>
> The Apostate Knight
> Originally posted on Tales of the Parodyverse by Manga Shoggoth.
> (c) 2008 A. C. Leeson
> The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works.
>
>
> Those who are following my foray into the world of the novella will be pleased to hear that I locked myself in the kitchen one morning during my holiday and managed to bash out Part 4 (The Jungles of the Gamin). I have posted the full story here, including the unrevised sections (more-or-less as originally posted). Clicking on the links below will take you to the appropriate sections.
>
> I hope to read and respond to things some time this week (after I have picked up at work). I'm sorry to hear that Shrike is leaving - hopefully he will enjoy this before he goes.
>
> Part 1: The Tomb of Thevros the Undying (Unrevised)
>
Part 2: The Apostate Knight (Incomplete)
>
Part 3: How Not to Slay a Dragon (Unrevised)
>
Part 4: The Jungles of the Gamin (NEW and Complete)
>
Part 5: The Champion of Fania (Not Written Yet)
>
Part 6: Remaking the Seal (Complete)
>
Epilogue: The Years to Come (Not Written Yet)
>
>
>
> Part 1: The Tomb of Thevros the Undying
>
> The following is the original - unrevised - version of the story, posted under the title of "Again, a Quest". It was originally written in different colours to represent the different speakers. I have added names to identify them. The characters will change somewhat in the rewrite - the most significant changes being that Saroc does not speak (and neither does Darktree. but she doesn't appear 'till later).
>
> * * *
>
> The Caretaker
>
> The rays from the rising sun pour in through my window. I slowly wake, the light burning my eyes.
>
> I hate mornings.
>
> I roll out of bed, and stagger across the room to the table next to the window. The jug and bowl are there, where I left them last night, the jug filled with water from the well. I pour the water from the jug into the bowl and start my morning ablutions. When you reach my age, you start to take comfort in the little ceremonies of life.
>
> I squint in the mirror, trying to get my face in focus. The fuzzy shapes in the mirror slowly resolve into my features. My hair - what is left of it - is unkempt, and I need a shave. I keep meaning to fix the mirror to the wall rather than leave it balanced on the table next to the bowl, but then I would have to stand in front of it every time I want to use it.
>
> I can hear the day's entertainment outside. An adventuring party arrived last night, and camped outside the gates. I assume that they wanted to wait until daylight before venturing in. As if it makes any difference.
>
> I pull my clothes on. Although they have not yet reached my venerable age, they are still quite ragged. Clothes just do not wear as well as they used to. I gird my loins with the old rope I use as a belt. I really ought to get a new one - indeed, I really ought to get a new set of clothes - but they are so comfortable now that it seems a shame to replace them.
>
> I pour the remaining water from the jug into the kettle to boil for tea. A few moments tending the cooking fire and I can start thinking about breakfast.
>
> * * *
>
> Sir Orion
>
> I took a look at the graveyard at first light.
>
> The villagers were right. From what I can see through the gates, the caretaker has maintained the graves in a respectful manner, and the place is generally tidy and well kept. The gates are in decent repair and have been securely locked, the better to keep the straying undead where they belong.
>
> The mausoleum in the middle of the graveyard is clear of moss and ivy, and its metal gate has clearly been painted recently. The inscription over the doorway is unreadable at this distance, but I have no doubts about what is graven there:
>
> THEVROS BUILT ME
>
POST IUCUNDAM IUVENTUTEM
>
POST MOLESTAM SENECTUTEM
>
NOS HABEBIT HUMUS
>
> Under the mausoleum, however... I shudder at the thought of the lost souls wandering in the crypt and catacombs below. At least, as part of this quest, I might have the chance to lay at least some of the poor souls to rest.
>
> I raised my mailed fist to knock on the door of the caretaker's hovel. It is opened by an old, slightly hunched man, dressed in rags. I am momentarily at a loss - not for the first time in this quest - as I try to address someone of a much lower class than I am used to dealing with. I wish I could leave these things to Shadowfire, but I am - supposedly - the leader, and this is after all my job.
>
> "Good Sir," I declare. "We have travelled many weary miles in search of ..."
>
> "The Tomb of Thevros the Undying." completes the old man, with the air of someone who has heard the same thing many times before. "I am just having breakfast. I will unlock the gates as soon as I have finished. Perhaps you would care to join me?"
>
> I accept the invitation. It would be churlish to spurn his hospitality, and it may be that Shadowfire can charm some useful information out of him. She is, in a very real sense, a most charming woman, and figures a great deal in my morning confessions.
>
> To my surprise, the hovel is clean, airy and well-lit. A crude chimney at one end allows the smoke from the fire to leave the building, and the single room is illuminated by a large window overlooking the graveyard. It is unglazed, of course, but some coarse sacking acts as a curtain, and there is a rough timber panel that looks like it is used to block out the weather.
>
> A kettle boils on the fire, alongside a pot of watery porridge. Once again, I am reminded that not all people in the world live in poverty because of a vow. At least on this occasion the old man can be offered something more - although it is so difficult: sometimes it seems none are offended by charity so much as the poor.
>
> * * *
>
> The Caretaker
>
> I was half-way through my breakfast when the party knocked on my door.
>
> Looking at them, they are almost the typical adventuring party. The leader is clearly some form of holy knight - all gleaming armour, honour, chastity and totally inept at dealing with the common people. Next to him sits a warrior, slightly on edge, with his hand on his sword.
>
> The other two members of the party are not seated. The mage - a rather pretty raven-haired young lass - is over by the cooking fire, attempting to cook some bacon from their supplies, and the party thief - a nasty piece of work - is standing in the shadows by the door, trying not to look as if he is casing the joint. He is one of the "leather because it looks good brigade". I bet he has a complete set of spare big-buckled leather belts in his pack.
>
> All in all, an interesting exercise in group dynamics. The paladin was taken aback when I invited them in, and clearly shocked at the state of my little hut (for all their vows of poverty, I bet he seldom came across the real thing in his monastery). At least he offered to supplement my meal (or as he put it, "Good Sir, allow us to share our food with you this fine morning.").
>
> This brought fourth some sarcastic muttering from the thief. I didn't hear what he said, but I saw the paladin's fists clench when he said it. The mage gave the thief a very black look. I don't think any of them are particularly fond of the thief.
>
> Speaking of fond, I suspect from the looks she gives the paladin that she is more than rather fond of him. Not that the big lunk has noticed, mind you. Judging by the looks she is directing his way I foresee that - provided they survive the tomb - he will shortly be having a crisis of faith - or at least a crisis of chastity.
>
> The fighter is clearly a dour survivor. He keeps a hand on his weapon, an eye on the threats, himself to himself and well out of the party arguments. He is the sort that sees everything, but says nothing.
>
> Over the meal, the mage tries to pump me for information. Not that there is a great deal to tell. Yes, I look after the graveyard. Yes, that is the Tomb of Thevros the Undying, built by his own hands. Yes, the inscription on the mausoleum is the one they are expecting. With this party I think I will give them the translation, but I don't think I will tell them where it comes from - the paladin might be shocked, and he seems a nice lad.
>
> Once again I toy with the idea of making a sign with this stuff on, along with "Graveyard Opening Hours: Terce till Vespers". That way I might at least have my breakfast in peace.
>
> I manage to get a little information myself - not that I need it, as adventuring parties are all too predictable. They are on a quest to find some holy object or another, and in return for information vital to their quest, a sage has charged them to retrieve "the Belt of Thevros the Undying, scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins". "Retrieve" is obviously the new "steal", although the gods only know why the sage wants the blasted thing in the first place.
>
> After breakfast, I pick up my tools and unlock the graveyard. The party wander off to the tomb and set up shop on the paved area in front of the tomb. It took a long time to make that, but it was better than letting the various idiots scuff up the lawn. I leave them to their preparations, and start making my rounds. Flowers to plant, grass to cut. You know the drill.
>
> At length, the party finish their preparations and start make their way into the tomb. I allow myself a moment of quiet amusement listening to their thief swear at the door having spent a good quarter of an hour looking for traps.
>
> After doing a little planting, I retire to my hovel, where I can watch the fun in a degree of comfort.
>
> * * *
>
> Lynx the Thief
>
> Stupid party. Stupid Mission.
>
> This isn't my sort of party to begin with. Sir Orion snooty-nosed Stargazer looks down on me on those occasions where the poufy knight actually bothers to acknowledge me, Saroc the Disemboweler promised to demonstrate how he got his nickname if he caught me near his pack one more time, and Little Miss Shadowfire spends all her time mooning over Sir Poufy Knight rather than paying any attention to a man like me. Ha! I make one offer and she treats me like... she's probably frigid anyway.
>
> Even spiking her drinks - the usual plan B - didn't help. I didn't realise mages could do the wine to water trick. Besides, after a few attempts the paladin hoisted me up by the neck and suggested that I leave the drinks alone.
>
> To cap it all, once we get to the stupid graveyard, we all get hauled into the caretaker's mud hut (not a thing worth pinching) and have to dole out some of our supplies and waste most of the morning while Miss Ice Queen pours out all her charm on the old geezer. In my old gang it would have been a few questions with a hot knife if required. Much quicker and easier on the supplies.
>
> Stupid tomb. No traps anywhere (wasted a lot of time on the front door proving that). No sign of anything valuable - not that Mr Nose-in-the-Air Paladin would let me lift anything. Oh no. We might be off to steal some magical belt from one tomb or another, but you just try checking someone else's grave for valuables and you get lecture after lecture about desecrating the grave and robbing from the dead.
>
> Just chambers with rows upon rows of alcoves, with a mixture of coffins and corpses dumped in them. New coffins and bodies near the entrance; older ones as they got deeper in. Each alcove with a name and an occupation. Fighters, mages, priests - and one alcove with a rotting coffin marked "Reserved for Aunt Lavinia".
>
> No traps, no treasure and no wandering undead. Ha!
