Inspirations: Final Fantasy

I mentioned that the Final Fantasy games were a big inspiration for my long-ago writing project, so here's the into to Final Fantasy VIII -- which is maybe not the strongest entry in the series, but it's the one I was playing around the time I wrote that book, and it has a lot of intriguing peculiarities to its world-building and its magic system. 

I'm going to see if I can find a way to replay it, I think, just to look at that again.

The Hobbit, as written by Dr. Seuss

I really like my wizard friend
He came to visit me again
He brought twelve dwarves but that's okay
But do not with my dishes play!

They think I should a burglar be!
I'd rather have a cup of tea.
To Lonely Mountain should I go?
I can't decide. Oh no, oh no

We camped and there discussed our roles
But now we're overrun with trolls! 
Gandalf, damn it, where'd you go? 
They're going to eat us, this I know. 

And now the trolls are arguing
A fight that might salvation bring
The sun's first light has touched the sky
And trolls to stone are turned thereby.

We've now arrived at Rivendell
Where Elrond and the Elves do dwell
Our map has secrets yet unsealed
By Elrond's hand they're now revealed

Oh good! We're Misty Mountains bound
Oh bad! By goblins we are found
I'm best off fleeing underground
And lo! This ring was lying 'round

I tucked the ring inside my vest
A strange thing wants a riddle-fest
It turns into a hard contest
...Escaping with the ring is best

Well, twelve dwarves are now impressed
in Beorn's house we take our rest
So on we into Mirkwood go!
Giant. Fucking. Spiders. No.

And now the wood-elves have a quarrel
Into a dungeon, out in a barrel
Laketown's far more welcoming
But much desiring Smaug-slaying

I find the door, the passage in
I find my courage to begin
The dragon speaks; I answer back
See one small space his armor lacks

He's really mad about this cup
He's going to burn Laketown up
The Thrush will bring the warning whole
The dragon and its armor's hole

But Bard has his black arrow ready
His aim is true, his hand is steady
The arrow flies, the dragon falls
The dwarves reclaim their ancient halls

All should be well! We've won the day...
The men demand the dwarves should pay
For damage done unto their town
Thorin scowls and turns them down

And now a siege? The hell is this?
This Arkenstone they shouldn't miss
The men could take this and be done
A reward for a battle won

But wait! Thorin is much dismayed
He says I have the dwarves betrayed! 
He orders me to go away
As Dain, his cousin, arrives today

Gandalf returns but with a warning
The goblins and the worgs are forming
An army 'gainst both dwarf and man
So I guess we're out of the frying pan

The elves have come as well I see
They all ally as armies three
To set the goblin army back
but air support is what they lack

Oh look! We now have eagles too! 
Wings and talons, much to do!
The battle's turned, the goblins broken
And Thorin's final words are spoken

We part as friends, I take small share
For treasure I have little care
Why not more? Gandalf inquires
But this is plenty in the Shires. 

And now my story's done, dear friend
We have reached the very end
I suppose I might a book begin
Of going There and Back Again

Dark Armor V2 Ch01 SC04

The watchfires were nothing worth noting; he pushed Black to a gallop as he passed between them, letting the cries of alarm grow behind him. They would only add to the chaos and confusion. An arrow shattered against his armor, sent by some sentinel who was both quick and ready; Pallian responded by lifting a hand to toss a small ball of fire behind him. The ball expanded as it rose through the air, became enormous before it hit the ground. The shouted alarms were joined by screams. 

Somewhere, a bell began to ring. 

The Black Knight tossed another ball of fire off to his left, where troops encamped in neatly-organized groups of tents were racing to grab their weapons and join the battle. Ahead of him, a man in silver armor rose up, greatsword rising to cut. Pallian shifted the angle of his lance and skewered the man, then tossed him aside; his armor added to his strength to make the gesture seem casual. 

Another arrow slammed into his breastplate, this one landing much harder than the last. Pallian clenched his knees and managed to stay on his horse, but Black stumbled and only barely managed to keep his footing. Damn it. Where...? 

That hadn't been one of the sentinels. That came from somewhere else, probably the same archer who had tried to murder him and Ravaj from the far side of the ridge. Ravaj focused briefly on his lance, conjuring a bolt of lightning that cleared a path ahead of him. He immediately turned aside from it, and was rewarded when the next arrow skipped off the edge of his shield and enveloped a section of camp in some sort of sticky webs. 

His armor had mapped its passage, and drew his attention to a wooden tower that sat near the center of camp. The archer was there, and--

He raised his shield at the last possible moment, as an arrow struck it hard enough to pierce the steel. It was sheer luck that it hadn't found his forearm. That archer must be equipped with a whole constellation of interlocking initiations to manage this, he thought, simultaneously intrigued and annoyed. The Shadow of Edrias hadn't reappeared, so it was probably off trying to murder Ravaj, but that was a concern for later. 

Black twisted and changed course, and Pallian tossed another ball of fire in what he thought was the direction of the command tents. The way this evening was going, those might be a diversion: large, fancy tents left empty to draw his attention while the archer took shots at him. The fire flickered and was absorbed as it neared them, drained by some sorcerous defense. 

Damn it, he thought again, as Black charged for the tower.

Dark Armor V2 Ch01 SC03

The wind swept across the plains and out over the bluff as Pallian reined up outside the enemy camp. It was carefully organized, the tents all neatly arranged around cookfires, weapons placed in neat stacks for easy access. They hadn't bothered with earthworks or even fascines, but then they likely didn't expect to be encamped here for long. They had, however, put out a double ring of watchfires with sentries gathered around them in groups of three. 

For a moment, Pallian wished he could slip into camp unseen the way the Shadow of Edrias might have done. But the Champion of Teregor was his father's creation, and the wizard-king had wanted an indestructible black knight, something that would smite his enemies with irresistible power. So Pallian would attack the camp, stabbing into it like a speartip into a heart, spreading death and chaos in his wake. 

Or else he'd die. 

Accidents happened, especially in battle, and this army was better-prepared than it looked. It would be easy enough for something to go wrong. But there were other reasons to worry: someone had arranged for word of a farmer's rebellion to reach the Citadel, knowing that the wizard-king would dispatch a lesser force to deal with a thing like that. Perhaps even knowing that Ravaj would be in charge, though that would require either some excellent intelligence or a traitor in the court. And there was no reason to assume that the Shadow of Edrias had spoken truly, that it was on its way to assassinate Ravaj; it might just as easily have doubled back behind him, waiting to catch him when he turned his attention to the camp. Destroying the Black Knight would weaken his father's magical power, and it would be a terrible blow to his reputation; this entire situation might have been engineered to such an end.

Still, with the training he'd been given and the resources he had available, there was only one way to find out. He would have to attack, and hope that the armor would protect him and Black would carry him through. He considered that for a moment longer, reviewing the spells he knew and the initiations he'd been given. Well then, he thought to himself. Let's find out.

He touched his heels to Black's flanks, couched his lance and raised his shield, and started forward through the tattered remains of the night.

Challenge: My Fantasy Vacation

For the last two years, I've been taking part in the Wednesday Weekly Blogging Challenge over at Long and Short Reviews. The first link will take you to the list of topics; the second one goes to the homepage, where you can find a post with everyone's responses each week. Feel free to join in! 

The prompt for today is "my fantasy vacation". So, well, all right...

