Chapter Twenty: Surprise Visits

"Early rise, boy."

The gruff voice swam into Avis's dreams, like the disembodied voice of a god speaking from on high. It seeped into the very fabric of the dream and caused it to fall apart. Avis opened his eyes, returning to the waking world, upon which he realized that the voice had not been part of his dream. Though that fact was quite obvious, a newly-awakened mind, laden with weariness, was usually slow to draw such conclusions.

Avis glanced over to the window, seeing the faint morning light shining through it. It had to be around midmorning, then; the early light of dawn was impossible to see due to the cloud cover. Thunder could be heard in the distance, like a predator hiding behind a bush, waiting for the right moment to strike. "Will we ever see the sun again?" he asked around his yawn, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed.

Jerrod cast a furtive glance over to the window, observing the weather. "Doubtful," the Cleric muttered. The older man was busy lacing up his boots—one of his regular morning routines. "This war is changing, escalating. The King's Legions will do their utmost to drive the enemy back, but it will not be long before the conflict reaches a breaking point, and that time is coming soon…I can feel it in my bones."

"So…that's a no on the sun?"

Jerrod fixed his pupil with one of his trademark glares. "Yes, Avis, that is a no on the sun."

"Good thing we're clear on that."

The Cleric continued to grumble under his breath, but he seemed to let this one go. After he finished lacing up his boots, the older man rose to his feet, gesturing for Avis to do the same. "We will stay here for the day. I will take you to see Reyton and get you fixed with a blade more suitable than the piece of scrap metal you've been using. And we'll have to get you some new clothing; Winter is coming, and I will not have you running about in naught but that silly vest."

Avis had no response to that. The chill of the autumn was quite different than the arid climate he had grown up in, and even though he was not affected by the cold quite as much as humans were, he certainly was not immune. It would be difficult for him to end the wars if he ended up dying of hypothermia.

Jerrod and Avis made their way outside, trading semi-friendly nods with the innkeeper, who was busy preparing breakfast for the other tenants. The Cleric stepped out onto the cobbled streets, pausing briefly to take a few deep breaths of fresh air. Absent were the birds that usually hailed the onset of morning with their chirping; the distant thunder was the only sound of nature, as well as the light breeze which had begun to pick up.

Jerrod had seen more than his fair share of storms, but this one left an uneasy feeling in his gut. Though it was still somewhat in the distance, the Cleric feared what would happen when it finally arrived.

The red glow of the forge was easily visible from outside the smithy, through the open front doors. The figure of a short, portly man could be seen as well, silhouetted against the harsh glare of the forge. The man raised his hammer and brought it down onto the anvil, raised it again, brought it back down—he did this in a steady, rhythmic fashion. After every so many strokes of the hammer, the man would turn from the anvil back to the fire, and he would work the bellows to keep the fire hot. Then it was back to the anvil.

"Wait outside, will you?" Jerrod said to the boy. "Reyton is…well, he's a bit of a grump; and this is coming from me. I believe it would be better if I spoke to him alone, for now. Don't come inside until I call you."

Avis shrugged. "Fine by me."

The inside of the smithy was much brighter than it had seemed from the outside. Once Jerrod stepped through the double doors at the front of the building, the bladesmith became clearly visible. Though he had seemed portly from the outside, it took only one glance to see that his girth was of muscle, not fat. He had a thick neck and a harsh, lightly-wrinkled face. He was completely bald, but he did sport a thick, gray, droopy mustache that dominated his upper lip, as well as similarly-bushy eyebrows.

"Reyton!" the Cleric hollered to be heard over the din of the old bladesmith's work.

The muscular man did not look up or in any way acknowledge the presence of the newcomer. Instead, he continued to hammer at the heated piece of metal on the anvil. Though it was not quite finished, Jerrod could see that it was going to be a gladius. The shape of the blade was quite apparent, but it still needed more work.

The bladesmith picked up the unfinished sword with the tongs and thrust it into a nearby bucket of water, which sizzled and steamed as it made contact with the heated steel. Once the steel had cooled, the bladesmith withdrew it from the water and slid it back into the forge and started to heat the next portion of the blade. After working the bellows once more, the muscled man allowed himself to stretch for a moment before finally taking notice of his visitor.

His gaze lingered on the boy outside for less than a second before sliding away, but when it moved to Jerrod, recognition flared in his eyes. He raised an eyebrow a fraction, but that was the only outward reaction he gave to seeing the Cleric. "Thought you were dead."

And that was it. No hello, or anything…just 'Thought you were dead'. Reyton had not been a man of many words in his youth, and he obviously had not changed one bit.

"Indeed," Jerrod nodded. "You, and the rest of the world."

Reyton took the unfinished blade out of the forge with the tongs and laid it back on the anvil. He switched out the tongs for his hammer and began shaping, modifying the heated portion of the steel, sparks flying with each blow.

"Still churning out swords for the Kingdom, I see," Jerrod remarked.

Reyton shrugged, flipping the unfinished blade over and working on the other side, working out the final imperfections in the steel. "I share this forge with my old friends from the Legions. Bladesmithing is good, humbling work…humbling because no one man can create a blade. It takes four craftsmen to do the deed. Five, if you count Essio, who smelts the iron ore into the steel that I am currently shaping. Now, what's this?" he nodded over to the entrance doors, where Avis could be seen sitting outside. "You bring me an apprentice?"

Jerrod gave a quiet chuckle. "I would not doom him to such a fate."

