《THE APOSTATE SAINT》


 The Spear and the Sword

    "FRIDOK THE BETRAYER". Perhaps that was how he would come to be known to history, after the high crime he was about to commit against the Lord. The way Fridok saw it, his mark in history would be immortalized in one of two ways. If he succeeded in his mission, he would be remembered as the only man brave enough to do what needed to be done - the savior of civilization. If he failed, then his place would likely be included as a mere footnote - a man tried and failed to steal from the Lord, and was then executed by means of Holy implement - the only real kind of death that there was in Caelon. Fridok was aware of both possible outcomes, and was prepared to do what must be done to end things on his own terms, if it came to that.


    Fridok was about to commit a crime against a man who most people now equated to God. Fridok knew the truth. He saw the man for who he really was. He was a tyrant whose reign was even worse for people like Fridok than the way his life was under the consuls. He was supposed to change things, to give all people a chance at living a dignified life. In the end, he had replaced a system of high-born Primisians and poor Solumians with one of Gifted and Non-Gifted, all of his children being the only ones in the new ruling class. All of Fridok''s dreams of a better world were crushed by the one man who had the God-given power to do something about it.


    The Lord was supposed to break down walls, not build them higher. Fridok may very well be called a betrayer one day, but the man who he was to betray was the one committed the first betrayal. The Lord didn''t deserve to keep a weapon of such power if he wasn''t going to use it to free humanity from the blight of the demons.


    It wasn''t hard for Fridok to sneak into the Lord''s manor as He and most of his entourage were now out reveling at the Beneficia feast. What men were inside His home were either passed out drunk or on their way there. As Fridok rounded a corner, he was dismayed to see one guard armed with standard issue steel was stationed outside the Lord''s chamber.


    Only one man stands guard? I should have expected no less from such a man.


    If this guard were to succeed in stopping Fridok from entering the chamber and alerted the others to his presence, then at least Fridok would be likely to die by the kind of sword that wouldn''t burn away any chance of an afterlife. Even though the success of his mission was critical, Fridok was not willing to end any of their lives with his own Soul-arm. He would never do that to a man...


    Fridok considered turning around. It wasn''t too late. Perhaps he could find some kind of meaning in what life still lay before him, regardless of the inequity that now plagued the City.


    No. There is no turning back, now.


    "Lord?" The guard prostrated himself, surprised to see a visitor.


    Fridok shook his head. He was no lord. Hearing the man address him as such was like another crack of a whip on his labor-scarred back.


    "Stay there. If you''ve come seeking an audience, I am afraid you will have to come back another time. The feast is nearly underway and the Lord Son is not here."


    Fridok approached the man, sizing him up. For one tasked with such monumental responsibility, the man was clearly nervous about it. His right hand gravitated to the hilt of his sword, grasping it more tightly the closer Fridok came. Fridok could tell the man didn''t want to use it - after all, a sword of steel would be no contest for one that had the power to rend a man''s soul to ethereal dust.


    "Step aside," Fridok warned the guard. "Now."


    "Can''t do that, lord."


    Again with that. Fridok, annoyed but unwilling to repeat himself, studied the signs in the way the man held himself. He was nearly as bad as Fridok was at wearing on the outside what he felt inside. Fridok thought the man might piss himself if he came any closer, so he did.


    "Last chance."


    "Lord, you have to go. Please. Come back tomorrow or the next."


    Fridok closed in, just outside of striking distance. "If there''s one thing this war has taught me," he said, stopping to avoid projecting his next move to the man who clearly did not want to have to fight. "It''s that, you really shouldn''t count on there being a better outcome tomorrow."


    In one heartbeat, Fridok overtook the guard, pinning him to the ground like a starving demon did their prey. But Fridok was no monster; the man would, in fact, live to see another day. Perhaps he would find a more fitting assignment, one a little less life-threatening.


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    Spinning around him and wrapping his bulky forearms against the man''s throat, Fridok watched as the man''s face flushed scarlet before lowering his limp head carefully to the marble floor. Fridok knew he didn''t have much time before the man came to, so he took the man''s sword and tied his hands behind his back before rushing in to continue with his mission.


    Fridok entered the Lord''s chamber, a room he had never seen before. It was for the best that Fridok hadn''t seen it sooner, for if he had, perhaps he might have given up any hope he used to have for social economic justice long before this night.


    Everything in sight was covered in silver that glittered in the firelight. Even the bed frame, overly large to support the weight of the Lord''s many wives, was laden with such precious metal. To think that Fridok had suffered in squalor every day of his life while such vanity was enjoyed within the same sacred walls, he felt absolved of the weight of the sin he was to commit. Everything that had ever been written in scripture about humility of the Toriad, the First Man who had the ear of the Namer for thousands of years, could not be said about his Son, the man who Fridok now acted to betray.


    Fridok had reflected for a long time about what Alaric might think about his actions. He hoped that some part of what remained of his friend would be inspired by what he was now doing. Perhaps this bravery would inspire a new poem if not a proper song. There was something inherently poetic about stealing something from a room that was, itself, stolen. Perhaps he was giving Alaric too much credit, however. There was little left of the boy Fridok had once known in the man that Alaric had become.


    Regardless of the inevitable fallout, Fridok now stood before the object of his longtime desires - the Spear of the First Man. There it stood, hanging on the wall like any other symbol of a wealthy man''s status. But this was no tapestry or painting or ornamental weapon - this was the first Soul-arm ever created, the very one wielded by the Toriad, before His Son took it from the City and went into exile. Now, it was time for this relic to pass into new hands in much the same way it last exchanged ownership. The difference was that Fridok would actually use it to make the world a better place for people like him. Wasting no time, Fridok reached up and grasped the shaft, yanking the surprisingly well-balanced weapon off of its display and drawing it closer to him.


    As he held it tightly in his hands, Fridok was nearly overcome by a queer sensation which came not only from the spear but also from his own sword. It was as if the two artifacts were magnetically drawn to one another with Fridok''s body acting as the medium. In his mind, Fridok felt a cloudy kind of presence that hadn''t been there before. Something horrifying crossed his mind, sending a sensation of trepidation throughout his body. Then, he heard someone moving behind him.


    No,he thought.He wasn''t supposed to be here.


    Fridok spun around, expecting to see the Lord standing in the doorway. What he saw instead was the recently guard, shaken up but conscious enough to recognize the danger he was in. The man nearly fell over in the process, but was surprisingly light on his feet as he opted to escape the scene. Fridok, not one to allow another enemy to escape him, pursued the fleeing man. He felt stronger and faster, but he hadn''t even absorbed any soul energy.


    Between the man''s recent state of unconsciousness and his inability to use his bound arms for balance, it wasn''t difficult for Fridok to catch up with him. Fridok may have been a short and stout man, but he was still in peak physical condition, even for his age. The man didn''t stand a chance.


    "Don''t kill me! Please!" the guard cried, drool and snot running down his chin. Fridok felt his sword compelling him to kill the man, as he had done thousands of times before against demonic foes. He shirked off the feeling, denying the hunger of his Soul-arm. There was a lot he was willing to do to achieve his goals. That wasn''t one of them.


    "Be quiet!"


    "Help! Help, he''s going to kill me! He''s got the Lord''s spear, send for the Commander! Send for the Saints! He''s--"


    It wasn''t as graceful as a choke hold, but slamming the man''s head against the wall was just as effective at getting him to shut up. Once the guard was once again out of the picture, Fridok gathered the Spear and went out of the Lord''s manor through the unmanned backdoor. He made sure to steer clear of the sounds of the festival as he ran toward the part of the Wall where he would make his escape from the City upon the horse he had stashed just on the other side.


    As he rode out into the night, the sounds of the festival fell away to the ever-present calling of the demons who still hid in the wilds of Caelon. One day, the oppression of the demons outside the Walls would come to an end, and then Fridok would turn his focus inward to face the injustice of those inside the White Walled City. The world would know his name, then.


    As Fridok rode toward the mountains to the East, he stopped to take one final look upon the pearlescent walls that protected and imprisoned the last remnant of mankind for so long. It was at that moment that Fridok noticed that he wasn''t the only one riding out from the City that night. A small band of mounted soldiers poured out from the main gate of the City, their white cloaks billowing behind them.


    At the head of the band that pursued him was none other than Alaric, the Captain of the Guard and Fridok''s one-time friend. Fridok breathed deeply the night air, considering the consequences of the inevitable confrontation.


    Nothing can ever be easy, can it?


    He pulled out his Soul-arm, the sword that had saved his life many times before.


    "All right. Let''s get you something to eat, then."

 The Lyre

    One hour before the betrayal


    A good citizen always puts the needs of the City before his own.


    His father''s words were now his doctrine, even though the same words were once poison dripping into his ears. That didn''t matter, anymore. It was a new world, after all. The City had been reborn and so had his father''s mantra, through him.


    The candle display in the banquet hall where the Beneficia festivities were being held was more spectacular than any in his recent memory. The Lord Son, in all of his glory, wanted it to be known that the City had entered into a Renaissance - all thanks to Him. ALARICUS CABALLARIUS LUCIDIUS, called Alaric, would endure many more of these feasts in his service to the City. The long-haired blond noble was now Dominus Custodiae - the Commander of the Guard. Even if he were to one day retire from his post, Alaric was now engaged to Decia, the oldest daughter of the Lord Himself. There would be no escaping these gatherings and their bad music.


    Alaric could withstand the jugglers and the flame-dancers and even the magicians in perpetuity. The poets and the musicians, however, were the performers he avoided most of all. If it weren''t for the fact that the Lord demanded them to be there, then Alaric would have barred them entirely from performing out of pure annoyance. The fact that the musicians who were hired to perform were amateurs at best amplified Alaric''s frustration with their presence. He found no pleasure whatsoever in being there, and concluded that the noise surrounding him was perhaps the second worst sound that he had ever heard.


    "Lord, are you well?"


    Decia. A lovely girl to anyone with eyes. Yet, she was so much younger than Alaric, and the breadth and depth of conversation topics she was able to carry on with him left between them a chasm a mile wide. It wasn''t her fault, though. Objectively, she was the greatest kind of prize a Primisian man like Alaric could win. Through her, Alaric''s bloodline would achieve a kind of status boost that his father and all of his post-Fall ancestors only could have dreamed of gaining. If only Alaric''s father could have seen where the road would lead him, things might have been different...


    But Alaric knew better than to dwell on the past. It would only bring despair, and Alaric was a different person now than he was when all of this started.


    "Perhaps it is best if I get some fresh air." Alaric smiled at his bride-to-be with all the sincerity of an actor desperately trying to make the bill. He excused himself from the party and found his way to a balcony with an open of the Temple, the center point and most important structure in the City. The candle display set along the entire perimeter of the Pearly Stair was absolutely mesmerizing. From this vantage point, the Temple itself appeared to be alive, glowing much the same way that Soul-arms did.


    Art. That was, in essence, all that Alaric saw as he gazed upon the holiest place on the planet, the sanctum where long ago the First Man ruled over the entire world of man. Things were different now than they were before. It brought Alaric no pleasure to drink in the sight before him, but it was at least slightly more palatable than listening to another second of the discordant songs being played in the banquet hall. He eventually found himself gripping the balcony rail so tightly that his hands were turning pale.


    Alaric lowered his head, admonishing himself and releasing his grip from the railing. Of all of the labours that Alaric had suffered in his upward climb, none were so challenging as the one in which he was now living. He had always assumed that in time the role and responsibilities he accepted would become more natural to him, but he found it only getting more difficult as he transitioned into the next phase of his life.


    I''m to marry. To be a husband. To have children of my own. To be a good citizen, just like my father.


    He tried to keep his mind focused on the future, but the sight in front of him drew him back there, to the time before everything changed. His sword hand gripped the hilt of Daemonore, as if his Soul-arm could somehow save him from the life he was supposed to live. How long has it been since last you slew a monster? Alaric''s new role kept him here, locked within the City''s walls. Here, Daemonore was merely ceremonial. Soul-arms could never be used against a man, even under dire circumstances. That was why Alaric also carried a steel gladius wherever he went. He couldn''t use Daemonore, but he wasn''t about to set it on a mantel like the Lord. It belonged at his side.


    "Lord, how can I help you?"


    Alaric didn''t turn his head immediately, but he knew that the girl had followed him. He had no heart to tell her that he needed a break from many things and that she, most unfortunately, was one of them. At last, the manners that his mother had succeeded in instilling in him took over. He turned his head, not committing to fully facing her.


    "I mean not to worry you, lady. I simply wanted to come see the lights."


    "They are indeed lovely," Decia said, approaching Alaric. "If it pleases you, it would please me to enjoy them by your side."


    She was trying. Much harder than Alaric was, to ignite something Alaric feared may never happen. He could understand her infatuation with him. He was not unaware of his good looks, something he augmented with careful attention to meticulous hygiene and grooming. Along with that, he was wealthy and of good stock, and the whole City hailed him as a triumphant hero. His name and image, along with that of the others who accompanied him on the many campaigns against the darkness, was carved in marble on the arches that were erected in their honor. She was far from the first girl who wanted to throw herself at him. He had to remind himself that he couldn''t ignore her. If he was to be a good citizen as was expected of him, then he would have to love her, despite everything inside of him that made him want to be alone.


    Alaric turned to her, noticing that she held her hands behind her back. She smirked at him upon Alaric''s realization that she was hiding something. He returned a suspicious smile.


    "What have you got behind your back?"


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    She stared at him, eyes flared, daring him to do something about his curiosity. Alaric felt minorly annoyed, but, admittedly, rather enjoyed the girl''s playfulness. Everything in his life was so serious all the time, these days, so a little bit of this sometime did diffuse some of his never-ending tension.


    "Go on, show it to me."


    She shook her head, clearly reveling in the game. Had she been drinking?


    "Don''t make me..."


    "Don''t make you do what? What are you going to do?"


    He thought about giving in to her antics. It would be quite the accomplishment for her to bring the boy back out of the man, so he ultimately resisted the urge to play along.


    "All right, you win. Let''s see it."


    Decia was clearly let down that he wouldn''t give in, but she accepted the small victory anyway and produced the object that she had been concealing. It was a lyre.


    "Where did you get that?"


    "I walked right up to that terrible musician and I took it from him. I could see that it was bothering you, so I decided to do what you wanted to do."


    He was actually somewhat impressed. It did mean something to him that she noticed his discomfort, and that she decided to do something about it for his sake. However, it also meant that his facade was starting to show cracks. He would need to do better to hide his displeasure from now on.


    What he couldn''t hide was a smile. When she saw it, her face lit up with all the youthful radiance that he once enjoyed, when he was her age. He quickly remembered himself, turning away in order to compose himself again. She must have taken that as a really big win.


    "Aren''t you going to say thank you?"


    "That wasn''t very nice of you to take that clown''s instrument, you know?"


    "Ha! I knew his playing was bothering you!"


    "Dreadful. Awful. Terrible."


    "And now he''s done playing."


    Alaric turned back to her, giving her a glimpse of the true him. While her methods were questionable, she did bring some much needed relief to the turmoil in his head.


    "Thank you," he said at last, sincerely. She bowed to him, much the same way a performer bows right before the curtain falls. He looked around for a flower to give her, but was not able to find any.


    "Lord, won''t you play it for me?"


    Upon hearing the request, the blood drained from Alaric''s face.


    "I heard you were once quite the musical artist. I would so love to hear what you can do with it. I imagine your voice sometimes, singing to me. I wonder what it''s like."


    Alaric lost his composure for a moment, but only for a moment. He smiled at her, not the kind of honest smile he had just given her, but the kind that said she was a guest in his sanctuary and it was now time for her to go.


    "I, uh-" he shook his head, deciding it was better not to say anything. "Perhaps it''s time for you to rejoin the party. Hurry along, now. I''ll be back just as soon as I''ve had my fill of the night air."


    He turned away again, but understood how rude his actions must have been perceived.


    "Thank you for the levity. We will talk again soon, I swear it."


    Decia walked away without another word. He wondered if he had offended her, but when the anxiety returned to him, he became rather upset by the fact that she had brought up that part of him that died years before. He had sworn to himself then that he would never touch another instrument or write another song for as long as he lived. He was now an upright and proper lord - not some low class musician playing at taverns for coins. He was a good citizen now, and good citizens always put the needs of the City before their own.


    He stared off into distance for a long while, lost in his thoughts. Sometime later he heard footsteps approaching him from behind, and thought that perhaps Decia had come back to check on him again.


    "I told you, I''ll be right there. I only need another minute-"


    "Lord," a man''s voice replied. "I''m afraid that we need you. There''s been a burglary at the Lord''s manor."


    <hr>


    How could he do this?


    Alaric asked himself the same question in at least a dozen ways as he and his men rode out from the main gate of the City bearing torches to find Fridok, who had apparently gone fully mad. Alaric knew that Fridok was unhappy, but he never considered the depths that he would stoop to in his displeasure with his station in life. To steal riches was one thing - Alaric could at least sympathize with his friend doing what he felt he needed to do to survive. But to steal the Toriad Spear - that was the kind of crime that not even Alaric could convince the Lord to forgive.


    "There!" shouted Vitus Malleator, Alaric''s second in command of the Dominus Custodiae. "He is attempting to flee into the mountains!"


    "Press on, but do not attack," Alaric warned his men. Leave it to me to talk sense into him. He will see reason. He is still a reasonable man." Alaric hoped that he was right about that. They continued their advance, narrowing the distance between them as they rode.


    "He''s stopped!" Vitus said. "Perhaps you are right."


    The riders at last drew near Fridok who stood there atop his horse, the Toriad Spear strapped to his back. He showed no remorse, but stared at Alaric long and hard.


    "It''s over," Alaric said, loudly and with conviction. "Surrender yourself and come peacefully, and perhaps I can help you."


    Fridok sneered, taking a deep breath.


    "I don''t want your help," Fridok said. "I''ve already told you that. There''s nothing more that you can give me."


    The two locked eyes, the tension between them rising rapidly.


    "Then tell us what you do want. Clearly you must want something, otherwise you wouldn''t have done this. Name it. I''ll hear it."


    He simply stared at Alaric, the same way he used to stare into campfires or up at the Great Band in the sky. In the stillness and tension of the moment, Vitus Malleator approached Fridok from behind, preparing to subdue him. He showed no signs of aggression, but it was still an incredibly dangerous thing as Vitus was only equipped with a steel sword and Fridok had two Soul-arms.


    "You''ll never find me," Fridok said, before brandishing his unnamed Soul-arm and swinging it behind him.


    "No!" Alaric cried, seeing Fridok take up his weapon against Vitus. The fear upon Vitus'' face was clear as everyone knew there was no defending against a Soul-arm. It wasn''t death that was coming for him - it was complete and total destruction of his self, body and soul. Just as Vitus looked upon the face of his unmaker, Fridok chose to spare him that fate. Instead, the horse that Vitus rode would serve as his surrogate.


    The beast bellowed, a hopeless cry for help that scored the certainty of the creature''s fate. Its body crumpled under the weight of Vitus, bringing him hard onto the ground as it completely lost the strength to support him. Just as suddenly as the beast''s final cry came, it was snuffed out with a choked whimper. Its entire figure became a skeletal mess, withered like a grape left out in the heat of the summer sun.


    Fridok wasted no time putting the slain horse''s energy to use. He pressed his palm onto the back of his own horse''s neck, empowering it and spurring it on at a pace that none of Alaric''s men would have hope to follow.


    Alaric had no choice but to watch as Fridok made off with the Toriad Spear, leaving Alaric and the City far behind him. Alaric knew that Fridok was unhappy. He hadn''t realized just how far Fridok would go to show it.

 The Stones

    <h3 style="text-align: center">Nineteen years before the betrayal


    The hardy young Solumian laborer Fridok wiped sweat from his brow and drank more of the cloudy water from the banged-up, dingy tin canteen which he had stolen from the refuse heap in the Primisian part of the City. He tried and failed to tune out the foreman squawking insults at the other stone workers. Those kids wouldn��t cut it in this kind of vocation; they would have to find something else to do for their wages. Pity. Stone work was decent pay for someone of Fridok��s station, if one could call any kind of pay "decent" for people like him. It would never elevate his status in the City, but it would at least keep his belly full and his hands busy. He couldn��t hope for more than that.


    The Walls of the City kept the demons outside at bay, but did nothing to address the forces that choked those marginalized by society. Being noble-born in an enclosed city with finite space with which to live meant that the rich owned not only the best buildings to live in, but also every other sliver of real estate in the City. The cost of living in the insulae apartments only continued to rise over time as the Houses squeezed what pittances remained in the pockets of the dredges. Fridok, at least, managed to keep an apartment roof over his head through the virtue of his Namer-granted strength. He could haul more stones farther than any of the other workers, and because of this he was able to negotiate a more palatable pay. It still wasn��t enough to enjoy anything in life, but it was all he could ask. Thus was the lot of all Solumians, the second-class citizens of the City.


    What else could he do? He was twenty-three years old and already resigned to the reality that this was all there was for a nameless man like him. Fridok��s father had worked himself to death working on the repairs for the aqueduct system when Fridok was only twelve years old. His mother would have starved to death trying to make ends meet, but turned to prostitution in the name of keeping Fridok��s hungry mouth full. Fridok took up hard labor shortly after his father had died in the hopes that he would be able to save his mother from the shame of that retched life, but she died still the same. Fridok never learned who it was that killed her, or how they could so carelessly discard his mother��s naked body in the alleyway near the necropolis, but Fridok knew there was no way to find out who it was who did it. As far as he was concerned, they all did it - everyone who perpetuated this hell in the prison they called the City.


    It wasn��t enough to simply exercise to give himself some needed control in his life; Fridok trained incessantly with a sword every day after his shift was over. He had saved up his wages by skipping meals every day for two years before he could afford it, but when it was finally his, the sword became the only thing that mattered in his life. He would learn how to counter every blow, every movement, every twist of a wrist in any direction, despite the fact that he was not allowed to train with the higher class sportsmen. Fridok was poor, and poor people didn��t get to enjoy participating in the recreation of swordplay. The amphitheater had been closed to the masses ever since the Senate abolished gladiatorial exhibition rather than reinvesting in the building''s upkeep.


    Only young men from wealthy families were allowed to use the amphitheater. They trained there, but only on a recreational basis. Sword fighting was simply a recreational hobby for most of them. There were a few nobles, typically the second-born from their family, who would train to be part of the Consul Guard as a means of making up for the fact that they were not the primary inheritors of their father''s wealth. Being on that course didn''t make the duty-driven noble boys any better than the firstborn, however.


    Fridok always watched the wealthy sparring through the closed  amphitheater gates every chance he could. Although he would never be allowed to participate, he would spend the whole next workday digesting the techniques he learned from watching them. Then, the next day he would train by himself at night against a crude practice dummy he had erected from a sack of straw. He knew the swordsmen all by name, though he had never spoken a word to any of them. All he could do was watch from the barrier like the handful of others who longed for the day when the gates would reopen and that entertainment would once again be a part of their otherwise meager existences. Fridok hoped for the gates to reopen not simple so he could watch the exhibitions, but rather, so he could himself gain glory from the gladiatorial combat. He kept that hope alive even though no work had been done whatsoever to repair the structure of the building in Fridok''s lifetime.


    The swordsman that interested Fridok the most was a boy called Alaric. He was by far the most talented swordsman there, even though he was only sixteen or seventeen by Fridok''s estimation. He had long, well-maintained blond hair and always kept a dainty appearance, but he fought more skillfully than any of the others Fridok liked to watch. Most of the others who had been sparring there had very predictable styles that Fridok had already beaten a hundred times each in his imagination, but Alaricus always was able to adapt himself to any situation to pull out ahead.


    What made Alaric so entertaining to watch was that he would fight the same opponent three times on three different days and his fighting style would vary each and every time. Even when Alaric would start combat in a familiar way, he would always add a subtle twist that would change the entire direction of the fight with no warning. He had a pristine win record, but he broke every rule that Fridok had come to understand about swordsmanship. Even in his imagination, Fridok doubted that he could get the better of this young man, given the chance to face him. Alaric was the other reason why Fridok trained as hard as he did - he wanted to be better than the best the Primisian nobility had to offer.


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    Fridok stretched his arms and rolled his head around to ease the tension in his shoulders. He took another swig of the murky drink, scowled and placed his canteen back on the ground. In doing so, more dust and grime got into his drink. He had been working already for nine long hours and now not even his nightly swordplay would be able to distract him enough from the exhaustion that had set in. He bent down and outstretched his arms around another foundation stone. Just as soon as he hoisted it, a deep rumble reverberated through the ground and into his body like what happened whenever another building had fallen in on itself in the crumbling City. Fridok looked around with the rest of the confounded crew to try and figure out from which direction the noise might have come. It didn''t take long for an excited commotion to begin to envelope the City. Something about the event convinced Fridok that whatever that noise was, it was not just another dilapidated building falling down.


    Several people darted by in the street nearby. Even the foreman dropped what he was doing to check it out, telling them to stay put. They, of course, didn��t. A few seconds after the foreman left, they all ran off in the direction of the commotion. Fridok wouldn��t be the only one to be kept in the dark �C he dropped his load and cautiously set off to join the rabble. He considered first going home and retrieving his sword, but decided there simply wasn��t enough time for it.


    When Fridok met the crowd, he bore witness to something that was supposed to be impossible. The Main Gate of the City, locked by the Toriad Himself at the dawn of the Fall of Man, lie in ruins upon the ground. In its place, a jagged splinter of rock and dirt jutted into the city like an enormous spearhead. For the first time in his life, Fridok could see the world outside of the City. It was verdant green and abundant with overgrown life, not at all the demonic hellscape he had imagined.


    The crowd was stupefied, and rightfully so. Fridok was among those who were afraid, but in that fear also was a twinge of excitement.


    Was this the work of a demon? Had the end finally come for mankind?


    Fridok regretted letting his curiosity tip the scale against his better judgment. If there was a threat to be dealt with, he would need his sword. The effortless way that the impenetrable door had been breached made Fridok realize that there would be no hope to defend himself if they were overrun by the enemy. He couldn''t go back now as the crowd was too dense; the only option at this point was to wait to see what doom was about to befall them.


    A small number of Guardsmen stood defiantly in the road near the smashed gate. Too few. There had never been a successful breach of the gate since it was sealed, thousands of years ago.


    ��Archers, ready your arrows! Fire on my command!�� A captain had taken his place near the scrambling guardsmen, preparing to counter-attack whatever evil force had come to the City. Fridok eyed the weapons these men held, and thought about how he might be able to take one of them up after they fell. He had been waiting a long time for a chance to prove himself, so perhaps his time had finally come. Fridok inched closer to the street through the tightly packed crowd.


    ��Aim!��


    All the archers pointed their bows at the opening of the gate. Other guardsmen armed with spears stood with weapons tilted.


    ��Fire!��


    The snaps from a handful of bowstrings rang through the air, but were barely audible over the sound of the crowd. In the most bizarre turn of events, a flock of sheep that had poured through the opening and, one by one, they all leaped into the air to catch the arrows with their bodies. They bleated as they fell to the ground, dying. Fridok pushed closer to see the aftermath while others looked on in horror.


    ��Siste manus!�� demanded a foreign-sounding voice from just outside of the City walls. "Hold your fire!" the stranger''s voice continued. The archers seemingly obeyed the mysterious man, at least for a moment. Everyone watched with baited breath as the figure of a tall man in filthy, bizarre clothing walked through the gates. In each of his arms he carried a weapon, one enormous sword and an ornate, otherworldly spear that glowed with unnatural light. He approached the sheep that lay dying amongst the rubble. Though they were writhing in pain, the man still took time to lean over them, pulling something out of a small bag attached to his belt . The man then firmly pulled each arrow out of the sheep and held his hand over the wounds. A blinding light emanated from his hand, and then they scurried away, seemingly no worse for the wear.


    "He- He healed them!" said a woman next to Fridok. "Namer, he made them better."


    Fridok did not know what to make of the man, but he knew that what the man did should not have been possible. If he was capable of commanding the earth and the animals, and could even bring them back from a sure fate, then there was only one possible explanation.


    He has the Gifts.


    The man arose slowly and looked around. From this distance, Fridok could better estimate the man''s appearance. He was half-clad in some kind of expensive cloth, his sleek but muscular chest exposed. His legs were covered in some kind of embossed leather with dark fabric that billowed off of him. His skin was deeply tanned. His black hair,, partially braided, hung halfway down his back. Fridok could also see better the weapons the man wielded. In one hand, his huge curved saber shone bright like the Sun. In the other hand, the pitch black spear also radiated pure energy. The man looked around, studying the faces in the crowd.


    In a booming voice, he shouted.


    ��Redii! Redii! Vocate Patrem �C I have returned!��

 At the Foot of the Stair

    ��Alaricus, are you deaf or are you choosing to defy me?�� demanded Valoricus, Alaric��s father, in the overbearing tone he had adopted toward him in the years since his older brother Lucius had died. Alaric stopped his singing and rested his fingers on the strings of his beloved lyre, thinking about how to best respond this time to his father. He knew better than to ignore a direct command, but he hated to stop his playing in the middle of his song. He sighed, reluctantly giving in. ��Is everything alright, father?�� he responded just loudly enough, wrapping his response in his typical charm that worked on everyone else in the City except for his father. ��No,�� his father bit back, the frustration clear in his voice. ��Come here at once!��


    Alaric placed his lyre down gently on its stand in its rightful place next to the carefully organized sheet music. It bothered him more than he would care to admit that he was leaving the room without first putting away the sheet for song he was playing. It was one of his favorites, ��Through the Ivy Gate,�� a somber song of two star-crossed lovers, one Solumian and one Primisian, who would never be allowed to let their love blossom. Alaric would have to come back and finish the song later, after whatever ��extremely important�� errand his father had for him.


    ��Here I am, father.�� He spoke before he even realized that his father had donned the House��s ceremonial garb, something he had only seen his father do once in his life �C at Lucius�� burial service. He didn''t even wear it during Senate hearings or even at ceremonies celebrating newly elected Senatorial Consuls. Alaric��s imagination ran amok with tragedies unwritten. ��Is everything alright?��


    ��Get dressed. Something momentous has happened and we must leave at once.�� His father spoke the words without even turning to face his son. Alaric''s father handled his gem-encrusted cane, inspecting its brilliance in the sunlight from the doorway, before wiping a smear away with his garment. A multi-colored orchestra of lights danced on the parlor floor and wall as he rotated it in his hand.


    Alaric couldn��t imagine what would be so ��momentous�� as to require him to dress in his finest linens with such urgency, but he knew better than to press his father for further answers. Still, he lingered for just a precious second to try to read the emotions in his father��s eyes. He was a man of few words, but Alaric had been determined to pick up on every nuance in order to better understand him. His father did face him, but he did turn when Alaric��s mother Dacinia entered the room. She wore stately but lovely attire, a dress that distinguished her as the lady of Caballarius, one of the finest Houses in the City, as his father always reminded him.


    ��Mother?�� Alaric said, hoping that her softer heart would shine some light on the situation. She put on a maternal smile for him, but he could still see the unease hidden just behind her smile. ��Get dressed, dear,�� she echoed his father, uncertainty betraying her gentle command.


    ��Wear your sword,�� said Alaric��s father as he went to his chamber.


    <hr>


    Valoricus Caballarius Aesculus, as he was known to the City, always had a typical cool and collected demeanor that befit his station whenever he made an appearance in public. All of that had fleeted in favor of something quite out of character for him that morning. According to what Alaric could get his mother to reveal in his father''s absence, the Senate had called an emergency hearing that drew his father away earlier that morning. The result of that meeting was still a mystery to young Alaric, but because of the commotion on the streets as they approached the Temple, he was able to ascertain that something major, and probably not good, had befallen the City. Whatever it was, it made Alaric nervous.


    When they arrived, they were not even close to being the first people there. Everyone who had any status in the City was already there, dressed in their most elegant attire. They gathered around the bottom of the Pearly Stair, the marble climb that led to the Highest Height, where the Sealed Sanctum of the Toriad stood at the highest point in the City. Here, in the most hallowed section of the City, was where the Toriad once ruled, since the dawn of mankind. The First Man, the Toriad, was the speaker of the God of All Names. He used to rule over the City for thousands of years. Now, the once solidified power was splintered between the Church that bore His name and the Senate, made up of representatives from the Primisians, ancestors of the peoples who remained in the City while others left to seek their own ill-fated fortunes. The people who returned to the City prior to the Fall of Man and thus were spared that fate, were now known as Solumians. They made up the bulk of the labor force in the City. There were also slaves who lived with Primisian families and were treated well, and beggars who refused to work for various reasons. All of the various peoples of the City seemed to be there at the Temple Square that morning.


    Alaric had not lived long enough to experience such a gathering of the different peoples at the Holy Site. His curiosity got the better of him, so he pulled his mother aside to beg for answers.


    "What is going on? What is all this?"


    His mother leaned in, once she saw his father was a few paces ahead. "We can''t really say for certain whether it''s true or not," she said, before his father whipped around, abruptly ending her commentary.


    "Whether what is true?" Alaric said, more confused now. His mother shushed him, then waved him forward to see for himself.


    It wasn��t long before Alaric would bear witness to history. The bystanders�� faces all turned up toward the Sealed Sanctum, wonder, awe and, perhaps, fear, washing over them. Alaric looked up and saw the imposing figure of a tall, brown-skinned man cloaked in a bright red light, like a hot iron picked from the furnace. He was nearly naked, apart from the bizarre leggings that he wore. So bright was the light shining from his skin that Alaric had to turn away to protect his eyes.


    ��Father, who is that?�� Alaric finally asked, forgetting himself. Valoricus remained silent and gritted his teeth. ��Mother? How can that man be allowed to ascend the stair? How did he get past the monks?��


    No man was permitted to go up the Pearly Stair under any circumstance, aside from the Torian Consul, the counterpart to the Senatorial Consul, and that was only on the Day of the Toriad, the anniversary of when the First Man departed from the City. Even setting a foot upon the Pearly Stair was an act punishable by death or being cast out of the City from the walls. There were always two warrior monks stationed around the bottom of the stairs. It was their holy duty to protect the Temple from all evils. For whatever reason, those guards were now absent.


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    Alaric noticed the tension in his father''s face, his gaunt cheekbones more pronounced than usual. He eyed Alaric with a grim visage and then turned back to see the spectacle. Alaric now better understood the gravity of the situation. If this man had come to defile the Sealed Sanctum, he was a threat to the City itself. His father always told the most important thing in his life was to be a good citizen, and that meant protecting the City even at the expense of his own life. Alaric became suddenly aware of the weight of the sword he wore at his waste.


    The man with flame for skin slowly descended the stairs, one by one, as he took in the sight of the crowd that had amassed there. When he got halfway down the stairs, he stopped and commanded the masses to bear witness to his words, simply by raising two hands into the air. The crowd grew quieter and Alaric waited with everyone else to hear what this man �C this being �C had to say.


    ��Your Master has left you!�� He shouted in a booming voice that sounded rather inhuman. ��Woe to you, to have carried on for so long, a flock without its shepherd. Look around! See how your gardens wither! See, what''s left of your quarries stripped of their precious resources! You are a generation away from destruction and yet you live like you can carry on forever in this way. Soon, the very ground you walk will crumble into the earth. Your homes will be rendered into dust. What delusions made you think you could thrive forever in such a confined space, building and rebuilding with the same stones that after ages now falter and crumble like sand? See, how your buildings, your grand monuments to your supposed invulnerability, stand counter to the truth! Woe, unto you, I say. You have replaced your god with images of yourselves! You have committed the very same folly that brought about the damnation of the Great Society �C you have forgotten your vows to the one who has given you your name.��


    A murmur erupted in the crowd as the man momentarily stopped his train of accusations. Alaric could feel the tension beginning to boil over. It wouldn��t take much more for the masses to erupt into chaos. He prepared himself mentally for what might transpire next. A voice called out from somewhere to the right of Alaric.


    ��And who are you, stranger? What gives you the right to judge anyone! You, who dares defile our most sacred place!��


    Alaric managed to spot the source of the voice right as the response finished. It was Tolamirus Aurumantian, one of the Senator peers of Alaric��s father whose politics were often directly at odds with Alaric��s father''s. Alaric frequently sparred with Geilamir, the son of Tolamirus. Aside from some occasional boyish friction, both considered one another a friend. Valoricus trained his eyes directly on Tolamirus, as if he was watching a rival about to fall to a predator.


    The fiery stranger allowed an uncomfortable silence to build between them. With each step he took toward Tolamirus, the crowd grew more and more quiet.


    ��Are you the steward here?�� the man asked.


    ��One of them!�� Tolamirus replied, quick to assert his status upon this man. The stranger scanned the other faces to gauge their reaction.


    ��And how long have you considered yourself such?�� the man asked, with either genuine curiosity or preparing ammunition for a kill. "How old are you?"


    ��That��s irrelevant!�� cried Tolamirus. Another voice called out from somewhere. ��He��s fifty one!��


    The stranger sized Tolamirus up as he came to a stop in front of him. ��And how long have you been without a master?"


    Tolamirus, a man of so many words, suddenly found himself stupefied. Even the mention of the idea of a single master of the City, was considered blasphemic. There would always be tension between the Senate and the Church, but there never had been any attempts by either side to overwhelm and rule the other. There had been whispers of coups and plenty of dirty dealings within the Senate that Alaric had heard of, but that was just the nature of politics.


    The stranger turned away from Tolamirus, seemingly satisfied by his intimidation attempt. He again addressed the crowd. "Open your eyes to the state of this City! Recognize that even this bastion cannot hold out against the darkness forever!"


    Tolamirus couldn''t help himself. "And who are you to throw such accusations that we should just accept them?"


    Fear grew inside of Alaric for the safety of Tolamirus. Despite their differences, they were citizens of the same City. Alaric spotted Geilamir desperately trying to get his father to stop talking, but he continued. ��My ancestors were there, among those who were left to lead the City after the Master disappeared. We��ve kept the City safe and secured vigilantly and dutifully for hundreds of years and there is no reason to believe they won''t hold out for hundreds more.��


    A pronounced cough was hurled as a weapon at the legitimacy of that claim, from someone in the Solumian crowd.


    ��Then I suppose... this City shall remain in your capable hands.�� the stranger said, walking away from Tolamirus. It didn''t feel like a true concession to Alaric, though. All eyes were on the man as he simply walked away from the place where the majority of the Primisians had gathered and out toward the unwashed masses, which split to give him room. None, it appeared, were ready to stand against the odd man, but there was one person there who didn��t move away with the rest of the crowd. The one who remained was an old man who had been left to stand against the stranger didn''t stand at all - for he was crippled. The stranger stood before the old man, sizing him up.


    After a long hesitation, the stranger bent down and extended a hand to the cripple, who accepted it willingly, like he instinctively trusted this man. Although the cripple''s legs were clearly withered and misshapen, he was lifted right up to his feet. At first, it appeared that the man was going to topple over, but then a blinding flash of light emanated from where their hands had clasped together. The crowd gasped and cried out in confusion amidst the spectacle. Alaric''s mother instinctively embraced Alaric, the same way she had always done in challenging times.


    After a moment, the light was gone. The stranger let go of the cripple��s hands and... the man stumbled, but caught himself and managed to prostrate himself after a time. Through tears and laughter, the cripple cried out in abundant joy, childish glee from a decrepit old man. He embraced the stranger and the stranger held him close to his chest, whispering something to him that no one could hear. The cripple kissed the man��s hands and rushed out to the place near the Pearly Stair where the crowd had gathered.


    The healed man proclaimed, with renewed strength and energy impossible for a man so previously ailed, ��He has returned! This man is the Son of the Toriad! He is the true heir of the City and he has come back to set us all free! Rejoice! Rejoice! Ha ha ha ha ha!��


    The mass that had gathered there came alive, with a symphony of varying voices and emotions. Tolamirus had disappeared along with Geilamir and several other Senators.


    For the first time in Alaric''s life, he saw fear on his father''s face, plain as day. He wondered what it all meant as he allowed his mother to hold him as they slipped away.

 The Price of Entry

    His chance, it seemed, had finally come. Without even allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, Fridok enthusiastically retrieved his sword from its hiding place inside his tiny apartment. It was time to emerge, once and for all, from this loathsome place with its mold-covered walls and its legion of foul odors. A savior had come at last to the City. After demonstrating his divinity in front of the entire City, the savior called for a tournament to be held, something not even the Senate was able to deny. For the first time in years, the amphitheater would reopen to the public and a grand exhibition would be held. The liberator didn''t just call for Primisian contestants; he specifically said he wanted "any able-bodied Citizen who is willing to give everything to conquer the darkness." Even though the man made it clear that only the best warriors would accompany him, Fridok knew there would never again be such an opportunity to seize his own destiny.


    Fridok left the run-down, cramped apartment building, confident that it wouldn''t be long before he could bid farewell to that squalor. Nothing else mattered to him other than this one chance to lift himself up. He had seen exactly what life in the City had in store for him, if he didn''t do this thing. It was either he take this chance now or he might as well cast himself into the chasm of the quarry to avoid the regret and shame of missing out.


    Nobody paid Fridok any mind on the way to the old amphitheater. On a normal day, he would have been inundated with questions of why a Solumian would need to carry a sword, along with how it had managed to end up in his hands in the first place. Accusations would be thrown, somebody would probably attempt to confiscate his sword and then things would undoubtedly get pretty ugly pretty quickly. Thankfully there was an abundance of chaos at that time, so people barely even took notice of Fridok and his sword. If only his father could see him now.


