They reached the coast near Blackpool in Lancashire on the morning of their eighth day out of Stonehenge. The day's midmorning stop was also a planning session. Anna, Alain, and Conn hunched down near a small, swift stream. Brenden, Shiro, and Colour Sergeant Black looked to the horses and walked the perimeter of their bivouac, stretching their legs.

"We are arrived near the coast. We need a ship to reach Port Erin, but have none. The Vikings control the seas in this region. These facts are inescapable," enumerated Alain.

"Well, if we could have packed one along, we would have, but Her Majesty's government was right out of Zodiacs, so we'll have to figure something else out." Anna took no offense at the elf's pedantic tone; they had traveled and fought together long enough for her to know Alain sometimes got that way and that was that.

"'Figure something else out?'" mimicked Brenden from fifteen feet away. "If Hannibal or Captain Midnight were here, they'd be offended. 'True heroes trust their luck; fate favors the just!'" He did a wicked imitation of the deep bass of their two friends from the Nile Empire. That brought on some much needed laughter; even the Colour Sergeant cracked a smile. I think that's my first laugh in days, Anna thought.

"Hurumph. Well," Colour Sergeant Black attempted to regain his stone-faced demeanor. A very good thing the troops weren't here to see that; discipline would have been buggered right and proper. "Careful planning is always the key to victory. I suggest we reconnoiter the area. With information at hand, we can determine the proper course of action." No one could find fault with that line of reasoning. In short order, the party decided to parallel the coast, riding along the bluffs just behind the shore.

That turned out to be a depressing exercise. Where once there had been many towns and cities, now there were small fishing villages, and these were all abandoned, and most of them burned and razed. They encountered the remains of dozens of fishing vessels, almost all burned to the keel.

By the middle of their second day of combing the beaches, a serious mood of gloom had settled over them. "Nuts. We can't have come all this way to be stopped now," griped Brenden.

"So said the Spanish. So said Napoleon. So said Hitler. They were," came Anna's cross rejoinder.

"So said Caesar. So said Claudius. So said William. They weren't. Can we build a ship?" Brenden pondered.

"With what? There's barely enough uncharred scrap within a day's ride of here to make a decent raft. I, for one, don't intend to try the Irish Sea this time of year in a raft." Anna let out a long sigh of frustration.

"I might be able to fly us there, but it would be a great risk," Alain offered. "A craft would be better."

"If we cannot build a boat, perhaps we can hijack one," offered Shiro in the ensuing silence. He rapidly found himself the center of the group's undivided attention. Normally this was bad, but maybe not this time. "We have been told the Vikings patrol these waters. From what we have seen, they have done a very good job of destroying every watercraft along these shores. Now, what would happen if a Viking crew should see us repairing a fishing vessel?"

"Undisciplined sods'd come right down our throats and devil take the hindmost." The Colour Sergeant had a soldier's contempt for reavers.

Conn added, "After they beach their longboat."

"Correct. So, perhaps thirty Vikings come wading ashore, minds filled with images of slaughter and pillage, only to find we don't appreciate party-crashers." Shiro patted the pack holding the M-60.

"That's really underhanded, Shiro." Shiro nodded at Brenden's probable compliment. "That fishing boat we found last night, the one on the rocks: It's bottom was torn out, but it wasn't burned. I should think we could drag it free with a dozen or so horses. Once it's on the beach, you wouldn't be able to tell it's a write-off."

Alain jumped in enthusiastically. "Consider what should be done to repair such a vessel: One would need to heat pitch to reseal the hull; one would have to warp new ribs and planks; and one might also need a forge to make nails. All these things require fire. A pillar of smoke from the beach should draw Vikings faster than free ale draws dwarves."

That no one worried about possibly winding up on the short end of five-to-one odds was not surprising; they had many times faced much longer odds on battlefields not of their own making. They were the best Britain, perhaps Core Earth, had and that was damned good indeed. Five years ago, Brenden would have laughed at the idea any sane person or persons could reasonably expect to prevail in situations that would cause the most shameless "chop-sockie" director to blush. In this strange present, however, such was the gift of the Storm Knight: To manipulate reality; to make his own luck. Brenden recalled part of a parody of the action-adventure genre from before the War: "We're outnumbered a hundred to one. . . . The poor bastards." Yup.

They doubled back towards the wrecked boat. Drawing near to where they remembered it to be, Conn sighted a column of smoke rising from perhaps two kilometers inland. "It came from a small fire, and it was difficult to see against the dark clouds," he half-apologized.

"You saw it first, and from plenty far away; no need to be sorry," said Anna.

Conn picked out a narrow trail through the scrub that led in the direction of the fire. The party moved cautiously, weapons at the ready. To their surprise, they emerged from the brush into a clearing, where a gray-haired hermit in rags tended a small fire next to his hovel.

