Chapter 12:

Theories of Survival

Kazin pushed himself, took a further step, ignored the ache in his back. His legs were on the verge of rebellion, his breath rasping high and hard in his throat. He pushed that away knowing that now particularly it was essential that he conveyed a sense of solidity. That he proved his ability to keep on keeping on. He'd always prided himself on it, and yet now…

The tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. How can you run away from a superior force on these fucking plains? He wanted to scream the words, but he didn't. Breath was needed for the next step. And the next. And there above all there was the knowledge that he had led them to this. He had made the choices that had brought them to Granseal, that had seen Rick fired upon… My choices. My fault. He wanted to weep.

But there were no soft edges left in him, only hardness. His grief, as always he had, he hoarded to himself. So. Loving Sarah had been good for something after all… The sudden ache, deep in the center of his chest was so strong that it momentarily blotted out everything else.

Pain exploded along the edges of his senses. By the time that he realized his balance had been lost; his face was in the dirt. Coughing, he started to push his way up only for a hard hand to drag sharply at his elbow. His head jerked up, out of the ground in a sickening flurry of vertigo. His gaze remained blurry and unfocused for another few moments, but his hearing was unimpeded.

"Kazin!" He blinked twice, and his mouth moved in protest. A weak sounding 'guh' was all he heard. "Oh gods," Sarah muttered, kneeling in front him, her hands out, turning his hands palm up. She took an expression that he recognized as a look of concentration for magic.

"No," he croaked, jerking his hands away from her. His left arm barely moved, jolting him to a bit more sense. His palms stung deeply. He'd lost skin when he'd fallen.

"Kazin. Let me help you."

His throat wasn't working properly. She took his lack of comment for agreement, and reached out again. He opened his mouth, feeling the muscles in his throat clench and unclench. "No." The rasp came from deep within his chest. "No," he repeated, seizing hold of her arm with his free hand, ignoring Randolf's grasp on his left.

"Kazin," she started again, her voice peculiarly vulnerable.

He tightened his grip on her arm, partially to prevent her, mostly to steady himself as he dragged his legs upright. His chest and throat were burning. He couldn't keep on going at this rate, but if they stopped to rest, Trosk would overtake them. And if Sarah healed him then… "No," he gasped again. "You'll need it. For worse."

He released his hold on her arm, clinging to his staff now that he was upright, pressing it hard against the packed earth of the plains. He stood there for a moment, then another well knowing that each such moment was a waste. But, oh sweet gods, to rest for just another minute, for just another little catch in the fabric of time… Sarah's eyes fixed on him in silence and luminosity, and his eyes were drawn to the blood smeared against her arm. His blood.

The sight of it there galvanized him into taking another step. And as soon as that was done, there was no course but to take another one, breathing heavily, leaning on his staff and trusting it to support him. He did not look back to see if they followed, for he knew that they would. That they must.

The sight of his blood smeared against Sarah's robes shamed him. It sparked his desire, his rage, and his fear. That that should be the token of some intimate contact he had with her… how could it but shame him? His weakness shamed him. For Kazin knew now that he was weak. In fleeing Granseal he had commanded them to wheel north, fleeing up alongside the mountains sheltering Granseal's northern border.

It had been the only course. If they went the way they'd come, then the pursuit party would be able to follow them and keep them in their sights. The mountains offered cover, and though Kazin couldn't afford to stop and take favor of that cover, neither could the pursuit party take the risk that he had done so. They would have to investigate every nook and cranny that they passed, and that could give them a chance to slip off across the plains. Back to Bowie.

It had seemed so simple, and yet now Kazin was showing his true mettle. He couldn't do it. He was so weak. The sound of his breath, the feel of his lack of physical strength shamed him. The blood shamed him. His desire for Sarah shamed him in that it would press even now. The brief sights of Randolf who had offered him such wisdom… the feeling of strength he had taken from that shamed him.