    "Boys carry weapons and fight a thousand imaginary foes. Men know that if they feel the need to carry weapons at all, then the real enemy has already won."


    It was something his father said once to Fridok when he was a small child obsessed with swords. Fridok would drone on and on about one day having a sword like the nobility, so one day his father stopped him and said those words to him. The words re-emerged in his mind when his father died, and had stuck with Fridok ever since. Fridok had given up on the dream of owning a sword until he remembered what his father said. It was Fridok''s greatest act of defiance, then, to dedicate himself to one day owning a sword so that he could spite the man whose death had destroyed his own family.


    I carry a sword because there ARE thousands of enemies, all around me, all the time.


    A great crowd had amassed in the plaza outside the amphitheater which was still roped-off while the laborers worked to make the building suitable for use. Fridok scanned the area for an indication of where he might be able to enlist for the tournament. Only after climbing halfway up a tree and peering over the crowd did he see the booth where men were lined up. Fridok made haste toward that group, pushing people aside who wouldn''t move out of his way. When he arrived at the place and joined the queue, he instantly felt awkward and out of place.


    He, a destitute Solumian stuck out like the feathers in his tattered pillow in the back of the line of Primisian pretty-boys. Each of the rich young men standing ahead of him were hungry to prove their pedigree was the best. Fridok had seen many of them before in the training grounds, but he had never stood among them. Each of these pampered boys had the luxury to pursue swordplay as a pastime, personally trained by weapon masters. To them, this must have been just a demonstration of their high status, a game in which they would play prior to returning to lap of luxury. Surely, they were not actually hoping to win this contest. They would leave all of their wealth and comforts of home. Fridok decided he would make short work of them. To him, this was the only thing in life that now mattered. To them, it was just another day at the amphitheater.


    When Fridok��s turn finally came up in the queue, the magistrate scribbling away paid him little regard.


    ��State your name.��


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    ��Fridok.��


    The man winced, clearly annoyed. ��Not what your friends call you, damn it. Name, family name and honorary title, if you have one. This is an official registration, which means I need to know exactly who you are.��


    ��Fridok.��


    The man turned up from his parchment, just then taking his first glimpse at Fridok. He was clearly taken aback by Fridok''s appearance, and appeared mortified when he saw that Fridok actually carried a sword on his person.


    The magistrate''s visceral response to Fridok��s appearance reassured the queer feelings he had gotten when he joined the queue.


    ��You cannot be serious,�� the man said. The look itself was enough damage to make Fridok want to shrink up and flee. Instead of allowing the man''s attitude to deter him from his goals, Fridok steeled his resolve and prepared to fight one of the thousand enemies he always knew surrounded him.


    ��My steel is strong and sharp. My body is stronger and sharper, and my will is strongest and sharpest of all.�� Fridok said, rebuking the man''s words. ��The man called for all able-bodied men, and I have answered that call. React however you like, but in the end you will see what I am capable of in the arena."


    ��Bold of you to assume we would allow refuse like you inside in the first place. Begone.�� He shooed Fridok away.


    ��I missed the part where he said I wasn''t allowed to participate. Do not deny him what he has summoned. I''ve come to answer that call, and I''ve even brought my own sword. You cannot deny me my destiny.��


    ��This isn��t some back-alley fighting ring where any filthy Solum can scrap about in their piss and shit. This will be the most prestigious melee of our time. You are not welcome here, not even as a spectator, and I, certainly, will not permit you to join the ranks of true athletes. Leave at once!��


    Fridok placed his prized gladius upon the table. ��I wager this,�� he said. The man looked down at Fridok��s blade, only the slightest bit entertained. ��To you, personally. If I should lose this contest, I won��t be needing it anymore, so you can take pride in knowing you disarmed a Solumian and put him back in his place.��


    The man hesitated. Fridok could tell the proposition enticed him, but he resisted it anyway.


    ��You seek to bribe me with some flawed, discount sword?�� he said. ��That piece of scrap wouldn��t last three strikes against proper steel without buckling or breaking.��


    ��Look again!�� Fridok demanded, fury fueling his insistence. ��I may be Solumian, but the blade was purchased at fair market value from a Primisian blacksmith. If you understood how much I paid for this sword, you would not balk so easily at it. It is the work of the blade smith Taranilius. See, his inscription here.��


    The man eyed the etchings of the gladius tentatively. If he was at all impressed, the only indicator Fridok had was that he didn''t immediately reiterate himself.


    ��Taranilius is only the fourth or fifth best weaponsmith in the City. Swords aren��t even his specialty �C he��s better known for his spears. I wasn��t aware he even made these.�� The magistrate placed one hand on the hilt and one hand on the tip and attempted to bend the sword. Fridok stared at him with disbelief. He wasn��t even sure how to respond at this point. Being attacked for things he couldn��t control was something he had dealt with all of his life. Having his prized possession, the object he had worked for years to obtain, be insulted and berated was something Fridok was failing to withstand rather extravagantly.


    ��What do I care?�� the man said, changing his tone. ��You lack proper training, so you��ll be dead or disarmed in thirty seconds in the battle, anyway. Not to mention you''ll be an easy target by the look of you. If you want to throw away your life and donate your sword to me, I won��t stand in the way of your righteous self-destruction.��


    ��You��ll enter my name, then?�� Fridok asked, a flood of emotion coursing through his body.


    ��Your name means nothing, and neither do you. You wish so badly to dance in a league in which you��ll never be a member, I will grant you this one opportunity. But when you fall, the sword is mine. It should fetch a few silver, at least. Sign here for the role call, and sign... here, for the wager." Fridok did exactly as he was told with haste, as to avoid the man possibly changing his mind. "Good. Now, begone Fridok. You��re holding up my line and there are far more relevant registrants that still need to be processed.��


    Fridok buried his excitement but was immolated with it. The moment he had been hoping for had become real. All of the countless hours he��d spent anticipating this one opportunity to pull himself out of obscurity were finally about to pay off. In his excitement, he didn��t look behind himself before walking away. He stumbled into a young noble with long blond hair.


    ��Sorry,�� Fridok said, realizing only a second later who the young man was.


    ��No problem at all,�� the boy replied. ��Congratulations on winning your first battle. See you on the field, then?��


    Hearing Alaricus speak to him not as a commoner but as a proper peer made pride well up in Fridok. This was the beginning of a new chapter in his life. It was time to make his mother proud. It was time to prove his father was wrong about everything.

 The Grand Melee

    Swordplay may have been Alaric''s forte, but it was not his passion. Sure, it was good exercise and he was good at it, but to him it was just a distraction from the finest thing in life �C music. His father wasn��t fond of Alaric''s obsession with playing the handheld lyre "as a woman does", but it was the first instrument he mastered and still his favorite. He had his mother to thank for that, as she was responsible for his introduction to the instrument, and to music and poetry in general, for that matter. His father apparently always thought it would be a mere passing interest for Alaric, like most things were for children growing up. When Alaric and his mother began spending every free moment they had together playing music, it finally dawned on Alaric''s father that the love for music wasn''t going to phase out of his life.


    Alaric always did everything that his father asked of him, of course. He learned early on that his father''s distaste for his playing could be soothed if he just did whatever his father asked of him immediately. He would ask his father if there was anything more. When he came up with nothing, Alaric was free to go back to his room and start going through his ever-growing collection of compositions. Even though he made a point to be obedient to a fault, it was always clear to Alaric that nothing would make his father accept him for who he really was. This led to more and more duties being put upon Alaric''s shoulders, and less and less time for him to do what he really wanted to do. His father wanted a son who was "all man, all the time", and Alaric was slowly realizing that his father would never stop trying to kill off the part of Alaric that he held closest to his heart. Winning the tournament and leaving the City with his lyre packed away was beginning to look like the only way that he would be able to satisfy both his father and himself.


    At least for now it seemed that his father had something other than Alaric''s manliness to worry about. After the event that played out in the Temple Square, an emergency Senate hearing was called. Alaric could only theorize about the kinds of words that were said in the meeting, but if the stranger was truly who he claimed to be, then the people in power in the Senate were probably in full-on crisis mode. If the man was truly the heir to the Toriad, then it wouldn''t take long for Him to see how bloated and top-heavy the City''s political infrastructure had become. None of their jobs nor their status in the City would be secure now. It must have been pride alone, then, that let Alaric''s father and the other lords of the City allow their sons to participate in the tournament. Alaric doubted that any of them really wanted to allow their children to go off with someone so dangerous, but he figured it most likely came down to a stalling tactic. They were blindsided by the man''s entrance. If the stranger really did want to leave the City, then it would be in the Senate''s interest to let that play out. All of this was just conjecture, of course, but Alaric did know a thing or two about the inner-workings of the Senate, thanks to his father.


    The hour of the tournament was now at hand. Alaric and all of the other contenders, including his friends and other sparring partners were there, along with some of the trainers. To Alaric''s surprise, even fully grown patriarchs of lesser families were there to claim glory. The raw ambition from all of the contenders was about to be publicly displayed for the whole City to see, in a grand symphony unlike anything anyone alive had experienced. Alaric was a performer at heart, so he imagined what it might be like if instead of combat, he were to perform a concert for all ears to hear.


    There hadn��t been an honest need for men to train for combat since the City gates closed, simply for the fact that everyone always thought it would be impossible for an invader to breach the City. Without wars to be fought and little chance of desperate men to own weapons, most of the men who wore swords these days were no more than pretenders. With their flamouyant costumes and impracticably ornate swords, they were about to undergo a rude awakening. All of them gathered in one place painted a scene that was very much like a historical reenactment. None of them seemed to understand the danger they were in by entering the arena. They all seemed so confident. Confident and over-dressed.


    At the opening ceremony, each swordsman was formally and individually announced to the crowd. It was absolutely excruciating to endure, primarily because so many of the contenders insisted on using all of the names and titles they had somehow collected despite never once doing anything worthy of such accolades. There were somewhere between sixty and eighty swordsmen lined up with him in the arena. Alaric had lost count somewhere along the way, so that was his best estimate. It felt like there were a thousand, though, with how long it took to get through all the names.


    Despite the ridiculousness of the opening ceremony, Alaric reminded himself that he still needed to be ready for anything. If everyone there was as well-trained and disciplined as Alaric, then at least they would fight with honor. The rest of this lot would undoubtedly be far more unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Alaric wore his padded armor, so his vitals, at least, were somewhat protected, but that did little to reassure him that he would be walking out of this battle in one piece.


    Just when Alaric had reached his limit of waiting, the herald called for everyone to find a place. Alaric happily moved into a position he had picked out which would help keep as many of the other contenders in front of him as possible. He excelled at predicting when and how a combatant would strike, but he didn��t have eyes on the back of his head.


    He stretched one last time and focused on his breathing as he started imagining the onslaught that he was about to have to endure. So many eyes were upon him, from the other challengers to the masses gathered in the amphitheater stands. In the corner of his eye, Alaric saw somebody pointing to him while talking to the Gifted Man who had taken a place in the Toriad''s box. For a fleeting moment, Alaric thought he met the stranger''s eyes. His heartbeat rang through his ears, louder, even, than the crowds cheering for the game to begin. Counting down in eight-four time, his mind quickly snapped back to tempo while the contenders all found their places.


    Alaric''s thoughts went to one of the songs he loved to sing in preparation for a particularly challenging day of training. The song was ��Heroes of the City,�� the ode to the great heroes of the civil war of the Second Age.


    Flames glowing in the depth of the dark night


    A constellation of the peril that surrounds them


    Ready to pounce in a heartbeat, to take flight


    Drums beating, dread creeping, the night hounds them


    The tired warriors with broken ranks


    Shut down at every opportunity


    Unprotected from further flanks


    As the enemy continues to kill with impunity


    Lie waiting in their bed rolls covered with sweat


    Broken and beaten a hundred times before


    Wounds throbbing so they never can forget


    They��re living in the middle of a war


    But who are these men


    Who remain when so many others were defeated?


    I ask again, who are these men


    Whose hardened will has never been depleted?


    Who are these men


    Who withstood every arrow dropping like rain?


    Who are these men?


    They are heroes of the City and we will honor their names.


    Trumpets blasted. The battle had begun.


    Immediately, Alaric was assaulted by four lesser nobles who came in swinging wildly while the entire arena became a cacophonous clash of steel on steel. Alaric deftly dodged the first swing, shifting to his left in an attempt to draw all of the men into a tighter line. Knowing that he couldn��t allow them to surround him, he did what he could to limit their movement. Alaric was an excellent duelist, but this was no duel. He needed to find any opportunity he could to limit his active foes.


    Alaric feinted toward the furthest assailant to bring him in line. It worked, but the closest combatant was now within successful striking distance again. Alaric met his blade directly with his own, deflecting it. He followed up with a swift movement that pierced the man��s shoulder just enough to disable his offense.


    Next opponent.


    Alaric wasted no time and clashed hard against the next man��s half-hearted swing. Alaric shifted back and dropped the angle of his blade far enough to slice the man��s side, making sure to leave a gash in his skin just below his padding. The attacker reeled back, leaving room for the third attacker to attempt his gambit. Alaric put his weight behind the hilt of his sword, crashing it hard against the top of the man��s head. Judging by the man''s reaction, that was all it took to send that one crying to his mother.


    The last of the four attackers managed to hit Alaric, but the force he used only left a surface cut in Alaric��s padding. It hurt, but instead of reacting to the pain from the blow, Alaric spun around in the direction of the hit to mitigate the force of the man��s swing. Alaric came back and deftly disarmed the man, sending his sword flying. Alaric pointed his gladius at the man��s face, signaling only once before raising his sword into the air.


    ��Yield!�� The man went to collect his sword and whatever was left of his pride.


    The rest of the attackers were still live targets and needed addressed, but Alaric had already sized them up in his head. He had broken the first assault and managed to gain some ground as they regrouped. The man Alaric had stabbed in the shoulder let out a cry as he aimed to bring down his sword upon Alaric��s head. Alaric moved out of the way just fast enough to avoid the blow that certainly would have taken him out of competition. The third man whom Alaric had struck in the head swung upon him directly after that. The man had blood trailing from his nose but the look of desperation he gave was all Alaric needed to know about his mental state. Alaric parried twice, three times and then swept the man��s legs as the sacrificed his footing for another wild swing. Pressing the tip of his sword against the man��s neck, Alaric forced him yield.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The man who had his side cut by Alaric apparently wanted to tend to his wound rather than press the attack. That gave Alaric the opportunity to combat the shoulder wounded man alone. Alaric feinted a strike to the man��s other shoulder, and when he overreacted in order to protect himself, Alaric brought his blade across the man��s under-protected thigh. He yelped in pain and shortly found the tip of Alaric��s blade pointed at his nose. He grunted a yield.


    The remaining man just shook his head and continued to hold his side, clearly unhappy with the injury he had already sustained. He held his hand up, lowered his eyes and walked away from the battlefield. He didn��t say a word as he left.


    Now that Alaric had won his initial fight, he could properly assess the field. Several bodies were strewn across the grounds. Some of them, bloodied and gasping for air, were being dragged away by their feet. Others had actually met their end. It wasn''t until he saw the look on the dead men''s faces that he understood the danger he was in. Up until now, swordplay was a sport. Now, the game was changed, and for the worse.


    As Alaric surveyed the fighters, he was glad to see that, apart from a large group off in the distance, most of the remaining fighters were engaged in more honorable one-on-one duels �C as he felt it should have always been. Alaric searched for an opportunity to meet with another fighter for a proper duel, and it didn''t take long to find one. He was excited to see that his friend Geilamir Aurumantian remained in the fight. Alaric felt much more comfortable in man-to-man combat than heaped up in conflict with a mindless horde with death on their minds.


    ��Surprised to see you''re still in one piece,�� Geilamir said. ��I saw you being swarmed over there and I thought you were a goner. How''d you do it?�� Geilamir stretched his sword arm and started to circle Alaric, in the same way he always had done when they were squaring off.


    ��Just did what I felt was right at the time,�� Alaric said. ��What about you? How many have you beaten?��


    Geilamir gave a shaky half-smile that Alaric couldn��t quite place. ��Five, but thankfully not all at once.�� He shifted his eyes at the ground behind Alaric but shook it off quickly and focused again. ��Shall we?�� Geilamir said. The two tapped the tips of their blades together and began their exercise.


    They clashed, as they had many times before. Alaric usually came out on top, but Geilamir always gave him a good contest. This time, however, Alaric sensed a lot more desperation in Geilamir��s strikes. It made sense �C there was a lot more at stake this time than bragging rights.


    There was so much of their training exhibited in each of their strikes that Alaric found himself getting comfortable despite Geilamir��s added effort. In his mind, the refrain of the battle chant began playing. Songs were, after all, Alaric''s secret weapon. Music was what he used to change his fighting style so easily. It was his greatest weapon.


    But who are these men


    Who remain when so many others were defeated?


    Clang! Their swords bounced off of each other, each of them regaining perfect control of their weapons after each strike.


    I ask again, who are these men


    Whose hardened will has never been depleted?


    ��Ha!�� Geilamir let out a nervous laugh as he kept up with Alaric perfectly.


    Who are these men


    Who withstood every arrow dropping like rain?


    ��Hold!�� Geilamir said, backing away and motioning behind Alaric. "You seeing this?" Alaric put room between himself and Geilamir to see what had caused him to pause the fight. A Solumian man with thinning black hair and a big bushy beard walked toward the two young nobles carrying a bloodied sword. Every other combatant in the arena had been defeated, and the only one who remained from the large group of fighters was this wild beast of a man. Geilamir turned back to Alaric. ��Let me handle this one, then we can get back to it.��


    Geilamir approached the muscled Solumian with little regard for his muscled appearance or apparent skill, even though this man had just emerged victorious from an enormous group of fighters unscathed. Alaric caught his breath as Geilamir began to circle the outsider. Geilamir feinted once to see if he could get the man to make a mistake, but the man didn��t fall for it. Geilamir laughed as he feinted again, this time more convincingly. Still, the man stood unfazed, his eyes trained on Geilamir��s. This time, Geilamir went in for a true strike, but, to Alaric��s shock and amazement, the man riposted the blow and pressed in. The Solumian threw the full weight of his body into his attack. Geilamir��s eyes looked down in disbelief at the blade pressed directly against his throat, his sword cast onto the ground.


    Who are these men?


    Geilamir yielded, his pride torn asunder.


    Suddenly it was down to only two. Alaric didn��t know this man, although he looked somewhat familiar. The Solumian stalked Alaric, determination on his face. Just who was this man? How could a random Solumian have so quickly and fairly bested Geilamir, who, like Alaric, had been trained by the City''s best instructors from the moment he could hold a sword in his hand? This man was unlike any foe Alaric had seen before, a mysterious song sung in a foreign tongue �C alien to Alaric but still somewhat beautiful in its own way. Alaric put up his guard and watched to see what the man would do.


    ��I��ve been waiting for this opportunity my whole life,�� the man said. Alaric tried to gauge how this man would fight based upon his stance, but simply didn��t know how to predict his movement �C he wasn��t projecting his movements like the others Alaric had just defeated. He was strong, though, so Alaric knew his blows would have a lot of force behind them. They squared off and began to circle one another.


    Nobody made the first move for many seconds. Alaric always liked to be reactionary rather than making the first move, as he was less likely to make a mistake that way. That was one of the primary reasons he had been able to beat so many challengers for so many years. So much could be learned about a fighter in the first half-second of their attack, but this man was not giving Alaric what he needed. The crowd��s cheering and jeering grew louder as Alaric saw the remainders of the bodies being carted away from the field out of the corner of his eye.


    It was when the crowd��s noise grew most thunderous that Alaric betrayed his own governing strategy and went in for the first strike. Perhaps it was the musician in him that made him do it, finding some kind of poetry in striking as the crowd''s cheering crescendoed.


    The man parried the strike with ease and immediately counter-attacked. He swung hard and fast, and if it were not for Alaric��s padded armor, he would have been sliced through from top to bottom. It hurt, regardless of the armor, and Alaric was forced to jump back, nearly losing his footing. The man gave no quarter, however, and pressed in for another strike. Alaric just barely managed to dodge the attack and couldn��t even form a counter-attack without sacrificing his footing. Not only was he on the defensive, he was actually losing this fight.


    Just as Alaric felt the nagging of failure trying to take root within him, he noticed something that he would be able to use to his advantage. The man��s sword from far away looked slightly different than the gladiuses that Alaric had seen most commonly used by nobility. Upon further inspection, he could see clearly the faults in its make. Right in the middle of the blade, there was a warped weakness that Alaric could potentially exploit.


    The man swung down upon Alaric and Alaric met the blade this time with his own, directly in the spot that Alaric had noted. The sword remained intact, which caused Alaric to feel the whole force of the man��s blow. It sent an offensive shock up the entire length of his arm. The man swung again and Alaric again defended with his sword striking the same place on the man��s sword. This time, Alaric was barely able to maintain a grip on his sword as the shockwaves traveled all the way up his back and into his spine. The man took three more paces in a circle around Alaric and brought his sword down one last time upon Alaric.


    This time, Alaric��s theory was proven right. The sword shattered in twain from the force of the attack, the lion��s share of the blade deflecting away aimlessly. Alaric actually felt bad for the man as he saw the look of surprise come over his face. Alaric held his sword to the man��s chest immediately. He had beaten him only through exploiting the superior make of his own blade.


    The Solumian challenger hung his head and yielded, much to the instantaneous excitement of the audience. Alaric won the melee against all odds and had secured his place upon whatever new path was destined for him.


    He allowed the excitement of the victory to pour over him. In all of the chaos that ensued after he was declared winner, Alaric almost didn��t realize that the Gifted One had come down from his place to meet him. He laid a hand on Alaric''s shoulder. Something about the man''s grip was different than any other hand that had ever touched him. It felt warm to the touch, almost as if there was fire ablaze within his bones. Even more odd to Alaric was the fact that his muscles felt relief coursing outward from the place the man made contact with his skin. He pulled Alaric in so that he could hear over the noise.


    ��You have fought bravely and have won,�� the Son said. "Are you prepared to sacrifice everything for the sake of your people?"


    Alaric, still catching his breath, looked around the arena at all of the crowd, still roaring with excitement. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Solumian standing above the broken shards of his sword, his expression solemnly reflecting the hopelessness in his soul.


    "Do you accept your charge?"


    Alaric''s mind flooded with conflicting thoughts that ranged from pride to sorrow for the ones he beat and, most of all, fear. If he was being honest with the man, he really didn''t want everything that went along with the win. But, he imagined, if he was the best the City had to offer, then there was no way of backing out now. Not without bringing great shame to his family. He would do it. He would be a good Citizen, like his father had always told him to do. A new song would be sung at the conclusion of the old one.


    "I accept."


    They are heroes of the City and we will honor their names.

 The Broken

    Just like that, Fridok''s dreams were broken. He held the pieces of the blade he had saved for years to afford in his hands, staring at them in disbelief. The magistrate was right �C Fridok had been sold a poorly made weapon. He considered himself a right fool, now that he no longer had anything to show for his struggles. Not only was he now out of the sword and the money he paid to obtain it, he had actually lost both the wager and the collateral. He was now, somehow, in a worse position than he had predicted was even possible. Death would have been a more favorable end than this most unfortunate outcome.


    Fridok dropped the now useless pieces of his weapon onto the ground and wandered slowly and aimlessly against the crowd lining up to see the next round of competitions. He needed to be away from all of this, to escape the suffocation of his failure. He didn��t know where he would go or what he would do, now, but now he fully understood that he didn��t belong there. All he could think about was the fragile nature of everything he ever once cared about.


    Other men, Primisian men, might have taken pride in finishing in second place in such a competition. Fridok had no such feelings. He had gotten so close to being vindicated after all of his ire, but in the end not even an indominable will could change the way things were in the City. Everyone would remember the great swordsman Alaricus, and how he triumphed and brought honor to his family. Nobody would remember Fridok in the same way, nor would they even remember his name. There was no family name for him to elevate, nor would he raise himself out of obscurity by being almost the best swordsman. He didn��t even have friends with whom to celebrate, or, more pragmatically, to help him come to terms with his loss. He was as hopeless as he had ever been to elevate himself out of the darkness.


    Fridok simply left the amphitheater, numb, and expecting it would be the last time he would ever look upon it again.


    The discouraged man drudged in a blur through the City. The further away from the arena he got, the emptier and quieter everything became. This was his preference. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts, hoping he would be able to overcome the helplessness he now felt. He knew the hard truth about the failure; no matter how hard he tried to make things better in his life, there was nothing he could do to save himself.


    Fridok unconsciously clutched his sheath. The emptiness of it further rubbed salt in his open wounds. He ripped it from his belt and, in a fit of rage, hurled the defunct object as far as he could. It deflected off of a wall and landed with a clank on a metal sewer cover. A vagrant Farraige man looked up from his place nestled in the filth just inside an alleyway. Fridok had thought the man was just discarded cloth before he moved. It spooked Fridok when the man called out to him.


    ��Hey, prick!�� the man shouted, in an accent and manner common to his people. ��If you��re trying to hit me, you��re going to have to learn how to aim. Arse licker.�� The Daoine Farraige people were not well-liked in the City; they were the only major non-native group who had managed to get safely inside the walls prior to the Fall of Man. Their ancestral home, the Isles far to the northwest of the City, had fallen alongside every other major hold in the land, but not before a large group of their people emigrated to the City. They claimed to have been driven to find shelter in the City by a premonition. Though they were spared the devastation that reigned everywhere outside of the City''s gleaming white walls, they were lower in stature than even the Solumians, Fridok''s people. If Fridok and his people were hopeless to improve their station, then the Farraige people were better off not even polluting their thoughts with something like hope.


    Fridok bit right back at the man. ��You think I meant to hit you? No. If I meant to hit you, you wouldn''t be barking at me right now.�� The Farraige man wasn''t satisfied with one insult. ��You knob! Your aim��s twice as bad as you look, and your face is like trampled horse shite. I thought I had a bad lot in life, and here you are making me look right blessed with the pouty mug of yours. Holy hell, look at your face, man. It''s about as red as a dog''s cock and twice as hard to keep from staring at it.��


    ��Big man, you are. You want to stand up when you insult me, or would you have to focus too much of your rotten brain on not falling down, you sodding drunk?�� Fridok said.


    ��Who says I��m drunk?�� the man said with an overly offended tone.


    ��It would be a first for your people if you weren��t.��


    ��Oh, right. That��s assuming an awful lot, don��t you think? Like, me, being able to actually afford a drink!��


    Fridok felt disarmed all over again. His impulse told him to crack a smile at the self-deprecation, but he maintained his sullen expression. He was not willing to give up the anger he held for himself that easily. He hadn''t let it play out yet.


    ��You think you have it hard?�� Fridok said, approaching the man just to see what would happen. ��Try working for years for something and having it all come crashing down on you in an instant.��


    ��Oh no, I would know nothing about that. You poor child, are you gonna be alright? Where does it hurt? Daddy will kiss it.��


    Fridok grabbed at his crotch and gave it a yank. ��Or you can kiss my arse, your choice. But I suppose that would require you to actually get off of yours, wouldn��t it? Is there anything more terrifying to a Farraige than that?��


    ��Waking up and having a face like yours, I suppose!��


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    Fridok got within striking range, ready to really let the man have it. Instead of being afraid whatsoever, the man looked up at Fridok with indignance. Fridok had always prided himself on his intimidating appearance. He had worked very hard for a very long time to make sure his body reflected his ambition. Some good that had done.


    ��Hit me then!�� the man trained his eyes upon Fridok. ��Come on then, give us a good wallop. Just don''t make a promise you can''t keep. Nobody ever goes through with it once they see me up close.��


    Fridok grabbed the man��s shoulders and with all of his pent-up rage, he lifted him up and pinned him against the wall. The man��s bottom half had been covered in his rags, so it wasn��t until he was hoisted into the air that Fridok saw that the man��s legs stopped just above where his knees should have been. Fridok was taken aback, confronted by the fact that he was about to bully a cripple. The man, sensing Fridok''s hesitation, wasted no time at all in countering. He pressed the stumps of his legs against the wall behind him and cracked the top of his head against Fridok''s forehead as hard as he could. Fridok dropped the man and he flopped to the ground, unable to catch himself. Both men immediately understood the headache that would accompany that maneuver.


    ��That��s right,�� the man said, shifting himself back to his seated position. ��You��ll think twice before laying your grubby mitts on ol�� Art again.�� Both Fridok and the man rubbed their heads in pain. Fridok, realizing the frivolity of the conflict, allowed himself to fall backward against the wall on the other side of the alleyway. The man who called himself Art watched him closely, still prepared to fight once more.


    ��That��s really unfair, you know,�� Fridok said, after the pain had begun to settle. ��You really ought to warn a man about your legs before you start a fight.��


    ��You think that��s unfair,�� Art replied. ��You should try not having any legs.��


    It was a rather long and cathartic moment, when the two men recognized in each other a kind of shared trauma. The man was a manifestation of the way that Fridok felt in that moment. The tension between the men slowly waned, and a small but unspoken bond was formed.


    ��So, what gives with the sheath anyway?�� the man said, once their communion had time to digest. ��You finally realizing it was a bad idea to buy one without being able to afford a sword of your own?��


    ��I did own a sword,�� Fridok said. ��As a matter of fact, I just used it.��


    ��Well, shite,�� Art said. ��If you''re a wanted man, you could at least warn a guy so they don''t think I''m an accomplice. Do you understand how long it takes for me to get from place to place?��


    Fridok scoffed. ��I can assure you that nobody wants me.�� He looked down at the man��s stumps, one of which was exposed because of their scuffle. Art noticed his gaze and pulled his pantleg down to cover it out of instinct. Then, in a play at humor, he lifted the pantleg and batted his eyelashes at Fridok, like a street lady did with a skirt. At once, Fridok felt the full wave of his foolishness wash over him. This man meant no harm. He didn''t deserve to be the recipient of Fridok''s frustration.


    ��Listen, I don��t have much, but I can probably help you out with a warm meal or two, here and there.�� Fridok said, making sure through his tone to let the man know he meant no harm. To his surprise, the man became suddenly defensive again.


    ��Oh no, you don��t,�� Art said. ��Don''t you do that. That��s not right. That��s not fair. You don��t get to look down on me. I get enough of that crap from everyone else. I don��t need your pity. If you want to go another round, then let��s do it. But also know that I bite and scratch and I��ve got a hell of a right hook.��


    Fridok smiled at the man and said nothing else. The man had nothing to his name and still, somehow, he demanded respect. He was right. He didn��t need Fridok''s pity and handouts. He needed things to change in the City, just liked Fridok did.


    ��Listen,�� Fridok said, not sure what words were going to follow, or if they would be accepted by the man. ��I don��t mean anything by it, and you don��t have to think of it as pity, but I was just on my way back to�C��


    ��There you are!�� came a voice from the main road. Fridok turned to look, and, to his great surprise, the voice belonged to Alaricus.


    ��We��ve been looking all around for you!"


    Fridok shook his head in dismay. "I don''t know why you would do that."


    The boy, very excitedly, said, "Didn��t you hear? You are called to join us on the expedition!��


    Fridok couldn''t even process what the boy had said, but he could see realization forming on the Farraige man��s face. He turned to Alaricus, a feeling in his stomach nudging him to believe this young man �C that he meant Fridok no harm. He had never known how to trust anyone after his mother passed, so it took real bravery for him to accept Alaricus�� words. If this were a prank, then Fridok feared he might have to kill him.


    ��I lost. Even if what you say is true and not just Primisian cruelty, I��ve no sword to carry anymore. I could never afford to get another weapon in time.��


    ��I am truly sorry about your blade,�� said Alaricus. ��It must have meant a lot to you, given your--." He stopped himself from saying something that might anger Fridok. "I know there��s no way to replace the meaningful sword you��ve lost, but I��ve been assured that not having a weapon is no obstacle. If you��d still like to go with us, know that you have earned your place. You fought with bravery and if it weren��t for the faultiness of the sword��s make, you would have beaten me. You have every bit as much right to go along as I do.��


    The boy''s words washed over him like cleansing waters to his soul. Fridok looked at the Farraige man, who appeared to have new reverence and respect for Fridok. Art turned away as soon as Fridok looked at him. The thing that had bonded the two of them had apparently dried up.


    Fridok cleared his throat, to avoid choking up. ��Thank you,�� he said, softly with sincerity. ��It would be all I could ask to join you. When we are leaving?��


    ��As soon as the other competitions are complete,�� said Alaric. ��Once it is determined which seven competitors will accompany the Son, there will be a feast to celebrate. We will leave before the week is through.��


    Fridok had never partaken in a feast before. That kind of thing was really only a Primisian enjoyment, not something for somebody like Fridok. That gave him an idea. He rose to his feet, reached out his hand to Art the Farraige man. Art raised his eyebrow at Fridok, clearly unsure of the meaning of the gesture.


    ��Don��t think of it as charity,�� Fridok said. Sensing Art''s repulsion, Fridok came at it from a different angle. "You can''t just show me those sexy legs of yours and think I''m going to let you go." Art couldn''t help but laugh at Fridok''s attempt to break through his defenses with humor. He put aside his pride and met Fridok��s hand with his own.


    Fridok hoisted the poor man up, situated him onto his back and turned to Alaricus, nodding. Art looked like he was about to throw up.


    ��Alright, then...�� Alaricus said, completely unsure of Fridok''s behavior and choice to bring Art. ��Shall we be off?��

 A Lively Feast

    The feast was already in its early stages about an hour after the final competition had drawn to a close. The benefactor of the contests had extended an invitation to dine to all of the immediate families of the competitors. That act cast a wide net and drew a large crowd of Primisian, so it was as such that the guests treated the event as they did all parties for the highest class of society. Servants made their way through the hungry crowd with fresh fruit and libations. And, of course, there was music being played by all of the best musicians except one. Alaric would have preferred to be among that group, rather than being overwhelmed by all of the well-wishers and social climbers now bombarding him with niceties.


    Alaric lost track of the runner-up Fridok as soon as they arrived to the party. The way the Solumian swordsman had been able to slip away from all of the commotion without being accosted made Alaric outright jealous of the man''s ability to make himself invisible. It seemed that being a Solumian did come with some perks, even though they were likely few and far between. Perhaps the Gifted One would attempt to rein in a new order of things, one that would remake the City to be more like the utopian society of old, when the City was ruled by a fair and gentle leader and no man ever went hungry. If that was his intention, then the man would be very likely be fighting against an overwhelming force of enemies very soon. Primisians were in power and they were not keen on giving up an ounce of it. The fact that the Senate was allowing all of this to continue unobstructed came as an absolute shock to Alaric. It was obvious they were blindsided by the whole chain of events, but their lack of resistance was completely unlike them. Alaric decided that business was for his father and his colleagues, who were sparse this evening.


    A great host of servants came forth carrying large trays of food, splitting the crowd. Alaric eventually found his seat, the chair right next to where the Gifted Man would sit, whenever he was to arrive. He was quite an enigmatic and intimidating fellow, but he was full of surprises. The way he already commanded respect from some of the highest ranking officials of the City elevated his mystique to levels Alaric had never seen in his short life. The republic was deliberately designed to prevent a monarch from ascending, yet already many people were calling for this man to ascend to the seat of the Toriad. Some Senators even vocally supported this idea, but those already showing support for the crowning were all lower in rank and tenure. It was clear that these junior Senators saw opportunity in this man, and they aimed to latch onto him as they hoisted him up.


    Sitting two seats away from Alaric was his friend Geilamir, who gave Alaric a friendly pat on the back when he found his seat. ��I don��t know about you,�� he said. ��But I��m starving.�� Alaric agreed, fully aware of how hungry the afternoon��s events had made him. Training always brought his appetite to the forefront, but right now he was downright starving.


    Seated in the other places of honor were many faces that Alaric recognized, each the winners of their respective competitions. Sitting next to Geilamir were his friends Euric Alcamora and his cousin Bulgar. It came as no surprise to Alaric that these two had won the archery competition �C their rivalry was well known throughout the City, and there was no one who could even come close to either one of them in target shooting. Next in line were Ervig Lacertian and Isidore Maritium, the victors of the spear and lance competition. Aside from the Solumian Fridok who was still missing, all of the winners of the competitions were well known to Alaric as his peers and mentors. While Ervig and Isidore were considerably older than the rest, they were still regular faces at the training grounds where Alaric spent most of his time outside of the home. The two of them were actually some of the earliest trainers Alaric had for swordplay, before he graduated to the top of his class. He still looked to them for advice.


    Alaric had enjoyed watching all of the games that were held that day. The spear and lance competition boasted a jousting tournament that provided considerable danger, though nobody died in that event, like in the sword competition. There had been six casualties in Alaric��s event, and four of them were people that Alaric knew personally. Among the dead were Crassius Lomen the second son of Senator Caldeus Lomen, Senator Minimus Brutus Mortimer the head of his house and one of the first to show support to the outsider. There was also Palodius Sixtus the kindly middle-aged amphitheater groundskeeper, and Tommus Grelian the crotchety old retired Senator who never married, always saying it was because women and children were a distraction. All of these men were now dead, trampled under the weight of their ambition. The veneer of Alaric��s victory had been tarnished by their blood.


    ��I bet Senator Minimus Mortimer thought he would be up here instead of us,�� Geilamir said, too casually for Alaric��s liking. It was odd that he said that, right as Alaric was considering the dead. ��I bet he wasn''t counting on a swordfight being the end of his political career. They''re all fools, you know. They didn''t have to fight. Fools, each one of them. Serves them right.��


    ��What are you talking about?�� Alaric said. ��How can you say such a thing? Have you no respect at all for the dead?��


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    ��They started it by getting into the arena with real fighters. They should have known better. And now they''re dead.�� Geilamir pantomimed squishing an insect under his thumb, making a crude splatting noise with his mouth.


    Alaric simply couldn��t believe the audacity of his friend��s statements. He understood that it might be too hard to face the reality of the situation, but his behavior was rather unbecoming of a Primisian.


    ��Where''s the filthy workman who cut him up, anyway?�� Geilamir asked, motioning toward Fridok''s empty seat. ��That brute probably realized he was too far out of his element and tucked tail back to whatever hole he crawled out of. It��ll be better with just us six unlucky bastards anyway. He will probably just slow us down or break rank at the first sign of trouble. That''s what a liability looks like, and I''m glad he''s not here.��


    ��He will be here,�� Alaric retorted with false confidence. He didn��t really know anything about the man, after all, aside from the fact that he could swing a sword. To Alaric, however, that actually carried a lot of weight. Very few people actually gave him much of a challenge anymore. ��And don��t forget that he beat you in the melee,�� Alaric added.


    ��He lasted longer by sheer coincidence; he didn��t beat me,�� Geilamir said. ��From what my father said, that man only made it out of his fights because everybody else ignored him. It was a fluke, nothing else. The sort of thing that could never happen twice.��


    ��Perhaps you��ll do well being far away from your father,�� Alaric said. Geilamir frowned. ��Just what is that supposed to mean?�� Alaric wasted no time responding. ��You didn��t fight Fridok. I did. If it weren��t for the poor make of his sword, I��d be sitting right next to you instead of in the top chair. I��m telling you, he earned his place here just as much as you did. He probably deserves it more, even. He doesn��t have the luxury of masters-at-arms and three hours of free training every day like we do. He��s tough because he��s had to fight every moment of his life to be here.��


    ��I think maybe you��re assuming an awful lot about the fellow,�� said Geilamir. ��It was just one fight. You really know nothing about his character or his history. You just love singing about unlikely heroes.��


    ��Maybe we can go a round after this mess, just you and me?�� came a voice from behind. Fridok the Solumian stood there, staring right at Geilamir. Alaric had no idea just how long he had been listening to the conversation. Just as easily as he had disappeared, he had turned back up.


    ��Oh, sure,�� said Geilamir. ��But with what sword?�� He must have felt very proud of that insult. ��He can use mine,�� retorted Alaric, quickly coming to Fridok��s aid. ��I��d love to see what he can do with a blade that matches his skill.��


    Fridok stared intensely at Geilamir, who suddenly found other things much more interesting to stare at instead. It was a nice change of pace.


    Fridok took his seat. Alaric could tell that the man was deeply uncomfortable here. Alaric decided he would have to do his best to make Fridok feel welcome from now on. Maybe Geilamir was right. Maybe Alaric found Fridok interesting because he was exactly the kind of person that belonged in a song.


    ��Where��s your friend?�� Alaric asked. ��Art, was it?��


    Fridok pointed over at another table some distance away. Art saw Fridok point at him and responded with a very rude hand gesture.


    ��I couldn��t find a soul who would let him sit with them, so I had to threaten to beat some of their faces in if they didn��t.�� Alaric smiled sheepishly at the comment.


    The man spoke so freely and without restraint. Alaric only wished he could speak his mind half as much as what came so naturally for this man.


    Horns blasted a fanfare that interrupted every conversation taking place in the entire garden. Gasps and cheers filled the air as a group of men walked in a line from where the trumpets were sounding. It took Alaric a moment to realize why the audience had reacted in such a way, but when he saw it, he couldn��t believe his eyes.


    Every single swordsman who had been killed in the melee was now alive and walked among them. Each of them wore clothing of pure white, theatrics the like of which Alaric appreciated greatly. Unbelievable, he thought. They live!


