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: Ever write an entire story around one specific scene? This chapter has mine.
Through a Mirror Darkly
by N.L. Rummi
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not,
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas
Chapter Five - Broken Arrow
Isolde's eyes fluttered open. She blearily struggled to focus on what was in front of her, only to find that she was staring at the floor. She was also standing upright, in the middle of a dimly lit chamber. Her arms were bound tightly and painfully above her head; her feet were barely touching the ground.
She attempted to raise her head and look around, but her motions were met with a nauseating dizziness. Her head swimming, Isolde felt as though she might pass out again. She lowered her eyes once more.
What happened to me? I can't remember.
The girl stiffened as her eyes converged at a point on the floor. She didn't really look at it, but used it as a point of focus. It was then that the memories of what had happened outside Xanaton flooded back to her.
Yes, I do! I do remember. Rubin . . . he betrayed me. He . . . used me. Used me to take revenge on Llo-- Papa! Oh, by the gods! Papa!
Isolde's head shot up at the thought of Lloros – her father Lloros – bleeding profusely and helplessly from wounds she had inflicted with her own hand. The swift motion of her head sent a wave of dizziness over her again and her knees buckled beneath her. Her body hung flaccidly from her chains as she struggled to regain clarity.
What have I done? she thought as she slowly straightened. How could I have allowed him to turn me against Papa?
Isolde mentally lashed herself for succumbing to the brainwashing, far worse than any whip ever could. Even the seven-year-old child she had been would know the difference between kindness and cruelty. But after living and breathing the life of an assassin for ten years, Isolde also knew that under conditions as dire as hers, the instinct for survival takes control. Given enough time, that instinct to survive may become an earnest belief in whatever one is being told. And she had fully come to believe that Lloros had been the cause of her torment. If it had not been for Hank, both she and her father might have . . . .
Hank?
Isolde's brow furrowed, causing a tight pull of the skin along the hairline of her forehead, where a patch of crusted blood had clotted. Hank had come back to save her. But why? She did not understand. In fact, everything about the crystal-eyed Ranger confused her. First, he befriended her. Then, he rejected and betrayed her. And then, even after what she had done, he had attempted to rescue her. But what had happened? Where was he? Why was she now here? What had happened to her? And what had happened to Papa?
A door behind her rattled open and Isolde heard footsteps entering the room. She recognized the metallic tread of Rubin's heavy boots on the stone floor of the underground Sect. She said nothing to him, but followed him with steely eyes as he appeared at her side and began to circle around her with a venomous smile. He stopped walking as he reached her other side and said, "You seem puzzled, my dear."
Isolde turned her eyes away. She knew that a response or even a look would give the man too much satisfaction. Heedless of her lack of cooperation, Rubin drew a step closer and continued. "I suppose you are wondering why your flaxen-haired hero was unable to whisk you away," he said, the icy words dripping from his lips. He took another step closer and reached out to stroke the girl's cheek with one rough knuckle. She briefly flinched at his touch, but continued to stand stiff. It was one of the things Rubin had taught her that was of any use now: "Never give your enemy the pleasure of seeing your fear – only your hatred."
"No one can take you away from me, my dear," he said with a mocking softness, ignoring her proud bravery. "This is your home. And you . . . you are mine." Rubin continued to eye her with a kind of bemused curiosity. He reached for a strand of her hair, which fell in loose, tangled strings beside her face. "Shall I tell you why your so-called hero did not rescue you?" he asked with a quiet smile as he curled one lock around his finger. "I could say that he was truly in league with me from the beginning and that he succeeded where you failed – that he destroyed Lloros for me and brought you back here."
Isolde scowled at every word.
"I could say that he was ultimately a coward and fled."
Isolde remained turned away as she swallowed hard.
"But I suppose," Rubin sighed, "after years of lies you finally deserve the truth." The Assassin drew his face only inches from hers and whispered maliciously into her ear. "Your Ranger . . . is dead."
Isolde turned a shaky head to meet Rubin's cold eyes with her burning ones. "You lie!" she hissed.