For what had Kazin ever done that had not embroiled him in the eddies of his own flaws, his own tendencies towards weakness? I have always done what was asked of me. Always. He had always said the polite thing, always offered dry commentary where it was required. Always stood by, prepared to talk to who needed to be talked to, to listen. Always been friendly in a distant sort of way, always been a presence. Even jumping into the Rhyl… well somebody had needed to do it, and he had been in a place to do it. He had done it because it would have been asked of somebody. And now the thought of Rick shamed him even more. He had done what was asked of him there too… he had tried. "Tried," he murmured to himself, unaware that he spoke aloud. "Aye, I tried. And there is a tale to make men weep."

And now he would keep on keeping on until they were slain or back to the camp. It was his only comfort, the only thing that kept the next few moments irrelevant. A completely linear path was before him for once, and that at least was something. And so, to Bowie. Back to Bowie. It had been… asked of him.

"You think Bedoe will bestir itself? You can swear to this?"

Luke cocked his head to one side. "Should I ask it, yes. I or…" The birdman's voice trailed off, his eyes distant. Then they snapped back to Bowie, shrewd. "Especially if we can proffer this treaty that you've drawn up. We birdmen of Bedoe take our obligations seriously, and anyway it would shame my father to see himself as behaving more uncouthly than a Granserian."

Bowie let the insult pass, considering instead the possibility. Lessening his air support was tremendously risky, of course. Galam meant to fight; Bowie held no delusions on that score, loath though he was for things to come to outright war. But as the battle was upon him he had to consider, so long as the leadership of Galam remained both hostile and largely pent up in their own city, winning would be very hard. Galam had never fallen from direct attack from the south. The northern gate was more vulnerable, yes, but sailing up that way meant facing Galam on the open water, one of the only areas in which Galam had never lost its superiority.

Bowie flushed abruptly, recalling that he had argued Graig and Mrell to a standstill on the issue of increasing their own fleet. How vain those fine words of his now seemed. If that was what it took to protect Granseal, then who was he to argue against it? But by all the gods, there was more to a country than merely the swords that it took to keep it upright. There were the dreams, the people. What people were left when a military was the only necessity worth thinking of? What people were left, though, without the military to protect them? Who could say if he had been right or wrong? He had tossed the dice, and now he would have to do so again. A bitter draught it was, albeit one that Bowie was growing used to downing.

The point remained that if the high lords of Galam had the wits that the gods had granted a goose, open war would never come. They would harry Bowie's forces so long as he was in the field, but they would keep sufficient strength massed in the city that they could continue to be hostile. King Galam had made the mistake of bringing war out of the city into the open plains of Grans, and that had seen the old man slain, and him with all the power that the devils could raise, backing him. No, the lords of Galam were not like to repeat that mistake. If Bowie remained in the field, it would leave them free to press him, and meanwhile crew a fleet to take Granseal from the sea. If, however, he retreated the result would almost certainly be the same, though it would be a bloodier battle. He had no illusions; if it came to a war of sieges, Galam had the advantage. He had to have some way of keeping them in such disarray, of making their forces so necessary to field against him that they would not have time or resources enough to lay Granseal to siege. The old city was strong, truly, but a war of attrition would kill it. Aye, he needed to keep the war raging on the plains without letting Galam set a siege against Granseal.

And he couldn't take a siege to Galam; he'd break himself on those walls. More time was what he needed. Or more swords. And so came the urgency of Luke's offer. The birdmen of Bedoe could make all the difference that Bowie needed, especially if they were warriors of Luke's caliber. The birdman prince was little short of formidable in the field, muscular enough to fly in full armored attire. More than once, Bowie had seen Luke plunge into a fray of enemies laughing as the arrows fell away from him, deflected. The birdmen of Bedoe were exactly what he needed. Too much. They ask too much. "I do not have the authority to reverse decades' worth of trade policy with Thornwood."

Luke's eyes remained bright, piercing. Penetrating. "Bedoe is the only kingdom of West Parmecia that could make this offer short of Thornwood. Particularly now that Odegan is gone; though they were truly too isolated to make as a good an offer. Will you place your trust in Drake and his dogs over us?" The birdman paused. "Over me?"

