Chapter 1 Chapter 3

- Chapter 2: Hero -

Keir made little progress that night, halting with every twig snap or hiyaka cat howl. But there was no sign of the escaped acolyte and, as dawn pinked the sky, he finally relaxed. Exhausted, he crawled beneath thick ferns and blitheberry bushes along the creek to sleep, ignoring the bugs scuttling out of his way. He loosened Onaonte as he settled, not wanting to be caught unawares should anyone come upon him. Again he felt the soft trembling of the magical power in his sword and fell asleep wondering if he should risk seeking that power on his own.

He awoke early in the afternoon, Saal the Just guiding the sun towards the netherworld on his way to judge those who died this day. Keir's empty stomach grumbled as he rose and stretched, brushing off dirt, leaves and insects. Hungrily he plucked several handfuls of the lumpy, orange blitheberries and stuffed them into his mouth so that the sweet juice dribbled down his chin. Plucking another handful, he resumed his trek while keeping his eyes open for small forest animals to hunt.

Shortly, the creek stumbled into a small river flowing east. The river grew rapidly as more streams joined it until several miles later it cascaded down a steep, narrow ravine, spilling onto the broad plains of the mighty Aria River.

Keir stood atop the ravine, gazing out over the plains. The river he followed meandered across a lush green patchwork of fields as it winded its way to the Aria. Keir judged the Aria to be a good twenty miles away, a silvery snake at this distance. The river was the lifeblood of Lebec. From its roots near Mt. Alusia, it flowed north until it reached the Eastern Ocean three hundred miles distant. Along the way, the river and its tributaries provided irrigation for thousands of acres of plains.

Keir scrambled down the ravine, deciding he could reach the village of fishermen and merchants standing where the river met the Aria within four turns of the glass, five at the most. Maybe I can even get a hot meal and a bed, he thought. He smiled in anticipation.

A well-traveled dirt path ran alongside the river. Often it cut a more direct route through the crop fields, avoiding the wider bends in the river. Occasionally Keir passed a farmer's thatched hut, but as Saal led the sun beyond the peaks of the Winter Mountains behind him, he saw fewer and fewer peasants. Finally, a good turn or two after nightfall, he reached the village, a hundred or so well-kept wooden buildings and homes of simple design scattered between the farmland patchwork and a half-dozen boat-lined piers. Most of its streets were dirt but the main street was brick-paved.

The youth stopped momentarily in the town square outside a large, three-storied inn from which light and raucous laughter streamed through the open door. He gazed in, pondering if it would be safe to enter.

I'm sure that only a few people, and almost nobody outside the western hills knows me by sight. Besides, that venison and brew sure smell good.

Making up his mind, he strode across the threshold and into the crowded inn's torch-lit, smoky hall. The loud, friendly chatter stilled as he entered, two score patrons casting wary eyes at his sword and Highlander clothing. He glanced about nervously for the innkeeper.

"Can I help you?" boomed a loud voice to his right. Keir whirled, spotting the barrel-chested, bearded proprietor. He wore a stained white apron over dark clothes and held a quartet of empty flagons in a hand as big as a bear's paw. A damp white rag was tossed over one shoulder.

"I--I need a room and dinner," Keir stammered.

"Over here, then. I've just wiped this table."

As Keir crossed the room and sat in the corner chair offered him, a sigh passed through the hall and talks resumed.

"You'll have to pay up front. I can't keep up with the king's taxes otherwise."

Keir scrounged through his pack, quickly finding the leather pouch Bautista had provided. "How much for one night?"

"Five tidcres for the room, two more for dinner. Breakfast is free if you're down here before the third turn in the morning."

Nodding, the youth fumbled for the proper coins, not arguing despite the outrageous price, then dropped the seven copper tidcres into the innkeep's hand. The big man smiled, promising to send his dinner out soon.

As he waited, Keir examined the patrons. At first they seemed to be long time companions but he soon noted a tenseness in the way they sat and talked, as if anticipating some coming terror. They cast several suspicious glances his direction, but they cast just as many distrustful looks at each other. Then a pudgy servant arrived, carrying a tray steaming with roasted venison and fried potatoes, as well as a mug of beer, foam cascading down its side. Keir ate in silence, continuing to study the crowd.