>
> Finally, we reach a chamber with a single stone sarcophagus in the middle. I get my hammer out to smash the lid, but put it back when I see Sir Pouf preparing to deliver another lecture about desecration. Instead, he and Saroc struggle to shift the lid a little, leaving me to grope around in the dark.
>
> Good job the old guy is long dead. There are traces of rotted material, but no sign of a belt. However, my fingers close round what feels like a gem the old boy had laid on his chest. It's small enough to palm, so at least I will get something out of all this.
>
> Oh shit!
>
> * * *
>
> Saroc the Disembowler
>
> Gods damn it! I knew that idiot thief would get us into trouble again.
>
> There he is, rummaging around in the sarcophagus when suddenly he starts screaming that something has got hold of his arm.
>
> We manage to pull him away, and whatever it is in the sarcophagus is indeed hanging on to his arm. We manage to break its grip, but in the process Lynx manages to drop something, and then I'm damned if the stupid idiot doesn't try to stick his hand back in the sarcophagus to get it back.
>
> I manage to drag him away. Just in time, as everyone else in the tomb seems to have woken up. Sir Orion somehow manages to plough a path through the sudden horde of undead, with Shadowfire in his wake. Even now the fool of a thief is trying to fight his way back to the coffin.
>
> The undead pull him in. I try to fight my way towards him - you don't leave your companions in the lurch, no matter how disagreeable they are - but the undead overwhelm me as well. The last thing I feel before the darkness overtakes me is the chill touch of their hands.
>
> * * *
>
> Sir Orion
>
> Shadowfire's scream alerts me to Saroc's predicament. I manage to pull him from the milling corpses and struggle to carry him out of the tomb. Lynx, gods rest his soul, is beyond help. Shadowfire attempts to discourage pursuit with a blast of magic, but the undead seem strangely uninterested in chasing us.
>
> As we stagger out of the tomb into the afternoon sunlight, Shadowfire helps me support Saroc. The gardener calls us over to his hovel, and we lay Saroc down on the old man's bedroll.
>
> I am worried. He is as cold as the grave, and appears not to be breathing.
>
> * * *
>
> Shadowfire the Mage
>
> As soon as we laid Saroc down I dug out the bandages and unguents and put Orion to work cleaning and bandaging his wounds. He said something about Saroc not breathing, so I take the old man's mirror and hold it under his nose.
>
> To my relief it mists slightly. Saroc is still alive.
>
> It is only as I put the mirror back that I notice something wrong.
>
> I am holding the mirror with my right hand.
>
> The reflection of my arm is on the left.
>
> * * *
>
> The Caretaker
>
> The mage carefully put the mirror on the table.
>
> "Thevros the Undying, I assume?" She asks.
>
> I smiled. She is only the second of my visitors to actually work that out.
>
> I notice the glance they both throw at the rope round my waist. "No, that is not (ahem) the Belt of Thevros the Undying, scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins. I lost that belt a long time ago. To a young priestess, as I recall."
>
> "A mighty priestess indeed, to overcome the hordes of undead at your command." noted the paladin.
>
> "The undead only attack people who actually steal from the tomb. Your fighting friend down there would have gotten clean away if he hadn't gone back for the thief. Actually, the priestess didn't get as far as the tomb. She recognised me right away, and challenged me to a game. Beat me hands down, too!"
>
> "What game?" asks the mage.
>
> I hesitate. Well, this part of the story is quite embarrassing.
>
> "Strip Poker." I admit at length.
>
> "What?" they chorus in disbelief.
>
> "Strip Poker, damn it!" I yell. "Well, she was a pretty little thing, black as a cushite, and I am as susceptible as any to offers from an attractive young lady."
>
> The conversation flags while they finished bandaging their fallen comrade. I build up the fire a little and help the paladin move the bed closer to the fire, the better to drive the chill from the fighter's bones.
>
> "So, what did this belt do?" asks the paladin at length.
>
> "Held up my trousers?" I respond. "I really have no idea why people wanted that belt. There was nothing magical about it at all."
>
> "And the 'unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins'?"
>
> "Well, when I was very much younger, I tried doodling patterns on it, and the only thing I had available was my blood. You do stupid things like that when you are a teenager."
>
> In the mean time, the mage was rummaging in the thief's packs. Eventually, she pulls out a couple of leather belts with even more ornate buckles than the one the thief had been wearing, and hands them to me.
>
> "Since Lynx is no longer with us, perhaps you might like these belts of his. Now...", she jabs her arm with a dagger, "...How did you do that engraving?".
>
> * * *
>
> Shadowfire the Mage
>
> We stayed with Thevros for the remainder of the week waiting for Saroc to recover enough to travel. Thevros turned out to be a mage of sorts himself, although his interests lie mainly in gardening rather than magic.
>
> We offered Thevros anything he liked in return for the freshly engraved belt, but he assured us that he liked the simple life, and that there was nothing we had that he really wanted. All in all, it is not a bad way to live, I suppose.
>
> Orion is a little worried about the belt as it is clearly not what the sage is expecting, but it is genuinely ' the Belt of Thevros the Undying, scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins' - or one virgin at least. That will be enough to satisfy any spells designed to detect truth.
>
> Thevros did give me one gift when we departed - a prize for being the only person ever to actually ask for the belt. It is small gold ring with a diamond set in it. Completely unmagical - in an arcane sense, that is - but a fine piece of work none the less. He said that he was sure I would find a use for it.
>
> I shall. The feast of St. Oswald approaches.
>
> * * *
>
> Footnotes:
>
> * The inscription on the mausoleum comes from the old student's (drinking) song 'Gaudeamus Igitur', written in 1781 by Christian Wilhelm Kindleben. The words and translation were taken from the Annotated Pratchet File, and are:
>
> Gaudeamus igitur, iuvenes dum sumus
>
Post iucundam iuventutem,
>
Post molestam senectutem,
>
Nos habebit humus, nos habebit humus.
>
Let us be merry, therefore, whilst we are young men.
>
After the joys of youth,
>
After the pain of old age,
>
The ground will have us, the ground will have us.
>
> * For those unfamiliar with the old-fashioned (monastic) offices, Terce is 9 am. and Vespers is at sunset (originally 6pm).
>
> * The Feast of St Oswald falls on the 29th of February.
>
> * The Belt of Thevros the Undying, scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins, appears in the tale "...But Once a Year" where it is indeed used for its correct mystical purpose.
>
> The plan for the revision is as follows: Orion Stargazer, a knight of the Order of Fania, was sent on a quest to recover the Relics of Fania (consisting of the Misericorde of Fania, the Robe of Fania and the Tabard of Fania). He was supported in this quest by a Shadowfire (a mage), Saroc the Disemboweler (a taciturn fighter) and Lynx (a disreputable thief).
>
> A sage requires the Belt of Thevros the Undying (scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins) as payment for information on the location of the Misericorde. The party travel to the Tomb of Thevros in the northern town of Terosa, and discover that - far from being a horror-filled dungeon - it is in fact the mortuary for the local town, set in a rather peaceful garden. They befriend the gardener, who warns them not to take anything from the tomb. They search the tomb but fail to find the belt, although Shadowfire does have an interesting discussion about Knights with a revenant calling herself Aunt Lavinia. In the bottom of the tomb Lynx is attacked and taken by the unquiet dead guarding the tomb when he attempts to rob one of the bodies, and Saroc is seriously injured trying to rescue him.
>
> With the aid of the gardener (who Shadowfire manages to identify as Thevros himself) the remaining party make a belt that fulfils the requirements of the quest. Thevros notes that it he lost the original - and completely unenchanted - belt in a game of chance against a priestess. He also gives Shadowfire a small diamond ring as a reward for being the only person to actually ask for the belt rather than trying to steal it.
>
> After they leave, The Caretaker is seen talking to a hooded minstrel.
>
>
>
> Part 2: The Apostate Knight
>
> When they deliver the belt to the sage discover that the sage was separately tasked by the Order to find it, and that the order already has the Tabard. The sage also gives them a long and detailed explanation as to why the artefact they delivered to him does not seem in the least bit magical.
>
> Shadowfire looked around the room with some interest. On their first visit to the Sage they had been relegated to the vestibule, just long enough for a clerk to ask their question and get their marching orders from the Sage. On their return they were shown in to the study to see the man himself.
>
> "Mess" was, she thought, a good way of describing it.
>
> The first thing she saw was the desk. A huge oaken construction that squatted near the window, making the best use of the light. The desk was piled with scrolls, heavily bound books, quills in various states of repair, the occasional plate, odd trinkets and small models, and finally a small inkwell peeking out from underneath a pyramid of blank scrolls. Behind the table was an ornate chair, covered in cushions. In front were three stools, mismatched and Spartan.
>
> The walls were covered in shelves, crammed to overflowing with more scrolls and books. One scroll had in fact slipped from the shelf, forming a kind of vertical banner. Here and there on the shelves were more trinkets, pressed into service as bookends and paperweights. In the darkest corner of the room the shelves gave way to a tray of soil, in which grew a number of tall, large-leafed plants, some of which were showing white and purple flowers. Evidently the Sage also practiced divination, or perhaps just had a taste for very bad jokes.
>
> The floor was littered with all the items that would not fit on a shelf: A few mounted animals, in one corner a human skeleton, attended by the bony remains of an unfortunate cat, and several more models, some of which bearing the unmistakeable evidence of having been trodden on. The carpet - where visible - was threadbare and stained with the faint evidence of long-ago alchemical experiments.
>
> Above all this, the stuffed body of an alligator hung from a single mounting point on the ceiling, describing a slow circle as it was buffeted in the drafts.
>
> "Well,", said the Sage, indicating the stools, then sitting back in his seat, "Let us see what you have brought."