"Good," Reyton grunted, "Because I do not take apprentices. This one looks like he's full of surprises, but I'd wager metalworking is not one of them. So why, then, have you decided to grace me with your presence?"

"The boy needs a proper blade," the Cleric explained. "I would have your services."

Reyton repeated the quenching process once more—putting the blade into the water bucket, then back onto the forge. "How old is he? Eleven? Twelve? What business does a child have wielding one of my blades? Do you think I am a toymaker?"

"You would not ask that if you knew half of what that boy is capable of."

"I do not care how much of a prodigy you fancy him; he is still a child, and my work is not for the hands of children. It is insulting," Reyton grunted, glancing over at the forge to check on his blade. Satisfied that it was sufficiently heated, the bladesmith set it back upon the anvil and got back to work, hammering delicately at the tip of the future sword.

"He is no mere child," Jerrod argued. He took a quick glance around the room—even though he knew very well that they were alone, it had become a reflex. "He is more than Human. He is named in a Prophecy as the one who will bring these wars to an end—you cannot even begin to fathom how important he is to Saradomin and Zamorak. And so, I ask you again…will you help us?"

"Where do you factor into this equation, eh?" Reyton inquired, quenching the blade once more. "Did Saradomin himself come to you in a dream and tell you to be the kid's babysitter?"

Jerrod's expression remained neutral. "He told me face-to-face, not in a dream. He chose me to train the boy."

"Well that just proves that Gods are not omniscient," Reyton rumbled with laughter, removing the gladius blade from the water and setting it down on a stone shelf so that it could cool. When ready, it would go to the grinder, who would hone the blade's tip and edges and polish it to perfection. "Does the Divine Old Man not know of your wishes for the Gods to leave this plane?"

"He does not," Jerrod said quickly. "He would strike me down if he did, so I would appreciate it if you refrained from mentioning it."

Reyton plucked off his heavy fire gloves, dropping them onto the anvil, and ambled over to one of the wooden cabinets next to the cooling shelf. He opened it and took out a tankard. He then crouched down to the large barrel and opened the tap, filling the tankard with a frothy, golden-brown drink.

"Is it wise to indulge while working?" Jerrod gestured at the drink.

Reyton tipped the tankard back, taking a long drink to quench his thirst. "It is apple cider," the bladesmith said, setting the tankard down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He picked up an iron fire poker from the rack next to the forge, swinging it back and forth nonchalantly. "Alright, Lightbringer. You keep saying the boy is a special case. Why don't we let him speak for himself?"

Jerrod stepped over to the entrance doors and whistled over to Avis, giving him a single nod. The boy stood up and followed his teacher inside, blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the interior of the room, which was very bright compared to the gloomy gray day outside.

"What's your name, boy?" the bladesmith grunted, resting his iron poker down on the ground, leaning on it like a cane.

"Avis, sir."

"Avis…be a good lad and grab me one of those iron pokers, will you?"

Avis's brow furrowed in a slight frown. "Aren't you already holding one?"

Reyton exhaled sharply through his nose. "Did I ask you to demonstrate your grasp on the blatantly obvious, or did I ask you to get me an iron poker?"

"You…asked me to get you an iron poker."

"Then why are you still standing there?"

Avis clamped his mouth shut before he said anything he'd later regret. Jerrod was right; this man was a grump. Deciding to play along for now, the boy brushed past the short, muscular man and walked up to the rack next to the forge, selecting one of the fire pokers. As he pulled the length of iron from the rack, he heard the thickset man striding forward even before he heard the faint whoosh of metal rushing through the air.

Instinct took over and Avis jumped to the side, just as Reyton's metal poker cleaved through the air where the boy had just been standing. Reyton was quick to recover, pivoting around on one foot and launching another strike aimed at the boy's head.

Avis quickly realized that the other man was not playing with him; Reyton was actually trying to hit him. The boy ducked and rolled to the side, avoiding the blow, and sprang back up to his feet, found himself facing the bladesmith's turned back. He thrust his poker forward, aiming for the lower back, but was surprised when Reyton whipped around to the side and batted Avis's strike away.

"You know how to duck and prance like a little fairy, boy," Reyton sneered, stepping back and assuming his stance. "Stand your ground and face me like a warrior."

With that, the bladesmith lunged forward, launching another attack on Avis. The boy could not help himself; as the first blow came careening towards his head, he threw himself to the side, executing a perfect roll…right into Reyton's iron. The bladesmith had anticipated the boy's evasion, and had positioned himself accordingly to intercept Avis as he came out of his roll. "Evade, evade, evade…" Reyton muttered as he struck Avis across the cheek with his fire poker, sending the boy sprawling. "It matters not how much skill an individual possesses; a predictable warrior is not a warrior at all—he is a corpse. I do not sell swords to corpses, either-"

Avis, ignoring the pain throbbing through his face, seized his iron poker even as Reyton spoke, and lunged, striking at the other man's shoulder. If the bladesmith was surprised at the sudden attack, he did not show it. He swept his poker upwards, blocking Avis's attack. Avis's first inclination was to leap back or dive to the side to avoid the bladesmith's impending counterattack…but then some new form of resolve seized his mind, and he found himself stepping forward, locking the iron pokers between their bodies. Unable to use his poker, Avis used his head—headbutting the bladesmith right to the front of the chin, sending him staggering back.

