To The Citadel and Back (Part 3) (Closed)

[LordLeopold]

((Foreword: In the previous quest in this story arc, I referred to the Baron of Radasanth as "Marion" due to an error on my part in researching Letho's excellent profile of Corone. I have continued to use this name for the sake of continuity, but I will adhere to other established names to the best of my ability in this thread.

Additionally, I feel that to follow the story it may be helpful to either read or at least skim the other two parts of To The Citadel and Back, which can be found here and here.))

As dawn passed into morning, the orchards of the Niema valley slowly came to life. Sunlight made the leaves glow soft and green against the bright blue sky. A light breeze rippled across them, bouncing hard, unripe pears against each other and knocking a few small jays into the air. They joined swooping wrens and cardinals, twittering to each other about the rapidly approaching autumn. Below the low canopy of the bent, gnarled fruit trees, planted in slightly crooked rows, crumbling stone walls barely higher than a man's waist demarcated the centuries-old boundaries of the valley farms. Another gust of wind rolled down from the peaks of the saw-toothed mountains on the horizon, bucking down gentle slopes and dales before reaching the broad, quiet river, kicking up tiny waves on its surface, catching the sun like a cracked mirror. In a long, narrow boat, a wrinkled crook of a man leaned against a pole, pushing the early morning's catch upstream through the shallows.

Following alongside the river, cutting through the dusty trees, the ancient South Road baked in the rising sun. Brown earth showed between the infrequent shattered paving stones like old scabs. A worn stele, leaning toward the eroding riverbank, marked seventeen miles from the capital. But for the muted birdsong in the air and the rustle of leaves, all was quiet. That was what made the stomp of a dozen horses' hooves all the more deafening to Baron Marion of Radasanthia as he bounced painfully on the back of a straining horse, pounding up the South Road, Radasanth long disappeared behind him. His hefty bulk was bound up in a purple and black robe, smeared with dirt and sweat. His face, paunchy and speckled with graying whiskers, was as sweaty as his dapple horse's neck. Green-coated City Guardsmen surrounded him on all sides, leaning down over their horses' manes, gritting their teeth, eyes locked ahead. Fear kept their heads from turning back, despite what they all knew followed close behind. As they tore past the mile marker to their right, one guard yelled forward from the back: "We're nearly to the guard station at Ladio's Bridge! The stables should hide us!" One guard huffed wordlessly in response, but the other men's mouths stayed pressed tightly closed.

It was incredible to think back over the past two days. Closing his eyes, trusting his horse to follow the road and his protectors, he played the scene again in his head. Hundreds of guardsmen, clinging to siege towers and creeping under tarps, closing around the mountainous Citadel. The first flames jumping through the air to the crenulated walls, the first explosions, the first screams, the first deaths. Men running to his side, dragging him from the battle, orders yelled and never heard, a soul-haunting song on the air, filling his chest and head. A rush through the city streets, watching frightened faces in windows and doorways flash past, splashing through mud and ducking through a hidden gateway in the city walls. His horse throwing a shoe and the mad scramble to find another one. Watching from afar as foreign armies rushed into Radasanth. Into his city. Seeing those horrible creatures in the sky. Imaging the monks finding Stevens, thinking of what horrible fate they would now consign to him. Was the old man dead? Would it matter?

A lurch around a bend and a sudden stop jolted the baron's eyes awake. The road had wound around the base of a hill, their path to this point now hidden behind a veritable wall of earth and trees. His guardsmen frowned around him, their eyes on the sky, as nervous as the pawing horses under them. Making a sharp curve, the river was spread out on three sides, a spit of land jutting out into the brown water. Launched from its tip was a graceful arch of white marble, flanked by two pockmarked stone torsos of what must have once been impressive statues of guardian gods. The road lead straight to the bridge, as it had for hundreds of years; wagon wheel ruts had been dug almost as deeply into it as the dirt road itself. Normally, a log would have been laid across the road at chest-level, supported by two posts, only to be removed by a toll-taker. This was the last outpost of the Barony of Radasanth, the only sign of government until almost the heart of Concordia. Marion had installed the border guard, and despite the circumstances managed to smile as he looked at the almost palatial way station beside the toll point, stables and barracks shining in the sunlight, resin still leaking from its logs.

