Like an island, the top stories of the British army barracks near the Temple rose above the late spring evening fog which rolled in from the Thames. The rooftop patrols could barely see the nearby Temple Bar in the moonlight; even for the military, electricity was far too scarce these days for there to be enough lights to pierce the gloom. No matter, odds were, it would be another quiet night -- or at least as quiet as besieged and beleaguered London ever got in its fourth year of the War. England's foes had long since learned the cost of tangling with the Guards and SAS troops who were out in force. It was as good a place for a few weary Storm Knights to rest as was likely to be found in the city.

Inside, Lord Brenden Marshall Lewellyn, Viscount Harms, finished penning a love letter to Alice. His wife was in Canada visiting her in-laws. Even with the Delphi Council on the run, going back to the States was unnecessarily risky for the reluctant expatriate or his Victorian wife. Some day, the Agency would have the time and resources to put paid to those bastards, and Brenden wanted to be a part of his old outfit for that job. In the meantime, Canada, marginally better off than the United States at present, made a good meeting ground. With luck, in addition to finally meeting the family and showing off the wedding album (those photos were worthy of bragging rights), she could bring back news. She had timed this visit for the new moon; her control was good, but why take chances? Brenden's parents would find out soon enough why he didn't keep dogs any more. "Oh well, burn that bridge when we get to it," he muttered to himself as he blew out his lamp and slid into bed. Sleep would not come, however; Conn Dragonslayer rested uneasily. Even two rooms away, Brenden could hear the big barbarian's tossing and snoring. Brenden doubted Conn, practically weaned on the field of battle, would ever get used to soft duty. As he stuck his head under the pillow, he wondered if Anna was having the same problem.

Anna was not. Dame Anna Shaffer, C.V.O. had fallen asleep while reading about the pre-War Amazon delta ecosystem. Not that she found it boring, rather the opposite was true, but she was a month of lazy Saturdays short of sleep. Much of the paper was marked up; Anna found it raised more questions than it answered. More work was called for. Of course, with the invasions, everyone's research was terribly shorted, if not out-and-out obsolete. Nobody, ecologists included, could have anticipated the changes wrought by the War. Her career would have to wait a while, but when it was over, she had a backlog of papers she intended to finish. Some of the Storm Front systems she'd seen made the Amazon look like an elementary school fish tank by comparison. Meanwhile, she dreamed about the effects of various neurotoxins on the members of the Delphi Council, and smiled.

The sleep of Colour Sergeant Montgomery Black, 8th Regiment, Royal Victorian Order (detached), was troubled. In the year since his ordered world was turned upside down by the discovery his battalion commander and the Regimental Chaplain were in league with Horrors, he'd been forced to extemporize, something that did not come easily to him. A soldier without peer, he was still the product, indeed the archetype, of a profession and society which extolled obedience and discipline over initiative. At a loss, he'd taken leave, and struck up with this band. For all their strange and outlandish ways, they were first rate in a pinch, and knew who and what were the enemy. Still, it was unsettling to be serving a queen who was not Victoria VI, in a land that once was a close reflection of his own. Now, with the upheavals, the land had a second Great Lady and an uneasy alliance. Montgomery Black tried to keep the whispering voices at bay by sticking with what he knew best: regimen and duty. It was no longer quite enough. In the end, all this was for the best of his world, wasn't it? Wasn't also his duty, and that of all Victoria, to right their inadvertent wrong done to this once pristine world? This was the best way, wasn't it? The search for answers was not a pat thing.

Having finished his meditations, Shiro slept soundly. After all, he had rigged the door well, and shaped charges made for restful, undisturbed nights. If only his appointment with the Gaunt Man could be dealt with so cleanly. It was eight months until his day of reckoning. The High Lord's offer seemed attractive at first, but he liked being an independent operator. One way or another though, Kanawa had to be taken down, and he was the 'mechanic' for the job. He'd even waive his fees for that one.

The elf slept on the east wing, away from the others. Now, as we can plainly see, the path must incorporate True Knowledge in order to WHUMP the . . . Whump? Didn't we cover that last semester? Alain Mirandoor awoke with a start. Someone at the door? At this hour?The floor felt wet and sticky as she stepped to the portal. "What, pray tell --" she began, hastily snatched dagger in hand, as she opened the door. The bloodied body toppling onto her ended that thought before it was properly begun. Three facts registered as she dropped her blade and attempted to hold the figure upright: the bloody figure was that of an elf; she knew him; he was dying. Alain stepped back into the room, helping him to the bed. The door swung shut of its own accord.

