Dark Army: Best-Laid Plans

Kas Luthien watched with satisfaction as the Dwint’lithar girl tried to assassinate Cassadia Almonda, and was foiled by her protective magics: a half-dozen images of the diminutive wizard dancing in and out, absorbing each attempt to strike. Almonda and her images paused to study the hapless girl. "Did you really expect that to work?" Then she dropped a Wall of Force, trapping Fartathren against the edge of the air dock, with nothing but emptiness behind her. 

They'd tried to turn Almonda's ambush; of course they had. The would-be King might come striding chivalrously forward to offer honorable combat, but Ruin and Fartathren knew better. And Fartathren had almost managed it, but now she was trapped, imprisoned where all she could do was watch the action. Ruin cut an ogre apart, but that no longer mattered. As long as her bodyguards held them back, Almonda could take them apart with her magics...

The Dwint’lithar girl offered Almonda a jaunty wave, then leaned back and dove off the edge of the dock. She was grinning as she did it, and it wasn't because she thought she'd sacrificed herself to escape their vengeance. No, that was one of Fartathren's accursed I know something you don't know expressions. Damn that girl--

Ah, here we go. A hulking corpse was shambling out from the sewing room, and the two ogre Lieutenants were still forming a shield wall protecting Almonda. And there was no way for the others to get behind her, with her clever wall of force in place. 

Then the human priest rushed forward, slamming into one of the ogre lieutenants and pushing him back, breaking the blockade they'd formed. The sorceress was firing off magic missiles, but they were ineffective... except in removing the last of Almonda's images. For a moment, the entire scene went red-yellow-white in the darkwater pool. Almonda had dropped a fireball, a powerful one. One of the ogre lieutenants had gone down; the other, and the hulking corpse, were damaged also. Damn you, woman, Luthien thought, though he was profoundly aware that what she'd just done was little different from what he'd done in setting this all up. But the King was there too, having arrived just in time to be burned with his fellows. That was good. 

Then the damned elderly gnome fired off a magic missile and took out the last of Cassadia Almonda's images. 

Ah, here we go! The hulking corpse reached Ruin, and bit him; it flailed at him with its arms but missed. Come, servitor! Do your work! 

Ruin cut it apart, and Luthien almost screamed in frustration. He controlled himself, barely, by an effort of will. Even here, amongst those who served his will, he must keep up appearances. 

The remaining ogre had stepped back to shield Almonda. King Tavros charged it, taking some damage on the way in but cutting into it as well; Luthien couldn't tell which of them had come off the worse from the exchange. Then the sorceress lifted her staff, and a bolt of pure darkness slammed into Almonda, staggering her. "How?" she demanded. "Kas Luthien said you would have no magic!"

They don't! Luthien thought desperately. They can't! Our mistress laid down rules to prevent it! 

And yet, clearly they still did. Not all of it, not even enough of it, but... some. He smiled as Almonda's next spell pinned the slender young sorceress and started to crush her. Yes. Try that again, you little bitch. She followed with a scorching ray that brought down the human priest, and his grin widened. The ogre lieutenant, with only one opponent left, attacked Tavros... 

...It missed, and Tavros cut it nearly in half. The half-dragon king's strength was formidable, but he could still be stopped. Almonda would know to--

Tavros moved forward, leaning into the heavy wooden crate that the halfling wizard had been hiding behind and driving it forward to pin her between it and the wall of force that she'd so carelessly cast earlier. And at that moment the Dwint’lithar girl came racing into the scene from the direction of the stairs, her hand extended to fling a dagger. 

Somehow the king knew it was coming. "Azrael," he said, and then leaned aside with the ease of long practice. The dagger buried itself in Almonda's left eye, and the halfling slumped, dead or dying. Vecna, preserve me! The prayer went out with the force of true desperation. The Blood of Vecna was an order of formidable warriors, but with Almonda down all the two berserkers could hope for was to do some damage before they died. 

He watched as they did some damage before they died. Kas Luthien swallowed as the second one fell: the tip of Tavros' blade had barely touched his throat, but the veins there had erupted like a crack in a dam. And even then, the damned priest didn't die! The sorceress, despite her obvious incompetence, had managed to stabilize him -- and the others were closing in on the two Thoughts who'd been waiting in reserve to flank them when they were occupied with Almonda's defenders. The sorceress had shrugged off their first attack, and since then they'd been fighting on the defensive -- still striving to win, but flanked at close range by Ruin, Tavros, and Fartathren. And Ruin, who'd started life as an idiot barbarian, was suddenly using a bow like a proper elf! It's not fair, Luthien thought, and then stomped on that thought and locked it away. He'd built his entire career on the knowledge that life wasn't fair, and those who know how to find the cracks and take advantage of them were the ones who came out on top.