Rubin straightened away from her. "I might have known you would not believe me," he sighed again. "Not without proof." As he turned to walk away, he tossed something at the girl's feet. Isolde's eyes followed the sound until they came to rest on a slender dagger that had landed there. The blade was clean, but Isolde could see a darkened staining of the rough wooden handle, making it look a deeper brown. A moment later, Rubin's left glove landed on top of the dagger. Along the curve of the grip, the leather surface was stained the same reddish brown color. Isolde's body began to shake.
". . . no . . . ," she breathed.
"Pity," Rubin mused, this time from behind her. "He was rather brave. Just think, my dear: If you had not brought him into this, he would still be alive."
Satisfying Rubin's lust for feeding on weakness or not, Isolde could no longer control the sobs that shook her entire body.
"You feel responsible, don't you, dear?" Rubin said with mock-affection from behind her. "As though you should be punished for what you have done to him? Very well. That can be easily arranged."
Isolde's body ceased its trembling and stiffened almost instantly at the sound of a sharp crack behind her. She knew that sound. As the crack echoed again through the small room, she could feel the sudden whoosh of air against her bare skin.
Bare skin?
For the first time, Isolde realized that the back of her shirt was open – her naked scarred flesh exposed. She sighed wearily and closed her eyes, knowing too well what was to come. Only this time, she knew exactly who was doing it to her. She channeled her hatred, determined to use it to keep herself from screaming.
Rubin made her wait for several agonizing seconds before actually beginning. He delayed until he saw her body relax a bit – when the whip's first kiss would be almost unexpected. At the first lash, Isolde cried out sharply. Then she wrapped her fingers around her chains and bit her lip until she tasted the bitter tang of blood. She resolved not to do it again. Her skin sizzled under the heat of the flogging that followed. She squeezed her eyes shut as tears streamed down her face.
Hank, she prayed, please give me strength.
"Sheila? Sheila. Wake up!"
The Thief stirred in her spot on the ground. She knew she must have cried herself to sleep. Sheila rubbed her eyes. They felt as though they had become sealed shut by her salty tears; they were puffy and swollen to the touch. She glanced around sleepily at her surroundings and noticed that she was still on the ridge outside Xanaton. Sheila heard a voice speaking to her again and, this time, she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Wake up."
She raised her head and squinted up at the person hovering over her. Suddenly, her drowsy haze vanished as she focused fully on the china-blue eyes of the person who knelt there.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Hank!"
She flew upward from her spot on the ground and was instantly in his arms. Her head was a whirl of disbelief and relieved gratitude. It felt as though many moments passed before she could speak again.
"I saw him . . . ," she finally gasped. "I thought you were . . . Oh, God! How did you . . . ?" Sheila trembled like a leaf as Hank's arms wrapped tightly around her.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here." He eased Sheila out of their fierce embrace and cupped her face in his hands. He wiped her new tears away gently with this thumbs. "Are you okay?" he asked.
Sheila nodded, but began to notice a bubbling dread in the pit of her stomach – leftover horror from what she had seen happen to him. She grabbed onto his wrists tightly as his hands continued to cup her face.
"There isn't a lot of time, Sheila," Hank said. "I need you to do something for me."
Sheila looked confused. "What do you mean? A lot of time for what?" She squeezed his wrists tighter to prove to herself that he was real.
Hank lowered his hands to his knees, and hers along with them. He flipped his palms over and gripped her hands firmly. "I need you to find the 'lost soul'," he answered, looking insistently into her face. "It's not over yet. You have to help Isolde. Please, Sheila. Find the others and help her."
Sheila narrowed her eyes at him. "What?" she asked quietly. "What about you? We have to get you to the—" Her words stopped abruptly as she glanced down to his stomach. She gasped. The wound that Rubin had inflicted was no longer there. Sheila liberated one of her hands from Hank's grip and reached tentatively toward it. The blood was gone too. "How?" she asked, barely in a breath.
"Sheila, please," Hank said again. "Before I go, promise me you'll do this."
Sheila had a difficult time processing his words at first – she was so staggered, both by his reappearance and by his astounding lack of injury. When what he had said finally registered, she glanced dazedly from the clean spot on his uniform back to his face. She narrowed her gaze at him again. "Go? Where are you—?"
There was a rush of movement, and Sheila spoke her last words into Hank's mouth, which was suddenly on hers. Once again, her mind was wiped of any rational thought. After a quick whimper of surprise, Sheila unconsciously wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. Hank's lips were firm and gentle, but tinged with a noticeable desperation. Sheila gripped him tighter, and Hank deepened the kiss.