    Geilamir gagged and grasped at his throat. Apparently he was even more shocked than Alaric was, so much so that he had swallowed something incorrectly. In a flash, Fridok was on his feet, slamming the flat of his hand hard against Geilamir��s back. A large grape was ejected from Geilamir''s mouth with tremendous force. Geilamir found instant relief, but both of his hands went instinctively to comfort the part of his back where Fridok had hit him. Fridok sat down with this act, gave Alaric a cheeky smile, then pulled his chair in and focused on the procession.


    ��Namer, you slap like a donkey kicks,�� Geilamir said, coming back to his senses. He stared at the men there, being paraded around. It was nothing short of a miracle, indeed that these men were alive. It was no wonder why some people were beginning to call this man "the Son". To them, his heritage was no question.


    ��I killed that man right there,�� Geilamir said, pointing at one of the two men that Alaric didn��t recognize. ��I cut him to bits. I damn near butchered him.�� Geilamir stopped himself before he could say anything else, but Alaric could tell that it had been weighing heavily on him all day.


    ��Thank the Namer then,�� said Alaric.


    ��They can thank the Son to his face,�� Fridok said. He turned to Geilamir, bringing a grape up to his mouth. ��But you �C you can thank me.�� He chewed, slowly, and swallowed. He grabbed the seed from his mouth with his thumb and pointer finger, showing Geilamir that, indeed, one should always remember to spit out the seed when eating grapes. Geilamir fumed, and then, at last, the meal began to be served.


    "Finally," said Fridok. "I''ve been waiting for this moment."

 Hospitality

    As the exquisite food filled his belly and the wine drowned the remainder of his feelings of failure, Fridok allowed himself to celebrate. Perhaps he had been too hard on himself, thinking that the only acceptable place was first place. The end result was the same as if he had won everything, after all. He would still get to prove his worth to his new lord. He still would be counted as one of the best swordsmen in the City. Most importantly, he would would finally have a chance to crawl out of the hole he had known all of his life. Mother, if you could see me now.


    Fridok hardly ever partook in the consumption of wine or any of the other kinds of swill more accessible to his class, for that matter. Because of this, he actively felt the effects of it flushing his cheeks, tingling his skin and making him sweat. It felt good to have an actual reason to celebrate for once in his life, and he found that the more cups he drank, the more he was able to ignore the social barriers separating him from the others sitting at the table. More so than the others, Fridok felt a budding kinship growing with Alaric even though he knew very little about the young man, aside from his skill with the sword, something about which he now possessed firsthand knowledge. Perhaps he would get another chance to prove himself against Alaric in combat in the future, but for now, going cup for cup with him was enough. Fridok was girthier; surely he could beat a teenage boy at this kind of competition.


    Even though Fridok sat a mere two seats away from the Gifted Man, it might as well have been a mile away. He couldn��t make out any discernable tidbits of conversation from this distance, likely because the rest of the crowd was just as well-imbibed and rambunctious as he was becoming. It didn��t matter, for Fridok had no idea what to say to a man of his stature. He was a living legend, a relic from an age long-gone, yet here he was in the flesh. He had just raised six men up from the dead, an impossible feat. How was Fridok supposed to connect with such an individual, when he was nervous and felt out of place just being around Primisians? It was with this consideration that Fridok willingly accepted Alaric''s invitation to go mingle with his new peers.


    ��This here is Bulgar Alcamora,�� said Alaric, trying to enunciate as best he could through his inebriation. ��And here is his cousin Yurk �C Euric, sorry. These are the best archers in the world, and there��s no question about that. At all. Truly. You should have seen their contest �C they gave quite the show.�� Alaric leaned up against Fridok to steady himself. Fridok bowed to them, probably too exaggerated because of his drinks, which almost caused Alaric to lose his balance. The cousins didn��t seem to mind.


    ��You think that was a show?�� said Euric. ��Did you see this guy take on that gang of thugs all by himself?�� Euric hit Fridok with a friendly fist to the shoulder. ��Unfortunately, no,�� said Alaric. ��I was a little busy with my own ordeal to focus on someone else��s.�� Alaric took another sip.


    ��It was absolutely exquisite,�� Euric said, enthusiastically. ��You should have seen him, weaving in and out with every swing. He played every one of them like a fool. I knew right away that he was the one to watch.��


    Fridok happened to catch the annoyed reaction of Geilamir right at that time. It felt incredible to actually have someone praise him for his skill in combat. A Primisian, even, of all people. Fridok was among the Great Band.


    ��Where did you learn to fight like that?�� the quieter Alcamora cousin Bulgar asked. Fridok shrugged his shoulders, trying not to let his head get too big. Everyone��s attention was on him, and he was very certain that it was a tentative interest at best, like he was a street performer with a new trick to show off. He didn��t know how to handle it very well and he felt rather exposed.


    ��I taught myself,�� said Fridok. Both of the cousins reacted with surprise, though Euric��s was far more animated than Bulgar��s. ��During the day, I smash things with a big hammer and carry heavy stones around. During the night, I train with my sword.��


    It still stung to mention his broken sword, though all of the other benevolent feelings still trumped his anger.


    ��And you had no trainer whatsoever?�� said Euric, loudly. Fridok shook his head, and Euric laughed belligerently. He turned to the other side and put his hand on the back of Ervig Lacertian��s shoulder. ��You hear that?�� Euric said to them. ��This guy didn��t have any formal training at all and he still almost won the competition. What do you think about that?��


    The middle-aged gentleman just gave a nod to Fridok and lifted his cup to him and then his mouth. He must not have known what to say about that, but he certainly played it off as cool as he could. Fridok noticed Alaric hanging around nearby, listening to the conversation but not really adding anything to it. Fridok felt like it was worth telling more of the story, so as to spread around the good feelings he felt, and perhaps to shift the focus away from him.


    ��Truth be told, I learned a lot just by watching the games in the training grounds. This one, in particular, has a lot to show anyone willing to watch him.�� He pointed at Alaric with the elbow on the arm of his cupped hand. ��Silly, but I found myself sparring with him in my imagination every day, convincing myself that if I ever got the chance to fight him, I would be able to beat him. So much for that.��


    Alaric gave a smile at the compliment, drinking another sip of his wine, perhaps to conceal his reaction.


    ��You hear that?�� said Euric, once more to egg on Ervig. ��Alaric��s been training champions without even insulting them or threatening them with any inhumane punishment. Did you even know that was possible?��


    Ervig gave Euric a deadpan stare, unimpressed with the antagonization. A slight smirk came across Isidore Maritium��s face, but he turned away to avoid getting involved with the conversation at all. Ervig muttered something to Isidore, but Fridok couldn��t catch a word of it. Fridok got the feeling that the two of these men probably felt like avoiding fraternization altogether.


    Just as Euric was starting to say something else, Fridok noticed that the Gifted Man had gotten up from his chair and had approached the group of champions. Bulgar jerked Euric��s shoulder to redirect his attention. All of them turned to give their benefactor their attention.


    ��I pray that you all have eaten well,�� the Gifted Man said. ��If you do not mind, I would ask that all of you join me in a quieter place that we may discuss some business.��


    Everyone who was sitting stood up, and the seven men followed their new commander several blocks away to the entrance of the hospital, of all places. It was significantly quieter and more ominous there than the garden where the feast was taking place; it was just a very odd choice for the man to take them. Euric shot a confused look to Bulgar as they entered, while the others all just followed along patiently waiting for some answers. Fridok pretended not to be bothered by the location, but the memories came back to him of when he was a child and his mother was sick. It was an instantly sobering thought, despite the volume of alcohol he had consumed.


    ��Why are we here?�� Fridok found himself asking as they entered the first room, not meaning to reveal his nervousness. His heart pounded as they neared the curtained entrance to the main hall. All of the bad memories from that time came flooding back to him, the fear and desperation that he felt as soon as he found out his mother was going to die. He remembered vividly the agonized sounds of the doomed patients and the death-rattles of the elderly as he prayed for a vindication which never came for his mother. He couldn��t get the memory of the stenches of that time out of his mind, and he now came face-to-face with them once more. What joy he had collected in the last hour was now in jeopardy as he was confronted by the trauma of a past that he could never escape.


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    As they approached the doorway, Fridok stopped dead in his tracks while the others continued on toward the hospital''s rotunda. They all stopped at the door as their leader turned to face them. He took notice of Fridok''s sullen expression and aloofness immediately, and, with a look that said ��I see your pain,�� he calmly motioned for Fridok to come closer to the group. There was no reason for Fridok to distrust this man �C after all, he was the supposed son of the First Man, and therefore the heir to the City. If there was anyone in the world he could trust, then this man was probably it. Still, Fridok hesitated.


    Alaric took notice of Fridok��s reluctance, then turned back to face the front. Fridok sensed that Alaric, too, had seen a glimpse into his soul. He wanted to go up there with them before he caused any of the others to see the pain in his soul, but he didn��t really know these people and he certainly wasn''t one of them. They seemed like a decent crew, but they hadn''t earned his trust yet. Alaric turned around once more, concern in his eyes. He must have sensed that Fridok needed a savior, because he came, once again, to his rescue.


    ��Why are we here?�� Alaric asked the one who had led them there, just as the others'' attention was starting to meander. The Son took his eyes off of Fridok which gave him some relief.


    ��I thought that it would be best if we went someplace quiet,�� said the Son, his hand finding the edge of the curtain that blocked the doorway. Fridok��s nervousness was elevated as soon as he saw what was about to be exposed. In a flash, the veil was torn away, exposing�� an entirely vacant room.


    Fridok had never seen the room so devoid of suffering before. Instead of the agonized moaning and the sobbing and the other things that accompanied the damned, there were simply empty cots. He exhaled, the expectation of terror taken from his fragile mind. He almost expected to see her again, and was relieved when she wasn''t there.


    Alaric looked back at Fridok, waving him forward with a small motion of his hand and a nod of his head while the others looked on. Fridok approached his new companion with tentative courage and joined the rest.


    ��You��ve healed them all?�� said Euric, in amazement and disbelief. ��Even the terminal and chronic patients?�� Euric turned to Bulgar, who shared an understanding with him. ��Where are they?�� asked Bulgar, stunned. The Gifted Man smiled at Bulgar, and comforted him. ��Their ailments have been lifted from them. This is no longer their place.��


    Bulgar looked as if he was about to cry, but fought it. Euric placed his hand on his cousin''s shoulder. Apparently, everyone understood what had happened except for Fridok.


    ��It��s Bulgar��s sister,�� said Alaric to Fridok, quietly. ��She was dying, there was nothing the doctors could do for her. A festering malignancy that had robbed her of all of her strength. After she died, Bulgar kept coming here to keep the others company. It was his sister''s dying wish.��


    Despite all of the attention going to Bulgar, Fridok still felt the man��s eyes upon him. Fridok kept his eyes focused on anything else he could, to avoid him spotting the intrusive thoughts he was feeling.


    He can bring recently deceased back from the dead. He can heal the living sick. What about Mother? Had he shown up years ago, she, too, could have been saved. Why now? Why must he have come during my lifetime but too late to make a difference to me?


    A distinguished middle-aged woman stepped out from the back room and approached the group. The Gifted Man turned to her, bowing his head to her. She returned the pleasantry, then took a place facing them, standing next to their leader.


    ��Champions of the City,�� he said. ��I have brought you here to discuss the terms of our journey together. Here in these City walls, you have enjoyed life without molestation from the outside world. Each of you has lived your life protected from the dangers of the outside world �C the same threat I now ask that you stand and defeat. You have won your right to be part of this expedition, but you are not yet sworn to my cause. Until you have spoken the words to seal the pact, you still have the option to walk away.��


    He looked directly at Fridok and paused before he continued.


    ��The mission must be a success, or I fear not even my father''s fortification will be enough to prevent the destruction of our people. Corruption resides here, just under the surface of these hallowed grounds. The balance is lost. Your leaders takes more than what is needed to survive, and the very stones upon which you walk will soon start to give way. Before we can rebuild, we must make safe the lands around us. That is why you are here, to do what you must do to cleanse the world of this evil that has been allowed to thrive for too long.��


    ��I will do whatever it takes, my Lord!�� said Euric, emphatically. Bulgar shifted in place, but ultimately nodded in agreement with his cousin.


    ��I admire your drive,�� said the Gifted Man. ��But you are not yet ready to face the things that lie in wait for you out there.��


    Euric looked dejected. He must not have expected that response.


    ��None of you are ready,�� the Son continued. ��For you have not the tools you need to kill the twisted monstrosities that rule the land.��


    ��With all due respect,�� said Isidore. ��Most of us are outfitted with the finest Temple steel. Perhaps much has changed since the days you roamed these grounds, but we trace our heritage of blacksmithing to the First Age, to the time of the Toriad. The same craftsmanship that the First Man''s people enjoyed is alive and well today, with us. You saw for yourself in the melee what a well-crafted sword can do.��


    Fridok didn��t appreciate the reference at all.


    ��And I tell you,�� the Gifted Man replied. ��Even your highest quality weaponry will not be enough to stop the demons.��


    All of them looked around, puzzled. Euric interjected. ��With all due respect, Lord, you have the Gifts. Surely that and our steel is enough to quickly dispatch any threat. If we sustain injuries, you can heal us, just as you have the people who you have saved today.�� The man studied Euric��s face for a time before continuing.


    ��I can heal your wounds,�� said the man. ��I can pick you up if you fall. But if I fall, what then?��


    ��Nonsense,�� said Euric. ��You can''t fall. Not if you are who you say you are.��


    ��Anyone can fall,�� the man shot back with passion in his voice. ��Death walks in my footsteps still. It has not forgotten my scent. Everyone who lost their life at the end of Civilization were like me. They all had the Gifts. They all fell. The Gifts are vital for this endeavor, but there is only one thing that can destroy a demon.��


    The Gifted Man reached down to grasp the handle of the sword in his sheath and pulled from it a blade which shone like the midday Sun. Fridok had to turn away, as his eyes were adjusted to the darkness of the infirmary.


    ��This is that thing �� This is what is known as a Soul-arm,�� he said, with reverence to the weapon he held in his hand. ��Each of you will need to acquire one, though you will only be able to do so through personal sacrifice. Three swords, two bows and two lances must you manifest with my guidance. Only then will you be ready.��


    Fridok immediately envisioned himself holding a magnificent blade like the one the man held. The blade was no work of a blacksmith, no matter how talented. This was a divine thing, something that Fridok imagined only was accessible to someone with royal blood. This man must truly be who he said he was. He was the Son of the Toriad.


    ��One last thing,�� the Son said. ��Wielding a Soul-arm and using the Gifts grant us unnatural strength which is needed for the battles ahead. But these come at a cost. We will need others to accompany us to aid us when the divine power leaves us.�� He held his hand out to gesture to the woman standing next to him. ��This is Gailavira, the matron of this hospital. She will be coming with us.��


    The woman bowed at everyone respectfully. The Son continued his speech, but only after first looking around the group, daring anyone to challenge the wisdom of his choice to bring a woman along.


    ��The battles we fight will be many. You will go into each one with bravery, but you cannot fight forever. It will be best to bring along two others, to train them to carry on with your work when your fighting days have ended, and to help Lady Gailavira tend to us when we each battle ends. I leave it up to you to choose those worthy to bring along.��


    Irvig and Isidore looked at each other and nodded in silent agreement. Fridok met Alaric��s eyes, both of them considering the weight of the Son��s statements.


    ��Knowing this, I ask each of you seven-�� said the Son. ��Are you prepared to swear yourself to my cause?��


    ��You already know the answer to that question!�� shouted Geilamir, suddenly breaking his silence. The Son nodded, confirming the truth. "And so I do," He said.

 A House with a Big Hole in It

    Alaric''s return home was marked by a wave of ambivalence. Despite his accomplishments, an inexplicable sense of unease gnawed at him. It was as if a string on his harp was broken; the song of victory played in his ears, but something was undeniably missing��something only a trained ear could detect. By the time he arrived home, this absence was all he could perceive.


    His mother greeted him at the door with a warm embrace. Her gentle kisses and kind words of praise momentarily melted his troubles away. Bathed in her enthusiasm, Alaric allowed himself to be buoyed to a happier place, wishing he could hold onto her forever.


    His father, however, offered a less-than-cheery reception. Valoricus wore the same stern expression whether he was ashamed of Alaric��s imperfections or grudgingly satisfied with his achievements. No matter how much Alaric gave, his father always expected more. Alaric caught sight of him through the corner of his eye as he embraced his mother, standing with arms folded just inside.


    ��I am so proud of you,�� Alaric��s mother said, noticing his attention had drifted. She placed her hands on his shoulders, directing his gaze back to her. ��You came home safe and unharmed. That was all I could have asked for, but on top of that, you rose to the challenge and you won! Alaric, you won! My baby boy is a man grown today.�� She brought him in for another teary-eyed hug, but it was short-lived.


    ��That��s enough coddling, Dacinia,�� Valoricus interjected. ��Get back inside before you draw any attention.�� He scanned the streets to see if anyone had followed Alaric. His caution wasn��t entirely unwarranted��the streets were overflowing with drunken revelers, forcing Alaric to avoid the main thoroughfares on his way back to Caballarius Manor, their ancestral home.


    Alaric��s mother released him and turned a cold shoulder to his father as she led Alaric inside, still holding his hand in silent protest. Alaric felt his father��s disapproving gaze upon him as he followed his mother.


    ��Be on your best behavior,�� his father warned as they entered the atrium, where the furniture had been arranged to entertain a great many guests. Alaric dreaded the idea that soon many of his father��s political allies would be gathered here to compliment him as a way of currying favor with his father. He simply didn��t have the energy to deal with such an evening.


    ��Father,�� Alaric began, too tired and perhaps too bold for his own good, ��I would rather not entertain anyone tonight. I am a bit far into my cups, and the competition and the feast have taken a lot out of me. I would much prefer to spend some time alone and get some rest.��


    Valoricus looked at him as if he had just been struck. His disappointment with his son��s insubordination was evident. Alaric could tell that wrath was about to descend upon him, but he almost didn��t care anymore. After all, it would only be a matter of days before he was free from his father��s tyrannical rule.


    ��Sit,�� his father demanded. Alaric tried to meet his father��s eyes in protest, but he was no match for the man��s overwhelming authority. Instead, Alaric hid his eyes, but still did not comply. He was determined to weather whatever storm was heading his way, fueled in part by the bravery offered by the fermented fruit of the vine.


    Valoricus approached Alaric, one slow step at a time. He never repeated himself because Alaric had learned long ago what would happen if he did. Valoricus ruled his house through fear, the only tool he had ever used to maintain command. Alaric��s legs began to tremble as his father approached, each step building to what Alaric was certain would be a painful end. Just as he got within striking range, his mother interrupted.


    ��Oh!�� she said with sudden urgency. ��It looks as if our guests have arrived! Come, Valoricus, we must greet them.��


    Alaric saw his father��s face, full of anger, trained on him. Before his father turned away to go with his mother, he spoke to Alaric in a low voice. ��I will attribute your behavior to the drinks, but I will not excuse it. Once this little charade has ended, you and I will be having a discussion.�� With that, his father went with his mother, and Alaric was allowed to breathe.


    He quietly prepared himself to deal with the Senators and their respective entourages who always accompanied them. He was not prepared for who had actually come to call.


    Standing before him was the Son, followed by the swordsman Fridok and, to Alaric��s surprise, the Daoine Farraige man named Art. It shouldn��t have surprised Alaric to see that Art��s legs had been fully regrown, but it did so regardless. His legs were indeed restored, but his gait was disastrous��the kindest possible description for how the man walked.


    ��Hello again, my champion,�� said the Son. Alaric had not expected to see the Son again, especially not so soon. ��What brings you to our home?�� Alaric said, earning a spiteful glance from his father. He hadn��t meant it disrespectfully. ��I mean, I didn��t know you would be here. I was just about to retire for the evening.�� Alaric noticed both Fridok and Art looking around the home, gawking at all the things that must have seemed so extravagant to men of their station.


    The Son smiled at him, nodding knowingly. ��And you have earned that rest, young man. But there are matters that still must be resolved tonight, and we must not tarry. There are rapidly growing voices crying out in this city that would quickly draw my focus away from our primary mission if I were to heed their call.�� Alaric shot a glance to Fridok, who shrugged his shoulders.


    ��Please, take a seat and rest your weary legs,�� said Alaric��s mother, asserting her hospitality. ��Especially you,�� she added under her breath to Art, who wobbled a bit too close to a pedestal with an urn containing an ancestor��s remains. Alaric was certain an abundance of alcohol was a bad idea for anyone, especially if they were just learning to walk again. Thankfully, Art walked a safe distance away from the urn. Alaric would not be picking up any dead relatives tonight.


    Alaric, his parents, the Son, and Fridok all found seats on the couches. Alaric looked over and saw his father, button-lipped and stoic, sitting solemnly by his mother. It must have been difficult for his father to endure anyone challenging his authority, even if that someone was the son of a near deity.


    ��How can we be of service to you?�� asked Alaric��s mother. ��Are you hungry? We can call the servants to get you anything you like. Would you like something to drink, or����


    The Son raised his hand gently. ��Thank you,�� he said, ��that would be wonderful. Perhaps some wine and a bit of fruit to sate a dry mouth?��


    ��Right away,�� she said, scurrying off to find the servants to relay her orders. Art looked at Fridok, mouthing something unintelligible in disbelief. Fridok gave him a look that seemed to say, ��Just try to blend in.��


    The Son turned his attention to Valoricus, holding his gaze for a moment. For the first time ever, Alaric watched as his father was the first to break eye contact. His father��s face quickly turned beet red. The Son��s eyes narrowed slightly, silently discovering something about him.


    Alaric��s mother returned and sat next to Valoricus. She was just about to say something but noticed his expression and decided to smile meekly instead.


    ��Lovely place you have here,�� blurted Art, breaking the momentary silence. ��Really nice atmosphere. I��ve never been inside a house with a big hole in it before. You can be inside and under the open sky at the same time. Real nice effect.�� Alaric��s mother smiled brightly, far too much to be genuine. Valoricus continued to stare off into the distance, growing more uncomfortable by the moment as the servants arrived carrying the fresh fruits and wine.


    ��Thank you so much,�� the Son said genuinely to the servants as they presented the refreshments. It was not typical for anyone to thank the servants, drawing odd looks from Alaric��s parents. It had never occurred to Alaric to actually thank the servants for their service; he had always seen them as performing an expected duty, even though they were all considered part of the family. The servant quarters were much nicer than most of the houses in which other Solumians lived, and they were always well-fed and even given allowances; these were not slaves treated poorly and beaten if out of line. Perhaps they should have been thanking Alaric��s family instead. Yet the Son thanked them, an odd choice, indeed.


    The Son raised his goblet as soon as it was delivered to him. ��To the champions!�� he declared, to which Art, Fridok, and Alaric��s mother all responded in kind. They all drank together their refreshing nighttime wine. Following the toast, a silent communion followed, which underscored the bizarre collection of people who had gathered. Fridok, above all else, looked the most uncomfortable being there.


    ��Don��t feel like talking?�� Alaric said to Fridok, trying to figure him out. ��Not much to say,�� Fridok responded, then diverted his eyes. Alaric studied him for a moment, trying to find words to say to cut through the awkwardness. But then Art caused a distraction when he missed his step moving toward a display case holding several of the Caballarius family heirlooms. He toppled over, barely catching himself as he hit the ground a few inches away. Alaric and Fridok both rushed over to help him up, which was harder than it seemed. As they each took an arm and led him to the couch, Alaric could see the frustration boiling over with his father.


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    ��Can we proceed with the business?�� Valoricus said, neglecting his manners. "It''s already very late." He hardly ever lost his composure at social events, but he had never had to host anyone from lower classes before this night. The Son turned away from a servant providing baked goods and gave Alaric��s father the attention he had demanded. Alaric��s mother held her hand over her mouth, shocked at her husband��s reaction.


    ��Certainly,�� said the Son. ��I can see that you are eager to enjoy the warmth of your own limited company, so I��ll be brief.�� The Son reached down and pulled from his sheath the marvelous glowing sword that he had revealed upon his entry to the City. He presented it to Alaric��s parents and allowed them to study it with stupefied awe.


    ��As you can see, it is no ordinary blade I carry. So exceptional is the weapon you see before you, that its like cannot be not forged by even the greatest craftsman. No bladesmith cast it, nor did any hammer strike it in its creation. No, I tell you, this blade is a creation of the mind, body and soul. This is a Soul-arm, and it is a Godly Weapon, the only kind of armament capable of destroying the demons outside these walls. If your son and the others are to be successful on this journey, they must all be armed with these.��


    They all looked on in awe of the weapon. The shadows it cast from their figures danced about the room as the Son moved it around. Art swore a particularly obscene obscenity as he watched the majestic thing on display. Alaric mentally agreed with the Farraige��s sentiment, but would never use the same words out loud.


    ��Okay, so what''s the catch?�� Art said, after a time. ��If no man can make these weapons, where do they come from? Are you going to pull them out of your ass?"


    It was a fair question, even with the vulgarity. The Son put his weapon back into its sheath and turned to Art, solemnly placing a hand on his shoulder.


    ��The answer is within you, Art.��


    Everyone looked around the room, surprised, to say the least. Perhaps the most confused by the Son��s words was Art, who was not ashamed at all to look incredible clueless.


    ��What are you gettin�� at?�� Art said. ��You expect me to make one? Not even my mum would have believed in me enough to do something like that. And she was a real optimist, ''til the day she croaked.��


    The Son smiled a kindly smile at Art. ��You are special. There is no other who can do the thing I am to ask of you, for the sake of your friend here.�� The Son motioned toward Fridok, who Alaric could tell was nervous about the whole thing.


    ��Alright then, I''ll play along. What do you want me to do?��


    ��The bond you share with Fridok, though new, is stronger than any other connections he has in his life at this time. He has no family or other friends who care for him. Fridok will draw upon the bond you have formed with him and it will give him the power he needs to give material form to the blade he has already created in his mind. As he focuses on the shape he wants it to take, you will focus on giving him support. Once the blade has formed, your only responsibility from then on is to stay healthy and strong. I will not lie to you �C each time Fridok uses this blade, you will feel your energy wane. But your strength will return in time, and you will know that it is because of you that he is able to carry on the fight. Do you accept this most important responsibility, knowing that it will be hard at times to withstand it?��


    Art looked around at the others, then shrugged. ��Yeah, alright then. What do I have to lose? Let��s be on with it.�� He turned to Fridok, whose eyes were trained on him, worry in the Solumian��s glare. ��You��re going to owe me a lot of pints once you��re filthy rich, you understand that, right?�� Fridok stood, wide-eyed, unsure of everything.


    The Son motioned for the two of them to come to him, and so they did. He placed one hand on Art��s shoulder and another on Fridok��s back. ��Close your eyes and hold out your hands as if you are already holding the weapon. It can be any weapon you like, any size and shape you like, but I want you to firmly form it in your mind. Describe it to yourself; make it real in your mind''s eye. Do not open your eyes until I say so.��


    Fridok did as he was asked. Art turned toward Fridok nervously. ��Is it going to hurt?�� Art asked sheepishly. The Son looked at him with a hint of pity in his eyes. ��Think only about supporting Fridok. Think about giving up your own strength, so that he may use it as he needs. Give yourself over in support of him, and that is all that needs concern you. Do not resist it when he asks for more of your strength.��


    Art shook his head, muttering something unintelligible in the Farraige tongue. Then, he focused on Fridok just as the Son had instructed.


    Nothing happened for quite some time, which made Alaric��s father give his mother a look of disapproval and distrust. Alaric could tell that his father was just about to say something when the room began to dim despite being well-lit by candlelight. The Son''s body began to glow, and Art started to shake and convulse. The Son tightened his grip upon Art, so that he would not fall over. He looked as if the life was being drained right out of him, and every bit of the man��s liveliness fell away.


    ��You��re butchering him!�� Valoricus shouted, apparently at his breaking point. ��Stop this this instant!��


    ��Focus, Fridok!�� the Son said with forceful urgency. Fridok was obviously distracted and concerned about Art��s health, so he was failing at the task he had been assigned. Alaric could only watch as things began to spin more and more out of control. His father increased his protest and got louder and less patient by the second. Art continued to weaken and Fridok fretted and further faltered in his attempt to form a blade. Alaric turned to his mother, who looked back at him with tender, worried eyes. He suddenly got an idea: he began singing a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a small child.


    O child of the morning,


    With your gentle eyes crying,


    Sweet dew, sweet dew


    Water your garden with my love of you


    O child of the evening,


    With your little voice calling,


    Sweet tune, sweet tune


    Fill all of these walls with the sound of you


    Alaric��s voice echoed through the whole home, and his intuition was right. Even his father had apparently calmed down in his protest, and Fridok regained his focus. The faces of everyone present began to reflect the calm serenity of Alaric��s song. On the third verse, Alaric��s mother��s voice joined in harmony with his.


    O child of the night time,


    With your heavy head resting,


    Sleep you, sleep you


    May you rest ��til you��re woken by the morning dew


    Together they sang the whole song again, their voices in perfect harmony filling the home. As they finished the tune together, there in Fridok��s hands manifested a great glowing blade, a perfect fit for his muscular frame. Its magnificence pierced through the dark of the night. The Son held Art in his arms, gently bringing him to the couch to rest. He was certainly alive, just exhausted. Too exhausted, even, to react with his typical colorful words. But he was alive, and Fridok had succeeded in his mission.


    The look on Fridok��s face said it all: Finally, I have it. The sword that I have worked so hard to obtain is mine at last.


    Alaric jumped into the air and shouted, celebrating with Fridok and admiring his new weapon. Even Alaric��s mother joined in the celebration. The Son attended to Art, but congratulated Fridok on his successful summoning of the blade. The only one not as enthused was Alaric��s father.


    The Son rose to his feet and met eyes with Alaric. It was his turn, now. Alaric looked around, considering what this meant for him, now that he would need to follow Fridok��s example. His eyes met his father��s, and he knew the disapproval instantly.


    ��Absolutely not,�� Valoricus said to his son. Turning to the Son, he stood firmly in place to cast him out. ��You have your golden warrior right there. That��s enough. You don��t need Alaric. He will be staying right here, completing his schooling and then he will succeed me in the Senate when I retire. You may very well be who you say you are; I am not the one to say, but we��ve gotten along well enough without you and your kind for this long. The republic isn��t perfect, but it��s better to have the order and safety that we have, than to open ourselves up to outsiders with mysterious magic. We are a mighty City, a lone bastion of life in a world long dead. If death comes for us as you say, then we will greet it with dignity when that time comes. But there has never been a problem so big that we haven��t as a people been able to put aside our differences and solve it. We already have enough to solve here; we don��t need to go off searching for more work. So, speaking for my house and with the backing of the Senate, we officially reject your proposal and ask that you leave this City immediately. Tonight.��


    The room grew quiet as the ocean of Alaric��s father��s words withdrew from the beach of that place. After a time, the first person to speak was Fridok.


    ��You speak from a place of great privilege,�� he said. Before Valoricus could interject, Fridok continued. ��This City is falling apart under your feet and you are so blinded from your high towers and manors that you cannot see it. This republic you mention speaks for the rich only. They care about the wealthy only. You are a politician that represents the needs of those who don��t need any representation. People like me and Art are nothing to you. You do not care about the Daoine Farraige dying in the alleys. To you, everything is well because your people are thriving, hoisted above the water by standing on the heads of my people. You saw the competition today as a means only of lifting your name further into glory but now you resist it because it will come at a cost. I saw it as my chance to finally break out of the chains you have placed upon me. And now, when your son has rightfully won his chance to be free to carve his own destiny, you would choose to take that right away from him? Look at him. He is not merely a boy after his victory today. He has the right to choose what he will do with his own life and you cannot stop him.��


    Alaric��s father stood red-faced and angry, clutching the hilt of his sword tightly. Fridok saw this, and tilted the blade of his new sword ever slightly downward, so that Valoricus could see that Fridok had the upper hand. Emboldened and finally ready to stand up to his father, Alaric walked over to the Son and placed the Son��s hand upon his shoulder.


    ��You cannot be allowed to get away with this,�� Valoricus said, with all the vitriol he had built for Alaric in the recent years. Alaric felt the sharp words pierce him. It shouldn��t have affected him as much as it did, but he still found himself shrinking back down to the dark place where only art and music could reach him.


    ��Piss off,�� said Art, weakly, from the couch. Valoricus drew his blade in anger, prepared to dispatch the Farraige man right where he lay. In a heartbeat, Fridok stood in his way, wielding his Soul-arm in the defense of his friend. ��He��s right,�� Fridok said. ��Piss off.��


    ��This is my house, and I will not be insulted in it. Certainly not by the likes of you. Come, Dacinia. We will have the servants throw the refuse to the street.��


    Alaric��s mother did not follow him. Instead, she bravely and defiantly went to Alaric��s side, grabbing the Son��s other hand and placing it on her back.


    ��I will always be by your side, Allie,�� she said, stroking from top to bottom the loose strands of his long blond hair.


    "So be it," Valoricus spat, storming out of the room. With his mother by his side, it was now Alaric''s turn to transcend. No matter what came next, he was ready to take the leap into the unknown, in no small part because he had her support. She smiled at him, nodding at him and letting him know that all would work out in the end.


    "Let''s begin," the Son said at last.

 Farewell to the City

    Fridok still couldn��t believe the sword he held in his hands was truly his own. The Soul-arm, forged through the will of the Son and the support of his newfound ally, Art, captivated him more than anything he had ever seen. It was a long-bladed weapon, considerably longer than the gladius he had purchased and lost in the melee, and it emitted a subtle, ethereal glow all along its tip and edges. Neat indentations resembling a meticulously laid stone wall ran down the blade��s face��a feature influenced by Fridok��s many years as a stone worker. The blade curved elegantly on both sides, similar to his gladius, but much, much longer. The most confounding aspect for Fridok was its variable weight: perfectly balanced for both one-handed and two-handed combat, shifting seamlessly between the two depending on whether he had one or two hands on the hilt.


    The hilt, the only part not of Fridok��s design, bore an unfamiliar, albeit intriguing, signature of Art��s influence. It depicted a many-armed sea monster; its pointed head formed the pommel, its sinuous body the handle, and its tentacle-like arms the guard. Fridok had never seen a sword so remarkable, even those crafted by master artisans, except perhaps the blade of the Son and the one Alaric had forged the night before with his mother��s help.


    A particularly restless night preceded the morning''s events, his fixation on the new blade mingling with the nerves of venturing into untamed lands teeming with demons. Art''s incessant chatter had also played a part in his sleeplessness. Even before dawn, Art��s voice pierced the morning silence, rousing Fridok from his fitful sleep.


    ��You��re going to be late, you know,�� Art chided. ��Look at you, sleeping like a wee baby. You sound more like a dying cow with all that awful snoring. Try sleeping on your side more, less like you''re trying to cover every inch of your mat with your limbs. Nobody''s going to take that sweat-crusted thing away from you. Have I mentioned how nice the beds were at the manor?��


    ��More than enough,�� Fridok replied, recalling Art''s enthusiasm for the brief pampering he enjoyed after temporarily losing his strength during the sword��s creation.


    ��It was the softest thing I ever laid on, I swear to ya,�� Art continued. ��Felt like I was back in me mother��s womb or atop a cloud or something. I recommend being filthy rich��it��s got its advantages, I tell ya.��


    Fridok wasn��t equipped to handle such early morning energy, especially after so little sleep. Art, despite his wobbly legs from recently restored mobility, exuded a vigor that contrasted sharply with Fridok''s grogginess.


    Once Art had recovered sufficiently from the Son''s ritual, the two decided it was best to leave. Despite Alaric''s insistence they stay, they knew their welcome had worn thin. Sneaking off to Fridok''s humble apartment after everyone had retired, they left without goodbyes, Alaric too occupied with his ailing mother to notice.


    Art, steadying himself against the wall, looked down at Fridok with a stern, almost maternal gaze. ��What are you, my mom?�� Fridok muttered, irritated.


    ��Son,�� Art mimicked a woman''s voice with perfect mimicry, ��get your hairy arse off the floor and get ready to go off to your little war.��


    Grumbling, Fridok reluctantly rose, feeling every bit of his sleepless night and hangover from too much wine. This was not how he envisioned starting his grand adventure. He packed what he could into his worn sheepskin satchel: basic survival items like a skinning knife, flint, a waterskin, and some well-used cooking utensils. With the sack hung on a long stick for balance, he was ready.


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    As they walked toward the main gate, where the Son had called his followers to meet, the streets were unusually busy, filled with people eager to witness the procession. Fridok, lacking a proper sheath for his new sword, had wrapped it in a patchwork cover of rabbit furs tied with twine. This humble covering perhaps kept him unnoticed in the crowd.


    ��Hey, watch where you��re going, idjit!�� Art yelled at a man who nearly collided with them. ��Don��t want to be hitting a bona fide hero, now do ya?��


    Fridok shook his head, telling Art to stop, but Art persisted. ��Not only did you almost hit a hero, you almost hit the great man��s companion as well!��


    ��Cut it out. I��m not a hero of anything, yet.��


    ��You? Who says I was talking about you?�� Art��s cheeky remark made Fridok realize he genuinely enjoyed the Farraige man''s company.


    Upon reaching the gates, the crowd was so thick it was difficult for Fridok to push through. ��Excuse me,�� he said, trying to maintain good manners. ��I must get through, pardon me!�� No one moved, making Fridok feel foolish and frustrated.


    ��Are you going to do it, or am I?�� Art asked. Fridok shook off the offer of help, preferring to force his way through with dignity. But Art had no such qualms.


    Before Fridok knew it, Art had snatched his sword, holding it high and removing the hide cover. ��Hey, move it!�� Art shouted. ��Out of the way! Don��t make me slap you with the broad side of my majestic and wondrous sword, Peter-lily, here��that��s right, move it!��


    To Fridok��s surprise, people actually listened. They scurried out of the way, intimidated by the sight of the magnificent sword. ��That��s enough,�� Fridok said, embarrassed, as they made their way through the now-open path. ��And don��t ever call my sword that again.��


    As they neared the clearing, Fridok noticed Art suddenly lose his step. He barely reacted in time to catch him before he collapsed. The sword, still clutched by Art, had changed, its light dimming to a dark, oppressive shadow. Fridok took the sword back, its weight and balance restoring as he did.


    ��What was that about?�� Fridok asked, concerned. Art, pale and disoriented, seemed at a loss for words. Fridok vowed silently that no one but he would ever handle his sword again.


    ��Is he alright?�� a familiar voice asked. Alaric, resplendent in the finest armor, knelt beside them. He resembled the marble figures lining the Hero��s Park. ��What happened?��


    ��He stumbled,�� Fridok explained. ��When he grabbed the sword, it was like he lost all control.��


    ��Not all control, mind you,�� Art interjected weakly. ��I didn��t shite meself. Yet.��


    Alaric and Fridok exchanged glances, struggling to contain their laughter.


    ��When you��re ready, let��s head up there,�� Alaric said kindly. As Art regained his strength, the three walked toward the Son and the others. Fridok felt out of place among the well-armored, well-prepared wealthy Citizens, but he reminded himself that he had earned his place among them.


    Just before they joined the group, Art stopped. ��This is as far as I go,�� he said. ��I got your hairy arse here. Now it��s your turn to get on with those rich folk games. Go on, cut up some demons real good for me. Bring me back a trophy��an ear, a snout, or something wicked. But go. I��ll keep your shithole nice and�� well, I��ll make sure nobody messes with your stuff that much.��


    Fridok nodded, bittersweet at leaving his friend but knowing Art was right. This wasn''t his battle. He looked back one last time to see Art waving a rude gesture��a final farewell.


    As he approached the group, he noticed the magistrate who had accepted his entry for the melee��the one Fridok had promised his sword to if he didn''t win. Fridok��s old sword was lost, and he certainly wasn��t parting with his new one. That man would have to accept his losses.


    Fridok was now part of something bigger, with no time for petty squabbles. He had a greater purpose. The Son smiled at him, and Fridok knew he was ready, even if he didn��t feel it. This was his time to prove his worth to the City and the world.

 The Leaders of the People

    ��Last chance to abandon this madness and live a simple life as a singer in a tavern somewhere.�� Geilamir��s voice, tinged with nervousness, cut through the heavy air, revealing his own doubts as he spoke to Alaric. Just a week ago, Alaric��s world revolved around balancing his artistic pursuits with rigorous training and legal studies, preparing to succeed his father in the Senate.


    Now, standing before the gates of the City, Alaric felt a strange liberation from his former responsibilities. But this newfound freedom was quickly replaced by the fear of the unknown. Geilamir��s jest, though cheeky, struck a chord. The notion of a quiet life dedicated to art was tempting. He reassured himself that once he led his House, he would find time for his passions.


    ��That��s not a bad idea,�� Alaric replied, his tone light despite the gravity of their situation. Geilamir, rough around the edges these past days, was still his oldest friend. ��If you could carry a tune, maybe we could fill the taverns with our music together?��


    Geilamir flushed slightly, then shook it off, momentarily disarmed. Alaric pressed on with a grin, ��Perhaps if you mastered basic rhythm, you could write me a ballad or two, considering your voice isn��t exactly melodious.��


    ��We all have our strengths, Al,�� Geilamir muttered after a pause. Alaric resisted the urge to point out that he excelled even in Geilamir��s supposed strengths, deciding it was unnecessary to wound his friend further. Instead, he clapped Geilamir on the back. ��That we do,�� Alaric said. Geilamir winced, pretending the slap didn''t hurt.