Alain leaned close to make out his words. "Get this to. . . Tolwyn. Earthers said it was. . . important. Said--" Bloody froth filled his mouth as his final, wracked wheeze escaped. Alain closed his eyes. So passes he who named himself to the outside world Ziggy S., in honor of the Core Earth bard, David Bowie, whom he learned to love. "This" was a linen bundle about five feet long. She paid it scarce heed. Instead, she moved to brush a clump of white hair away from Ziggy's face. In so doing, she smeared blood and noticed a sucker wound. Her eyes grew wide. Quickly, she rolled the body over and ran her hand along its flank. Four deep punctures, as from a spiked gauntlet. The thought bubbled up, boiled inside, and vented. "Mage Killer!"

The shrill scream woke Anna. Alain? Oh, shit! If she's in trouble. . . . Grabbing her automatic, she sprinted barefoot down the hall. Turning the corner, she saw a bloody trail from the middle of the hallway to Alain's door. Anna leaped to the door expecting the worst She stood to the side and slapped it open with her free hand. Then she quickly peeked around the corner, ready for anything, she hoped. Relief washed over her when she saw Alain was unharmed. Relief then gave way to confusion. "What's going on? Who's he? What's that?" she queried as she entered the room, her weapon still moving to cover potential danger spots. Moving closer, she brushed the door out of the way behind her.

"A friend. He's been--" A piercing war cry, and the splintering of wood interrupted her. Wearing nothing but a loincloth, Conn bulled in, ripping the door off its hinges. Both women jumped in surprise, as Conn had intended for whatever enemies lurked inside. Ever since the CyberPapal Angel of Death had taken him, and Alain had petitioned Dunad (successfully!) to reverse the wrong, he had considered protecting the elven mage his highest duty. Conn took his duties very seriously.

After her heart resumed beating, Anna dryly noted, "Melodrama takes better timing, Conn." Conn looked around, making sure there was no one at whom he could throw the door, nodded, and loudly dropped his impromptu projectile. "Now, as you were saying, Alain," Anna finished with far more composure than she felt. Brenden arrived before the echos faded away, tucking an unneeded pistol in his sweatpants. The small room was fast becoming cramped.

"He is a friend. Was a friend. He went out with a group of British commandos a month ago. I know he was working on a spell of teleportation. With his dying breath, he asked me to take this" --- she gestured at the bundle, possibly a sword wrapped in cloth --- "To Tolwyn. A Mage Killer slew him." She spat out the final sentence. Mage Killers were a species of demon noted for both their physical prowess and their innate ability to suppress magic. They were the summoning of choice for assassinating wizards. Common lore had it that no summoned Mage Killer had ever failed in its task.

Conn hefted the sword. Bundled as it was, the balance was merely perfect. He began unwrapping the hilt. When they saw it, Brenden and Anna gasped. "I don't think you should do that," Brenden cautioned.

"Not here, anyway," Anna added. The thunder of a dozen pairs of steel-toed boots interrupted their discussion; as a proper NCO should, the Colour Sergeant's first considered action had been to turn out the guard.

Colonel Malcolm Pike strode into the doorway, his SAS troopers moving aside automatically. His gaze quickly took in the corpse, three armed but disheveled Storm Knights, and a near-naked and blood-smeared female elf. Only the minuscule widening of his eyes indicated surprise. "What is going on here?" he demanded.

"Show him, Conn," Brenden spoke.

Conn obligingly began unwrapping the hilt and the color drained from Pike's face. Stepping forward, he said, "Right, then. I think you'd better let me . . . ." Conn's glower prompted him to reconsider. The Ayslish barbarian was widely held as one of the finest swordsmen in the land and was also regarded as something of a paladin. This potentially invaluable object would be at least as safe with the Dragonslayer as anyone else Pike could name. "Belay that. Protect that with your life. The rest of you please get dressed now." He turned to his sergeant and took the offered radio. "These men will escort you." He nodded to six of the largest soldiers. "Please be ready in five minutes." He raised field radio to lips and muttered code words to move heaven and Earth. People jumped.

"I'll roust Shiro," Brenden called back as he departed. The others, save Alain, filed out of the room after him. Brenden barely suppressed a chuckle as he heard the elf address her new guard.

"Well now, sir; I must dress, and have no door. How do you wish to handle this?"

Glad it's not my problem, thought Brenden.