I open my front door and I'm looking down my sidewalk to the street. The mailbox is relatively new, the lawn is covered in grass and very green after all the rain we've had, and the neighborhood is quiet. I close the door again, because none of that is very interesting.

Then I think about it for a while. All right, I'm not going on my own. So I help Beautiful Wife and the boys get all ready to go: comfy shoes, durable pants and shirts, a bit of equipment and a change of clothes just in case...

We open the front door again. 

The concrete sidewalk is gone, replaced by sparkling flagstones lined by a pair of hedges that close into an arch overhead. The light out here is dim and green, and fireflies flicker as they move back and forth. This definitely wasn't here before, but that's sort of the point, isn't it?

Everybody troops forward, and I lock the door behind us. 

We emerge from the end of the hedge-tunnel into a land of sparkling white, where snow gleams underfoot and our breath turns to smoke in the chilly air. Stately trees bear their decorations of frost, and the moon is barely visible through their branches. A young man in a leather jacket is leaning against a lamppost nearby, smoking a cigarette; I note that what appeared to be furry trousers are on second glance the goat-legs of a faun. 

He looks us over, eyes wide with surprise. "Sons of Adam? Daughter of Eve?" 

"Wrong turn," I say, and start herding the boys back the way we came. 

"Hang on!" calls the faun. "Our rentals are very affordable! And you can catch the lift up to this bitchin' Black Diamond slope if you hurry--!"

It's too late for him; we're back in the tunnel, only this time instead of the leaves and branches of hedges we have thirsty roots wound through rich, dark soil. The short passage back to our door is gone; this one winds and turns and seems to double back on itself. The floor still sparkles, though...

This time when we emerge, the path we were on has turned to gold in the morning light, and rolling green hills stretch away to either side. A pretty young woman in a wide -- and suspiciously clean -- dress of pink and white turns to face us, smiling brightly. 

"Oh, no," I say, when I spy the wand. "Not here, either." 

She looks puzzled. "But haven't you come to...?" 

"Flying monkeys give me hives," I tell her, truthfully. We turn our steps the other way, and this time Secondborn leads us off to the right. He's eleven, and impulsive, but we follow him anyway.  It's another tunnel, low enough that Firstborn and I both have to duck down, but it's neither dark nor dirty; the rounded, wood-paneled walls are clean and set with wide windows that look out from what is clearly a hillside. 

"Here we go," announces Secondborn, and leads us out through a circular wooden door. 

We're tall here, tall as none of us are in our own world, but the people we meet are friendly and only slightly suspicious of how we arrived here and why we might want to get to the Lonely Mountain. They give us directions to Rivendell, and a strong hint that we really ought to ask for advice from the elves there; we set off. 

As we're leaving the Shire, Firstborn turns to me. "So... wait. Are we going to slay a dragon?" 

I shake my head. "Not this time. You're not ready yet. Besides, dragons are an endangered species; we don't hunt them for sport. No, this is just a chance to travel culminating in the opportunity to steal a bit of dwarven treasure back from the dragon's hoard. What do you think?" 

"I don't know." He turns to look at his younger brother. "What do you think, Bro? Best vacation ever?" he asks. "Or just the best vacation ever?" 

Secondborn studies him suspiciously. "Um... yes?" Then he nods decisively. "Good thing I brought my Poké Balls."

Beautiful Wife puts a hand on her vorpal sword and grins at me, and off we go on my fantasy vacation.

SoW: Newly Arrived

Tamantha stepped down as the cart rolled to a halt. "Thank you," she said to Yelena, the old woman who was driving the cart. 

"'Tis the barest absence of cruelty," said Yelena. "Ye needn't thank me for it. But be a dear and strike the door, if ye would."

Tamantha nodded and stepped towards the manor. True, letting her ride on the cart had required almost no effort on Yelena's part, but it was still more help than her uncle or the rest of the family had given her in the last two weeks and she was almost absurdly grateful. "Thank you, too," she told the mule, and patted it on its head as she passed. It rolled its eyes as if exasperated.

The manor was bright, warm, and elegant: newly-built, and sitting at the western end of a small valley, with farms to the east and the hills rising behind it to the west. The ruins of the old manor sat atop the hill immediately behind, but that one had clearly been misnamed; the heavy walls and  single remaining tower had clearly been part of an ancient fortilice overlooking the valley.

Tamantha put her feet on stone steps and climbed to a wide wooden porch, wondering if she should have gone around the side and looked for a servants' entrance instead. The front door, at least, had a striker; she pulled it back and let the heavy wrought-iron ram fall against the metal plate. The resulting crack! echoed through the house. 

She didn't hear any steps, but just as she started to reach for the striker again the door swung open and Tamantha found herself face-to-face with a young man perhaps a few years older than herself. He was in his shirtsleeves, dark hair tousled and framing an angular face, with pale skin and striking gray eyes that had gone silver in the last of the daylight. "Ah," he said cheerfully. "Have you come about the position?" 

"Which position?" asked Tamantha, caught off-guard. 

"Any of them, actually. Maids, a cook, a gardener or two... Tell me what you can do, and I'll tell you whether we have a place for you." Then he looked past her, and his eyes fell on Yelena. "Just a moment." He turned and called over his shoulder: "Augustus! Mother Yelena's back, and she's brought her cart!" 

He turned back to her, then paused again as an older man -- a bit older than Tamantha's father had been, even -- bustled past them, bowing as he went out the door and down to the cart. Tamantha saw him offer a deeper bow to the old woman on the seat before she turned back to the doorway.

"So," said the young man. "What is it exactly that you know how to do?" 

"Well," said Tamantha, feeling suddenly as if a large hand had wrapped around her chest and squeezed. She held up her hand, forced her mind to focus, and made a tiny, bright spark above her extended palm. 

His expression of surprise was comical, but she kept her face smooth as she let the spark fade. "I'd heard that a wizard lived here. I hoped he might be open to taking on an apprentice." 

"Well," said the young man, and this time his voice held an entirely different note. 

Outside, the older man was talking to Yelena. "Five bricks of tea!? How in the world did you...? Absolutely we'll take it. Yes, the vegetables too, very fresh... and that bread, I could pair that with a soup tonight and..." 

"The bread costs extra," Yelena announced. "'Twas to be my lunch." 

"You're just saying that because it smells delicious and you know I want it." 

"And what of that?" 

The older man laughed. "Nothing! Nothing at all. It's good bread, and it's warm and fresh. We'll pay your extra." 

"All right," said the young man, and Tamantha's attention snapped back to where he was standing in front of her. "Just a moment." He turned away as he had before, and called back into the house: "Augusta! Someone to see you!" 

There was a momentary silence; behind Tamantha's back, Yelena and the older man were haggling over the price of her goods. Then someone moved onto an upstairs balcony and called, "I'm coming. Did she say what she wants?"

"An apprenticeship," he called back. 

The woman who emerged from the balcony and descended the stairs was broad-shouldered and short-haired, straight-backed and graceful. She wore a worn, spun-cloth robe of soft brown, and approached the door with slow, thoughtful steps and a matching expression. "You wish to be a wizard's apprentice?" 

Tamantha nodded. "Just so, my lady." 

The woman laughed. "Have you any skills? Anything you've developed on your own?" 

Tamantha raised her hand and recalled the spark. She could do more than that -- a little more -- but that was enough to make her point. 