His arms encircled her waist; his fists clutched two great handfuls of her dusty cape. Sheila rose higher onto her knees to meet his body with hers. A warm rush flooded through her as she instinctively and eagerly leaned into him.
Hank allowed his lips to linger there for another moment before easing back. He pressed his forehead to Sheila's and they stayed that way for a few seconds. Sheila squeezed her eyes shut and sank her fingers into his hair. She wouldn't have minded staying this way forever.
Finally, Hank's hands trailed upward to cradle her face once more. He backed off and tilted his head with a smile. His eyes searched for contact with hers. "Promise me?" he asked again in a whisper.
Sheila suddenly couldn't speak. She felt him move back away from her. She was still so thunderstruck, the Realm could have collapsed around her and she probably wouldn't have noticed. The sound of Hank's voice brought her back to herself. When she realized he had been speaking to her, she mutely nodded her head "yes." Hank tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His smile turned sad as he touched her face again.
"Thank you," he replied as he rose, leaving Sheila kneeling on the ground at his feet. "I have to go now."
"G-go? Where?" Sheila asked, finally finding her voice as Hank walked to the edge of the ridge. "Hank?"
Hank turned at the sound of his name. "I'll always be with you, Sheila," he said as he faced her again. Sheila drew a horrified breath at the sight of the angry red stains blooming out from the center of his tunic once more. "Hank?" she shuddered. "Hank?"
"Goodbye," Hank whispered as he took a step back – over the edge of the cliff.
"HANK!"
Sheila awoke with a strangled scream and looked around, wide-eyed. She was, as she remembered, on top of the ridge outside Xanaton. And she was alone. Hank was not there, nor was there any indication that he had ever been there . . . aside from what was left of the sticky stains on the grass. The dim glow of evening lay upon the surroundings like a soft blanket, but there was still enough light for Sheila to see everything around her. The sky was filled with the gray glow that usually lingered after the last of the Realm's four suns had set.
Sheila climbed to her knees. Her fingers tentatively touched her lips. She swore they were still tingling. A dream? But it had felt so real. She rose to her feet, gazing out over the chasm below, then shifted her sight toward Xanaton. A look of equal parts determination and sadness spread across her face.
This is no time to fall apart, she chided herself. No doubt Eric had told the others by now. And Bobby – Bobby would be lost without Hank. He needed her . . . and she had to get back.
Reflexively, Sheila thought about Isolde. That girl had been nothing but trouble and misery from the moment she came crashing into their lives. Because of her, they had all lost so much. At this moment, the Thief wanted nothing more than to forget her promise to Lloros to return his daughter. An uncompassionate thought . . . a first for Sheila.
Isolde.
She was the reason Hank was . . . gone. However, Sheila knew that, even from the beginning, Hank had wanted to help her, regardless of what she had done. All right, then, Sheila decided. She owed Isolde nothing, especially now, but she owed Hank everything.
Everything.
"I promise," Sheila breathed silently to the sky. She dried her eyes and wrapped her cloak around her body. Pulling the hood over her head, Sheila ran in the direction of Xanaton.
Diana was worried.
Perhaps an understatement, but she didn't know how else to categorize her feelings. She closed the door behind her to the room where Bobby and Uni were curled together, trying to rest. After about an hour of hysterical, hyperventilating sobbing, the boy had finally drifted off into a fitful sleep. The Acrobat was deeply concerned for him. No boy his age should have to deal with this, she thought ruefully.
She glanced over to where Presto was dozing restlessly in a chair by the fire, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. He hadn't moved from that spot since Eric had arrived with the horrible news. The Magician had sunk down in mute disbelief and stayed that way for a very long time. He had stared off into space for a while and had just now, thankfully, begun to allow himself to sleep as well.
Diana worried about Eric. He had gone outside quite some time ago and, although Diana thought it best to leave him alone for a while, she worried about what he was thinking. She didn't need him to tell her that he felt in some way responsible for Hank's death. Eric the Cavalier – the group's resident, albeit often reluctant, protector – unable to reach his friend in time to save his life. What must this be doing to him?