Avis stepped forward once again, pressing his attack. Unfortunately, the headbutt had done little more than throw Reyton off-balance—it would take a lot more to actually hurt the heavily-muscled man. Once Reyton regained his footing, he was quickly able to reestablish his guard. Though Avis rained blow after blow on the other man, Reyton was able to deflect every single one, gradually regaining lost ground until the energy of Avis's strikes decreased slightly and the fight became an even one.

The melee lasted several minutes before Reyton lowered his fire poker and called an end to the fight. Jerrod had watched the entire show from the side, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he saw Avis go on the offensive. The boy had never done anything like that during their sparring bouts…perhaps it was because he was facing an unknown opponent who had not yet shattered his jaw.

The Cleric had to admit, he had not been aware of Reyton's skill with the blade. When he inquired on the subject, the bladesmith only gave another shrug. "I prefer creating swords over using them, but I make it a point to excel at both. As for you…" he turned his gaze back to Avis, "A boy your age should not have been able to last so long in a duel like this, not with heavy iron rods like these."

"As I said," Jerrod interjected quickly before Avis could reply—better, the Cleric reasoned, for the bladesmith not to know that the boy was Mahjarrat. Most of what Centralians knew of the Mahjarrat pertained only to those that had fought against them in battle, not the more civilized ones. "He is no mere child."

"Mm," Reyton hummed, looking at Avis with new eyes. "Fine, then. You'll have your sword… Have you trained with a shield of any sort?"

"No, sir, I have not," Avis replied.

"A spatha, then," Reyton nodded once, then vanished into the backroom, leaving Jerrod and Avis alone once more.

"That went well," the Cleric remarked. "I did not think he would warm up to you like that."

"Warm up?" it was Avis's turn to arch an eyebrow. "You call that 'warming up'?"

"He sparred with you. He rarely ever spars," the Cleric explained. "As he said, he prefers making blades over using them. I am just grateful that you took the offensive on him, there… You have never done that, before."

"Don't really know what happened," Avis said. "It was like my body moved before my brain told it to."

"That's reflex, boy. It means you're learning."

"He's never broken my jaw, either."

The door to the backroom was pushed open once more, and Reyton emerged, bearing a sheathed blade, attached to a thick leather belt. He strode up to his guests and, after receiving a purse of coins from Jerrod, presented the sword to Avis. The boy accepted the weapon and, with its creator's permission, drew it out. He was surprised to find that the steel of the blade was tinted a brilliant shade of scarlet—very close to the color of his eyes. The balance of the blade was perfect—he could place the base of the blade upon his palm, and the sword would not tip in either direction.

"This is a spatha," Reyton explained, stepping back as Avis performed a few experimental strokes with his new blade. "The color is from the very specific temperature at which the blade was tempered. It is nearly a foot longer than the gladius, favored by the cavalry for just that reason. A man on horseback needs the extra length in order to reach his enemies. In your case, you will need the extra length to make up for the absence of a shield. Use it well."

Avis sheathed the blade, securing the sword belt around his waist. "That I will."

And with that, Reyton turned away from the boy. Without saying anything more, the bladesmith retrieved a bar of steel from the supplies and placed it on the forge so that all of it would be heated equally. When Jerrod bid the other man farewell, all he got in reply was a muted grunt. The bladesmith was already engrossed in his work once more. They would get no more conversation out of him, not even a goodbye.

Avis and Jerrod took their leave, stepping back out onto the street. The wind was beginning to pick up, then, bringing a bit of a chill over the area. The thunder was still somewhat distant, but not quite as much as before.

"Do you feel that?" Avis asked as they started heading towards the marketplace at the heart of Agoras.

Jerrod cast a querying glance over to his pupil. "What, the wind?" he asked, seeking clarification.

"No, not the wind…" Avis shook his head once, searching for adequate words to describe the odd sensation he was feeling. To be truthful, it was not even a new feeling—the boy had always felt it, but never enough to take notice of it. Almost like the subtle ringing in one's ears when in a silent place. But now the feeling had intensified, which is why he was suddenly noticing it. He tried to convey it into words. "Almost like…like a… A glowing warmth, from within… I can't really describe it. Never mind."

Jerrod stared at his pupil for a few moments more before turning away. "If you say so."

The two companions continued down the road. They encountered more people the closer they got to the center of town. But even so, the marketplace seemed a bit more…subdued. Like it was not getting as much business as it would normally. In fact, this could easily be applied to the town as a whole; it just seemed…quiet.

"In here," Jerrod pointed at one of the shops lining the marketplace. Avis did not get a look at the name of the shop before entering, but it was obviously a place where one could buy clothing.

The interior of the shop was comfortably lit and had an aroma of apple cinnamon—appropriate for the autumn. Stacks of clothing lay on shelves that lined the walls, as well as tables that were set in the middle space of the room. A tall, wiry man, dressed in a burgundy suit with an abundance of ruffles sprouting from the ends of his sleeves and between the jacket's lapels, was folding the wares on one of the tables. He had perfectly combed and waxed brown hair. A pencil-thin mustache colored his upper lip, as well as a carefully-trimmed goatee on his chin. This was a man who obviously cared about his appearance very much.

The well-dressed man, who had to be the shopkeeper, saw Jerrod enter with Avis in tow. "Customers?" he asked, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Oh, how delightful! Business has been rather dreadful as of late, and with good reason…"

"I was meaning to ask about that, actually," Jerrod said. "I could not help but notice that Agoras seems much quieter than when last I visited. Know you the meaning behind this?"