"Greetings, brave travelers. You have come to slay the dragon?" The hermit spoke in Ayslish.

"Dragon?" the party chorused in disbelief. They all had at least enough Ayslish to get by, and 'dragon' was not a word one forgot.

"No? Then what seek you?" The hermit seemed surprised by their reaction. "No matter. If my meager meal be not too rude for you, join me. I can tell you about the dragon, and you can tell me of the wide world."

"We would be honored, father," answered Conn. He dismounted and threw some rations into the hermit's stew pot, adding substance to the watery concoction. The hermit smiled in thanks. The others joined in after a few more quick glances to make sure they weren't about to be ambushed. Brenden, Anna, and Shiro carefully sat upwind; although they were ripening after two weeks in the field, the hermit stank.

"My name is Maxwell, honored warrior, though it is a name strange to my own lips." Poor bastard. He transformed and most of his memories changed, but not his name, Brenden concluded. It was a sad story, variations of which they had heard many times before.

"I am Conn Dragonslayer." The hermit's eyebrows rose. Before he could question the Ayslish warrior, Conn named the rest of the party.

"Names worthy of heroes. Even though you do not seek to challenge the dragon, I am sure some great tale accompanies you. How did you come to be named Dragonslayer?"

Conn's people did not consider boasting to be in poor taste. Rather the opposite, in fact; one was ranked in the councils of the wise according to the valor of one's past deeds. Nonetheless, Conn, with some help from Alain and Brenden, gave a strategically abbreviated account of their background, journey, and some of the situation in southern England. By the time they were through, the extra meat Conn had added to the stew had cooked down and they supped. It wasn't bad, but Brenden was secretly glad that the flavor was so complex that he couldn't make out individual ingredients. Brenden figured he could live a long and fulfilling life without knowing everything that had gone into the hermit's pot over the past month or so.

Eventually, the conversation turned to the hermit. "Maxwell," Alain began, "tell us your story. You are the only person we have seen near this coast. How is it you still live here when everyone else has fled or perished?"

The hermit shrugged. "There is little enough to tell. Once, my village boasted twenty homes and a dozen boats. Then came the Vikings in earnest, and over the course of the winter, they plundered this area at will. Many were killed, including my sons and their families. Most of the rest fled east or south. Goblins and other dark creatures moved in; here there were no militias to stop them. A few of us are too stubborn to leave. All my life I lived here, and here I will die. In a strange way, the coming of the dragon was the best thing that happened."

"How so?" asked Conn, his voice carefully neutral. Conn had earned his sobriquet by slaying a dragon villagers in the south of England had taken to placating in the traditional way: They sacrificed maidens to it. Conn's wrath had fallen in almost equal measure on the craven elders of that village. Alain and Anna shifted position ever so slightly in case they needed to intervene; they knew well Conn's feelings about those who trafficked with the Corrupt even to save their own hides.

"The next group of Vikings who came ashore here met with a well-deserved bad end. The goblins and other dark creatures fled. The land is now deserted. I have no treasure to plunder and I am too skinny to make a good meal. I think the dragon tolerates me like I once let a spider build its web in the corner of my home; it was too small to be dangerous and it amused me to watch it live out its life."

Conn nodded gravely. Brenden, carefully concealing his concern, asked, "So, the Vikings no longer come here?"

"Oh, they still sail along off the shore, but not very close. Don't know why they bother at all, though; few come this way anymore, except thieves trying to steal the dragon's horde." Maxwell shook his head. "None of them have made it, as far as I know."

Anna pondered. "I see. We still have business along the shore. I was going to ask if we might leave our horses in your field to graze for a few hours, but if that is going to bring down the wrath of the dragon on you, we cannot put you at risk." Their task was difficult enough without bringing innocents into the matter.

Maxwell smiled. "No, I think I would be safe for awhile. I have little to occupy my mind other than my powerful neighbor, so I've come to know its habits very well. The dragon flew not a week ago, chasing down thieves. From what I found, it ate well. I should think the beast will be asleep for another week or so."

Anna looked doubtful. Maxwell reassured her, "Your horses look like they could use the rest. Caring for them for a few hours would be a pleasant diversion. You have nothing to fear from me; I have not lived this long by being a fool. I am content with my lot. Even if this were not so, would I be in such a hurry to throw away my life by stealing from such doughty warriors? I cannot grow wings and fly away to escape your wrath."

Put that way, there was really no way to refuse the hermit without offering grave insult. They removed their packs from the horses and put aside what they would not need immediately. "We will be back before nightfall. Thank you again, Maxwell, for your help and for sharing your table with us," said Conn when they finally left the clearing. Maxwell was still waving at them when the party lost sight of him.