Martini and her friends might have survived the library. They might be able to disappear from his vision. They might even have overwhelmed Almonda, and... He shrieked as Ruin threw Almonda's corpse off the edge of the dock, to sink into Mar Dentro, and then set fire to the structure that was supposed to become a flying ship. That little fucking brat...

Very well, then. Endgame. And I have been preparing my pieces for them. All my pieces for them. Hierophant Malafar will not win this bet, and they will serve me in death as they should have served me in life.

Luthien sighed and let the image fade. He didn't need to watch them any longer. Any fool could see what was coming: a reckoning. He just needed to make certain that he was on the right side of it. And with so many friendly faces to do his bidding, he could.

Dark Army: Hoist On His Own Petard

Kas Luthien paced back and forth across the chamber, occasionally glancing at the darkwater pool. It still showed the library, empty. The would-be king and the traitors were gone again. They were obviously still in the tower somehow, and every minute that passed brought all of them closer to the restoration of Fanaxia and the resurrection of his mistress Vecna. 

Still, they kept doing things that they shouldn't have been able to do. Watching the morgs paralyze the little gnome and the Dwint'lithar girl had been deeply satisfying, but then that brat who called himself Ruin had ripped the morgs off them and tossed the undead right off the tower. The heretic priest had taken a few blows, but he'd also been fighting with a flame blade that somehow worked despite the suppression of their magics. Their sorceress was all but useless now, but still she could somehow fire off magic missiles... and the half-dragon had cut the Angel of Decay apart. 

None of that should have been possible. 

He still didn't know how they managed to disappear. Whatever they were doing, they were obviously using the opportunity to rest and heal -- though again, how that was possible he couldn't imagine. They should have been dead three times over already. 

Almonda was right, he decided. He had his magics; they didn't. He should go down there and kill them himself. He turned and strode for the door, placed his hand upon the handle, and yanked it open. 

A fly buzzed past his ear. 

He stopped in the doorway. Slowly he turned and looked back at the darkwater pool... and at the twin piles of platinum beside it. 

He couldn't. If he went down there and ended this himself, he would be cheating on the bet he'd made with Malafar. It was one thing to lose a bet with the Hierophant; it was quite another to try to cheat him. No, he was trapped in his artificial maze just as much as his intended victims were. Which was, no doubt, exactly what the Hierophant Malafar had intended. 

"You fucking bastard," he rasped. He had to wait for their arrival now, relying on the measures he'd already put in place. Relying on Almonda, very likely. He felt a sting with the realization. Malafar couldn't help but win, at this point. If their enemies died, then the Order of Secrets came out ahead and the Hierophant could point out that he had blessed Luthien's endeavor. If they somehow survived the maze and slew Luthien, then there was one less rival for their Mistress' attention. And if Luthien went downstairs, even to assist Almonda and her forces, he would be violating the bet and giving Malafar an excuse to be rid of him. 

Standing in the open doorway, Luthien called for food and drink and then went to settle himself beside the darkwater pool again. None of that mattered, he told himself. This would work. 

It had to.

Dark Army: Luthien Thwarted

“WHERE’D THEY GO!?!?”

“Luthien,” Almonda said, “slow down, what are you talking about?”

“They were there in the pool, looking at the dead body of that bitch’s brother, but now they’re gone. They’re nowhere!”

“What do you mean, Luthien? They can’t be nowhere. They’re still in the tower. And you assured me they had no magic!”

“I don’t know, I was watching all of them. That damned wanna-be king got pummeled by our golem into a pathetic puddle and I was sure they were done for, but somehow the bitch Dwint’lithar slew the thing. Somehow her magic dagger is still working. Then they opened my present, and next thing I know, they’re gone!” Luthien was frantic, casting every divination spell he knew into the obsidian pool.

Almonda gave him a hard stare, “What… present, Luthien?”