Suddenly, while he waited for dessert, five armored knights, a half-dozen acolytes and a black-robed priest of The Voryaki burst through the door. Immediately, the inn fell silent, the patrons’ fear and hatred so palpable that the quiet was nearly as loud as the banter. Desire to slay the loathsome priest tugged at Keir, urging him to draw his sword and he half rose before grimly resisting.

Sitting back down, he forced himself to study the intruders. They were easily identifiable by their heads, for it was law that only knights might braid their long hair and the priest had no hair at all while his acolytes wore only a long top knot. The hair of priests was said to be removed after completing their acolyte training in a horrible, bloody ceremony when they were presented before Teivos. It left their scalps a dark sienna color, a condition known as esil (hairless head).

An older black-haired, mustached knight with sad eyes and the priest, a tall bony man with an evil grin, demanded a private audience with the nervous proprietor, which was immediately given. As the entire group disappeared into the kitchen it occurred to Keir that he recognized one of the acolytes, a thin, dark-skinned man, although he couldn't figure out where he'd seen him.

Keir's dessert, a thick yellowish pudding, was brought to him shortly thereafter. He inquired of the servant what the newcomers were doing at the inn.

"Oh, they be searchin' for that renegade, Keir Jorinsson. He's s'posed to be fleein' down toward Jesup. It seems that one of them acolytes escaped from the rebels with news that a wizard of the Grand Order's appeared to ‘elp the rebels and that Jorin Fenalsson's dead, and that Keir Jorinsson's headin' out this way. But 'less you wanna be questioned all night, which be likely since you're dressed like a Highlander, I suggest you take your puddin' and let me show you the back way to your room."

A slow shudder crawled up Keir's back as he realized the escaped acolyte was here in this building. "Thanks," he said, reaching into his pouch. "Here, this is for you." Keir handed him a tidcre and followed the servant out the nearby side door and up the outer stairs to his second-floor room, taking his pudding with him. As he tossed his pack onto the bed, he mumbled to the servant, "Wonderful news about Jorin Fenalsson, if it's true."

*****

Keir woke instantly when the door to his room slowly creaked open, his years of warfare and shepherding once more saving his life. Lying on his back, he instinctively reached for the dagger that never left his side, even when asleep. His hand closed tightly around the handle.

A faint thin stream of candlelight broke through the crack of the open door and he descried the silhouette of a thin man clad in a loincloth. It was only a short glance he received, for the door closed quicker than it had been opened, but he needed no more than that glance to know he was dealing with a servant of The Voryaki. Keir narrowed his eyes to slits, tensing his body.

The acolyte shuffled towards him cautiously in the dark room, but seemed unaware that the young rebel was awake. As the acolyte swung his club, Keir suddenly rolled and slashed his blade across his attacker's neck. Blood gushed in a hot stream, the force of the blow knocking the novice to the floor with a heavy thud.

Then the door banged open. Keir glanced up as another acolyte burst into the room, a lit taper in one hand and a short sword in the other. The short, wiry man swung wildly at Keir's head but the youth ducked and the sword whooshed through empty air. The acolyte's backhand angled down towards Keir's chest but the rebel once more rolled out of the way and the blade slashed through the straw mattress, smashing into the wood floor and lodging there. As the man struggled to free his sword, Keir threw himself at the acolyte and knocked him to the floor with a crashing tackle. Immediately, he plunged his bloody knife into the man's spleen, leaving him gasping in pain. A quick slice across the acolyte's throat silenced him.

Meanwhile, the taper had landed on the bed, the flame igniting the mattress until it roared like a miniature inferno. Keir heard voices and footsteps pounding up the stairs. Quickly, he rammed the gory dagger back into its sheath, grabbed his belongings and hurled them through the wooden shutters of the second story window, shattering them. As the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, he followed his pack out the window.

He landed with a grunt and a grimace of pain but swiftly picked up his belongings and ran. When he was safely behind a nearby house, he peeked around a corner. The fire burned well, as the curses of several men attested. He waited briefly until he was certain he wasn't being followed then darted towards the river, just a short ways further.