>
> Shadowfire took the box from Orion, and then looked meaningfully at the cluttered desk. The Sage chuckled to himself, then swept a section of the middle of the desk clear. This had the knock-on effect of tipping the items piled at one end of the desk on to the floor, including an unregarded inkwell, which proceeded to add a fresh contribution to the carpet stains.
>
> She placed the box on the table. "The Belt of Thevros the Undying, scored with unwritten sigils graven in the blood of virgins", she declared. Her statement was, of course, strictly true.
>
> The Sage opened it and looked at the belt coiled inside. He hummed to himself, and then poked at it with a wooden spatula, looking at the dull red markings etched into the leather. Eventually, he lifted it from the box and unrolled it, an expression of almost-reverence on his face. She noticed that his hands were shaking slightly.
>
> "Wonderful!" he breathed. "Perfect!"
>
> Orion shifted uneasily in his seat, a slightly guilty expression on his face. The Knights of Fania were sworn to honesty, and he was a little uncomfortable with the idea of sophistry.
>
> "You have a problem, Sir Knight?" asked the Sage, coming out of his reverie.
>
> "Well..." started Orion, "It's just that..."
>
> The Sage chuckled again. He laid the belt on the desk in front of the knight. "You seem unsure of the provenance of the item. Why?"
>
> Shadowfire tried not to roll her eyes.
>
> "Well, the belt doesn't appear to be at all magical... or even old." offered Orion hesitantly. "The buckle doesn't match the drawing you gave us, and the engravings are different as well.". The knight placed the parchment the Sage had supplied them with on the table.
>
> "He's a nice honest lad, isn't he?" the Sage asked, smiling at Shadowfire.
>
> "Yes, he is." she replied with a sigh. Too honest by half, she thought.
>
> "Perhaps a few lessons are in order." smiled the Sage.
>
> "First of all, the magic. You've seen minor magical devices before, I take it?" - they nodded - "Pick them up and they tingle. Some of them glow in the dark. All of them are unmistakably magic. Easy to spot a mile off."
>
> He indicated the belt. "This is an artefact: rare, powerful and built to last. Powerful magic like that needs to be shielded. Otherwise you might just as well stick up a sign inviting everybody to come and steal it. At least half of the magic in an artefact or relic goes into hiding the magic and preserving the item. That's why artefacts are hard to find and hard to destroy. It's also why this belt still looks like a well used, but sturdy belt." He looked at the belt for a moment and sighed. "You aren't the first people I have sent after this belt. And you wouldn't believe what some adventurers have tried to palm off on me. As long as it reeked with magic they thought I wouldn't notice..."
>
> He tapped the buckle. "Now, the Belt of Thevros the Undying has been lost for millennia. The sigils have been handed down by various means, but none of the mages that wrote about it have seen it, so they drew a belt with the sigils for 'Through the joy of life, through the pain of death, you shall yet be mine'. They didn't know what the buckle looked like, so they drew whatever was fashionable - or old-fashioned, I suppose - at the time."
>
> He looked up at the trip. Saroc looked as impassive as always, Shadowfire had adopted the glazed look of the lectured student, and Orion's brow was even more furrowed.
>
> "Finally, the sigils themselves...". Here, he wandered over to one of the shelves, carefully extracting an ancient scroll case. He rolled out the scroll and placed it alongside the belt and the parchment. "This is the oldest reference to the Belt of Thevros the Undying in my possession. The author didn't sketch the belt, but simply recorded the sigils. You see?"
>
> Orion looked. "They all look different." he said at last. "The parchment is more cursive, the belt is more angular, and the scroll looks to be part-way between the two."
>
> "Exactly!" exclaimed the Sage. "Over time the way sigils are written has changed. In Thevros' day, runes were still carved on stone and wood, and as a result were - as you say - angular. This" - here he tapped the parchment - "was written fairly recently, when quill pens are common and inscription on stone is rare. The scroll was written some time during the transitional between stone and parchment. As you can see, it is a mix of angular and cursive forms."
>
> The Sage looked Orion in the eye. "Make no mistake. The lack of magic and the difference in inscription are the strongest proofs of the artefact's veracity."
>
> He sat back in his chair. "Lady mage, if you would take the leather scroll case to your right?"
>
> Shadowfire carefully teased the scroll case out of the jumble on the desk.
>
> "You asked for the location of the Misericord of Fania. According to the sources in my possessions, and to those divinations I have been able to make, it is part of the hoard of Kivaxoranus Draconicus, who lairs in the frozen wastes in the far south. It is..." he smiled "...something of a walk. I have provided you with a map to the southern lands, with some notes on the extant trade routes. Alas, I cannot help you with the wastes themselves. The fishermen on the south coast may be able to ferry you to the wastes, but they are notoriously treacherous."
>
> "The wastes or the fishermen?" queried Shadowfire.
>
> "Since the traders to the south tend to come back, while the adventurers don't, I would suspect the wastes. However, I wouldn't drop your guard." - Here, he glanced at Orion - "The southern lands are second only to the western jungle when it comes to the Cult of the Ancients."
>
> The Sage rose. "Now, pleasant though this meeting has been, I must ask you to leave. I have much to do, and I suspect that you will have a long journey to prepare for."
>
> Shadowfire and Orion thanked the Sage, Saroc simply nodded his head. Then they took their leave.
>
> The Sage coiled up the belt and replaced it in the box. All this, he mused, and I still haven't found out why the Order of Fania want this thing.
>
> * * *
>
> We learn that Shadowfire proposes to Orion on The feast of St. Oswald. His Order are not happy about this, and he is cast out.
>
> To be added...
>
> * * *
>
> When he recovers (which takes some time), they decide to fulfil Orion's oath to gather the relics. As they move out they find that the minstrels are singing songs about the Apostate Knight, loosely based on their adventures (but, as Shadowfire puts it, more interesting).
>
> To be added...
>
>
>
> Part 3: How Not to Slay a Dragon
>
> The following is the original - unrevised - version of the story, posted under the title "Wedding Presents". The main character-based difference is that Darktree does not speak.
>
> * * *
>
> "There is no greater joy", I used to tell my Aunt Lavinia, "than - after a long and exciting life as an adventurer - settling down to tend your own little garden."
>
> Well, I admit that my "garden" is actually the town graveyard, and I have been tending it for more generations that I care to remember - certainly far more time than I spent as an adventurer - but the principle is sound. I have seen adventurers come and (occasionally) go, but the garden remains the same. That reminds me, I really must do some tidying in the mausoleum. It is starting to get full again.
>
> I can see the town messenger coming up the hill. Gardening may be a joy, but there is nothing quite like the occasional unexpected letter.
>
> * * *
>
> It is a small package, addressed to "The Caretaker, Town Graveyard" rather than using my real name. The writing is in a female hand and the package itself sealed with wax. To one such as myself it is also clearly spelled against intrusion. Much to the disappointment of the messenger I leave the package on the table in my hovel and go back to composting the flowerbeds. There is nothing like compost for growing flowers, not to mention its efficaciousness in getting rid of unwanted snoops. I believe in the privacy of the mails, even if the town messenger doesn't.
>
> When the gathering dusk makes the gardening difficult I returned to my hovel. After a meal of bacon and beans (the former a relic of the last group of idiots seeking the Tomb of Thevros the Undying) I settle down to make a closer examination of the package.
>
> The package contains a sealed letter and small number of cloth bags containing some soft, irregular lumps and some folded paper packets that rattle if shaken. It is but a moment's work to break the seal on the letter (a nice piece of casting, I might add), at which point I sit back and read.
>
> From Shadowfire, Magus Magna Excursive.
>
> Many greetings.
>
> Ah yes, Shadowfire. Nice lass. One of the more amusing taglines for a Mage as well. I get so bored with the "Mage Most Extraordinary" crowd, and don't get me started on the plague of "Nameless Mages".
>
> Our quest continues to drag us across all regions of the map. We have ploughed our way through more cities, wildernesses and bazaars than I care to count. Not that we have to any more, but Orion swore an oath to find the lost relics of his former order, and he is sticking to it.
>
> In the mean time I have collected some bulbs and seeds from the various places we have passed through, in the hopes that they will grow well in your graveyard.
>
> Wonderful woman! When I was out in the field I never thought of taking time to pick the flowers.
>
> The ring you gave me proved useful after all. I managed to back Orion into a corner during the feast of St Oswald, and he accepted my proposal. Actually, it was quite embarrassing: he went down on one knee and started to swear eternal and undying love and loyalty in true High Style, until I shut him up with a kiss. Saroc, who was dancing nearby with one of the local girls, actually cracked a smile.
>
> Hmmm... Tell me about "undying". At least Saroc seems to be a little less dour.
>
> Alas, Orion's preceptors did not take kindly to his relationship with "a heretical witch and temptress", let alone marrying her. After a rather heated series of exchanges they stripped him of his knighthood and threw him out of the Order of St Fania. Now that he no longer has to act the archetypical Paladin he has loosened up a little bit, but he doesn't seem to have lost any of his divinely-granted powers.
>
> Ah yes, young Fania. She was always something of a romantic. I'm not surprised that she would smile on a knight who fell in love. How she ended up as the patron saint for a celibate order I'll never know.
>
> Our last little adventure might amuse you. We were following up a rumour that the Misericord of Fania was held in the hoard of Kivaxoranus Draconicus, an ancient dragon who was said to lair in the Mountains of Insanity, in a frozen land far to the south.
>
> Well, after much travelling we found the mountains. In a cold plateau within the mountain range, we finally found the Dragon's cave...
>
> * * *
>
> Shadowfire regarded the cave with a distinct lack of pleasure. It had been a long journey, she was cold, and the process of searching the plateau had been far from pleasant. The plateau was littered with the rotted remains of crumbling buildings and broken statues, built by some long-forgotten race. Mercifully, the detritus had been burned almost into featureless melted rock by dragonfire, but the broken remains still exuded an air of corruption and madness. Whatever had been here before, the dragon had taken great care to sear it out of existence. Or had been in a really bad mood - for a moment she considered the terrible possibility of a dragon that suffered from really bad PMT.