    With Fridok��s arrival, the circle of seven champions was complete. Alongside them stood the matron of the hospital and two young trainees under the tutelage of Ervig and Isidore. The Son, elevated on a stone block, commanded the attention of the gathered masses with a mere motion. Alaric had never seen such a large group fall silent so quickly.


    ��Citizens,�� the Son began, his voice resonant and clear. ��Today, let the scribes record these words for the annals of history. On this eleventh day of the Summer month of Pateria, in the 2953rd year since the great fall of civilization, you, the enduring embers of life, shall witness a rekindling of Man��s glory. For too long you have been prisoners in a city that should have offered you dominion over the world. Your ancestors�� adherence to the Namer spared you the wicked punishment that befell others, yet you have still faced a judgment of your own. Today, I tell you, your deliverance has come! The Gifts have returned, and you, here in the last bastion of man, have answered the call to reclaim what was lost!��


    The crowd��s excitement soared, and Alaric, caught in the wave, felt a deep sense of duty and honor swell within him. The Son, scanning the crowd, locked eyes with Alaric, further fueling his resolve. As the cheers subsided, the Son continued, his voice cutting through the lingering noise.


    ��Let it be known and recorded for the ages the names of the bravest among you. Masters of the lance and spear, Ervig Lacertian commanding Xanthus Serapio, and Isidore Maritium commanding Calix Sibylla. Masters of the sword, Alaricus Caballarius, Geilamir Aurumantian, and Fridok. Masters of the bow, Bulgar Alcamora and cousin Euric Alcamora. Finally, Lady Gailavira, widow of Amaliricus Agelastus and matron of the hospital. These noble ten shall be the foundation upon which a new civilization may rise. Through their deeds, mankind shall rise again! To glory eternal in His Name!��


    Amidst the excitement, Alaric noted the slight: the Son had placed Geilamir ahead of Fridok in the order of announcement, despite Fridok''s low birth. Fridok, arms crossed, wore a sullen expression. Geilamir, aware of the slight, smirked, adding tension. Alaric hoped they could reconcile, just as he and Geilamir had in their youth.


    Before Fridok could react, a new distraction emerged. Two men on horseback, Senate-elected consul Kaius Tegula and Tolamirus Aurumantian, Geilamir��s father, rode forth. Their arrival, accompanied by guards, caused Alaric��s alarm to rise. The absence of the Torian Church-elected religious leader, Quintus Maximilius, only heightened his unease.


    The Son greeted the Senate Consul with a collected, graceful nod. For a very brief second, Alaric could swear that he had seen something like hatred in the eyes of Kaius Tegula as he met the Son��s gaze, but that moment passed by quickly, leaving Alaric completely unsure of what he had actually witnessed. One thing was clear, however, and that was that the Consul had come with very clear intentions and only time would tell what those intentions were.


    Alaric looked to Geilamir to gauge his reaction to his father and the Consul��s arrival, but Geilamir looked just as surprised as Alaric was. Suddenly, Geilamir��s father cried out so that the people gathered there would quiet down and listen.


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    ��Take heed! Take heed all you citizens and open your ears. The Consul shall address you on behalf of the Senate and the City!��


    Fridok stood in wait, inching closer one slow step at a time. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade, and Alaric got a sense that this gathering was about to devolve into something far more dangerous. He placed his hand on Fridok��s shoulder, urging him to stand his ground but not press any further. The crowd lowered their murmuring a bit, but certainly not to the level that they had done for the Son.


    Kaius offered Tolamirus a glimpse of honest unease which Alaric happened to catch despite the brevity of the reaction. It didn��t last long, however, and in a flash the consul had regained his stately composure. If there was one thing Alaric knew about Kaius, it was that he did not tolerate being talked over. Tolamirus knew this, too, and so he whistled loudly in a final bid to bring order to the chaos.


    ��My steadfast and true friends,�� Kaius said, addressing the masses and bringing all eyes upon him. ��Truly, this is a moment unlike like that which we have seen in our comparatively short lives. This visitor to our great city has come bearing Gifts. Though he has not the ability to share them, these God-granted possessions of the soul, he has demonstrated their terrible power for all of us, the commons gathered at the gate that, until just a few days ago stood strong, protecting us from the dangers that lurk outside for thousands of years. He has proven to all of us that he is, indeed, a remarkable stranger capable of terrific things. The stronghold gates lie in ruin, yes, but he ensures us that this was done to demonstrate the immense power he possesses �C the power which once was owned by each of our ancestors and by all means should have been inherited by you, by virtue of your noble births. He has shown us again the value of the Gifts that should have always been yours and mine, through the demonstration of their potential to heal the crippled, and even to bring back from death our brothers who have fallen. Those bravest of our citizens who were cut down in this stranger��s theater were raised from their untimely and unfortunate deaths, noble that they were, so that they would serve as a reminder of the awesome power of the Gifts that were taken from us - the Gifts that this stranger now possesses.��


    Alaric knew what was happening, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Kaius, the great orator, had the people exactly where he wanted them. There was a reason he was twice elected as consul.


    ��Yes, I have heard the words whispered by those who would not stand in the way of the mob reveling in the excitement surrounding this outsider �C words spoken of this man saying that he is a false prophet and a magician at best. They speak in fear of being swept away by the deluge that accompanies this mysterious foreigner. In many ways, I can appreciate their concerns. After all, the disruption to our great society that this man has caused in less than a week is unprecedented. However, when he crashed these gates and broke into our stronghold and demanded to ascend to the highest holy place that no man is allowed to enter, he assured us that it was done in good faith and with honor. Who are we to challenge someone who holds hostage the Gifts that were stolen from us? I cannot say with certainty whether this very self-confident man is a friend or a foe to the City, as his short stay hasn��t allowed us as a people to gather enough evidence to prove anything either way. Yet, he has conquered the hearts of the unsuspecting public and who are we, the stewards of this mighty bastion, to stand against him?��


    Where the commons had just moments before sang a song of the glory to the Son and his chosen, they now grumbled among themselves. The consul��s mastery of the instrument of rhetoric was on full display now, and the masses were enthralled by the siren song he sang.


    ��No, we will not, because we cannot, stand in his way now �C for we, you and I and all of us who do not have the Gifts that this stranger holds, we do not have the ability to quickly fix all of the foundational problems this man has called to our attention. Where he has assured us he could simply touch the earth and repair the unstable ground beneath us, you and I must use what rudimentary tools we have at the expense of our own bodies. Now he takes his leave of us, stealing with him the most able-bodied men, while our time-tested and most important gate lies in ruin underneath his feet. I do not seek to agree with these men who worry that this outsider��s true goal is to usurp our great republic. I am not suggesting that those who have quietly expressed fear and worry about this man��s presence are right to do so. I, personally, hope that this man is who he says he is and he is not simply what he appears to be to some �C an ambitious charlatan at best. I stand with you today as your brother, always concerned about the well-being of our people, while this man who has already convinced so many of his righteousness, leaves you to fight a foe we have always understood as unbeatable, while in the company of a woman and children and even a man with no estate whose struggles will yield no reward. Please, I beg you, friends. Remember that after this outsider has taken his leave of us not only with our Gifts but our people in tow, we have a lot of real work to do against the very real problems he has decided are not as important to solve as his impossible errand. There is no place for theater in the hard work that lies ahead of us, but in that, there is real glory to be gained by you and by your gentle leaders. And we shall have it, together, my brothers.��


    Alaric could not read the reaction of the Son. He somehow managed to maintain the same neutral expression for the entire duration of the consul��s speech. The Son did not give Kaius the reaction he undoubtedly wanted. Instead, he turned to Alaric and the rest of their company and motioned for them to begin to mobilize out of the City.


    The silent march of the ten and the Son out of the City would surely be the subject of many a song, Alaric thought, as more and more of his short-lived confidence fled with each step into the unknown.

 A Dark Place

    The world outside the City was far different than Fridok had imagined. Rather than the sparse desert badlands he expected, he found the wilds to be overflowing with green life. In a word, it was breathtaking. He had lived his whole life within the confines of the City''s white walls, and none but the rich and the guards were permitted to even view the outside world. Now, he could see for himself what the ruling class had selfishly kept from him for all these years, and it made Fridok hate them even more. The Senate consul''s righteous stunt right before their departure made Fridok even more certain that change must come at any cost. All of Fridok''s hopes now rested in the Son being the bringer of change that the City, and he, so desperately needed.


    As far as the eye could see, Fridok saw that vegetation had not only survived the Fall of Man but was seemingly thriving in the absence of humanity. Trees, tall grasses, and all kinds of wildflowers sprouted up everywhere in patches of defiant life, particularly surrounding small oases dotting the otherwise arid landscape in the dry southern Caelish climate. He had always been told that the land outside the great City was nothing more than sand and dry, cracked dirt, a place unfit for all living things to roam or settle. They were wrong��all of them��and that made Fridok wonder what other lies he had been fed over the years that he had swallowed willingly.


    Fridok felt the urge to say something to the Son, perhaps words of encouragement or support, but that kind of thing was simply not something Fridok knew how to do. The harsh reality of Solumian life in the City was that encouragement burdened them with a false hope, a debt that life never, ever paid. His people were better to accept their fate and do their work without complaint. Then, they might be able to at least keep their bellies filled and a roof over their heads. Happiness was a resource that was commerced only by the rich to themselves.


    Since their silent departure, things had been especially awkward between Geilamir and the rest of the party. Geilamir��s father being at odds with the Son swept Geilamir up in that drama by proxy. Fridok understood the feeling of being an outcast, and he saw it in the way Geilamir kept himself aloof from the rest of the party. If Geilamir hadn��t already proven himself to be such a jackass, Fridok might have sympathized with the boy. At least Geilamir still had Alaric by his side, showing him some attention.


    While they marched onward, everyone in the party rode horses except for the two young boys and Fridok who were forced to walk. Alaric rode side by side with Geilamir, talking with him at a low volume that Fridok couldn��t hear well enough to discern what they were saying. Fridok guessed that they were the consul��s speech and Geilamir��s father��s role in it. If there was one thing Fridok saw in Alaric''s character, it was that he was an optimist, someone who couldn''t help himself but to bring comfort to others. Fridok admired the boy''s kindness, and thought about him often.


    Calix Sibylla, ward to Isidore Maritium, approached Fridok early on their journey. ��I saw your fight,�� he said. The boy, who seemed confident despite his disfigurement, was apparently the son of some Senate consul from years prior and therefore was well above Fridok��s station, like everyone else there. Despite the fact that the boy��s family likely owned many horses, he was forced to walk along with the other neophyte, Xanthus Serapio, at the urging of the two older men in the party. This was apparently the way the nobles liked to handle young aspirants - breaking them down in order to build them back up to their liking.


    ��Yeah?�� Fridok said in return. ��So you saw me lose, then.��


    ��Only after I saw you doing a whole lot of winning,�� Calix said with sincerity. Fridok decided to give the boy an honest look��up until this point he hadn��t regarded him for more than a few brief glimpses. He wanted to believe it was because of his own reserved personality and not because of the visceral reaction he had to the boy��s appearance. Now that he had taken the time to really take in the sight of him, Fridok got a better sense of the boy��s features.


    The first things that stuck out, literally, were the boy��s eyeballs. They were off-puttingly wide-set, slightly cross-eyed, and bulged outward as if something was inside his head trying to get out through his eye sockets. His lower jaw protruded to a great extent and his teeth were crowded in his mouth. The boy''s nose was unnaturally large and curved downward, somewhat resembling the beak of a bird. Had it not been for these overwhelming features, the boy might have been considered in good physical health by anybody with eyes. Fridok had to stop himself from staring, but also tried not to look away, as he felt like it might be rude of him to do so.


    ��It��s not going to hurt my feelings if you don��t look me in the eye,�� the boy said. Clearly, he had to have tough skin to look the way he did and still try to make a name for himself. ��I��d rather have you turn away in disgust than pretend like there��s nothing wrong with me at all, like everybody else does. They try to act like it��s normal for me to look the way I do and always make sure to say something about how handsome I��m getting while in the presence of my father. ��See how his features are improving as he ages,�� or ��he is really starting to bear a resemblance to Publius Veneratus.�� My name literally means beautiful. You don''t know how often they like to point that little fact out.��


    It was shameful for Fridok to think that getting a good look at the boy somehow took bravery on his part, when the boy was the one trying to survive in a society so consumed with vanity and perfection. He immediately felt regret at his prior judgment of the boy and was inspired by his boldness.


    ��You��re never going to be Publius Veneratus, kid,�� Fridok said. ��You might pass for one of his goats, though.�� He had gone too far with that comment, and he knew it. The boy stared at him, mouth agape for a good, solid five seconds. Fridok needed to start making some allies in the group and here he was pushing away the very first one who gave him the time of day, aside from Alaric.


    ��I like you,�� said Calix, to Fridok��s complete surprise. ��You don��t really put on airs for anyone, do you?��


    ��No,�� Fridok responded, with his typical stern brevity he showed to strangers. He pulled back a little from that tone of voice and said, ��Never really saw any point in trying to pretty up words. I say what I mean and I speak only when I need to. Other people just like listening to the sound of their voice. Not me.��


    ��I can��t deny that.�� Calix continued to walk alongside Fridok for a time. Fridok could tell that the boy was trying to come up with something to say, but perhaps didn��t want to annoy him, considering everything Fridok had just said. Fridok felt an ounce of pity for the boy and decided he would be the one to break the silence.


    ��So, you wanted to prove something to the whole world by coming along, is that right?�� The boy remained silent after Fridok��s question. ��I suppose you figured that you might as well do something honorable so people would start talking about that rather than that face of yours, am I right?��


    ��And what about you?�� Calix countered. ��Nobody talks about you at all, do they? You��re invisible to the world, so aren��t you just doing the same thing I am?��


    The boy had hit a nerve, but Fridok knew better than to show it. He pondered the best way to reply, but then he realized he was still dealing with a child and boys were bound to do things intentionally to get a rise out of their victims. Fridok chucked and then clapped the boy on his back, impressed that he had been so quick-witted and perceptive.


    ��I think we will do just fine out here, you and I,�� Fridok said amicably. "Until the demons rip us apart, of course."


    Calix wore an uneasy smile, obviously bothered by Fridok��s casual premonition of their impending doom.


    ��Nobody��s going to die,�� said a voice from behind. The voice belonged to Xanthus Serapio, the other young boy in the company. He must have been listening to the whole conversation, but the boy was so petite that he moved about very quietly, so quietly that Fridok hadn''t noticed him.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    ��We��ve got the power of the Namer on our side,�� Xanthus said with confidence. ��You saw what happened in the arena. We can��t die as long as we��ve got the Son on our side.��


    ��We can still die,�� said Calix. ��Even if he brings us back, we still experience death. We still feel pain. I don��t know if it''s wise to be as cavalier about it as you are. Seems like you��re skipping over the ugly part of all of this.��


    ��I am not afraid of death,�� Xanthus again boasted. ��I��ve seen the other side, you know.��


    ��No you haven��t,�� said Calix.


    ��I sure have. I know for a fact we��ve got nothing to fear, and that there��s a better place awaiting us when we die. But that��s beyond the point I��m trying to make. We will not die. Not in the truest sense as long as we have Gifts on our side. That counts for way more than you are giving it credit.��


    ��It��s so easy to feel like everything is going to be alright when you��re born rich and handsome, isn��t it?�� Calix added. Fridok was really starting to like the disfigured one.


    ��You��re handsomely rich, at least,�� Xanthus quipped. ��So I think you can get off your high horse, now.�� ��What horse?�� Calix just had to add. It was about this time that Fridok realized that he would rather be walking by himself than stuck in the middle of a battle of childish bickering. He turned his attention forward in the caravan in the hopes that he could perhaps walk alongside Alaric. Unfortunately for Fridok, Alaric was still in the midst of private conversation with Geilamir. It was at this moment that Fridok felt entirely stupid now that his pride had rejected Alaric''s offer to let him borrow one of his family��s many horses.


    Not only was Alaric paired up with Geilamir, everyone else in the party was paired up with someone else as they walked. Isidore and Ervig were side-by-side, Euric and Bulgar were together, and Gailavira had taken to the side of the Son as they rode on into the mysterious wilderness. Fridok immediately regretted leaving Art behind in the City. Given some more time with him, a great friendship could have grown between the two of them. No battles would change the fact that Solumians had no place in a company of Primisian aristocrats.


    Fridok walked at a small distance behind the rest of the caravan. He convinced himself he was guarding the rear, and would stick to that explanation if anyone bothered to ask him why he trailed so far behind. They walked like this for the greater part of the day, setting out northwest from the City which was settled on the southern coastline. He had sometimes heard the sound of the waves from within the City, and now understood what ocean waves actually looked like. The lands around the City were also loosely bordered by a large mountain range that spanned from the north out into the northeast. Supposedly they were going this way because the Son said would be worthless to venture east to the desolate wasteland where he had apparently come from.


    As they continued their march, Fridok began to feel rather crestfallen about the whole expedition. He had imagined that their journey would consist of fighting tooth and nail through waves upon waves of monsters as they fulfilled their quest for glory. He hadn��t expected the trip to be so uneventful and full of mindless walking. He began spending a lot of time in the prison of his own head �C a dark place that Fridok tried to avoid whenever possible. Yet, here he was again.


    The caravan finally settled in the evening hours alongside a ridge that would offer some protection and cover. It was a good spot, and from the looks of the rubble, it might have been the location of some ancient ruin prior to the Fall of Man. There were no structures left standing, but there were slight hints of habitation from countless years before in the rocks that remained.


    As they laid out their bedrolls and hitched their horses together against a lonely tree, the group got to enjoy their first meal together that day. The entire landscape, though teeming with plant life and birds, was rather devoid of anything they might have been able to hunt �C much to the chagrin of Euric and Bulgar who apparently really wanted to shoot something. Everyone settled for the still-fresh breads and dried meats they had stashed in their saddlebags. Alaric shared his with Fridok, who didn��t have as much capacity in his packs as any of the horsemen, so only carried perish-resistant hard bread he had gotten from a Solumian baker that morning.


    ��I really wish you would have let me give you one of our horses,�� Alaric said to Fridok. It was the first real bit of conversation that Alaric had made with Fridok on the first day, and Fridok wasn��t really in the mood to chat at this point. ��How am I supposed to keep in good shape if I sit on my ass all day?�� he said, half-sarcastically, half-accusatory and wholly jealous. ��Fair enough,�� Alaric said. ��But maybe we should have a race to settle the matter of whose legs are in better shape?��


    Fridok snorted. He knew Alaric was just feeding him back the same line of snark that he had dished out, but something in him leapt at the opportunity to challenge Alaric to another competition again, even if it was just a foot race. ��You''ll look like a fool running bowlegged like that, rich boy,�� Fridok said. Alaric seemed rather delighted at the prospect that Fridok was actually willing to race him. The competitive nature of both could not be stopped.


    ��Geil, come adjudicate.��


    Fridok wasn��t thrilled that Alaric had invited Geilamir into their private event. If Fridok lost, he could live with it because he had already lost to Alaric once before, and Alaric was at least a graceful winner. Geilamir, on the other hand, really didn��t need to be armed with any more ammunition against Fridok.


    ��What are we measuring?�� Geilamir said, almost too excited. ��How long until Beardo goes bald up top? I might make a terrible judge on that, on account of the fact that I sometimes blink, you know. Might miss it.��


    Fridok, fueled with hot anger he did his best to conceal, stretched his legs and shed his traveling coat. He was determined to win to spite both of them. That drew the attention of the two boys, who quickly gathered nearby to watch the competition that was about to unfold.


    ��He can��t be serious,�� said Xanthus to Calix, who was presently giving his own legs a rubdown, worn out from the long day of walking. ��There is no way he isn��t exhausted.�� Calix laughed excitedly. Fridok could hear everything they said. ��You didn��t see this guy fight,�� Calix said. ��If anyone can win a race after walking for the entire day, I bet he can. He can. He''s pretty fit.��


    Fridok��s morale was boosted by the disfigured boy��s sudden vote of confidence. He had never had a fan before, so this was an entirely new feeling for him. It felt like a trick, even though he detected no ill will from the boy. That wasn��t to say that Xanthus was wrong, however. It was true that Fridok��s job of transporting rocks gave him thick, lean muscles on his thighs and calves, but he could not deny that they weren��t specifically conditioned to long distance travel. Just then the spectacle started to gather a bit larger of a crowd.


    Euric and Bulgar had taken notice of Fridok and Alaric preparing to race, and stood nearby to watch the feat. Fridok suddenly felt like quite a fool, destined to fail spectacularly if he went through with the race.


    ��We don��t actually need to do this,�� Alaric said under his breath to Fridok. It was an extension of mercy, which Fridok took to mean that Alaric saw no victory possible for Fridok.


    ��Would you like to yield, then?�� Fridok said, smugly. He was over-playing his confidence and they both knew it. ��If you put it like that, then, no. I��m pretty happy to be ''off my ass'' right now, if I��m being honest. I just don��t know about how your feet are doing. That��s all I��m saying. If you really wanna do it, we can wait until the morning.��


    ��Don��t you worry about me, young man.��


    Alaric grimaced. He clearly felt confident in his ability. Fridok was ready to put everything on the line to win, and nothing was going to stand in his way of winning this competition. Fridok was tired, but his legs were at least warmed up.


    ��I love all of this,�� said Geilamir, overjoyed in what he must have detected as an overplayed hand on the part of Fridok. ��Well, shall we get this demonstration started?��


    Fridok nodded, eyebrows furrowed, at Alaric, who clearly regretted suggesting the challenge.


    ��Alright, men,�� Geilamir announced so that the whole camp could hear. ��Ready yourselves. The finish mark is that line of shrubs over there. Whosoever touches a bush first shall be proclaimed the victor. Five. Four. Three. Two. One��"


    With that, the two were off, much to the excitement of the onlookers. Fridok committed himself fully to the endeavor despite having to push through the pain of the acid running through his leg muscles. Alaric was still younger and far better rested, so he pulled ahead fairly soon after they began. Knowing what shame awaited him if he lost, Fridok pressed his legs forward with wild instability �C a kind of run that could quickly end in catastrophe if he stepped wrongly but one time. But Fridok didn��t miss a single step, and he soon caught up to Alaric and even surpassed him in the race. He was so excited to have his efforts pay off, that he threw all caution to the wind in an all-in attempt to crash into the finish mark.


    Except it wasn��t only a bush that Fridok would crash into that day. Just out of their sight, directly behind the line of bushes, was a small chasm in the ground that was completely hidden to all except the two runners as they drew nearer. Fridok simply had no chance to react fast enough to stop himself from an inevitable tumble directly into the hole. So, instead, he did his best to turn his body so that his back would hit the side of the crevasse rather than his ribs, which would have likely cracked with the momentum of the sudden stop.


    The last thing Fridok saw before he bounced off the rock and down into the dark place below was Alaric, watching in horror from above as Fridok plummeted uncontrollably to uncertain depths. Fridok did what he could to brace for impact, but his head bounced hard against the rock wall, rendering him unconscious just before hitting the ground below.

 Into the Abyss

    ��Help!�� shouted Alaric as he saw Fridok''s body bounce off the walls of a crevasse neither had seen before starting their ill-fated race. The wet, solid impact of Fridok against the hard cave floor echoed upwards, reverberating through Alaric''s head like a sudden fortepiano bar in an otherwise soft, gleeful melody. The absence of that sound seemed louder than the sound itself. Alaric doubted Fridok could survive such a fall, but he hoped the impacts against the sides had mitigated some damage. There was only one way to find out.


    The others rushed to Alaric��s side. First, Ervig and Isidore arrived to assess the damage, then Geilamir. Their silence spoke volumes as they inspected Fridok''s limp body sprawled at the bottom of the hole, almost comically. It seemed he must have lost consciousness before the big impact at the bottom, given how he landed without attempting to brace himself. "I''ve got rope," Isidore said as the others quickly joined them.


    The last to arrive was the Son, calm and collected. His casual approach in an emergency upset Alaric��after all, the Son might be the only one who could revive Fridok if he had perished or heal any injuries he sustained. How could he be so cavalier about this?


    Still, the Son��s presence had a calming effect on Alaric and everyone else. Alaric just wanted Fridok pulled out as quickly as possible and brought back to the living. It was, after all, Alaric''s fault Fridok was down there in the first place. Stupid competitive heart.


    ��What do you see?�� the Son asked Gailavira, his tone determined but peaceful. Gailavira, to Alaric''s surprise, lay on the dirt with her head above the opening, hands blocking out the sun. ��Hard to tell,�� Gailavira said, focusing hard on Fridok''s body below for any signs of life. Just then, Isidore arrived with a large rope he had packed on his horse. Not packing a rope himself for the journey was another mistake that made Alaric feel unfit for this mission. Then again, Alaric reminded himself, Isidore always over-prepared for everything.


    Alaric looked around the gathered party, feeling the shame flush his cheeks and face. Bulgar and Euric whispered among themselves so quickly and quietly that Alaric couldn��t understand. They kept pointing in different directions, which made him feel they were devising a plan not readily apparent to him. To Alaric, there was no good way to go about this��the cave''s walls were too sloped and slick for anyone to descend safely. The only way down without a guarantee of getting hurt was by rappelling with Isidore''s rope.


    ��Anything?�� the Son asked Gailavira again. ��No movement, no breathing as far as I can see.�� That statement sent a chill down Alaric��s spine. Fridok was likely dead, and it was because of him. He would never be able to take that back.


    ��Don��t blame yourself,�� Geilamir whispered to Alaric. ��It wasn��t your fault. There was no way either of you could have seen this hole. I saw the same thing you did, and this crack came out of nowhere. Besides, he didn��t really fit in with the... Nevermind���� Alaric turned abruptly to Geilamir, his guilt now redirected as anger. ��Not another word from you.��


    ��Any chance you can just bring him up to us?�� Ervig asked the Son, helping Isidore unravel his rope. Aside from Gailavira, Ervig seemed the only one unfazed by talking to a living god as if he were another crew member. Perhaps it was because Ervig was the oldest and had seen too many big egos in the City to care about proper etiquette with the most esteemed.


    ��Not without risking a total collapse,�� replied the Son, unperturbed by the direct questioning. ��Figures,�� Ervig said recklessly. ��Alright, tie me off,�� he said to Isidore. Isidore found the end of the rope and began wrapping it around Ervig��s waist. Alaric panicked, understanding he was about to miss his chance to salvage what little dignity he could collect at the bottom of that hole. ��Wait,�� Alaric said urgently. ��Let me do this!��


    ��You��re too flustered and shaken,�� Ervig said, putting his arms to the side to allow Isidore to fasten the rope into a harness. Alaric had seen Isidore tie that knot a thousand times when he demonstrated to the men at the barracks how to properly ascend and descend a wall. They never really used it until now, so Alaric was certain Isidore was thrilled to get a chance to do so. Rather than allowing the two older men to sort out the mess he had created, Alaric insisted again.


    ��I��m lighter, more graceful, and far more nimble than you are,�� Alaric said, attempting to appeal to the man��s logic. It came out conceited, so Ervig just raised his eyebrow and continued to be harnessed in.


    ��It��s my fault it happened, damn it, let me fix it!�� Alaric finally said what he really meant.


    Ervig turned to Isidore with a disdainful, displeased look. Alaric wasn��t sure where the disagreement would go next, but he had run out of ammunition, and all honor was on the line. That��s when Gailavira''s words washed Alaric with relief.


    ��He��s breathing,�� she said aloud so everyone could hear. ��Just barely, but it��s there.��


    Alaric walked toward Ervig, standing directly in front of him, hoping the man would relent. After sizing up Alaric for a moment, Ervig just stared at him incredulously. But he didn��t fight anymore, and Alaric knew this was the opening he needed.


    Alaric took a deep breath, looked down at Fridok��s now barely breathing body, and then back at Ervig. With nothing left to lose, he simply said, ��Please.��


    Ervig removed the harness himself, dropping the rope on the ground. Once free from it, he took a step back and motioned for Alaric to take his place. Alaric did just that, with haste.


    ��Remember your training,�� Isidore said to Alaric. ��Use every surface you can to brace yourself on the way down. Walk when you��re able to walk. Tread lightly if you get too close to any jagged edges. Breathe. Take it inch by inch. Most of all, don��t free fall unless you have to. I��m not as strong as you might think.��


    Alaric thanked Isidore, nodding his head and mentally preparing himself for the descent. He looked at the sides, trying to decide the best route. Geilamir approached, along with Euric, Bulgar, and the two wards, to help fortify Isidore��s grip. Ervig did the same. On his honor, he wasn��t about to let someone under his protection get hurt.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Alaric found the path he felt was best for his descent and motioned for the others to follow him to the launching point. They did, everyone supporting Isidore as Alaric grabbed hold of the crevasse''s side and eased himself over the edge. His initial descent was just as smooth as in practice. With so many people bracing him, it was easy to find his way down the jagged edges of the rocky terrain. He allowed himself to think things were looking up. He would retrieve Fridok��s body, the Son would heal him, and they would put this whole thing behind them. That thought was interrupted by a sound he had never heard before, but would never forget.


    The sound blasted from the deep crevasse, echoing in every direction around Alaric. It was unlike anything he had ever heard, a high-pitched shriek that pierced his eardrums and caused him to physically shudder. He immediately clasped his hands around his ears to dampen the sound, and as he descended uncontrollably, he knew at least one or two others holding the rope had done the same. The deafening sound disoriented them.


    Alaric used his training to find his way down safely, but there was still a good amount of cave wall left before he would reach the bottom. He tried to be as graceful as possible, but with the shrieking still breaking his eardrums and the slack from the rope falling faster than he did, Alaric couldn��t ensure his own safety. He heard Geilamir curse from above, even over the noise, and he knew it was worse than he figured.


    The rope came down entirely, and the other end flew past Alaric as he desperately held his hands against the cave wall, bracing his feet on the jagged surface below. It wasn��t enough to stop him, and Alaric fell about a third of the way Fridok had fallen, landing hard against the cave floor.


    Rather than losing consciousness completely like Fridok, Alaric blacked out for a short time. When he awoke, the shrieking had not stopped; it had only gotten louder.


    Alaric moved to right himself, but pain coursed through him from his right shoulder. He winced but managed to scramble to his feet and found Fridok��s body nearby. He scurried over, attempting to wake him with his good arm. It didn��t work��Fridok��s bloodied face lay motionless despite the horrendous noise.


    Alaric pressed his head to his right shoulder and his left hand against his open ear. Without that, the sound would have been unbearable. He looked around, seeing the whole rope Isidore had tied around him lying in a heap on the cave floor, abandoned even by the City''s most formidable champions. If this scene was any indication of the expedition��s success, those above might as well turn around now.


    Facing the sound''s source, Alaric saw nothing in the chasm beyond the sunlight''s reach, save for what he imagined were sound waves pulsating from the unbearable screeching. The screaming continued with no end, and though Alaric couldn��t see anything, he knew it was getting closer.


    Alaric was about to face his first demon, and neither he nor Fridok had their Soul-arms. He was completely unarmed, as they had removed excess items before starting the race. He looked up, hoping for salvation from his companions, but saw nothing. He couldn��t hear them over the demonic sound approaching.


    Alaric stood up, thinking quickly. He took the rope��s end and tied it to a stalagmite. He scurried to the other side of the cave and wrapped the rope around another jagged rock. His desperate hope was to trip the creature by pulling up quickly as it approached. With no proper weapons, he had only his bare hands, teeth, and perhaps a pointy rock if he found one in time.


    He prepared to spring the hastily made trap and continued looking for something sharp. Sadly, he found no suitable rocks nearby, leaving him with only his throbbing right arm and non-dominant left arm and legs for defense. He backed against the wall, preparing for the creature whose figure was appearing before him.


    Just as Alaric expected to see the creature''s eyes, it vanished into the abyss. With its disappearance, the screaming halted. It seemed the demon was more bark than bite, deciding not to risk direct conflict. From Alaric��s glimpse, it wasn��t as big as he imagined demons to be. The creature was no taller than a man, though more gaunt and bony than human. Whatever it was, it was gone now.


    No longer assaulted by sound, Alaric heard his companions�� voices above��along with a residual ringing in his ears.


    ��Are you hurt?�� Isidore called down, though Alaric could hardly call it hearing. He checked the darkness but saw nothing.


    ��Yes, I��ve taken quite a bit of damage,�� Alaric reported. ��We need to get him out of here first!�� If the screaming demon hadn��t roused Fridok, he wasn��t getting up without supernatural help.


    ��Hang on, we��ll sort it out,�� Isidore assured. ��Just don��t move, don��t do anything but sit there.��


    Easier said than done with the throbbing pain, everlasting ringing, barely breathing companion, and the threat of another attack. What else could go wrong?


    A moment later, his mentor descended. Alaric had to laugh. He hadn��t thought to bring even one rope, and here Isidore was, replacing the lost rope with a spare. Of course, Isidore always came prepared.


    ��We��ve got this handled, don��t worry.�� Comfort washed over Alaric with those words as Isidore''s feet gently hit the ground. ��Let��s harness him in first, then come back for me,�� Alaric said, knowing Fridok��s case was more dire. Isidore agreed after assessing the situation, and together they harnessed the heavy body of their fallen companion. With a tug of the rope, Isidore ascended the cave with Fridok in tow.


    Alaric eyed the blackness with trepidation as he waited for his turn to be rescued. When Isidore finally began his descent again, Alaric felt like something was still down there with him, waiting to strike. It felt like an eternity before Isidore arrived to secure Alaric��s escape, but there was no additional incident.


    ��Let��s get you out of here,�� Isidore said, and Alaric nodded enthusiastically. Utilizing the existing harness around him, Alaric''s escape was quicker than Fridok��s. In seconds, they were fastened together, and Alaric felt himself finally leaving the cursed place.


    To keep his hands busy as they ascended, Alaric began spooling up the first rope still attached to him, now dangling below. He saw the evening sky brighter and clearer with each tug from above, and things were finally as they should be.


    Then Alaric felt a violent tug on the rope below, breaking his grip and casting what he had gathered back into the abyss. Terror coursed through him as the other end of the rope yanked not only Alaric but also Isidore, loosening the tight grip of the men above.


    ��By the Namer, you will HOLD THAT ROPE!�� shouted Isidore, realizing the immediate danger. Alaric braced himself for another free fall. But just as things seemed most dire, newfound strength empowered those above. The surface rope overpowered the pull from below, and in seconds, Alaric and Isidore were close enough to grasp the ground.


    Alaric looked at the one person not handling the rope��Gailavira��who approached carrying Alaric��s own Soul-arm. With surgical accuracy, she cut through the rope dragging them down, and Alaric and Isidore''s safety was assured.


    As Alaric caught his breath, he noticed three things: Fridok was alive and sitting up, the Son seemed even taller as his body glowed in the twilight, and the grass around Fridok was completely grey and devoid of life for many yards, all the way around the crack to the bush, of which nothing remained but a few dried up, very dead sticks.

 The Deadlock

    ��Regardless of all that, the fact remains that we now look like complete fools, utterly unprepared for disasters that could be just around the corner. We must do better to understand the dangers that lie in wait, or we have no one to blame but ourselves for the inevitable downfall of our great republic.��


    Senator Hector Salinator had grown bolder since his campaign for the office of Senate Consul, a seat he lost to Kaius Tegula, who was now serving his second consecutive year. Ever the opportunistic politician, Hector found the chaos of the Stranger��s arrival the perfect opening to intensify his combative rhetoric against Kaius, his great rival. Valoricus Caballarius, on the other hand, saw disunity in the Senate during societal upheaval as a greater threat to the republic than the cult of personality that had stolen away his son. The Senate had a way of dealing with charismatic men; it did not have a foolproof protocol to handle a lame legislature and constant in-fighting during crises��aside from the rarely-used tool of electing a temporary dictator with emergency powers to navigate through discord.


    The Senate Consul shared power equally with the Religious Consul, ensuring the Torian Church''s doctrine remained balanced with the Senate''s voice. This balance had been maintained since the departure of the First Man and was enshrined in the laws carved in stone during the reformation of the City. Despite numerous attempts by the loudest Senate voices to undermine the Torian Church''s authority, such efforts never ended well, as the Church had the freedom to declare anyone stationed in the Church an apostate or anyone in the Senate a heretic.


    The Senate convened to discuss the impact of the Stranger, his immense support among the populace, and the infrastructure warnings that now had the public worried and demanding answers. Valoricus, mockingly nicknamed Aesculus for his perceived stubbornness, wore the title proudly, warning his contemporaries that his will was unyielding. Slow and methodical in decision-making, Valoricus was nearly impossible to sway, especially not through bribery, making him unique among senators. He had not yet finalized his opinion on whether the Stranger was the rightful heir to the Toriad.


    ��We must act, and we must act promptly and decisively to address concerns about the City��s weakening foundations,�� Hector continued his impassioned oration. ��If we wait, we risk the Stranger being proven right and solving our problems himself. He intentionally left without resolving the concerns he raised to return triumphantly and demonstrate our ineptitude to the masses. We cannot be at odds with the Church if we seek to protect the City from a hostile takeover.��


    Kaius, presiding over the court, pointed out the flaw in Hector��s plan. ��If we redirect all efforts to bolstering the City��s foundation, we might as well prepare the crown for his return. You acknowledge the army sieging your walls, yet you fail to see the swords they carry. Once they have starved us morally, they will cut down every man who challenged their authority once they fully capture the hearts and minds of the populace.��


    ��So your plan is what, exactly?�� Hector thought he had Kaius cornered. Both had valid points, but Hector was the only one offering a solution, albeit a radical one. Valoricus wasn��t sold on Hector��s plan to reroute all efforts to bolster the mines'' weak points and pause quarry work entirely. He was curious about Kaius'' suggestion.


    ��We��ve done little to validate the claims,�� Kaius said. ��The economic impact of marching headlong into your suggestion would be felt for many months or years, depending on the project''s duration. Meanwhile, homes will fall into disrepair, and construction will cease, leaving buildings in dangerous, incomplete states for an indeterminate time.��


    ��You mean Primisian homes, Primisian buildings,�� Hector said. Hector, like the few other Solumians who held enough wealth and notoriety to gain a Senate seat, resented the Primisian class. Despite his wealth, he was still Solumian and could not overcome the invisible barrier of success in the City.


    Stolen story; please report.


    ��Whose homes would sustain the lion��s share of the destruction if the mines collapsed? Would your viewpoint differ if, instead of tenement blocks, it were your ancestral manor atop the mines? Would there be time for inaction and months of surveying then?��


    ��The placement of the mines is irrelevant!�� shouted Urban Praetor Tolamirus Aurumantian. ��You turn everything into a class argument. You��ve climbed high on the backs of your people, but what have you done to improve the status of those who put you where you are? You shout and cry foul, but I see you every night going home under guard protection, like the very men you castigate.��


    ��Deflect my argument all you want,�� Hector replied. ��But if the mines collapse and crush the working class, who will rebuild? Do you imagine your own sons and daughters adapting well to hard labor? Let me see your hands, Praetor, that I might count the callouses.��


    The Praetor, red-faced, hesitated, missing his chance to respond, as often happened in the Senate. Tolamirus had risen on the coattails of greater men, blanketing himself in the glory of honor when there was no foe to conquer. His position beneath the Consul for the City testified to his bootlicking art. Valoricus would never stoop so low, so he remained merely a respected senior Senator, never a real contender for higher office. He hated campaigning, something the three men arguing on the floor had no qualms about.


    The one thing Valoricus had in common with Tolamirus was that both their sons were out playing soldier with a man neither trusted. Valoricus blamed Kaius�� inaction for allowing the whole series of events to go on unimpeded. The day''s reality would never have come to fruition had the Consul acted sooner and not allowed the Stranger to ride the momentum created by crashing through the Holy Gate.


    ��You are right that we must act now,�� Valoricus said calmly but loudly. He was convinced that his chosen seat had the best acoustics in the forum, ensuring everyone listened when he spoke.


    ��Hector is right; we don''t have time for inaction. But Kaius is correct that we cannot blindly follow an outsider��s orders based on hysteria of his making. We are the governing body. The City looks to us for guidance, even if they are smitten by hero worship. We must wisely and unitedly spend what resources we have at our disposal. At the same time, we must form a coherent plan to address what happens if -- when the Stranger returns victorious. This requires a joint decision from both Consuls, ensuring Church support. Make them feed the masses whatever we need them to believe so that we don��t roll over to the outsider��s command. We cannot act alone, and we must act now.��


    As Valoricus sat down, he listened to the murmurs of Senators discussing his speech. That was always the measure of his effectiveness��how long it took for someone else to speak after him. No mere Senator would challenge him this time.