"A beginner's trick," said the woman, watching as it faded back out. "How long can you hold it?"

Tamantha considered the question, then called it back and held it. "Over an hour," she answered uncertainly. "I used read by it at night."

"Well," said the woman. "There's no harm in being a beginner. I've an apprentice already, but I've room  for another if you're willing put in the work." She glanced at the boy. "You've no objection?"

 He frowned slightly, then shrugged. "It should be fine."

"Good," said the woman. "Come on in, and let's get you settled."

Tamantha answered with a relieved, "Thank you."

Dark Armor 009b: Discoveries At The Camp

This is an alternate direction for the story -- probably the one I'll go with, actually. I was toying with it earlier, and I don't think I like the direction the current storyline took.

It was a near thing, in some ways. The arrow had pierced Ravaj's lung, and the healer-sorcerers struggled against his initiations to mold the flesh so that they could withdraw it cleanly. Pallian left them to their work, and strode heavily back to the command tent. He needed to climb into the sarcophagus that housed the armor (and himself, when he wore it), and rest and heal while the enchanted black steel mended. In the field, he never removed the armor; he was always the black knight. The sarcophagus took the place of food and bunk.

The guards studiously regarded the rest of the camp as he passed, and he threw open the tent flap and moved inside.

Then he stopped, finding himself regarding the figure of a naked woman, not far from his own age, chained to the central wooden pole of the command tent.

She regarded him with a sort of strained, resentful pride. "So. The Champion of Teregor. You attacked our camp?"

He turned his head, regarding her from behind his visor. He shouldn't have, and he knew it immediately; it was a human movement, an emotional reaction, and the Black Knight did not have those. But Pallian was shocked out of all reckoning, his control gone. "Who are you?" The mask disguised his voice, at least: rendered it indifferent and distorted.

"The Shadow of Edrias -- or I was, until your brother caught me in his spells. Did you attack our camp?"

"You know I did," he said, and took a step forward.

She held herself straight, looked directly at him. With her hands bound over her head and no clothing in sight,  it was more awkward than proud; but he could see the set of her shoulders and the balanced determination in her expression. "I confess, I'm surprised that you made it back out. Did you slay the archer?"

Pallian considered that, and decided that the question was too unexpectedly specific to be anything but personal: there was only one archer she could be talking about. "No," he said. "Two guards and an older man who looked to be a sorcerer-general, maybe some staff officers when I destroyed the command tent. Some troopers as I rode through the camp. What is she to you?"

There was a long pause. "She's my sister."

Finding he had no idea what to say to that, Pallian simply reiterated: "She lives. She put an arrow in Ravaj's lung."

"Good." Then the woman turned her head slightly. "What is Ravaj to you?"

Pallian hesitated, but she had answered when he had asked. "My brother."

The woman's jaw tightened; then he head lowered and her shoulders slumped. "Will you kill me, at least? Before he does to me what he did to my sister?"

"Your sister the archer?"

But the Shadow of Edrias shook her head. "My sister, the Heir of Edrias."

RoH: Subtlety

Doblim was a hill town, nestled at the nexus of forest and grasslands and mountains; its production was a mix of mining, logging, ranching, and farming, supplemented by a host of local crafters and brewers and artisans. It had survived the war in part due to an active and well-trained militia, but also because it had been small enough to avoid the dark lord's full attention. In the aftermath, with the dark lord dead and its armies defeated, Doblim was well on its way to becoming a city-state, mostly by virtue of having had the luck to come through the Great War intact.

Remant rode in at the back of the caravan, just another guard doing just another job. The wagons split in the merchant's square, with the Mornmith family and the handful of other travelers going their own way, while the four wagons belonging to the merchant Teldis pulled up in front of a large warehouse that bordered the square. Ikara motioned them over, then distributed them around the wagons while Teldis' servants unloaded the wagons. It was tedious, but necessary: the odds of crime were low, but they would increase spectacularly if it looked as if nobody was on guard.

When they were done, Teldis herself emerged. "You're welcome here tonight; there are rooms off the stables, and my cook will have dinner sent down. I have your coins here."

Remant joined the line and collected his pay, adding it to his wallet. It would support him for several days, even if he ignored the offer of food and shelter. He intended to be traveling out on another job well before then.

"You never take those gloves off," Itren observed quietly, sitting beside Remant while he ate the breaded pork and baked vegetables that the cook had sent down.

He shrugged, as if it were merely a quirk of his personality. He had never been a particularly good liar, and that was a problem. Dandris knew his secret, but Dandris was further down the table and didn't seem to have noticed the question. There was no help to be had from them. "I don't want to be caught unprepared."

She chuckled. "It's not the best of table manners," she said, ignoring fork and knife to raise a piece of breaded pork in her bare fingers and bite into it directly.

Remant looked at the fork and knife in his gloved hands, and chuckled. "You mock me."

Itren shrugged. "Not intentionally. I merely think you should know that you aren't as discreet as you hope. Beyond that..." She turned her head, met his eyes with her own piercing pale blue ones. "I'd only wish to thank you. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know."

Remant glanced around the table, but Ikara was absorbed in her food and Javill was asking if she had a line on future jobs.

"I'll keep it in mind," he said. "All of it."

He slept alone, and in the morning he rose and saddled his horse and went out and got arrested.

RoH: Identities

"Two days out," said Dandris, and Remant nodded. They'd come off the high road that crossed above the thress-grass a day earlier, and were following the cruder paved-stone way that led on towards Doblim. The way here was hillier, and the road twisted and curved, rose and fell, while the sky alternated sun and cloud-shade overhead. In addition to the cover of the hills, there was more shelter here: patches of brush and low trees, following the lines of streams and rivers. The grasslands had held their own dangers, but if they were going to be ambushed by bandits it would be here: far enough out from the city to be unnoticed, but near enough that the bandits could sell whatever they took.

Ikara rode up beside them, her domek towering over their horses. "Worried?" she asked, and they both nodded. "I'll take lead. You two scout ahead."

The domek was thick-skinned and heavy, strong and difficult to injure. It couldn't match a horse's speed, but then Ikara's job was to stay steady and call orders, not to charge into battle. Remant checked his weapons, then strung his bow and nodded to Dandris, who had done the same. They nodded back, bow in one hand and reins in the other, ready.

They nudged their horses into a trot, moving up the road and extending their distance from the caravan.

"Ikara expects us to scout and report back," observed Dandris. Their expression was neutral, their voice quiet.

"You have another idea?" asked Remant.

Dandris nodded. "We go forward, draw any trouble to us. We clear the way." Dandris glanced at him. "You may need to do things you don't want the others to see. I may as well."

Remant felt his shoulders tighten. "What is it that you think I'm going to do?"

Dandris raised one shoulder, then let it drop. "When we served under the mage-lord of Kordiva," they said, "we were put into crystals and given new bodies, each with its own crystal. I am Botur, who speaks to you now. When my companions' bodies were slain, I gathered their crystals and added them to my flesh. The mage-lord is dead and her growing-tanks demolished, so here they remain. I am not one; we are many. And we think we recognize you."

Remant said, "Ah." He'd been introduced to Dandris as someone whose gender was fluid; he hadn't realized that it was because they were a collective, their gender varying by which individual had taken the lead in any given situation. He doubted anyone else in the caravan knew either. "One of you is a sensitive."