And Sheila? God knows where she is right now. Diana's heart broke for her friend. She knew that Sheila had had a definite connection with Hank . . . even though neither one of them had ever acted upon it. It was horrible to think that now they never would.
Diana tried to fathom what the other girl must be feeling. She knew – somewhat. She had lost Kosar right before her own eyes as well. But this seemed different. Something told her that Dungeon Master wasn't about to show up with a cryptic message about how Hank and Sheila would one day meet again. It just seemed too cruel to even think about.
Diana worried about her friends – each lost in some incomprehensible way – that she almost forgot to wonder when she, herself, would be afforded the opportunity to grieve for Hank. He was, after all, her best friend for a long time. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Diana decided that the only way to really do anything for Hank now was to take care of the people he had tried to take care of . . . protect those he had fought to protect . . . and fight the nagging desire to drown in her own self-pity.
Diana descended the stairs after checking on Lloros again. The healers had nearly finished treating his wounds, although hearing about Isolde's recapture probably hadn't done much to speed his recovery. The Acrobat gave a despairing sigh. She had been filling two roles tonight – Hank's as group leader and Sheila's as group nurturer – and she was tired. She decided to go outside for some fresh air.
"Hey," a grim voice said from her right as she left the house. Eric was sitting on the wooden bench just outside the door. Diana returned the greeting with a wan smile. "How're you holding up?" Eric asked.
Diana shrugged. "Okay, I guess. Considering." She looked up at the sky before speaking again. "Why don't you go in and get some rest," she suggested.
Eric shook his head.
"Okay, then," Diana sighed as she turned to go back in, not wanting to muscle in on Eric's time alone. "Let me know if you need anything."
"I-I'm sorry, Diana," Eric said suddenly. "I think I'm doing this all wrong. The last time Hank disappeared I handled it a lot better."
The Acrobat turned back to him. She, too, remembered the time that the Darkling had taken the Ranger from them. Hank was one of almost a hundred victims whose essences would have allowed the Darkling to become one of the most powerful beings in the Realm . . . had he been permitted to feed upon them once his collection was complete.
Eric had, indeed, acted in rare form. He was level-headed, rational, determined and, most importantly if not uncharacteristically, very brave. Diana walked back over to where he was sitting and eased down next to him, cautiously placing her hand on his arm. He looked lost.
"Don't worry about it, Eric," she said. "The last time Hank disappeared we all thought there was a chance we'd get him back. This is . . . different . . . and we're all really emotional right now. Take all the time you need." Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, she got up to leave again.
"How are you doing this?" Eric asked from behind her.
Diana stopped, but didn't turn. She wrapped her arms around herself and lowered her head.
"What choice do we have?" she said. Her voice was hoarse. "We have to get through this somehow." Diana turned to face him again, eyes shining with tears that she wouldn't allow to flow. "Presto's so in shock he hasn't spoken a word since you got back. Bobby's an emotional wreck. He's lost without Hank and he's practically sick worrying about his sister. And Sheila . . . ? Who even knows where she's disappeared to." Diana furrowed her brow and tilted her head to the sky in a vain attempt to keep her tears at bay. "In comparison, Eric, I'd say you're a trooper."
Eric rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head. "It's my fault, you know," he said quietly.
Diana suddenly slid to the bench beside him once more, trying to get him to look at her. Perhaps going off on how much everybody was hurting wasn't the best idea. Eric was obviously taking this very hard. "Don't you do that to yourself," she said, gentle but insistent. "There was nothing you could do."
"You don't know that," Eric snapped. The desperate pitch of his voice rose with each word. "I tried to stop Sheila from getting herself killed by Rubin too. If I had just let her go, maybe she could have reached him. Maybe I could have reached him. I was so sure that it was too late, but what if it wasn't? What if . . . ?"
"Listen to me," Diana said firmly, gripping Eric's shoulders. "You did what you thought was best. You can't—"
"LOOK at this!" Eric cried, thrusting the red palm of his gauntlet only inches away from Diana's face. "After all those times that I challenged Hank's leadership! Now I'm the one faced with a life or death decision and LOOK what I do!"
"Eric," Diana pleaded soothingly.