>
> The cave should have been brooding and mysterious. Instead, the cave entrance looked half-melted, cold and probably damp.
>
> They descended into the caves, checking for the usual dangers - loose rocks, slime underfoot, the occasional trap - but otherwise making no attempt to conceal their presence. They were here to bargain, not to steal.
>
> The cave walls and floor were melted smooth. Here and there were signs of ancient carvings, smeared and distorted by dragonfire. What was worrying was that some of the carvings looked as if they had only recently been burned, and there was no sign of moss or lichen on the rocks. Eventually, the tunnel lead to a huge cavern, big enough to hold a city. The cavern floor was uneven, as if it had been littered with huge boulders that had then been melted into lumpy mounds by intense fire.
>
> Then, as they crossed the cavern, the torchlight revealed the truth. The mounds were too regular in shape to be inconvenient boulders melted out of the way. They were indeed walking on what remained of an ancient city.
>
> It took them half an hour to cross the cavern. At the far end of the was a vast pile of treasure, and, as expected, a dragon was in residence. Orion moved to the fore of the group. Shadowfire was the best at dealing with "the common people", but she acknowledged that Orion was a true expert when it came to high style.
>
> The dragon sniffed and stirred. They waited for it to make the first move, and hoped that it would not be pre-emptive dragonfile. The dragon sniffed again, as if chasing an elusive scent.
>
> "Ah. Visitors... A fighter, a mage, and...". The dragon stopped, uncoiling itself slightly. It raised its head to look down at the party. Shadowfire suppressed an urge to run.
>
> Now that the party had been addressed, Orion spoke. "Mighty Kivaxoranus, great dragon. We have come in search of..."
>
> "Hmmmm... A true paladin of Fania? How curious." interrupted the dragon. "Evidently you no longer charge screaming at dragons. A shame to see the traditions fall by the wayside - although it makes a change to be able to talk to one of your kind, rather than breathing over you. I suppose you seek to steal that dagger once sported by your precious Saint."
>
> "Great wyrm, I have been cast out of the Order of St Fania, and am no longer a paladin. We now quest for the relics of the Saint only because I swore an oath to recover them. We do not intend to steal from your hoard, but to make true payment for the item, if it is indeed amongst your treasures."
>
> The dragon seemed to consider this for a moment. "I think I know the spoor of a paladin when I smell it..." it turned its gaze to Shadowfire, "...and I smell your spoor on him also. Tell me, little mage, what do you think would be appropriate payment for such a treasure?"
>
> Shadowfire found herself trembling slightly in the face of a draconic toothy grin. Some dragons had... predictable... tastes.
>
> Further conversation was prevented by the sound of footsteps. Shadowfire looked round to see a figure in a white robe striding briskly across the cavern floor. As the figure came closer, she could discern a dark-skinned female, not unattractive, but clearly not in a very good mood.
>
> "Kivaxoranus Draconicus!" yelled the female.
>
> Shadowfire spun round. There was no longer a dragon there, only a rather worried-looking elf.
>
> "No dragons here!" blurted the elf, in something of a panic. "Just us random humans... Elves and humans... Standard adventuring things..."
>
> The female closed in on the elf, who slowly backed away until it fell over backwards on to the lower spillage of the hoard.
>
> "Kivaxoranus Draconicus!" yelled the female again.
>
> "Not me! I'm a human... erm... Elf! Elf! Just a passing Elf! Honest!"
>
> The female stared at the frantic elf. "Are you sure? You look a little draconic about the ears..."
>
> The panicky elf paused in its attempt to burrow backwards into the hoard. "It's eczema. Look, I have a balm for it!". The elf grabbed at a stoppered bottle and pulled the stopper out.
>
> This was something of a tactical error - the bottle contained not balm, but an efreet, who took one look at the tableau and vanished in a very rapid puff of smoke. The distraction gave the woman enough time to hoist up the elf by the folds of its cloak. Either the elf was very light, or the woman was very strong.
>
> "Stop mucking around! I'm looking for a wedding present, and the boss thinks that something from a dragons hoard would be a good idea. I need a golden figure. Either a heroic one or one of those rather questionable ones you looted from the Temple of Xochiquetzal. In return, I don't tell the boss what you have done to this version of the caves."
>
> The elf sagged. "Over there." he sighed, waving a hand towards the back of the pile. The woman leaped across the hoard, carelessly scattering treasure as she disappeared behind the hoard. There followed several minutes of metallic clanking, followed by a cry of "Perfect!".
>
> Then there was a moment of terrible silence.
>
> Shadowfire looked at the creature, now a somewhat shamefaced dragon again, and smiled a toothy grin of her own.
>
> * * *
>
> Of course, we now had a wonderful bargaining chip. What is most valuable to a dragon? Its pride!
>
> In return for agreeing not to speak of these events to any other person we were presented with the Misericord of Fania. Kivaxoranus even gave us some clues to where the rest of the panoply may have gone.
>
> Anyway, we all remain well and, if our quest permits, hope to winter at your end of the country. Saroc in particular is in favour of this as he "has seen enough damn icebergs to last him a lifetime".
>
> Until we next meet.
>
> Shadowfire of the House of Stargazer.
>
> Well, something to look forward to this winter. I wonder if Fania would be interested in seeing this letter. I'll have to ask her next time Aunt Lavinia calls.
>
> * * *
>
> The plan for the revision is as follows: The party carry on with the quest, searching for the Misericorde amongst the hoard of Kivaxoranus Draconicus. They bargain for the misericorde, but the negotiations are interrupted by the appearance of a silent dark-skinned female in white robes who appears to terrify Kivaxoranus. They manage to recover the misericorde, and Kivaxoranus tells them of the Sealing of the Ancients by four persons identified as The Holy Knight, The Handmaiden of Life, Death's Herald and The Scholar of the Ancients. He informs them that the one they know as Saint Fania was involved in creating the seal. He also identifies the dark-skinned female as Darktree, but refuses to speak of her further.
>
>
>
> Part 4: The Jungles of the Gamin
>
> The hunters were young. Old enough to have started some training in weapons, but still too young to have learned the common sense that assures survival in the jungle. Had they been human, they would have been called "teenagers". The Gamin had another term for them, which translated roughly as "seeker of trouble".
>
> The Ganin were not at war with the humans. They mostly stayed in the jungles, building villages and farming in the clearings, hunting and so on. There were clashes, of course. Humans occasionally tried to clear land in the borders of the jungle and the Gamin occasionally objected. By and large, however, relations were reasonably peaceful. The Gamin traded in furs and exotic jungle fruits, the humans sold knives, arrowheads and rate treats such as pork and beef (Rare and exotic, of course, being what one makes of it). Most of the Gamin could speak the human tongue, although few humans could manage the guttural language they used amongst themselves. Occasionally, the braver minstrels travelled between villages, learning Gamin tales and teaching Human ones.
>
> There were the occasional raids on both sides, of course, and any group that ventured into the other's territory would be well advised to take precautions. But on the whole an unwritten peace held between the two peoples. The exception being the Knights of Fania, who in their zeal to eradicate the Cult of the Ancients tended to be a little indiscriminate. The Knighthood had something of a mixed reputation amongst the Gamin.
>
> There were six of them. Six full-grown Gamin would be enough to give a travelling merchant and escort a hard time, and they reckoned that they had a reasonable chance of intimidating any small party. Capturing a trading party (even if the chief released them later) would give their standing in the tribe a boost.
>
> The party they were shadowing was a small one by any description. Three travellers, one female and two males, all wearing light robes that were much the worse for travel. This seemed unusual to the hunters - the Gamin tended to keep their females close to home. The female was spending an inordinate amount of time complaining about the jungle (which seemed strange, as the Gamin could see nothing unusual in the area), her hair, and the inattentiveness of her escort. One of the males - the tallest - was riding in attendance, and trying unsuccessfully to placate her. The other was riding slightly behind, maintaining a stoic, but evidentally amused silence.
>
> The hunters broke cover. "Stand and umm.." declared the eldest, almost immediately losing his grip on the language. "You prisoners. Serr... Sur...".
>
> The arguement between the two front travellers stopped. The female urged her horse back, and the other male moved his forward to take her place. The third traveller looked down at the eldest hunter and smiled. He threw his robe back, revealing the armour usually worn by the Knights of Fania.
>
> "I think you mean 'Surrender or die'" he said, dismounting by swinging his leg over his horse and sliding gracefully to the ground. He drew his sword with a flourish, causing it to flip in the air before catching it and placing it point-first in the ground, his hands clasped on the hilt.
>
> The odds had dramatically shortened. Five of the hunters, including the eldest, had reassessed the odds and made a run for it, incidentally knocking over the smallest of the group. The remaining hunter picked himself up, and realising he had no chance to flee, drew his weapon - a long dagger - and prepared to meet his fate.
>
> The armoured figure dropped down to one knee. "Sir Warrior," he intoned formally. "I offer my honourable surrender."
>
> As the trembling Gamin took the sword from the Knight, the female turned to her other companion. "Well, that's one way of finding the nearest village, I suppose." she whispered.
>
> * * *
>
> It could be said that the Gamin Chief was not having a good day. One of the womenfolk had disappeared while gathering herbs. There were rumours amongst the neighbouring villages that members of the human Cult of the Ancients had been seen in the area, and to cap it all, his village was the closest to an ancient stone ziggurat which the Cult was convinced was built by the Ancients. Mounting a rescue party would be difficult: the Gamin avoided the ziggurat, not because of the Ancients or their worshippers, but because of something more terrible that lurked in the shadows.
>
> Then five of the village's young trouble seekers came back with tales of a horde of Knights coming to attack the village. The Shaman was worried because his son was the sixth in the group and missing. Said son not being noted as the strongest of the group.