"Kila was our mage-ensign," Dandris said. "You were... unmistakable."

He would be, to even a half-competent battle-mage, if they were paying attention. And a mage caught in a single body with several other individuals might choose to turn their attentions to the more esoteric aspects of the world around them, rather than trying to assert control over the body or the group inside it. "I'll keep your secret if you'll keep mine," Remant said quietly.

"That," answered Dandris, "was the plan."

They rode in silence for nearly an hour before they came to the place where a tree had been felled across the road. Remant didn't need more than a glance to see that it had been cut; he'd been expecting something of the sort. Stones, perhaps, if the hills had been higher around them. He sighed and raised his bow, picking out targets in the brush. A dozen, two... a handful more than that.

He exchanged a quick glance with Dandris, then lifted his bow and began killing. Dandris was doing the same. Between the two of them, he thought they took down six before the others charged and he had to draw his sword.

Dandris had been right. It was better that they were alone. When the robed figure stood and called forth some horrible shade, Remant was able to throw himself in front of it and let his blade carve into it as if it were ordinary flesh, while Dandris speared the mage with a lance of fire from their hand. When two of the bandits caught him at once, Remant was able to catch a blade in his left hand and wrench it aside so that he could cut its owner in half. Dandris fought behind an odd, blurring effect that made them hard to see and harder to hit. And when the last half-dozen bandits broke and fled, Remant and Dandris were both breathing hard and looking satisfied.

"It's good not to have to hide," Dandris said.

"Dangerous," said Remant.

"But good," said Dandris, and Remant found himself nodding in agreement.

RoH: Away, and Away, and Further Away

Remant made a careful circuit around the edge of the wagons, letting Peregrine choose his own footing and watching the warhorse for signs that he might have missed something. The sun was setting in the west, and the late afternoon winds stirred the thress-grass into waves and currents that could hide almost anything, but the caravan had settled at the midpoint of one of the arches, well back from the points where gentle ramps descended from the raised road to the surface of the grasslands. Overhead, a handful of small clouds stood stubbornly in the empty sky, and birds of various sizes circled nearby. Most were too small to threaten humans or draught-animals.

Nothing seemed out of place, and with the four wagons positioned so that two stood at either end of the small camp, they were about as safe as it was possible to get. And despite the one voice at the back of his head, screaming that this was all a trick and they would be attacked at any moment, the night seemed peaceful. Finishing his course, he swung down from Peregrine's back, patted the warhorse on the shoulder, and let him over to one of the carts where he could tie him in place. The supply cart had grain, and a feeding-muzzle, and while Peregrine ate Remant strolled over to the tailgate of the lead cart, where the merchant Teldis was cooking a bowl of stew over a spirit stove.

"Here," said the older woman, and handed Remant a pewter bowl full of the stuff. "There's more if you need it."

"Thank you." He took the bowl and a spoon and walked away, looking for Ikara.

Dark-haired and dark-eyed, Ikara nodded as he approached. She was in charge of the caravan guards, a good fighter and a competent leader. "Anything?"

Remant shook his head. "Nothing."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," said Ikara, and Remant nodded.

"I plan to." He scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth, found it heavy with grain but also some meat and vegetable, and swallowed. "You want me on early watch, or late?"

"Late," she said. Her eyes narrowed. "Let Lemanth take the early watch."

Remant nodded. Of the six guards who traveled with the caravan, he and Lemanth were the only men. Ikara, Javill, and Itren were women, and Dandris fluid. Lemanth was a war hero, a survivor of the disastrous action at Kol Diurov and -- to hear him tell it -- a leader in the spear-charge that shattered the grey flank at Noribdis. Perhaps not a great hero, he admitted, but a hero still.

That was common, and not; common, because among the living men of fighting age, most had seen battle and survived horrors. Uncommon, because most of those who had seen battle had not survived the horrors. There were women who were war heroes as well, Itren among them, but for the most part they had joined the fighting later and spoke more quietly about it. And those who remained in the world were for the most part the very young and the very old: the one family group in the caravan had a single daughter of marriageable age, and she was sitting with her family while Lemanth regaled them with a tale of his time as a soldier.

Remant looked away, and stepped back out into the darkness at the edge of the raised road.

"You don't look very impressed with the dashing young hero," said a voice, and Remant turned to see Itren standing two paces away. She hadn't turned her head to look at him.

"We're two days into his bragging," said Remant, well aware that neither he nor she was particularly older than Lemanth. "A lot of stories, a lot of details." He shrugged. "Most of the ones who were actually there don't want to talk about it at all."

He hadn't intended to get involved with this at all. Keep the caravan safe until they reached Doblim, then find another job and keep moving: that was all he had signed on for. But Teldris, the merchant, had hired Lemanth as one of her guards, and Remant was increasingly wary of the fellow. Ikara seemed to share his feelings, which was reassuring, but he wished he was more certain that she knew what needed to be done. He wasn't sure he himself did.

"I'll be keeping the early watch," said Itren, and Remant nodded slowly.

"Good," he said.

He wasn't entirely surprised when Lemanth was gone in the morning. They made a search of the camp, then rode out; but his mount was gone, along with his packs and himself. They rode a little ways back along the road, but found no sign. Remant avoided looking down into the thress-grass, and noticed that the other guards did as well.

"Enough," pronounced Ikara at last. "We need to move on." And the caravan broke camp, with Teldis shouting directions and the Mornmith family scurrying to gather their belongings and make sure the smaller children were all accounted for, while the guards patrolled the perimeter and waited for everyone else to be ready.

No, the surprise came in the late morning, when the marriageable daughter Telra hailed him from the back of her family's wagon and beckoned him over. "What do you know about Lemanth?" she asked, when he was close enough that she didn't need to raise her voice.

"Why?" asked Remant, keeping his face expressionless by an act of will.

"Itren says he was a liar." She sounded strained, tired, hurt. "She says she confronted him about his time in the war, and he'd made it all up."

Remant kept his face still. "I didn't know him," he said after a moment. "Itren was there. I would believe her. But more than that... no, I didn't trust him. The ones who lived through those battles don't talk about them -- not willingly, and not like he did, turning them into some grand adventure."

She looked away. "So I was a fool."

Remant shrugged. "You were young, and he told a good story. Did something happen between you?"

Telra shuddered. "I'd come out to give him a kiss. He wanted... more. I wasn't ready." She looked away again. "Itren was. She took care of it."

Remant nodded. "Good."

Telra turned back to study his face. "You were there, for those battles?"

Remant shook his head firmly. "I was elsewhere."

Telra frowned. "But you fought."

Remant felt himself go stiff. "If you can call it that." Then: "Don't pin any ideas on me, child."

"I wasn't," Telra assured him, though he wasn't sure he believed her. "You like her, don't you? Itren, I mean."

Remant tilted his head. "Not the way I think you mean, no. But beyond that, yes." Actually, quite a lot, after all this.

Telra nodded, though she still looked puzzled. "All right. Thank you."

Remant nodded to her and rode on. He had no doubts that Lemanth's corpse was out there feeding the grasses somewhere, but then he hadn't much doubted it before. And he didn't doubt that Itren had made the right decision, either. Keep the caravan safe until we reach Doblim, he reminded himself, then find another job and keep moving. That was what he'd signed on for.