But the log lay on the ground, splintered in half. Grimacing at it, Marion turned once again to the station. He hadn't noticed the black tar painted across the door of the stables, a painful disfigurement on the whitewash. The writing was scribbled and dripping, but could still be read - "Man over magic, might over Light."

"What the..." a guardsman muttered at the cryptic graffiti, momentarily abandoning his search of the sky. "What happened here?" Already nervous, the men drew closer together, glancing from their baron to the sky to the stable doors, their horses snorting and whinnying softly. Marion wished he could find words to comfort his subjects, but he found nothing in his throat except garbled mutterings. His horse pranced sideways, shaking its head, and he felt himself swaying dangerously, his size nearly tipping the horse over, his corpulent frame shaking with fear and exhaustion.

"M'lord, m'lord!" a voice cried out from the stables, where a grimy hand and face were now peeking out from between the two swinging doors. Marion turned his wobbling horse, his men pulling ever closer to him, and managed to wave at the figure. "Hurry my lord, the bandits may be back soon!" Marion shook his head slowly, pushing back a growing feeling that whatever control he could possibly exert over this situation was quickly slipping away. A sense of foreboding was filling him that seemed to lift him from the surroundings, turning the scene into a strange painting that was being pulled out of his sight into the shadows. He opened his mouth to call back to the man.

But instead of hearing his own wavering voice, the baron's ears were filled with a horrible trumpet blast, an apocalyptic roar that threw the entire world into a tailspin. Guards and horses screamed in confusion, arms flying, faces contorted, horses' legs kicking. Men were thrown to the ground, their steeds galloping in confused zig-zags toward the orchards. His own horse stomped backward, yelping almost like a dog. The smell of burning and a volcanic gust of air buffeted his body, nearly tearing the cape from his shoulders. A shadow fell across the men as a huge set of leathery wings, flapping against the hair with the booming of a cannon blast, consumed the sky above them. Flashing teeth and talons slashed down from the sky, the air filling with the odor of ash. A man screamed like a woman, and Marion found himself bouncing on the road, his elbow clacking against a paving stone, his horse rolling over his legs and scrambling away in fright. The ground shuddered as four trunks of legs slammed down, the crunch of dirt mingling in the air with the tearing of flesh and the splatter of blood.

Just as quickly as the nightmare had begun, it was over. Another bone-quaking roar, and the dragon lifted into the air, spraying fire from its venomous maw in a sort of victory cry. Crimson-tinged dirt caked its hooked claws and black hide. The beast rose a dozen feet in the air with every flap of its wings, each the size of a house's roof, its whip-like tail snapping back and forth. The rider perched on its back twitched the long reins strapped to his hands as his mount left the small massacre behind. Closing its thick legs under its body, the creature banked in the air, slowly circling around the crest of the bridge, the station's beams rattling underneath. As it rose higher in the air, shrinking into a vulture-sized smear on the winds blowing toward Radasanth, Marion rolled onto his stomach, feeling the bruises across his thighs already filling with warm blood.

It was now all quiet along the South Road in Radasanthia.

[EarlStevens]

Our man sits quietly, feeling the shock of snapping his jaws together behind closed lips. His teeth clack in his skull. Although it is a warm and bright morning outside - he has caught glimpses of flitting birds and a bright blue sky through the narrow windows of the Citadel - in this room it is cold, dark and cramped. Torches hiss on the walls, casting the masonry and woodwork in a gloomy orange light. The vaulted ceiling disappears somewhere above, hidden in shadow. There are no windows cut into the walls, and the only doors close so seamlessly with the stone around them that the room gives one the unnerving feeling of gestating in a rock womb. No noise echoes in from the outside world, although our man already knows that the hallways of the Citadel are mostly empty. After days of almost inhuman crowding and bustle, the cathedral has regurgitated all the monks, soldiers and drifters that had congregated within it. Its only habitants are monks, aged almost to infirmity, who are slowly sweeping up the detritus of the previous night's battle, restoring normality after an incredibly abnormal evening.