The Cavalier glanced at his griffin-faced shield in the dirt at his feet. He gave it a disgusted kick. "Dungeon Master gave me one job when we got to this world. One job! I'm the one who protects everybody. You'd think after all the time I spent ducking for cover that I'd be good at it by now! But I can't even do that right! Hank would have done exactly the right thing," Eric insisted.
"Sheila hates me for what I've done," he said when Diana made no immediate response. "I could see it in her eyes. Now if something happens to her, that'll be my fault, too. Bobby hates me. He'll never be the same. Presto probably hates me. And Hank was one of your best friends." He shot a quick pained glance at Diana before sharply turning his head away. "You don't have to pretend not to hate me too."
"Is that what you're trying to make me do? Will that make things better for you?" Diana replied steadily. When he didn't respond, she sighed again and said, "In case you've forgotten, Eric, we've all seen you shoulder the burden of leadership before. And you've handled it very well. Nobody ever said that Hank's decisions were easy. I could never tell you what he would have done in this situation, but I do know that sometimes the 'right' decision is not always the easiest to handle. Trust me, I've been there too. I do believe that you did what you thought was best." She turned his face so he would look at her again. "I don't hate you, Eric. None of us do. I guarantee it. The blame belongs somewhere, but not on you."
Eric raised his eyebrow to her. "Do you really believe that or are you just trying to make me feel better?"
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Feel better?" Diana tried to smile at him as he managed a nod.
They sat in silence for several moments, each lost in his and her own thoughts. Diana, for her part, regretted the silence immediately because it gave her the time to think about all the things that she had pushed out of her mind while looking after the others. The next time the Cavalier looked at her, Diana's eyes were brimming with tears.
She had tried to wait until she was alone, but after being strong for everyone else, the deluge of emotion just overtook her at exactly the wrong moment. Her chin quivered and she rose to her feet to get away from Eric before she lost it completely. She managed to turn away and walk a few steps before she felt his hand close on her wrist and pull her back to him. Unconsciously, she turned to face him again. Eric cautiously folded his arms around her, and Diana gave in, allowing him to hold her as she sobbed on his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the folds of his cape as though, through her tidal wave of emotion, Eric was now the only thing keeping her head above water.
He didn't seem to mind. Or at least, to his credit, he didn't say anything.
After a few minutes she pulled away, shaking her head. "Sorry," she apologized.
"Don't be," Eric said with a shrug as he wiped a tear from her face with his thumb. "I was wondering when you were going to take your turn." He walked back to the bench and sat down. "I don't suppose I could convince you to stay out here and wallow with me."
Diana took a deep quivering breath, as her sobs had not yet subsided completely, and shook her head with a grim smile. "I'm going back inside to check on the others."
"You know where to find me when you're tired of being strong for everybody else," Eric offered.
"Thanks," Diana replied. "Don't think I won't take you up on that. But right now I think we should concentrate on—"
A cry from inside the house stopped her mid-sentence. Both she and Eric snapped to attention and bolted for the door. They heard Bobby's yell again as they neared his room.
"Sheila! Sheila!"
Diana skidded to a halt in front of the already-open door, followed closely by Eric. Inside the room, a now-alert Presto was sitting on the bed where Sheila was cradling her brother in her arms. The boy, normally one to shrug his way out of a "gushy" embrace, was allowing the Thief to rock and soothe him like the frightened child that he was. After all that they had been through in the Realm, it was easy to forget that the brave and rash Barbarian was actually a ten-year-old little boy. And today, he was a deeply grieving ten-year-old little boy.
"Shhh, Bobby. It's all right. It's all right," Sheila repeated quietly.
"Sheila," Diana said, relieved. "You're okay."
Planting a kiss on her brother's forehead, Sheila rose off the bed and looked at Eric, half expecting him to admonish her for what she had done on the ridge. When he didn't, she spoke cautiously. "I'm so sorry, Eric. I should never have disappeared on you like that. We're all in pain and we need to face this together."
"Sheila?" Presto asked, his first word in several hours. "Is it true?"
Sheila looked down at him sadly but matronly and nodded as she laid her hand on his shoulder. Presto removed his glasses and wiped his newly forming tears in his sleeve.
Golon appeared at the door behind Eric and Diana. Bobby's shout must have brought him running to investigate the cause of the commotion. Seeing Sheila, he entered the room with cautious sorrow.