"Rumors and whispers, mostly," the shopkeeper shrugged. "Apparently the Dark One's forces have reached the River Salve and are crossing into our province. Probably a load of rubbish, if you ask me," the man chuckled quietly to himself for a moment before changing the subject. "But enough of this dour talk. I assume you wish to buy some garments? Well, your wish has been granted, good sir! If you'll permit me, I would recommend a-"

"I have not come for myself; I would have clothing for the boy," Jerrod interrupted, nodding down to Avis.

The shopkeeper took one look at Avis's cloth pants and vest, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "I should say so…"

"Nothing fancy, mind you," Jerrod grunted. "I just don't want him dying of hypothermia during the winter."

"Well, that really depends on what you would consider 'fancy'. I, for one, would assume that the boy…"

Avis tuned out the conversation between the two men. He found it slightly difficult to concentrate on listening to it, at the moment… That strange feeling he had felt before, it had not gone away…if anything, it had grown even stronger. The maddening thing about it was that it felt so familiar…but he could not quite remember what it was. Every time he came close to figuring it out, the answer would slip away.

"…just the woolen pants and shirt, and a cloak as well. This is final," Jerrod declared, his patience beginning to wear thin.

"Oh, very well," the shopkeeper pouted, turning away and moving to one of the shelves, muttering under his breath—mostly likely about Jerrod's ignorance of proper fashion.

The Cleric then took notice of Avis, and he frowned. The boy was breathing heavily, leaning against one of the shelves. He quickly moved to the boy's side, touched his shoulder to get his attention. "You're unnerving me, boy. What ails you?"

"I... That feeling… I can't shake it, it just keeps getting stronger," Avis murmured, blinking several times, trying to clear his head. "It will not go away."

"Is everything alright, sir?" the shopkeeper asked as he saw what was happening, having retrieved the requested wares.

"Everything is fine. How much for the wares?" Jerrod asked, not wishing to discuss such matters with the other man. He wanted to get Avis back to the inn, where he could lie down and rest—hopefully that would alleviate whatever was ailing him.

"Twenty denarii for the lot," the shopkeeper replied.

Jerrod picked out twenty silver coins from the money purse he kept in his inner pocket, handed them over to the shopkeeper, taking the clothes in exchange. With that, the Cleric slung the new clothing over his shoulder and bundled Avis out of the shop. He took the boy by the arm and led him back through the streets, away from the marketplace, back to the inn.

The strange feeling within Avis continued to intensify until, just as Jerrod led him into their living space, it suddenly dawned on him what it was he was feeling. He was sensing the presence of someone…someone whose presence on this plane of existence he had always been able to sense, but now that the individual in question was in close proximity…

"Mother…" the boy whispered.

"What was that?"

Avis sat down on his bed, the disorientation finally gone. He looked up at his mentor, his eyes wide with fear. "My mother is here."

The Cleric stared at the boy, uncomprehending. "Enakhra? How could you…?"

Before Jerrod could even finish his question, the relative quiet of the town of Agoras was suddenly shattered by an earth-trembling explosion. Jerrod whipped around to face the window, but he did not move, initially. His gaze met with Avis's, gray eyes against scarlet, and then back to the window. He looked outside, looked in the direction of the explosion…and saw a thick column of smoke rising into the air. Unfortunately, the buildings between the inn and the smoke blocked the Cleric's view of what had caused the chaos.

However, they did not block the sounds. Even from the inn, Jerrod could hear a horrid howling coming from the direction of the explosion, intermingled with agonized screaming. The howls struck a particular chord in his memory; he had heard them many times in the past. "Werewolves…" the Cleric murmured. He turned back to Avis. "How can you know if your mother is here?"

The boy had no real answer to give, other than, "I just know."

That was enough for Jerrod. Though the boy was obviously ignorant of the fact, Jerrod knew that Mahjarrat possessed a strange ability to sense the presence of other members of their race. If a Mahjarrat fell, its death would be felt by all. What the Cleric hadn't known was that they could sense when another member of their race came into close proximity. None of the other Mahjarrat the Cleric had met had ever demonstrated this ability…but that did not mean Jerrod was going to doubt Avis's claim.

He swore under his breath, jumping into action, fastening his sword belt around his waist and sweeping his possessions—including the newly-purchased garments—back into his satchel. "If what you say is true, then we must move fast," the Cleric said, urgency clearly evident in his voice.

Enakhra's presence in Agoras was extremely bad news. To that extent, Enakhra's presence even within a hundred leagues of Avis was extremely bad news. Jerrod had crossed paths with her several times in his past, and the only reason he was still alive today was because he had always managed to evade her before she could corner him. But every time he'd escaped, he'd always feared that his luck would run out, next time they met.

And that fear had not gone away.

Alarm bells were sounding all over the town as its defense force mobilized in an attempt to repulse whatever was attacking, and watchmen could faintly be heard shouting something about the walls being breached. Obviously, the attempt to defend the town seemed to have ended before it began. When Jerrod and Avis stepped outside, they found the street deserted. This part of town had been largely quiet when they had arrived, but now there was no one left—fled to the gates, or towards some other exit.

"This way," Jerrod set off down the street, heading southeast. The explosion had come from the north, so they would be moving away from whatever had breached the walls. Hopefully, they could even manage to reach the southeast walls before being noticed by anything.

Jerrod immediately cursed himself for having such thoughts; the moment the thought crossed the Cleric's mind, he heard a commotion from behind. Glancing over his shoulder, the Cleric saw a woman and a young man who looked to be in his late teens, fleeing down one of the roads that crossed this one. They did not make it any further past the intersection, however; three hairy, wolf-like creatures loped into the intersection and overtook the fleeing civilians.