The six Storm Knights made their way back to the bluffs. "We need to find a route down to the beach suitable for the horses, yes?" asked Shiro.

Anna nodded. "We should probably split up to cover more ground; we've only got a couple of hours of daylight left."

Conn, of course, offered to go with Alain. The elf acceded. Shiro, to Anna's mild surprise, asked to accompany her. That left Brenden and the Colour Sergeant. "Where to, sir?" asked the NCO.

"I think we'll go down to the beach and look from there. We'll try north first."

"Very good, sir."

Brenden sighed resignedly. Montgomery is a good man, but I don't really know him. If I don't get him to stop with this 'sir' nonsense, I never will. Hmm. Okay. As far as he's concerned, I'm an aristocrat and a superior officer. I don't want to be sir, I want to be Brenden. 'Sir' is for the State Trooper who just pulled you over. How do I put this without offending him? "I see you took your Book of Power with you." Brenden noticed the NCO had taken the time to retrieve the Sacellum holy book from his pack before they left the horses.

"Yes, sir. It's an optional part of the field kit." The Colour Sergeant sounded a touch defensive.

"Yes, yes. I know; my friend Father Hardy has ministered to many soldiers in his time. Is that the same copy upon which you swore your oath when you first joined the army?"

"Yes, it is, sir," said the Colour Sergeant proudly. "I've kept it safe for 22 years. It's kept me safe, too."

"I can imagine. It looks well read."

"I always read for twenty minutes before retiring. It sets a good example for the men, sir."

"No doubt, no doubt. I know there are differences between the faith of your world and mine," said Brenden carefully as he zeroed in on his point. Massive understatement; Cotton Mather would have been a flaming liberal in the Sacellum. "But some things are the same. Pride is one of the deadly sins to us both."

"Yes, sir."

Brenden nodded. "All men are the same when they stand before their Judge. Don't let me forget that. I know that in front of the men propriety must be maintained, but in private, please call me Brenden."

The Colour Sergeant pondered the request for several moments; it put at odds two of the basic tenets of Victorian society. "It is good to serve with you, sir. Ah, Brenden." Brenden smiled and offered his hand.

After a moment of surprise, the Colour Sergeant took Brenden's hand. "I imagine it's high time I broadened my horizons, as it were. I'm detached and on the inactive list; I would be honored if you would call me by my Christian name."

Brenden's smile widened. "Done, Montgomery."

A shot rang out to the south. Then a second. The two men tensed, but heard only silence. "Shiro and Anna must have found something. Let's have a look." Brenden was already jogging towards the trail that led back up the bluff. After several minutes, Brenden found himself envious of the ease with which Montgomery assumed the double-quick step; years of practice made his cadence so smooth that he wasted little energy. Brenden was in pretty good shape, but after three kilometers over broken terrain with a forty meter rise thrown in, he was about ready to ask the Victorian NCO to slacken his pace and pride be damned. Fortunately for Brenden's ego, the trail they followed opened up into a large clearing. At the far end stood their four companions.

"Big problem," said Anna without preamble.

"Draconis Teutonica, about ten to twelve paces long," amplified Conn.

That was small for that particular breed of dragon, but small only in the sense that the yield of a tactical nuclear weapon was small; either could really ruin your whole day. Worse still, Aysle's reality didn't support nukes, but did support dragons. "Where is it?" The Colour Sergeant scanned the skies.

"Not in its lair, which is in a cave about twenty yards behind us. Plenty of bones, human, equine, and goblinoid. Some stray scales, too, which told Conn its size." Anna felt the urge, the need to get the words out as fast as possible, lest something terrible happen right now, before the others understood. "If it isn't in its lair . . . ."

"It smelled our horses. We brought it down on Maxwell!" cried Alain.

"Quickly, then." Conn led them off, moving with alacrity. It was about four kilometers back to the hermit's clearing. As they neared the hovel the party moved in silence, using hand signals when necessary. It gave Brenden time to dwell on the folly of what they intended to do. An M1A1 Abrams has a slightly less than even chance of surviving a full-grown Teutonica's arctic breath. If it catches any of us with that, we're dead and that's all she wrote. Sending heroes after dragons is a good way to run out of heroes. Even Beowulf didn't survive his run in with one of the beasts. Still, it's a small one, and who said we have to fight fair? I'd be a lot less worried if the heavy ordnance wasn't back with Maxwell. In some distant, rational corner of his mind, Brenden knew he was babbling. He didn't really care; the odds on this one weren't great. Dragons, it seemed, all dragons, in addition to being unreasonably tough, had the knack for making their own luck just like Storm Knights.