Our hero is slouching in a high-backed wooden chair, almost a throne, his arms crossed across his chest, staring at an insect's bore in the surface of the table before him. A few feet behind, swaying between two torches that seem to be sputtering far more feebly than the rest in the room, is his manservant. The ivory-masked fiend, eyes empty and mouth continually smiling, seems to be intent upon the back of its master's head, peering through the wood of the chair, ignoring the mumbled sounds filling the chamber. Our adventurer and part-time warrior is dressed in a black wool three-piece, a little frayed at the edges and singed at the seams, his dusty fedora atop his head, his unpolished cane resting across his knees. He sighs without realizing it, and begins cracking his knuckles. Something is being said around him, but he is by no means interested. Tired and confused from the previous night, he barely finds enough energy to keep his head up. This conference is an ordeal that he would prefer to nap through.

The night before, the city which surrounded the Citadel had risen up against it, its municipal gendarmes attacking it with siege and magical war. But the Citadel had held, and its ally army outside the city walls had rushed in, displacing its government and taking tenuous control of the city. And during the whole ordeal, the man who is our hero's body double had disappeared, which would have been nothing more than a strange twist in the story of our man being stranded in a strange magical land if the doppelganger hadn't also been the titular leader of the army which now controlled the city. And as a result, gambling on the possibility that only very few people knew that there are now two Leopold Stevenses running around, these monks were forcing him to pose as their Generalissimo, another Leopold Stevens from an entirely different world than our hero.

Sitting to one side of him is Sir Anthony Stevens, Viscount Darby. His hair is mussed, a smudge covers half his right cheek, and he is wearing some sort of brown uniform that pulls tightly at his chest and barely covers his wrists. Every once and a while he absent-mindedly scratches at his neck, where the coarse fiber rubs against his skin. He's frowning heavily, not that our man notices, and has begun to drum his fingers on the table as loudly as possible. Arrayed around the other tall chairs at the table is a strange and motley crew. Directly across from our man, elbows on the table, steepling his fingers and adopting an air of grandfatherly concern, is High Priest Peter O'Mally, his head just a bit balder than yesterday, the lines on his face just a bit deeper. Draped in white and green robes, sparkling with inlay and clean as a cat's whiskers, he is nodding slowly, like a man listening to a speech but thinking to himself.

To his right is a shorter, swarthier man with a heavy black moustache and quick green eyes. He is in a grey uniform like the one the viscount is wearing, but his is well-fitting, worn somewhat ragged from the rigors of battle but with the hint of fold lines running down his jacket's arms. An ornate metal helmet, punctuated by a single metal spike at the top, garnished with several painted feathers on the side, is balanced on the table beside him. He glances at our man every few seconds, emboldened by his affect of depression but still goaded by suspicion from staring. At O'Mally's other side is a narrow-faced, tanned bearded man, covered in a loose white garment, the top of chain mail visible at his collarbone between outer wrap and brown underclothes. His face is a mask of calm, but his fierce eyes betray an inner fire. Splayed out to either side is a collection of six men, some garbed as noblemen, others as soldiers, officers of the various factions of the Entente. One of their number, a small man with a red face in the riding clothes of a duke, is standing and speaking in a lilting Scottish accent. Although he hears the words, our man doesn't listen to their meaning.

"... and with the Corone Assembly in Concordia, we have taken possession of the Assembly Palace in their absence, contingent on their return. The chains have been raised in the river and all the gates to the Inner City are now under guard. With the Ai'Bron and the City Guard's help, we have secured most of the city, except for the Corone Armed Forces barracks, which remains under their guard. The Battle of Radasanth has been a success." One of the soldiers begins clapping, but no one joined him and after a few moments he stops, his face turning pink. O'Mally nods thoughtfully and lowered his hands.

"And the bandits?" he asks, almost wearily. "They haven't left the orchards yet?" The officer shakes his head.

"This Joel McMarmont and his League of Mankind are probably just tall tales thought up by traveling troublemakers," he replied. "A few smears of tar do not banditry make." O'Mally smiled without humor.