Although the docks were empty, the noise in the village was spreading. He could see the fire raging like a possessed soul. Candles in many of the houses were now lit. Turning, he found a sturdy rowboat to cross the half-mile wide muddy river in.

Keir reached the far side safely, beaching the boat on the sandy bank. He began jogging southward, following the river upstream. Glancing over his shoulder, he realized the beached boat would leave his pursuers an obvious trail. Sprinting back, he dropped his sword and pack on the bank, hopped into the boat and rowed out a few paces. Diving over the side, he swam to shore, washing the blood off his body. As the boat floated downstream, he resumed his journey.

*****

For four days he successfully avoided all further contact with people by detouring through fields whenever nearing a village. So far he had yet to see any signs of pursuit but after the ambush at the rebel camp and the attack at the inn he was careful not to raise his hopes. Somehow, servants of The Voryaki had managed to find him in both places.

Each night before sleeping he tinkered with Onaonte in hopes of unlocking its magic. Neither physical nor mental manipulation produced any effect, however, and the tremor he felt in the pommel remained just that -- a tremor.

Shortly before nightfall on the fourth day following his escape, he reached Egther Falls. Here the Aria pounded its way out of the Geud Laybn, the Winter Mountains, in a noisy fifteen-manheight drop. A fortress atop the falls overlooked the large town of Egther. The town was said to be the end of civilization along the Aria, for beyond the fortress all was wilderness as the river tumbled down out of the foothills.

Keir halted a short ways from Egther, concealing himself in a vineyard as he restlessly waited for dark before climbing the road leading up to the fortress.

If I dare attempt the cliffs, he thought, I'll be spotted during the day or I'll likely plunge to my death at night. No, I'll risk the road for this short distance. Hopefully, no one will think to question a Highlander. Anyway, my features shouldn't be recognizable in the dark.

As he waited, he watched absently as workers carted boats and bales of goods up and down the road. The sun set, its purples, pinks, yellows and blues reminding him of a similar sunset he had watched with his father only two summers past when they had secretly journeyed to the southern provinces to raise support among the people there.

The sunset pushed forward more memories of his father. They came swarming into his head like locusts, memories from childhood games to back-to-back combat. He tried to keep them buried, not wanting to be reminded of his sorrow, and forced his thoughts to Jarik's bitter exchange with Bautista.

Maybe my brother's right, he thought. Maybe the Most High is unfair. How could He possibly allow a man as wicked as Savonna onto a throne as sacred as Lebec's? Why, Savonna's not only defiled it by forcing his pagan religion onto my people, he's even sacrificed people to that blasphemous Voryaki.

He shredded a dangling vine. And then Evesthar allows people like my father and brothers to die when they're the ones supporting Him! So what if the Most High has finally chosen me to end Savonna's reign. Evesthar's made His choice too late. If it weren’t for Teivos, I'd go back right now.

The sun sank and with his anger at the Most High still seething, Keir stepped out of the vineyard and started towards the road. Suddenly he halted, mouth agape. Torches were being lit along the road and atop the cliff near the fortress, as workers continued up and down like ants on an anthill. Keir hesitated, unsure of what he should do. Then he smiled as a plan formed.

Keeping to Egther's backstreets, he met no one save a drunken trapper and a pair of rouged whores, and reached the road safely, hiding behind a warehouse. He peered around the corner and, as he'd expected, stacks of crates and piles of bales stood in apparent disarray, waiting to be hauled to the top. Or else they'd just come down. Either way they'd serve his purpose.

Glancing in each direction, he was about to step into the open when he suddenly spotted a pair of black-robed priests approaching the warehouse. Ducking back, he silently drew his sword and nervously waited. A door opened and shut, and the crunch of the priests' sandaled feet disappeared.