Bladecraft

Remant left his horse tied outside the shop and took a moment to survey the street. It was nearly empty and growing dark; a young woman glanced his way but hurried on, while an old woman pushed a small cart down a side-way. An even older man was moving down the street with a long pole, lighting the oil lamps that hung at regular intervals from the sconces where enchanted crystals had once filled the streets with light. Turning, he opened the door and went into the shop.

The woman inside turned. "I'm sorry, ser. We were just clos--"

Remant pushed his hood back and she stopped, studying him. "...Savior," she muttered, and swallowed. "You've come back for it, then."

Remant nodded. The room around them was carefully divided, with counters running around three sides, wide enough to display the blades inside... and to keep the over-curious from reaching for the longer blades on walls behind them. The counters were open in the back, and held heavy glass windows in the front; Westhill was rich in glassworks. Shelves behind the glass held various sorts of blades: scythes, carving knives, fighting knives, throwing knives. There were other things as well; Tamil was a weaponsmith, but he crafted what was needed, and the war was over now. There were clasps for cloaks, utensils for cooking and eating, hooks and even a couple of pulleys.

"Do you... will you come on back?" Hira. Her name is Hira. Hira was stout, and nearly as heavy through the arms and shoulders as her husband. Her hair was a bundle of neat curls, black touched with the first faint streaks of silver, but her face was young. She stood stiffly, uncertain but determined, and Remant shook his head.

"It's the master-crafter's shop," he said, and thought, and your home, "and this is business. I'm imposing already by coming in so late. I'll wait here."

She stood a moment longer, looking at him. Her expression was unreadable, or perhaps he very badly did not want to read it. "Thank you," she said at last. "I'll tell him you're here."

She turned and went out through a door behind the counters, leaving Remant alone with the weapons and the counters and the bright light of the glow-crystals. Those alone would have marked the shop as prosperous, or its owner as connected, or both; most of the newer crystals weren't so bright, and tended to fade and need to be recharged after an hour or two -- where they could be found at all. These were the old style, bright and perpetual; the only way to dim them was to cover them with something thick.

Uncomfortable at being left alone with his thoughts, Remant went to look at the blades. Even on the walls, not all were martial anymore. Some were clearly meant for chopping brush, or pruning trees. Though as the grey had discovered in attacking the farms, the difference between a pruning tool and a polearm was more a matter of attitude than design.

He blinked away that memory as well, and found himself admiring a slim, straight blade designed for use in a single hand: a courtly sword, a scholar's sword. It looked elegant and balanced, a fine example of Tamil's craftsmanship, and he wondered how it would feel in his hand. It wasn't a sword for the battlefield, but a sword for civilian life; likely it would feel delicate and out of place.

He was still staring at it when Hira returned. She was carrying a tray, with bread and cheese and sliced apples laid out on it along with a trio of pewter tankards. She set it on the counter, then stepped through the narrow hinged gate and put the bar across the door. Remant could have moved to help her, but this was her place and she handled the heavy wooden bar easily by herself; offering assistance would have been awkward.

When she had it in place she stopped, holding herself still for a moment; then, decisively, she turned back to him. Remant hadn't expected to find himself eye-to-eye with her, and stayed still himself as she regarded him.

Then she sighed. "He told me he knew you," she said, and looked away. "He told me, and I believed him. And yet somehow I didn't quite believe him until... well."

Remant nodded. He sometimes felt the same way about himself: as if he couldn't be quite real, as if he couldn't truly be here -- wherever here was -- doing this -- whatever this was. Is this really my life? "I'm sure it seems strange to him as well," he said, as Hira crossed the room again. "Some days it seems strange to me."

She stopped and turned, looked back at him, then shook her head. "Come over here," she said, and went back around behind the counter. "I don't trust myself to lift the tray, and you should have some refreshment while you're waiting. Tamil, he said you'd understand why he couldn't drop everything."

Remant sniffed, amused. "He's right. I've watched him work. It's like juggling, once you see it. Everything has to be in its place, and everything has to happen in its time or it all falls down." He tilted his head slightly, studying Hira's expression. "But you know that. Do you help him with it?" Her expression changed slightly, and a shiver of recognition went through him. "Oh. You do some of it yourself."

Hira tensed... then relaxed with a chuckle. "Yes. I mind the forge when my husband's elsewhere. I do my own projects." She pointed to the pulley. "That was mine. So are most of the carving knives, those awls, and a few of the hammers. And those clasps."

Remant nodded. "Tamil was always versatile, but he never had much interest in those things."

Hira tilted her head, studying him. "You knew my husband during the war," she said. "What was he like?"

"Invaluable," Remant said immediately, and she nodded with a small smile of recognition. "It wasn't just that he was supplying the best quality blades to the army, it was..."He hesitated, fishing for the word. "It was his faith. He had this relentless certainty that we'd all make it through somehow, and in some cases he was right... but even when he wasn't, it kept us going." He wasn't sure that made any sense, but that was how it had always felt to him. "And he was open, and friendly, always with a kind word. He made the things people needed, and he was proud of that; but that was the extent of his pride. He never let it slide into arrogance." He paused. "You know about my Santu?"

Hira nodded.

"There was a time, brief but vital, when your husband was more of a father to me than my Santu ever knew how to be."

Hira nodded again, much more slowly. "I have trouble picturing you as a squire," she admitted.

Remant actually chuckled at that. "Some days, so do I," he admitted. "Other days, I can't see myself as anything but."

Tamil emerged as Remant reached for a slice of apple. "Telling tales again?" he asked, salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. He had new lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth, but his dark eyes were still calm and reassuring and faintly amused. He carried a bundle in his arms, and set it on the counter to one side of the tray of food. "I'm glad to see you back."

Remant inclined his head. "I'm glad to see you still here." He felt stiff and formal and awkward, and wished he could find some way to just enjoy seeing the weaponsmith again. Likely that would require three or four days, and he didn't have time to stay in one place for so long. Instead of trying, he asked: "Is it ready?"

"It is," Tamil affirmed. He pulled the cloth back, revealing a blade resting in its sheath, and Remant smiled.

It was exactly what he had asked for: a straight-bladed saber with a hand-and-a-half hilt, the guard forming an abbreviated basket around the fingers. He held a hand out, sensing the enchantments.

"Lady Rexor ensorceled it herself," said Tamil proudly. "Came right down and did it as I worked, standing matter-of-fact beside the forge, despite her being Mordil and all. A good one, that."

Remant nodded. Lady Rexor had never stood on ceremony, and would likely have enjoyed Tamil's company and admired his craftsmanship. "You get any new orders out of it?" he asked.

"Well..." Tamil hesitated, then grinned. "Yes, I'm supplying blades for this order she's putting together. Or putting back together. She tried to explain it, but I was concentrating."

Remant reached down and wrapped his hand around the hilt, then slipped the blade loose. It stretched out from his hand, balanced and deadly, ready. It didn't seem right to hold it still -- this was blade whose design was so elegant that it could only be completed by motion -- but after a moment he slid it back into the sheath. "It feels perfect," he said.

"Remant," said Tamil, "I have to ask: why did you want it? With those things you carry, why would you need my poor work?"

This time Remant grinned. "You work is never poor, old friend. And this sword, for all that it can do, is just a sword. With this, I'm just another warrior, not some legend that everyone has to reckon with."