Avis saw this, as well, and moved to turn and help, but Jerrod caught his arm and kept him forward. "They're already dead, boy! We have to keep moving!"

Jerrod turned away before he could watch the werewolves finish off those two people, but he was not able to tune out their horrible screams. Unfortunately, the werewolves went about their work rather quickly, so by the time they were finished with their two latest victims, Jerrod and Avis were still on the street, and were therefore spotted by the three werewolves.

Howls rose into the air as the werewolves set off in pursuit. Jerrod and Avis, who had been moving at a steady jog, broke out into a full run. As the three werewolves continued to howl, the Cleric could hear more howls rising from elsewhere in town—the creatures were communicating. Jerrod knew that they must have known who it was they were searching for; if this was true, then it would only be a matter of time before the entire pack came down on their heads.

"Get to the walls, boy!" Jerrod shouted, shoving Avis forward. "I'll handle these three."

Avis, knowing what was at stake, gave a quick nod, and vanished.

Jerrod turned back and faced the three werewolves. He leveled his staff and took a deep breath, shutting out all else in the world save for the three monsters charging him, and the hum of the energy flowing through his veins. Tapping into the currents of the Anima Mundi that flowed through one's body was always very difficult for fledgling mages to accomplish…but Jerrod could do it as naturally as he would breathe or walk, such was his prowess with magicks.

He planted his staff into the ground—as long as the elemental nexus contained within was nearby, he could invoke the elements. And he had been layering spell after spell into the staff over the decades, until by now it was virtually indestructible. He took another deep breath, and opened his eyes, his mind as clear and calm as a lake on a windless day. No emotion.

"Water, Fire, Air," the Cleric whispered, looking at a different werewolf for each element, already forming in his mind how he planned on going about killing the creatures. Even as they bore down on him, he clenched his fist, and a glove of water coalesced around his hand, moisture drawn from the air itself. He looked straight at the lead wolf and whipped his hand toward the creature, fanning out his fingers.

The Water was launched at the werewolf from his fingers, forming four dart-like projectiles. As they were, they would simply strike the werewolf and splash it. Sure, it might sting, but it would cause no harm. That is why, even as the four darts of water flew through the air, Jerrod froze them, which turned them to miniature spears of ice…which buried themselves in the werewolf's throat. The creature was not killed by the strike, but it was definitely out of the fight.

Even before the first werewolf fell, Jerrod threw himself onto the ground, almost like he was doing a push-up. Instead of pushing himself back up, however, he spun his legs around and broke into a strange, whirling dance. He spun round and round on his hands, his back, his head, his shoulders...his feet never once touching the ground. Flames flared into existence, close to the cobblestones, miming the movements of his feet. They swirled round the Cleric, spinning in tandem with his feet, combined into a steady stream of fire, formed a burning ring. Jerrod let out a raw-throated 'Hyah!' and returned to his feet, which caused the ring of fire to explode outwards, catching the second werewolf by the feet. It yelped in pain as it went down, unable to stand on its badly burned legs.

Jerrod leaped forward as the second wolf went down, flames flaring up around his fist. The third wolf swiped at him, but Jerrod ducked, sliding under the third wolf's blow, and struck the second wolf right in the throat. The acrid stench of burning hair and flesh filled the Cleric's nostrils as his fist of fire burned the downed werewolf's neck clean through. Its severed head hit the ground with a dull thud.

The third werewolf recovered faster than Jerrod had expected. The werewolf slammed right into the Cleric's back, sending both of them tumbling head over heels until they struck the wall of the nearest house. Jerrod grunted in pain as he hit the wall—he was not quite an old man, yet, but he was certainly closer to old age than most. He could not take a beating as easily as he had in his youth, and his tumble with that werewolf was serving as a very painful reminder of that fact.

The third werewolf snarled, flipping itself back up to its feet, lunging at the Cleric, jaws snapping. Jerrod sprang to his feet and twisted away, moving faster than an arrow in flight. He had fought more than his fair share of werewolves, but he had always been especially wary of their bite. He had no desire to join their ranks. Avis, as a Mahjarrat, would be immune, but Jerrod would not be so lucky.

Before the werewolf could strike again, Jerrod planted his feet, extended his hands in a claw-like grasp, and invoked Wind. The werewolf might possess more strength and speed than the Cleric, but—like almost every other land-dwelling creature—it also possessed lungs. Lungs full of air.

It had taken Jerrod many years of practice to assert control over the air in another creature's body, but he had mastered it over time, though he rarely ever put it to good use. Today, he put it to good use. He seized control of the air within the werewolf's lungs, stopping the creature dead in its tracks. It gave an alarmed yelp, which was quickly cut off as it found itself unable to breathe.

The Cleric took a deep breath, turned his hands and pulled them outwards, like he was ripping through a curtain. There was a sickening crunch, followed by the sides of the werewolf's torso exploding outward in a spray of blood, bone, and gore. The creature gurgled on its own life essence for several seconds before collapsing.

That left only the first werewolf, severely wounded by Jerrod's ice darts. The Cleric clicked his tongue, irate at having an incomplete kill as his first attack. Nevertheless, he drew his blade and finished the job with steel. No sooner had he ended the beast's life did the howling grow near, and Jerrod saw well over a dozen of the creatures storm onto the street. Those odds were a bit high for Jerrod's liking, so he seized his staff and absconded, fleeing in the direction of the walls.