“I… the bitch’s brother, Behemoth gave him to me. It’s just a husk, they can’t bring him back or anything…”

“Gods, Luthien,” Almonda shook her head, “I knew you were a sick fuck, but…”

“Look, these bastards have been thwarting my plans for years, they deserve everything that comes to them!”

“So you decided to taunt them with the girl’s dead brother? Quit being an idiot, Luthien, and just end them. You have magic, and they don’t. Be a man, go down there, and fucking END THEM!”

“I can’t,” Luthien squealed, “they’re gone! I don’t know where they are! Oh shit, oh shit, we’re screwed! Game over, man! Game over!”

“Luthien!” Almonda exerted a force of will through the link in the magical, obsidian pool, “Get yourself together. They still don’t have magic. Wherever they are, they’re weak. Get your forces together, and be ready. When they face us, they will fall. Have faith in our dark mistress.”

“Okay, okay…” Luthien nodded his head, “Yes, okay. Get it together… They can’t teleport, so they still have to go through the library… the Angel of Decay will end them. No way they make it to your floor, and if they do…”

“I’ll be ready,” Almonda finished definitively.

“Right,” Luthien replied, with more conviction than he felt. She faded away in the pool, presumably to make her own preparations. Kas Luthien tried his best to remain calm but he just couldn’t contain it. He screamed and smashed the pile of platinum pieces, scattering them all over the room. A few flies buzzed out of the disturbed pile of coins.

“Fuck you, Malafar! You hear me!? Fuck you!”

The flies faded from view, as flies are wont to do. He had no idea where they were, or what they saw…

Dark Army: An Exchange At The Top Of The Ghost Tower

The feathered beast rolled to the floor with an anticlimactic thump, its large, black, bird eyes clouding over as it stared up lifelessly. From underneath, Martini Dwint’lithar stumbled to her feet. She looked around frantically for another foe, and finding none, closed her eyes and swallowed. With both hands, she grabbed the broken talon of a harpy and wrenched it out of her mid-section with a scream that was as much rage as it was pain. A ripple passed over her image.

“Oh-oh-oh, this is even better than I hoped,” Luthien practically giggled, “And I’m already up one platinum!”

Grinning ear to ear, he reached toward Malafar’s stack, but a buzzing filled his ears. Flies swarmed around his arm, forming a ribbon of living creatures that extended back to the outstretched hand of Hierophant Malafar.

“He is not dead yet,” the Hieophant intoned in a low, powerful voice.

Kas Luthien’s brow furrowed in anger, “He will be soon! They left him behind like the dragon, and they press on with ever diminishing numbers. Look for yourself, they’re practically crawling through this floor!”

In the dark obsidian bowl, the snake priest was indeed, very nearly crawling. If one just attuned to the dark waters, one could hear as well as see. There was a background of constant, pitched screaming by a teenage girl, while the others debated their next steps.

“I must declare,” Marshall huffed, leaning heavily on his scythe, “I am not used to all this walking!”

“Me neither,” the gnome added, “my bunions are aching and I’m missing the Andy Griffin play!”

The half-dragon entered the frame, wiping blood from his rusty falchion, “Come, we haven’t much time. Take solace, friends, the end of our journey is nigh.” He did his best to set an example of confidence as he strode onward, but his injuries were obvious: He carried his sword in one hand as the other arm hung uselessly at his side, drenched in blood, and he limped from a serious wound in his thigh.

“Nevertheless,” Malafar’s voice echoed through the chamber, “dying and dead are not the same thing, and this is not the first time you’ve confused the two.”

Kas Luthien glared hatefully at Malafar, “They were well and truly dead, how would I know they would come back!?”

Malafar sniffed, “I must attend our mistress and her manifestation. I leave you to your playthings.” He dematerialized into a swarm of flies that swarmed in a vortex and then was gone.

Luthien felt like he should be angry, but he wasn’t. The erstwhile heroes were struggling, and he wasn’t even sure they’d make it to the end of this floor. That, at least, was a shame – he’d left them quite a present. Still… he waved his hand over the pool and the halfling appeared.

“Almonda,” Luthien greeted her.

“Kas Luthien,” Almonda replied. She could be seen with her retinue of bodyguards.

“Our plan is going well. Lady Vecna has snuffed out any magic – or magic beings – in this tower that are not instruments aligned to her purpose.”

“That is good, Luthien. Why are you calling me?”

“If they should make it –“

“How far have they made it?” Kasadya Almonda asked urgently.