Tamil was silent for a long moment, then nodded. "It still hurts you, then?"

Remant lifted his left hand, regarded the smooth silvery metal where he'd once had flesh and bone. "Sometimes," he said. "And sometimes I just miss it."

"That wasn't..."

Remant ignored him, dropping his hand back under his cloak. "I know the sword was the extent of the commission," he said, "but I find myself in need of a new clasp for my cloak. Would you add those as well, and total the cost?"

Tamil looked at Hira, and Hira looked at Remant. Then Hira looked back at her husband, expectantly. "Of course," he said, and moved to gather the clasps and fold them into a strip of cloth.

Remant unclipped the purse from his belt and set it on the counter. "It was good to see you," he told Tamil, "and it was good to meet you," he told Hira. "If you ever need anything from me, let me know."

"Remant," said Hira. "...We don't... we don't tell people that I work the forge."

Remant nodded. "I don't tell people about what I've done either."

Tamil put an arm around his wife, and Remant buckled his new blade onto his belt. "I wish you both well," he said, and turned for the door.

"Remant," said Tamil, sharply enough to make the younger man pause. "You take care of yourself."

I can't promise that. Remant offered a tired smile. "Don't worry over me," he said, and went back out the door.

Dark Armor 013: Strategems

Pallian reined up behind a low hill, then swung himself off of Black and climbed to where he could see over the top. The Edrian army was not far away, strung out and scattered as they made their way around hill and across ravines. The land here was high plains, almost but not quite desert; mostly grasses and scrub brush, divided by stretches of sand and stone. The orders he'd been given were to turn this army away from the border, and send them back to where Pallian would be waiting with their own forces. It would not be easy, and he'd had a full day's riding to wonder whether Ravaj was deliberately sending him to his death.

It wasn't impossible. Their brother Ariston had gotten into a duel with the heir of the Valinost clan, who held the eastern lands of the kingdom and from whom their father's then-wife had come. Ariston had slain the boy honorably, and their father had declined to punish him despite the clan chief's outrage-- but when Tabrithan bandits had begun ravaging the south, the sorcerer-king had sent Aristan to lead the fighting from the front lines, where he died nobly in service to the kingdom.

Pallian knew perfectly well how he felt about dying nobly in service to the kingdom. He didn't dare ever express his feeling aloud, but he knew that if it came to that he'd flee instead. Rank, titles, a place in his father's court: they were power, they were protection, and they could be revoked at any time at his father's whim. Ephemeral, he thought. Unreliable. His own skills and abilities, the initiations he'd been given and the ones he'd undertaken for himself, were better... but there were dangers there, too. Seeking too much power that way could be taken as rebellion, especially for initiations undertaken secretly. Even the ones he already had, which had helped carry him through the assault from the archer. Even those.

The border to Edrias was closer than any of the richer lands of Teregor; destroying their supply wagons would likely just speed them on their way instead of turning them back. Assaults on the outriders and forward-most units could be done, and might turn them aside, but they weren't likely to turn about completely. Even if he wasn't trying to kill him, Ravaj had set him an impossible task.

His best way out would be to assault the front lines as if trying to turn them back or cut them off, and lure the archer out to deal with him. It was risky; she'd already demonstrated that she might very well be able to kill him, and there was always the possibility that the Shadow of Edrias might show up as well -- even in broad daylight. But if he could manage to take her with the silver net, then he could carry her back to Ravaj as ordered, and let the remainder of the army do as it would.

This, he thought, is the stupidest possible plan ever come up with in the entire history of stupid possible plans. But he could not think of anything better, so he scrambled back down to where Black waited, and settled in to wait for nightfall.

Dark Armor 012: Riding Out

Pallian emerged from the sarcophagus rested and restored; he always did. His armor was still in place, but the rent in his palm was healed and the shield was whole again. He strapped on his sword and slid his arm through the straps of the shield, then gathered the lance and emerged from his tent.

Black was fully recovered, waiting calmly outside his tent; no one in the camp would touch the Champion's mount, and Black would strike them down if they tried. Pallian checked him over, confirming that his barding, while battered, was still intact. Then he placed the lance in its holder and swung up into the saddle.

He did not stop at the command tent, and he did not speak. He had his orders, and it was time to go. The Edrian army held a decent lead, and he would need most of the day to make it up. It was time to lose himself in movement.

Dark Armor 011: Results

The far-seers reported that the camp seemed calm and undisturbed, with the watch-fires high and guards standing watch beside them. It was only when the scouts returned from their sortie that it became apparent that the camp was abandoned. The Edriasi army had built up their fires and left decoys to man them, then decamped and retreated with all their essential equipment. Left behind were older tents, broken gear, and worn-out bedding or outfits draped over bundled sticks to give the appearance of a military camp.

"So," said Ravaj, as the last of the scouts finished her report and left the command tent, "either we've driven them off, or they've withdrawn for reasons of their own."

Sorcerer-commander Stefan, lean and grizzled in the scale armor that was the mark of his house, inclined his head. "The victory is yours, my lord. After the report from the scouts, our far-seers located the army. They're making a forced march to the west, likely intending to cut around the garrison at Evekhurst and return to Edrias-- or lose themselves along the border."

Ravaj shook his head slowly. "I don't trust this retreat. They showed up unexpectedly, proved considerably more formidable than we had prepared for, and now they just withdraw?"

Pallian, who was thinking about the breach in his armor and the wound in his palm, offered a solemn nod.

"I fear this is part of some deeper plan," Ravaj continued. "So we will not pursue, but we will not let them retreat, either."

Behind his visor, Pallian squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel what was coming, but if he didn't react...

"The Champion will follow them at first light. Hound them, harrow them. Drive them away from their shelter. And if you meet with that archer again..." The sorcerer-prince reached for something at his belt, pulled it loose, and extended his hand. "Bring her to me."

Pallian took the thing automatically. In his hand, it was a bundle of light silver mesh, woven of moonbeams and tears and twice as strong a steel. It was a net, light but unbreakable; he'd seen his brother use it before. Anything caught in it would be unable to move, barely able to breathe. He tucked it into a pouch on his belt.

"We will remain here. Drive them back to us, or return if you capture the archer."

Silently, Pallian nodded an acknowledgement. This was not the time to protest, explain, or even speak; he had a role to play. If the Shadow of Edrias returned to the camp and murdered his brother, it would serve Ravaj right. His brother had given him no chance to explain about the Shadow, or offer warnings or even opinions.

Without a word, he turned and left. The Champion of Teregor waited in a stone sarcophagus until he was needed; it would mend his armor and protect him while he slept. And in the morning, he would cross the valley and hunt the retreating army. And pray he didn't meet the archer again.

Dark Armor 009: Back to the Camp

It was a near thing, in some ways. The arrow had pierced Ravaj's lung, and the healer-sorcerers struggled against his initiations to mold the flesh so that they could withdraw it cleanly. In the end he lay on a cot, deadly-pale and corpse-cold but breathing, until they brought one of his servants for him to drink from. Still, he rose back up as his old self, his flesh healthy and color in his cheeks. Pallian, who had stood watching over him, silent and still in his role as the Champion, had offered a single, simple nod of acknowledgement.

Ravaj stood and strode out of the tent, calling for his staff. Pallian simply followed. He doubted their father was watching anymore, but the Champion of Teregor was nothing if not obedient.