He weaved his way through the alleys between the buildings, surprised to find dead werewolves lying in his path as he went—his pupil must have encountered resistance. He found Avis at the foot of the walls, at the end of a small lane. He hobbled over to the boy, ignoring the pain still throbbing throughout his body from his scuffle with the third werewolf.

The howling seemed to come from all directions. Werewolves could be seen converging on the walls from every direction, including the alleyway Jerrod had just stumbled out of. Jerrod knew that they could not remain thus, but he could not see where to go from there. As the wolves began pouring into the lane, Jerrod took Avis by the arm. "You can fly with the Wind, boy, just like you did in Ullek," the Cleric urged his pupil. "Get yourself out of here! I'll hold this lot off."

"Hold off an entire werewolf clan?" Avis was beyond skepticism. "They would tear you to ribbons."

"You're the one in the Prophecy, boy, not me," Jerrod snapped, planting his staff into the ground, pulling up the sleeves of his cloak, baring his arms. "You're not meant to die here, today."

"Neither should you be!"

"Go, boy!" Jerrod shouted, twisting about and shoving Avis towards the walls. "Fly! Fly to the desert, find the Fire Temple! Then-"

"No," Avis stood his ground defiantly, drawing his spatha, leveling it at the charging werewolves. "No more running. Mahjarrat do not run every time they are faced with death."

Jerrod, knowing that his pupil would not budge, simply turned back to face the wolves. "Insolent little shit…" he growled under his breath. He held his hands high, took a deep breath, and clapped them together over his head. A sizeable gout of flame roared upwards from his hands, which he swung down in front of him to the ground, bringing the fountain of fire down with them. As soon as the fire hit the ground, it blazed forward, consuming all in its path until it lost strength and dissipated.

While Jerrod incinerated the forerunners of the pack, Avis drew back his spatha and sprinted forward, light as a cloud on his feet. He barely made a sound as he moved, dodging the initial blow of the first werewolf to cross his path. The boy plunged his new blade into the wolf's exposed flank, driving it home before yanking it free. And thus, the recently-forged spatha received its first taste of blood.

There was not an abundance of water in this place, so Avis resorted to using Wind, his most familiar element. He frequently used a two-handed grip on his spatha—his hands were small enough to allow this—but when he switched to a single-handed grip, he would usually use Wind with his free hand. As he yanked his spatha free, another werewolf was already leaping at him, paws outstretched. The boy whipped around to face the wolf and outstretched his hand. There was a soft rumble as the air around the werewolf suddenly compressed around it in a sort of shell, immobilizing it mid-leap. Before it could even growl in frustration, Avis sprinted past it and delivered a quick, sharp swipe with the very tip of his blade, opening the beast's throat.

The wolf's corpse thudded to the cobblestones as it died, the magic holding it in the air having been released.

Another pair of werewolves jumped Avis at the same time, with even more of their brethren close behind. Avis stepped towards one of the werewolves as it leaped, gripping his blade with both hands and slicing it upwards, shearing the beast's forelegs off. Having nothing to brace its fall, the werewolf hit the ground on its head, which bent to the side with a sickening crack. The boy spun around on one foot. After he cut off that wolf's forelegs, he did not cease the stroke; as he turned about, he brought the sword around and thrust it forward and downward, catching the second werewolf right in the back of the neck, practically spearing it to the street. It had not been a killing blow, but it had been a fatal one.

Something Jerrod had taught to Avis during their long days of training in the Virid Swamp was that combat against multiple opponents was not a series of one-on-one duels. It was not a matter of dispatching one enemy before moving to the next. In a situation like this, he had to be formless. He could not stop moving; to remain still, stationary would result in instant death. He had to be constantly fending off attacks from all sides while waiting for weaknesses to appear in his enemies' defenses, and then acting on those weaknesses. Master swordsmen in the thick of battle almost appeared to be performing an elaborate dance, rather than a fight for their lives.

Under Jerrod's tutelage, Avis could easily be considered one of the more skilled fighters in Gielinor—he was Mahjarrat, after all. War flowed through his veins. But Mahjarrat or not, master swordsmen had become masters not only through their skill, but also through their experience. Avis still had a little ways to go before he could be considered a master, but he was further along than most. He forced himself to remain calm; if he moved too fast, he would start making mistakes.

He was doing fine for the first minute or so, but then he eventually gutted a downed werewolf and took too long to recover, and another werewolf darted in under his displaced guard and sank its teeth into Avis's side. The boy threw his head back and screamed until his throat went raw, but was cut off when another beast swiped him across the back, shredding his vest, as well as the flesh underneath, sending him stumbling forward.

Rage boiled up from deep within his chest, making it feel like his heart was a burning coal, fueled by the red-hot pain pulsing through his back and side. Avis bared his teeth and thrust his spatha forward at the beast that had laid open his back, spearing it right through the mouth, ignoring the blood that spattered across his face. The boy withdrew the blade from the one werewolf's mouth and inverted it, moving as if to thrust it backwards, under his arm. Instead of going under his arm, however, he plunged it into the neck of the beast that was biting him on the side.

Avis did not have to pull his spatha free; the dead werewolf simply fell off the blade. Avis grasped the blade with both hands and brought it over and down in an overhead strike, cleaving into another charging werewolf's skull, sending bits of bone and brain matter everywhere. Jerrod would have cautioned Avis against descending into rage, but the boy was not exactly in his right mind. He was frustrated with the fact that he was having trouble with his training, he was tired of being constantly hunted all across Gielinor, he was tired of leaving death and destruction everywhere he went, and he was especially tired of running. He began to lose track of himself; the only things in existence were his blade, and the werewolves' weaknesses. Everything else was void.