>
> It was only when the missing son appeared at the edge of the clearing, carrying a sheathed sword nearly as big as him and leading a trio of travellers. One in the armour of a Knight of Fania (but less the insignia, meaning that he had been cast out), one dressed in the plain light armour of a trained fighter, and a female dressed in the robes of a mage.
>
> The Chief had heard the Lay of the Apostate Knight. Perhaps the Gods were smiling after all.
>
> * * *
>
> The formalities were covered fairly easily. With some quiet prompting from the Knight, the sword and the prisoners were presented to the Chief in the presence of the Shaman and the Elders. The young hunter was then dispatched to other duties having recieved something of a boost in the local pecking order.
>
> The sword was then returned to the Knight, and the party invited in to the main hall to discuss matters.
>
> * * *
>
> "So," summarised Orion. "One of your people is missing, and you think she is being held in the Temple of the Ancients. Do you know how many members of the Cult are involved?"
>
> "Hard to say." replied the Chief. "Bad things appear near temple. We stay clear."
>
> "Not too many, though." commented the Shaman. "Not many big groups seen in jungle, and not many small groups survive in jungle. Not if hunters see them, anyway."
>
> "What bad things are you talking about?"
>
> "The Dark One." replied the Shaman. At the mention of the name, all the villagers made some obscure hand sign - the equivalent of a ward, Orion assumed. "Looks like human, but dark as shadow and silent as dead. Even Cultists fear her. More than they fear Knighthood."
>
> "We seek the Robe of Fania, which is supposed to be hidden in a building like this one." continued Orion, handing them the drawing of the shrine that Kivaxoranus Draconicus had given them. "Do your people know of any other buildings like this?"
>
> "That look like temple." replied the Chief. "Except stone figures more broken and creepers everywhere. Tribes not know of other old buildings. This one enough trouble."
>
> "Well then. Can one of your people lead us to the Temple?"
>
> There was a short pause, then one of the villagers stood up. "I lead them." he said, shortly. That touched off a small arguement amongst some of the assembled elders.
>
> One of the womenfolk leaned over to Shadowfire. "He liking missing girl." she whispered. "Her family not keen on him."
>
> "What's her position?" Shadowfire asked.
>
> "She not care much either way yet." came the reply. "But he good tracker. Not bad looking. Girl could do much worse."
>
> Eventually the Chief terminated the arguement by the simple method of asking the family in question to produce an alternative guide. None was forthcoming.
>
> * * *
>
> They set off the following morning. Having a local guide gave them the advantage of speed, but it still took them three days to reach the temple. They arrived on the evening of the third day, just as the moon was waxing full.
>
> Illuminated by the full moon, the ziggurat was not a vast structure. It consisted of a steep-sided truncated pyramid about twenty paces along the base, rising to a plateau about five paces square. Down the south side of the pyramid a staircase had been built, four paces wide, and running about forty paces from the base. Broken statues lined the staircase and the sides of the plateau. They did not appear to represent humans, animals or anything else, just roughly formed lumps of stone, slowly losing the battle against the encroaching vines.
>
> There were some thirty cultists. Five of them stood at the top of the ziggurat. Four of them surrounding a crude altar and holding down the unwilling participant in the ritual. The fifth - presumably the High Priest - was chanting and weaving a dagger in the air above the altar. The remaining cultists were kneeling on the staircase, also chanting.
>
> "Hmm. no armour, nothing worse than daggers, and we have surprise on our side." whispered Orion. "Can you take the High Priest?" he added, looking at Saroc.
>
> Saroc gave a feral grin as he strung his longbow.
>
> Orion turned to the tracker. "If Shadowfire would oblige with her usual distraction?" - she nodded - "Shield your eyes as the spell gives of a very bright flash as well. When you hear the noise, we charge up the staircase. Saroc will join us at the front. We'll take care of the cultists, you take care of the victim. I think she will be a little calmer if she deals with one of her own."
>
> The tracker nodded.
>
> "Shadowfire? On your mark."
>
> * * *
>
> The first part of the attack almost ran like clockwork. Shadowfire whispered the incantation that wove the magical energies into the form she required, and flung the spell towards the top of the ziggurat. She then started counting.
>
> On the "two", Saroc drew the bow and took aim. On the "four" he released the arrow, dropped the bow and shielded his eyes.
>
> On the "five", two things happened almost simultaneously. First, the arrow tore into the High Priest's chest, just as he was raising the dagger for the fatal thrust. Then, above them, the ball of magical energies reached its zenith and detonated with a very bright flash.
>
> On the "seven" Orion and Saroc drew swords and charged, Orion with a cry of "Fania!", and Saroc with his usual grim silence. The cultists lined up at the bottom of the staircase were too shocked to resist, and were quickly dispatched. Shadowfire and the tracker followed close behind, Shadowfire chanting softly under her breath.
>
> Then things started to get a little strange.
>
> At the top of the ziggurat, the plateau was suddenly awash with some form of gelatinous fluid that - against all reason - started to flow up and over the four cultists around the altar. The same fluid ran over the edge of the plateau and down the steps, flowing over the cultists kneeling on the stairs. As the cultists were covered by the fluid they appeared to dissolve into nothing. Those cultists furthest away saw what was coming and turned to run, only to be met by Orion and Saroc. Briefly.
>
> The wave of fluid parted as the quartet charged up the staircase, which was now cleared of cultists. They were too intent on their charge to notice it closing up and forming a wall behind.
>
> When they reached the top of the ziggurat, only the High Priest and his victim were left, facing a figure in a white, hooded robe. The figure was bearing down on the High Priest, who was backing away, whimpering and clutching the arrow in his chest. The figure flicked a knife across his throat, then kicked him backwards.
>
> Unnoticed, the fluid had flowed back up the ziggurat, and formed a thin membrane around the plateau. The High Priest fell against the membrane, and then slowly sank into it, apparantly dissolving into nothing as he touched it.
>
> The tracker ran over to the sacrifice, who was now terrified beyond screaming. The figure turned to face them, pulling back her hood to reveal a female face, with skin as black as ebony.
>
> The same person they had seen in the Lair of Kivaxoranus Draconicus.
>
> * * *
>
> Ah. The Heroes arrive. A knight of Fania, a scholar of the mystic arts, a fell warrior and a tracker from those who call themselves the Gamin. Welcome.
>
> The voice - if it could be described as such - seemed to come from all around them. It took a few moments for Orion to realise that the strange fluid that had washed the cultists away had now formed up around them and was addressing them.
>
> "You seem to know of us, ... sir?" Orion responded. "Although I regret to inform you that I am no longer of the Order of Fania."
>
> An Apostate Knight, then. Replied the creature. Of such things, unfortunately, legends tend to be made. those few of your kind that I deal with tend to refer to me as The Ancient.
>
> "If you are the creature those cultists worship, then..." said Orion, raising his sword again.
>
> Then what, human? You can see what I did to those who thought to worship my masters.
>
> Orion subsided. "Your masters?"
>
> Yes. They created me to do their bidding, taught me their secrets, and were surprised when I learned enough to escape their...influence. I amuse myself by picking off the worshippers they use to try and regain their power in this world.
>
> "Oh."
>
> I believe you have met Darktree, known to the Gamin as The Dark One. She acts as my High Priestess. Darktree inclined her head. Now that the ritual is complete, I have come to take what was offered.
>
> "Not so, Ancient." objected Orion, raising his sword again. "I swore an oath to defend the world against the Ancients, though it cost me my life. If..."
>
> Why are you here, Sir Knight? Why is it that the Gamin have not come to save their own?
>
> Orion hesitated. "We came seeking the Robe of Fania. If we have a chance to cheat the Ancients of their victims, then all the better."
>
> Ceremonies are important, Sir Knight. The Cult have summoned me, and offered me one of the Gamin as a gift. I have a claim on her according to the forms. Your mage understands such things. Do you have such a claim, Sir Knight?
>
> "The forms have been obeyed." agreed Shadowfire, with some reluctance. "And I don't think the Ancient is really interested in being challenged to a duel."
>
> Besides, Darktree would be fighting on my behalf. As I recall, you knights have prohibitions about fighting females. No. This fight is not yours.
>
> The tracker stepped forward, placing himself between Darktree and the victim.
>
> Ah. The tracker makes his claim. What is the basis of your claim, tracker?
>
> The tracker responded in the growling tongue of the Gamin.
>
> A fair claim, Gamin. Will you face the Dark One for your claim?
>
> The tracker turned pale, but nodded. The victim, who was listening quite closely, climbed off the altar and placed herself in front of him.
>
> Ah. Another claim. What says my High Priestess?
>
> Darktree glared at the Ancient, obviously not amused at the question.
>
> This is your job too. It can't all be gutting High Priests.
>
> She took the tracker's left hand and the victim's right hand and joined them. Then turned and walked into the wall the Ancient had formed. The Ancient's body glowed as she passed through it, in a riot of colours that were disturbing to look at, even in the low light of the night.
>
> I'm sorry about that, apologised the Ancient. I am afraid that Darktree is not the most romantically inclined of people. However: Your claim is upheld, and the Robe of Fania is secured within the altar. Fare you well.
>
> The Ancient shimmered in another riot of colour, then shrank down and vanished.
>
> * * *
>
> It took a great deal of effort (and a small amount of magic) to shift the marble top of the altar. The base of the altar turned out to be a sarcophagus containing a few unidentifiable bones and a small, heavy chest. The chest turned out to be a reliquary, sealed with lead, and containing a white, finely woven robe, decorated with the seal of Fania.
>
> * * *
>
> Some weeks later, there was a wedding celebration in the village. It was a big celebration, although one family in particular was not particularly happy. However, with the couple handfast by the Dark One, and witnessed by the Apostate Knight, there wasn't an awful lot they could do about it.
>
> The hooded minstrel watched the celebration with a certian amount of amusement. The Chief and Shaman (whose son was proudly acting as escort) had taken great pleasure in regailing him with the story. He was already starting to compose the next piece of the Lay.
