And he never raises his weapon to kill. He promises to leave the glory of our revenge for us alone."
Hank looked around. If Rubin always came along during an assassination, why wasn't he here now? The Ranger was still shooting suspicious glances at their surroundings when Isolde rose to her feet to continue. Hank quickly jumped up as well.
"I don't know about this 'glory in revenge' thing, Isolde," he said. Hank decided that if he didn't say something soon, he might lose his chance. "All it does is put you on the same level as the people who hurt you. You'd be no better than they are. Believe me; that was a lesson I learned the hard way." The Ranger thought back to the time he had come a breath away from destroying Venger in the Dragon's Graveyard. "If you go through with this . . . "
"I told you my reasons!" Isolde hissed, her back to him. "Lloros and his people will pay for destroying my life. I swore it on my father's grave."
"But, Isolde . . . " Without thinking, Hank placed a firm hand on her shoulder. The instant he touched her, the girl spun around, gripped his collar tightly, and pulled him into a deep kiss.
For a dizzying moment, Hank sensed her mouth pressing heavily to his, and could practically taste the desperation that linked them together on the saltiness of her lips. Her fingers released the collar of his tunic and began to thread themselves into his hair, pulling him roughly down to her. After the way she had whirled on him, it took Hank a moment to realize that she was not attacking him. As soon as he grasped what she was actually doing, he raised his hands to her wrists and eased her away from him, breaking contact.
Hank knew from the beginning that he had somehow felt drawn to this girl. But to help her, not to love her. She had an exotic prettiness to her, true, but nothing about this was right. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I . . . I can't do that."
Isolde stared wide-eyed up at him for an eternal moment. Then her brows knitted together in a deep scowl and her eyes flashed with the fury that the Ranger had first seen in them.
"Why not? You understand me, don't you, Hank? You told Rubin that we shared a similar past!" She yanked her wrists free of his grip and stared at him in betrayed confusion.
Hank couldn't process any words, not even the ones he had been carefully choosing a few moments earlier. He hadn't expected this turn, and he had a terrible feeling that he had just made matters a lot worse. Hank stood mute before the raging girl.
"We have both endured such wrongdoing!" Isolde continued, her voice rising to a more frantic pitch. "Me from Lloros, and you from the Dungeon Master!" She didn't seem to care if anyone heard her now. "Think of it, Hank. We could be unstoppable! We could right all the wrongs done throughout the Realm. Together!"
"You think that committing murder in the name of justice is righting a wrong?" Hank asked, finally finding his voice. "I don't. You're better than that, Isolde. You don't have to kill anyone. Please, let me help you. My friends and I . . . "
Hank's words trailed off as the girl took a step back away from him, an even more intense fury burning in her dark eyes. "That's it, isn't it?" she growled. "I knew there had to be another reason you did not want me!"
"Isolde," Hank pleaded. He felt his stomach clench.
"It's that girl! Isn't it, Hank? That fire-headed wench!" Isolde was trembling with rage.
"Isolde, please," Hank said. He attempted to make his tone sound soothing. He stepped toward her, and tried to place his hand on her shoulder again.
In an instant, Isolde's blade was to the Ranger's throat. He withdrew his hand and looked alarmingly into her face. The Assassin, however, would not be dissuaded. Her eyes, framed by long charcoal lashes, continued to burn as her feelings of betrayal festered.
"You know what I am," she said, her voice a deep growl. "You know what I am capable of. I could kill her, Hank. I could slit her throat. If she was gone, then perhaps you would want me."
Hank flinched as the tip of the girl's knife pressed closer to his neck. He had to reason with her. "You wouldn't do that, Isolde," he insisted. "You were right when you said I understood you. I do. I can see good in you. You're not a killer."
Isolde brought her face very close to Hank's ear. "After today I will be, dearest," she whispered in a dark voice; a voice meant to punish.
Hank felt the wind get knocked out of him as the girl's knee jerked swiftly upward into his stomach. He doubled over, trying unsuccessfully to suck air into his violently protesting lungs. His brain had no time to register anything before the hilt of Isolde's blade struck the back of his head.