Bowie felt a flash of something close to despair. "Lord Theos is no dog, Luke. Had it not been for his example, I might not have thought to search the mainland for allies against Zeon. That old man is truly brave." He looked away, swallowing slightly. "If I agree to this, Granseal will lose Thornwood. I don't care about increasing our standings in foreign courts if the expense is lives, and you know that." He made a flustered gesture with his hands, staring at the rough calloused skin for a moment. He'd always been strong. But with the burgeoning conviction in his heart that war was wrong… how could he fight someone if he couldn't hit them?

"Granseal doesn't have any standing to lose; for decades now Thornwood's been staring you down. If you gain Bedoe as your ally that will increase your respect."

"We'll have gold for precious little without Thornwood. Is Bedoe rich, Luke?" The birdman stared levelly back at him, but did not reply. Bowie ignored the reproach in his friend's eyes. He would not apologize for snapping; it felt good to be on the attack for once in this bloody conversation. "I can't give exclusive rights to Bedoe. I just can't."

"Then you will not have Bedoe, aside from mine own sword. My father will not rouse himself to Granseal's aid if he cannot pick up a complete enough advantage. He won't dare to order me back, for fear of tarnishing my effectiveness, and eventually the rule of our family. But he will not justify the risk without a tremendous benefit."

Bowie's fist clenched. "Volcanon could make him…"

"Volcanon wouldn't even help you against Zeon," Luke interrupted. "Why would he involve himself in the struggles of the land kingdoms now? There are no stakes for him."

Bowie lapsed into frustrated silence. What could he offer that Luke would be willing to loosen the strictures on the proposed trade alliance? A military alliance would hardly do any good; it was Granseal who needed it more. And yet he could not turn away from the prospect of Bedoe's swords; the birdmen were a disciplined, effective and deadly army. If he could get them to bolster his forces, he might even be able to take the battle to Galam. Much as Galam held all the arbitrary advantages, they were at least as ravaged by war as Granseal was. Indeed, Galam had lost its king and had taken casualties from being occupied by Zeon's forces for so long. If only he could level the playing field…

He wished that Slade was with him. The ratman's service had been in the nature of knowing things. He would know where Bedoe was vulnerable. He wished that Rohde or Kazin was with him. Both were extremely well-read and somewhat worldly. They would know. He wished he had Sir Astral… They're torturing you. Depriving you. Maybe they've already killed you. The guilt curled around his heart, and then his eyes opened into a wide 'o' of realization. "Astral would not have agreed to give all we have ever sworn over to Bedoe, and yet you spoke to him."

"As an intermediary," Luke objected. "You know that I…"

Bowie's mind drifted, picking up on the other piece of information that Luke had let slip… nay, given him. Luke was too shrewd to have dropped such a critical bit of help without being cognizant. He and his father are not of like mind. The court of Bedoe is not strong enough to resist my demands, if I can play this. "You could do it," he said abruptly, cutting through whatever prattle Luke was still spewing. "You could force your father to give in, or at least get significant enough support that he'd dare not stand against you. You could make him think that you can get me to offer more, but that in the meantime…"

"Bowie," Luke said acidly, "you're my friend and I've already said that I'll support you personally. But I'm not going to ask my countrymen to intercede into an internal Granserian affair unless there's something that justifies the risk. This is not the same as fighting devils."

"And I have offered you something. I've offered more than just something, but I will not give the whole of our trade to you," Bowie snapped, some of his own heat breaking back through to the surface. What else could he offer that would work? Bedoe resented Thornwood's advantages, in terms of wealth anyway, and they were trying to supplant that, so what else could he… And then he knew. "The Crags," he murmured, so soft, so much to himself that he wasn't certain if Luke heard it.

The birdman prince was quiet for a moment, and then surprise flecked his eyes. "You… you could… how that, and not the trade concessions?"

"You admit then, that it would suffice," Bowie noted. That was trick he'd learned from Astral long before the Galamani had… He blinked, his eyes abruptly burning. Back when Graig had been the worst of his concerns.