Conn had hoped to surprise the dragon. Luck was not with him this day; the dragon lay stretched out in the clearing, blood and gristle streaming down its maw and neck, facing right at the Storm Knights. That dragons had the power of speech, Conn knew. That the Teutonica were cruel to the very core of their Corrupt hearts, Conn also knew. However, the words the dragon spoke momentarily froze him in his tracks with horror and revulsion. "Much more filling than that thin broth, Conn Dragonslayer. I thank you for the horses." The dragon spoke in Maxwell's voice! Conn stood frozen as the Maxwell-dragon reared up. "Shall I hereafter be known as Dragon Connslayer?" it hissed hatefully.

With a burst of maniacal strength, Alain pushed Conn aside a bare instant before the dragon spat icy death. The ground where Conn had stood froze and fractured, as if from torrents of liquid nitrogen. The Storm Knights quickly spread out. Brenden cut right, fell flat in a slight crease in the terrain, and opened up with his MP-40. Anna broke left and also went for cover. Scant seconds later, her bipod-stabilized H&K battle rife began to spit tongues of flame. The Colour Sergeant took up position near the ruins of the hut and began methodically firing. Shiro leaped over Brenden and made for the packs.

The hail of lead was as so many stinging insects to the dragon; annoying, maybe painful, but not dangerous. Conn regained his feet and charged the dragon, flourishing Excalibur. Alain snapped off a fireball to cover Conn's approach. Maxwell didn't even pretend to notice the flames. The dragon whipped its tail around, but Conn jumped over it and landed a blow at the base of the wyrm's wing. Conn did not strike truly, but such was Excalibur's might that it splintered the dinner plate-sized scale it struck, leaving a raw wound.

The dragon took a great bound backwards in surprised pain. It roared a challenge to the world as it thrashed about. That's it, you overgrown iguana! thought Brenden with harsh glee. Having seen his bullets strike with no effect, the MI-6 operative checked his fire and waited for the right moment. The grenade was much heavier than the normal fragmentation variety, but Brenden felt the throw was within his range. For an instant, he saw the pink at the back of the dragon's throat. He stood and let fly with one motion, willing the grenade to play by the rules of his world, not Aysle's. Come on, baby! The throw was true, but by dumb luck, the dragon's forked tongue flicked out and lashed the grenade aside at the last instant. It detonated on the beast's neck, not in its mouth. Fiery tendrils of white phosphorus ignited the grass around the dragon. More clung to the great lizard's bib, searing the flesh under the armor. The dragon's bulk protected Conn, who danced out of harm's way as it beat its wings in frustration.

Brenden sank back to the ground; the effort of will it had taken to make the grenade detonate left him light-headed. He took a few moments to collect his wits and watched the battle unfold. There was a flash of metal from the shack, most likely the Colour Sergeant changing positions. The dragon spat in that direction. Vegetation withered. Conn raced past the dragon and yanked its tail! Brenden knew the Ayslish warrior was fearless, but this bordered on the foolhardy. The dragon whipped back along its own length to destroy the insufferable human. Several of the great plates on its neck came loose as seared connective tissue failed under the sudden strain; the white phosphorus had injured it. In that instant, a dark shadow flew out of a heretofore quiet section of the scrub and struck the dragon's wounded neck. There was a clang! and Brenden watched the warhead of a LAW spring harmlessly skyward. Shiro found our packs. Clever, but he couldn't make the warhead go off. From painful experience, Brenden knew Shiro's failure to impose his reality of the rocket had probably left the saboteur out of action. Mental Note: Use wire-guided missiles next time. Hard won experience taught that it was easier to impose one's will on what one physically touched. This lesson was otherwise of dubious value where significant quantities of explosives were concerned.

Despite the dragon's undivided attention, Conn was still on his feet and dishing it out. He parried a claw meant to eviscerate and riposted, etching a scale. "I rode your kin, you craven coward! I'll have your head ,too," the Ayslish warrior shouted. Brenden began firing again, taking care not to injure Conn and hoping to hit something vital, such as an eye. From the stuttering echoes, Anna and Montgomery were doing likewise.

Alain slowly approached the dragon from the rear. What the Hell is that damned fool elf doing? Brenden watched in alarm and amazement. She seemed to be incanting and she cupped something in her hands. Brenden thought he had a good idea of the mage's repertoire, but this was nothing he recognized. Conn continued to hold the dragon's attention. Finally, Alain was almost on top of the beast. "Maxwell! Taste of the just desserts that await the minions of Corruption!" she shouted and made an underhand toss of whatever lay in her hands. Nothing happened.

Concentrate. Do it properly, this time. Alain backpedaled a few steps, too focused to be terrified.

Black, seeing the elf's exposed position, overworked his rifle, still hoping in vain to hit an eye. Anna sprayed lead, in an equally ineffectual gesture. At least she could provide covering fire so the elf could retreat. But Alain stood her ground. Maxwell turned to snap up the tasty morsel, but Conn's sting reminded him of unfinished business. A wing swatted the gnat of an elf. Alain rolled with it and came back up.