"I am truly sorry, my dear," he said to her. "Sorry for not trusting in your word regarding your friend, and sorry for what has happened to him as a result. You will never know how grateful we the people of Xanaton are for his rescue of Lloros."
Sheila nodded in acceptance. "We're not finished yet," she insisted, her voice strong and determined regardless of the deep sadness that she felt. She turned to her friends. "We still have to save Isolde."
"What?" Eric wailed, suddenly sounding more like his old self. "Are you nuts? How are we supposed to do that now? Hank was our guy on the inside. It's not like they're going to fall for letting another one of us mosey on into their sect so we can save her!"
"Eric," Sheila continued, "Hank had a feeling about that girl. He thought she was the lost soul that Dungeon Master said we had to save. We should—"
"Look," Eric interrupted, "I don't want to be the insensitive jerk here, but this Rubin guy killed Hank. If Hank couldn't take him, I don't see how we can do it."
"Also," added Golon, keeping his voice low so Lloros would not hear him from upstairs, "I fear that it may be too late for the girl by this point. Rubin has gotten what he wanted from her. It is possible that he has no further use for her. He will most likely dispose of her upon returning to the sect." Golon sighed despairingly. "It is usually only a matter of time before the members of the League of Ghosts become ghosts, themselves."
Presto narrowed his gaze and gave Golon a puzzled look. "What 'League of Ghosts'?" he asked.
"The Choros Sect," Golon answered. "The word 'choros' means 'ghost' in the language of the assassins. The sect name is a symbol of how they are able to move almost unnoticed while wearing their stealth cloaks. It also represents the wake of death that follows them."
"Terrific," Eric grumbled. "I say we scrap DM's stupid mission. It's already cost us too much."
"Dungeon Master did say that we wouldn't all be looking in the same place," Presto offered. "Maybe he knew we were going to be separated. Maybe he knew something like this was going . . ."
"If he did," Eric shot back hotly. "If he knew that Hank was going to die and didn't tell us . . . !"
"Eric," Sheila said gently, "Hank did what he did because he felt he had to. How it turned out is nobody's fault but Rubin's." A scowl of determination and anger appeared on the Thief's face. "Hank risked everything to save Isolde because he knew it was the right thing to do. I refuse to let that be for nothing. I'm going to try to save her, Eric. Alone, if I have to."
Diana reached forward and took Sheila's hand. "That's not even an option," she said. "This was important to Hank and we're all going to finish it."
Sheila nodded gratefully. "Rubin's never going to hurt anyone like this again. We're going to stop that ruthless monster."
Diana nodded and Sheila reached down to gently stroke her brother's hair.
They stood in silence for what felt like a long time. Ultimately, Eric was the one to break it. "So we go," he muttered quietly before piping up with his usual bellow, "Man, I hate this world! Now we have to go charging into the Spirit Club looking for one lost soul!"
Diana smiled grimly. She was glad that at least some things hadn't changed. Then, suddenly, a thought struck her.
Eric glanced over at Diana to see her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. "What?" he asked self-consciously.
Diana's mouth widened into a larger grin. "Eric," she said, "you might just be a genius."
"I am?" Eric didn't want to argue, but he didn't understand either. "Why?"
"Think about what you just said!"
The Cavalier shrugged. "I said, 'I hate this world.'"
Presto also shrugged. "That's no different than usual."
Diana shook her head. "Golon said that the Choros Sect is also known as the League of Ghosts," she explained. "You called it the 'Spirit Club.' So, what's another word for 'spirit'?" She looked at him coaxingly.
Eric groaned. "I was never very good at crosswords, word games . . . or English class for that matter. What do I look like? A walking thesaurus?"
Diana rolled her eyes. "Soul!" she exclaimed, "Dungeon Master said that the 'lost soul' must be found or many lives could be lost. Hank thought he was talking about Isolde, but he was only half right. The League of Ghosts is the League of the Soul! Dungeon Master didn't send us to save one person . . ."
"He sent us to save the entire Assassin's guild," Presto completed her thought. "The Lost Soul!"
"From the looks of it, the members of that Sect are merely children," Golon added thoughtfully. "If they were all tricked, as Isolde was, countless lives could be lost needlessly – simply because Rubin was using them in his own twisted plots for revenge."