"Of course it would, yet this… Bowie, this is far more irrevocable than aught else I've suggested. I've tried to do my best by you at the same point as Bedoe, but this would be forever."

No, Bowie thought, a trace of sadness in the cynicism that he was so fast becoming habituated to, only until enough of us decide to gather arrows and mages to fight it off. Centuries is not forever, not anymore. "You father wants a crown, for himself, but mostly his line. In truth as well as name. I'll not grudge him that. Indeed, so long as I have his swords, I'll give one to him. Why hesitate over saying it?"

Luke cocked his head to the side. "I'll sign any such treaty that you write. My signature is worth the might of Bedoe as you know. If we are agreed in this, then let it be done."

And now he thinks to secure the opportunity lest I change my mind. Why would I? Bowie was not a political man, but rather a lord of necessity. He would agree to give the Crags over in the name of necessity, though… The familiar sensation of guilt laced with uncertainty wrapped its fingers around his gut. He was only one of the king's councilors, yet if he swore to it and the birdmen of Bedoe came, who could circumvent him? Graig and Mrell would be apoplectic and as for King Granseal, what would he do? The Crags might not be worth a fig to him, but as the matter touched on his pride there was no telling how he would react. Even Sir Astral might…

Astral. He blinked again, willing himself to control. It will see you freed, Astral. It will see the Galamani too outnumbered to resist again and again. For if peace was to come, what options remained to Bowie other than to make war unviable? What other draught could he force the Galamani leadership to swallow? "Not your signature, Luke," he said, wondering at the strength in his voice. "I want the king's own ink dried against the page. I want there to be no room for any dissension once this is done. I want your father's signature."

"That will take more time. A courier can take it to him, but he'll want to stall before agreeing."

"A courier would be involved in any case to convey the treaty and lead the warriors back." Bowie shrugged, confident that he finally had this ready. The doubts tugged at him, yes, but what use were fucking doubts to anybody? He would shed no tears when their passing came. "You can sign if you want; it'll add more pressure. But I want it clear that the true agreement must come from His Grace, King Bedoe."

"Even if that gives him the freedom to refuse?"

"He won't refuse the offer of this crown that he wants and you know it. And anyway, he won't refuse the courier I'm sending. You'll convince him that it's necessary."

Luke frowned. "Peter would be better for your purposes, surely. None can dispute his link with Volcanon and anyway-"

"Nor can anyone doubt your blood," Bowie interrupted. "Who better to treat with King Bedoe than his own son?"

"Peter," Luke returned sharply. "My father will agree, I have little doubt of that. But he'll agree all the faster if you keep me by your side."

Bowie was silent for a moment. The suggestion… sickened him. Did King Bedoe think so little of Granserian honor as to suppose that they would keep hostages as a matter of course? As a gesture of goodwill, Luke should carry the treaty. Luke could rally those opposed to his father's rule much more quickly, and King Bedoe could not break Luke's own sworn word without damaging the effectiveness of his court for decades to come. Bowie meant to honor the king, to let his own honor stand.

And Peter? It was true that dealing with the phoenix was increasingly tiresome. Peter was arrogant and vain, and yet to keep Luke by his side when he was the only other on Grans who knew all of this matter… "I'm sending you."

"But-"

"Peter," Bowie snapped, surprising even himself, "I need for another task."

They came for him on the morning of the third day. Rohde was rather drowsy, but then it was not so hard to be so when most of one's time was confined to the sheets. He was staring vacantly at the designs in front of him. He'd been working on the problem of how to perpetuate the energies he'd need. The Ancients would have known the answer. A pity so much of their culture had been lost. But then, all knowledge was precious. All knowledge was an irrevocable treasure. He blinked, momentarily caught between joy and melancholy.

It was understandable; therefore, that it took him a moment to process what he was seeing: three armed guards. His bushy brown brows contracted into his forehead, less a furrow of puzzlement than an immediate thought to play for time.