Conn's sword danced lightly, turning lethal blows and keeping up the pressure so the dragon did not have the opportunity to rear back and spit. Conn began to feel the warning signs that told him he couldn't sustain this level of effort for long. Soon one of us must strike. It must be me, if any of us are to survive. The dragon's tail furrowed the sand, blinding Conn, who dove forward. The unexpected maneuver caught Maxwell off guard. Left and right claw bit air, but Conn lay face down by his feet, and the dragon grinned horribly.

The elf stepped forward again. The dragon reared back, telegraphing the blow it knew would dispatch two of its tormentors. Neither moved. The wyrm's head dipped down, gaining speed. Brenden emptied his clip, hoping to forestall the inexorable descent for a few moments more.

"No." The elf's quiet syllable somehow carried. Then she raised her fists to Maxwell and opened them. Brenden distinctly heard multiple sonic booms. The dragon was knocked backwards several feet, shuddered, and collapsed. The left eye was a mass of gore, and the nape of the dragon's neck bulged oddly. Cautiously, Conn approached the fallen beast, but it lay still. With a mighty swing, he decapitated the dragon. Excalibur sheared through scale and bone and gristle without complaint. He picked up the bloody trophy and presented it to Alain, bowing deeply.

The others broke cover and ran to congratulate the elf. The elf staggered under their combined back-slapping. "What was that spell?" asked Anna over the tumult.

Alain's grin spread from ear to ear. "One of the earmarks of true mastery of the magical sciences is the ability to alter the basic pattern of a spell, bend it to your will. I thought I had finally determined how to trade off range for power with the Steel Shower spell. I was correct. The second time."

"Bravely done!" exclaimed Conn. "Don't ever do such a foolish thing again."

"We'd best get Shiro," Brenden observed. Black followed him into the brush.

Brenden and Montgomery made a quick search of the edge of the clearing. They found Shiro in the act of standing up and shaking his head. "Bad headache?" asked Brenden.

"I did not think it possible for there to be pain worse than that of my posterior. Unfortunately, my anterior has shown this not to be the case." Shiro slowly scanned the area. "Who slew the dragon?"

"Conn and Alain," said the Colour Sergeant. Although there was nothing one could point to for proof, it was obvious to both Brenden and Shiro that the Ayslish Storm Knights' stock had risen in Montgomery's eyes.

"Well, despite our best efforts to really screw up, our gear seems to be intact." Brenden glanced at the dozen sets of riding gear and packs littering the ground. "We are, however, out a dozen horses. Damn. Not that I'll admit it in public, but I was growing fond of that cantankerous fly bait."

"I will admit to being deficient in animal husbandry, but I suspect loading a dozen horses on a longboat with only six people aboard would have been difficult." Shiro bent down to straighten his pack, stiffened, and let out a groan.

"Sit down," ordered the Colour Sergeant. Shiro obeyed, propping himself against several packs of feed. Montgomery rummaged through his own pack, and produced smelling salts. Under normal circumstances, Shiro would have to be restrained before allowing a potential poisoner to approach him so. Now, he merely grimaced at the pungent aroma and submitted to the Colour Sergeant's quaint ministrations. Brenden suspected Shiro's docility was made up of equal parts disorientation and utter disbelief that the dour Victorian was capable of such an ungentlemanly act. "Now, rest for a few minutes. No one will think you the shirker; your eyes still aren't focusing properly."

Shiro sighed. "Yes, Colour Sergeant." When Montgomery turned his back to restow his kit, Shiro shot Brenden a dirty look; Brenden was not succeeding in hiding his grin.

Meanwhile Alain tried to attend to Conn, who was covered with a myriad of small cuts and abrasions, and one rather nasty gash on his upper arm where surcoat and mail had been shredded. The barbarian shook his head in refusal and again approached the corpse, Excalibur at the ready. The others watched dumbfounded as Conn rolled the corpse over and split its breastbone with a mighty blow. A macabre chorus of cracking and sucking noises escaped as Conn forced open the chest cavity and reached in, sinking his arms up to the elbows in gore. After rooting about for several seconds, he seemed satisfied and pulled free a hand. He reached for his dagger, then grimaced as a purplish-black clot of oozed off his arm onto one of his boots.

Alain stepped forward with a sigh and drew Conn's dagger, reversed it, and slapped it into his hand. Conn moved back to the dragon's chest cavity. "First dragon I slew, I was so relieved and exhausted, I forgot to do this. Now, I'm as addle-brained as a boy after his first kiss. Mayhap next time, I'll manage as well as the bards tell of the great warriors of bygone times. Ah, here it is." With a flourish and a shlorp!, Conn pulled free the dragon's black heart and cut it into strips, ignoring the inky blood which poured from it. "All of you, eat of it. It will make you fearless."