Avis hacked, and he stabbed, and he slashed like there was no tomorrow. His face and chest felt wet, and some part of his mind was aware that it was not from sweat. He was also aware of an odd noise that accompanied his bloodbath, that always seemed to be there in the background no matter how many werewolves he cut down. It took Avis a while to realize that it was his own laughter. He was enjoying himself. He had been raised as a Human, had grown up with Humans…but this had to be some part of his mind that was undeniably Mahjarrat. After experiencing such sensations, it was not hard for Avis to see why most Mahjarrat were the way they were.

Then Avis's rage returned. He did not want to become like the rest of his race. He'd had a perfectly nice life, back in Ullek… He'd had friends, he'd had Farrah, he'd had the freedom of an entire city to live in…and then two Gods who'd read a dumb prophecy on some magical stone had to ruin everything, forcing him to run from one end of Gielinor to the other, constantly in fear of capture by the forces of chaos. Almost an entire civilization from the desert…gone.

"Enough!" he shouted, summoning a powerful blast of wind that sent many of the nearest werewolves flying. The boy spun around and marched back up to the walls. He decided right then and there that both he and his teacher were leaving Agoras alive, and they were not going to be stopped by a damned wall, of all things.

The boy could feel the power of the element he needed flowing through him, welling up, as if it were begging to be released. Avis obliged. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stomping his foot down to the ground, clenching his hand into a fist and punching it forward. He invoked Earth. The cobblestones rattled, and a series of medium-sized cracks appeared towards the base of the walls. Undeterred, Avis took another step forward, stomping his other foot to the ground, punching forward with both fists.

A long crack appeared in the cobblestones, running up to the wall, where the smaller cracks deepened and widened, combining to form much larger fissures. Avis maintained his hold over the walls, sweating profusely from the effort, but he was not finished. He took one last step forward, closing the gap, and struck the walls themselves. That was the final blow; with that last surge of power, the fissures in the wall widened to the point of no return, sending massive chunks of rock blasting out the other side of the walls. It did not form a tunnel, but enough of the base of the walls had been blown away to facilitate the collapse of the upper portions.

Avis backpedaled, scrambling to get out of the path of the falling ramparts. The fighting paused as the walls came down. The dust settled to reveal the gap in the walls, the ruins forming a makeshift ramp to the outside. The boy stood there, staring at what he had done, until Jerrod slapped him on the upside of his head, bringing him back to his senses.

"I'll give you a pat on the back later, boy!" Jerrod exclaimed. "We have to go, NOW!"

Avis moved to follow his mentor, but only made it five paces before falling to his knees. Now that he was no longer going berserk, he could feel the pain of his wounds all too well. The bite on his side had to be healed, and soon. "Master! Help me…"

"Piss and blood," the Cleric swore, stopping to assist his pupil. He grabbed Avis under the arms and hauled him to his feet. He then crouched down and allowed Avis to climb onto his back, and he carried his pupil the rest of the way; up the ruined wall, down the other side to the grass beyond.

The Cleric set off at a run, making for the trees in the distance. He probably would have ran faster than he'd ever run in his whole life if he hadn't been weighed down, but he still traversed the fields with great speed. Avis lost consciousness not long after they cleared the walls, most likely from blood loss. Unfortunately, Jerrod did not make it very far before a giant ball of fire suddenly slammed into the ground right in his path, forcing him to stop so abruptly that he nearly fell flat on his face.

The smoke cleared to reveal a beautiful, scarlet-eyed woman in a red cloak. Most men would no doubt have been enraptured with their first glance at the woman, but Jerrod knew better. Her face, like Avis's, was a mere mask. She was one of the most dangerous creatures alive in Gielinor…and Jerrod had done more than his fair share to earn her everlasting ire.

Enakhra smiled. It was not a genuine smile, however… It was cold, did not reach her eyes. "Lightbringer," she said as she smiled.

Jerrod gave a quiet sigh, taking a step back. "Enakhra… Why can you never just say 'Hello' like a normal person? The werewolves were a little over the top, don't you think?"

"Not 'over the top' enough, obviously," Enakhra countered. "You made it out of the town."

"Yes… Yes, I suppose we did. Well it was nice chatting with you, anyway, but if you'll excuse me," Jerrod moved to circle around Enakhra, "I have things to do."

"Sorry, old man," Enakhra blocked Jerrod's path once again. She nodded at the unconscious blood-soaked boy on Jerrod's back. "Much as I would love to leave you to your own devices… I'm afraid you have something of mine."

Jerrod hesitated, pretending to think about it for a few moments. "No… No, I don't think I do."

"He is my son, Jerrod. I am merely reclaiming that which is already mine."

"What, so you can break his mind, make him into another one of your master's pawns?" Jerrod snapped, the tip of his anger broaching the surface of his emotions. "You call that being a good mother?"

"And what is he now, but a pawn for Saradomin?" Enakhra retorted. "Do you really think your precious God cares about him? Were it not for that Prophecy, Saradomin himself would likely have killed him, considering the boy's-"

"He does not follow Saradomin, he follows me," Jerrod corrected her. "And I follow no God."

Enakhra broke some of the tension with her laughter. "Oh, really? This, coming from someone who was raised on Entrana, who served as a Priori of the Church?"