“They haven’t left the third floor,” Luthien replied, “but just in case –“

“Don’t worry,” Almonda replied, “I stand ready to pounce the moment they arrive.”

“Good,” Luthien said, “that’s very good. At this rate, they will either die on this floor or somewhere in the library, eaten by our minions. But it never hurts to be thorough. I just hope that you serve me better than you did Duke Lamont.”

Almonda narrowed her eyes, “Lamont dug his own grave, and you don’t own me, you bastard. We both sit on Malafar’s council.”

“Yes,” Luthien replied, “but some of us sit a little taller than the others.”

Almonda rolled her eyes, “You really are a piece of shit, you know that Luthien?”

“No, my dear, you will be the one knowing: You failed your master and now you don’t have a powerful duchy to rule. What do you do? You come crawling back to the order, where I have been dutifully and successfully serving. Do not mistake yourself for anything but my lapdog now.”

“What is it you want?”

“Kill them!”

“If they make it this far,” Almonda said, “I will end them with puissant magic and hordes of guards. They will receive no quarter, but know this, you rat bastard: I don’t do it for you, or even for our dark mistress. I do it for my much-maligned former employer, Duke Lamont.”

The pool turned to solid darkness and then back to an image of Martini on her knees, a spring steel tool in each hand as she worked on the lock to the next room. Next to her, Marshall leaned against the wall, his face white and legs trembling, and Geddy seemed to be asleep on a nearby couch. Tavros Fontaine, to his credit, was doing his best to stand proudly but had clearly lost substantial amounts of blood.

“That’s right my pretty little rats,” Luthien cackled maniacally to himself, “that’s right. Through the maze with you!”

Dark Army: Luthien and Malafar, Part One

"You risk too much," said the Hierophant Malafar, regarding the darkwater pool and the images that formed therein. "You should have destroyed them the moment they were weakened."

Kaz Luthien smiled as one of the girallons slammed a fist into the Dwint’lithar girl. "After all they have done and learned? After they took the wheels off our plans again and again? After they made us look the fool, time upon time?"

"Perhaps they made you look the fool," Malafar said. In the pool, the heretic priest swung his scythe and felled one of the four-armed apes. "Do not become a fool in truth."

Luthien shook his head angrily. "I have not and will not," he said. "They are trapped in my game, now. They follow my path. I will not give them a valiant death. They will press forward because they have no choice, facing only servitors, until they are worn down to nothing. They will fall in ignominy and despair, knowing that they have failed even to truly threaten us." In the pool, more girallons were gathering.

"They are still dangerous, even without their magics." The pool showed Martini shoving her dagger into a girallon's eye, and riding its body down as it fell. "They are resourceful."

"I have taken their dragon and their magics," Luthien said quietly, still watching the battle through the darkwater pool. It was a simple enchanted pool, three feet across and shaped from unbroken obsidian, but the waters that filled it had been brought from the darkest depths and never exposed to sunlight. "I have closed off their path. They will--" He watched as his prey threw open a door and swarmed over a pair of Thoughts of Vecna and their two bodyguards. He swallowed. "They will fall before they reach this floor. And if they do arrive, any of them, they will have earned the death I give them... and everything that comes after."

"You weaken our forces needlessly," observed the Hierophant. "Judge carefully the price of victory on your terms."

 Luthien scowled, still watching the pool. "In two days our mistress will reunite the sundered realm and return to Midgard to claim it for her own. What matter a few servitors in the face of such power?"

The Hierophant Malafar considered for a long moment, then reached into his purse and drew out seven platinum coins. He rolled them in his hand, then stacked them beside the pool, halfway between himself and Kaz Luthien. "A wager, then. A coin for each one that falls. And a coin from you for each that doesn't."

Luthien swallowed, then reached into his own purse. To be challenged by the Hierophant himself, and now... there were more than coins at stake here. Still, he would not back down. He would see this finished. He found the seven coins he needed, and placed his stack opposite the Hierophant's. "I accept," he said, and turned his attention back to the pool.

ACA Enrollment Reminder

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Note to the Hero from a Villain's Minion

Hey there. Look, yeah, I know you were right there when the boss handed me your baby and told me to take care of her. But you've just killed the boss, his crazy-ass martial artist sister, both lieutenants, and forty-seven of my co-workers. And that was just while you were rescuing your wife. I'm not even counting the two hundred and sixty-three enforcers that you killed, maimed, or jailed in the process of taking down our regional operation.