    ��Senator Valoricus,�� said Consul Kaius. ��If you seek to align the Church with the Senate, be prepared to deal with zealots and madmen who have declared the outsider the Son and heir of the High Seat. Consul Quintus is already struggling to prevent his priests from calling a special election to replace him with the Stranger. You always speak from a high moral ground, as if your words were the words of God. Your idealism pervades your stances, and you fancy yourself a mediator between parties. But in practice, you neglect to show understanding of the irreconcilable aspects of the opposing plans. A government cannot be both merciless and merciful. There are hard choices to be made, and negotiating a solution between extremes negates the potential benefits of both options. If one commander calls the army to scale a wall and another to dig under it, the army would crash against the wall if you convinced both to meet in the middle.��


    Valoricus felt embarrassed but composed himself. Never before had Kaius attacked his greatest strength��mediation. He suddenly feared for the republic��s survival. If the two sides were deadlocked, they would never survive the upheaval Valoricus knew was already in motion.


    ��But you have a point.�� Kaius gave Valoricus a look that spelled trouble. ��Consul Quintus may have denied my request to negotiate, but I have not exhausted all options. I understand your wife��s brother is an influential cardinal in the Consul��s inner circle. Have a chat with him; see what you can accomplish.��


    Valoricus said nothing but eyed the Consul with contempt. His brother-in-law Stasius hated him, and Valoricus would rather forget the man''s name than ask any favors. But there was no middle ground between speaking with Stasius and denying the Consul��s request. Valoricus had to choose, and he already knew what choice to make.


    ��I will go and speak with him.��

 The Art of the Deal

    ��Easy now, you know I��m good for it. You wouldn��t doubt a friend of the Son, now would you?��


    Art, after pulling his tunic sloppily over his sweaty, sticky upper half, reached down to pick up his discarded belt. The whore lying next to him was far better looking than he could usually afford, but these were not usual times, for Namer��s sake. The fact that Art had the option to run away if things got out of hand was a great anomaly in his life. Up until recently, he had been living in alleyways, forced to beg or steal to survive due to the debilitating handicap of missing both of his legs. But that was the old Art. This Art had gotten better.


    ��You said you would pay me today,�� said Sabrina��or was it Septima? Art couldn��t recall. It mattered little because he had no way to fetch the kind of coin needed to pay her on such short notice, let alone for future endeavors. She��d catch on to his game, realize he wasn��t good for it, and by the time that realization hit her, he��d already be long gone. The City was a pretty big place, after all, with plenty of spots for a spritely Daoine Farraige man like Art to hide.


    ��Well, naturally, I will,�� Art assured her, inching toward the door after fastening his belt. ��I��ll just be off to grab my purse and I��ll come right back!��


    ��You said you had the money on you. What happened to that?��


    ��Did I? No, I wouldn��t have said that. What I said was, I��ve got the money. That doesn��t mean I��ve got it on me. Do you understand how full my purse would have to be to hold the kind of coin that you charge? Do you think I��d risk walking around this district with all the shady fellows eyeing me?�� It was one of the nicest neighborhoods in the City, and crime there was particularly low.


    ��I really think you should consider finding the money right now,�� she said, pulling up her dress and shifting her legs to the side of the bed. If Art gave her any more time to get out of bed, she��d have a good shot at chasing him, and he knew it. He had to make himself scarce, promptly. After all, she had many years of practice with her legs on him, and that simply wasn��t fair.


    ��Oh yes, absolutely. Wait right here! I��ll just be one moment����


    Art slipped out the door and turned left without checking his surroundings. A small crowd of people was walking along at that time, and Art slipped right among them. He still wobbled a bit like he was drunk, something he was trying to work on but failing in his early attempts. He��d get there, eventually.


    The City had never been so accessible for Art as it was after he was given another shot at having feet. Places that had taken Art hours to reach before now took only minutes, depending on how fast he walked. His running looked more natural than his walking, so he had been doing more of that today. He had been running for an hour or so when he had the bright idea of using his new status by affiliation to gain access to the higher-quality whores in this district. Little did he realize that with higher-quality escorts always come brawny, violent bouncers just a short distance away.


    His neck and head suddenly came to a halt, sending his legs sprawling forward while his head was dragged backward. It was like he had run directly into a tree branch, with the added benefit of suddenly being asphyxiated. The bouncer��s meaty forearm and bicep squeezed his neck so tightly that Art quickly became light-headed and felt his awareness slipping away.


    An indeterminate time later, he awoke to his face scraping against the cobblestone walkway. He was being dragged by the feet back into the house where he had just performed the act with Seema, or whatever her name was. He covered his face with one hand, so that, at least, he wouldn��t scuff up his boyish good looks any more than they already were. He wanted to pull away and get out of there, but he knew that the rockhead had too much of an advantage on him to escape now. So, Art did his best to keep the bouncer thinking he was still unconscious while protecting his face as best he could with his arm.


    He was dragged back inside and his feet were thrown down on the cold stone floor. His poor, precious new feet took quite the hit, but he was thankful he could feel them at all. Ever since the event that gave him a new shot at walking, he kept thinking he would wake up and the shiny new legs would be missing again, like some kind of horrible joke. It wasn��t until he felt his family jewels crushed by a swift kick from the most esteemed lady that he realized his ability to feign unconsciousness was not going to be among the survival instincts available to him in this particular arrangement.


    ��Namer!�� he shouted, his boys deeply retracted up into his guts. ��Holy f����


    ��You bastard!�� the woman shrieked at him as she went in for another kick. ��Farraige pumpkin, you pathetic imbecile! Vappa! You think I do this for fun? This is my work! You can��t disrespect me like that!��


    Art braced himself for another kick, but the woman withdrew toward the bed, furious but holding back from hitting him again.


    ��What do you want me to do with him?�� the bouncer asked, drawing out a long, crude blade with large, noticeable dings in it��the kind of dings that come only with much misappropriated use. Art took instant notice of the dried blood all over the edges.


    She didn��t hesitate. ��I want you to make him pay!�� The bouncer looked at her with confusion, most likely as confused as Art was about what exactly she meant by that. Did she mean she wants me to pay her, or did she mean she wants this guy to dole out punishment?


    ��I��ll pay! On my honor, I swear I��m good for it! Like I said, I��ve got friends in high places who I can����


    ��I don��t care about the money anymore. I want you to pay with your life. I want you to bleed and hurt and cry and beg for your life and then die when you just can��t take it anymore.��


    Oh, that��s what she meant by making me pay.


    The bouncer pressed him hard against the floor, rendering him immovable with his big meaty foot on his back. Art felt the tip of the blade pressing against his neck.


    ��Haven��t you ever heard that people who end all conflicts with swords are more likely to end up on the other end of one?�� Art couldn��t help but be cheeky; he had been in countless life-threatening situations before and he was tired of death continuing to flirt with him. It wasn��t that he thought he held some privileged position over death; it was more like he always thought the peace of death would have been preferred over his lot in life, and thus him continuing to survive countless precarious situations was but one more way that the Namer had continued to screw him over.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ��Are you really threatening me? In your position?�� Art felt the blade dig deeper, with enough force now to draw blood. He expected to feel the warm, wet sensation cover his neck, but it didn��t happen for some telling reason.


    ��Just get on with it then,�� Art said, betting that the bouncer was bluffing. ��I��m tired of waiting. Just be aware of the balding brawny guy with the beard and the big shiny sword when he comes back from his stroll through the countryside. I��m supposed to watch his place and he��s got a bit of an anger problem, you see. Might be sad if his beloved pet fish doesn��t get fed, you know. Would hate for him to find out you were responsible for little Skippy turning belly up. He doesn��t have a lot of family, you know, so that fish means quite a lot to him. Hello? I��ve noticed you��ve kind of laid off the pressure of your sword. You��re going to really need to mean it if you��re going to commit to killing me. I��ve spent most of my life with half of my legs; I��d hate to spend what remains of it with half a neck.��


    ��Shut your damn mouth,�� the bouncer warned him.


    ��What are you doing?�� the woman demanded of her hired hand. ��Don��t let him talk you out of it! For Namer��s sake, just get on with it already, you worthless matula!�� To Art��s surprise, the bouncer relented entirely. He didn��t even draw blood. Art hated to admit it, but the woman��s forcefulness was beginning to turn him on. Again.


    ��Suppose he��s right?�� the bouncer said. ��What do you think they��d do to me? I saw the man he��s talking about fight. He��s merciless. And that was with a normal sword�� I can��t compete with the magic thing he��s carrying now.��


    ��Then give it here!�� she said, fed up with all the theatrics. The bouncer just had money on the line��Art could deal with that fairly easily. The woman��s honor, on the other hand, was not something that Art was going to be able to convince her she didn��t need. What was that saying about a woman who had been derided?


    Sure, Art was really beginning to feel bad about what he had done. He hadn��t exactly been thinking with his top brain when he solicited the broad, knowing full well that he��d never be able to afford the cost of her services, but she should have realized just by looking at him that he was not good for it.


    Yes, he had sweet-talked his way into it, but come on, did she really think he had that kind of money just because he knew somebody famous?


    ��Take it easy,�� the bouncer said, keeping her back with one hand while holding the sword away from her. ��We can turn him in to the guard and press charges. Then he gets what��s coming to him and we won��t be held responsible for any soldier��s beloved pets dying.�� His reasoning didn��t deter her; she was too far gone with rage to simply forgive Art for what he had done. She swung her arms wildly around him, until he was backed against the wall and the sword had nowhere to go but down.


    Art seized his opportunity as soon as it came up. Jumping to his feet, he brandished the sword at the unsuspecting pair.


    ��Stay back!�� he warned them as he tried to balance himself. He really needed his new feet to listen to him now, but they just weren��t used to the kind of movement he had been putting them through. Shaky-legged but determined, Art sidestepped toward the door as he threatened to cut either of them if they attempted to approach him.


    ��It��s been a pleasure, really. I didn��t mean anything by this. Tell you what, for your trouble, I��ll return with your payment and a bonus on top of it. I told you I��m good for it, so I��ll make it happen. Of course, I��ll be deducting a portion of it for the lousy handling on your part�� You, I mean, fella. The lady had very nice handling and if she��s up for it in the future, I think we may be able to make a better deal once this business has been squared away.��


    The look on her face said it all. There would be no second date.


    ��So, just wait here and, as I said, I��ll be back as soon as possible. You can even have your sword back once we agree the matter has been settled. For now, I��m afraid Miss Sybilla, you��re just going to have to accept credit. For now, sl��n leat!��


    Once again, Art found himself sprinting at full speed away from the house. This time, he knew better than to leave himself blind to any pursuers, so he kept turning around to see how much ground he had put between himself and his debtors. Of course, he should have just kept his eyes facing forward, because he really hadn��t practiced this kind of running, and he easily got disoriented. He slammed himself directly against a brick wall, once again finding himself face to face with the ground.


    In the shock of the collision, he had lost the sword. Once he was cognizant enough to look for where it had landed, he attempted to dive for it. As soon as he did, he felt the bouncer��s big fat foot slam his wrist down, breaking his hold on the weapon. Painful as that was, it paled in comparison to the onslaught that the woman brought down upon him. She once again put her long legs to good use, stomping him everywhere it would hurt the most. As if that wasn��t enough, she bore down upon his exposed chest and face with her lovely, well-manicured fingernails. She probably would have even bitten him, had patrolling guards not intervened just as Art was really beginning to get turned on.


    ��What is the meaning of this?�� one guard demanded, as he restrained the woman. Another guard, pulling Art to his feet, held his arms behind his back and bound him. ��He has cheated me out of my fee and was attempting to flee without paying. This man is a no-good scoundrel and deserves to be put to the sword!��


    One of the guards grabbed Art by the chin and forcefully inspected every corner of his face.


    ��Easy there, fella,�� Art said. ��As you can see, I��m a bit torn up at present, on account of the bird��s talons. If I weren��t a gentleman, I��d file a formal complaint.��


    ��This him?�� the guard said to the other, showing him Art��s face. ��By the church, it sure is,�� said the other guard. ��Hey,�� the guard holding his face said. ��Thanks for making my job easy for me. The Magistrate will be happy to know we��ve found you.��


    ��Excellent!�� Art said. ��I��m happy to be of service, of course. Now, if you gentlemen could escort me away from all of this, that would be right proper of you and I��d be ever grateful. And do give the magistrate my regards.��


    ��Oh, we are at your service, lord,�� said the guard, tightening the knot on Art��s constraints. ��We��ll make sure you��re very comfortable all the way to the magistrate��s office.��


    ��On second thought,�� Art said. ��Maybe we can work out a deal. You see, I was already on my way to retrieve the payment for little Severina here, perhaps I can persuade you to redirect our stroll to someplace less�� ominous?��


    ��It��s Sabia, you donkey!�� said the woman, as Art was being led away.


    ��Sabia!�� Art said. ��That��s your name. I��m really terrible with names, you see. Just glad my parents gave me a three-letter name or I��d have forgotten it myself. Well, Sabia, it��s been fun. Let��s do it again sometime!��


    ��Keep it down,�� warned the guard pressing the pointy end of his spear at Art��s back. Art blew a kiss to Sabia as he rounded the corner, just in time to barely catch her spit the biggest wad of saliva he had ever seen coming from a woman��s mouth in his direction. He was smitten.


    ��Gotta keep them laughing, you know,�� Art told the guards, who clearly were not sophisticated enough to fall under his pure, yet unrefined, charisma. What in the world a City magistrate could possibly want with Art was a complete mystery to him, but it certainly was not something that Art was eager to discover. After all, Art��s past had not exactly been filled with the most law-abiding ventures. Just which one of Art��s misdeeds had finally caught up with him, he would simply have to wait to find out.

 What Was Seen in the Darkness

    ��I look like a complete fool, and you know it,�� Fridok said, fully exposing the shame he felt for embarrassing himself in front of the warriors he was supposed to be in league with. Alaric didn��t try to deny Fridok��s feelings, though he likely wanted to comfort him. Kind words couldn��t change the fact that Fridok had nearly died due to his lack of spatial awareness. The chasm he fell into was well-hidden from their starting point, but that was an excuse for ordinary men, not the City��s finest. The world was filled with demons lurking around every corner; a warrior who didn��t prepare for every danger was a liability to the entire group.


    ��If it makes you feel any better, you were beating me in the race,�� Alaric said, though it was little consolation. Fridok wanted to be better than Alaric, but his brush with death made him reconsider his priorities. It was a low point for Fridok, and that said a lot considering his life��s hardships.


    ��Just look at them. See how they talk among themselves? They know I don��t belong here. Now I��ve given them all the justification they need to shut me out. It doesn��t matter how good I am with a sword. To them, I��m just another Solum, and worse, a liability��an untrained, unsophisticated nobody who shouldn��t even be here.��


    ��But you do deserve to be here,�� Alaric said softly.


    ��No, I don��t.��


    Fridok knew how pathetic he must sound to Alaric. He wasn��t giving his new friend much reason to stay by his side. Fridok never shared his feelings, which was a problem because he could use a good venting of his frustrations. He hoped he wouldn��t be too overbearing and drive Alaric away. He needed a friend now more than ever but couldn��t bring himself to expose any vulnerabilities.


    Alaric looked as if he had an idea but then stopped himself, rubbing his ears with his palms as he often did after the supposed attack by the screaming demon. It was easier to attend to his own problems than to struggle to understand Fridok��s. Fridok desperately wanted to crawl out of the figurative hole he had fallen into, but he looked to Alaric for rescue. Alaric seemed to recognize his plight, even though no words could convince Fridok of his self-worth. Fridok was a realist; he needed proof.


    The fire crackled as Isidore poked at it. As the last bit of sunlight fled beyond the western horizon, Fridok realized it would get cold if he didn��t find a place near the others sitting in a circle. He couldn��t bring himself to join them, though. Instead, he thought about Alaric and how the cold might affect his damaged eardrums after the demon attack.


    ��Head to the fire,�� Fridok said sternly. ��I��ll be over shortly.��


    Alaric, still unable to find the right words, walked over to join the others. As he did, Fridok caught Geilamir peering back to see if he was also coming. Fridok took a deep breath and rubbed his arms. He knew he should bite his lip and go over there, but his feeling of estrangement only widened as he saw Alaric join the conversation, even laughing at a joke Fridok was too far away to hear. So, he languished in his self-pity.


    Every time Alaric looked back at him, Fridok turned away, pretending to be interested in something else. Tiring of the game, he decided to at least appear useful. He hated his behavior and decided to put on airs that he was keeping away from the group for a practical reason. Fridok saw an opportunity in a large rock nearby and decided to use it as a lookout post. He didn��t realize the rock was already manned by a sentry.


    ��Oh, I didn��t see you were already at the lookout,�� Fridok said to Bulgar, who was watching the distance, bow at the ready. ��I��ll leave you to it.�� Fridok started back toward the camp but was halted.


    ��Why don��t you join me?�� Bulgar said, with a tone of pain Fridok recognized. ��You can watch the East; I��ll watch the West.��


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    Fridok hesitated but decided that being with one person he didn��t belong with was better than being around nine others. He swallowed his pride and climbed up to sit next to Bulgar, facing the opposite way. Fridok was thankful Bulgar had asked him to watch the East, so he didn��t have to look at the camp. For a few minutes, they watched for any signs of movement in the dark, giving Fridok a chance to focus on something else.


    Settling into a comfortable level of discomfort, Fridok realized how little he could see. Inside the City, there was always some light at night. Here, the only light was from the Great Band in the sky, the wide twinkling river of wonder that had captivated him during his hardest moments. It was a thing of beauty, hampered by the obfuscation of city lights. In the wilderness, the Band��s glory reigned unfettered. It made Fridok consider his place in the vast, unconquered world.


    By the time Bulgar spoke, Fridok had begun to loosen his grip on the shame from his embarrassing encounter with fate. How small his problems seemed against the vastness of the night sky.


    ��Does it still hurt?�� Bulgar asked. ��The injuries from your fall, I mean.��


    Fridok thought about it. Beyond the psychological reverberance from where his body had hit the cave walls, no physical pain remained. The Son��s Gifts had taken away all of that, leaving him with the burden of knowing he had proven himself a liability. He was still working through those emotions, mostly feeling angry and ashamed.


    ��No,�� Fridok said. He thought about revealing his feelings but stopped. Bulgar and his cousin Euric were likable, but Fridok wasn��t interested in talking about his feelings, especially when they were only half-formed. He had learned after his mother��s death that sharing feelings was lowering a shield, something enemies delighted in.


    ��It looked like it must have hurt like hell,�� Bulgar noted. Fridok dwelt on the fall, remembering the fear but not the impact. He knew he had lost the assurance of the ground under his feet and nothing more before being woken by the Son. Fridok decided not to withhold information in case Bulgar proved trustworthy. ��I don��t remember anything. One second I was mid-sprint, and the next I was falling. Then, nothing. I don��t remember hitting the bottom at all.��


    ��So you don��t remember the screamer, then?��


    ��No. Only what I��ve been told.��


    ��Did your ears hurt when you came to?�� The question gave Fridok pause. If the demon��s shrieking was as bad as they said, his eardrums must have sustained similar damage to Alaric��s. But Fridok felt no discomfort in his ears. So why was Alaric still rubbing his ears as if they were still ringing?


    ��No. I felt like nothing had happened at all. I even woke up rested, and my legs don��t ache from the day��s travels.��


    Bulgar��s silence for the next ten seconds clued Fridok in that the quiet archer had something he wanted to ask but hesitated. Fridok decided to make it easier.


    ��Go ahead and say what you want to say.��


    ��Did you see it?�� Bulgar asked. ��The afterlife?��


    Fridok stared into Bulgar��s eyes, seeing a hopeful longing he recognized. He had gone through the same thought process, full of grief and anger. Fridok knew what answer Bulgar wanted and thought carefully before responding.


    Fridok was usually straightforward and honest. He hated liars and cheats, especially among his own people. So, his response to Bulgar��s question went against his principles. He would regret it later, but for a moment, he gave Bulgar the assurance he had once wished for during his mourning.


    ��It was brief,�� he started, unsure if he should continue. ��But I know exactly what I saw.�� It was too late to stop. ��My mother.�� Bulgar prostrated himself, still facing the West. Fridok heard Bulgar exhale, knowing he had given the young man hope to see his dead sister again. Bulgar��s revitalization came at the cost of Fridok��s integrity. He didn��t remember anything between his fall and waking. There was no epiphany. For all he knew, nothing awaited him after death. The end would be just that��the end.


    The two men allowed the chilly air to pass over them in silence. Bulgar had gotten what he needed, and Fridok didn��t ruin that comfort. They remained in their respective solitudes, staring into the dark for over an hour until their peace was shattered by a terrible sound near the camp.


    A scream, inhuman and intolerable even from a distance, arose like an alarm bell. Fridok finally understood why Alaric acted as if he could still hear the demon��s voice. To make matters worse, the demon wasn��t alone.


    The stillness of the black night was gone. Crawling over the land like a bloodthirsty swarm, hundreds of twinkling eyes darted toward the camp like sharks to chummed waters. It was as if the Great Band had fallen upon them, separating Fridok and Bulgar from their group. The demons, it seemed, controlled the wilderness just as the stories said. There would be no chance for any of them to escape this conflict.

 Graveyard of a Thousand Unburied Demons

    The terrifying screech thrust Alaric out of his sleep and back into a panic. Exhausted from the day��s travels and missteps, he was just starting to let down his guard when the screaming demon ripped away all sense of security. He covered his ears, which would have likely bled under the auditory assault, but quickly realized he had to endure the sound to properly defend himself. Though he couldn''t see the demon, he noticed hundreds of other creatures clamoring toward their camp. He let go of his ears and reached for his Soularm, the weapon granted to him as one of the chosen. There was no more hesitation �C now was the time to prove whether the Son had made a mistake or not.


    ��To me!�� the Son shouted, rallying all the warriors to his side, a few feet from the campfire. Alaric wasted no time and was met by the lady Gailavira. Shortly after, Geilamir, Isidore, Ervig, Xanthus, and Calix arrived. Last to come was Euric, who looked east to where his cousin was on lookout. Alaric realized that Fridok was still out there, stranded with Bulgar a good distance from the group. ��Close in!�� the Son commanded, gathering everyone together.


    Alaric looked at the rock where Fridok and Bulgar had stationed themselves but saw no sign of his friends. He feared the worst but knew he needed to focus on the immediate threat. The group gathered at the Son��s tent, under the shade of two large trees. The reason for this choice became apparent as the Son pressed his hand against one tree, channeling its life force into the ground. The tree wilted and crumbled at his touch. As the creatures pressed closer, the Son demonstrated his immense power in defense of their position.


    The cacophony of demons snarling, howling, and cackling underscored the unbearable high-pitched shriek that continued far longer than human lungs would allow. The ground shook and splintered, bending to the will of the Son at the cost of both trees. It moved and cracked so quickly they nearly lost their footing.


    First, a great barrier wall rose from the ground, forming a protective shell around them. The masses crashed upon it like waves against the City��s levies. Next, the Son instructed them to hunker down to avoid losing balance as he forced the ground up high into the sky. They braced themselves and leaned on each other as the ground transformed into a platform, an earthen citadel surrounded by a defensible wall of rock.


    Suddenly, things seemed less bleak. The demons might have been many, but they didn��t have the Son on their side.


    ��Prepare yourselves,�� the Son warned. ��These damned souls know no fear. They persist out of malice and hatred for God. They are insatiable and will not leave until we are all dead. We must end each one of them if we are to survive. Do you understand?��


    The minor sense of safety Alaric had felt fled promptly. It was time to test their mettle. They were outnumbered a hundred to one. Being the best swordfighter in his class was achievable. Taking on hordes of mindless, bloodthirsty creatures was not something they were prepared for. Alaric could already imagine the songs that would be sung about their group after they were torn apart. ��The Slaughtered Madman and his Ten Fools�� would probably be the title. At least no one else would be foolish enough to venture outside the walls again.


    ��I��m going to open a hole in the wall right there,�� the Son said, pointing to a section of the rock wall near a difficult tract of land. ��If we don��t give them a focal point, they��ll figure out a way up the walls on all sides. If that happens, we might as well cast down our arms and accept our fate.��


    Alaric turned to Geilamir, both of them terrified. They held their swords, but had no confidence in their ability to turn the tide.


    ��Once the bodies start piling up, we must fall back up here and make our stand.�� The Son looked at their disheartened faces. He remembered that these were regular soldiers, devoid of the Gifts.


    ��You there, bowman.�� Euric turned his attention to the Son, panic in his eyes. ��Fire a single shot into the masses. Don��t miss.��


    Euric responded hesitantly, ��There are too many���� His attention went back to the east, where his cousin had last been seen. Alaric feared the worst for Fridok and Bulgar. They could have been overwhelmed by the demons. It was enough to make anyone lose hope.


    ��Pick up your bow and take a shot.�� The Son placed a hand on Euric��s shoulder, then took an arrow from his quiver and placed it in Euric��s hand. Euric swallowed his pride, nocked the arrow, and fired it at a large group of demons. Though the arrow made no sound over the noise of the demons, its effect was immediate.


    A light flashed from where Euric��s arrow landed. The demons scattered at the sight of the golden light, which then moved back to Euric, making him a source of light. The company looked at Euric in disbelief.


    ��Now, place your hands on me and give me the light,�� the Son commanded. Euric, unsure of how to do this, simply followed the command. He placed a hand on the Son��s shoulder and closed his eyes. Within seconds, the light from Euric transferred to the Son, who became god-like in the transfer of power.


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    ��Good. Now do the same for each person here and send them to me. Once that is done, stay here with the two boys and protect Lady Gailavira with your lives.�� The Son slid down the rocky platform and made haste to the wall he had pointed out. Euric quickly followed the command. With each shot, he gathered the glowing energy and transferred it to the others. When it was Alaric��s turn, he wasn��t sure what to expect.


    ��When you��ve received the light, come to me!�� shouted the Son. Alaric looked into Euric��s eyes, entranced by the light. Though frightened, the light commanded him to take heart. Euric placed his hand on Alaric��s shoulder, and Alaric felt something he had never felt before.


    It was as if his bloodstream had become a river of pure energy. His entire body tingled, making him believe he could react at incredible speeds. His muscles bulged with newfound strength. The Soularm felt light in his hand. The bleak situation suddenly seemed within the realm of possibility, both exciting and horrifying.


    ��Shall we?�� said Geilamir, thrilled to try his new sword. Alaric smiled, feeling as he had during their childhood misadventures. They slid down the platform and joined Isidore and Ervig behind the Son. The Son acknowledged them with a nod and leaned into the wall. He transferred energy into the wall, and a twenty-foot section came crashing down, crushing some demons. But the minor victory was short-lived.


    ��Hold the line!�� the Son commanded, glowing less than before. Isidore and Ervig angled their spears, while Alaric and Geilamir held their swords ready. The tide of demons filled the void where the wall had stood. In the center was the Son, wielding a spear and sword in an unfamiliar stance.


    As the demons came upon them, Alaric witnessed the Son��s strength firsthand. The Son thrust with his spear, then struck with his Soularm. The spear sent out a purplish light, and a swift strike with his sword killed the demon, reducing it to a husk. The Son��s luminescence returned as he continued his graceful dance, cutting through demons and sending splinters of ground to crush groups of them. The unstoppable horde was no match for the City��s finest and their great leader.


    But there was still the screamer��the witch-like demon. Alaric had tuned out her screaming in the carnage but knew she had to be stopped. He found her standing behind the lines of demons, south of camp. He knew he had to act, for she would continue to hound them. He leapt onto a demon��s shoulders, slicing its face and running atop the demons toward the source of the sound. Striking out along the way, he reached the witch-demon from the cave.


    She was hideous, fully visible in his light. Her tattered clothing and skeletal figure made her a terrifying sight. Her pasty bony hands awaited Alaric.


    Expecting a fight, Alaric found himself far more capable. He cut her in two as easily as a knife through butter. As her screaming stopped, only the sounds of battle remained. Satisfied, he looked back at the camp, expecting praise, but found none. Leaving his position on the line had allowed demons to pour into the inner sanctum. Euric couldn��t hold them off indefinitely.


    Alaric hurried back, swinging through the masses to patch the hole he had made. He realized his foolishness. The Son remained but was surrounded. Geilamir and Ervig were fighting, but the gap Alaric caused sent a flood of demons through the wall. Isidore was nowhere in sight.


    Cutting through demons, Alaric did his best to stop them, but they were too packed. He saw Euric��s desperation as he tried to shoot down demons climbing the platform. Demons clawed at Alaric, forcing him to defend himself. He had made a grave mistake.


    Even immense power couldn��t balance poor tactics. Alaric had been lectured about this in history classes, yet here he was making the same mistake. He could hear Isidore��s voice echoing in his head, feeling worse about his judgment since Isidore likely fell because of him.


    Victory had seemed possible minutes before, but now the battle was hopeless. They would be known as fools, sung in sad songs about crushed hope. No hope would come from elsewhere; this fight would be their last.


    As all seemed lost, Alaric saw a bearded man bathed in light atop the Eastern wall, holding a shining sword. Fridok lived, and he pulled a glowing Bulgar up. Fridok dove into the fray, Bulgar firing arrows at the demonic forces.


    Rekindled with morale, Alaric closed the gap between him and his comrades. He knew they needed relief to regroup. Cutting through creatures, he reached his friends. Alaric, Ervig, and Geilamir cleared a path to the Son, who used his powers to shape the land into a tighter funnel. With the enemy��s ability to flank them cut off, they began clearing the demons now cut off from support. The Son and Ervig barred entry, while Alaric and Geilamir dealt with the inner camp.


    They approached where Alaric had been stationed, finding Isidore��s spear sticking from demon husks. Realizing Isidore��s hand was still on the weapon, Alaric shouted for Geilamir to help dig him out. Isidore��s face was bloody and maimed, but he was alive when Alaric hoisted him up.


    Alaric saw another opportunity for glory but decided to help bring Isidore to safety instead. Geilamir assisted, though distracted by Fridok��s swordsmanship. With the screamer dead, Fridok��s war cry terrified even fearless demons. This continued for ten minutes until the battle was won.


    The last demon destroyed, the Son healed each warrior with his Gifts. Alaric couldn��t make eye contact with Isidore but felt relief at his mentor��s restoration. Each had sustained significant wounds, but the Son��s Gifts wiped them away.


    The Son laid a hand on Fridok��s shoulder as a sign of respect. Alaric felt pride as he smiled at Fridok, who returned it. Lastly, the Son lowered the platform, and the last bit of light faded from him as he collapsed.


    Gailavira rushed to his side, administering aid. The warriors were shocked at the fall of this god-like man. Gailavira checked his vitals and gave commands as if she were his lieutenant.


    ��We must move him while you still have the light. The power will sustain you for a time, but when it leaves, it will take all your strength. We must be safe when it happens.��


    Alaric, still filled with power, knew it could happen to any of them. He finally understood why Lady Gailavira and the wards accompanied them. They would be all that remained when the warriors fell.


    Gathering their things, the party moved away from the graveyard of demons. As they made their way to a new campsite, Alaric felt weaker as the light left him. Soon, he would be at rest.


    He studied his sword and thought of what to call it.

 In the Twinkling Stardust

    The rush of adrenaline and otherworldly power, though waning, still coursed through Fridok as he moved with the group to their new camp for the night. It took every ounce of willpower for Fridok and Bulgar to reach the stonewall encampment and their companions. They cut through countless demons, stacking their bodies to ascend the wall and aid their brothers-in-arms. Their efforts had been successful, and Fridok seemed to be on the cusp of gaining the acceptance he had always longed for.


    As they laid their unresponsive commander on his bedroll and gathered sticks for a fire, the men of the Son��s company found themselves taking orders from the most unlikely of lieutenants: Gailavira, the only woman chosen for the excursion.


    ��Elevate his head,�� she said. ��Calix, Xanthus, find fresh water and bring some back. Honorable Ervig, accompany them for protection. Bulgar and Euric, perform sentry duties until your eyesight returns to normal. Retreat to camp when things go dark. Lord Isidore, as the most senior, stay by my side and assist me with the Son.��


    Fridok waited for his orders. Alaric seemed somewhat receptive to the idea of a woman giving commands, but Geilamir was clearly less enthused. When the command didn��t come immediately, Fridok asked, ��What about the three of us?��


    Gailavira, focused on the Son, didn��t look up but passed them their orders. ��Tend to the fire. Stay on hand and ready to protect him if there��s another raid.��


    The new camp was on an elevated mesa with good visibility. Since being infused with power, their senses had heightened. Their eyesight, especially at night, had improved. Fridok realized how much more he could hear of the night��s elements. If he and Bulgar had been infused with this power before the attack, they might have spotted the creatures crawling in the night and warned the others.


    Geilamir turned to Alaric with disdain for Gailavira. Fridok recognized the look��the same gaze nobles in the City gave the poor. It emanated privilege and haughty disdain for those deemed unworthy. Fridok despised that look. Even though he felt closer to the company after his success, he still hated that look. It brought back all those feelings in an instant. Fridok decided that when he returned to the City with all the glory and wealth, he would do everything to dismantle the social hierarchy. Geilamir��s disdain for Gailavira��s commands simply because she was a woman made Fridok more determined to change the system. He would be the face of that change if necessary.


    For now, he would lie in wait and enjoy his well-earned acclaim. Major societal change was a fight for another day. He pulled a massive fallen tree closer to the fire with ease. Despite their shared supernatural strength, the others seemed amazed at how easily he did so.


    ��I don��t know about you,�� Fridok said, ��but I��m hungry as all hell.�� He opened his food bag and looked down in dismay at the limited selection of foods. Being poor, his diet primarily consisted of beans and grain. Normally, it wouldn��t bother him, but now he felt he deserved something more. He would have to wait for the boys to return with water before he could cook anything.


    ��Here, baldy.��


    Fridok looked up to catch a heavy satchel thrown at him. The scent of something savory wafted out. Opening it, he found a leg of cured ham, the kind he could never afford. It was fat and round, covered in spices. Fridok��s stomach gurgled at the scent.


    ��We can share,�� Geilamir said, pulling out a small knife and approaching with an unusually kind demeanor. ��I��m pretty damn hungry myself, so we can all eat some of this while we wait for the lackeys to get back with the water.��


    Fridok was speechless. He held up the ham as Geilamir carved off a chunk and held it out for him. Geilamir shook it in apparent urgency like one would do to make a cat approach them, making Fridok think he might actually be serious. Against his better judgment, Fridok held out his hand��a gesture that days before would have meant falling into a cruel trap. When the slice of meat landed in his hand, he knew Geilamir meant what he said.


    Sniffing the meat, Fridok was hit with a powerful punch of the salty, spicy aroma. He couldn��t resist��he sunk his teeth into the gesture of goodwill and could have died for how incredible the meat tasted. It flooded his senses with an intense, delicious flavor. Taking the bite down, he savored the feeling, realizing his eyes were closed in bliss, an involuntary response to the wonderful taste. And that was only the first bite.


    Geilamir smirked, tossing back a small bite himself. For the first time since meeting Geilamir, Fridok felt a connection with the senator��s spoiled son. They silently shared a few more bites, and then Geilamir turned his attention to Alaric.


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    ��Come on,�� Geilamir said, inviting his friend. To Fridok��s surprise, Alaric simply smiled, then sat down and faced the fire again. Fridok and Geilamir exchanged glances, understanding that Alaric��s refusal wasn��t from lack of hunger.


    ��You have to be hungry,�� Geilamir said. ��Come over and eat.��


    Alaric said nothing, looking down at the fire and closing his eyes.


    ��Suit yourself, Al,�� Geilamir said, taking to the meat again. Fridok now felt concern for Alaric, recognizing the signs of shame and regret.


    ��He��s all off-kilter because he got Isidore maimed and almost got us all killed,�� Geilamir said quietly. ��He broke rank to kill the screamer without telling anyone. That messed up our line. He probably thinks the Son would still be up and running if he didn��t have to spend so much energy saving Isidore. He��s probably right, but he shouldn��t be a little ninny about it. Though, should we really spend so much energy keeping someone that close to the grave alive?��


    Fridok looked at Alaric and then at Gailavira, still tending to the Son. He had never seen Alaric so down. It never occurred to him that Alaric, the talented young noble, might also experience self-loathing. Alaric, whom Fridok held in high regard, was a normal human being after all. It surprised Fridok to come to that conclusion.


    ��Let him sulk. He��ll come around eventually. He��ll either let it go or write a song about his feelings.�� Geilamir stood up as Ervig and the two wards returned with water. Geilamir instinctively took the ham from Fridok and stuffed it back into his bag. That surprised Fridok, as Geilamir had been willing to share his expensive meat. Oddly enough, it endeared Geilamir to Fridok. Still, it wasn��t right to withhold food from the others, so Fridok shot him a judgmental glance. Geilamir brushed it off.


    ��Bring a few buckets over here,�� Geilamir said. ��Fridok will cook some lentil soup for everyone. We��re all slumming it tonight.��


    Perhaps it was too soon to call it a ��budding friendship.��


    After eating Fridok��s bean and lentil soup, they resumed their duties. Ervig, Calix, and Xanthus assisted Gailavira with the Son. Fridok grew more concerned as Alaric ate and drank little, isolating himself.


    The light and energy they had stolen from the demons left them, as Lady Gailavira had warned. The first major change Fridok noticed was his vision. He could no longer see clearly in the night. His hearing also dulled. Geilamir succumbed to sleep first, sliding onto his bedroll and snoring faster than Fridok had ever seen.


    Fridok would have joined him, but his concern for Alaric kept him awake. He fought the oncoming sleep, even outlasting Bulgar and Euric, who returned to camp with no energy or eyesight left. They would have to trust their location and the wards now, as not even Ervig could resist the exhaustion.


    The last to approach was Isidore. He sat next to Alaric, letting the fire��s cracks and pops bridge the gap between them. Had the Son not rescued him, Isidore would have been the first casualty. Both knew whose fault it was. Instead of chastisement, Isidore showed mercy.


    ��I would like to hear you sing,�� Isidore said. Alaric didn��t respond immediately, likely filled with emotions. ��Please,�� he added.


    In a voice cracked with dehydration, Alaric responded meekly. ��Which song?�� Isidore lay out his bedroll before answering. ��Whichever one you are already singing in your heart.��


    Alaric didn��t reach for any instrument. Instead, he looked at the Great Band in the sky and allowed his pain to be carried out in a darker, raspier voice than Fridok had ever heard. He sang ��Just a Single Day with You,�� a rare song that resonated deeply with Fridok.


    In the twinkling stardust


    and the scattered ashes of the fallen day


    In the fire waning


    as the cinders smolder and crumble all away


    In the sounds of the lovers


    Reaching for all they discover


    And in the lost sleep of me and all


    of the broken-hearted people


    I see your eyes,


    and then you��re gone.


    If I had falls and fountains


    And all the gold and silver


    In the lakes and mountains


    And the banks and rivers,


    If I had all the treasures


    And the homes to dwell in


    And the greatest pleasures


    And the Gifts of heaven


    I��d trade them all for you


    Just a single day with you.


    In the days of my life,


    I spent countless hours and minutes


    In the pursuit of glory,


    Or wealth or things that I already had in it.


    In my narrow vision


    I saw only the things that I lacked


    And now in retrospection


    I know I��d rather have you back.


    I lost your smile,


    how can I go on?


    If I had a thousand lifetimes


    And all the joy and laughter


    Of an endless good time


    For all the days hereafter,


    If I had boundless harvests


    And hearts of pure gold,


    Any other lips to kiss


    And any other hand to hold


    I��d trade them all for you.


    Just a single day with you.


    You are gone


    to the life beyond.


    But I��m still here,


    still waiting here.


    And you��re still gone.


    If I could choose a new life


    Yes, a new beginning


    Even one without strife


    Where I��m always winning,


    If I could be anyone


    In the world��s long history


    For another run


    I would choose to be me.


    I��d do it all again with you


    Just to live my life with you.


    Or just a single day with you.


    By halfway through Alaric��s ballad, Isidore had fallen asleep. By the end, Fridok fell into something unexpected.


    It was after hearing him sing so beautifully that Fridok finally understood his obsession with the young noble.

 “Ass Water”

    The splitting headache that accompanied Alaric��s return to consciousness was overwhelming. The weakness he felt in his joints and muscles added to his discomfort. The last time he felt anything near this level of pain, he had spent the night cavorting with actors, singers, and artists in Pravus Alley. His father had figured out where he had been and woke him before dawn for an extra training session. As horrible as that hangover was, this morning was significantly worse.


    Luckily for Alaric, he wasn��t alone in his misery. His companions shared his suffering, and a dedicated physician watched over them.


    ��Alaric is awake,�� said Calix to Gailavira, who was busy portioning out something from a flask into smaller vials. She looked determined, holding her duty to the company��s well-being sacred, regardless of her own exhaustion. Years of running a hospital had prepared her for this work.


    Gailavira handed Calix a small vial and returned to her task. He took it and knelt by Alaric, lifting his head gently. The contents of the vial were bitter and cold, almost causing Alaric to wretch. The liquid was thick, lingering in his mouth and throat. His whole body ached, he was parched, and his stomach gurgled loudly with hunger.


    ��You��ll feel better soon,�� Calix told him. ��It should only take a few minutes.�� Alaric surveyed the camp. Euric, sitting against a log, waved at Alaric and pantomimed a disgusted reaction, indicating he had also experienced Gailavira��s potion. Alaric saw that both Geilamir and Fridok were still asleep, while Isidore stood looking out into the distance, seemingly unaffected by the same effects. Considering Isidore had almost died in the battle, it was surprising he had recovered so quickly. Alaric was happy to see him alive and well.


    Among the others, one was conspicuously absent. The Son still lay motionless on his bedroll, setting off alarm bells in Alaric��s head.