Their leader stepped forward, a smirking youth that Rohde vaguely recalled having noted before, somewhere. Doubtless it had been in those desperate, heady days leading up the attack on King Galam's army. Before he had been crippled.

But even more doubtless, this youth meant him harm. It took no more than the eyes in his head to deduce this, for not only were none of these guards his friends or Bowie's friends; they had bared steel in their clenched fists. And beyond all that, even, Rohde was familiar enough with the historical patterns of young men who could smirk so malevolently. "Gentlemen," the historian announced, "I regret to inform you that the maid's quarters are a doorway down from here. I apologize for inconveniencing you."

The youth merely smirked all the more, his posture relaxed, though the two just a pace behind him seemed to tense.

My words will not touch them. But how does a crippled man resist? Spit in their faces? It would not be a memorable last moment. Rohde desperately wished that something witty or scathing would occur to him. In history it was always the last thing that one said that was the most important…

"Take him," the youth said lazily, stepping back as his men stepped forward.

Rohde half lifted his hand to stroke his beard, and then stopped. He was out of time now. He glanced over at the creation in the corner… a surviving vehicle of the ancients. It was his only hope, though King Galam had nixed much of what had made it useful before.

The smirking leader followed his gaze, and his interest picked up considerably. "What's this now?"

The other two men had reached him by now, and one seized hold of his arm, dragging him from the bed whilst the other braced his blade for a quick slash to Rohde's throat. Curiously, the historian was completely calm. There were no regrets in the face of the inevitable. He was in Grans. And only Bowie had cared to protect him. That his death would come now…

"Hold," the youth snapped. The two guards glanced at each other, and the one lowered his blade. Rohde frowned at it, not quite certain what had just transpired. His hands were shaking, sweating. Was I about to go to my end without struggle?

"Might be," the leader was saying, his smirk lessening, "that the Lord Minister would have some use for this."

Rohde's mouth worked, and a hoarse voice forced its way up his throat, out of his lips. "He wouldn't understand. Ancient. The Ancients. It was the Ancient's, that."

The youth's smirk returned, full of threat. "But you will tell us." He swaggered over to the dangling historian, flashing a dagger. "Sweet steel, this."

The guards exchanged a glance, and at the last Rohde could feel fear setting in. He would be cheated of his research on Grans… of the chance he'd been offered. Bowie had done his best by Rohde once, but Bowie was gone. And now it seemed he would die. The only option…

Rohde lifted his hand to stroke his beard, and then did the only thing he could. His hand clenched, and the knotted fist swung outward towards the smirking leader. His mouth bit at the hand of the man holding him on the right side.

Surprise was good to him; for apparently none of these guards expected that a crippled man might devise successful resistance. Rohde fell to the floor and began struggling over to the corner, knowing that this was always the weakest part of his hopes. But it would be a better death than aught else, at the least. They couldn't say that he had gone meekly to his execution.

The youth snarled slightly, but the smirk seemed a permanent fixture of his features, an unrelenting crease of the lips. His boot caught Rohde in the side of the head, and the historian flipped over, rolling several rolls closer to his goal. He tasted blood in his mouth.

The youth laughed, and came forward again, this time the boot catching him in the ribs. Worse, much worse. The fire flooded his senses, overwhelmed his efforts… Breathe. If he could but breathe. One hand flopped forward feebly. And it lay on curved, smooth, cold metal.

A quickness, a sick sensation rushed through his blood. It cut his breath off even further, filling him with such nervousness, such possibility. His heart fluttered nearly out of his chest.

He heard the quick steps, the slight grunt of anticipation, the sound of oiled steel being bared. With his arms, he strained to pull himself up… the boot caught him again, flopping him yet closer to his goal. The vehicle of the ancients. There was no telling if it would even work yet, though he knew the navigation was shot. But it was his only chance.

"Heh," the youth snorted. "You're not much of a challenge, but you do make a passing amusement, I grant you." He came forward at all strength, his blade in a vicious downward arc.