Sheila strode deliberately toward the door. "We finish this, then," she said with determination. "For Hank."
"My dear!" Golon called after her. "We have never been able to find the Choros Sect. We do not know where it is located."
Eric looked at the man before walking behind Sheila, followed closely by the other Young Ones.
"Maybe not," he said, "but we know someone who did."
Hank had been able to do one final thing for his friends. The singed undergrowth of the forest, the path he had left to lead them to the Choros Sect, had not been disturbed. The Young Ones deliberated over whether the trail was purposefully neglected to lead them into a trap, or whether the assassins had truly not noticed it. Either way, it was still there and, after some considerable walking, it enabled the Young Ones to reach the mouth of the Choros Sect's underground cavern.
Eric eyed the young guards posted at the entrance to the cave as he and his friends crouched some distance away. "They're not gonna buy that we're here to help them," he whispered.
"Then we need to find Isolde," Sheila suggested. "If she's still alive, she can help us convince them."
Eric nodded reluctantly, knowing all too well what the Thief was getting at. Bobby knew too.
"No!" he protested in a panicked whisper. "Sheila, you can't go in by yourself!"
Always the bravest, or perhaps the most reckless one, who often rushed into the fray without thinking, Bobby had now become very cautious – scared to death of losing someone else that he loved. He gripped his sister's arm desperately to keep her from leaving.
Sheila looked upon him softly. She didn't need to say anything. The boy knew that this was the only way. But he didn't like it. "Please be careful," he said as he released his grip on her arm.
Eric placed a comforting hand on the young Barbarian's shoulder. "Don't worry, Squirt," he teased. "We're gonna be creating such a racket out here, they won't even notice Sheila."
Bobby shoved Eric's hand away and gripped his club. "Watch who you're callin' a Squirt!" Uni snorted in agreement.
Backing away from the boy's brandished weapon, Eric flashed a wink in Sheila's direction. The Thief was relieved that Eric was able to get Bobby to act more like himself. She smiled gratefully as she turned to Diana.
"I'll try to make my way back once I find her," she said. "You guys be careful too."
"Sheila," Diana said as the Thief turned to leave. But she didn't know what else to say after that.
"I loved him, Diana," Sheila said softly. "I really did." She faced the Acrobat with tears in her eyes. "Do you think he knew?"
Diana nodded with a sad smile. "And I know he loved you too."
Sheila squeezed her eyes shut to rid herself of the tears. "I'll be back," she said as she pulled her hood over her head and vanished.
"Now what?" Presto asked. "How much time should we give her before creating a distraction?"
A rustle in the bushes behind them sent the remaining four Young Ones and Uni spinning around. Several assassins emerged from the forest thicket. "I'd say not much!" Eric gulped.
"Fine by me!" growled Bobby as he leapt forward with his club raised.
Sheila stepped cautiously through the dank corridors of the underground cavern. The stone hallways were dotted with torches, but the dim light they created didn't help much. Sheila gripped the hood of her cloak tightly, as it was the only thing she had to hold onto. For as grateful as she often was that Dungeon Master had not given her an actual weapon on the day that they arrived in the Realm, she sometimes wished that she had something more with which to defend herself – especially when she was forced to act alone – although she could never envision herself actually using it. But having something in her hand might, at least, keep her fingers from trembling.
The Thief stepped to the side and allowed several assassins to run past her. They were shouting about the intruders who had found their way to the cavern and were now fighting outside. Sheila worried about her friends and prayed that they would be all right until she got back.
She tiptoed quickly through each hallway, checking in every room for Isolde. What if Golon was right? What if the girl was dead? But something told her that Rubin would be loath to give up his hold on the girl so quickly. Golon may have believed that she was no longer useful to the assassin leader, but, with Lloros still alive, Rubin would most likely prefer to keep her as his trump card – waiting for another chance to play it.
Sheila approached a set of heavy double doors. She looked at them and glanced around cautiously before pushing one of them slightly open so that she might slip through. Once inside, she stared at her surroundings. In front of her was a circle of light, created by a ring of free-standing torches. The area in which she now stood was completely in darkness, as was the entire perimeter of the large room. Sheila decided to make her way toward the light.