So, with all that in mind, I think I'm just going to hand you back the baby and back away slowly. Ready? Here you go. Baby. And this is me, backing away slowly. You guys just, um, get reacquainted, and I'll be somewhere waaaaay over here, checking the classifieds by the light of this burning warehouse and pretending that I never even met any of these guys. Yeah, just a stray passer-by, that's me. Happy to help with the baby.

You just do your thing, and I'll sneak away and do my thing, and... oh, one last thing. Could you do me a huge favor, and never mention this part to anyone? Ever? I'm probably going to have to change my name anyway, but that'd be a big help.

Who's Your Villain Parent?

Right, so: I have now finished watching Descendants for the second time with my children. It's a Disney TV movie, basically featuring the children of some of the greatest Disney villains being sent to high school over in the good kingdoms of Disney princes and princesses. The five main characters are Mal (daughter of Maleficent, from Sleeping Beauty), Ben (son of Belle and the Beast, from Beauty and the Beast), Evie (daughter of the Evil Queen from Snow White), Jay (son of Jafar, from Aladdin), and Carlos (son of Cruella De Vil, from 101 Dalmations). The basic theme of the movie revolves around choosing your own path in life, because of and in spite of your parentage; the central plot revolves around Mal's mission to obtain the Fairy Godmother's wand so that she can free the villains from their imprisonment, and the growing romance between Mal and Ben -- but there are plenty of side-plots and the other characters all get their chances to show off. It's one of those things that could be horrible and schlocky, and in the event turns out to be amazingly well done instead.

So this got us to wondering who our own villain parents would be. It probably wasn't fair to ask the boys, since their only model for parents at this point are, well, us... but we had fun talking it over anyway.

Which leads me to ask all of you, my bright and creative readers: who would your Disney Villain parents be? And, as a result, what sort of powers or specialties would you have? And would you turn out good? Or maybe your parents were good -- in that case, who were they? And would you turn out evil? Or maybe just... evilish? (The movie is remarkably, and pleasantly, ambiguous about that. Just to pick one example, the son of Cinderella and Prince Charming is, well, not actually a very good guy.) So go with it: if you were making characters for a world like this, who would you be? What would your story arc look like? And where would you end up?

You can watch the preview below the cut:

Traumatizing Children With Literature

This article was reproduced from a stolen copy of the Secret Liberal Instruction Book For Teachers. Don't bother asking your teachers or other educational professionals about it. In order to become teachers, they swear dark and pagan oaths - oaths which require them to follow the directives contained in The Book and forbid them to reveal The Book's existence. Just read, and understand. Perhaps, if you are still in the early stages of your school career, you can use this information to protect yourself.

Chapter 7: Breaking Their Wills
William Tecumseh Sherman famously observed that war is hell, and while most students' experience of school will never rise to the level of full-on armed conflict, you (as an educator) can still expose them to a choice slice of purgatory during their time in your care.

For the most part, this is too easy to merit much discussion of methodology. Physical Education, Art, and Music all offer clear and obvious opportunities to shatter students' fragile egos, using brutal criticism, unearned praise, or both. Topics such as Algebra are so intrinsically torturous that little or no extra effort will be required on the teacher's part. And the Sciences, of course, are where we tear down students' faith in Almighty God in order to keep them vulnerable to our Evil Secular Humanist instructions.

There is, however, one area in which the best methods for following the directives of the Secret Liberal Cabal are neither obvious nor easy: English classes. Spelling tests and grammar are enough to make anyone a little crazy, but most students slog through them despite. Sentence diagrams work better, but they still don't inflict the sort of massive psychological trauma that brought you into teaching in the first place. Fortunately, English teachers have a secret weapon: literature.

To get the full effect, you'll need to use books that seem wholesome and uplifting, but cruelly break their readers' impressionable little hearts. You'll also want to arrange for a strategic escalation, to ensure that your reading choices continue to traumatize your students throughout their time in school. Too little, and they won't require therapy; too much, and they'll become too desensitized to be affected by future readings. Current studies suggest the following titles as an optimum progression:

Step One (4th or 5th grade): Where The Red Fern Grows (Wilson Rawls). Lead your students through the exciting story of Billy Coleman and his two coon-hunting dogs, then watch their heads implode when they reach the tragic ending. Guaranteed to scar their psyches until at least middle school.