Brenden and Montgomery trotted back over to Conn at his beckons and stoically accepted three strips of dragon heart. Given Conn's obvious enthusiasm and his frightful appearance, none of the other Storm Knights were willing to say him nay, but they ate with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Even Shiro's incapacity did not spare him from the gastronomic experience.

"You have to be near to fearless already to choke that down," muttered the Colour Sergeant as he attempted to repair the damage done to his carefully groomed whiskers by the snack.

"Definitely an acquired taste. Reminds me of all the sushi nightmares I've ever had," agreed Brenden.

"I resemble that remark," commented Shiro. Brenden chuckled, offered a hand to help him stand, then made a show of checking that all his fingers were still present.

Alain again began to fuss over Conn's wounds. This time, the barbarian gladly sank to the blood-sodden ground, resting against the flank of the dead beast. Alain first cleaned and bound the largest wounds, then chanted a spell of healing over Conn.

"Will we be able to move the wreck without the horses?" Shiro inquired.

"Depends. We can rig a block and tackle, but we're going to have to do something about the rocks poking through the hull. How much C-4 did you pack?"

"C-4? Nothing so crude, my friends. I think I have sufficient quantities of a more, ah, refined explosive at hand."

"Well, I hope we can manage something. Hannibal would have come in handy right about now." The Nile archaeologist had a very good sense for practical engineering, as well as the Nile Empire's more esoteric version. "Even if we couldn't have taken the horses with us, it would have been nice to leave them with those villagers."

The Colour Sergeant, finished with his task, piped in. "Yes, the poor blighters were thin enough. I should think some of the horses would have ended up in their stew pots to keep them going until the next harvest, which would have been all the better for having horses which could do a proper job of pulling a plough."

Shiro's snort could have been an after-effect of the smelling salts or an editorial comment on the folly of wasting effort on those who were unlikely to be of further use to them on their mission.

"Where do you think the Abomination kept its trove?" asked Montgomery.

Shiro grunted in disgust. Why didn't I think of that?

After sharing a rueful look with Shiro, Brenden called out, "Anna, Montgomery reminded us about the trove. You want us to look?"

Anna, shortly followed by Alain and Conn, came jogging over. "There's not much daylight left." As if to prove her words, a blood red sun briefly added color to the deepening shadows as it dropped beneath the clouds, sinking in the west.

Conn contemplated. "There was no sign of treasure back in the cave. If the, ah, were-dragon, spent most of its time here, masquerading as a hermit, then I would suspect its treasure is here. Dragons are loathe to be separated from their ill-gotten gains." The others acknowledged Conn's expertise in dragon-lore.

Alain said, "Perhaps we should look in or under the hut."

"If we can stand the stink, this should be a very safe place to make camp; the dragon drove off all the other nasties, and it'll be some time before any more move into the area."

Conn rumbled a deep chuckle. "I think we would all be quite miserable if we remained here, Brenden; the bodies of those tainted by Corruption decay very quickly. By morning, the corpse of this dragon will gag maggots, as you say."

Alain, who had set aside her bloody trophy, sprang into action. "Then I'd best not delay in salting the head!" Among their supplies were several kilos of salt. They had brought it on the theory that, should they find game, the investment could return ten times its weight in food later on. The preserved head of a dragon ought to be worth something, but Brenden was unsure how much and to whom. He decided not to ask. While Alain was at her task, the others searched the remains of the hovel. With pick-ax and shovel, they quickly hit paydirt.

The trove was not one to inspire legends: A handful of coins, copper combs, a brass doorknob, a VCR sans cord, and a few pitiful weapons; pitted swords, broken boar spears, and a crude mace. "Not a lot to show for all the pain this creature caused," Anna commented sadly.

"Well, leave them here. We have no need of them. Perhaps the next person brave enough or desperate enough or foolhardy enough to come here can make better use of them." Conn turned away, walked over to the packs, and shouldered three of them. "Let us find a more wholesome place to camp. We have a great deal of work ahead of us in the coming days."

Even Shiro did not give the slain dragon or its pitiful horde a backwards glance. Oddly enough, it was Colour Sergeant Black who helped erase the glum faces around the camp fire that night. "All in all, not a bad day's work. We are all hale and well," -- having seen Conn carry the three full packs over three kilometers in the dying light, the Colour Sergeant felt confident counting Conn among the effectives -- "and we have put an end to a monster. If our next task requires more toil than we had hoped, then that is the price for our mistake and we should give thanks to God that only sweat and not blood is the cost of our folly." From the point of view of someone who had spent most of his life battling the Horrors of Orrorsh, this had been an incredibly cheap victory.