Rohde collapsed against what was left of the seat, his hands restlessly fumbling with the smooth flat surface upon which the Ancients themselves had once made their wills manifest. It was no good, there was nothing left to get hold of. The bottom half of the blade started to clang against the outer half of the metal…

There was a flash, a roar, a crack. Rohde himself was blinded, but he could feel the sensation of the vehicle moving, rolling forward. He shook his head, nearly nauseous as he crashed past the two other guards, their faces shocked. One went spinning to the ground, the other hesitating between helping his comrades and sprinting after the historian.

Rohde didn't look back to see if the smirking one was dead or merely incapacitated. So long as they think I'm in control, that I know what I'm doing, I have a chance. Whenever pursuit starts up, I'm lost.

Kazin… His name was a litany in her soul as she stumbled after him, her feet aching, her muscles involuntarily clenching. Kazin. A sob caught in her throat as she stumbled after him. Kazin. For so long, Sarah had tempered her fondness of Kazin with aloofness. Aloofness, she now realized, bordering on disdain.

For despite his unquestioned shrewdness, despite his rigid distances, despite even the brief flashes of complete lack of grace that were so peculiarly endearing, Kazin did not possess passion. Bowie was passionate, thus a great leader. Jaha too burned with a magnificent madness. Chester worked at it, and Peter achieved it so effortlessly that it was not as compelling in him. But Kazin? Kazin burned with magical fire, but despite those arcane principles, Kazin had always seemed weak.

More than seemed. Sarah had thought him weak. For what was his self-effacement, his conciliatory gestures, his acts for other people while not asking anything for himself if not weakness? What was the distance he maintained from people, his scorn for that which was not reason, but weakness?

Nonetheless, seeing him now… Kazin had failed to save Rick before her very eyes, but he had fought with such vigor on the centaur's behalf, and he had saved her and Randolf, hurried them away towards the only possible chance for escape. He held himself at distance, yes, but the power he was prepared to unleash for the right things, the horrors of the mind that he faced… Yes, Sarah had realized that for all of his cleverness, Kazin found very little comfort in being in his own mind. His rambling, his tone of voice, his non-sequitors, all of these things made that clear. But it was that self same battle that he waged against himself and yet unleashed for protection that made Sarah blink now. Kazin… Kazin was strong.

Understanding that, though, didn't make her feel any better. Indeed, Kazin's… very strength touched her in a way, but it also freed her anger. He didn't have the right to be pushing his passive-aggressive pseudo-philosophy on her just because she had love in her life. Was that the source of his disgust? That she didn't measure up to his standard of personal austerity?

Kazin had comforted her, yes, but he had also been cold about it. I've always valued his dispassion, but this… It was Bowie. That heady need, devouring at her, just gnawing and gnawing and gnawing. If Kazin had been at fault, last night, then Sarah was too. She had invited his commentary, his… scorn.

The realization made her angry… and her anger made her feel ashamed. She hadn't spoken up once when Kazin spewed his nonsensical remarks, because she'd wanted a friend. Because she knew him well enough to know that Kazin was happy if he could say nothing with a lot of words. Because I was feeling hurt about Bowie and I didn't want to feel hurt about Kazin. When he does bother to say anything beyond nonsense, it's invariably… true.

His words still echoed in her mind. Yes, he'd said, but I'm not Bowie. And, You do whatever it takes to maintain a level of hurt you can live with.

Both statements were true enough. But what Sarah had wanted was compassion, not solutions. Bowie himself was the solution. And she knew… she had known even then that just letting Kazin's less than clear statements pass would only encourage him. It hadn't mattered to her at the time. At the time she'd made allowances. Because she liked Kazin well enough, and he'd always been a good friend to her. Because she'd needed that. And she'd taken that comfort from him because… she had thought Kazin weak. Because it never seemed to matter if Kazin was just Kazin.

Her eyes watered, but she wasn't certain if it was because of Kazin, or for Bowie's sake, or for her own. Or if it was because her feet hurt and this mad scramble towards life was so doomed. Or if it was because of Granseal. The attack… from her own people. But how? Why?