"That was then. This is now."

The she-Mahjarrat's brow twitched once, a single slip-up in the otherwise flawless veneer of her outward state of behavior, barely noticeable. But Jerrod saw it, saw that she was growing impatient. "I grow weary of these games, Lightbringer. You may be able to put a good spin on your words, but that is all you have left. Give me back my son, Jerrod, and I will give you a quick death."

"Well, ignoring that nice, fat little lie about a quick death, you're wrong on one count; I do have one thing left…" the Cleric reached inside the inner pocket of his cloak, produced his cloth money purse. He held it out to Enakhra, jangling it enticingly. "I still have this."

The she-Mahjarrat arched a brow. She knew that the Cleric knew that offering to bribe her was a bad joke at best…but all the same, she could not help but be curious as to how he tried to weasel his way out of his current predicament with gold coins. Like a cat, she enjoyed playing with her food before feasting. "You are joking," she said, more a statement of fact than a question.

"Well, not entirely," the Cleric shrugged, nonchalantly opening his purse and letting a few coins slip out through his fingers. He then snapped into action, moving so fast his hands were like a blur. He reached into the cloth money pouch and drew out a small piece of clay. It was very warm to the touch, covered in very fine writing. It was a last-resort tool, something Jerrod had made in the Virid Swamp in case he ever ran out of all other options. "Maybe that was a purse, but who ever said anything about money?"

And with that, before Enakhra could react, Jerrod threw the clay tablet down at his feet and shattered it, releasing the teleportation spell contained within. He felt a moment of extreme lightheadedness, followed by the feeling of getting sucked into a vortex…and then the world suddenly shifted. Enakhra, the burning town, the grassy fields—all of them melted into a colorful blur before reforming as trees, underbrush, shrubbery, a trickling stream.

The prepared spell had only teleported them about half a league, but it was far enough away to get them into the forests, where Jerrod would much more easily be able to evade Enakhra if she gave chase. He was not going to stick around to find out whether or not she would give chase—the moment he was back on solid ground, the Cleric set off running, weaving his way through the trees.

There was a small river not terribly far to the southeast; the Cleric decided he would head there. At the river, he could heal Avis and stop his bleeding. Then they could rest and recover for a day or two before continuing their journey.

Jerrod shook his head, forcing all thoughts of the future from his mind. For now, getting to the river was the one and only thing that mattered.

In the moment Jerrod brandished the clay teleportation tablet, Enakhra knew she had lost him. Once again, she had grown overconfident. Despite repeatedly assuring herself that she would not underestimate the thrice-damned man, she had ended up doing exactly that. And now Jerrod was on the loose once again, and her son with him.

A fiery wrath enveloped her heart as her frustration threatened to explode. She glanced back at the burning town of Agoras. She could see the town's former inhabitants fleeing into the forests, and she considered venting her frustration on the little insects…but ultimately decided against it. There was no time for venting.

And, to be truthful, it was not like the Lightbringer and her son had dropped entirely off the face of the world. Avis needed to master the four elements, but only the first three elements had been Awakened inside him. He still needed to go to the Fire Temple in order to Awaken the Fourth Element. Enakhra knew this—after all, it had been how she had deduced that they were in the northeast to begin with; she knew that the Earth Temple had been in the region, and had managed to track the Cleric and her son from there.

She knew Jerrod's eventual destination, as well as the direction in which he would be traveling. This still left her with the advantage. But still…she grew weary of having the Cleric manage to slip through her fingers. Perhaps it was time for her to swallow her pride and acquire some assistance. Mentally, she ran through her list of possible allies.

Her first thought was to go to Hazeel, one of the most powerful members of her race, but she kept forgetting that he had been killed a couple decades ago by Gnaeus Carnillean Agrippa, the father of the Kandarin Province's current proconsul, with the assistance Jerrod the Lightbringer and the current Centralian Warmaster. He was not completely dead, of course; merely in a deep, regenerative coma…but nevertheless, he would not be fighting anything or anyone for the next few thousand years.

Who else, then? Bilrach? Sure, the grubby little brute was not short on loyalty…but he was hopelessly lost when dragged out of his precious tunnels. Lamistard? Too much of a weakling. There was Lucien, of course…but Enakhra doubted he'd want to be bothered. He was always too busy trying to find that blasted staff… There was Ralvash, but he was not an individual of particularly great power…and, off the record, Enakhra found him rather ugly and tended to avoid him like the plague. Then there was Karshai…but Enakhra had her doubts about him. Sure, he labeled himself a Zamorackian, but Enakhra suspected he was merely going along with the majority. She simply could not read him, and she did not want to rely on someone who she knew virtually nothing about.

With Hazeel 'dead', there was no one else who Enakhra considered powerful enough to help her finally corner the Lightbringer. Except, of course, for him… The thought alone of asking him for help was enough to make Enakhra sick to her stomach. She mulled it over for a few minutes, but ultimately decided that she had no other choice. After all, if she came up empty-handed one more time, there were bound to be severe consequences. Her master was depending on her, and she could not afford to fail him. And so, she decided to sacrifice a small portion of her pride in order to accomplish what had to be one of the most important—if not, the most important task in the entire war.

The she-Mahjarrat gave a quiet sigh as she prepared to teleport away. She knew the long-winded, arrogant fool would never let her forget this.

And if he asks me to mate with him one more time…

Enakhra's brow twitched again as she vanished into a flash of indigo light.