Then, everything went black.
"Hey! Ease off, you bully!"
Bobby scowled as the tip of the assassin's blade poked between his shoulders. He glanced with concern to where another was dragging Uni behind him with a tether. The only part of the Barbarian's brain that wasn't smoldering with anger was the part that was thinking about his sister. He was at least grateful that she had gotten away . . . even though he didn't know where she was.
"Where are you taking us?" Eric demanded of the young assassin behind him.
"To someone with more power than you'll ever know, fool," came a snarl from the boy.
"Who? Rubin? Are you kidding?" Eric snorted, ignoring Diana's Eric-Keep-Your-Big-Mouth-Shut expression. "This Rubin bozo would be shaking in his shoes if he knew who my father— Ooof!" The Cavalier's words were abruptly cut off. The next place he found himself was face-down in the dirt.
"Silence, worm!" the assassin commanded. Eric only managed to spit out a mouthful of earth in response. The youth who hovered over him laughed cruelly, but it was abruptly cut off by a sudden chaos that erupted all around them.
A new band of combatants had emerged from the trees beyond the path and had forced the assassins to scatter and regroup. God! What now? Eric thought as he covered his head with his hands and remained prostrate on the ground. Bullywogs? Lizard Men? Two-headed, ten armed, blood-sucking mutant monsters?
Eric wailed as someone grabbed the scruff of his cape and hoisted him to his feet. In the absence of his shield, he crossed his arms defensively in front of his face. It was a moment before he dared to peek at the person in front of him. When he did, he blinked in surprise. "Golon?"
"Shake a leg, Cavalier!" Diana called as she ran past, heaving him his weapon that she had somehow managed to retrieve. "Reinforcements are here!"
After catching his shield, Eric watched as dozens of the townsmen of Xanaton descended upon the assassins who had captured the Young Ones and began pushing them back. He retreated a few paces to stand beside Presto. The Magician was trying to pull something useful out of his hat.
"Remind me to ask you later what the heck just happened here!" Eric bellowed to Presto as the young assassins dispersed and fled into the trees.
"Lloros convinced them to come help us!" Bobby shouted as he joined them.
"Yeah, but how'd they find us?" Presto replied as he pulled a bullhorn out of his hat. Not knowing what else to do with it, he jammed one finger into his ear and fired a retreat blast after the assassins as they escaped back into the darkness of the woods.
"Who cares!" hollered Bobby impatiently. "We have to find Hank and Sheila!" The Barbarian spun around abruptly at the sound of a grunt behind him. He raised his club and glanced down to the ground, where an attacking assassin had landed. The youth made a clumsy crab-walk backwards away from Bobby, then he turned over and staggered to his feet at a run. He, like most of his comrades, also disappeared into the trees. Bobby cracked a smile as he looked around for who had saved him.
"You can stop worrying about one of us, at least," a disembodied voice said from beside the boy. Bobby grinned happily as Sheila removed her hood. The girl bent down and hugged her brother affectionately. "I'm so glad you're all right," she said. "I hurried back as fast as I could."
"Aw, Sis!" Bobby grumbled as she gushed over him, but didn't make a move to push her away.
"Sheila!" Diana cried as she joined the rest of the Young Ones, shrinking her javelin down slightly. "You found us!"
"Who do you think led Golon here?" the Thief replied with a smile.
The Young Ones were distracted from their reunion by the sudden sounds of a struggle a short distance away.
"Talk, Choros whelp!"
They turned to see Golon lifting one of the assassins – who had not escaped with the others – up against a tree. They quickly gathered behind him.
"Where is the one who leads you?" Golon growled. "Where is the girl Isolde?"
The assassin boy sneered weakly, dangling by his collar from Golon's large grip. "You are too late," he managed to grunt. "They have journeyed on ahead to Xanaton. By the time you return there, it will be too late for your beloved mage."
Golon drew his fist back.
"No!" Diana said, gripping the sleeve of the man's shirt. "We can't waste any time. We have to get back to the city. Hank will be trying to stop them, and he can't hold them off by himself for long."