It took three days to move the wrecked fishing boat off the rocks and onto a stretch of beach. A great deal of sweat was involved, as well as a little blood. Fortunately, blistered hands and skinned knees were the worst of the injuries. A gale blew in on the fourth day suspending all work. While this cost the party another two days, the storm drove ashore sufficient drift wood to stoke a large fire for several days. After another day, they had a convincing imitation of a forge.

Finally, on the seventh day they lit their fire. While they awaited the hoped-for attack by the Vikings, they did what they could to make their own means of transportation should the Norsemen disappoint. Despite Anna's earlier protests, a large raft began to take shape inside the hull of the fishing vessel.

Towards the end of the ninth day, Shiro and Brenden, who were manning the sandbagged M-60 on a large dune at the back of the beach, spotted a sail against the horizon. With Shiro cranking the hand generator for power, Brenden radioed Anna. "Heads up."

"What'cha got?" came the clipped reply.

"Sail on the horizon." Brenden looked at Shiro, who was nodding with the binoculars still held to his eyes. "Shiro says its a longboat." Somehow, Brenden correctly interpreted Shiro's one-handed gestures. "It's seen the smoke and is turning our way."

"Okay. We'll make like we don't see him for awhile, then get all panicky, like we planned."

"Roger. Just make sure you mind the stakes we put out for the fire lanes."

"Right."

The longboat drew closer to shore. The four Storm Knights on the beach finally reacted to it when it was a mere fifty yards away. Anna and Alain played the part of the helpless females, while Conn and Montgomery made as if to sell their lives dearly. Twenty Vikings came splashing ashore in the surf, and the four turned and fled, contriving somehow to trip and stumble and generally not get very far. Rape and slaughter foremost on their minds, the Vikings came howling after such easy prey.

Alain stumbled once more, tripping Conn. Anna and Montgomery ducked behind the wood pile. Suddenly, Brenden and Shiro had a completely clear line of fire. Brenden squeezed the trigger as Shiro fed the magazine. His initial long burst kicked up sand and knocked down Vikings the length of what passed for their skirmish line. Scant yards from the prostrate elf, the Viking war chief took the full brunt of her Magic Shotgun in the face and flipped backwards. Anna and Montgomery popped up from behind the wood pile and added to the fusillade. Conn bounced to his feet and charged the stunned Vikings. Excalibur, propelled by Conn's mighty sinews, wreaked terrible slaughter; neither mail nor helm, nor bronze-edged shield stopped the bane of England's foes.

Twenty Vikings fell, all still facing inland so sudden was their overthrow. Their dozen or so companions still on the longboat jumped overboard and began frantically to heave their boat free, and win clear of their terrible foes. With Shiro pointing out targets, Brenden sent carefully aimed short bursts downrange. Two Vikings fell away from the boat, their blood reddening the foam. Colour Sergeant Black raced out from behind the wood pile, bayonet fixed. He paused long enough to squeeze off a shot, and then pounded into the surf behind Conn, who had never checked his headlong charge, and Alain. Six of the Vikings turned, grimly prepared to buy their entrance into Valhalla with their foes' lives. The affray was short and violent. Colour Sergeant Black boxed aside an ax stroke with the hardwood butt of his rifle, reversed it, and drove home his bayonet, mouthing the words of the drill to himself, "Thrust, twist, recover!" Alain ducked under another ax and continued her low line, thrusting her blade into the exposed thigh of another Viking. Conn hewed blade and ax haft both, reversed his stroke, and chopped deeply into the neck of one of his opponents. The other Viking, disarmed, bellowed, crashed into Conn, grappling with terrified strength, and carried him backwards into the surf

Amidst the splashing as Conn and his foe wrestled, Alain panted, "Yield and be spared!" Colour Sergeant Black momentarily checked himself as he waited to see what his opponents would do. The two Vikings advanced a step, eyes glazed and mouths frothing. Alain grunted and was driven to her knees as she parried the berserker's overhand chop. Fortunately, her foe gave no thought to defense as he raised his arm to strike again. Quick as a snake, her blade darted forward and drew an angry red line across the back of his hand. The ax fell from fingers that could no longer answer the call of their owner's will, the tendons cut. The Viking advanced, his one good hand flexing, preparing to rend the elf barehanded. Tripping in the surf as she twisted to avoid the Viking's grapple, Alain lashed out once more. This time, her blade slashed his face, doing terrible damage. The Viking gasped and stumbled onto Alain's blade, which she had barely returned to guard. The elf shuddered with the adrenaline burning through her veins and the sight of the Viking's ruined face. A mercy he fell on my blade. No one deserves to be maimed so. She looked around quickly to see how the rest fared. Conn and foe erupted from the water, still locked in struggle. Conn's dagger protruded from the Viking's back. The Viking's dagger quivered from Conn's belt. The extra thickness of leather had prevented it from punching through the chain underneath it. The Viking's mouth opened in an `O' of surprise beneath his sodden mustache, and he slipped back into the surf. No bubbles broke the surface. The Colour Sergeant was breathing heavily, holding his rifle over his head to keep it dry. His foe lay face up in the surf, powder burns ringing the puckered wound in his forehead. Red-stained water haloed his head.