Step Two (6th - 8th grade): Bridge To Terabithia (Katherine Patterson). Introduce students to Jess Aarons and Leslie Burke. Encourage young readers to really feel for these two, as their friendship grows and they invent their own magical kingdom in the woods beyond the creek. Revel in the heartbroken anguish of your students when Leslie dies in a horrible random accident. Should keep students in mourning for at least six months.

Step Three (9th or 10th grade): A Separate Peace (John Knowles). Introduce your students to another unlikely friendship, between the misfit Gene and the charismatic Phineas. As with the previous book recommendations, you can savor your students shock as a tragic accident disrupts the friendship... but this time, the initial tragedy doesn't mark the end of the book! After Phineas falls out of the tree, you can watch your students wade through Gene's angst-filled conflict between sympathy and schadenfreude, until the Second Tragic Moment when Phineas kicks the bucket. And then, while your students are still shell-shocked, the book delivers the final blow: the revelation that Gene himself was responsible for Phineas' accident. If that doesn't leave your entire class grieving, moping, and feeling vaguely guilty, then nothing will.

With any luck, this will keep them broken and biddable until they graduate.

Important Note: While we encourage you to explore other heart-rending works of literature and even substitute them for the titles given above, we must caution you to avoid Lord of the Flies (William Golding) at all costs. Not only does this book frequently fail to adequately traumatize students, there have been several unfortunate cases where it appears to have given them ideas. Atlas Shrugged (Ayn Rand) should also be avoided, and for similar reasons; the results are generally less violent, but they are no less disruptive to efforts to cultivate a cowed and submissive classroom. And if we don't keep our classrooms submissive, how will we control our workers?

Notes from the Mad Science Lab: Spider-Mammoth

I note with interest that a group of Japanese researchers are trying to move in on my territory. They believe they can resurrect the wooly mammoth within the next five years. No doubt they think they're clever.

Well, I'll show them. Resurrecting extinct species is a good trick, but why stop there? In five years, I can not only bring back the wooly mammoth, I can make it better. And then I will show them what a real Mad Scientist can do - I will send my wooly spider-mammoths to their lab!

And to think... there are children in school today who think that science is boring. If only they understood the allure of forbidden knowledge, the pleasure of challenges overcome, and the raw, visceral satisfaction of irrefutably demonstrating to your rivals that they were wrong, and you were right all along!

THIS! IS! SCIENCE!
Muwahahahaha!

To Do List

Taken from the desk in the Mad Science Lab:

To Do:
1. Organize the workroom.
2. Get groceries.
3. Feed pets & clean their cages.
4. Update Netflix queue.
5. Release mutagenic retrovirus into the city's water supply.
6. Make dinner for family.

So there you go: a small window onto the everyday domestic life of your local researcher. And you called him mad...

...And a bottle of rum!

The ship pressed through the cold northern waters, driven by a powerful tailwind. Though the icy bite of the wind had driven most of the men below, the Captain was glad: if this kept up, they would make port half a week ahead of schedule. So long as the sails hold, he reminded himself, and looked up at the rigging.

Captain William MacDonald hadn't meant to sail so far north, but shortly after leaving Jamaica they'd stumbled into the path of Calico Jack. The pirate was persistent, and chased them up the coast for the better part of a week before MacDonald had managed to lose him.

He glanced again at the rigging, and for a moment he saw something else, hanging in the sky beyond it. The wind whipped spray into his eyes, and he blinked. Then he turned scanning the skies, squinting against the wind and the cold.

It was off to the starboard now, and no mistaking it: a tiny ship, the size of one of his own ship's lifeboats, and it flew. It cut through the frozen air just above the waves, pulled by creatures the likes of which Bill MacDonald had never seen. A chill went through him, colder than the winter wind. He looked for the flag, saw it mounted on a small pole at the front of the ship: a jolly roger, its skull-and-crossbones picked out in red.

The stories of Christopher the Red were true, then. Captain MacDonald could scarcely credit such madness, but already he was calling for his men. They came forth from belowdecks, scurrying to arm themselves and get the cannon into place.

It was already too late. The pirate had circled again, and his men sleeted the deck with arrows. Crouched low beside the wheel, the Captain saw that the stories were true on that account, too: Christopher the Red was full-grown man, but his crew was tiny, barely half his size.