She was surprised at how the soft tread of her leather boots echoed slightly upon the floor, and she slowed and cautioned her pace. Even though she was completely invisible, her magic cloak could not shroud any sounds she made. As she stepped into the lighted circle, she tightened her grip on her hood. She could be easily spotted here and she wanted to be sure that it didn't slip off. The room appeared empty, but with so much of the outer wall in complete shadow, there was no way of knowing what else was hidden in here. She decided to take a risk and call out quietly. "Isolde? Can you hear me?"
When nothing happened, Sheila relaxed a bit. If there were any assassins nearby, surely they would have charged her upon hearing her voice. She called out again, a bit louder, "Isolde? Are you in here?"
A quiet groan sounded from the black beyond the Thief. She quickly removed her hood and ran for the darkness in front of her, calling out again, "Isolde! It's Sheila! I'm here to—"
Directly in front of her, a figure emerged. But it wasn't Isolde. The man's mud-brown eyes, squinted callously at Sheila as he flashed that same vindictive grin he had given to her on the ridge outside Xanaton. His already sallow skin seemed even more sickly in the poor light of the chamber. But still, he smiled.
Sheila shuddered as she recognized the snarling face.
"You!" she breathed. Rubin took another step toward her.
"If it isn't another one of Dungeon Master's whelps trying to play hero," the evil man mused. "You are a bigger fool than I thought if you and your friends believe you can stop me, girl. I have dispatched far greater challenges than you." He sneered at her. His voice was purposefully cruel as he added, "And that pitiful Ranger was not one of them."
Sheila scowled in pain at the mention of Hank by this disgusting human being. She backed away from him as he continued to advance on her. Suddenly, Rubin made a grab for her and Sheila yelped and jumped back. Instinctively, she turned and ran, her feet scrambling along the floor. She didn't know where she was going or what she was going to do next, but she did know that she had to get out of there. She started to raise her hood again.
A sharp crack filled the air. The sound was immediately followed by a violent tug and one of Sheila's legs was yanked out from under her as Rubin heaved his whip back. The Thief screamed as she felt herself pitch forward onto the hard stone ground, striking her forehead.
Sheila saw an explosion of stars against blackness as her head seemed to burst in a riot of pain. She opened her eyes and dim chamber around her upended itself as her vision swam violently. Barely conscious, she heard Rubin's boots resonating through the room as he approached her prone body. Her panicked mind shrieked at her to move, but her senseless limbs could do nothing. Sheila felt a rough hand tightly grip her hair and pull her head back.
She emitted a groggy whimper of protest as she felt a cold steel blade pressed to her throat, but was powerless to do anything else. Rubin snarled down at her and knelt at her side.
"Dungeon Master's meddlesome pests have interfered for the last time," he spat. Sheila could feel a shower of spittle upon her face and smell the hot acridness of Rubin's breath as he growled his words against her cheek. He chuckled viscously low in his chest and clenched the dagger tighter in his fist, pressing its sharp edge into the curve of her neck.
"LET - HER - GO!"
A voice echoed with fierce determination through the circular chamber. Rubin glanced up. He was surprised for a brief moment, then an amused smile returned to his lips.
"Well," he said, "I must admit that I believed it to be a story filled with superstitious nonsense. The Chamber of Ghosts was always rumored to be a place where the voices of dead assassins could be heard. At the very least, I didn't think it would apply to impostors!"
A semi-conscious Sheila forced her bleary eyes to stare into the darkness in front of her. She was barely able to focus as tears streamed down her face. Rubin gripped her hair more tightly and held the knife steady against her throat. His voice remained playful and mocking.
"It's a pity, really," he continued, "to have the tales be true. And here you are. Yet, as a spirit, unable to do anything to stop me." His grin widened evilly. "Do not worry, though. Your friend shall soon be joining you, . . . Hank the Choros . . . Hank the Ghost!"
A blaze of golden fire exploded through the darkness, lighting the outer circumference of the chamber. Rubin's evil, confident sneer melted into a grimace of dread and panic as he found himself staring at the pointed flame of an energy arrow.
The young man holding the golden weapon took a step toward him, an even greater fire burning behind his blue eyes.
"That's Hank the Ranger to you, you son of a bitch."
To be continued . . .