>
> This was turning out to be an interesting little project.
>
>
>
> Part 5: The Champion of Fania
>
> The party then returns to the main city to hand over the relics. Outside the city they are intercepted by a group of Knights who were ordered to take the relics from the Apostate Knight. Unpleasantness is averted by the arrival of the Order's Champion (and, ironically, Orion's old friend in the Order), Sir Carnelian. He takes the relics on behalf of the Knighthood.
>
> Now that Orion is freed from his oath, they decide to return to the north and settle down in Terosa. When they arrive they rescue a minstrel from a travelling group of Knights who took offense at him singing the Lay of the Apostate Knight. The minstrel turns out to be Kivaxoranus Draconicus in disguise. He informs them that the job isn't over, and takes them to the Tomb, where they meet up with Thevros, Aunt Lavinia, the Ancient and Darktree. It turns out that Thevros, Aunt Lavinia, Kivaxoranus and the Ancient created and activated the seal that holds the Ancients back, and that the seal needs to be renewed. The Ancient transports them to the Seal of the Ancients.
>
> To be added...
>
>
>
> Part 6: Remaking the Seal
>
> The first thing they noticed was the wind. It howled ceaselessly across the plain like a forlorn spirit, chilling in both temperature and sound.
>
> Before them was a wide plain, running up to the base of a huge escarpment. Along the top of the escarpment were dotted a number of statues, apparently worn shapeless by the elements and the ceaseless wind. At the base of the escarpment was the seal. Some distance beyond the seal was what appeared to be a rather trampled camp, and the howling wind carried the faint sounds of battle. Evidently the Order of Fania had arrived first.
>
> As they drew closer it became obvious that the whole plain was a single sheet of rock; smooth and worn, but somehow uncracked. The escarpment wall was not smooth, but looked as if it had been moulded rather than created by geological forces.
>
> "This isn't natural." mused Orion quietly to himself. "Someone built all this."
>
> Yes, commented the Ancient, whose senses seemed unaffected by the wind. This is all part of the great city of the Ancients. From the depths of the sea to the highest peak. I considered it my finest work. I never did like the statues, though. I think Kivaxoranus uses them for target practice.
>
> "You built this? Alone?"
>
> Of course. It was why my masters created me. To build their cities, to maintain their domains. The creature paused for a moment. I don't get to create much these days. The last decent challenge I had was the tomb. Now that was difficult. Lots of small, fiddly details, and the airshafts? I never really understood why you humans insist on breathing.
>
> "So the legend about it being created in a day was true, then?"
>
> No. It took a week. Aunt Lavinia kept changing her mind...
>
> In comparison to the scale of the city, the seal was something of an anticlimax. It consisted of three rings of stone posts, each no wider than a hands breadth, no taller than knee height and about half a pace apart. The posts appeared to be seamlessly joined to the ground, as if the posts and the ground were all one stone.
>
> The outer ring was some one hundred and thirty-two paces in diameter; the middle ring was twenty-eight paces in diameter and the inner ring a mere four paces in diameter. Between the middle and inner rings, at the cardinal lines, were four half-circles, with the open faces pointing towards the inner circle.
>
> The inner circle was hard to describe. It circumscribed what appeared to be a torrent of ...something... flowing through it into the sky, like a thick column of smoke. Yet at the same time, there was nothing but a ring of stones set into a stone floor. It was, Orion thought, rather like looking at the Ancient, and probably for very much the same reason.
>
> As they passed through the outer circle the wind stopped, as if they had just walked into a building and closed the door. Now that the wind was no longer blowing in their faces they could clearly see what was taking place inside the half-circles. In the north half-circle a man in the robes of a necromancer stood in front of a kneeling knight. The necromancer was holding a dagger in one hand, and clearly mocking the knight. In the western half-circle a woman in the robes of a healer lay on the ground, struggling weakly against a half-clothed cultist who was clearly trying to rape her.
>
> Darktree touched Saroc and Shadowfire on the arms, and pointed to the cultist. Orion caught Aunt Lavinia's gaze, and indicated the necromancer.
>
> * * *
>
> The cultist was enjoying himself. His devotion to the Ancients - or at least the degenerate practices that followed such devotion - had got him thrown out for his tribe. He had wandered from place to place, usually leaving quite quickly, until the knighthood caught him. Instead of executing him they had forced him to come to this misbegotten frozen waste. Then, as he stood in that strange forest of stones the Ancients came to him, promised him everything.
>
> The healer - not the prettiest of girls, but untouched - was beginning to weaken. Soon she would be his. Her fear, her pain...
>
> A shadow fell across him. He looked up, and his eyes widened in sudden terror. The white-robed figure standing before him could only be The Dark One, the one his fellows whispered about with dread. He leaped to his feet, half turning to run, and bounced off the grim fighter who had sneaked up behind him. The fighter's right arm flicked to the right, and he felt an agonising tearing sensation in his abdomen. The fighter lifted his hand, revealing a curved dagger, dripping with blood.
>
> The cultist staggered backwards, his arms clutched about his stomach. The Dark One and the grim fighter slowly walked towards him. He didn't realise that he was being herded until his feet caught against the central ring of stones and he fell backwards into the turbulent column. His body and soul were caught up and shredded as the Ancients gave him the final reward for his devotion.
>
> Shadowfire shrugged off her cloak and wrapped it round the sobbing healer. Then, gathering her power, whispered one word: "Sleep."
>
> "Who..?" asked the healer, whose resistance was now down to pure reflex.
>
> "The Handmaiden of Life." Shadowfire answered. "Now sleep. You are safe, and all will be taken care of. Sleep and forget."
>
> She cradled the healer until the sleep took her. Then Saroc carried the girl to the outer ring, where the others waited.
>
> * * *
>
> The necromancer was also enjoying himself. Like the cultist he had been captured by the knighthood, and coerced into taking part in the ceremony. He had managed to suppress his amusement at being threatened with death (Imagine! A necromancer afraid of death!) and had simply gone along with them, waiting for his chance.
>
> When the seal had broken and the creatures of the Ancients had started to rush through the rift, the century of knights that had dragged him across the world had scattered, and the fool they had picked as the Holy Knight had been - for an instant - transfixed by the forces in play around him. It was the work of a moment to ram a dagger in a few strategic joints. The fact that he was able to snatch and use the dagger that supposedly belonged to their ridiculous saint was an added irony.
>
> Now the knight was on his knees before him. Unable to walk, his arms almost useless, and his life's blood slowly draining out of a few careful incisions around the neck. And, of course, that silly dagger on the ground, just out of reach.
>
> "You should feel honoured." He told the knight. "This is a complex and difficult spell. When I raise you, you won't be one of those common, shambling unquiet dead, but a true revenant. All your knowledge, skills and memories will remain, and all at my command."
>
> The knight spat at him. It was about the only defiance he had left.
>
> "Now, that healer over there. Once my degenerate friend has finished with her I will probably just raise her like any other corpse. My friend might enjoy that as well - 'no degeneration too low' seems to be these cultists' motto. The same goes for your knightly friends - what little remains when the creatures summoned by the Ancients have done their work. If you are very lucky I might let you watch."
>
> At this point, Aunt Lavinia moved into his field of view.
>
> "Release the knight." She rasped. "I wouldn't normally offer, but release the knight and surrender, before I deliver you to the fate you richly..."
>
> "Silence!" commanded the necromancer. Aunt Lavinia fell slient.
>
> "A beautiful revenant." admired the necromancer. "Obviously the work of a skilled necromancer. Alas, I wear the Belt of Thevros the Undying. With the command it gives over life and death I can easily control such as you. Its power will make me immortal and allow me to raise a whole army of revenants and..."
>
> His voice broke off into a gurgle as the shaft of a sword burst through his chest. Aunt Lavinia leaned forward and favoured him with a ghastly smile. "Tell me," she hissed. "Do you think it's working?"
>
> Orion walked round from behind the necromancer. Since he was still holding the sword hilt that meant that the necromancer had to turn round as well, staggering, gurgling and trying to grasp the sword.
>
> "I gave him a chance to surrender." Noted Aunt Lavinia. "I remember that you knights are concerned with that sort of thing."
>
> "Indeed." Agreed Orion. "Reform those who will..." He placed his boot on the necromancer's backside and kicked him forward, whilst twisting and pulling the blade backward. "...And punish the unrepentant."
>
> The necromancer howled as he staggered forward and tripped over the inner ring of stones. He fared no better meeting the Ancients than the cultist.
>
> Orion and Aunt Lavinia turned their attention to the kneeling victim.
>
> "Sir Carnelian..." whispered Orion. Of course, the Order would have chosen their champion as the Holy Knight.
>
> Sir Carnelian looked up at them, pale with the protracted blood loss. His hold on life was starting to loosen, and he was no longer quite sure what he was seeing. He tried to focus as a hooded figure knelt before him.
>
> "You have come for me, Herald?" He gasped weakly. "Better you take me then that foul necromancer..."
>
> "Why did you do it?" asked Aunt Lavinia, her normal rasp softened. "This was a task beyond your strength."
>
> "I know. " He replied, his voice weakening. "But I am champion of the Order of Fania. It was my duty. 'To protect the world from the Ancients, though it cost me my life'...And I failed. I will never lie amongst the Chosen of Fania now."
>
> Orion picked up the misericorde and knelt alongside Aunt Lavinia. Sir Carnelian turned his head slightly, wincing as the cuts on his neck shifted. "They found you, then." he whispered. "At least they have the right person this time..."
>
> "Carnelian..." began Orion, but stopping at a glance from Aunt Lavinia.
>
> "Good man, Orion." husked the knight, looking at the dagger. "The last office..."
>
> "Rest amongst the dead in pride, Sir Carnelian." intoned Aunt Lavinia formally. "You faced the Ancients, and did not flee, though it indeed cost your life.". She nodded to Orion, who thrust the misericorde into Sir Carnelian's throat.