Nobody knew where he had found them, or how. There were stories of an ancient map, discovered by a shipwrecked sailor; of the pirate who had taken the map and followed it to an ancient temple; of the powerful artifacts and servants he had found there. Now he preyed on the merchant fleets, striking and vanishing like a devilish ghost. No ship was designed to fend off an attack from above, and Christopher the Red took full advantage of the fact. His craft was too small, too fast, too maneuverable. He could take it in any direction, while the sailing ships were at the mercy of the winds. A lucky shot might end his reaving, but nothing else would do it.

"Run up the white flag!" called Captain MacDonald, yelling to be heard over the wind. "Have the men get to the boats! We'll stand off, and let them take what they will."

This, too, was part of the stories. Ships that surrendered willing, whose men withdrew and waited, were left afloat. On ships that fought, all hands were slain and the vessel was torched.

"Sir?" asked the Mate, looking at his Captain.

"We carry bullion," said MacDonald. "How much can they take, in that little ship of theirs? How much weight before they cannot fly?"

It was done as he ordered: the sails were furled, and the surviving men went into the boats. Alone on the deck, Captain MacDonald raised the white flag himself. Christopher the Red must have seen what was happening, for he took his ship out and up, making a wide circle around the floundering merchantman. He circled closer as the boats spread out, and finally brought his flying vessel down onto the deck.

Captain MacDonald did not waste the chance to see the legend in person. It was all of a piece with the stories: the great, fat man dressed in red velvet, his belt and boots of heavy black leather; the little men spreading out behind him, some standing guard while others made a line for the hold; the strange beasts that pulled the flying ship, the beasts that now pawed impatiently at the deck, eager to be off once more. The ship looked little like any boat that Captain MacDonald knew, but then it never touched the water. A pair of silver runners along the bottom gave it a way to sit on land.

Christopher the Red moved towards Captain MacDonald without the slightest hesitation. His expression, if he had one, was hidden behind a thick, white beard. "I know what you must do," he said evenly.

Captain MacDonald yanked the pistol from his belt, but the pirate was faster. The impact of his ball skewed MacDonald's aim, and his own shot buried itself in the wood of the mast. MacDonald sank to his knees, and one of the little men took the pistol from his hand. He'd had no choice; he could not willingly surrender his ship. With luck, though, he had managed to spare his men.

The little men were moving quickly, or perhaps it only seemed that way. They raced from the hold to the flying ship and back, carrying the heavy gold bricks as if they weighed nothing. There was something on the back of the ship, a sack of some sort, that never seemed to grow full no matter how much they dropped inside. They were taking the entire cargo. Captain MacDonald's career would be ruined, but he doubted he would survive to see that.

And indeed, Christopher the Red was approaching him with cutlass drawn. The blow smashed into his shoulder, and he fell to his side on the deck as the pirate wrenched his blade free. Darkness was closing in around the edges of his vision, but he could hear - distantly, and growing ever more distant - the pirate laugh: "Ho ho ho!" he called to the little men who served him. "And a bottle of rum!"

* * *

The sleigh circled once as Christopher the Red looked down on his latest conquest. The boats were moving back in, the crew returning to the ship.

"What now?" asked the Elf at his side. "Another Merchantman?"

"No." For a moment, melancholy touched the pirate's expression. "I've had enough of piracy... and we've treasure enough to last us centuries. We'll find some place where nobody can reach us, and settle down there."

"But what will we do?" asked the Elf.

Christopher the Red shrugged, and patted his massive belly. "When I was young, I dreamed of owning a toy shop. I can certainly afford to build one now. Who knows? Maybe I'll atone for some of the wrongs I've done by bringing toys to children who don't have any. It would be easy enough. Our friends can take us anywhere."

The Elf fell silent. If his master was sincere, he would be relieved. There was no escaping his bondage, but a life of making toys for children would be far better than this. In time, he and his brothers might even come to enjoy it.

A Harvest Of Force

Master Ellud Sor paused as he stepped from the clothier. The streets of Coruscant swirled with movement, but that was not why he hesitated. The streets were always busy here, to a greater or lesser degree. Such things were to be expected on a world covered entirely in towering cities, and over the years he had grown used to it.