Golon hesitated. He took one final heated glare at the boy in his grip – a boy who was far too young to know of such malice – then he allowed the youth to drop to the ground. The assassin staggered into the thick copse of trees.
The Young Ones turned and swiftly began to make their way back toward the city. "Diana!" Eric called to the Acrobat as they ran. "How do you know Hank's gonna be there?"
"I know he is, Eric," she answered. "He has to be."
Lloros watched the woods beyond Xanaton. He had been insistent in sending his people to aid the Young Ones in their search for the Choros Sect. There was something about those children – something honest, something virtuous, something pure of heart – that made him believe their story.
After all, the man was, first and above all else, a father – a father who had just been granted hope in the impossible: that his lost child was not gone forever.
In the course of one evening, five young souls had made his spirit live again for the first time in a decade. Or was it six? The one named Sheila had said she had another friend who was with Isolde right now. Bless that lad if he was able to bring her home.
Golon had called Lloros trusting; blinded by hope; too eager to trust what may be a trick. But Lloros preferred to be blinded by hope than mired in the despair that had been his life for the past ten years. And if it was a trick . . . if he was to perish because of his faith in the possibility of a miracle . . . then so be it. Either way, at least he would be with his Isolde again.
Yes, Lloros was a father above all. Therefore, it was rather impulsively that he had instructed his people to seek out and assist the Young Ones. A short time later, it was that same impulsion that brought him to the high ridge, outside the protection of the city, to await their return.
After several minutes of gazing in the direction of the forest beyond the gorge below, Lloros turned to walk back down the ridge. He did not wish to return to the city, but he did feel the impatient need to pace.
His ears caught the sound of a rustle of leaves behind him, and he turned slowly. Lloros suddenly felt as though he was no longer alone, but he knew his people could not have returned yet; he would have seen their approach from the lookout point upon the ridge. He glanced down at the shrubbery on his right and saw nothing. When his eyes shifted back to the trail, a dark hooded figure was standing there.
Lloros was startled, but only for a moment. "So," he said wearily. "It has come to this. After all my years of searching you have finally come to me."
The glint of a dagger flashed in the morning sun as the cloaked figure slowly procured it from beneath the dark garments.
"You unholy monster," Lloros said. His voice was still quiet, more pitying than hostile. "I will not give you the satisfaction of chasing me down. You want me? Here I am. But answer me one thing."
The figure cocked its cloaked head to the side.
"Did she suffer?" Lloros asked, his steady tone wavering slightly.
"Suffer?" said a woman's voice from beneath the hood. "You dare question me about suffering after what you and your people did to me?"
Lloros' eyes narrowed in confusion. "You are not Rubin," he said.
In a flash, the figure charged Lloros. The mage could hear the whizzing sound of a blade slicing the air . . . slicing cloth . . . and then flesh. A white-hot fire seared across his shoulder and he cried out. A second attack swiftly came from behind, slashing through his leg, and the man sank to his knees. Lloros glared upward. He gripped his torn shoulder as the cloaked figure appeared in front of him again, displaying the stained dagger. The suns were now reflecting off the gleam of Lloros' own blood on the blade.
"No," the woman's voice spoke again. "I am not Rubin." She raised her other arm and removed the hood of her cape. "But I am death. Yours."
Lloros grew horrified as he found himself staring into his own eyes. The eyes of this girl were the same as his own – but hers seemed to burn with a dark hatred. Lloros had wanted so much to believe what Sheila had said. Every fiber of his being prayed for it to be true. Even when Golon had told him that it couldn't possibly be, he had still hoped.
There was no mistaking it now. This girl. She was . . .
"Isolde." The word left Lloros' lips like a prayer.
The girl flashed a cruel but amused smile. "You remember me, I see."
"My child," Lloros said through tears he couldn't hold back, "your face has entered my dreams every night for these past ten years."
"I am glad to hear you at least feel some repentance for those you scourge and leave for dead." Isolde took a step toward him. She hesitated as her eyes met his.
What evil trick was this? His eyes were like hers. Like Papa's! Isolde gripped her dagger even tighter. How dare he? How dare he use her father's beautiful eyes against her! This ended now. She raised the blade and took another step.