Relieved, Keir once more peered around the corner. The priests had indeed entered the warehouse and no others could be seen. The youth darted forth, keeping bent over, and rushed to a tall stack of crates. Hiding in the shadows, he reached up and slid the top crate off, pried open the lid and dumped the tubers inside onto the ground. Carefully, he laid Onaonte inside. It barely fit corner-to-corner but there was still enough room for his pack and leather jerkin. As he tossed in a few tubers for good measure, replaced the lid and hoisted the crate onto his shoulder, he hoped he'd be unrecognizable at a quick glance. Then he marched out onto the road, staying to the right side along the cliff and keeping the crate on his left shoulder to hide his face.

He fell in behind a trio of porters carting a canoe and soon reached the top. But as he looked for a place to set his crate down, he caught sight of a familiar black-haired, mustached knight and a tall, gaunt priest standing to the far side of the road. He forced himself to walk calmly, praying that they not recognize him.

I don't know how they came to be here, he thought. It seems Bautista was right. Pranzik knew somehow about my quest.

Finally, he was able to duck behind another stack of crates and set his own down. Hurriedly he opened the crate, grabbed his belongings, and slunk off into the darkness, apparently unseen. But as he made his way towards the river, a hue and cry was raised. Cursing, he darted through the trees and scrambled up into the foothills. After several minutes, he came to a ledge overlooking the fortress. Torches twinkled along the Aria's near bank, but none could be seen climbing upwards and he whispered a prayer of gratitude to Evesthar. Then he resumed his ascent, working his way parallel to the river as best he could. For another turn he continued until, exhausted, he flopped down beneath a fir and slept.

*****

As the next morning wore on, Keir sensed that Saal the Just was driving the sun even closer to the earth than the previous days of his short journey. Already his brow was damp and he'd sipped from his waterskin several times. There were more fir trees here than pines, and he knew the thicker undergrowth that comes with firs would slow his travel.

Keir ate and washed at the edge of a creek. He decided to continue atop the steadily rising forested hills running alongside the Aria where there would be few, if any, travelers. By now, the river had cut a gorge nearly ten manheights deep from its countless centuries of grinding through these hills. Although it was but half as wide as when he'd crossed it, only the strongest archers could shoot an arrow to the far side.

At midmorning, he reached a hill far taller than all the others surrounding it. Light green turf covered its broad zenith, a rough mound barren of trees save one. It was a young birch sapling sprouting up amongst a broken-down, moss-covered circular stone wall, parts of which still reached his waist. Worn carvings still remained in places, but they were too ancient for Keir to make any sense of. Other stones from the ancient tower lay spread about the crest, half-buried in the grass. Then he realized that the mound's rough shape strongly resembled the remains of what must once have been a magnificent fortress. Had he known his history better, he would have realized he was standing on Sahnammet Geuy, the Watchman's Hill, whose tower had been destroyed long ages before. There was a legend he'd often heard the old men tell which spoke of the rebuilding of the tower that had been the symbol of Lebec's ancient glory when She was the world's supreme military power. The legend said that when a descendent of the ancient kings took the throne, he would rebuild the tower and bring Lebec into a new age of glory.

The hill provided Keir with a commanding view of the lands around him. To the east, beyond the hills below, the Jesup River snaked like a black thread through Lebec's southern plains, winding its way towards the Bel Sea in the distant southeast. Beyond the brown grasslands rose the bluish crags of the Geud Matre, the Black Mountains, land of the Torgs and the Nifm. To the south he could see the heavily wooded country of Magalia, home of an ancient, mystical race of men called the Eleshen. To the west, the dark towering mountains of the Geud Laybn, the Winter Mountains, dominated his view, the great snow-capped peak of Mt. Alusia soaring above the others. To the north lay the broad valley of the Aria River, its fields a green and brown patchwork as far as he could see. Finally he turned west, continuing his march to Mt. Alusia.

By noon, he realized the hills were turning into mountains, as each took longer and longer to crest. Bautista had told him only to follow the Aria in order to reach Nasaus, and Keir had no desire for any further mountain climbing. Besides, he'd seen no one nor heard any travelers along the river below. But when he peered over the edge of the gorge, he saw that it was still a sheer drop of at least a dozen manheights to the rocky beach.