Two minutes later they were standing in a command tent at the center of the camp. "I want our adepts out checking the wards. Nothing gets in; nothing escapes if it tries." Pallian watched Ravaj turn to High Captain Borwith. "I need your clairvoiyants, and a half-dozen scouts skilled at concealment. I want to know what's happening in the enemy camp."

Pallian remained impassive at that, but internally he approved. Far-seeing was useful, but it could be fooled by magical or mundane means; adding the scouts would give them a much more reliable report.

"Our seers will begin at once," answered the captain, "and I will have scouts sent out. We should have news of how the Champion's attack affected their disposition shortly."

Pallian ignored the look the officer turned in his direction; part of his role as the Black Knight was to remain indifferent to mere human concerns such as politics. He did as the sorcerer-king ordered, killed whom his father willed. Nobody outside the privy council knew whether the Champion of Teregor was alive, undead, or a construct of his father's magics. And the latter isn't that far from the truth. Even so, maintaining the role was important: if the Champion behaved in human ways, it might be suborned in the ways an ordinary person could. But the Champion of Teregor never did.

And now I'm thinking about myself in the third person, Pallian thought. Thanks again, Dad. Though in truth, his thinking was off for other reasons. He was still shaken from his encounter with the archer, and the Shadow of Edrias before that. This has not been a good night. He was feeling emotions, damn it, and that was never good when he was wearing the armor. Hell, it wasn't ideal when he was out of it.

"Good. I want the Champion to make a sweep of the perimeter." Pallian remained still as Ravaj turned to look at him. "Take your sword and go on foot. Black needs time to recover, and I want you moving slowly enough to look for anything the wards and watchers might have missed."

Pallian nodded. He could speak in front of the command staff -- the helm disguised his voice every bit as well as it hid his face -- but it was better not to. Instead, he turned and left the tent, collecting his sword from the rack beside the door as he passed.

He was only four strides away from the tent when a soft, directionless voice said: Ah, the Champion of Teregor again.

The Shadow of Edrias was here in the camp.

Dark Armor 008

Okay, new plan... Pallian rolled over and brought his shield up, covering his chest just in time for an arrow to slam into his left knee. It didn't pierce, but as Pallian rolled back to his feet he could see where it had left a dent. Another arrow slammed into his right knee and shattered. Testing for weak points in the armor, Pallian thought, and cursed.

Then his shield slammed back into his chest, and he was on his back on the ground again. He caught a brief glimpse of an arrow hanging in the air before it began to fall, completely intact despite the fact that it had just struck him like a battering ram. He needed to respond, now. Another spell? His ranged options were limited, intended more for spreading chaos on the battlefield around him than for picking off a single target. And his armor wasn't invulnerable, at least not to this archer; the arrow in his palm had come loose on its own, but it had pierced the inside of his gauntlet and the flesh underneath it. The archer had drawn blood. She has to run out of arrows sometime, doesn't she?

He got his shield up again and moved his body around behind it. Black neighed as another arrow shattered against his barding.

Then the edge of the ridge erupted in a wall of flames, and his brother drifted down out of the sky beside him. "Get up, little brother," said Ravaj. "Get Black, and get back to the camp." The flames surged, and even at this distance Pallian could hear screams.

He crossed quickly to Black, and yanked the arrows out one at a time. It wasn't as gently as he would have preferred, and the stallion shrieked with each one. Still, a moment later Black drew a shuddering breath and rose. Back to the camp. He was reaching for the reins when another arrow dropped out of the sky, falling almost vertically, and slammed into the top of Ravaj's right shoulder. Ravaj looked startled; then he swayed and collapsed. The wall of fire went out.

Pallian cursed and scooped his brother up, mounting Black with Ravaj hanging over his shoulder. The stallion huffed, then turned and trotted away. More arrows followed them, but Ravaj had recovered enough to throw up some protections and none of them found their mark.

Dark Armor 007

He lifted his shield, but the arrow passed above it and skipped off the curve of his helmet. Too much. She was too good. He was going to have to kill her, and as he lifted the lance he found that he did not want to. She looked too much like the Heir of Edrias he'd killed two years ago: a similar face, and the same unrelenting determination.

Kill her, boy! His father's voice was cold in his ears. What do you think you're there for?

...Of course his father was watching. Ravaj would have informed him of the invaders... and their own plans. But the wizard-king wouldn't care to watch the defense of their camp; he would want to see the deaths of their enemies. And he would expect Pallian to provide those for him. How long has he been watching? Had he overheard the exchange with the Shadow of Edrias? If he had, would he care?

"Seems like a waste," Pallian muttered.

You can't keep her, boy. The Champion of Teregor does nothing so human as to make a prisoner of a beautiful woman. Which wasn't at all what he'd had in mind, but at least his father didn't sound disappointed in him anymore. He actually sounded sympathetic, which was in its own way worse.

Still, Pallian nodded an acknowledgement.

The command tents were on fire, the rest of the camp a disturbed anthill. Twin lines of burning tents marked his track to the heart of the camp. If his father wanted destruction, he had certainly provided it. He could do more damage on the way out, but he'd been given an order: kill the archer. So he set his lance and turned his mount, and charged.

Another arrow smashed into his shield, piercing the black steel before it shattered. Faceless within his helmet, the Black Knight of Teregor bore down on his only significant opponent. She rolled to one side, but he turned to correct, dropping his lance to keep the point in line. The tip traced her movements like a serpent's head, ready to strike as soon as it drew close.

She dodged to one side, then the other, and Black slowed slightly as the stallion kept himself in line with her. She fired off two more arrows, one smashing against Black's barding and the other skipping off Pallian's thigh. She must have been carrying a whole constellation of interlocking initiations to do so much; but the armor still held, and Black still closed the distance between them. Pallian raised the lance with a sense of regret, bringing it into line with her heart.

Then she flung herself backwards over the edge of the bluff. Black was galloping at a full charge, and Pallian couldn't rein him in; this would be his exit from the camp. His mount carried him out over the darkness of the valley. His target had escaped, but his withdrawal was clear. Black was more than capable of carrying him down and landing safely in the valley below...

Or he would have been, if a pair of arrows hadn't slammed into his belly as he crossed into the open air. The enchantments that guarded the stallion were weaker there, and the impacts were strong. What would have been a solid, uncomfortable landing turned into an uncontrolled fall as the horse began to flail.

Pallian tumbled as they crashed, letting his armor take the brunt of the impact. Something shattered across his back, and something else smashed into his outflung arm; his armor rang like an offkey bell. He'd come down amidst brush and small trees, and his impact had cleared a path through them. Another arrow slammed into his breastplate, driving him deeper into the loose dirt, but he recalled his lessons and sprayed bolts of levin-fire across the face of the bluff. Yes! his father crowed. Strike back! Take her out!

An arrow pierced his outflung hand, and the bright blaze flickered. Vaguely, he glimpsed a dark figure sprinting up the near-vertical face of the bluff. The archer had escaped him. He felt a sudden, irrational urge to go back to her but stamped down on it. Nothing but death would come of extending this encounter -- his or hers, and at this point he had to consider that it very well might be his own. And even if she failed to kill him, she probably wouldn't appreciate his apologies at this point.