"My sweet, sweet Isolde," Lloros wept. "What has that monster done to you?"
"Poor, poor Lloros," came another voice – a dark, unctuous voice – from behind Isolde. The mage reluctantly tore his eyes away from his daughter to see Rubin suddenly standing there.
"Rubin!" Isolde exclaimed. Her face was awash with obvious relief. "I thought you were not coming!"
"I wouldn't miss this, my dear." The Assassin's voice remained a deep monotone as he took a few steps toward her from behind.
"What have you done to her, you vile monstrosity?" Lloros demanded. His sorrow had turned into unabashed fury.
"Ah, Lloros, my old enemy," Rubin sighed. "You seem to have lost something." He looked from Lloros to the girl and grinned. "Think of it: To have waited and suffered this long, dreaming of the one thing your pitiful magic could never bring back." He stood alongside Isolde and tilted his head appreciatively at Lloros, who was still on his knees. "And now you shall meet your death at her hands. My revenge will soon be complete."
Isolde's blade, which had been held firm and steady in the mage's direction, began to waver slightly. "Rubin?" she said. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "I do not understand. Lloros' demise is my revenge."
"And you have done your part," Rubin stated matter-of-factly. "But now I shall take my own revenge."
"What?" the girl asked. "What do you mean?" She tried to divide her attention between the man behind her and the victim at her feet.
"My dear girl, you are so precious – so naïve," Rubin replied soothingly. He reached his hand out to stroke her hair. "It seems almost a shame that I must destroy you now."
The Assassin's hand seized Isolde's throat and pulled her back against him. She dropped her dagger and let out a strangled scream. The flash of Rubin's sword gleamed in the morning suns as he pressed the drawn blade firmly against her neck. Isolde struggled to turn her head and look upon his face, which was now alongside hers. Her eyes were filled with a wild, confused panic.
"Rubin!" she shuddered. "W-what are you doing?"
"Completing my vengeance," he sneered wickedly into her ear, "with your help, dear girl."
"Rubin—" she started to protest, but was silenced as his sword pressed further into her throat.
Lloros began to raise his hand, bloodied from gripping his torn shoulder. It was aglow with an intense light.
"Cease your pitiful magic, water mage," Rubin ordered with a contemptuous sneer. "Yours is no match for the One who commands me. Of course, if you wish her dead . . . "
Lloros lowered his hand and the glowing died. "Please," he begged, "if you wish revenge upon me, take it. But, please, spare her."
Isolde eyed her hated enemy in tear-filled confusion. Why? Why was Lloros pleading for her life? And why had Rubin, the one man she trusted – the man who had saved her ten years ago – suddenly gone mad?
"You seem bewildered, Isolde dear," Rubin whispered to her. "You wished for the perfect revenge. Here it is: What better revenge upon Lloros than to have him stricken by the hand of his own daughter?"
"You lie!" Isolde's voice cracked in a shuddering murmur. "The scars! That was him! He murdered my father!"
Isolde could feel Rubin's rumbling laughter against her back as he pulled her tightly against him. The sword was still biting into the base of her throat. Rubin dragged one thumb across her cheek.
"Yes," he agreed, though his words were directed at Lloros. "Your daughter was a brave girl – difficult to break down. It took several lashings and numerous trips to the Ice Chamber before she broke into submission. When she ultimately believed that it was you who tortured her, Lloros, . . . well, that was a victorious day for me! Even though I was still in the exile you had forced upon me, I began to see hope that revenge would one day be mine."
Tears streamed down Isolde's cheeks. "You lied to me," she breathed in a small voice. "My father . . . lives?" Her stomach turned as Rubin laughed and caressed her cheek again.
"You bastard!" Lloros spat hatefully. "Leave her be! You have tortured her enough! If it is revenge upon me that you want, come and take it; I will not stop you. But let - her - go!"