"I appreciate your lyrical assurances," he says, "But I'd rather be careful than regretful. If there is anyone in the orchard lands who wishes us ill, we have to assume they'll follow us here." A few men around the table nod, and one mutters a curse involving the Forgotten Ones, which elicits more nods. The red haired officer gives his own forces smile and sits down. An uneasy silence descends on the room for a few moments, as the only sound that can be heard is the drumming of Darby's fingers. Someone clears their throat, and O'Mally sucks in a breath, nodding with finality.

"I suppose..." he begins, but Darby abruptly stops his drumming and cuts him off.

"Refugees?" he says, turning it into a question. He gets nothing but blank stares in response. Looking from man to man, his face contorts. "Refugees!" he repeats, exasperated. "Bloody hell, don't you have those here?" Our man looks up from the table and slowly turns to Darby. Something in the emotion of his words has awakened our hero's interest, although only marginally. Emboldened by the attention, however melancholy, Darby continues. "The people leaving the city! A monk told me that dozens of families have been throwing whatever they can carry on their backs and are taking off. Shouldn't some sort of allocation..."

"That's not a problem. Who told you that was a problem?" The short swarthy fellow beside O'Mally interjects in a crisp German elide. "Who is this monk? He must be confused. There are no 'refugees,' as you say, Friend Prince-Viscount. There is no problem. The people of the city are happy to have security again." Darby, his mouth opened in shock, stared back at him, raising a finger in protest. The officer shakes his head. "No problems. Our men are thinking of throwing a parade."

"I did hear something about looting," our man mutters, almost under his breath. The whole room almost jumps in surprise at this, and the mustachioed soldier is now surprised, only responding with a cocked eyebrow.

"Hm?" O'Mally says, like a teacher coaxing a small child on the first day of class. "What was that?" Our man straightens, mutters "Oh hangment" to himself, clears his throat, and repeats:

"Er, looting. A monk mentioned it as Darby and I came here," In fact, what had happened was that two monks had been muttering to each other in the hallway, and had been so frightened at the sight of our hero's manservant that they had leapt sideways into two other monks carrying a table. Our hero had watched as Anthony Stevens and his hanger-on Silas Witherspoon grudgingly reached down to help them up. The two monks had been so excited, however, that they hadn't stopped chattering the entire time, and our man had picked up quite a sensational story on the events of the morning. "He, ah, said something about the Bazaar." The short soldier, now recovered, snorts.

"Who are all these monks? How do they hear all these things? I listen to facts. I can name the people who tell me about them. I can point to them. Where is this monk? The situation is fine. Battles are messy. War is confusing. Maybe your monk misunderstood something he saw. Maybe he was tired."

"Maybe he was right," the white-garbed bearded man on O'Mally's other side ripostes laconicly. A chorus of subdued gasps and mutters fills the air as the soldier turns to him. The white-garbed man adopts a bemused expression and meets his gaze.

"Amusing," the soldier snaps. "Amusing, Friend High Chief. If you do not trust my men to provide intelligence, find this so-called monk and ask him to do it for you. If you do not trust me to run this city, you can do it. Then you can explain to the Nar'oth why 'a monk' is more important than Ozternbergians to you desert people when he returns." Although the white-clad chief's face does not change, his eyes darken considerably. He does not respond, but nevertheless O'Mally intercedes.

"Now, now," he says, placing a hand on both men's shoulders. Both turn back to the center of the table, each exuding distaste. O'Mally nods and folds his hands in front of him again. "I'll remind you, Superior Officer Immelmann, that none of us run this city. Her people run it, and after the trial this afternoon we'll leave it to them. Assuming Generalissimo Leopold agrees?" he says, almost nonchalantly. Our man, who has been drifting back into his own misty dream world, suddenly feels three sets of eyes glance, for infinitesimal moments, in his direction. Each seems to want him to cry something different - agree heartily, cry out against this masquerade, chuckle in disdain - but he is far too tired and disgusted to do any of these.