Sarah had never paid much attention to the court, and she regretted that now. Even if the guards were acting on their own, they'd need somebody to direct them. Had some enemy seized hold of the court and murdered King Granseal?

The distances before her gaze shimmered before her. Exhaustion was so close behind them all; Sarah could already feel its jaws sinking into her. Her mouth opened and closed, and Sarah discovered the taste of blood on her lips. In a single instant, the physical weariness swamped her entirely. "We can't go on like this," she croaked to herself. It was no more than a whisper, and Kazin was still ahead of her.

"Aye." The word was hard, final, and surprising. Randolf's voice was as tough and loud as ever. "The girl's right at that. We can't go on like this. We keep going; we get to the end of this gorge. And that'll be the end."

Kazin looked over his shoulder opened his mouth, kept walking and promptly tripped. Part of Sarah wanted to cry. Part of Sarah wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to rush over and heal him as she would for the sake of any of her close friends. And part of her was still angry. Kazin could bear the fall. He was strong. Instead she snapped at Randolf, "I'm not a girl. I've fought in countless battles. I've seen people die." Suddenly, absurdly, all of her anger came pouring out. "I've lost friends. Don't call me a girl!"

The dwarf just gave her that same deadpan glare he'd delivered to Kazin only last night, leaning on his axe shaft in such a way that he looked as though he hadn't lost any energy at all. "Forgive me if my age makes the whole lot of you seem like children, but we may have something oh, important to talk about here." His words sheared through the feeble protests rising to her lips like a rapist through a cotton shift.

"Trosk can't be far behind us." She had not noticed Kazin rising. "If we scramble up to the plains here, nothing can stop him from reading the signs, and following us."

"Trosk," she said quickly, trying to jump back into the conversation after the burst of temper. "You mentioned that name before. I know it… I think, but why is that so important?"

Kazin's glance was disinterested. "He likes war." The mage turned his attention back towards Randolf.

The dwarf growled, "We keep on and he'll catch us all the same. If we leave here, now, he may want to check on ahead anyway. And I can keep him off your back."

The meaning of that suggestion took several moments longer to settle in Sarah's mind than Kazin's, for a flash of anguish flickered across his face before he could control himself. "It's not… do you have any idea what it will do to my image if I come back with half my command slain?"

Randolf snorted. "I don't even know you and that's absurd. You expect her to believe it?" His head jerked towards Sarah, and she frowned. Not so much at Kazin's words, for as Randolf said, they were obviously a lie to cover the fact that he did care, as at Randolf's. What was important about her believing it? And anyway, why would Kazin expect someone who knew him to take that seriously?

Kazin smiled abruptly, but tightness remained around his eyes. "It's no matter to me. Bowie will commend me for escaping at all, so I suppose your life doesn't much enter into things."

The dwarf snorted again. "He does need you more than me; already you've proven a head on your shoulders for clever notions that I've never had."

"You thought of us making a run for it here and now," Sarah objected, but Randolf scarcely paid heed to the compliment.

"Any fool would have done that," he muttered, not even looking at her. His eyes remained locked on Kazin. "Well are you going or not?"

It was, she realized with a flash of disgust, just a verbal pissing contest. No wonder they were ignoring her. Kazin, however, suddenly turned his eyes upon her, and she couldn't read the expression on his face. But she knew him well. He would bear the sacrifice because he was strong. But it would hurt him. It always hurt him. That was the truth of his studied indifference. That was the truth of his willingness to help others, even if he hurt them.

"Very well," he said, as though he'd never argued against the notion, as though he'd been planning it all along. "If this is to work, we'll want to move now. I recommend that boulder." He nodded towards a large and imposing stone near the top of the slope and without another word took off, his stride long, loping and curiously assured.

Sarah followed after him. She did not approve of death, and she did not approve of Randolf sacrificing his life. But the dwarf had asked to. And though Kazin had seemed to feel some genuine personal pain at the prospect Sarah… well Sarah was ashamed to admit that Kazin's posture was truer of her. She did not approve, no. But Randolf… did not mean anything to her.