Rubin sneered at the man – gaunt and broken through years of despair, now further tormented through anguish and anger. "Isolde," he said to the girl, "you often wondered why I insisted upon being present at each kill." He could feel the violent sobs that now wracked Isolde's body as she trembled against his chest. "This. This is why: The revenge was never yours. It was mine. As it is for all my Sect's children. And I shall have it now." He smiled. "Farewell, my dear."
"What are you doing?" demanded Lloros. He attempted to stand, but his damaged leg would not permit it.
"Taking my perfect revenge," Rubin replied. "After all these years, you thought your beloved daughter to be dead. I would wager that seeing her again, whether she despised you or not, is like a dream, isn't it, old man? What could be worse than finally finding your Isolde . . . only to lose her again?" Rubin's eyes flashed with gleeful malice. "Say goodbye, Lloros." He twisted the broken mage's name with a snarl and brought his sword up fully into striking position.
"Papa!" Isolde reflexively screamed as the teeth of Rubin's jagged sword bit into her throat.
"Get away from her, Rubin!"
Rubin stopped and grinned as though he had expected this. "Isolde, I'm disappointed with you," he said in an amused taunt. "After all my tutelage on how to handle those who betray us . . . you left him alive?" He turned around slowly. A sinister smile spread across his lips as he faced a golden flaming arrow and equally burning blue eyes.
"Now, Rubin!" Hank ordered again. "Let her go!"
"Just as I thought," Rubin sneered. "No stomach for what must be done. Welcome, Hank." The man grinned calmly.
For the second time in his life, Hank the Ranger felt the vehement urge to discharge his weapon straight into the heart of his enemy. And after what he had just heard, he would have felt justified in doing so. He stood utterly still and steady, his aim unwavering. It would be so easy to end this – to make it so this monster would never harm another child for the profit of his own revenge. His own cowardly revenge, Hank fumed. What he did to that girl – to her father – to her life – was inhuman.
But that was all Rubin was: a coward. And this wasn't Hank's revenge. Although he may have played the part, he was not an assassin. As Hank had told Isolde: murder in the name of vigilante justice was still murder. He wouldn't kill for his own satisfaction. He didn't do it to Venger; he wouldn't do it to this pitiful excuse for a human being – not unless he was forced to. Rubin's fate was best left up to those he had wronged: Isolde, Lloros, the people of Xanaton.
However, if Rubin thought that Hank wouldn't put up a fight, he was sorely mistaken. The Ranger steeled himself, his arrow leveled at the Assassin. He retracted his right arm even further and stared down its burning shaft, to where Rubin held Isolde like a shield in front of him. The girl's face was stained with tears – both from fear and from shame. There was a thin bloodied track along the base of her throat where the sword was still pressed.
"I'm warning you, Rubin," Hank demanded. "Let her go, now!"
"With pleasure," the Assassin growled. He suddenly cast Isolde away and leapt at the Ranger with his sword raised high. Hank discharged his arrow, but missed. His attention had been momentarily diverted: Isolde had tumbled several feet down the hillside and struck her head upon a rock. She lay motionless several yards away from her father, who cried out and attempted to drag himself to her. A second later, the Ranger's focus was back on his attacker. The swinging sword drove him back – higher up the slope of the ridge.
Hank took advantage of the extra few feet he now had between himself and the Assassin. He raised his bow again. Rubin gripped the stealth cloak that he was wearing and wrapped it tightly around himself. Hank's eyes darted left and right as he struggled to keep the camouflaged man in his sights. He remembered how Isolde had moved the first time he had encountered her. Although she wasn't invisible like Sheila, her semi-shrouded movements had seemed swifter, more unnoticeable. Hank tried desperately to concentrate on following Rubin with both his eyes and his weapon. He couldn't. He lost him.
"Hank! Behind you!"
The Ranger spun around at the warning just in time to avoid another thrust that came at him. Rubin had thrown his entire body into the attack. He flew past Hank and landed at his feet. Hank took the brief moment of reprieve to glance in the direction of the familiar voice that had warned him.
Sheila.
Sheila, Diana, and Eric to be exact. The three came running up the steep incline that led to the top of the ridge. Presto and Bobby had gone on ahead to Xanaton with Golon. In case there were more assassins attacking the city, the people there would need protecting.