"Oh, yes," he says, waving his hand. "Entirely." Nodding, O'Mally stands, and the council of war quickly stands and files out. The German soldier pauses as he makes for the door that has suddenly swung out from the wall, probing our man with skeptical eyes before turning on his heel, helmet under an arm, and marching out. In seemingly the blink of an eye, the room is empty except for O'Mally, Darby and our man, seated silently around the worn round table. The viscount crosses his arms tightly and stares at O'Mally until the last hollow sounds of footsteps fade outside. Clenching his teeth, he hisses words through them.

"You don't know where the devil Leopold is, and you're not doing one damned thing to find him," he forces out, and O'Mally's face wrinkles in an uncommon grimace. Reaching up to his face with his hands, he sits back down, holding his temples with his fingertips.

"It's not so easy," he breathes out, and Anthony coughs in disgust.

"Telling those men, bastards though they are, that Leo's been kidnapped is probably the best way of finding him again! God only knows what's happened to him out there, if he's even..." the words catch in the viscount's throat, and he reaches to his neck, pounding the table in front of him with his other fist. The thud seems to shake the room, and both men sit, chewing their tongues, while our man, his interest gradually growing in this new line of conversation, looks from one to the other. Imagining the fate of this other Leopold, out in the city somewhere as he is, makes our hero's mouth run dry and his stomach clench up. He remembers the feeling of having a man with his face standing before him, and a burst of panic runs through him, his heart suddenly racing. The horror is still fresh to him, and the confusion of the vision of his uncle that seeing the other Leopold had brought on only frightens him more.

And yet he also feels a strange camaraderie with his double: Lost in a strange place, with no one to comfort you, exhausted, perhaps brushing against death's cloak. There had been a battle last night, and if this other Leopold had been in it, too, that gave him some odd comfort. Perhaps the other man felt the same.

"Leopold is a symbol," O'Mally was replying, his voice finally reaching him. "He has always been a way of keeping the Entente together. He stands for something greater than us, he keeps our petty..."

"He's just a man," Anthony spits back, both hands now clenched into white fists on the table's edge. "He's just a regular, jolly good old man, and he can bleed and die just like anyone else." O'Mally sighs, shaking his head.

"I don't think he ever understood what I'm telling you, either. It's a pity that the truly great live their lives with only the vaguest humble notion of their own meaning." Anthony stares forward, his eyes blank. A minute of silence stands between them before he speaks again.

"You're talking about someone I don't know. I'm his brother, for goodness's sake. Leopold is a nice man but he's not a great one. You've created such a myth about him for this Entente of yours that you don't even know where it ends and the man begins. Leopold is a man! He is an average fellow who is right now in the middle of something he doesn't know one damn thing about. He is up to his neck in rising shit out there and you're pretending that he's sitting in this room with us so you don't have to explain something uncomfortable. Leo needs our help!"

"He won't get it if tell the rest of the Entente what has happened!" O'Mally fairly yells. "Don't you see? We've lost our Pontiff. I've lost our Pontiff. This city has lost its leaders, and our officers are at each other like children. We're all confused here, Anthony. We don't know what we've walked into and there is nobody telling us where to step next. Someone needs to look like they can grope through the dark to the other side, and if Leopold's gone then nobody will believe anyone can. I hope Leopold is safe, believe me, I have been on my knees when other people - when you! - were asleep, begging Ai'Bron to keep him alive. I know he's out there and he's more scared than anyone in this city right now, but nobody can know that. We are going to find him, alright? We are going to find him and no one will ask questions about it until we are out in the clear. We are going to be okay. But we have to wait, we have to keep this man," he points to our hero, who feels himself blanching, "right where he is. Do you understand me Anthony?"

The viscount just stares grimly ahead, and jerks to his feet. He storms out the nearest door, a wet line down his cheek sparkling in the torch light. O'Mally, who has found himself standing, shudders deeply, clutching his arms around himself, and whisks out another door.

Our man sits, the echoes of the yells still in his ears, soaking in what has just happened. He starts cracking his knuckles again.