"Blighter managed another stroke after I shot him. That brought back some unpleasant memories. For a moment, I was wondering if I would be needing silver." Alain looked closely. Sure enough, the Victorian's bayonet was inlaid with silver.

Alain looked at the longboat. It was free of the bottom, but drifting a few yards away. She turned back to the shore. Anna waved and Brenden and Shiro were coming down to the beach. Eventually, they managed to drag to boat ashore, more despite than with Alain's and Montgomery's aid.

Six Vikings lived. The Storm Knights dragged them to shore and tended to them. After Alain performed her healing spell over them, the Vikings were all able to at least stand and shuffle along. Conn laid down the law to them. "Go, and you will suffer no further harm at our hands. You may take your gear but not your weapons. We claim your vessel as a prize of war. If we see you here again, you will receive no quarter from us."

Five of the surviving Vikings looked to a tall, thin man with braided red hair down to his waist. From his dress, he was Ayslish. The others were probably transformed Scandinavians. The Ayslish Viking nodded his acceptance of Conn's terms. "What of the dragon?" he asked in his native tongue.

"We slew it," answered Conn flatly.

Conn's words brought some measure of animation to the Vikings' listless faces. "We have no desire to die at your hands. Your words have no boast to them; even aside from the prowess you displayed against us, I would believe you. We will go. I ask only time to raise a cairn for our comrades. This, I, Scapti, Snorri's son, swear."

"This is acceptable." The wounded Vikings began their sad toil. After awhile, Conn moved to help them. The Vikings did not take this ill. Before they were through, Montgomery, Brenden, and Alain also pitched in. An hour or so after dark, the six Vikings departed, moving off single file to the north.

"It seems a pity to set them loose on the villagers," Shiro remarked. "What assurance do we have they won't take what they need from Marsella's village? Can we take that risk?"

Alain snapped back. "I, for one, have no stomach for slaughtering helpless foes. You combed the same shore as I; you well know there was nothing within a day's march of here. Do you really expect them to find aid before tomorrow morning?"

"Last week there was nothing nearby. Circumstances change. Are you also willing to bet your life that they're not above coming back for a quiet bit of murder in the night?"

"Six unarmed men cannot destroy a village. Against the very remote chance that there are more foes within a night's march of us, I am not willing to taint my hands with red blood and my soul with black Corruption."

Alain's words cut unexpectedly deep. Shiro's mouth opened for a reply, but no words came out. She really means it about this Corruption stuff. What superstitious folly. Then, from deep within him, came a terrible sense of unease and dread. Why does the Gaunt Man's laughing visage sometimes disturb my dreams? Is it just stress and anxiety that makes me sometimes see my eyes glow with that terrible red light when I see them in a mirror? These disquieting thoughts had started shortly after the Gaunt Man made his Faustian offer to the Storm Knights who had defeated Wellington Avery, saving Singapore. Shiro remembered the sense of impending doom that had come over him after his unspoken ambivalent reply. Since then, the feeling had passed . . . mostly. Truly sorting out his feelings and motives would require deeper introspection than he was currently willing to undertake. He paused at the raw edge of the abscess in his psyche and more heartbeats passed.

Anna jumped into the pause. "Enough. There's enough work to do to get ready for the morning tide. Shiro, if you're so worried about the Vikings, take first watch." Shiro nodded and moved off, his face unreadable.

The following morning they made the tide, just, and began the next leg of their voyage with the dawn only a distant promise to the east.

"Remember," Anna instructed for the dozenth or so time, "we have to make the Isle of Man before nightfall so we can find a decent beach." Anna looked with concern at their sail, which was still furled; there was no breeze worthy of the name.

Conn's muscles rippled as he pulled another stroke. "Though six be few to row this vessel, never fear; wind or no, we will make it."

Brenden nodded. "You steer, Conn beats off the sea monsters, and the rest of us row." Stealing a glance at Conn's well-muscled frame, he added, "Or the other way around. We'll make it."

"Besides, Anna, I always have my flight spells if things go poorly. I think I can carry us all, if not our equipment," added Alain helpfully.

Anna grimaced. "Thanks, Alain, that makes me feel so much better."

In the end, the wind picked up some, and they steered past the final set of breakers with a luxurious twenty minutes of daylight to spare.