Hank beamed at the sight of his friends again. It was short-lived, however. Rubin had quickly climbed to his feet once more. "Guys!" Hank shouted as he readied himself for another attack. "Get them back to the city!"
The three ran to where Lloros lay. He was very groggy, but he was still trying to reach his unconscious daughter.
"He's lost a lot of blood," Diana said. She bent down and wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders. "We'll both have to carry him."
Eric seized his other side, being mindful of the man's wounded shoulder. The two lifted the flaccid mage to his feet.
Lloros suddenly stiffened and began to protest. "No! Isolde! Save her! I beg you!"
Sheila turned to look farther up the hill, to where the girl was lying. "I'll get her!" she called to the others as she ran from them.
Eric and Diana made their way toward the city gates as fast as they could, carrying Lloros between them. It didn't take them long to reach the entrance of Xanaton. Eric turned his head back to the ridge, where they had left their two friends behind. "I think Hank's gonna need some more help!" he said to Diana.
"Presto!" Eric shouted as the three neared the drawbridge, hoping the Magician was within earshot. "Presto, c'mere and take this guy! I'm going back for Hank and Sheila!"
Presto and Golon came racing onto the bridge. Golon made a beeline for Eric's side. "I have him, my friend," the man said as he lifted Lloros from Eric's shoulder. "Go and help your comrades."
Eric took a moment to give a nod in Golon's direction. This was the first time the man had acknowledged the fact that the Young Ones were actually there to help. It was certainly the first time he had referred to them as "friends." Eric, however, didn't dwell on any warm-fuzzies at the moment. He turned and ran back in the direction of the ridge.
"Be careful, Eric!" Diana called after him as she helped Golon carry Lloros safely into the city.
"You know me!" he called back. "Eric the Head-Case Cavalier! Stupid as ever!"
Sheila reached the prone Isolde and struggled to turn the girl over. There was a large gash in her forehead and the Thief wondered if moving her was even a good idea. Maybe she should help Hank first. Then he could help her to . . .
A vicious roar from Rubin caught Sheila's attention, and her head snapped up involuntarily. She looked toward the top of the ridge.
Hank barely managed to parry the blow that came at him. He raised his arms and blocked it with his bow. Since entering the Realm, this was probably the first battle Hank had fought that was entirely hand-to-hand. Rubin clearly had more experience in this area. He hadn't allowed Hank to get the distance he was used to – the distance he needed to use his bow effectively. While Hank's weapon was arguably one of the strongest Weapons of Power, it was not supposed to be used in this way. Hank found himself wishing for Eric's shield as Rubin struck again.
The Assassin's jagged sword clashed with the golden bow and became locked there – high above their heads. The two combatants were now engaged in a deadly tug-of-war. Hank didn't dare let go of the bow with his right hand to reach for the string; he was already using all his strength to keep the Assassin at bay. Neither man could afford to be the one to pull out of their deadlock. If Hank were to back up – even a few steps – he could very easily tumble over the edge of the ridge. If Rubin were to allow himself to be forced back, that would give the Ranger the space he needed to use his arrow.
The Assassin had other plans.
As their weapons remained locked overhead, Rubin took a step closer. He was so near that Hank could feel the heat of the man's rancid breath upon his face. "I wanted to thank you, boy," the Assassin grunted. Hank looked puzzled through the strain of their struggle, and Rubin grinned. "Thanks to you I shall soon be back in the good graces of my Master."
"What are you talking about," Hank managed, using all his strength to keep the weapons aloft.
"Did you think for a moment that I trusted you? You? One of Dungeon Master's prized pupils?" Rubin sneered evilly at the boy in front of him. "Yes, I know about you."
Hank felt his muscles tremble and he grit his teeth. He lost a few inches of ground as his feet slid slightly upon the earth.
Rubin was still smiling. "Do you recall me telling you that Dungeon Master would be the next target? A lie! He shall be the first to suffer today. As will all those who stand against me!"