Having absolutely no control over the device of his saving, Rohde was now able to recognize as a serious disadvantage. Indeed, it would not be an exaggeration to admit that he had recognized it even when he launched onto it as his only hope of escaping quick murder at the best, protracted suffering at the worst.

Forsooth, he must needs find some method of concealing himself. But what then? Escape the castle? Rohde was far from certain that he could, even if he wanted to. If guards were rounding up innocent historians in their beds all the conventional exits might well be guarded, and they would be watched at the least. That there were hidden ways out of the castle Rohde did not doubt, but he was not familiar with them.

And if he did manage to conceal himself, how would he see to the needs of the flesh? He could scarcely steal food; being crippled was a serious deterrent. Nonetheless, despite this most serious of predicaments, Rohde found himself undeniably… invigorated. Bowie had offered him a post it now looked as though he would not be able to take up, but even that pleasure had been tainted by his lack of mobility. And by Bowie's own vanity in the offering as well. But this! This was truly a great event.

For if he, Rohde, a minor person of no great importance, was worth seizing then events must be at work in the city. And such events he could write about, first-hand. Was it any wonder that despite his worsened circumstances and, indeed, the extremely unlikely possibility that he would be able to capitalize on his experiences, he found himself energetic?

After another moment of painful reflection, for despite his invigoration he could not deny that the situation he was now in was serious and, if considered with any intelligence at all, alarming at best, he stopped looking about himself. The machine would take him where it would. Most likely to an executioner's block, but he would find that truth whenever the machine did stop. If it offered him a possibility to escape better, well then he would find that at the time as well. There was no good in inflicting pointless suffering upon himself in the meanwhile.

Almost as soon as he came to such a conclusion, the device ground to a halt pitching him forward into a tapestry… wall-hanging. He waited for the crunch, and tumbled into darkness. Shaking, he pushed his hand forward.

Steps. He'd been left… in a passageway? There was a rumbling sound of rock, but coming from where? Rohde prayed for the strength to die with dignity.

In no time at all, the waiting was done, and the enemy massed below the steep incline, no more than ants. But ants could bite… Giving a growl of exertion, Randolf threw all his weight against the boulder before him. There was a crackling, rumbling sound and he threw himself against it again, as enemy soldiers started jogging up the incline, confident that they could take him.

He threw himself forward a final time, grunting in satisfaction as the massive rock was finally dislodged, falling upon his approaching foes. And then he hissed in pain, an arrow punched into his vulnerable shoulder. "Damn," he grumbled. He'd hoped that they wouldn't start shooting, so as to not risk hitting their comrades but, he could hear the leader below shouting.

"Angle your shots and we'll force him down."

It was true, Randolf knew with resignation. To retreat onto the plain betrayed his task. To stay where he was, was to be killed by the arrows. To attack was to be killed by somebody. The first of the enemy soldiers crested high enough, and Randolf's axe met his chest. As the soldier jerked, and then crashed down the slope, the dwarf nearly lost hold of his axe. An arrow just sailed over his shoulder, as it shifted downward to retain his grip.

Randolf slung his shield down towards the slope, and then flung himself after it. He landed on it, as it sliced neatly downwards, offering him a smooth and easy transition through his shocked opponents. His axe took the nearest one in the face, even as arrows started coming at him all the more sharply. "Fuck," he growled, smashing in the face of another enemy, "yes."

An arrow bit into his left leg, just above the knee joint. More followed, piercing his leg again and then the other. His axe arm. With a cry, he leapt again, this last impetus of his legs vaulting his shield sharply up. The heavy edge slammed into the chest of one of the nearest, fast approaching archers.

Randolf hit the bottom third of the slope rolling down, nearly winded, but managing nonetheless to leave his axe lodged in a passing pair of legs.

He lay there at the bottom, wrestling to pluck one of the arrows from his flesh. A weapon. He needed a weapon, he'd lost his axe. A shadow fell over him, a sword leveled at his throat. The air thrummed with arrows and dust and blood.