    He is supposed to be nearly a god. Why, then, is he not getting up?


    ��Oh, Namer, I��m dying,�� Geilamir groaned as he woke. ��Correction �C I��m already dead. I can��t move. Which one of the horses fell on me while I slept?��


    ��You think that��s bad,�� Alaric responded. ��Wait until you get a drink of your morning libation. You��ll wish you were dead.��


    Calix scurried back to Gailavira to get a vial for Geilamir. As Geilamir��s moaning crescendoed, Alaric realized his own body had begun to hurt less. Even his splitting headache subsided. With the pain waning, he focused on his unquenched thirst and insatiable hunger.


    ��Psst, Geil���� Alaric said, unable to take it anymore. ��Let me have some of that ham.��


    Geilamir��s eyes widened in anger. The ham was supposed to be a secret, but Alaric was too hungry to care.


    ��What ham?�� Euric said, turning his attention to Geilamir. ��Are you holding out on us, Aurumantian?�� Geilamir��s eyes burned with rage at Alaric, realizing the secret was out. Alaric mouthed an apology, and Geilamir shook his aching head in reply.


    ��Oh, hell!�� Bulgar chimed in, awakening and immediately joining the chorus of misery. ��What kind of sick joke is this? Ooh, dear mercy, I��ve come undone���� Bulgar tried to pick himself up but collapsed back onto his bedroll.


    ��It gets worse,�� Geilamir said, his face contorting in disgust from the potion��s aftertaste. ��God, that��s rank.��


    Calix chimed in. ��You��re all a bunch of ninnies, aren��t you? Some warriors you are, crying about the taste of a potion. Nobody said it would be sweet like nectar.��


    ��Why don��t you take a sip, then?�� Geilamir retorted. ��I��m sure it won��t be a problem because you��re so tough, right?�� Alaric could tell Calix was actually considering it, but he ultimately chickened out.


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    ��Every muscle has turned to mush,�� Bulgar added.


    ��I can��t waste a drop of it, can I? That would be quite irresponsible of me!�� Calix rushed back to Gailavira to get Bulgar��s tincture as Geilamir scoffed.


    ��Geil,�� Alaric said, quieter but still driven by extreme hunger. ��Please. The ham.��


    ��Oh, God name it,�� Geilamir relented, tossing the pack with the ham weakly. Alaric scurried over and scooped it up. At that point, he realized Fridok was awake, simply lying there staring at him.


    ��You��ve had plenty,�� Alaric whispered. ��I��m so hungry I can��t stand it.�� Fridok continued staring, then closed his eyes in apparent exhaustion.


    ��Fridok��s awake too!�� Alaric shouted, calling Calix over.


    No more waiting. It was time to eat.


    After eating and drinking, Alaric felt ready to take on the day again. Gailavira��s potion had diminished the severe pain and exhaustion to a dull ache. The bitter taste still lingered, but he could manage.


    Everyone had recovered enough to move around, except for the one person who knew where they were going. Watching the Son fight the night before, Alaric had wondered why he needed the un-Gifted. The Son��s command over the Gifts, his control in battle, and his ease in dispatching demons had seemed beyond human. Now, Alaric understood why the Son involved them.


    Euric, the more enthusiastic of the Alcamora cousins, injected some life into the worrisome situation.


    ��Did anybody count how many demons they killed last night?��


    Bulgar shook his head. Euric looked around but no one else responded.


    ��Me neither,�� Euric said. ��By the time I thought we might pull it off, I had already killed too many to count. What shocked me was running out of arrows but still firing at the bastards.��


    Alaric looked up. In the mayhem, he hadn��t considered how Euric and Bulgar kept firing without arrows.


    ��I had 21 arrows in my quiver �C that��s my lucky number. I shot them as the Son told me and felt full of energy. I felt like I could shoot farther, more accurately, and with less strain. I noticed that with every arrow, a burst of energy shot out. When I had no arrows left, I pulled back the string and fired. Sure enough, the bow fired bursts of light at the demons. It was the damnedest thing. Can��t get it to fire anything now, though.��


    ��That��s because you don��t have any energy stored up,�� Bulgar said. ��Be careful doing that. It might borrow your body��s energy if it thinks you��re desperate. You��d better be aiming at something you can kill.��


    Euric regarded his bow, suddenly fearful. He put it down and nudged it away.


    ��What are you all going to name your weapons?�� Xanthus, Ervig��s ward, asked eagerly.


    ��Breechsoiler,�� Geilamir said sarcastically. ��The Holy Crapper.�� Xanthus looked disappointed. Alaric saw a bit of himself in the boy and took pity on him. He decided to take the question seriously and name his new blade.


    ��Lightshiter,�� Geilamir continued. Euric found this humorous. ��What about ��Ass Swatter��?�� Euric added. ��Ass Water?�� Geilamir said. ��What the hell?�� Euric burst out laughing. ��I said ��Ass Swatter��, not ��Ass Water��, but I like that one better.�� His laughter was infectious, and the camp joined in. Even Ervig chuckled. Xanthus, however, was red-faced and alone as the target of their jokes.


    ��I��ve decided on a name for my sword,�� Alaric said sincerely. Xanthus looked hopeful.


    ��Daemonore,�� he said proudly. It meant ��Demons�� fear�� and to Alaric, it was a name worthy of the Heroes of Old. The camp fell silent, realizing their deeds might echo through history. Euric broke the silence.


    ��Way better than Geil��s,�� he said. ��Ass Water.��


    ��That��s not the real name,�� Geilamir said defensively. Alaric winked at Xanthus, who smiled widely.


    ��What will you name your bows?�� Alaric asked Euric and Bulgar. Inspired by Alaric, Euric thought for a moment. ��Arculux,�� Euric said. Geilamir scoffed. ��The bow of light? Really?�� ��If Al can call his sword Daemonore, I can call my bow Arculux. What about you, Bulgar?��


    ��Alexia,�� Bulgar said, with his heart on his sleeve. ��She would have liked to be here pinning demons. Now she will be.�� Bulgar had never been the same after his sister��s death. ��She was as brave as anyone here,�� Alaric said.


    ��Well, now this is cruel,�� Geilamir said. ��Next, you��re going to tell me Fridok named his sword Magnificus.��


    Alaric and Geilamir turned to Fridok, who had been unusually silent. With all eyes on him, he looked desperate to escape.


    ��It��s a sword, not a baby,�� he said dismissively. ��It doesn��t talk, it doesn��t get a name.��


    Everyone looked deflated.


    ��Alright, he��s not taking Magnificus, so that one��s mine,�� Geilamir said, lightening the mood. Alaric eyed Fridok, trying to discern his mood. It might take a while for Fridok to feel he belonged, and one battle wouldn��t change years of neglect.


    ��I��m still going to call it Ass Water!�� said Euric.


    The party camped for the day to recover fully. Their concern grew as the Son still failed to wake up. Their crusade seemed in jeopardy.


    Little did they know, the darkest side of the Soularms was about to be revealed back in the City...

 Crossing the Line

    Valoricus never carried a sword, though, like all Cabalarii men since before the Fall, he had years of combat training. His ancestors �C generals and consuls of countless civil wars �C had set a tone no man in their line dared challenge, even over two millennia later. Valoricus came from exceptional stock; his family was one of the few that could trace their heritage back to the great heroes of the past. He didn��t need to carry a sword; he was royalty in a City with no king, and nobody would disrespect the honor of the City enough to threaten someone from such a prestigious family.


    With bodyguards in tow, Valoricus left his estate mid-morning without addressing Dacinia. Since their argument about their son Alaric��s choice to join the Stranger, he had avoided her. He had banished her to a secondary suite, a rare occurrence in their marriage, under the guise of her needing extra rest. In truth, he was sickened by how she had embarrassed him. Though she did need rest after the Stranger��s ritual, he didn��t want to see her until he decided how she would make it up to him. Besides, he had important business affecting the City��s fate and couldn��t be bothered by a woman��s concerns, especially one he blamed for their son��s effeminate tendencies.


    Valoricus headed to Sanctus Mysta, home of the priests, without doubting his actions. Consul Quintus Maximilius was out of reach by design �C the City��s religious and political bodies were separated to prevent conflicts like those that arose after the Toriad��s departure. The separation created two branches of government: one to maintain the body and one to maintain the soul of the populace. Though not the first to overstep boundaries to influence the other side, Valoricus knew arriving unannounced was dangerous.


    ��How can I help you, senator?�� the monk at the door asked, as if he hadn��t expected a Senate member. The monks of the Astrum Order were trained combatants, known for their control over their physical bodies. Valoricus had heard stories of heretics found dead, their limbs spread in the Namer��s star-pattern, slain by these men of God. The monks never carried weapons, but that didn��t matter. Even with three guards, Valoricus didn��t feel safe in the monk��s presence.


    ��I humbly request entry for urgent business.��


    ��Urgent business, you say? And what would that be?��


    Valoricus sized up the guard to gauge his decision. This was the heart of the City��s religion. A senator entering these grounds sent a clear signal of overstepping jurisdiction. Arriving without an appointment was a clear violation of protocol. Valoricus knew his presence signaled desperation, bypassing proper channels that could take weeks.


    ��I have come to speak with my wife��s brother.��


    ��I��m overjoyed to hear you��ve buried the hatchet.��


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    Valoricus had never met this man, but the monk knew of the enmity between Valoricus and Dacinia��s brother, Stasius Barbatus. Swallowing his pride for the City��s good meant nothing if he was turned away.


    ��Suppose I give you my word I��ve come not on the Senate��s behalf but to discuss important family business with Stasius?��


    ��And what business would that be?��


    ��It is a private matter.��


    ��A private matter concerning a certain bearer of the Gifts, maybe?��


    ��A private matter.��


    ��I am sworn to share no gossip, expose no secrets. You can give me the message and I shall relay it.��


    ��It is for his ears only.��


    ��And by my tongue, he shall hear it.��


    ��What is your name?��


    The monk smiled, knowing he had badgered Valoricus enough to make him crack. ��Frater Liboritus, at your service.��


    ��Liboritus, you have family, yes?��


    The monk nodded, smirk still on his face.


    ��Suppose a family member came to you with urgent news and another guard stopped them. How would you react?��


    ��Have I stopped you from relaying the message?��


    ��You have stopped me from delivering it myself.��


    ��This is not the same thing.��


    Valoricus was losing patience. The monk was well-suited for employment as a door guard at Valoricus�� estate, but Valoricus had no time for games. He decided to redirect his efforts.


    ��Tell me, frater, how much is your stipend?��


    The monk leaned in, eyes shifting. Valoricus understood the game.


    ��Ten?��


    The monk shook his head and pointed up.


    ��Fifteen?��


    The monk pointed up again.


    ��Surely the consul isn��t paying you more than fifteen. That sum is ridiculous.��


    The monk narrowed his eyes but pointed up once more.


    ��I��ve humored your game long enough,�� Valoricus said. ��Tell me where to exchange the fee later, and I��ll have forty delivered tonight.��


    The monk��s smile waned, but he held his thumb up.


    ��Forty is generous. I will go no higher.��


    Liboritus shifted his signal from a thumbs-up to a straight pointer finger, lifted high as if pointing out a passing bird.


    ��That��s my fee. Right up there.��


    Valoricus didn��t need to look up to realize his mistake. Bribing a man of faith was foolish. Valoricus bit his tongue, realizing he had one move left.


    ��Fine. Tell Stasius his brother-in-law is here with important matters.��


    The monk stared, savoring his victory.


    ��Fine,�� he said, then went inside, shutting the door. Ten minutes passed, during which Valoricus heard talking and laughing inside. When Liboritus returned, he was alone.


    ��Cardinal Stasius will see his flesh and blood. Fetch your wife; she alone may enter.��


    Furious, Valoricus wanted to lash out but held back. Instead, he and his guards returned home. Valoricus marched to Dacinia��s room, ready to unleash his wrath. Inside, he found three servants surrounding Dacinia, who lay on her bed. Two were hysterical, and one tried to wake her.


    ��Oh dear Namer,�� Valoricus uttered, rushing to his wife��s side. She looked ghastly, drained, even worse than after the Stranger��s ritual. Her skin was pale, her hair thin, and her eyes lifeless. She wasn��t merely asleep.


    ��She wasn��t ill. Dacinia was murdered.��


    The servants couldn��t comprehend his conclusion, but Valoricus knew who to blame.


    ��Get the guards,�� he told a servant. ��Have them deliver her body to Sanctus Mysta. Tell them I will see the cardinal immediately.��


    Valoricus waited until everyone left to cry, but no tears came.

 The Tables of Death

    Art was pulled back to consciousness abruptly by the overpowering aroma of something repulsive. Opening his eyes, he was immediately met by the source of the smell. Face to face with a corpse lying on its side next to him, Art tried and failed to rise. He quickly realized he was at the bottom of a pile of corpses, some fresh, some far along in the process of decay. A newly appreciated claustrophobia overtook Art as he pressed violently against body parts, trying to unbury himself. He pushed against one corpse that looked the least decomposed but found it rigid and immovable. It wasn��t until he pressed his hand firmly against a cold, worm-infested body that he managed to make some progress.


    He scraped and squirmed his way out of the pile and reached open air. A few desperate, adrenaline-fueled pushes later, he freed his entire body from the grip of the dead. The body of an old woman tumbled to the ground in response to his desperation, her hair whipping around as she found a sad resting place in the dirt. Despite everything, he felt some relief wash over him as he realized his legs could still move. He had initially feared they might be paralyzed again. That dread was second only to the terror of the pestilence that had enveloped him.


    What. The. Hell is going on here?


    Art took deep breaths, but the air was still filled with the stench of decay. He covered his mouth with his shirt and clambered off the table he had found himself on. As he hit the ground, he recognized where he had been taken. He stood at the entrance of Necropolis Nullius, the mass cemetery for people of no status in the City. The rich were buried on their own grounds, but the poor were cremated here, their ashes cast into big holes in the ground, often unceremoniously. Solumians accepted their fate because there were no places inside the City where they might hope to be buried. The Daoine Farraige, however, had other rituals for their dead. The fact that he had ended up here meant whoever put him here had no care or knowledge of his Farraige heritage.


    Perhaps whoever did this knew he was Farraige and put him here out of spite. Either way, Art wasn��t dead, so somebody had made a big mistake. The biggest unanswered question was what exactly had transpired the night before to put him here, lumped in with the dead. He had no recollection.


    Art jumped off the wagon and moved away from the stench as fast as his wonderfully agile legs would carry him. His whole body ached. His head pounded. Bits and pieces of the night before began to come back to him, but they were mere glimpses he could barely understand. As he got further away, the adrenaline gave way to what felt like a really bad hangover. Dizziness overwhelmed Art, and he stumbled, catching himself too late to avoid tumbling over. As he hit the ground and tried to prop himself up, he vomited the contents of his stomach.


    A curious black bile accompanied the gunk, blood, and debris from his stomach. It was as if he had swallowed tar. Along with that, Art felt immense pressure inside his head, as if something was trying to push his eyeballs out from the inside.


    He vaguely remembered being escorted by guards to a magistrate��s office, but the details were blurry. Art knew he had been thrown into a holding cell but didn��t understand what crime he was being charged with. No one would dignify him with a direct response. He had drifted off to sleep thinking about Sabia��s thighs but didn��t understand what had brought him into the guard��s ire. He vaguely remembered a nightmare that felt oddly realistic.


    There were creatures everywhere, strange things unlike anything Art had ever seen. He reckoned they were demons, or at least what his mind perceived as demons. Everything was a blur now. The harder he tried to remember, the more his head hurt. All his muscles were taxed more heavily than ever before. He was exhausted and needed sleep, but he knew he had to get away from this foul graveyard. So, he mustered his strength and pushed himself to return to the City, to the only place he felt he could hide: Fridok��s apartment.


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    If Art was proficient at anything, it was navigating the City��s alleyways. Even in his exhausted state, he reached Fridok��s apartment building with relative ease. It wasn��t until he got there that he realized there was no safe place left to hide.


    Two guards stood at the door, barring entry to all. Recognizing a third guard coming out of the building, Art realized their presence was likely related to his incarceration the night before.


    In a flash, his legs throbbed, remembering the torment he had endured. The man had used a contraption to squeeze and scrape Art��s legs, taunting him with breaking or dismembering his newly mended limbs. The fact that this man and his guards were now at Fridok��s building led Art to believe they were after Fridok. Perhaps Art was merely a means to that end. Whatever their plan, Art knew it was best not to be discovered by them. They probably thought Art was dead, and he knew it was better to keep it that way.


    Art didn��t need a place to go. He had lived most of his life as a vagrant. But now, given a second chance, he didn��t want to go back to begging for scraps. He had tasted a proper life and those delights had changed him. No, there would be no settling for that again if he could help it. However, he had to keep his head down for now. First, he needed new clothes and a bath. He couldn��t do much with a rot-soaked, death-scented tunic.


    An idea came to Art, one that might land him in hot water, though not in the way he needed. If someone was targeting Fridok, they might also target the other champions of the Son. If there was a conspiracy, others needed to know. It was time for Art to visit the house with the big hole in it.


    Art slipped through the City, reaching the Cabalarii mansion by midday. He and Fridok had undergone the Son��s ritual to create his sword there. The experience had left Art feeling sapped of energy. Waking up that morning, he felt similar but even worse given his surroundings. Hopefully, the patron of the house would be more welcoming this time.


    As he approached the mansion, Art considered his strategy. He thought about pretending to bear a message from Fridok but decided against it. The lady of the house would see through such a wild claim. It was rather ridiculous to think of such a thing.


    Two guards stood at the front of the house, armed with spears. Art decided to present himself as he was, telling the truth as much as he could remember and laying himself at their mercy.


    ��Please!�� Art cried, throwing himself at their feet. ��Sanctuary!��


    The guards reacted as expected, pinning him down with their spears. When he looked up, his most convincing waterworks on display, he saw one guard nibbling at his bait. To set the hook, Art feigned a fainting spell, lying still at their feet. He even knew how to draw the blood away from his cheeks to sell the act. When he heard one guard tell the other to report Art��s arrival to their master, he knew he had been successful.


    The remaining guard poked Art��s shoulder, which hurt, but Art pushed through the pain to keep his act up. He wanted to shout in reaction but knew maintaining the charade was paramount. Just as he nearly gave in, the other guard returned and the spear was withdrawn.


    ��Orders are to bring him inside. Quickly.��


    Jackpot.


    Art was carried by one of the guards, slumped over the man��s shoulder. The shoulder bones driving into his gut were unpleasant, reminding Art that his stomach was on shaky ground. He held his contents until he was led through the lavish home. All he had to do was stay ��unconscious�� until he was in a more comfortable spot. Then he would ask for a bath, new clothes, and request a longer stay while figuring out the magistrate��s plans. The only problem was that he was plopped down on a large wooden table, not a comfortable bed.


    They couldn��t even put me on a couch? They��ve got dozens!


    Art lay motionless, waiting long enough to believably ��wake up�� and work the guards over with the next part of his scheme. With any luck, he would endear himself to the masters and convince them it was in their best interest for him to stay.


    When enough time passed, Art opened his eyes in horror to see Alaric��s mother��s pale, lifeless face about a foot away. Her body, like his, was placed on the table on full display. Art jolted up, panicked, and slid off the table, crashing to the marble ground.


    ��Tell me,�� Alaric��s father said, ��why God took my wife, but you get to live? What justice is there in this?��


    Art saw the anger in Valoricus�� reddened eyes. He realized her death might be connected to his experience the night before.


    He didn��t understand what was going on, but he knew he might not be safer in this mansion than on the streets.


    ��Tell me!��


    Art looked sheepishly into Valoricus�� broken eyes. For the first time in a long time, Art had nothing to say.

 Waking the Son

    Wake up.


    Gailavira lay the damp cloth across the Son''s forehead, wiping away the sweat beads that continued to coalesce there. She had already administered to thousands of mortal patients in her second life, prior to meeting the Son. She had only lived one actual life, of course, but she called the time spent after the death of her child and husband her second life because of how drastically different it was from the time when they were still alive. She had become something new, something worthy based upon her own merit, and her value was now derived from her dedication to saving lives. Still, there were times when she could not save her patients. Those were the times that bore the greatest burden upon her.


    The only woman of the Son��s company had been given no medical training when she had submitted herself into the sect of the Church called Mulieres Quis Sana, the Women Who Heal. When she donned the white, she told herself that she had joined them because of her sense of duty for the people of the City. It was only through the Matron Elianora��s counseling that she was able to fully understand her true motives for seeking entry into the sect.


    Her son Janus had been born with a debilitating malformation that prevented his body from gaining proper muscle mass as he grew, leaving him always behind the development of the other boys around his age and forcing him to walk with crutches. His spirit was mighty throughout all of his short life despite everything working against him. When he died after only six far-too-few years of life, he departed with far more composure than his heartbroken parents could muster. When he did finally act the way a child was supposed to behave in this circumstance and allowed himself to cry, he said it wasn��t death that scared him; rather, it was because he would miss his mother and father dearly when he went to Heaven.


    Wake up. Wake up, please.


    When her husband Petros hung himself shortly after their boy died, the already grief-stricken Gailavira was left all alone with great shame upon her family��s name added to her already heavy burden. In the City, there were many things that would bring shame upon a family. Suicide, especially by a healthy patron of a family, was among the greatest of all sources of shame that a family could be stricken with. It was nearly impossible to reestablish honor after such an act, and so Gailavira was left with no child, no husband, and no honor.


    Matron Elianora knew it all along, but made Gailavira admit her true motive for joining the order anyway. She was hiding from the weight that she bore amidst the crumbled ruins of a life once so blessed by God. It took her the better part of a year to finally understand what the Matron wanted her to understand about herself, and it took even longer for Gailavira to make noticeable progress healing her invisible but critical wounds. By the time Elianora passed away, Gailavira had mastered the application of potions, tinctures, salves, splints, and bandages, among other things. She had learned through her steadfast dedication to her second life the way to address any wound, but there was still one wound which she would never be able to fully heal, and that was her own.


    The day the Son came into her life, Gailavira welcomed him with open arms. When he explained who he was and asked for a doctor or nurse to accompany him on this impossible quest, Gailavira refused to put at risk any of the other healers at the Hospital. Instead, she offered herself, the current Matron of the Hospital, to join him on his quest. She told herself it was to protect the women under her care, but as soon as they left the City she began to question her own motives for being so willing to put herself at risk. Perhaps she simply needed a change. Perhaps she felt a kind of hopefulness, knowing that this man had the Gifts, a connection to the spirit world that put her one step closer to her lost family. She feared, however, that she was truly here because she was unwittingly putting herself face to face with death. If Elianora were here, she would probably make Gailavira admit she was only here so that she could face her family again without creating any additional shame in her passing.


    Whatever the case, she had seen firsthand the breadth of power of the denizens of death and she had witnessed this man and his companions survive an impossible battle. This wasn��t about accepting death, at least not anymore. Gailavira��s mission was now to stand in direct opposition to death, something she now knew could be defeated even at its full strength. This revelation changed Gailavira, and though she had always acted defensively against the power of death, she had never even considered that death itself could be conquered.


    And she would conquer it, with this man��s help. But first, he needed to��


    ��Wake up!��


    She loudly and without shame demanded the Son wake from his slumber as she cradled his head, no longer containing her words or her emotions within her. The others turned their heads at this most unexpected outburst from who they must have thought meek, like women were supposed to be in their culture. She saw no reason to hide the fire inside of her anymore, knowing now what was at stake. Gailavira would revive this man if she had to set off into the afterlife herself to reclaim him.


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    The Son had been unconscious and hanging on by a thread since the night before, when he collapsed after expending all of his energy reviving Isidore and moving the earth around the companions. He had his Soularms, which borrowed power from the slain demons just like the other champions, but unlike the others, the Son was not bouncing back from his exhaustion. The sun would be setting soon, and the one man who should have been best prepared to deal with such an affliction was handling it worst of all.


    Ervig placed a hand on Gailavira��s shoulder. She didn��t even bother looking up at him. He would have likely tried to calm down her emotions if she addressed him, the respectable and kind noble that he was. But Gailavira would not be cowed into a woman��s supposed place. As far as she was concerned, the City��s rules of etiquette and demeanor didn��t apply here in the wilderness. Here, she was allowed to be unapologetically herself. And that meant that she would not be afraid of demonstrating the full palette of emotions that were available to her whenever she so deemed them prudent. Right now, she felt like unleashing a ferocious rage.


    ��You��ve done all you can for him,�� Ervig said. ��We simply need to give him more time and see what the Namer has in store for him.��


    Gailavira had heard that same line before, many times, in fact. What that had amounted to years ago were countless prayers that were indeed answered, but in a way that hurt Gailavira and the ones whom she held dearest. This time was different. It had to be different. This man was the Son of the First Man, a man who possessed the very Gifts of God, the ancient abilities that had power over death itself. She was not about to let this great man and the powers that he possessed slip away.


    ��More water.�� Gailavira turned to Calix, letting him know that her order was for him. He got up immediately and sought the buckets lying by the campfire that Geilamir was at present trying to restart for the night.


    When the boy returned, Gailavira cupped a small amount of water in her hands and allowed some of it to enter the Son��s mouth. The rest, she used to wash his profusely sweating face, like she had been doing all day. She considered all of the things she had already tried, that would typically work on patients in cases of emergency. She had placed the vial of smelling salts under his nose many times to no avail once she was convinced that his sleep was unnatural and dangerous to his health. She had tried everything from administering the various potions she carried in her pack to simply talking to him, which she had done all day long with no response. She had exhausted the resources available to her through her medical training and now all that was left were the raw emotions of seeing someone important to her slip away again.


    A tear fell from Gailavira��s face onto the Son��s cheek. When she looked down through blurry eyes to wipe it away, she didn��t see the face of the Son as she expected.


    She saw Janus instead.


    Here, in her imagination, Janus was a man fully grown. His flesh had all of the muscles that were appropriate for a man to have. His face resembled his father��s, but had Gailavira��s cheekbones. He was as God always should have made him, as he never was. For a brief moment, Gailavira saw her own son in her arms, and then he opened his eyes and took in the unbelievable sight of his mother.


    ��Mamma,�� Janus said to her, as surprised to see her as she was him. Overwhelmed with this more-than-imaginative vision of her son returned unto her, Gailavira fell upon him, weeping bitterly. She knew he was dead. She understood that she was simply imagining this, even if it felt real. She didn��t care. The Son had brought Gailavira��s child back to her, just as she had unwittingly hoped that he would.


    Amidst the wailing and the sudden silence of the others in camp, Gailavira heard Janus speaking to her.


    ��Mamma, it is beautiful,�� he whispered. ��Heaven��s light shines on us, even though the way is closed. We have not stopped watching you carry on without us. Your burden is so heavy, yet you go on anyway. Mamma, you should know I was only able to survive as long as I did because I had your strength.��


    Janus studied the tears in his mother��s eyes, some kind of understanding growing within his eyes. He reached up and wiped them from her cheeks.


    ��Thank you for still loving me, even after all these years.��


    A moment later, Janus was gone. The face of the Son remained as it had been, nearly lifeless and barely breathing. Gailavira searched for Janus in this man��s face, but he was truly gone. She intensified her grief-stricken crying, considering every word that her son had said to her in the brief time that he had come and gone. The words that resonated with her the most were among his last.


    ��I was only able to survive as long as I did because I had your strength.��


    Her eyes widened, an idea forming in her head that she had not even considered before.


    She looked around her. Everyone was staring. She didn��t care about the things that they must be thinking. All she knew was that it was now her turn to put herself in harm��s way to protect the ones she cared about.


    Gailavira reached into her pack, pulling out the secret instrument that she swore she would only use in times of emergency, when there was no other option available to her.


    She, too, had been given a Soularm, just like the rest of the champions in the company. Hers, however, took the form of a small medical knife. Regardless of its size, it glowed just like the weapons of her companions. There was not a single face there among those at the camp that was not completely shocked by what Gailavira had in her hand.


    Gailavira held the Son in her arm, thinking carefully about Janus��s words.


    She knicked the tip of the pinky of her left hand, and was immediately met with an overwhelming burning sensation that overtook her whole body. It ran up her whole arm, blood boiling within her veins, spreading the heat outward to every extend of her person.


    Even despite the immense pain she inflicted upon herself, she resolved to hold her hand out and gave a part of her very soul to the man lying upon her. Through the anguish, she waited to see if her strategy would work the way she imagined it would.


    ��Wake���� was all she could say before the pain overtook her and she collapsed.

 Arrival - Part I

    He could faintly hear the sounds of someone calling to him, commanding him. It was a voice he hardly knew, feminine, not part of his core memory before the Exilium. Should he obey? By what right did that voice have to command him? His thoughts were disjointed, broken, confused. So much had happened during his exile, so many years lost. Even Father was missing in this shattered version of their world. Why were the Gifts taken from the people? Why were his brethren subjected to such an impossibly cruel fate? Why had God forsaken his creation?


    In the ethereal plane between conscious and subconscious, he found himself orphaned within himself, unable to grasp what was true and what fragments of memory floating around were falsehoods, a byproduct of the corporeal stasis that had gripped him for what had apparently been thousands of years.


    When enough pieces of his psyche coalesced into a barely aware fragment of his personhood, he resolved to sort through the nebulous catalogues of disjointed thoughts that evaded his understanding, one piece at a time.


    Swimming through the chaos, he arrived within his recent memory, the easiest to capture. It was a story scribbled hastily by hand over the faded text in the chronicles of his life. Rather than adding to the blank pages at the end of the tome, his mind had begun rewriting a new chapter over the one he had lived before. Because of this, neither recent memory nor his long-kept truths were easily discernable. He knew he still had to try, however. Everything he understood was at stake, and although he didn��t know exactly why, he knew his re-emergence into this fallen world must not be a mistake.


    Rolling back the pages of his memory, he saw the faces of the demons he had destroyed in battle alongside his newly assembled guard. There, hidden away in the scowling, spitting faces of the creatures he felled, was something familiar, but he could not make the connection he needed to understand it. So he pushed further through the slough of memories to find out what was so concerning and perhaps frightening about their faces and expressions.


    The vision of his soldiers slaughtering the demons gave way to the comfortable melee and cheering crowds he had orchestrated within the City. The City�� What was its true name? It had a name. What was it? Why did no one dare speak it aloud? Did they even know what the City��s name was? He used to know it well, so why could he not recall it? Frustration overwhelmed him, a nagging uncertainty that brought him back to the very walls of the City, the day he returned home after his exile.


    He stood in front of the massive gates of the once gloriously maintained white walls of the city of his youth, waiting to see if a guard would address his presence. Yet there were none to welcome him and bid him entry. He waited, tended only by the wild flock of sheep he had rescued on his march north from the place of his exile. He had learned the name of each of these animals through the application of the Fourth Gift and commanded them to follow him after saving them from a small pack of beast-like demons that hounded them like wolves. Demons were supposed to be exceedingly rare, yet here they were running about the world as if native to the wilds.


    When nobody responded to his calls for permission to enter, he wondered if the City itself had fallen along with the rest of the world. The level of disrepair on the outside certainly gave him that impression. If that were indeed the case, he worried about his father and the Sanctum he guarded. If the Holy Chamber had been breached, then perhaps the world had met its doom, and there was nothing he could do about it. Fear got the worst of him, and he decided that he needed the gate to come down.


    People were still living within the city, but they shot arrows at him and treated him like an invader. Something was distinctly wrong with them, and he got the impression that something unspeakable had happened to his people, infected with a blight similar to that which had befallen the rest of the world. He knew he had to get to the bottom of whatever had happened, and quickly. His father would have the answers.


    ��Tell my father �C I have returned!��


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    The streets and buildings bore only a passing resemblance to the glory of the past. Where were the marvels from across the realm? Where were the displays of wonder that had been the hallmark of the capital? Where were the street lamps, the glowing signs, and every other energy-powered object that were typically found everywhere the eye could see? The entirety of the city��s lights and powered structures had been completely shut down or removed, as if they had never existed at all. He had never seen his beloved home so fallen to ruin. If it were not for the walls that surrounded them, nature itself would have claimed this place long ago. His father would surely have answers.


    When he arrived at the Temple, he gazed upon the Highest Height and the Pearly Stair that led up to the Sanctum. Apart from the marvelous display of lights that typically adorned the Temple, the building still looked well-maintained. The marble from which the stairs were cut had seemingly withstood the test of time, an encouraging sight. At the top of the temple, the Eternal Flame still persisted in its dutiful beaconhood despite the miles of decay that had overtaken the city.


    Two men in peak physical health, wearing the garb of monks, stood at the bottom of the stair, the only obstacles since his forced entry into the city that dared stand against him. They looked at one another, most likely trying to figure out what to make of him, as well as the mass of people that had grown considerably on the way from the gate to the Temple. He stopped in front of these men, knowing full well that they were likely to try to stop him, and he did not want to resort to violence if he could avoid it.


    ��You men guard this temple, yes?�� he said, already knowing the answer. When the men simply nodded, eyeing him with great suspicion, he continued without waiting longer for a reply. ��Has the message been relayed? If not, go and tell my father I have returned. I have much I need to discuss with him.��


    The two men tilted their chins up at him, a clear sign of opposition. As a younger man, he would have lost his patience with such acts of defiance. Instead, he considered more peaceful ways to bypass the muscle standing in his way. His studying of the men must have unnerved one of them, as the one on the right finally spoke up.


    ��I know not who you are, nor from where you hail,�� the monk said. ��I do not know who your father is, but he isn��t up there.��


    Insolence.


    ��I can assure you that my father will want to see me at once. My exile is complete; I have come to return to my rightful place here. If you will not permit me entrance, then you must at once deliver the news that I have arrived.��


    The monk shook his head, still not understanding or believing his claims. ��The only person permitted upon these steps is the Priest Consul. If you insist that you are his son, you are accusing the highest priest of the land of adultery. I recommend that you do not do that.��


    Now the crowd had amassed around him, watching his every move. People who had witnessed the scene at the gates began shouting at the monks, who became further and further on guard. The monk on the left had apparently had enough of the escalating situation and immediately withdrew to the side of the stair, where he hammered an enormous gong which rang out with great volume across the square.


    Judging by the nervous reaction of the people gathered there, that must have meant trouble �C an alarm. He had assumed correctly, as within twenty seconds, a great many additional monks poured out of the nearby buildings, each as physically fit as the ones standing in front of the stair. They pressed forward and stood in his way, blocking him completely with their bodies.


    Just as the situation seemed the most dire, he caught sight of a figure standing atop the Temple, at the Highest Height. The man wore similar vestments to what his father wore, but apart from that, he did not bear any resemblance to his father. Dread swept over him, realizing suddenly that he was all alone and the whole world may truly be lost like a herd of sheep with no shepherd.


    If even Father has passed from this world, what hope is there for humanity?


    His mind raced, trying to comprehend the world to which he had returned, trying to understand what could possibly be done at this point, now that all had been lost. As he looked around at the monks standing in his way and the masses of people of all walks of life eagerly watching him, waiting to see what he would do next �C he came to the realization that they were not merely looking at him with wonder �C they were the flock, and they wanted a shepherd.


    They long for�� salvation.


    The man standing at the top of the Temple called out with a well-exercised voice, clearly accustomed to speaking to the masses.


    ��Send him up. I would speak with this man.��


    Unbelievably, the monks who had all stood in his way immediately obeyed this man��s command and split apart, leaving an opening for him to ascend the Pearly Stair.


    Finally, I will have some answers...

 Arrival - Part II

    Time and space shattered in a blast, as if he had been hit by one of the war machines of old, now forgotten in the place where he found himself. Father�� where have you gone? The time before his exile was out of reach, and this new world was barely reminiscent of the one where he had spent his life. His thoughts meandered and splintered into a thousand directions, underscored by the passionate pleading of an unfamiliar feminine voice. Where was I? A vision of the Eternal Flame blazing atop the Pearly Stair after millennia of decay came to the forefront of his mind. The Pearly Stair.


    He grounded his memory in his most recent trip up the Pearly Stair, his birthright. Who are these people who claim authority to deny me entry? An old man with white hair stood atop the stair, unblinking, daring to stand where his father belonged. He had vast disagreements with how his father ran civilization from atop this temple, but never once did he think another man might be better suited for the job, not even himself. The world had fallen away, and this man had taken his father��s place �C he didn��t need more confirmation of mismanagement than that.


    The man��s face didn��t betray his confidence, but neither did it display a warm welcome. This man understood that his place at the top of society could be threatened by his return. He prepared himself for the conflict that would likely ensue but hoped to find answers to the questions burning in his mind. This man might be an adversary, but he needed him alive, at least for now.


    The priest at the top of the temple spread his hands wide and then clasped them at his center, his posture radiating confidence despite the challenge to his power. As he arrived near the top of the stair, the man said nothing. Not wanting to be the first to speak, he gazed into the priest��s eyes, demanding answers without words. To his surprise, the man matched his intensity and didn��t break.


    Their silent battle for superiority lasted longer than it would take a child to recite the alphabet three times. At last, the priest, a man well beyond his prime, addressed him with a cold, slow cadence.


    ��Who is the man who has come knocking with such violence that he has forced his entry into this citadel and dares to ascend to this most sacred of places?��


    A politician. He hated politics of all kinds, for it was politics that forced him into exile. It seemed that even after the entire world had changed, politics remained the same. Such a pity that this, the worst brand of human behavior, should not have been lost with all else that had fallen away. Fine�� if I must. He took a breath, choosing his words like a gladiator chooses a weapon.


    ��Take one look in my eyes and tell me who it is that you see.��


    The priest scoffed at the remark but denied the request. ��You understand the importance of the chamber standing before you, I pray?��


    ��Better than you can fathom.��


    ��Then you know that I cannot risk having an outsider whose intentions within it are not spoken aloud past this point.��


    ��I am no outsider, though you see me as such.��


    ��Truly?�� the priest said. ��Then state your name so I may send for the record of your birth.��


    ��There will be no such record in your repositories, for my birth predates your bureaucracy.��


    ��Is that so?�� the priest said, laughing slightly.


    He knows more than he lets on. Asking my name was no mistake.


    ��And who is he who stands in my way?�� he asked. ��What is your name?��


    ��My name is no secret,�� said the high priest. ��I am Quintus, of the Maximilii. I am Mystic Consul of the City, the protector and keeper of this Sanctum and its mysteries.��


    He speaks his name openly. He is either very foolish or he is lying. The temptation to use his name against him was almost too great, but he hesitated, as that was still one of the oldest High Crimes.


    ��What is this consul business?�� he said, stepping back to seek clearer answers. ��The City has never employed nor needed the services of a consul. Where has he gone? Where is my father?��


    The consul��s visage darkened, as if he had been dealt a slight setback. Perhaps he was starting to believe him? Rather than give in, the consul regrouped his defense.


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    ��I cannot confirm anything for you until you provide me with a name.��


    He knows something. This is the second time he requests my name.


    ��You know who I am.��


    ��I cannot say that I do. You will have to be more specific.��


    ��You know of me, I can see it in your face.�� He nodded, more sure of the priest��s understanding. The consul shook his head, continuing the charade. ��Enough. You will step aside and permit me entrance. I will have answers to the questions I seek.��


    ��I will not.��


    He found himself reaching for Glory, his Soularm in the form of a sword, convinced that saber-rattling was the next correct play.


    ��So quick to resort to violence,�� the consul said, low and stern. ��Shame.��


    ��It can end here if you move aside and cooperate.��


    ��Shame.��


    Who is this man to dare shame me? He inched Glory out of its sheath slightly so the white light of its blade would draw the consul��s attention. The consul looked upon it, fascination trumping his castigation. He smiled, then did a quarter turn, revealing that his father��s vestments were not the only things this man had assumed.


    ��You have no right to bear that blade,�� he said, horrified to see his father��s Soularm, Creation, being worn by a mere man. ��And if you are wise, you will not seek to antagonize me further.�� He stepped up at last, off the stair and onto even ground with the consul.


    ��You really don��t know anything, do you? Wake up.�� The consul turned back to face him, apparently satisfied with the reaction he had caused.


    ��Take it off and hand it here,�� he said, extending his arm forcefully, the temptation to swipe at his father��s Soularm nearly overtaking him.


    ��No. It is mine to bear by right. Your father is gone. When he left, he split what remained of his kingdom in half. To the Senate, he gave the charge of caring for the physical well-being of those who were left after the Fall. He assigned the care of their souls to us, his Church. The Senate is the shield of this City, but I�� I am the sword that lies in wait should the forces of evil breach these hallowed grounds. This sword belongs to me. I bear it by right.��


    He didn��t know what to think. If what this man said was true, then he had no legal right to claim ownership of the Soularm or the Sanctum, his father��s house. He turned around and studied the City, a vastly different place than what he knew when he departed. Everywhere he looked, he saw ruin and decay, a poor comparison to the City at its height.


    ��The City���� he said, thinking carefully about his words. ��It is dying.��


    ��You see it wrong,�� the consul said. ��For this City is the last vestige of light on this planet. Everything else has fallen. We are all that is left. Your father��s vast kingdom lies in ruins. The unfaithful have become demons. The Gifts that powered the Great Ages of the past have been taken away from even those loyal to God, but we still stand despite overwhelming odds against us.��


    ��But�� why?�� He didn��t understand how such a great civilization could have collapsed. It didn��t seem possible, yet his eyes were as sharp as ever and the truth was naked everywhere he looked.