With a swift movement, the Assassin gave an abrupt shove. It threw Hank off balance long enough for Rubin's left hand to release its hold on his jagged sword and dive beneath his cloak, procuring a slender, wooden-handled dagger from its place there. Before Hank knew what was happening, the man had brought the smaller knife down between both of their bodies. Hank quickly released one of his hands from his bow and gripped Rubin's wrist, struggling to keep the second blade away from him.
Sheila leapt to her feet beside Isolde and took a few running steps up the slope. Hank glanced briefly in her direction and she froze as their eyes met. He seemed surprised to see her still there. He saw the panic in her eyes, just as she had seen the surprise in his. His arms continued to tremble and beads of sweat rolled down his temples as he struggled against both of Rubin's blades.
Rubin flashed another sneer at the young man. Then he spoke one last time. "Dungeon Master's hero falls today. Consider this a greeting from your old enemy . . . Ranger."
And he broke though the fist that held him, thrusting his arm forward.
Suddenly, Sheila noticed something else in Hank's eyes: They became instantly wider, full of what looked like shock, and his shoulders involuntarily lurched forward. Sheila felt her own body jerk in response to Hank's sudden movement. She could feel her stomach twist into painful knots as an icy chill ran up her back.
Everything started to move in slow motion. Rubin lowered his arm and took a casual step back. Hank remained standing on the crest of the ridge. Sheila could see that he was trembling; his hand was pressed tightly to his abdomen. When Rubin turned to smile at her, she saw it: the crimson stains on the wooden hilt of the blade in his fist. Her eyes flew to where Hank was prudently removing his hand from his stomach – exposing ruddy fingers and a widening circle of red on the front of his green leather tunic. The Ranger took a staggering step back.
No.
Sheila barely said the word. Barely mouthed it, in fact. But her brain screamed it. It was more of an inward protest, a silent cry – splitting the silence for no one but her. She shook her head, trying to deny what she had seen. It was several moments before Sheila realized that she had started screaming. The tortured cries echoed throughout her entire body.
"HANK!"
Rubin snarled at her one last time, then turned back to Hank. He slashed his blade swiftly through the air, causing a reflex reaction from the Ranger.
"NO!" Sheila screamed again in protest as Hank awkwardly jumped back to avoid the Assassin's swing. He lost his footing and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.
Sheila ran. She had to get to him. She had to save him. She had to do something.
The Thief felt herself get tackled to the ground from behind.
"Stop it! You're gonna get yourself killed, too!"
Sheila struggled against the weight of the person on top of her. Several seconds later, she was released and she scrambled to get to her knees. Strong hands seized her shoulders and gripped her firmly. One hand trailed up to her head to keep her face turned away from the crest of the ridge. "Don't look," the voice said again. Sheila recognized it.
"Don't touch me, Eric!" she suddenly shrieked. "Let me go! I have to do something!" Sheila flailed against the Cavalier until he released her. She stumbled away from him as he made a grab for her again.
"Sheila," he said quietly, "there's nothing you can do."
The Thief shot to her feet and turned. Rubin was nowhere in sight either. "Where did he go?" Sheila hissed.
Eric scrambled to his feet as well. "He probably slipped by us with that stealth cloak of his," he said as he reached again for Sheila. He looked around. "Isolde's gone, too. He must have taken her." Eric's hand found his friend's arm, but she yanked it away.
"I said keep your hands off me!" she warned. "I . . . I . . . " Sheila began to tremble. She turned and clambered to the edge of the cliff. Her heart leapt as she looked down. He would be there; she knew it. He would have fired an arrow to use as a climbing rope. Then she and Eric would bring him to the healers in Xanaton. Hank would be fine. He always managed to make everything all right.
She looked.
Nothing. There was nothing there. Not even a bottom to the chasm below. Nothing.
Sheila's mind wouldn't accept it. She stooped down to take a closer look. Her fingers touched something wet in the grass. As she looked at them, she came to the horrifying realization that things were not going to be all right . . . probably not ever again.
Eric took her hand and stood her up. "We should go," he said hoarsely. Sheila could hear an odd quaver in his voice.