[LordLeopold]

Leopold Stevens squinted into the swiftly rising sun, following the flight of what looked like a vulture. He was sure, though, that it was something else; something far larger, and perhaps more sinister. He remembered what a cloud of dragons moving across the sky to battle looked like. Thinking back to it, he felt his stomach flop. The wooden bench he was seated on jumped as the cart hit a bump in the road, and the duke winced as his aching joints crunched together. Sitting in the rumbling wooden contraption, pulled by a white-haired nag, the streets of Radasanth moving past at a trot, was not the most comfortable position he could imagine. Across from him, sulking angrily, lips pulled tight, was the colonel of the Radasanth City Guard. With graying sideburns and a lightly creased, but steel-hard face and flaming eyes, his waning physical strength was obviously more than matched by his personality. Yesterday, he had arrested Stevens on charges of treason. Now, Stevens was bringing him to trial for war crimes in an attack on the Citadel. Shaking his head at the irony, the duke tried to forget what had happened in between. Briefly, the image of a baked skull, burnt skin pulled tight over shining teeth in the grimace of death, flashes through his mind, and he closes his eyes, face falling. Shoulders hunching, he sighs deeply. And it's my army that did that...

The buildings around the cart were growing in size, pulling back from the dirt road, small gardens and courtyards opening up at the curb. Mud and brick was giving way to stone and, increasingly, marble and metal. Where earlier, donkeys and mules had been standing in front of open doorways, packs and furniture tossed on their backs as families prepared to leave the city, the street here was empty. As the homes grew, they began to look more and more like small fortresses. Although smoke rose from their chimneys, boards or planks were drawn across the windows, and no figures looked out from within to take in the morning air. The cart passed through a silent crossroad, and it jolted, creaking and popping, as the wheels bounced up and onto cobblestones. The babbling of the wheels on the road made Stevens raise his head and open his eyes once again. He clucked to himself as he looked around the neighborhood. "Now this is familiar..." he muttered.

The road had widened and split in two, a median of saplings and shrubs sprouting up between the paving. Buildings no longer lined the street. Instead, twelve-foot walls, some topped with angry spikes, rose on either side. Closed gates infrequently broke the monotony of stone and plaster. Stevens thought he saw a man point a crossbow down at them from atop one of the walls, but the figure quickly ducked away, silently leaving only a feel of distrust and unease on the duke's skin. Beyond the walls, the tips of stunted spires and plain domes peeked out, giving only the faintest hint of the compounds that filled this quarter of the city.

"The grotesquery of wealth," the colonel said, and Stevens turned to face him. The officer was scrunching up his mouth oddly like an unhappy child, unconsciously picking at the rope around his wrists with his index finger. "Every merchant's a king in his palace." Stevens matched his unpleasant face with a grimace of his own. He had been rich, in England. It seemed a very long time ago, but he could remember the estates and manors. Being in this part of the city again had even made him feel a pang of nostalgia.

"The poor houses stay open thanks to some of them," Stevens responded, spreading his hands a trifle too ostentatiously. The colonel looked at his spread arms and looked no less pleased.

"A man feels guilty because of the size of his house. It doesn't make him a saint." Although he sensed he was being baited, Stevens still opened his mouth to respond. However, he snapped it shut and rose unsteadily to his feet as something beyond the colonel caught his eye.

"Good mercy..." he muttered, and the colonel turned, muttering something far harsher. Walking on the other side of the median, surveying the street around them, were two city guardsmen and a monk. The guards kept their hands on their swords, while the monk seemed to be spending as much time looking at his companions as the buildings around him. Upon seeing Stevens teetering on the cart, the monk raised his arm and cheered, yelling something indistinct but obviously heart-felt. The guards looked far less excited, but leaned together, whispering, as they saw the colonel turned halfway around in the cart. Stevens smiled and waved back to the monk, sitting down, but guilt snapped through him. That monk had probably been on the ramparts of the Citadel last night. How many of his friends had died alongside him? How many lives had he snuffed out? How many of those deaths were Stevens's fault? He sighed again, feeling something cold and sad trying to leave his body along with his breath. Trying to distract himself, he focused in on the next thought in his mind: Why those city guardsmen were with that monk. They had been enemies not twelve hours before, and now they were strolling through the streets together?