Unsure of what to do, he chose to eat his afternoon meal. He sat, back against a tree, and stared across the canyon. Suddenly, he became aware of voices creeping over the cliff's edge. Bellycrawling to the rim, he cautiously peered into the gorge. The rocky beach was empty, save for debris carelessly dumped by the river. The voices were nearly loud enough to be understood, accompanied by the hollow clops of hooves from around a bend. Soon, six men on horses trotted into view. Except for one man, their chainmail glittered, catching the reflections of the sun off the water. Broadswords, battleaxes and round shields bounced at their sides while the curved horns of the great Mamish swamp bulls protruded from their black iron helms. Then he groaned as he noticed the emblazoned emblem on their breastplates: the ram's head of Lebec. The double braids of their long hair confirmed his fears; Savonna's knights had finally found his trail!

The sixth man, however, wore no armor. Instead, a black robe slithered over his tall sinewy body, creeping to a handspan above the ankles. Even from Keir's vantage, the youth could see a malicious sneer on the priest's face. Then he recognized the priest and the oldest knight as the two he'd seen at both the first village and at Egther Falls. He began to crawl back but before he did, the men begin arguing and he thought it wise to stay put.

"But Captain Muraga," pleaded one of the knights, a blond-haired, bearded young man. "We're only a dozen miles from that bloodsucking country of barbaric dwarfish cannibals. If we get much closer, they'll catch us, slaughter us like pigs and eat us at their king's next feast. Besides, they've probably got that murdering rebel up there hiding out!"

"You coward, Tolfa!" snarled Captain Muraga, reining in and halting the group directly below Keir. "That rebel is but one boy! And now you're listening to those bloodsucking lies Pranzik's priests have been spreading about the Brimulung." The other knights shrank back. Muraga was older than the rest, his flowing hair and drooping mustache as black as a starless night, unlike the blond hair of most native Lebecians.

Uh, oh, thought Keir. This captain that's been following me must be Black Muraga. Father said he's the only man who can stand up to both Savonna and Pranzik and live.

"Who cares if there's only one of him?" Tolfa sputtered, his ruddy cheeks quivering fearfully. "This is the son of Jorin Fenalsson we're chasing! He proved how wily and deadly he is back at that inn by killing not just one but two acolytes at once!" Tolfa glanced quickly at the priest near him. "He's as filthy as his dead father!"

Keir muttered to himself, "So. These men are afraid of me." He grinned and pulled himself a little closer.

"Demon's Eye, Tolfa!" swore Captain Muraga, annoyed. "He's nothing more than a scared boy who got lucky that night." The captain glared at Tolfa and the knight shrank back. "Listen to me, all of you." He leaned forward in his saddle and pointed at the priest. "This means you too, Pranzik."

Keir swallowed a gasp at the mention of Pranzik. This is no common priest. This is the High Priest! Bautista was more right than I realized. Savonna is serious about capturing me. Why else would he send Pranzik? And if this is Pranzik, then the man facing him must be Black Muraga.

The sable-haired knight spoke harshly but with authority. "Pranzik, you know I don't care whether or not you're the High Priest of that Demon's Eye religion of the king's. I'm the leader of this company and I'm ordering you all to turn around, head home and admit to Savonna you've been defeated once again by Fenalsson's son or you can stay with me until we reach the Nasaus border. Twelve miles isn't much farther. We'll be there before nightfall. And those Brimulung won't attack us unless we provoke them. I know. I've been to Nasaus before, when Savonna's father was still king. Now, we will proceed to the border. Anyone disagree?" The edge in his voice had sharpened with each word and he finished by staring fiercely at each man until they shook their heads. But when he stared at Pranzik, the priest tossed his head back and laughed madly, a sinister howl that chilled Keir's blood.

The captain snapped his reins and his horse resumed trotting upriver. Before Keir pushed away from the cliff, however, Tolfa hissed to the knight next to him, "Yes, we're still going to get some of that Brimulung gold, or at least some blueskin slaves, and if the captain tries to stop us, we'll just have to kill him! When we get back we can always say the blueskins got him."

Black Muraga called back sharply from farther up the bank, "Quit dawdling and get those horses moving!" Silence followed for a few moments before Black Muraga growled, "Now!"