She pulled her hand free of Eric's grip and stared at him hotly. The Thief felt an intense fire burning in her face, but to look at her, she was blanched and ghostly pale. Her tortured mind couldn't tell if it was grief-stricken, enraged, or just numb. Her eyes welled up as she looked at Eric.
Then she raised the hood of her cloak and vanished.
"Sheila!" the Cavalier hollered. "Sheila!" He spun around and looked in all directions, but he already knew it wouldn't do any good.
As it became apparent that Sheila wasn't coming back, Eric hung his head. His eyes found his own gauntlet. The hand he had used to pull Sheila to her feet was now faintly spotted with red stains. Eric shuddered and clenched his fist tightly. He stood alone on the high ridge, his shoulders beginning to shake with sobs.
"Where have you been?" Presto exclaimed as Eric entered Lloros' house. The Cavalier didn't answer. He didn't know how.
"Hey there, mister savior!" Diana said as she descended the stairs from the upper room. "Lloros is with the healers and he can't wait to see—"
The Acrobat froze as she saw Eric's grave expression. She had never seen him look that way before. She also noticed that he was alone. Diana came down the stairs more quickly and hurried over to him. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Where are the others?" She looked past him, to see if anyone else was emerging through the open doorway, but there was no one there.
"Rubin took Isolde back," Eric reported as though in a daze. "Sheila disappeared – literally . . . " He tried to swallow the lump in his throat before attempting to continue. He couldn't.
"Hank . . . " Eric's voice trailed off as he stared downward at his gauntlet. He tried to cover it up by suddenly running his hand through his hair, but Diana reached forward and caught his wrist. She inspected the spot where the Cavalier had been staring. Her breath caught in her throat as she noticed the pale ruddy stains on his palm. When she looked back up, the tears forming in Eric's eyes told her everything.
Oh, my God.
"No!" a voice said from behind them. Bobby had also come down the stairs. "NO!" he repeated in a shrill cry. "Hank said everything would be all right! He promised!"
Uni hid behind a chair, frightened by her companion's sudden frenzy.
"Bobby," Diana said gently as she took a step toward him. The boy backed away.
"Where's Sheila? Where's my sister? H-he promised! He promised, Diana! He promised!"
The Acrobat reached out and grabbed Bobby by the wrist as he tried to back away again. She pulled the struggling boy to her and hugged him fiercely. Bobby continued to sob, fighting her only half-heartedly now. " . . . He promised! He promised! . . . "
"It's going to be okay, Bobby," Diana whispered.
" . . . He promised! He promised! . . . "
It was nearly nightfall when she returned. Initially, she had begun wandering numbly, not exactly sure where she had gone. When some of her faculties returned, she had attempted to reach the chasm below the ridge. But she couldn't find a way to get there; the steep incline made it impossible. Hank's arrow could have lowered her down, but . . .
Somehow, Sheila ended up back here – where she had last seen him. A large part of her was utterly convinced that this had to be some terrible nightmare. But, deep down, she knew: no matter how hard she prayed, there was no waking up from this dream.
After all that they had been through . . .Venger . . . Tiamat . . . even He Whose Name Can Not Be Spoken . . . They had come through it all in one piece. But now . . .
Sheila walked slowly to the top of the ridge and looked down again.
Nothing.
Nothing left but empty space and a crimson stain on the grass beneath her feet. Sheila stooped down again and touched the sticky reddened blades. She rubbed her fingers together and then fell heavily to her knees, as though finally gripped by the cruel reality of what had happened. Sheila could feel the moistness from the grass below her soaking through her high leather boots.
Hot tears burned behind her tight eyelids and began finding their way to her cheeks. She brought her trembling hands up and buried her face in them. Involuntarily, she touched her forehead gently with the tips of her fingers.
The spot where he had kissed her. After all this time, he had finally . . .
Oh, Hank!
Sheila's body became wracked with silent weeping. For as much as she felt like howling in pain, her body would make no sound. All she could do was wrap her arms around herself in an attempt to control the violent convulsions of sobs – afraid that she would surely crumble to pieces if she didn't.
To be continued . . .