>
> "And you will lie among the Chosen of Fania." She promised, closing his eyes. "Ancient, would you be so kind?"
>
> Of course. rumbled the Ancient. Part of it flowed under Sir Carnelian's body as it fell back, effortlessly lifting it as if on a grotesque bier. It paused as Orion straightened the body and then carried it to the outer ring. Small fragments of the Ancient flowed across the body, removing the blood, closing the wounds and polishing the armour.
>
> "I don't think the Order will allow his body in the Tomb of Fania." said Orion. "I think they are more likely to blame him for this fiasco."
>
> Aunt Lavinia looked at him. "What makes you think it is up to the Order where I put my chosen?" she asked, turning back to where the rest of the group were assembled.
>
> Orion looked at her back, then down at the misericorde in his hand. "I wish I knew what was going on." he muttered to himself.
>
> I know the feeling, rumbled the Ancient. You humans are very confusing.
>
> * * *
>
> They gathered next to the sleeping healer and the slain knight.
>
> "Right," said Thevros. "Now we have to decide who plays which part."
>
> Darktree will be standing in for me, rumbled the Ancient. And I believe that the Handmaiden of Life has already declared herself.
>
> "As has the Herald of Death." added Aunt Lavinia. "That just leaves the Holy Knight. Any volunteers?"
>
> Saroc shook his head. Having "the disemboweler" as a sobriquet rather precluded the position, he felt.
>
> There was a moment of silence as everyone considered the remaining options.
>
> "Why is everyone looking at me?"
>
> Shadowfire and Saroc exchanged a long-suffering look. Humility was nice, but you could have too much of it.
>
> "If that's decided, what do we have to do?" asked Shadowfire.
>
> "Simple. The Holy Knight takes the north point, the Scholar of the Ancients takes the south, The Handmaiden of Live to the west and Death's Herald to the east. Take your stations, face the centre and it all goes from there. The seal will only fail if one of you fails. It doesn't matter how weak you are - the seal can survive a weak axis. What it can't survive is deliberate treachery."
>
> "What about the ritual? And the relics?" queried Orion. "We know the belt is a fake because we saw you make it! What about the others?"
>
> He realised that everyone was staring at him again.
>
> "Darktree is wearing the original belt." replied Thevros. "And I seem to remember explaining that it had no magical qualities beyond keeping my robe closed."
>
> When we created the seal, Kivaxoranus came up with a ballad to explain how the Ancients had been expelled in a way the commons could understand, rumbled the Ancient. Then some fool created an order of knights based on the ideas in the ballad. He never even realised that Fania was female.
>
> "We added the four relics of Fania to the stories to make sure that we kept the Order of Fania chasing around after them rather than sticking their noses in here and doing some real damage. Like that." explained Thevros, waving a hand in the general direction of the inner ring.
>
> "The misericorde and dagger are just an old robe and my old dagger." added Aunt Lavinia. "The original robe fell apart centuries ago, and there was never a tabard. Evidently one of your order decided to fake one."
>
> "No rituals. No relics. Just the four of you in the seal. That's how it works." summarised Thevros, turning to the Ancient. "Would you mind producing something to sit on? We've never had to deal with spectators before, and my old bones could do with a rest."
>
> The Ancient briefly split into two halves, which flowed a short distance away, and then began spinning, its surface becoming a disturbing riot of colours. Then it flowed back into one mass again, leaving behind two low stone stools. Like the stones of the ring, they appeared to be one piece with the ground. Saroc gingerly lowered himself on to one of them, not quite ready to trust a stool that had appeared out of nowhere. Thevros sat on the other, quite unconcerned about the way it had been created.
>
> Darktree strode towards her point of the seal. The other two women started to move off, then hesitated and turned back. Orion hadn't moved.
>
> "For what little comfort it is, I have only known three members of the Order of Fania who were actually worth anything." said Aunt Lavinia. "The first was a long time ago, the second is dead, and the third was cast out.". She turned and walked to her point on the seal.
>
> Shadowfire stood in front of Orion, placing her arms on his shoulders and linking her hands behind his neck - as close an embrace as was practical when one of the participants was wearing full armour.
>
> "When Sir Carnelian brought you to me after... after you had been cast out, he told me that he envied you. He had to work hard to cultivate the 'knightly qualities', while it all came naturally to you. And you have always been my knight.". She leaned forward and kissed him gently, then turned and walked towards her point. Orion was fairly sure that he wasn't supposed to see the tear in the corner of her eyes.
>
> He sighed, then walked slowly to the northern point of the seal. Sir Carnelian had been right about one thing, at least. The job had to be done, and he was the only one to do it.
>
> * * *
>
> Four people walked to their places in the seal; four creatures watched them go. The four took their positions, then turned to face the inner circle. At this point, matters became a matter of perception.
>
> Thevros and Saroc saw nothing unusual, save only a slight blurring that - were this a desert - would have been put down to haze.
>
> Darktree, Aunt Lavinia, Shadowfire and Orion felt a slight disorientation, as if their bodies had floated across the seal, leaving them standing in a ring in the inner circle, facing outwards. It felt like they were standing in a powerful updraft, surrounded by darkness. Shadowfire's hair streamed upward, as did a few wisps of Aunt Lavinia's, the remaining straggled locks remaining safe under her hooded robe. All they could hear was the howl of the air stream; stronger than the wind that was blowing outside the seal.
>
> From his higher vantage point, Kivaxoranus Draconicus watched with the eyes of a dragon, seeing the four souls overlaying each other across the centre of the seal.
>
> Of all of them, only the Ancient saw what truly happened.
>
> * * *
>
>
> Little revenant. Are you still defying us? whispered the Ancients. So many of your years and you still persist?
>
> "For as many years as it takes." retorted Aunt Lavinia. "Go away. I have nothing more to say to you."
>
> Is that so? You gave up your youth, your beauty, your life, all for this? If you come to us we could restore what you have lost. You know that death awaits you the moment you succeed in your plans.
>
> "So what else is new. I made my decisions a long time ago. I won't change them now. You think I fear death? It comes to all of us eventually. But you? You cannot die. All that remains for you is non-existence. And you fear that more than anything."
>
> And the east point held.
> |  |
>
> Ah. Has our slave has found itself a replacement? whispered the Ancients. Does it fear us so much that it sends a human in its place?
>
> Darktree was silent.
>
> We have seen the joy you take in slaughtering our servants; the savage joy you have in killing. If you were to join us you could kill as much as you wish. We place no restrictions on our chosen. Why serve the weak slave when you can stand alongside the powerful masters?
>
> Darktree remained silent. But her expression was of utter scorn.
>
> And the south point held.
>
> |  |
>
> What is this? whispered the Ancients. A Mage instead of a Healer? Your kind use magic only to destroy and bring destruction! How could you possibly champion the cause of life?
>
> "Not all magic destroys. I use it to bring light out of darkness." responded Shadowfire.
>
> Yet your magic depends solely on us. When we are fully gone, then there will be no more magic in the world. Without magic, what are you, little mage?
>
> "Being a mage is what I do. Being a woman is what I am!" flared Shadowfire. "You ask why I am the Handmaiden of Life? Because I am a woman! We bring life into the world!"
>
> Ah yes. Those pale copies of yourself that you carry. So very weak and vunerable. Tell us, little mage; tell us who will defend them when you fall at the hands of our servants?
>
> And the west point wavered.
> |  |
>
> Ah. Another 'Holy Knight of Fania'? whispered the Ancients. Do you think you will fare any better than your fallen comrade, fake knight of a false order? Your precious Saint Fania is nothing more than a revenant, a mockery of life; and the Order you followed so faithfully is no more than a sham.
>
> "Ancient ones, I am no longer a Knight of Fania."
>
> Yes. You were thrown out because you succumbed to your lusts. From the moment you met your precious mage you lusted after her. No better than that thief you failed to save. Oh yes, you chose to save your grim friend, and left the thief you hated to die. No wonder your Order threw you out. You couldn't even stand up to the principles of a false order. And you think you will hold us back? Your fallen comrade was better than you.
>
> Orion found he could not dispute the facts.
>
> And the north point wavered.
>
> |
> * * *
>
> Thevros slumped forward slightly, his right elbow on his knee, the arm supporting his body. His right hand cupped his chin, the fingers absently tapping his lips.
>
> "How do you think it's going?" he asked the Ancient.
>
> Interesting, replied the Ancient softly. They haven't realised that Darktree reserves her violent tendencies for their servants - or if they have, they don't understand why. Aunt Lavinia confuses them as much as always.
>
> "That's nothing unusual. Lavinia confuses me most of the time." Thevros confessed. "What is it with Darktree? All the other priestesses you have had over the years have been far more... restrained. And much more voluble."
>
> She was being sacrificed when I found her. That gave her rather a slanted view of my masters' servants. said the Ancient, somewhat sadly. They tied her to an altar and cut her throat. I had been expecting them to go for the heart, so I was a little sloppy in my reactions. Of course, I didn't realise that you humans needed throats to speak, or I would have done a better job of it. Not being able to speak has left her feeling something of an outsider.
>
> Saroc shifted his attention from the south point to look at the Ancient, His expression remaining as grim as ever. He pulled down the bandana around this throat, revealing a round, pale scar.
>
> "Arrow?" queried Thevros.
>
> Saroc nodded, and turned his attention back to the seal.
>
> If you have an interest in my priestess, then feel free to... court her, I think the phrase is. the Ancient told him. I'm not one of your world's stuffy gods who insists their servants stop breeding. Just be warned, she may be a difficult proposition. She needs a lot of understanding, even for a human female.
>
> The smile that briefly crossed Saroc's face was so faint that you could have convinced yourself that it had never been there in the first place. "Difficult" was a concept he was used to.
>
> "What's taking it so long?" muttered Thevros rhetorically.
>
> It has only been a few of your minutes. I have every confidence in my Masters' inability to understand humans.