Pallian made himself roll over and come to his feet. Everything in his body hurt; the armor had absorbed most of the external impacts, but it was only his own initiations that had protected him from a far more basic concussion during the impact -- or from bleeding out internally due to the extent of his bruising. He stood, staggered, and turned... just in time. Another arrow slammed into his shield, glancing to one side as it shoved him to the other. Get to Black! his father was shouting. The Champion of Teregor never abandons his mount!

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather be here yourself, father?" he muttered, mindless of the blasphemy and the likelihood of eventual punishment. "You could do all this without me." He was already staggering back towards his mount. "Or you could let me decide what the Champion of Teregor does and doesn't do."

His father didn't answer, and Pallian moved towards Black. His stagger turned into a stride as his body shoved its various pieces back into place and restored muscles and bones. He caught three more arrows on his shield; with his visor, at this distance, he could see them coming. All three pierced the black steel, though fortunately none of them found his forearm on the back side.

Black was lying on his side and twitching his hooves. Pallian dropped to his knees beside him and reached down for the first of the two arrows in his belly when something slammed into the side of his helmet and knocked him flat.

Dark Armor 006: Interlude 02

There is a woman before the throne, arms bound behind her, guards carrying torches on either side. Pallian enters the chamber without appearing to notice her and approaches the place where his father stands beside the obsidian throne. "Father?"

"Pallian." His father regards him, tall and imposing and still impossibly strong. "You recall your lessons on the passage of arms?"

He nods.

"And the martial uses of sorcery?"

Pallian nods a second time, his eyes on his father's face, waiting to see where this inquiry is going.

"And combining the two?"

A sudden irritation rises within him, but he keeps his face expressionless. He has studied little else for the past two years, and his father should know it: it was done at his order. He nods, making the gesture a mirror of the previous two.

"Amedin!" His father calls sharply, and the old priest strides forward from a shadowed corner of the room. There are others out there as well; half the court, by the look of it, but only he and his father stand in the shaft of moonlight that falls across the throne. The lone woman is lit by the torches her guards carry. Everyone else, men and women and both and neither, are blanketed by the shadows.

Amedin has served the obsidian throne for six generations, far beyond the span of his mortal life. What remains of his flesh is wound tight around his bones, withered and decayed; and it is said that only the darkest sorceries sustain him. Pallian has never seen him eat or drink, and thinks of him as a sort of horrible doll that his father the wizard-king summons for unpleasant tasks and pronouncements. Perhaps the most horrifying thing about him is that despite his appearance he moves like a young man, swift and sure.

Amedin kneels before the wizard-king, then rises. "Sire?"

"Check him. Is he ready?"

Pallian stifles a visceral disgust and forces himself to remain still and calm as the half-dead priest turns to him. He doesn't know himself whether the night's new initiation will react badly with the ones he's already been given; he only knows that there is no escaping the ancient priest's scrutiny: not here, not now, not with his father watching.

Amedin runs withered hands over his shoulders, then down his arms, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. "Firm," he says, as he touches Pallian's forehead. "Strong, as we planned. Stronger than expected, even, and I think growing stronger."

The wizard-king frowns. "Any concerns there?"

"No, sire. He's everything you wanted, and perhaps a bit more. If he fails here, it will be a matter of skill... or will." A dark, strangled chuckle follows the remark.

Pallian doesn't know whether Amedin has sensed his new initiation and chosen not to remark on it, or whether the withered priest assumes that Pallian's additional strength is an unexpected effect of his own work. It doesn't matter, so long as his secret remains secret. "What is it you want of me, father?"

"You see this woman?"

Pallian turns his head at his father's gesture, regards the bound and guarded prisoner, then makes the same respectful nod that he's made four times in this conversation alone. "I do."

"This is the heir of Edrias," his father says. "She was taken in battle, and has demanded her noble right of fugin ei guer."

Pallian nods once more, this time more slowly. Trial by combat. More precisely, release by combat... one way or another. Freedom or death. He raises his head and takes a long, slow look around the room. It is not just the court of Teregor that has gathered here; he sees representatives from a half-dozen wizard-kings, Edrias among them.

"You understand," his father says, with a sharp nod. "Your time has come, and I give you your chance. Kill her for me, and earn your place."

And Pallian, who has never had a place in his father's court and never been allowed to forget it, nods again.

Dark Armor 005

He passed through the outer line of watchfires at a full gallop, and only heard them cry out as he reached the inner ring. He'd chosen a path empty of watchers or patrols; he didn't care to shed blood yet. The alarms, and the chaos they would raise behind him, would only be of help. Black's hooves were a muffled thunder on the sandy ground.

Arrows pierced the night, but none of them came close to him. Then he was among the tents, and the killing began. A soldier staggered out, still pulling on his armor, but Black shouldered him aside with enough force to send him flying; the impact of his body collapsed another tent. More cries were rising, and somewhere someone began to ring a bell; but by then Pallian was deep inside the camp. He touched Black's flank and gave a silent command, and flames rose and spread in his wake as he aimed for the command tents at its heart.

The guards here wore heavy plate, their enchantments flickering and sparking in the view provided by Pallian's visor. They raised shields and tried to set spears, but their speartips shattered on Black's barding and Pallian drove his lance through the guard on the right. The remaining guard struggled back and drew her sword, but Black was already rearing, lashing out with his hooves... the woman went down.

An arrow slammed into his back, then another and another, but Pallian ignored them. A figure was pushing its way out of the command tent, fully armored, lifting a blade in one hand as it shaped a spell in the other. Pallian turned the reins and threw his lance like a spear, his strength amplified by the dark armor that protected him. The weapon stabbed through the armor and impaled the figure against the ground.

Another arrow smashed into his back, and he felt armor strain to absorb the impact. That's new, at least. Until now he'd only ever felt the armor struggle against magics. Still... He slammed his fist against his shield and sent a massive thunderclap through the camp, then dropped a ball of fire atop the command tent before wrenching his lance loose from body it had pierced. Black turned, whinnied, and turned again, and another arrow skipped off his half-raised shield.

Through his visor, he could see the archer: a woman, unarmored, and staggering from the thunderclap even as she drew another arrow.

Writing Considerations: Another Approach

I mentioned last week that I would like to write a Dungeons and Dragons novel, one about a nameless half-orc, and that I'd had some considerable difficulties in establishing an opening scene. This was in part because I was trying to have him remain nameless, and limit his speech patterns fairly heavily - a tricky combination.

But it was also because the best opening scene I'd come up with for him so far involved a confrontation in a tavern. And it was... well, it wasn't horrible. It did get things moving. And it got my half-orc introduced to the group he'd be traveling with, and willing to work with them in a way that basically made sense, or at least didn't strain the suspension of disbelief.

But this isn't a story that starts with a young halfbreed in search of adventure. This isn't the story of someone who knows how to be part of a group, or thinks that such a thing is possible at all. This isn't the story of the sort of person who can sit in a tavern in the late afternoon, drinking human-brewed ale, paying for it with money that he earned doing work on some of the outlying farms -- someone who can be ignored, if not accepted, as long as his money is good.

This is the story of someone who has fled his family and his tribe, someone who knows they will kill him if they find him. This is the story of a young man who escaped into the spring storms to keep them from being able to track him, and hiked to the one place where his family couldn't follow. This story doesn't begin with a friendly meeting or an aborted confrontation in a tavern (though I'm sure there will be one, sooner or later).

This story begins with a desperate young halfbreed on the run.