    ��Because we failed to do the one task which was asked of us for too long, and God spared no one from his punishment except those who remained here within these walls. The Great Cities beyond these borders are no more. Nothing out there is worth saving now, for all of it is already lost. Wake up.��


    He considered everything the consul had said. It was all so much to take in. Where did that leave him? What place in this world was there for such as him? What was left to protect, if all had been so lost? As he gazed on the people amassed below, a calmness overtook him.


    ��What you said,�� he muttered, ��may be factually correct according to your histories. But it is not the truth.��


    Consul Maximilius raised an eyebrow at him.


    ��The Gifts may have been taken away from you, but they have not been taken away from me.��


    The consul��s eyes widened, endless possibilities crossing his mind.


    ��Quintus Maximilius, you will sanction my request to hold a tournament. From this competition, I shall muster the greatest champions this City has to offer, and we will go forth into the world and reclaim it, inch by inch.��


    The consul locked eyes with him, shaking uncontrollably, drool coming out of his mouth. He didn��t want it to come to this, but his mind was made up and no politician would stand in his way. It was the beginning of a new day for this world, and now all that was left was to��


    ��WAKE UP!!!��


    Gasping for air, his body contracted and lurched forward out of his sleeping position. The world of his mind faded away as he was brought back to reality. He was surrounded by champions, all of whom had proven him right �C they could, indeed, survive against the denizens of darkness. One day at a time, they could whittle away at the forces of the demons. If this victory was possible without even one casualty, then anything was possible.


    Yet, it was too soon to celebrate the idea that there were no casualties. For, writhing in agony at his side was the lady Gailavira, the secret Soularm knife they had created lying unceremoniously on the ground, the hint of a fragment of a soul gleaming upon its edges.


    No. Not against you. It cannot be used against yourself. He gazed into Gailavira��s face, the light fleeing from her eyes as she had opted to use her soul as fuel to revive him. She muttered, weakly, ��wake up���� too far gone to realize that she had been victorious in her attempt to awaken him.


    He called out at once for his horse, for he knew it by name. As soon as it arrived, he placed Gailavira upon it and mounted it himself. As everyone realized he was leaving them, he heard the boy Alaric call out to him.


    ��Where are you taking her?��


    ��To the Sanctum atop the Temple!�� He pressed forth back upon the road to the City, not even caring that he had left the Spear, his other Soularm, behind with his champions. He only had so much time before her soul would be broken and she would lose her chance at eternity. Glory and faith would be the only protection he needed for this trip home.

 Departure

    ��What now?�� asked Euric, turning to his cousin Bulgar and Fridok, who stood idly nearby. They were soldiers suddenly without their commander. It was an honest question for Euric to ask, and Fridok was thinking the same thing. After all, the Son was the only one who knew the lay of the land and what dangers might lurk around every corner. He had already put significant distance between himself and the others as he carried Gailavira��s unconscious body back to the City. Bulgar shrugged, offering no solutions. Fridok wanted to follow the Son and considered borrowing a horse to catch up to him. At least that would put some distance between him and Alaric, allowing him to focus on more pressing matters.


    ��We really should follow him,�� Alaric said, seemingly just as surprised as Fridok that everyone else was letting him go without packing up and following. ��He didn��t tell us to stay here, right? I would think he would expect us to meet him back at the City.��


    ��He wouldn��t want that,�� Fridok said, betraying his own desire. ��If we all go back, especially so soon, then the whole City will think we failed. If he goes by himself, then he��s just riding back to save the lady. As soon as he gets her illness straightened out, they will come right back to continue the campaign as planned.�� The more he talked, the more he second-guessed his own reasoning. He needed to focus, but he was doing a poor job of it.


    ��You really think she��s coming back?�� Geilamir said, doubt oozing from every word. ��She used a Soularm on herself. Maybe for a regular knife that would have been a mere cut, but these weapons are made to destroy �C not just kill. How much can one soul be wounded before it��s broken beyond repair?��


    ��Enough,�� said Ervig. ��Speak no evil. Consider the young ears and choose softer words.��


    ��Soft?�� spat Geilamir. ��Since when were you ever soft on us when we were their age? In case you forgot, we��re not out on holiday here. Being soft just means it��s easier for one of them to rip you open.��


    ��He wouldn��t leave us so quickly if he didn��t think it would save her,�� Calix said, teetering on shaky emotional footing. ��He��s right,�� Alaric added.


    ��I hope the kid is right,�� Geilamir said. ��But that��s not our battle to fight right now. If he wanted us to come with him, he would have said so. I agree with Fridok-��


    ��That��s a first,�� Alaric said, interrupting. Geilamir continued, ��He��s right, though. We signed up to do this thing, and we��re not done yet. We go back now, and what have we gained? It would be a Rorlic victory.��


    ��Not really,�� Alaric said. ��We have proven that the demons can be stopped. I think that��s good news worth celebrating.��


    ��It��s absolutely Rorlic,�� Geilamir insisted. Fridok turned to Bulgar and, at the risk of sounding stupid, asked, ��What does that mean?�� Bulgar nodded, eager to explain without judgment. ��Rorlizs was an enemy of the City in the Second Age. He won many battles against the Toriad forces but didn��t win any land or anything meaningful, so he had nothing to show for the trouble. He was eventually defeated after overextending his legions because he caught wind of people mocking his victories.��


    ��Oh,�� Fridok said. ��Thanks.�� Bulgar nodded.


    ��People will be ecstatic once they find out how many we��ve killed,�� Alaric insisted. ��We��ve always assumed they were unbeatable, and now we have definitive proof that we can turn the tide.��


    ��But we haven��t turned the tide yet,�� Geilamir reminded him. ��In fact, we have no idea how many there are out here. For all we know, we could have only put down a small raiding party. We have done little reconnaissance and don��t know much else about them aside from the fact that they go down easily when we use our Soularms. We could spend the rest of our lives out here killing demons and still not make any meaningful progress. We don��t know if and how often they reproduce. We don��t know how they organize-��


    ��I disagree,�� Alaric said. ��We know the screamer commanded the ones we killed.��


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    Geilamir was quick to disagree again. ��We don��t even know that for sure. They could have simply been reacting to the sound. Hell, I��m just a regular guy, and that shrieking would have driven me to start attacking anything moving, too. At any point in that onslaught, did you once hear them actually communicating with one another? Were there any actual tactics involved that you noticed? From my point of view, they were simply throwing themselves at us without any sign of intelligence. And I hate to say it, but the thought that they most likely have no organizational structure or minds of their own makes them sound a lot less beatable than if they did have commanders and ranks. At least then, they could surrender.��


    Alaric looked defeated, an optimist facing his first real taste of reality with all the ugly truths that go along with it. Fridok felt bad for him. Alaric had been nothing but kind to him, and just a day ago Fridok would have jumped at the opportunity to defend him. Now, because of what scared Fridok about himself, he found himself resisting the urge to protect Alaric, even as a friend. He couldn��t let anyone know the truth about what he felt for the young noble because it would mean opening himself up in a way that he had sworn never to embrace. Besides, the boy was too far above his station �C even if Fridok was allowed to explore these newfound feelings for Alaric, there was no way he would ever be permitted to be the dominant partner to the son of a Senator �C that alone would invite death upon him. So, Fridok kept his mouth shut and allowed Geilamir to berate Alaric, even though he felt he was betraying him by doing so.


    ��I still think the people would appreciate some good news,�� Alaric said weakly.


    ��I hate to say it, but this time I agree with Geilamir,�� said Ervig. Alaric looked even more defeated when the older man aligned himself against him. ��Triumphs and titles were always won when land was secured �C when a whole people were defeated. Maybe if we can capture and fortify a strategic location, we might be able to return in glory, but not after just one battle.��


    ��But what if the Son runs into trouble on the way back?�� said Xanthus, who quickly regretted speaking up as Ervig shot him a raised eyebrow. Being Ervig��s ward, he should have known better than to challenge his lord. ��I just think he could probably use some support, is all����


    ��He��s fully capable of handling himself,�� Ervig said, after silently chastising the boy. ��If we follow, we will only slow him down. We hold the camp until he gets back.��


    ��The boy has a point,�� said Isidore, who had remained silent until now. ��Sure, he can handle himself in a fight. There��s no question about that. But what if he��s surrounded? He��s not alone �C he��s got the lady. He will avoid a fight where he can, but what if he can��t? You think he can protect her and himself at the same time? Even the Gifts have their limits �C we should understand that now better than ever.��


    Ervig didn��t look pleased. ��We are not leaving. We haven��t earned anything yet.��


    Isidore ignored him and began packing his things.


    ��He would have told us to come if he wanted us to come,�� Ervig echoed Geilamir��s sentiment. ��But it seems as though, once again, you��re going to do whatever you want. Just like you always have.��


    Isidore met Alaric��s eyes, smiling at him. He winked.


    ��I think we��re both right,�� Isidore said as he rolled up his bedroll. ��A few of us will follow after and make sure they make it back to the City. He may be able to handle himself against demons, but I��m not so sure he��s ready for a fight against the entirety of the Astrum Order. We��ve both seen what those monks can do.��


    ��I��m going, too,�� said Alaric, without hesitating. ��He might need my father��s help if the Senate tries to throw the law at him.��


    ��Me too,�� insisted Calix, already gathering his things. ��If you all pass out again, I can watch over you. The lady told me how to help.��


    Ervig was perturbed at the sudden challenges to what probably seemed like the only wise plan of action. When Euric quietly tiptoed past Ervig to join Isidore��s crew, Ervig gave Xanthus a stern look, reminding him it was in his best interest to stay put. Xanthus remained seated, as did the others who stayed at the camp.


    ��Well then,�� Isidore said. ��It��s settled. You lot will hold the camp, and we will return to the City to make sure the Son has the support he needs. We will be back as soon as the lady is on her feet again.�� He walked up next to Ervig to assure him. ��I promise we will celebrate no triumphs until we��ve come back for you and captured something worth celebrating.��


    Just like that, the group splintered. Fridok found himself second-guessing his actions as he was left alone with Geilamir, Bulgar, Xanthus, and Ervig. As he looked around, he considered what it all meant.


    He found peace when he realized how significantly more beautiful the world outside was compared with the run-down tenement housing where he had spent his whole life. It was suddenly funny to him how he had almost forgotten to appreciate the beauty of the land amidst the carnage and carnal desire that had clouded his mind until now.


    He breathed deeply and settled in for a long wait. Maybe now he could sort through his feelings, or, more likely, bury them amongst the wreckage of every vehicle of hope he had ever dared to pursue, his sword being the one exception.


    Stay well, Alaric.

 Two Arms!

    ��We��ve got to do better than this!�� called Isidore from his horse. It was true. Alaric and the others needed to increase their pace significantly if they were going to catch up with the Son. We shouldn��t have hesitated so long. Alaric didn��t want to accept that, no matter how much he wanted to follow the Son, it would ultimately prove a fool��s errand. Still, they all knew it was their sacred duty, and they would do whatever it took to get there eventually. Retracing their steps closely, Alaric was already familiar with the landscape, but it worried him that they were racing headlong without paying enough attention to potential dangers lying in wait.


    The beats of their horses�� hooves upon the ground eventually synced up to form a kind of metronome, which naturally made Alaric think of music. His thoughts turned to the battle tunes of old, with their prominent drumming that soldiers used to maintain a steady pace as they marched off to war. He had always been drawn to studying that genre of music, with its commanding purpose to every word and verse. Perhaps it was simply because it made him feel closer to the Heroes of history, those brave commanders and soldiers who had become the stuff of legend. Admiring those people and studying the songs sung about them brought Alaric comfort. It was another thing entirely to follow in their footsteps and march off to war, albeit with much less fanfare and a much smaller army. After getting his own taste of true combat, he was already convinced he would much rather study those Heroes from the comfort of his own room or, better yet, the Library.


    No matter how hard they pressed their horses, the quartet could not bridge the gap between them �C the Son had too much of a head start and too fast a horse for them to catch up with him. At best, they would rally with him back at the City. Should he be intercepted by monsters, then at worst they would ride in and provide aid at that time. Either way, it made Alaric terribly nervous not to be riding at his leader��s side, where he was needed.


    ��There��s no chance we��ll catch up!�� cried Euric over the hoofbeats. Alaric already knew this but hated hearing the words spoken, as it made his denial harder.


    ��We��ve got to try!�� Alaric called back in defiance. ��Press harder and keep the pace!�� Alaric knew the pace was unsustainable, pushing their mounts much harder than they should for such a long journey. They set out to follow and support the Son, so to stop or slow down now meant they might as well have not left camp at all. The horses could rest when they got to the City. If they could just push a little harder, they might close in on him...


    ��Oh, shit!�� yelled Euric. ��Look out!��


    Euric pulled hard left on his horse��s reins, narrowly avoiding a long-armed scaly demon lying in wait. It reached for him, but he managed to evade its clutches. Alaric, who was in the rear of the three horses, was able to react in time to avoid the creature, but Isidore and Calix on Isidore��s horse did not have nearly enough time to dodge the ambush. The demon lashed out with both bony hands, striking their horse in an attempt to bring it down. Isidore tried to control the horse, but the demon��s claws slashed a gaping wound from its foreleg to its hindleg.


    Screaming in sheer pain and terror, the horse ran erratically as fast as it could from its attacker, blood spraying across the dirt as it bounded away. It may have narrowly escaped the ambush, but it was too scared to control, bucking in an attempt to free itself from its passengers. Isidore managed to hold on, but Calix was thrown off after the horse��s third attempt. It charged away, Isidore hanging on for dear life as he attempted to stop it. He turned his head to see where Calix had landed but was redirected immediately by the horse��s flight.


    Alaric called out to Euric, trying to get him to turn around. They needed to save the boy, who had landed hard on a patch of desert grass and wasn��t moving. The demon scrambled toward Calix, its ambush successful. Alaric pulled hard on his horse��s reins and turned around to try to save the fallen ward.


    Fear ballooned in Alaric��s mind, primarily for the safety of Calix. Alaric always felt bad for the boy �C his disfigurement being the greatest factor standing against his ascension into prominence. Were his appearance not a factor, he would have had a high likelihood of rising to the heights of his bloodline politically. The Sybilla family was as well-known as they come in the City, their prominence stretching back to the time of the earliest consuls. Calix��s father alone had been elected Senate consul three times in a row before retiring, a worthy contributor to the family��s long and storied legacy.


    When Calix was sent full-time to the martial academy for training, it became apparent that the only way he would rise in the ranks would be to prove himself in the arena before partaking in any politics. His father always said it was the best way to toughen him up for the mean-spirited political battles that awaited him later in life. Now all of that hung in the balance, and it was up to Alaric to save the boy from an untimely end.


    Alaric neared the place where Calix had fallen and withdrew Daemonore. It wasn��t easy, as the Soularm was large and unwieldy while mounted. Still, he did his best to hold the blade out in preparation to strike down the demon. Unfortunately for both of them, the demon was much faster than it appeared.


    The hideous creature used its long arms as a spring, launching itself into the air and directly upon Calix, who was just starting to come around.


    ��No!�� Alaric shouted. The demon scooped up Calix in one massive arm and used the other to leap away just as Alaric was within arm��s length. With only one arm available to balance itself, it landed hard and ungracefully several yards away. Alaric pulled his horse to a sudden stop, but he didn��t account for his speed and the fact that he was holding on with only one arm. He nearly made contact between Daemonore and the horse, but corrected himself before tragedy occurred. Because of this, Alaric continued moving while the horse stopped.


    With no soul energy to empower his acrobatics, Alaric landed in a somersault, letting go of Daemonore to avoid ending up on the wrong side of the Soularm. When he finally came to a stop, he scrambled back toward Daemonore, and, in doing so, had an orchestra-level seat to the show the creature was about to perform.


    The creature reached Daemonore faster than Alaric and, with its free hand, lifted a massive stone and slammed it down upon the Soularm, covering it completely and rendering it inaccessible if not destroying his dear sword altogether. Then, it set its eyes upon Alaric and tilted forward like any predator does when it knows it has its prey dead to rights.


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    Alaric turned to find his horse had run away, leaving him stranded and helpless against a foe he stood no chance of defeating. He thought of his training, but none of it had ever prepared him to fight such a foe without any weapons to defend himself.


    The creature leaped forward, easily closing in on Alaric, then pulled its free hand back to strike. Alaric braced for the attack, the only course of action he had remaining. It bellowed a roar, which sounded more like a series of loud, low-pitched clicking noises, and leaned in for the strike. It stopped just short of making contact when an arrow narrowly missed it by less than a foot.


    It spun around, spotting Euric who had gotten close enough to start firing at the demon but far enough away that his arrows were subject to the whims of the wind. It was fortuitous that he distracted the demon long enough for Alaric to put some distance between himself and the demon, but that fortune didn��t last long as the creature took the opportunity to find cover among nearby rock formations. Euric, suddenly without a clear shot, waited to see if the demon would make the first move. It did, but not in the way Euric and Alaric needed.


    The demon hurled a head-sized stone at Euric, who quickly realized how accurate its throw was. He pressed his horse forward as fast as he could, but the stone still came within a few feet of him.


    ��Any ideas?�� Euric called to Alaric as he continued to move, dodging rocks of varying sizes cast at him. With the pile of stones in front of it and an overlook behind it providing cover, the demon had taken a very defensible position. This made Alaric more convinced that these larger demons might possess some form of intelligence. Alaric darted toward the place where the demon had crushed Daemonore, hoping the Soularm was still intact. When he reached it, he realized the stone was too heavy to lift on his own.


    Damn it!


    He pressed at the stone as hard as he could with his arms and then his feet, but to no avail. It wouldn��t budge, at least not until Alaric got ahold of some soul energy to empower his muscles. As he backed away to lunge all his body weight at the stone, he inadvertently avoided a rock, at least thirty pounds, dedicated to him. It crashed to the ground with a thud. Nearly at the bottom of his well of hope, Alaric thought of a new plan.


    If I can get it to hit the boulder, perhaps it will move enough for me to get Daemonore from underneath.


    Alaric hid behind the stone, waving at the demon, trying to taunt it into throwing a rock at him. It worked a few times, but each time, it seemed as if the demon was onto his plan and intentionally avoided hitting the target. It frustrated Alaric to no end, but then he realized he could still use this to their advantage.


    ��I��ll keep distracting him �C you try and get an angle on him,�� Alaric shouted to Euric, who was still searching for a good opening in hopes of catching the demon making a mistake.


    ��Keep your eyes open!�� Euric shouted back, pressing his horse onward to find a better angle. As he did, the monster caught on and redirected its projectiles toward Euric, who narrowly avoided being hit.


    ��You too!�� Alaric shouted back. He jumped out from behind the stone, figuring that if the monster was focused on Euric, it would give him another opportunity to dislodge Daemonore. He found a large tree branch nearby, thinking he could use it as a wedge to free his blade. As soon as he made a dash for it, he heard Euric call out.


    ��Two arms!��


    To arms? What did he mean by that? Alaric quickly figured out it wasn��t a battle cry at all. The demon was now hurling rocks with both arms, one aimed at each of them. The rock aimed at Alaric bounced and crashed against his left leg, throwing Alaric to the ground. The pain was immediate and nearly crippling. He wouldn��t be making any sudden moves now.


    Euric was no more successful than Alaric in getting into position. Keenly aware that Euric needed a clear shot to hit it, the demon repositioned behind a large stone jutting out of the ground, still behind cover as Euric moved. No longer holding Calix in its arm, it was free to continue hurling boulders at both Euric and Alaric. Alaric pressed through the pain, pushing himself with his good leg out of the way of the oncoming missiles. Each time he did, the pain grew exponentially. He knew he couldn��t keep dodging forever.


    ��Hit the damn thing already!�� Alaric called out in desperation.


    ��I can��t hit it if I can��t see it!��


    The situation seemed hopeless. Alaric began to feel as if each rock was like a grain of sand in a nearly depleted hourglass counting down to the end of his life. He knew it would only be a matter of time before one of those rocks would again make contact, likely fatal the next time. His eyes danced between Euric and the demon, watching it skillfully avoid Euric��s line of sight while hurling an apparently infinite number of rocks at them without succumbing to exhaustion.


    Alaric bit his lip to press through the pain, crawling back toward the rock to at least have cover. It took everything he had, but he managed to push through the pain to get there. It was now up to Euric to defeat the creature, and Alaric feared the worst.


    With every thud of a stone hitting the ground, he thought again of the battle tunes that soldiers used to march to in days gone by. The creature��s throws created a steady beat, much slower than the horses�� hooves but at regular intervals where Alaric could almost hear soldiers marching to the drums. And then, as Alaric sorted through his mind to find the perfect song to match the beat, the sounds of the rocks pounding upon the ground suddenly came to a halt.


    No��


    Alaric knew that if the pounding had stopped, either the demon or Euric had won. Knowing Euric and how enthusiastic he always was after a victory, Alaric knew in his heart that all hope was now lost.


    He resigned himself to his fate, resting his back upon the stone, his one source of salvation nearby but completely out of reach. He closed his eyes, thinking of the things in his life he would never again be able to enjoy. He always thought he was too young to die, but what did he expect when he signed up for this fool��s errand? This was an unwinnable war. How could they have hoped to defeat all the evil across the land? It all seemed so foolish now, here at the end of his song.


    Alaric heard his mother��s voice, singing to him like she did when he was a small child. He found comfort in it, and it seemed almost real, as if she was here with him. At least he tried. Maybe that would finally make Father proud of him. The pain in his leg began to fade as he refocused his mind on the inevitable peace that would come when he at last passed into the unknown.


    His peace was broken as the rock behind him suddenly shifted. He opened his eyes, jutting forward and cringing as he expected the demon��s claws to crash down upon him.


    ��Are you able to stand?�� a familiar voice asked in a comforting tone. The voice belonged to Isidore Maritium. Alaric turned around to see his mentor standing above him, glowing with vibrant soul energy. Where the rock had stood lay Daemonore, seemingly no worse for wear. In the distance, Euric was carefully lifting Calix onto his horse. He nodded in relief when he saw Alaric��s face. Alaric placed Daemonore back in its sheath.


    ��It got my leg pretty good,�� Alaric told Isidore. ��Not sure I can get up.��


    ��How about you lean on me? I suppose in a few hours I��ll need you to do the same for me, but for now, let��s get up on your horse.��


    Seeing that they would both be riding on Alaric��s horse and Isidore��s horse was nowhere in sight made Alaric understand the sacrifice Isidore must have made to come to their rescue. Alaric wondered if he would have had the willpower to make the same choice if the roles were reversed. He supposed that there would possibly be many more hard choices on the path they had all freely chosen.


    ��We all did the best we could,�� Isidore said as they mounted the horse. ��Let��s take the rest of the path more carefully. We will get there when we can.��

 Something Foul in the Air

    Ever since he had regained his legs, Art had walked himself straight from one disaster to another. He was beginning to think his new legs were cursed and that it might have been better if he had never regrown them. Considering the mysterious nature of the Gifts the Son had used to regenerate his legs, Art began to suspect something foul was in the air. The fact that he had inexplicably been incapacitated around the time Alaric��s mother died convinced him that he shouldn��t have looked that gift horse in the mouth.


    Art was thankful for the begrudging hospitality provided by Valoricus. He could hardly blame Valoricus for his reluctance to host him. The man was in mourning, after all. For all they knew, Valoricus had not only lost his wife but likely his only son in the same week. Art knew it was best to stay low and keep to himself, or he could easily find himself on the receiving end of the wrath of a man who had lost his entire family. It was unfortunate, then, that the path to the main latrine of the house was crawling with very important-looking men wearing togas. Art really needed to find a place to relieve himself �C a greasy, odorous one that he knew would be the envy of livestock everywhere.


    If only he knew of another latrine that wasn��t so close to the group of loud old men.


    Art peeped his head out of the guest room where he had been sequestered since arriving at the manor. He had managed to keep to himself fairly well, all things considered, and kept his head down. Knowing the alternative was being cast back into the streets where the guards of a psychotic magistrate might spot him and bring him back in for round two of whatever evil plans the man had for him, Art had no issue with staying quiet �C even though it was well outside his character.


    Since his arrival, the lord of the place had occupied himself with other things, so Art figured that as long as he made himself scarce, his chances of staying out of danger were much greater than if he made his presence known. Valoricus would hopefully be too busy with funeral arrangements and secret meetings to bother himself with throwing Art out. It was a nice place. The open-air courtyard in the middle made it more likely that the impending smells would be carried off with the wind.


    Art overheard one man raise his voice in apparent frustration, but he couldn��t catch what he was so worked up about, and honestly, Art didn��t care. Whatever they were discussing was clearly not as pressing as the matters to which Art needed to attend.


    Think, Art, think.


    There was no way he could reach the latrine without walking right by the group of men, so Art tried to think of his options. He spotted a large urn and, for one brief second, considered dragging it into the room and unloading into it.


    No, they will surely sniff it out.


    He thought about sneaking out a window and finding a spot by the horses to mask the smell, but a stable boy would certainly not be happy to see him do it. Besides, Art had determined never to lower himself to squatting in public again, now that he had been touched by godly hands and made whole again. He needed a proper latrine to maintain this new standard of life. He was above squatting in the streets now.


    That��s it.


    Art thought about how Valoricus must feel about himself, being of high pedigree and fancying himself an important player in the City��s leadership. There was no way that man would share a latrine with guests �C he would surely have one all for himself somewhere private where no one could disturb him during his very important business. Since the master of the house was preoccupied, now might be the only opportunity Art would have to seek it out.


    It will be a fast one, I know it. I��ll be in and out, like a cat at a fishmonger��s stall. He��ll never be any the wiser.


    Making sure that everybody��s eyes were upon each other, Art slipped away, down the corridor toward the master��s quarters. He passed a slave girl along the way, but she was too busy tending to the flowers in the garden. Under normal circumstances, he would have tried to get her attention, as she was pretty good-looking with the exception of eyebrows that were a bit too bushy. But these were no normal circumstances, and he needed to avoid detection if he was to pull off this great act of deception.


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    Just as he thought he had managed to sneak by, his sandal hit the stone floor a little too hard, and the lass turned toward the noise. Art played it off the best he could, knowing that if she detected any hint of what he was truly about, she would likely rat him out. Worse yet, if she knew what he was about to do, or, Namer forbid, happened to smell it, she would never look at him the same way again. Of course, they had never spoken, but Art didn��t want to lose that opportunity.


    He locked eyes with her, smiling and waving sheepishly with one hand. She looked at Art with suspicion, then turned toward the group surrounding Valoricus and then back at Art.


    ��Why are you sneaking around all suspicious-like?�� she whispered. Art exaggerated his surprise and responded low. ��What? Me? I��m not acting suspicious. I just needed to stretch my legs a bit and didn��t want to bother the guests. Sorry to bother you.��


    She brought her garden knife back to the plant in front of her and continued to prune it, still watching him with distrust. Art almost whistled to seem more inconspicuous, but stopped himself as that would surely bring the wrong kind of attention. Instead, he pretended to adjust and stretch his jaw, making himself yawn in the process. On the outside, he felt cool as a cucumber. Inside, however, his guts were launching a crusade against demonic forces of their own. There wasn��t much time before the flood of demons arrived.


    He clenched his cheeks together and tried to play it cool as he walked away, not going directly for the master��s quarters, but rounding a corner instead. Once he struck a balance between waiting to ensure she was no longer watching and running as fast as his new feet could carry him into the chamber, he tiptoed back where he had just been and slipped, he hoped, silently and undetected into the lord��s bedroom.


    Sure enough, there was a private latrine connected to the master��s chamber, built right into the room. Art spearheaded himself into the fanciest crapping place he had ever laid eyes on, ripping off his pants and reaching his deliverance at long last. The seat was made of marble �C marble! An artisan had actually taken the time to chisel expensive marble into the shape of a latrine seat, and someone had actually purchased such a ridiculously decadent thing. Art almost felt bad about what he had to do in it.


    It came almost instantly, so fast that Art was amazed he didn��t soil his breeches on the way. ��Thank the Namer for that,�� he thought, and then his gut gave him another go, this time producing a comically fun sound to go along with it. Along with the sweat and the smell, Art was granted a great boon of relief as the battlefield of his bowels was at last put to the history books.


    He was quite proud of himself, if he had to admit it. So much so that when the door opened suddenly, he had a big cheeky smile on his face. It was undone immediately, as he feared that the nice little slave girl would never be able to look at him the same way again. But it wasn��t the slave girl who opened the door.


    Valoricus stared at Art in shock. Art understood what that look meant. He had given it himself to other vagrants on the street when he awoke to find them rummaging through his personal belongings. It must have felt like an incredible intrusion of the master��s privacy, and Art knew it without Valoricus saying a word.


    ��Sorry, sorry,�� Art said hastily, terrified. ��I didn��t want to interrupt your meeting, so I-��


    ��You went into my chamber without permission!��


    ��I��d have asked for permission if I-��


    ��The whole room will have to be thoroughly scrubbed to get this menacing stench out of it.��


    ��I- yes, sir, I am truly sorry, it��s just that-�� His bowels gave another, involuntary push to clear the remaining sewage.


    ��I don��t care! Get out! Get out at once, I don��t even want to look at you!��


    Art didn��t know whether he meant out of the room or out of the whole house. He decided not to have him clarify, as he didn��t want to give the master any ideas. Art barely had any time to apply the wiping thing to his bum before he had to yank on his pants and rush out of the room.


    He heard Valoricus growl loudly in anger and disgust as he left. On the way out, he spotted the slave girl, whose hand covered her mouth and nose as he passed her. She looked like she wanted to throw up, and Art knew it would take a lot of sweet words to balance out that first impression �C if he ever got the opportunity to do so. For now, he was destined back to his containment in the guest room for summary judgment and, perhaps, execution.


    You��ve really done it now, Art. You dumb bastard.


    Art waited for an eternity in the room, knowing full well that nothing good awaited him. When at last the time came for his punishment, it came in a form that Art was not expecting. Valoricus stood at the door and stared at him.


    ��Again, I��m sorry about that, truly I am, it��s just that-��


    ��Enough,�� said Valoricus, stoically. If he was still angry with Art, Valoricus had either let it go or had let it fester past recognition. It turned out to be the latter.


    ��It��s time that you are put to use.��


    ��Yes, anything at all. I��ll scrub the whole room, just as you said. Top to bottom, not a problem.��


    ��No,�� Valoricus said sternly. ��What you will be doing concerns the safety and security of this City. You may even be the savior of us all.��


    Art didn��t like the sound of that. He could smell conspiracy from an even greater distance than the slave girl could smell his shame.


    ��I suppose you��re going to say that I don��t have a choice.��


    Valoricus simply stared at him, eyes speaking volumes.

 Chaos and Order

    ��I don��t have to explain to you that none of this leaves this house,�� Valoricus said plainly to his colleagues gathered in his home. ��Not to your wives, your compatriots, or your sons. We work in darkness, as it must be done. As it has been done so often in times of great need for the sanctity of this ruling body. For the City.�� The men gathered before him nodded, eyeing one another as if to gauge their loyalty to the conspiracy. Barius Fiducoulus seemed more nervous than the four others, something which Valoricus took to mean that the man was a liability. Valoricus couldn��t ignore the obvious, so he sought to address his suspicions without hesitation.


    ��You are troubled, Barius. Speak your concern or let it be buried beneath the dirt.��


    Barius the Younger had earned a reputation for being a more conservative senator than his father, who also served in the Senate. His father had been a champion, albeit unsuccessful, for the rights of the lower classes. The elder Barius had attempted to garner support throughout his career for a term as consul so he could enact several of what most people considered radical social policies. However, only the Primisian ruling class had voting power in the City, and they had little cause to cede any of that power to the masses, even though their voices were occasionally loud enough to discuss the minutiae of commoner life. Barius never saw eye to eye with his father and didn��t understand why he would relinquish any of the benefits of their class to the masses. Valoricus understood Barius�� fear of change very well and played to that fact when recruiting him for this most emergent cause.


    ��No,�� Barius said. ��I am not so troubled as to let it stand in the way of doing what in my heart I know is the right thing to do.��


    Valoricus gave Barius the benefit of the doubt and continued his examination of the character of the others. It was on Valoricus�� shoulders to fulfill the request given to him by Consul Kaius, but Valoricus had not gotten to the summit of his career by going alone. Nor had he gotten this far by blindly following orders. One truth that Valoricus knew without any shadow of a doubt about the world was that it was never in the interest of those in power to share that power with anyone. Orders were given all the time �C it was up to him to seize the opportunity to improve his standing while satisfying those giving the command. Symbiotic subordination, he liked to call it. He specifically picked the men in this room as his cohorts because he knew they didn��t think about ways to benefit themselves with their dealings �C they already had their rewards laid out neatly and openly for their service. A fed pet doesn��t need to scrounge for food on its own.


    ��If any of you have any doubts about this duty, speak now or consider yourselves committed without objection.��


    Valoricus allowed the co-conspirators to stew in their silence for a prolonged period, seeing the truth of their souls through their eyes. When he was at last satisfied, he decided the best course of action was to disband.


    ��Now, all of you �C kindly find your way out of my house and seek for me the information I need.��


    The conspirators began to disperse. As they made their way toward the door, Valoricus watched Barius with growing suspicion. He would need to cut Barius out of the conspiracy; that much was becoming obvious. There was no room for doubt in this most important mission.


    As the last man vacated, Valoricus summoned the guard from the door.


    ��Please ensure that man makes it all the way home without meandering. There are many dangers in the dark, and we wouldn��t want him to make any wrong turns.��


    The guard nodded and took his leave.


    It was now silent in the Caballarius household. It was never this quiet in Valoricus�� home at this retiring hour of the night. Between the soft music from Alaric��s lyre underscoring the natural melodies of the critters outside and Dacinia��s meticulous grooming habits as she prepared to lie down for bed, his home felt foreign to him tonight in the absence of both. It was as if his life had been nothing more than a dream or perhaps a distant memory that was too far out of reach to grasp. The tune of a song that Dacinia and Alaric used to play and sing together on rainy days when he was first being taught to play ran through his mind, but Valoricus rejected the memory as too difficult to bear. There was too much still to do.


    He sighed in frustration and anger, then busied himself with some cleanup duties �C work suited for the slaves. Valoricus opted to do it himself because he didn��t want to allow the machinations of his mind to wander beyond the critical tasks at hand. His duty to bury his wife was important, but not nearly as important as the work ahead of him. Dacinia may be dead, but the City �C the last spark of civilization on the planet �C was still alive, and it was his duty to defend her to his dying breath.


    Try as he might to focus on his top priority, he found himself beginning to hum the tune to the song he had just tried to put out of his head. He stopped himself, angry at his self-sabotage. He walked the dirty cups over to the wash basin in the kitchen and dropped them in. He had fully intended to wash them by hand and be done with the business, but he kept finding himself returning to the forbidden areas of his mind. He couldn��t be so distracted or troubled by that business.


    It wasn��t that men of the City were considered weak if they mourned the loss of a family member �C in fact, it was common for men to weep, even in public, when such a tragedy occurred. There was a socially accepted period of mourning that was expected and allowed in all social classes, even for Decorus pedigree Primisians like him. The hesitation to mourn was instead within Valoricus himself; it was his truth that there are matters significantly more pressing than processing grief. When the duty of washing cups gave him no reprieve from the oppressive absence of his family, Valoricus slammed the last few cups into the basin and left them to soak for the remainder of the night.


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    He found his way over to the wine cabinet �C one of the most impressive displays in his house. He noticed that several bottles of his favorite vintage were missing, something that didn��t take him very long to figure out where they had gone.


    The Farraige can have it. He has his role to play in all of this, and if his loyalty can be secured by looking the other way for a missing bottle or two, then so be it. Such a small price to pay for the benefit he would provide.


    Valoricus stole a bottle for himself and retired to his quarters. Thankfully, the air was once again clear in the room. He poured himself a tall cup and sat at his desk. Several parchments were in disarray since the Stranger had arrived, so he took the opportunity to organize the documents while he calmed the tempest raging in his mind. He always found comfort in the practice of organization. There was something to be said about focusing his mind on bringing order out of chaos, a lesson that he had always failed to imprint upon his teenage son. The only thing that could break that feeling of mental victory was when that perfect order fell to chaos the second he diverted his attention to other things.


    Perhaps that was one of the key factors in his decision to solve the City��s crisis in his own way, as opposed to watching diplomacy between equals fall apart. Like it or not, the chaos usurping the order of the City would be thwarted, and Valoricus was to be the architect of its salvation.


    After the legal parchments were organized, he noticed that the bookshelf nearby had somehow gotten put in the wrong order.


    Dacinia.


    His wife had always taken great care to ensure she presented herself in noble fashion, her looks and her dress always immaculate. Her soaps and her perfumes, still at home in their bath quarter, were always lined up in a perfect order to maximize their presentation. There had never been a more perfect match for him in tidiness and order �C except when it came to Valoricus�� possessions.


    His bookcase was perhaps the most extreme example of this fact. She had been, of course, welcome to read any of his collection whenever she pleased, but she never did put the tomes back in order when she was finished reading. It was, by far, her most annoying behavior that drove him absolutely mad that she had never corrected it, even after so many years. He scowled, as he always did, when he realized it required his attention.


    This would be the last time he ever had to reorganize the books.


    Valoricus got on his knees, angrily grabbing the first misplaced book he noticed and pulling it out to fix its position. When he found the proper spot, however, he hesitated to put it back in its home. A thought entered his mind.


    This would be the last time he would ever have the opportunity to put things back in order.


    Why was it that whenever things didn��t go his way in court or in the forum, he would always have to rearrange the bookshelf? The more he thought about it, the more he realized that it would not have been logical for her to read the same books so many times, causing such disarray in the case as often as she did. It finally dawned on him, after it was too late to appreciate it, that she must have been intentionally disorganizing the books so that he would find something smaller, more manageable than the egos of petulant lawyers, to bring to order.


    It took Valoricus a long time to move at all, but when he finally did, all of the books came flying off of the shelves and would remain there indefinitely. He gulped down the rest of the cup of wine and threw himself upon the bed. It didn��t take long for the potency of the wine to do its sacred duty.


    He didn��t dream.


    The next day, Valoricus found himself again at the gate of Sanctus Mysta. The Astrum Order��s muscle stood in his way, as always, but this time they were expecting him and he was to be allowed through.


    Valoricus had successfully used Dacinia��s death as a way to get her brother Stasius Barbatus to humor an audience with him. After a long discussion, the two hardheaded men eventually came to an understanding with one another �C one that was too dangerous to speak aloud to anyone else. There was perhaps some irony in the fact that Dacinia��s death had been the one thing that had ever managed to bring order to the chaos of the relationship between Valoricus and Stasius.


    Stasius secured the audience for Valoricus, as Valoricus had been instructed to do by Consul Kaius. He would fulfill this duty to the Senate, and if, as he expected, the plea would fail, then the plot that Valoricus had devised would proceed as planned.


    Valoricus entered Consul Quintus��s chamber, a peculiar room that seemed to be organized in a way that made Valoricus feel as if he was standing on the ceiling.


    Priests and their mysteries.


    He stood at attention before Consul but did not salute or bow like Valoricus would do to Consul Kaius. The Senate was the equal of the Church, and Valoricus was its representative �C he would not bow to an equal while he carried Kaius�� word. The consul spoke first.


    ��The first thing that must be stated is the obvious. Don��t think for a moment that I have suddenly thrown aside my sacred duty to bow to the plotting of the Senate. While I am of sound mind, I shall not reach across the line for your opinion on matters concerning my domain. This meeting request was only granted because Cardinal Stasius asked for the boon. He has been an asset to this Church, and thus you are here. I do not owe it to anyone to be swayed by your words.��


    ��That is the natural order. I do not seek to upset the balance.��


    ��Then why have you come?��


    ��Consul Kaius simply wants to relay a message. You may use the information in any way you like.��


    ��My ears are open.��


    ��The Senate has investigated the claims of the Stranger about the City��s infrastructure risks. We have found them to be of merit.��


    Valoricus allowed the information to sit in the stale air.


    ��That is all you came to say?��


    ��That is all. As you said, it is not for the Senate to convince you of anything. Your authority is to decide how to act upon every bit of information you receive. Therefore, I am ready to take my leave. Thank you for this audience.��


    Valoricus nodded, the slightest sign of respect to grease the wheels of the chariot of this man��s mind. He knew that the Consul would follow the breadcrumb. It was Kaius�� hope that Quintus would end up finding the same inevitability the Senate had already discovered and understand that the two halves would seek to work together to solve the problem.


    They needed to get this man firmly under their thumbs, or he would likely usurp them all by solving all of the openly mentioned problems himself and then wresting all of the power for himself. The Senate and the Church would have to work together as they never had before, or the City��s destiny would be in the hands of one man, an honor that only the Toriad had ever held. Power would never be in the hands of the people again, should this stranger have his way. The City needed no King.


    Valoricus walked out, greeted by the tune of bells ringing from the bell tower. It took him a moment to realize it, but they played the same song that reminded him of his wife and son that he was trying hard to forget. There was no stopping the rush of emotions this time. He barely made it out of the building without succumbing to the tears he wished so badly to delay.