>
> * * *
>
>
> You could always join us. whispered the Ancients. We can offer you more than the safety of your offspring. You humans place a great emphasis on youth and appearance. We can preserve both of these for you.
>
> Shadowfire stood there, her hands folded on her abdomen. "You really don't understand, do you?" she said at length.
>
> We have seen the things you humans hold sacred. We have seen how you fight and scrabble for the least of these trappings. We offer them to you - free for the asking.
>
> "Youth? Beauty? I'll grow old with the man I love, thank you very much. You expect me to let my children grow up in a world tainted by your kind? Ha!" she laughed. "To reach my children you will have to get past me, my husband, their uncle and that's before I start throwing godparents into the mix. We will protect them, and when they are old enough you and your servants will be up against them as well."
>
> And the west point held.
> |
>
> You could always join us. whispered the Ancients. Where your Order proved false, we are real. When the seal breaks we will be able to do what we wish. Would you not like to avoid our anger?
>
> Orion did not answer. He stood with this head bowed.
>
> Join us, take your revenge on the Order that lied to you and cast you out; those fools who forced you into this position; that mage who lost no chance to flaunt herself at you to inflame your lusts like a tavern harlot.
>
> "No."
>
> What?
>
> "I could not have saved Lynx. He was ruled by his lusts and was felled by them. It is true that some in my old Order are false, but some are true - even Fania admits that. Shadowfire taught me love, not lust; and she would care even for those you term 'tavern harlots'."
>
> Orion straightened up and crossed his arms. "Sir Carnelian didn't fall because he was impure. He fell because two points of the seal were corrupted. And I am not the Holy Knight because I belong to an order of knights, I am the Holy Knight because I am standing in your way."
>
> "So, come on if you think you are strong enough!"
>
> And the north point held.
>
> |
> * * *
>
> The Ancient watched the seal start to close with evident satisfaction.
>
> Inside the seal, the floor of the inner circle began to glow, illuminating the four figures. The disk appeared to be spinning, and the rushing wind itself began to spin. The disk began to contract, glowing brighter and brighter, until it shrank to the size of a small spot, and then disappeared.
>
> Kivaxoranus Draconicus watched the four souls separate and return to their usual places.
>
> Once again, Thevros and Saroc saw nothing unusual, only the disappearance of the haze. The column of almost-smoke that had appeared to be there was gone. Only the stone floor of the inner ring remained.
>
> "It looks a lot more exciting from the inside." noted Thevros, as the four made their way back to him.
>
> "I'm going to be weeks getting the tangles out of my hair!" complained Shadowfire.
>
> I'm going to be interested to see what you are going to do with these knights that are approaching. added the Ancient.
>
> * * *
>
> It was not exactly a parade formation. Of the century of knights that had come to the Seal, only twenty-five remained. Two of the Lords led the troop. One walking - albeit with some difficulty - the other supported by two knights. None of the knights were unhurt, and several were only walking with the help of their comrades.
>
> "Who are they?" Thevros asked Orion.
>
> "The one on the right is my old patron, Lord Tanfield. The one on the left, being supported by his bodyguards, is Lord Nerine. He doesn't like me very much." replied Orion.
>
> "He's the one who had you scourged, isn't he?" asked Shadowfire, gathering power into her cupped hand.
>
> Orion closed his hand over hers. "Please don't." He said. "His bodyguards would feel honour-bound to defend him, and I have nothing against them."
>
> The battered troop reached the seal.
>
> "I should have expected to find you here." commented Lord Tanfield, waving his hand at the seal. "I assume you are responsible for this."
>
> "Yes, Milord. The seal is closed."
>
> Stronger than before. volunteered the Ancient cheerfully. Each time it gets a little stronger, and my masters a little weaker.
>
> "Humph!" muttered Lord Nerine. "And why should you have succeeded when our champion failed, Apostate?"
>
> "Well," hissed Aunt Lavinia, "It could have something to do with a fake tabard, and I'm not sure about the robe either. Since the belt went up with the necromancer I can't pass judgement on that, but I don't have very high hopes of its veracity either."
>
> "Perhaps you were foolish to trust a servant of the Ancients." added Thevros, "And a necromancer, most of whom are half-way to serving the Ancients themselves."
>
> Or maybe you are just a self-serving, vainglorious, ignorant fool. finished the Ancient. Sometimes I despair of humans.
>
> "Pah!" he spat, shrugging off his bodyguards and walking unsteadily towards Sir Carnelian's body. "Well, that fool of a champion is going to be stripped of his rank."
>
> "I don't think so." murmured Aunt Lavinia, "I have claimed your knight as my own."
>
> "What business is it of yours, Revenant?" he retorted, reaching for the badge of rank.
>
> "Every business." she replied. "Ancient, would you oblige me again, please?"
>
> Work, work, work. rumbled the Ancient, flowing under Sir Carnelian's body, its surface once again a mass of shifting, disturbing colours. The body sank down into the Ancient's mass as if it were lying on quicksand. As it passed beneath the surface of the Ancient, the ancient resumed its usual muted hues.
>
> Lord Nerine straightened up. "Well, Apostate. At least you will return the Misericorde of Fania to the Order."
>
> Orion gave this due consideration.
>
> "No."
>
> "What? I order you to return the Misericorde!"
>
> "No." repeated Orion. "I don't belong to the Order any more. You cast me out, remember? That means I don't have to obey your orders."
>
> "We'll see about that!" spat Lord Nerine. "Guards! Take the Misericorde from the Apostate!"
>
> "Nerine..." warned Lord Tanfield. "This may not be the best way..."
>
> Orion was smiling. One of the statues on the top of the escarpment was tilting and unfolding, spreading its wings as it fell towards the plain.
>
> "Guards!" yelled Lord Nerine, realising that his honour guard had not moved.
>
> "If you want it, Nerine..." challenged Orion, "Go and get it!". He threw the misericorde as high as he could, and it was swept up in the talons of the soaring dragon. The knights watched dumbfounded as the dragon arched its wings and rose into the sky, quickly becoming a speck on the horizon, then disappearing entirely.
>
> "You... You..." spluttered Lord Nerine. "Guards! Take him! What's wrong with you? Must I do this myself?"
>
> The noble staggered towards Orion, tugging at his sword. Orion stood his ground, with arms folded. "Attacking an unarmed man now, Nerine? Where's your honour gone?"
>
> "Sir Medlar, Sir Chough," Lord Tanfield addressed the honour guard, "Place Lord Nerine under arrest."
>
> "What?" stammered Lord Nerine.
>
> "This expedition was under your command, Nerine. Three quarters of our men dead. Your dishonourable attempt to blame our Champion, your dishonourable behaviour now... These knights are not fools. Take him away."
>
> Lord Nerine was dragged away by his honour guard. Protesting vociferously all the way.
>
> "Well, you've matured a little, Tanfield." rasped Aunt Lavinia.
>
> "You know him?" asked Orion, much surprised.
>
> "Oh yes." answered Lord Tanfield. "Thirty-five years ago wasn't it, my lady?"
>
> "That's right." she went on. "Freshly minted knight, first quest, stuffed full of honour and valour. And I seem to remember asking you to call me Aunt Lavinia."
>
> "I was a self-important little prig in those days." he reminisced. "Got half-way down the tomb and had my pride spiked by an old revenant challenging the honour in stealing from the dead."
>
> "Mind you," pointed out Thevros. "You were one of the few adventurers who walked of the tomb again. Of your own volition, that is."
>
> There was a moment of quiet as the three reviewed their memories.
>
> "I hate to interrupt the nostalgia," said Shadowfire, "but your healer is over there."
>
> "Alive? Thank the gods!" exclaimed Lord Tanfield.
>
> "Well, Thank Darktree and Saroc the Disemboweler, at any rate." corrected Shadowfire. "She's under a spell of sleep and forgetfulness at the moment, but she will need some looking after when she awakens."
>
> "It will be done." he promised, signalling two of the remaining knights to stretcher duty. He then turned to Orion. "I must thank you for your efforts. A quarter of my men are still alive, albeit injured. If this were a ballad, I would be offering you your rightful place in the Order. As things stand..." he looked meaningfully at Shadowfire, "You have better things in your life."
>
> He gave the knight's salute, and then turned to leave.
>
> "Lord Nerine won't give you any problems will he?" checked Shadowfire, "Because if so..."
>
> Lord Tanfield turned back for a moment. "No, Lady Shadowfire. In all honesty, I expect that on the journey home he will be overcome with remorse and fall on his sword... One way or the other." he added grimly.
>
> * * *
>
> They watched the knights break camp and move off towards the coast. The Ancient had helped them bury the dead, digging the graves in the solid rock and backfilling them in its normal disturbing manner. Now the knights left, somewhat dispirited and extremely humbled.
>
> "I think I understand now." said Orion, as the Ancient began the process that would transport them back to Terosa. "It doesn't actually matter who stands at the points of the seal. What matters is what they represent."
>
> "Oh?" responded Thevros.
>
> "Yes. The west and east. The Handmaden of Life and the Herald of Death. We stand between life and death, on a journey from the one to the other. Every life is balanced by a death. Then we have the north and the south. The Holy Knight represents the best we can be, and the Scholar of the Ancients (saving your presence, Darktree) represents the worst we can become. Is that right?"
>
> Darktree scowled at him, but Thevros gave the idea due consideration.
>
> "No." he said at length. "But it will be an excellent addition for the ballads or the philosophers. I'll mention it to Kivaxoranus next time I see him."
>
> The last thing Orion saw before the Ancient transported them was the smirk on Darktree's face.
>
> * * *
>
> The wind blew along the plain, moaning and howling as it went. It sang its dirge as it blustered through the seal and along the escarpment.
>
> All except in one place, where seventy-five knights lay in rest.
>
>
>
> Epilogue: The Years to Come
>
> To be added...
> |
|