No, he paused because the street had suddenly seemed darker as he crossed the threshold. It was as if some great shadow had passed overhead, but of all the people here, only he seemed to notice. A stirring in the Force. He knew it, and despite his years of experience, his strength in the Force, and his skills with the lightsaber, he feared what it might portend.

So he waited, until a Bothan begged pardon to squeeze past him through the doorway. No further premonitions came to him, and nothing seemed out of place. He stepped out into the crowd. His transport was not far, held in a garage bay two buildings down. Once he was in the air, anyone pursuing him would have to reveal their presence - or lose track of him entirely. He could be back at the Jedi Temple in a matter of minutes.

He moved through the crowd, his pace dignified, alert but calm in the way of a Jedi. He trusted in the Force to guide his way.

The garage bay was a massive open space, with one whole wall open to the air in order to offer access for even the largest transports. The passages that opened onto the street were smaller, different sizes and shapes accommodating the wide variety of races that mingled here. As the political center of the Republic, Coruscant was metropolitan as nowhere else in the Galaxy was. He passed through a doorway that suited his proportions, and continued down the short hall to the bay.

It was only as Master Ellud stepped into the bay that he became aware of the danger. He rolled to his right, and the bright length of a lightsaber passed above him. His own saber came into his hand as he regained his feet, and he turned in time to intercept a thrust that would have speared through his eye. He started to push forward, and the enemy dropped his hilt, raising his blade and bringing them into a bind.

Master Ellud regarded the assassin across their locked blades. He did not recognize the race: humanoid, with silver-blue skin and green eyes. His opponent was hairless and sleek, and the fingers that held the lightsaber were webbed. His clothing was a black second skin, crossed with belt and bandolier.

"You're the one who's been hunting Jedi," Ellud said calmly.

The strange gray figure nodded, and the narrow mouth pursed - an expression that could mean anything.

Ellud felt certain that it conveyed amusement.

"You've made a mistake," he said, and shoved back with all of his strength. It was not the strength of his arms that hurled his opponent back, but rather a powerful movement of the Force. Halfway across the garage bay, the Sith Lord - for what else could this be? - arrested his movement and settled gently to the floor.

Ellud Sor was not impressed. Any Jedi should be able to do the same. "Today you cross blades with a master," he called. "What name shall I give the rest of the council when I tell them of your fall?"

His enemy exhaled a soft, hissing laugh. "No mistake," it said, in a gentle, breathy voice. "Hunting you. Take your strength."

The Sith Lord launched himself forward with the barest movement of his feet, and Ellud lifted his blade to guard. He stepped aside and cut, but the Sith Lord matched his movement and their blades clashed and slid away. It was only then that Ellud became aware of the second lightsaber, propelled through the air just behind the Sith. It flared to life as if of its own accord, and the extending blade buried itself in the Jedi Master's chest.

The Sith Lord stepped in as Ellud staggered back, pushing the Jedi's lightsaber away with the saber in his right hand and placing his left hand on the hilt of the second lightsaber. For a moment their eyes met, and then the Sith Lord spoke: "Darth Noctus will have your midichlorians."

Master Ellud Sor's eyes widened as understanding dawned in his mind. The Council knew that Jedi were dying, but they did not know how or why. They felt the deaths within the Force, but found no remains of those slain. If this Sith Lord were somehow harvesting their midichlorians for his own use... I must escape. I must warn them.

Then Darth Noctus wrenched his second saber free, cutting up through the Jedi Master's shoulder. Master Ellud fell back, and his lightsaber spun from his hand. Darkness was closing in around the edges of his vision, but he could see his enemy's blades deactivate. A moment later the Sith was holding Ellud's own light saber, and then hanging it on his belt with the others.

He reached out with the Force, trying to send a warning, but all he could shape was a wordless cry for help. The Sith Lord was speaking into some sort of communicator, and now a pair of droids floated over. Their arms extended to lift his damaged body.

"Take him to the extractor," said Darth Noctus, in his soft, breathy voice. The droids floated away, and Darth Noctus followed them to his waiting ship. By the time the Jedi arrived, he would be far away... and the machines in his ship would have rendered the Jedi Master's body down, extracted his midichlorians, and injected them into Darth Noctus' bloodstream. Already he had become stronger than his Master, but he was not yet ready to challenge the Sith. Let the Jedi fall first, and then he would feast on his own. Before long there would be neither Jedi nor Sith. There would only be Noctus.