As the horses' hooves began clattering once more on the rocky beach, Tolfa muttered, "Pranzik, if you tell that bastard captain of our plans we'll kill you too! I don't care if..."

Keir could understand no more of their talk as they moved on up the riverbank. He lay still for another minute until he was sure they were beyond him before returning to his meal. Keir was surprised that although Pranzik possessed great powers, at least politically, they didn't seem to extend to this wilderness. He wondered if all the knights hated Pranzik as much as Tolfa seemed to.

Black Muraga surprised him as well. Now he understood why the great hero could stand up to Pranzik and live. The High Priest feared Black Muraga, as did the other knights, even though Pranzik was said to have given his soul to Mangan in exchange for his evil magic powers. The courage Black Muraga displayed reminded Keir of his father. He seemed to know exactly what he believed and Keir felt he would never compromise, even to save his life. The youth wondered exactly what Black Muraga believed in. Whatever his beliefs, it was his integrity which reminded Keir of Jorin, that and the captain's apparent age.

But Keir wasn't willing to think about his father. Not yet. Forcing his sorrow to remain buried, he grabbed the skin that held his water and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls before continuing. As he trudged deeper into the mountains, which loomed more massive with each step, the Aria's banks rapidly drew nearer and its current rougher and noisier. The mountains crowded him closer and closer to the cliff's edge. Soon, the sheer mountainsides met the gorge, leaving Keir only a thin foot path.

Eventually, he rounded a bend along the edge of the cliff. Suddenly, he stopped. The path ended a mere thirty paces away as the mountain and the gorge finally became one. Gazing up, he guessed the nearest ledge to be at least ten manheights above him. Cautiously, he peered over the cliff. The gorge was still a drop of seven or eight manheights but somewhere along the beach were Pranzik and the knights. To go back seemed his only choice, no matter how much time was lost.

He leaned over the cliff's edge once more, this time to see if Pranzik or the knights were anywhere near. He could neither see nor hear them but, as he looked upriver, he noticed a worn thin ledge halfway down the cliff's side. His eyes followed it back until it crossed directly beneath him. The ancient path seemed no more than three or four manheights down, though it was less than three handspans wide, and continued up until it appeared to start past the bend. He silently thanked whoever had carved it as he retraced his steps, found the path's beginning and started down.

The path, once stairs, had long since eroded. Keir stepped gingerly on loose gravel, pebbles skittering down the gorge walls as he worked his way to the rocky beach. Then, less than two manheights above the river's edge, the path gave way, crumbling in a cloud of dust. Keir grabbed futilely for handholds as his feet slipped, tumbling painfully onto the rocks below.

Rising, he surveyed his surroundings while gingerly brushing dirt off his jerkin and breeches, discovering a half-dozen small cuts from his fall. There was no sign of Pranzik or the knights anywhere.

If Black Muraga's right with his distances, they must have reached the Nasaus border by now. That means I'll have to get past the knights somehow.

Gazing at the Aria's far side, now directly north of him, he saw that even though the river had narrowed considerably to a mere hundred paces, it had become too fast to even attempt to cross. Besides, the huge moss-covered rock slabs overhanging the river's far side prevented any sort of beach and looked much too slick and steep to climb. He prayed fervently for a place to hide when the time came.

Kneeling by the river, he washed his face and arms, rinsing off sweat, dirt and blood. After a drink he refilled his waterskin before checking both his pack and sword for any damages. Finding only a small rip in his pack, he hoisted it over one shoulder and continued.

After five rough, slow and weary miles tramping up the wide rocky bank in the sweltering sun, he halted. Here the forest finally came down the cliff, which was now more of a steep slope. Keir decided that it'd be safer to walk through the edge of the woods. He could keep the river in view, but would be able to remain hidden should he come upon Pranzik and the knights.

Nearly a turn of the glass later, he'd almost rounded a hillside when he heard harsh voices. They sounded like Black Muraga and Tolfa arguing again. Creeping behind a tree, he peered around. Off to one side thirty paces away where the woods met the beach stood the horses and two of the knights. Next to them squirmed seven, no, eight large bulky bags. Keir immediately sensed that the argument regarded the strange bags. Then he spotted Pranzik leaning against a tree close by the bags with a wicked grin on his face. Black Muraga stood by the river opposite Tolfa and another knight.