 Dal Segno al Coda

    The road back to the City was littered with the occasional demon husk, a stark contrast to the way it had been on their way out. There had been at least three skirmishes��if you could call them that��that the Son must have fended off on his way to save Gailavira. Along with those poorly organized skirmishes, there were several lone demons looking for a quick meal before meeting their ultimate end. Nothing would stand in the way of the Son and his mission, but Alaric hoped they might have at least slowed his commander down enough for the four of them to catch up. Judging by the inhuman screams echoing through the canyon ahead, Alaric knew his suspicions were correct.


    ��Be ready, lad,�� Isidore weakly warned Alaric as the two of them rode atop Alaric��s horse. It certainly hadn��t been the most comfortable ride with both of them on the same horse, but they had no choice after Isidore had been forced to sacrifice his own mortally wounded mount. As the night progressed into morning without incident for the soldiers and the sun rose on the eastern horizon, Isidore��s empowered status had given way to lethargy. Not only had they put off sleep for the night, the price of Isidore using his Soularm now demanded to be paid. Alaric knew what Isidore was fighting to stay awake and was thankful they hadn��t had to fight more of the creatures because of the exhaustion left behind when the soul energy waned.


    ��I can see him!�� Euric called, as he and Calix rode in front. ��He��s surrounded!��


    ��Are you able to fight?�� Alaric said low so only Isidore could hear him. Isidore readied his spear like a jousting lance and tapped Alaric on the side of the leg.


    ��You don��t have to worry about me,�� Isidore said, his slouched posture betraying his confidence. ��When it��s my time, it won��t be the enemy who takes me from the horse.�� Alaric appreciated Isidore��s always-confident candor, even though he still had reservations about bringing his mentor into battle in his condition.


    ��Right there,�� Isidore continued. ��Let��s send them back to Hell!��


    Alaric pressed the horse as hard as she would go, and he and his mentor rallied with Euric and Calix, charging into the fray. The Son, seeing his compatriots had come to his aid, took a defensive position to allow them to charge into the mob. With his back against the horse carrying Gailavira, he forced it to one side of the chasm to allow Alaric��s horse some room to move through. After a few well-aimed shots by Euric, the wall of demons on the near side broke just ahead of Alaric��s charge.


    The joust cleared a great many demons in a line, which also served to completely reinvigorate Isidore. When the horse finally lost momentum, Alaric handed the reins to Isidore and jumped onto the ground��Daemonore in hand. He wasted no time slashing through the outliers of the group. Every swing struck down at least one or two of the lesser demons surrounding the Son. As soon as the horse was ready for another charge, Alaric moved aside, and Isidore crashed through the increasingly smaller numbers of demons who must have thought their trap was foolproof. When they started breaking away from the group and running for their lives, Euric��s arrows met them each time.


    In no time at all, the entirety of the swarm was dusted, and the newly empowered warriors were reunited with their leader, who seemed pleased with the assistance.


    ��There��s not much time,�� the Son told them, pushing aside any formalities. ��If I don��t get her to the Sanctum and fast, her soul will be ruined.��


    Gailavira��s body was limp atop the Son��s horse. Her face had taken on an uncanny appearance, something that Alaric had only seen on the faces of cadavers at funerals. He hated looking upon the eyes of the dead; it represented to him the loss of potential. Every time he attended a funeral, he thought about how the person who died must have had hopes and dreams, even just before they closed their eyes forever. To Alaric, there was no greater tragedy than the loss of one��s dreams��for in them, he believed, lay the real version of that person��their soul lived there.


    ��On we go!�� shouted Isidore, calling Alaric back onto the horse. They rode fast and hard, knowingly pushing the limits of what they felt their horses should have been able to run, the signs of exhaustion from the horses merely a prelude to the way each one of them would feel after the power had gone from their bodies. The Son��s horse slowed, and he addressed them as soon as the City and its great white walls were in view.


    ��We cannot tarry now,�� he warned them. Then, he instructed them. ��Place your hand on your horse��s neck and allow a portion of the energy to flow out from you. As soon as the beast receives a portion of your power, you must remove your hand. You don��t want to lose all of it at once, or you��ll never make it into the City.�� Euric, who had already had practice at this transfer of power from the first battle, was the first to successfully do so with his horse. Immediately, it perked up and nearly bucked Euric and Calix off of it.


    ��Go!�� cried the Son, spurring them on. As they bolted at an even faster pace than when the horse was fully rested, the Son turned to Isidore and Alaric.


    ��Clear your mind. It is much the same as when you lie awake in bed at night with too many thoughts preventing your sleep. Let it go. Find your center. Find the place in your heart where the energy rests. Offer no resistance, but relax your muscles and allow it to part from you.��


    Alaric focused his mind, as he often did in times of trouble, on the kinds of things that brought him peace. He thought of art and of music��brush strokes on a canvas as the image in his mind began to take shape on the painting while his mother softly played her harp near the window in his chamber. Alaric��s memory gravitated to their times together learning how to play, how his mother introduced him to the instruments and helped him to find his voice. The harmonies of the string duet and their accompanying vocals created a place in his mind that was always safe and warm. It was his solace, and he missed her already. His heart was filled with joy knowing that he soon would be reunited with her.


    Something was wrong, however. He couldn��t describe it, but something stopped him from being able to relax himself enough to let the power go. Luckily for them both, Isidore had taken notice of Alaric��s troubles and performed the act himself. Isidore rested his hand on Alaric��s shoulder, comforting him.


    ��It��s alright, lad. It��s better for us if one of us remains empowered, in case we meet any resistance.��


    ��On we go!�� shouted the Son, already on his way. They followed close behind.


    The City drew nearer and nearer, a perspective that Alaric had never known in his entire life. It had always seemed so much bigger when he hadn��t known the world outside. From this distance, its gleaming white walls barely seemed big enough to contain an entire civilization within. The Son had been right about one thing��the people of the City couldn��t continue forever contained within it like a coffin. Their crusade was just.


    At last, they arrived at the gate to the City. The main gate had been replaced with a wooden door erected in the absence of the one the Son had demolished in grand fashion upon his arrival. It was a much less sturdy sort of protection than the one erected by the City��s ancestors, but the City needed something there. If any of these demons they had encountered were able to pour into the City and there was nobody armed with Soularms to defend it, then that surely would be the end of all humanity. Alaric felt the urge to volunteer to stay behind to be the one to protect it, but said nothing as he felt he might be judged for simply wanting to stay behind in the comforts of his home. He wouldn��t be wrong to make that assumption, either. The music of his home was already calling to him.


    The Son looked up at the guard manning the tower at the gate, a silent warning that if they didn��t open the gate right then and there, he would open it himself, like he had the last time. The man decided to do what was best and pulled the crank to allow the gate to open.


    They entered the City to little fanfare��after all, no one expected them to arrive back so soon after they set out. There were a fair number of commoners who showed up when the gates flew open, but nothing like the crowd that had gathered when the gates crashed down upon the Son��s grand arrival. The passersby saw Gailavira��s body lying on the Son��s horse, as well as the fact that only half of those who set out had returned. They must have feared the worst, Alaric thought. While their assumptions were obviously wrong, Alaric certainly wouldn��t blame them for thinking what he knew they must be thinking.


    The men and their three horses made their way through the City, trying to navigate to the City Center as quickly as possible. Once the crowd changed from unwashed commoners to finely clothed noblemen, Alaric��s suspense grew. Soon, they would be back where it all began��at the Pearly Stair that led up to the Highest Height. The first time Alaric saw the Son, he had descended from that very temple. It was only fitting that he would ascend once again. After all, he was the heir to that seat��the place from where the First Man had ruled, long ago in ages long since past. It was up there atop that temple that the Son would bring Gailavira��s body to attempt to reunite it with her soul. How, exactly, Alaric still didn��t know��but the Son was confident this was the only way.


    When they did arrive at the City square, however, they were met by an entire host of monks from the Astrum Order, as opposed to their typical (and appropriately staffed, based on their imposing physiques) two guards. Somehow, they must have gotten word ahead of the Son��s arrival, and they were all there, over one hundred of the strongest, most physically fit people on the planet. Even still infused with some of the soul energy of the demons they slew mere hours before, it would be a tough fight to win. It was the first commandment that the Son gave them��never, under any circumstances, use the Soularm upon a human being, even if they are your enemy. Gailavira merely pricked her finger with her dagger, and this was the state of her body. There was no greater evidence for the importance of that directive than the shape she was now in.


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    What would the Son do now, in the face of such massive resistance? Surely, he would not abandon his own morals and use his sword or his spear upon these men. Right?


    The monks said nothing at first but merely stood there in opposition. These militant clergymen studied the Son and his company, and the Son sized them up as well. Alaric turned to Euric, and the two shared a look of uneasiness. The tension could have been cut by a knife, it was so thick.


    At last, one monk, a cardinal, spoke.


    ��Speak your will and let it be known to all.��


    It was a test. This man wanted the Son to admit, in front of the entire clergy and the public beginning to amass there, that he wanted to commit a most holy offense. Alaric, terrified of the ensuing conflict, looked up at buildings nearby to check for archers. There, standing along the walls and on balconies, were the tops of men��s heads gazing down. While their bows were not visible from this vantage point, Alaric knew these men held it as their sacred duty to protect the temple against anyone who might attempt to capture it for their own ends. The guardians of this temple were taken by surprise once; the massive resistance they now faced was all the evidence Alaric needed to know that they had no intention of letting the Son climb the stairs again.


    Alaric turned an uneasy eye to Isidore, who returned the glance, clearly as concerned as he. Neither spoke; neither knew what to do next, but they both understood the situation was serious.


    The Son sat atop his horse, allowing the suspense to build silently. He must have known he would meet some resistance, but the showing by the priests surpassed anything Alaric had thought likely. He had spent so much of his energy thinking about simply getting the Son to his destination past foes that he was able to kill, he hadn��t even considered the fact that they would meet a foe who couldn��t be conquered by Daemonore��at least not without committing a mortal sin.


    The Son dismounted, then reached up and pulled Gailavira��s body from the horse. He held her limp in his arms, then approached the group of monks who stood before him. Even still, he refused to speak and give the cardinal the satisfaction he desired. Alaric watched as the Son turned around, surveying the square around them.


    It suddenly occurred to Alaric why the Son must have been stalling. It took a long time for the word of their arrival to spread through the masses, but sure enough, they arrived in droves. Much like the first time the Son had come, the people gathered around in anticipation of what this mysterious stranger who possessed the Gifts had to say. There were people of all statuses��Solumians stood side-by-side with Primisians, beggars, and slaves. All had come to watch the events unfold, and the Son needed to win them over now more than ever.


    The Son stared daggers at the cardinal standing in his way, refusing to give him any ammunition to legally do what Alaric assumed he wanted to do. It benefitted only the clergymen for the Son to give any response at all, something that the Son must have understood well.


    As Alaric surveyed the faces in the crowd, though so varied and filled with a general representation of the people, there was an absence now that wasn��t felt in the first gathering in this square.


    Among all the people who had come to watch, Alaric didn��t spot one single senator. Last time, along with his father and Geilamir��s father who so brazenly challenged the Son��s claim, there had been at least two dozen senators present. It struck Alaric as odd that they were not in the audience whatsoever this time. He had hoped to see his mother and father there, but was dejected by their absence. He needed his father��s support and his influence upon the ruling body now, more than ever. He also missed his mother and the comfort she brought him, most of all.


    Where are they?


    Surprised by a voice coming from his mentor, Alaric nearly fell off the horse as Isidore called out to the clergymen.


    ��Honorable, steadfast guardians of this temple!�� he shouted, with all the ferocity of a wounded, cornered beast. ��Your commitment to the safety of this Holy Temple is to be commended and respected. We have come a long way, traveling through the night and a day by horseback to return home, to return here for a holy cause of our own.��


    The Son closed his eyes, meditating on the situation.


    ��We have come bearing great news,�� Isidore called out, loud enough that the masses could hear. ��We have seen the faces of the demons who haunt this world. We have seen and heard horrible things, far exceeding the stories told about the monsters outside these walls. We have fought them all despite overwhelming numbers standing against us. We have fallen�� and we have risen again, victorious against�� impossible odds.��


    Alaric felt downtrodden, remembering his failure on the night of the first battle. While Isidore painted his first brush with death as a great victory to the masses, he wouldn��t have fallen at all if it weren��t for Alaric��s failure to hold the line. Because the Son had to expend so much of his energy resurrecting Isidore, he had nearly died. If that hadn��t happened, then Gailavira wouldn��t have had to take extreme measures to bring him back. Hearing Isidore speak in this way, while kindly trotting down the road Alaric didn��t want to visit, was enough to remind him of his own failure.


    ��Before you stands the rightful heir to this temple!�� Isidore shouted at the top of his lungs, utilizing every ounce of his remaining energy. ��I have stood with him in battle and witnessed his�� divine blessing firsthand����


    Isidore��s breathing and posture were both affected by over-exertion. Alaric feared that if Isidore continued much longer, his mentor��s well-being would be in jeopardy. Alaric himself had begun to feel the effects of the soul energy leaving his body, taking with it his healthy disposition and his energy. If Alaric was already feeling lethargic from coming down from the recent battle, then Isidore, who was no longer in the prime of his life, who gave much of his energy to Alaric��s horse, might not be able to handle much more of this stress on his heart.


    ��If the miracles he performed before your eyes were not enough�� to convince you of this man��s honesty, then I ask that you look again. This woman�� the lady Gailavira�� the matron of the hospital, is wounded, and her very soul is dying. Look now, at the great lengths this man�� this great soul�� is willing to go to, to save one person. Though he has only known this woman for a few weeks, he has risked his very life�� for the sake�� of her soul.��


    Isidore��s passionate speech continued despite the fact that his face had lost its color. From where Alaric was sitting, he could also see easily how much Isidore was shaking. He wouldn��t be able to go on much longer without risking a loss of consciousness.


    ��So you ask�� I ask�� I�� tell�� He���� Alaric had to catch Isidore to prevent him from falling off the horse completely.


    Alaric extended his hand to signal to Euric, who was on the other side of the Son��s horse. Euric saw the signal, and he and Calix climbed down from their horse. They approached Alaric, but theirs were not the first hands to come to his aid. To his great surprise, Art, the Farraige friend of Fridok, was at his side, helping stabilize and lower Isidore to the ground.


    ��I��ve got ya,�� Art said. ��Ease him down, and let��s get him somewhere safe.��


    They successfully and carefully brought Isidore to the ground. Euric and Calix arrived and each took one of his arms over their shoulders.


    ��Take him to my father��s house as it��s the closest safe place,�� Alaric said. ��We will reconvene there once we have this all sorted out.��


    ��You sure?�� Euric said to Alaric, sternly questioning the decision. Alaric, still nervous about violence possibly breaking out, thought about the safety of his friend and Isidore��s ward. This was Alaric��s way of ensuring that the three of them would be safer from violence or legal persecution. It was the least he could do for his friends.


    The people gathered around had erupted into a confused droning, which didn��t help the intensity of the stalemate that, despite Isidore��s best efforts, remained. Alaric turned to Art and was immediately taken aback by the man��s sullen demeanor. He bore an expression that said he was burdened with something terrible, a face that Art had never expressed before, in the short time Alaric had known him.


    ��Thanks for the help,�� Alaric said, straightening his belt, preparing himself for what might be a political or an actual fight. He didn��t want it to come to that, but if the Son was to have to impose his will upon these monks, then Alaric would be by his side to protect and defend his lord. He turned from Art, but as soon as he did, Art spoke the words that would take away the melody of Alaric��s life.


    ��Your mother has died.��


    Alaric turned slowly back to Art. The hit was so hard, it felt as if his soul had momentarily left his body. When the reality of Art��s words sank in, Alaric stumbled to find any words to say at all. No, he thought. That is impossible. He wanted to say a hundred things all at once, but was left speechless, brokenly denying reality itself. His thoughts discordant, his heart out of rhythm, and his breaths an unnatural staccato, Alaric rejected Art with immediate anger, shock, and denial in syncopation with one another.


    ��I��m sorry to be the one to tell you, but it��s true. It happened suddenly the night after you all left. I hate to be the one to ask, but was there something that happened to you all, several nights ago? I only ask because your mother died around the same time that I lost consciousness and was thought to be dead.��


    Alaric processed the words, still out of sync with reality. When he considered what Art said, the fear and dread finally caught up with him. If what Art said was true, that would have been right around the time they fought the battle against the thousand demons. If, somehow, the events were connected, then Alaric may have been the one responsible for his mother��s death. Thinking of the night that Daemonore was created, he remembered how much the ritual for the creation of the blade had weakened his mother. If her health was still tied to the dark magic of that blade, then it was Alaric himself who wielded the instrument of his mother��s destruction.


    He pulled Daemonore out of its sheath, hands trembling in trepidation. Alaric saw his reflection in the blade and despised himself as much as he despised the sword.


    How could I have been so foolish as to not realize the danger of using such a terrible weapon?


    He slowly traced his gaze onto the Son and realized that he must have known the dangers involved with using this thing, and yet he didn��t warn him about what it could mean for his mother. Alaric held out the blade as if to throw it, but then simply dropped it onto the ground and backed away. He took the lead on his horse and gathered Euric��s horse and started walking away, tears streaming from his eyes.


    As he turned around one last time, he saw Art pick up the damned weapon and stare into the abyss of its grandeur.


    He can have it.


    It was time to finally stop pretending to be someone else and return home to bury the remains of the life he had left behind. The Son and his mission be damned.

 And Then Youre Gone

    Fridok stoked the fire, adjusting the freshly placed log to give the flames enough airflow to burn properly. The campsite had become a waiting place for those who remained, not all of whom were doing so with grace and patience. Fridok had practiced waiting patiently his whole life, so it was easy for him to remain calm while they waited for the Son and the others�� return. Even Ervig was showing signs of nervousness, which didn��t help the situation. Things had gotten so tense that Bulgar had taken Xanthus out to practice archery a good distance away from the camp. That left Fridok stuck between the ever-agitated Ervig and Geilamir, whom Fridok had still not grown fully comfortable with.


    ��We��re wasting our time just sitting here,�� Geilamir said loudly enough for both Fridok and Ervig to hear. ��We should be doing something.��


    ��Like what?�� Fridok asked, tapping a log to expose the unburnt wood to the fire.


    ��Something. Anything. I feel like we��re wasting all of our initiative by just sitting around waiting to regroup. For all we know, the demons could be planning a raid as we speak. We should be actively searching for their dens or wherever they��re holed up. Sitting here, we��re just letting the enemy figure out new ways to attack.��


    ��What��s your plan if one of us is struck down?�� Ervig said, chiding Geilamir. ��Without the general there to pick you back up, you��re mortal. One demon gets through the line, and we��re all casualties. Even if they make it back here in a few days, there won��t be enough shreds left of us to put back together. They��re starving, boy. You saw how ravenous they were. Have some God-damned patience and you might survive.��


    Geilamir scoffed and walked off to sulk. Ervig shook his head dismissively, then took up his spear and began his drills for the fifth time that day. Fridok respected the man��s dedication to remaining sharp even in his advanced age and decided it was high time for him to run through his drills as well. After all, training was the one thing that had always centered and focused him��he was best to not rest on his laurels until someone who knew better said it was time to return and celebrate a triumph.


    Fridok had very few possessions in his life that he actually cared about. His original sword had been the one thing he truly loved, as it represented the culmination of all his struggles. Even though it had broken in the tournament against Alaric��s much higher-quality sword, its sacrifice was never forgotten. Now that he possessed a superior weapon of far greater quality and power, this new blade represented Fridok��s greatest achievement over adversity. It was high time that he started giving it the same time and attention he had given his first sword.


    He swung the blade in the same way he had always trained��the exact moves he had seen Alaric and the others perform day in and day out during their training sessions. Fridok may not have been a noble, but he learned through sheer will how to train like one.


    As he went through the stances one by one, he felt his worries and his stress melt away��mostly. Without any other distractions getting in his way, he felt a wave of peace wash through him.


    Even Ervig noticed. Fridok had not known the man very long, but he did know that he wasn��t one to openly praise others. So, when Ervig stopped his own training to watch Fridok methodically emulate the same routine that Ervig himself had likely dictated to his students, Fridok got the sense that something had changed between them. Out here in the great expanse, the societal boundaries that had suffocated Fridok his entire life were beginning to melt away. There was no place out here for words like ��rich�� or ��poor��; there were no Solumians or Primisians in the great wilderness. Out here, the only separation that existed was between the living and the monsters. At last, Fridok had found his place.


    Ervig nodded at Fridok, a blessing of acceptance that he had never expected but would always remember. It was too bad, then, that Geilamir looked at their interaction with clear spite and jealousy. Even after so much had evolved in his life, some things, it seemed, would never truly change.


    He decided it didn��t matter. Fridok knew he would never be able to please everyone, and, for whatever reason, Geilamir still had a chip on his shoulder with Fridok��s name on it. As Ervig turned back to his own drilling, Geilamir approached Fridok with resentment worn plainly on his face. Fridok didn��t really want to bicker, but it would be a cold day in Mortemia before he would roll over to an insult.


    Just as Geilamir opened his mouth to speak, an unintelligible cry was heard from the direction of Bulgar and Xanthus. All three men turned to look. They didn��t have to ask for clarification��they knew immediately what had caused the sound.


    An oppressive and mighty force of howling, wailing demons had appeared as if out of nowhere, an inferno in its early stages rising up to swallow those who remained at the camp in mere minutes. Fridok looked at Geilamir and whatever words were just about to be spoken were soon forgotten.


    There was no time for disunity now.


    <hr>


    The Son, as He allowed others to refer to Him, watched as His chosen warrior Alaric abandoned Him and the Soularm bestowed upon him. He was disappointed but not surprised by the boy��s sudden disheartenment. He had seen this before��in the time before His exile. When His people developed the ritual of Soularm creation, they had discovered long ago that it came at a high price. He put himself in the boy��s place and remembered how He felt, knowing that He had caused the deaths of his brother and sister by wielding the sword and the spear they had helped create. Sometimes he felt he could still hear their voices, low whispers cast hopelessly into the howling wind.


    Everyone deserves the time it takes to grieve.


    He stood alone now, against the organization that was the true legacy of His Father. Before He had departed the City, His Father��s acolytes were primarily servants, bookworms whose duties consisted of taking notes and making cosmic observations at His Father��s behest. They were masters of the Gifts, of course, but they were a non-violent group because the thought of actually having to defend Father or the Sanctum where he reigned were simply not things that happened. Father possessed the one Gift that nobody else had, and that Gift was too valuable for the world to risk losing.


    Now, Father was gone as was the First Gift. He had come back to a world of Creation, but there was no one remaining with the power to create. Only by opening the sealed door atop the temple would He be able to mimic a fraction of His Father��s power. Only by prying open what His Father had sealed would he be able to save this woman whose very soul was in limbo.


    He stood alone.


    ��You��re not alone,�� said Art, the beggar who picked up Alaric��s Soularm. The man, the friend of Fridok whom He had healed prior to departing the City, was no soldier. In fact, the man was likely to cause his own destruction if he attempted to use that blade. He knew it, and chances were that Art knew it, too.


    But the monks who stood before them didn��t know that.


    ��Come to my side,�� He said, beckoning Art forward. The man��s clumsiness was evident as he struggled to wield Daemonore. Regardless, the monks would be even more hesitant to make the first move with him here. Trained swordsman or not, a man wielding a Soularm was a dangerous foe.


    ��You��ve got me, alright?�� Art said, with all the confidence of a man surrounded by tigers. ��I haven��t forgotten what you��ve done to me. To my legs, I mean.��


    He couldn��t imagine what it must have been like, having stumps for legs. His health and immortality, fueled by the Gifts, had always been something He had taken for granted. He simply couldn��t comprehend the struggles that this man must have gone through his entire life.


    I may have taken this man for granted. His support in my time of need deserves more reward than to be merely a vessel for Soularm creation. Perhaps when I enter the sanctum I can find a way to protect him from his inevitable fall.


    ��Thank you, Art,�� He said, meaning far more than He was willing to let on about the man��s aid.


    ��No thanks are necessary. I haven��t done anything yet. Just doing the right thing, yeah?��


    He immediately turned His attention high up at the top of the Pearly Stair, where, once again, Consul Quintus Maximilius stood presiding over the masses.


    ��Make way!�� the Consul shouted at the top of his lungs. In an instant, the mass of monks split in two, no longer blocking the way up the Pearly Stairs.


    He turned to Art. ��Be prepared to use that weapon.��


    ��I��m thirsty to do just that, lord.��


    <hr>


    Fridok swung his unnamed but beloved Soularm wildly in an arc from side to side. Three more demons fell. He had to have slain at least thirty by now, their lifeless, black husks littering the ground all around them. Next to him, Geilamir and Ervig held the line. Even though they were vastly outnumbered, they still held the high ground. Righteous energy filled Fridok��s arms and legs, his mind now as sharp as the sword with which he raged against the demons.


    This was his place��here��in this untamed land full of opportunity. It was here that he would make his stand. It was here that he would earn his status in the world. It was all his to earn��honor, prestige, and glory. He would extract all three from the demons he cut down.


    Except�� There were too many of them. Fridok heard Geilamir cry out, struck hard by one of the demons with razor-sharp claws.


    ��Hold the line!�� cried Ervig. It was to no avail. Geilamir destroyed the demon that had gotten through but quickly lost his footing in the process.


    ��Damn it, boy, get back on your feet!��


    <hr>


    Fridok watched as the demons recognized the break in the line and how they focused more and more of their attacks directly upon Geilamir.


    At this rate, Geilamir would fall and then Fridok and the rest would be next.


    ��By the Namer��get back on your feet!��


    Art felt the tendrils of weakness spread throughout every inch of his body. He remembered this feeling��it was the same feeling he felt the night he blacked out and had been thought dead. He knew it could only mean one thing, based on what he now knew about the ritual he had performed for Fridok. He could almost see the demons that he knew Fridok was fighting when he closed his eyes. Somehow, Art needed to find the strength to see this through. The future of the City depended on him being there to defend it.


    At last, the Consul reached the bottom of the temple stairs. Art, wavering and light-headed, stood there bravely, like he had seen Fridok do when the sword had materialized in his hands. He could not falter now, when so much was at stake.


    A hush covered the crowd, everyone watching with eagerness and terror at what might happen next. Consul Quintus was the first to break the silence.


    ��Look now, all you people of the City and witness this! Take a moment to appreciate the scene you see playing out before you.��


    Art felt more and more drained as he waited for what he knew was going to happen. He had to hold out, despite everything. He thought of the times he had managed to outlast the other drunks in long lines of drinking spoiled wine. It was a pathetic thing to think of in comparison to the things the others had achieved in their lives, but it helped Art stay focused.


    ��This man, this stranger to our City, has returned from his grand conquest of the demons, to seek out the power contained within the Sealed Sanctum. I challenge any of you True Faithful gathered here today to describe to me and to all of us the gravity of this man��s actions!��


    At first, nobody spoke up. Art was really beginning to hate all the theatric pauses. It made it so much harder to maintain the impression that he was actually able to do something with the sword. At this rate, he was more likely to hurt himself than another man.


    The Son closed his eyes again, obviously holding back a whole lot of anger. Art wondered how long it would be before the man would break and start going on a rampage?


    ��I��ll tell you what I see!�� shouted a voice from the crowd. The voice came from a man Art only vaguely knew as the senator Tolamirus Aurumantian. Art hadn��t been there when the Son first arrived, but he heard from Fridok that Geilamir��s father had been the loudest critic of the Son, challenging his supposed position. To Art��s surprise, no other Senators were present��just Geilamir��s father.


    ��I see a man who failed to do what he set out to do! He stole from us the best of our men, the greatest defenders of the City, and for what? He brought with him only a handful of our people, not a legion��out to be slaughtered! Children and this woman, too! Why? For what purpose? It was obvious that you were out of touch from the moment you arrived, but now we have proof of your madness! Where are the rest of them, stranger? Why have you only brought back with you one body?��


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Tolamirus�� voice carried with it all the desperation of a father who believed his son was dead. Art wondered how the Son would handle this addition in the face of the already existing threat standing in his way. He prepared himself mentally to do what must be done. The Son, after much studying of the others, spoke at last.


    ��There is but one body of which to speak,�� he said. ��This woman, the esteemed Lady Gailavira, made a sacrifice far greater than anyone here can appreciate, in order to save my life. I stand here today, not in the name of conquest but in mercy. Even the Gifts are not enough to bring her back from damnation. If I cannot ascend these stairs and open that door, then this kind woman��s soul will be lost to this world. For her, there will be no Paradise.��


    He turned to the Consul.


    ��I seek not power. I have power. My intention is to save this City and all who live in it, not rule it. Even if the masses here and my soldiers out there proclaimed me imperator, I would cast off that proclamation. There is too much work left for me to do out there, too many fiends that haunt this world, too much evil that has survived, for me to sit atop any throne. I am no politician nor do I intend to mince more words with any of you. What I am, however, is a man who would go to great lengths to save those who have given everything for my sake. If you seek to stop me, then that is your choice. But before you make your attempt to resist my righteous cause, I want you to realize that only I fully understand the nature of the thing you are defending. It would be a true shame for this world to lose its last great chance to use it.��


    Even Tolamirus was speechless. It seemed that he was actually surprised to find out that Geilamir was still alive. Still, there was the matter of the Consul and all of his guards��


    Consul Quintus spoke, after observing the reaction from the masses.


    ��You misunderstood me, child. For I seek not to stand in your way, but to throw the full support of the Church behind your crusade.��


    Shock and awe. Everyone present turned amongst each other, confusion and cheers intermingled.


    ��The gravity of this man��s actions shows that he is a man of his word, a man who is willing to do what he must to save even the life of a widow in his company. You may pass, and none shall stop you.��


    Art noticed just then that Tolamirus had turned away, leaving with one of the co-conspirators that had gathered at the house of Valoricus. Art knew that he still had a duty to perform, even in spite of the Consul��s support. For death still lurked at the top of that temple, and Art understood that now, better than anyone. He knew he must do the right thing, despite the difficulty he now faced.


    As the Son moved toward the stair, Consul Quintus held his hand out, placing it on the Son��s shoulder.


    ��It is customary to kneel before your Consul, especially when he has granted you a boon.��


    Art moved forward to see the Son��s reaction. He stared at the Consul, and then, looking up at the stair, he must have realized that there was no other way.


    Before all who gathered there, the son of the First Man and true heir of the City, kneeled and bowed low at the feet of the man who had been elected temporary leader of one half of the City��s governing body.


    Satisfied with the submission to his authority, Consul Quintus allowed the Son to rise again. He stepped aside and, at last, the way was clear.


    The Son began his ascent up the stair, and Art followed closely behind, each step more taxing than the last. Whatever trouble Fridok was in, Art was really feeling the effects of it now and it wouldn��t be long until he would no longer have the strength to go on. It would take everything he had to be able to see this through. The Son, seeing Art��s dedication, gave him a slight but knowing nod.


    <hr>


    The line was now completely broken, and each of the fighters was on their own. Fridok backed up as he fought through countless monsters rampaging up the hill. He knew if they got much further, it would only be a matter of seconds before Bulgar and Xanthus would be overrun. Bows simply were not a viable option in close combat. At least it seemed that Geilamir had more resolve than Fridok had first thought��the demons may have broken the line, but, damn it, Geilamir still had some fight in him.


    To make matters exponentially worse, a deafening roar spread throughout the battlefield. Among the chops and cuts, the screams of demonic agony and the ever-growing desperation of all four crusaders as they fought for their lives, Fridok saw what had produced the awful noise.


    There, bounding up the hill was a terrifying, enormous beast with three heads like lions. The fact that it was willing to use its own companion demons as a springboard to reach the four fighters told Fridok everything he needed to know about the fast-approaching threat.


    ��Fall back!�� Ervig shouted, though they were running out of ground to do so. Their strategically placed hilltop campsite was a great location in theory; they had simply stayed too long and lost too many companions to be able to hold it. Now, it seemed, it would be their final resting place.


    ��Focus on the big one!�� Fridok shouted back to Bulgar, who gladly obliged. Blasting the three-headed monstrosity with all of his remaining arrows, Bulgar did a fantastic job of hitting the moving target, and an even better job of royally pissing it off. So angry was this beast at Bulgar, that it focused on him and him alone.


    ��Look out!�� Fridok cried to Bulgar, though he needn��t have wasted his breath. All of them could plainly see the beast��s terrifying figure flying overhead in an unbelievable leap. Its shadow cursed the very ground where Fridok was struggling to keep up with the mob of demons snapping their jaws at his throat.


    It crashed its body directly into Bulgar, sending him flying backward and right off the rocky cliff behind them. Xanthus had managed to avoid the creature��s landing and rolled closer to Ervig, but that was little comfort to Fridok as he knew the beast would be out for their blood as soon as the laws of nature allowed it to rebound.


    Just then, Fridok heard Geilamir cry out with unbearable pain, unlike any sound he had ever heard the man make before.


    Seeing Bulgar tossed aside like his body weighed nothing at all and hearing Geilamir��s armor being torn and ripped apart caused something in Fridok to snap. He summoned a strength from within him that he hadn��t known before, even during the battle of a thousand demons, and discovered something new about this power his Soularm gave him.


    He felt larger, more powerful. Light burst from him, his skin glowing like the Sun. Without even understanding what he was doing, he swung his blade in a wide arc ahead of him and in the wake of a tremendous shockwave that the sword produced, demons flew back, their bodies melting away in mid-air from the blast. Fridok had summoned something tremendous, a power he could only equate with that of God himself.


    It was time to act now to save his friends, but with the limited time he had in the heat of the moment, he was forced to make a choice he didn��t expect.


    The three-headed demon was exposed, still not recovered from the giant leap it had made. Fridok could take it on now, when it wasn��t ready for him, and he would probably be able to stop it. On the other hand, Geilamir was fighting for his life and likely wouldn��t make it if Fridok focused on the three-headed demon.


    He had to choose. In that moment, he understood what must be done, though it was hard.


    He thought of the night, by the fire. He remembered the taste of the meat that Geilamir had shared with him so kindly. Then, he remembered Alaric��s voice as he sang his song, the feelings that made him so uncomfortable and the way that he sang from his heart.


    Fridok knew there would be no going back. Despite the fact that he fully knew he would regret what he was about to do, he committed to doing what he knew he must. He made his choice.


    <hr>


    The Son adjusted his sword and spear into safe positions as He reached the top of the Pearly Stair, once again in the place where He had so often tried to gain the acceptance of a father who had no time to be His father. Being immortal, it also probably never occurred to Father to start including his Son in the duties he performed, so He was denied both a father and a teacher who could have been there for Him. His father was the Speaker of God; that meant that his first and most important obligation was to the Namer��a son was always something that seemed to be the least of his concerns. Perhaps if Father would have included Him in his life, then He might never have done what he did and became exiled.


    Then again, perhaps things unfolded the way they did because that was how they were always supposed to happen. This City did need a true ruler. Mankind would not be able to regain any portion of its former glory by bickering amongst themselves and sucking all of the wealth and resources dry in their little prison.


    There would be a time and a place for all of that, but for now, He had one obligation, and that was to the Lady in His arms. There was nothing standing in the way of the Sealed Sanctum now��all threats had been eliminated without a drop of blood being spilled.


    He turned back to see the beggar Art stumbling his way up the stairs. By the extreme exhaustion Art exhibited, He knew that it was very likely that the others left at the camp had to have become embroiled in a battle. It would be irresponsible for Him to make this man take another step. He needed rest. With any luck, Art would survive another day, and He could figure out a way to release the man from the taxation levied upon his body.


    Seeing the effect the Soularm link had on Art, He felt a fuller regret about His decision to allow Alaric��s mother to serve as the host for the boy��s Soularm. It was not right for Him to allow someone so fragile to be a part of the Ritual, and He should have found someone else. But He needed Alaric, and Alaric needed someone to bind with him who he truly loved, who truly loved him. There was no one else around who shared a stronger bond. It was, most unfortunately, the only way.


    He took pity on Art.


    ��Take a moment to breathe and then find your way back down. It��s dangerous for you to try to keep climbing in your state.��


    ��No,�� Art said, defying the thought. ��I��ve come this far, I am not going to turn back now.�� He had to take a moment to allow himself to catch his breath, but then he continued. ��Besides, it��s not every day that a guy like me gets to climb up this temple. Great view. I��m glad that I got to see over the walls, at least once in my life.��


    The poor man��s willpower alone was enough to inspire Him. He hadn��t considered it before, but now that He saw what this man��s spirit was capable of, He thought that, perhaps, he might be a good addition to their party. Fridok would certainly enjoy his friend��s company, assuming the two of them would be able to reunite out there one day soon. Perhaps he could make a sword of Art��s own as well, assuming He could find someone who loved him enough to perform the ritual.


    After confirming that Art would make it up the last few steps safely, He decided it was at last time to do what He had come all this way to do. He would only be able to open the door for a brief time, as inside that Sanctum lay the power of Creation��a power that no man, not even He, could wield for more than a specific, small-scale purpose, and not for more than a moment. His plan was simple: use the power contained within Father��s Sanctum to restore Gailavira��s soul and reconnect it to her body. Her sacrifice would be reversed, and she could choose whether to rejoin Him on the road out of the City.


    He placed Gailavira��s body down gently, carefully approaching His father��s sanctum door. On it, though faded with time, were all of the intricate designs His father had painted upon it��the vast histories of the journey of mankind out of the void. The story of His people, the Gifted, was told there on that heavy, round metal door that only the Gifted could open and only His father could truly use.


    It was time for that power to again be used for the good of mankind, Gifted or not.


    He pressed his hands upon both sides of the Sanctum door, allowing much of the soul energy that still coursed through his veins to enter the door. It glowed, accepting the energy willingly, as if it were greeting an old friend. He stood there, listening to the rumbling of the door and watching as its machinations began to spin within it. Soon, the door would open. Hopefully, he had enough Soul energy to pass into it to do the job. He wouldn��t want to deplete himself of it without first doing what he came to do.


    As He felt His energies drain away, both His own and the demons��, He almost didn��t notice that death had come for Him, a betrayal most unwelcome.


    It never would have occurred to Him that He was in so much danger, but if He had not reacted as quickly as He had, then any hope He had to save Gailavira, the City, or the world would have been struck down right at that moment.


    As Daemonore came falling onto the place where He stood, the Son just barely managed to evade the attack. Had the beggar Art not been exhausted and breathing so heavy due to the Soul link to Fridok, then surely He and His very soul would have met their final end, there at the place where His father once stood. It would have been poetic, in a way.


    He could tell by Art��s face, full of regret and sorrow, that this betrayal was not his idea. As the Son��s spear tip ran Art through, that look withered away with the rest of Art��s body, a black, soulless husk that had just a second before resembled a man.


    Art died standing.


    <hr>


    Fridok felt a surge of something completely unfamiliar and new. In his mind, he saw Art��s face all of the sudden, and then it was gone. With it, Fridok had suddenly lost connection with the immense energy that had just empowered him. He didn��t know what had happened, but he knew that he had made his choice and now he was going to have to stick with it.


    With Geilamir��s bloodied body on his shoulders, Fridok was unable to fight the ever-increasing mass of monsters that have overwhelmed their hilltop. All he could do now was run for his life and keep running until the last bit of his energy was gone. With Ervig grabbing ahold of Xanthus and leaping off the other side of the hill, Fridok knew that was the only way any of them would be able to survive.


    And so he ran. Alone, carrying the deeply wounded friend of Alaric��s who Fridok had never thought he would connect with at the start of the journey. Now, everything rested on the hope that his choice to save Geilamir and not kill the three-headed behemoth would not be in vain.


    Fridok, the lonesome Solumian, found himself in a situation in which he had never ever expected to be: caring for others, others who he thought of as his friends. Primisians, even. Funny thing.


    Be well. Please, be well.


    <hr>


    Alaric stepped into the room where his mother��s body lay. He had expected the worst, to not be able to recognize her because of how many days it had been since she had passed.


    She was still beautiful, even in death.


    He wept, openly and unashamedly as the realization finally dawned upon him how he would never have her there to guide him again, to say kind words when his father couldn��t.


    He had lost his songbird. He had lost his song.


    Alaric didn��t hear his father come in. His father always told him to conceal his feelings and his emotions��that it was a weakness. Perhaps he was right, but Alaric didn��t care. This was his mom. She was the only person in his life that truly understood him for who he was. Now that she was gone, and because he knew all too well that it was his own fault, Alaric believed that a very real part of him had died with her.


    Expecting the worst, knowing he deserved it, Alaric accepted whatever punishment that the ��Great Senator�� Valoricus was about to dole out.


    Instead, his father rested a hand upon Alaric��s shoulder. When Alaric finally looked up at him, he saw tears in his father��s eyes. Alaric wanted to apologize, to take the blame fully upon himself, but he couldn��t find the words among the exhaustion and unbearable sadness he felt. When the two both came to the same conclusion, that no words were going to be right on this occasion, Alaric turned back toward his mother��s body.


    Valoricus, the man who had always told Alaric that music was a waste of time, started singing the song that Alaric and his mother had always sung to one another.


    In the twinkling stardust


    and the scattered ashes of the fallen day


    In the fire waning


    as the cinders smolder and crumble all away


    In the sounds of the lovers


    Reaching for all they discover


    And in the lost sleep of me and all


    of the broken-hearted people


    I see your eyes,


    and then you��re gone.


    The song stopped, his father unable to go on. For the first time in Alaric��s life, he wept, openly, together with his father, the hardest man he knew.


    End of Book I