"No, Tolfa, I will not allow you or the others to take back any Brimulung as slaves." Pointing towards the bags, he commanded, "We came for a rebel, not slaves. Release them if you are true knights of Lebec!"

"No!" refused Tolfa viciously. He grabbed the pommel of his sword as the others cheered him on, their faces seething with rebellion. Tolfa stared coldly at Black Muraga, not flinching this time, and snapped, "You bloodsucker! All you ever think about is your own glory and how you can keep others from gaining any fame or wealth!"

"Aye, that's the truth!" shouted one knight.

"But no longer, you old fool!" said Tolfa. "True knights of Lebec? Ha! You've forgotten the meaning! True knights of Lebec worship the one true and living god, Teivos the Almighty."

"So you've fallen for those lies, too," said Black Muraga. "I can see why Pranzik picked you for this mission."

Tolfa ignored him. "Yet you still worship the dead gods that dead Jorin Fenalsson wanted us to follow. Why, you're nothing but a rebel yourself. We all know the king hasn't executed you because you're an old war hero."

"You tell 'im!" yelled another knight.

"But you're alone here and at our mercy," said Tolfa. "Now tell me, do you want to see your family again or shall we tell the king that you've become a martyr in the cause against the blueskins?"

"You're a fool," hissed Black Muraga. "You still blame me for speaking against your knighthood."

"Kill him!" shouted Pranzik lustily. "He's a traitor to the throne and to the lord god!" By this time the other two knights had left the horses and the wiggling bags and now stood behind Tolfa. Keir noted Pranzik moving into a position near the horses as if to be ready for a quick escape.

Creeping to the edge of the trees, Keir fingered some large, palm-sized stones with one hand while loosing his sling from his belt with the other.

A man with Black Muraga's integrity shouldn't die so unjustly, thought Keir. Anyone who still has faith in Evesthar and thinks the lives of Brimulung are worthwhile, that's a rare person indeed. Besides, I better help out those Brimulung since I'm going to Alusia.

Suddenly, all five knights drew their swords, a single swoosh as blades slid from sheaths as one. At the same moment, Keir tucked a rock into his sling.

The first ring of parrying swords crashed as Keir leaped out onto the beach, his sling twirling and whistling above him.

"For Evesthar!" he whooped as Black Muraga's adversaries all turned. While Black Muraga plunged his sword into one knight, Keir released his sling. The rock flew with deadly accuracy, bashing another knight in the temple just below the helm, killing him instantly.

He had no time to fit another rock, however, as a third knight rushed towards him, steel blade glittering in the late afternoon sun. Keir drew Onaonte to fight for the first time, tightly gripping with both hands. The blade shone so brightly that both he and his opponent were momentarily blinded. As his eyes adjusted, Keir briefly noticed the magic lines tossing a constantly shifting myriad of colors all about the beach, but the knight kept charging, sword raised over one shoulder and blond braids bouncing behind.

The tall knight howled as he slashed down with his broadsword. Keir's arms shuddered from hands to shoulders as his pommel caught the knight's blade. Swiftly, the knight followed with a short thrust but Keir leaped sideways, dodging the blow, and slashed with Onaonte. He swung wide, however, grunting as his sword hissed through open air, knocking him off-balance. He was barely able to bring Onaonte up in time to block the knight's overhand chop, which was quickly followed with another swing and then a backhand. The tall knight's blows, while not drawing blood, forced Keir back towards the river.

Keir lunged, a desperate thrust, and sliced open the knight's cheek. Anger burning in his eyes, the knight swung furiously in a wide arc that would have broken most swords, as well as Keir's neck, had the youth not held Onaonte. Yet although his sword stopped the knight's stroke, the force of the blow tore Onaonte out of his hands and sent it spinning end-over-end into the water.

The young rebel stumbled and toppled backwards onto the rocks, knocking him breathless and unable to move. The knight stepped up, placing a foot firmly on his chest. Keir watched helplessly as the knight raised the sword above his neck. He closed his eyes to await the blow.