"So it is a coup," the colonel snarled, and Stevens looked up at him again, seeing anger spreading from the man's eyes across his face. "The monks have taken control of the City Guards and the City. And they have the temerity to go on patrol, as if they're meant to run the place. Turning Radasanth into their own chapel of war..." he lowered his diatribe to an incomprehensible mutter about priestly plots and ancient promises. Stevens leaned back on the uncomfortable side of the cart, considering the matter. He was still lost in thoughts that didn't seem to be going anywhere as the driver brought the wagon to a stop, tut-tuting the horse gently.

"'Ere we are," the man said, pushing his shapeless cap back from his brow, turning to face the duke. "Surprised you thought'a this place. Ain't been people living 'ere for years." Stevens shook his head, dispelling his web of confusing thoughts, and managed something of a smile. He stood to get out of the cart, stepping over the fuming colonel's feet, and made a small jump from the back. His ankles seared with the shock as he hit the cobblestones, but he walked uncomplainingly around the cart, looking up at the paunchy driver, his face covered in splotches and bristles.

"In a way that makes it all the better," the duke replied, resting his hand on the man's boot toe in a somewhat reassuring gesture. "Do wait for me." The driver nodded, although he hesitated before doing so.

"Careful you watch over yer shoulder," he coughed, "Lord Nazroth was an alchemist. He filled the walls wit' poisons and whatnot." Stevens couldn't help but smile.

"Tall tales. I've heard quite a few about Nazroth, myself. I was here the night he disappeared, you know,” the driver's watery eyes widened, but Stevens stepped away, turning towards the gate. "Wait up for me, old boy." he repeated, his voice bouncing back off the cracking walls. He walked the few yards to the gate, jumping over a spot in the road where the cobblestones had been smashed and water had collected. That evening was slowly returning to him, now, as he reached the foot of the two massive wooden doors. The wood was coated in lichens and slime, but was still obviously too solid to give way to a firm push. Metal had been bolted to the door in ornate swirls and bars that were now rusted, pulling away from the veneer. Stevens dug behind a flourish with his fingernails and yanked the two-foot sliver of metal off the door entirely, letting it drop to the street with a clatter. Suddenly feeling impish, the duke rapped on the door with his knuckles, as if the sound, like acorns bouncing across a table, would draw a doorman out. Smiling, this time genuinely, the duke stepped back, looking up at the top of the doors and the fringe of spikes above them.

Much to his surprise - and slight consternation - he heard a shuffling in the courtyard, the sound of feet dragging through leaves. Taking another step back, Stevens looked back at the driver, whose face was now contorted in almost child-like horror. As he turned back to face the door, the duke found that one of the doors was grinding open on its rusty hinges, a band of sky and the courtyard beyond appearing in between the huge wooden panels. Although Stevens could feel a tense horror rising through him, tingling from his feet up through to shock like static electricity in his fingers, he couldn't help himself from stepping forward. He was drawn towards the opening door and whatever figure stood behind it. There was an unexpected excitement in the fear, some thrill in the unknown that chased away the gnawing beast of guilt in his heart. It was something like seeing the other Leopold Stevens in the Citadel, something that both repelled and attracted him. He felt he would have smiled as he pushed his way through the gap, if his face hadn't been a gray mask of dread.

[EarlStevens]

Superior Officer Max Immelmann stomps toward the main entrance hall of the Citadel, slamming his helmet on top of his head, and mutters something angrily to himself. He emerges from the shadowed corridor into the airy hall. Although the entrance doors are thrown wide open, the meagre light shining through the door and windows gives only a twilight's worth of glow. Darkness fills the recesses of the chamber. The few soldiers and monks hurrying across the wide floor are no more than wraiths, barely perceived. Some of them are carrying long, narrow pews, realigning them between the noble columns at either wall. The imposing stone and statuary reminds him of the sanctums of Ozternberg fortress, and for a moment he thinks back to his homeland, his imagination filling in the gaps that four years of absence have slowly burned into his memory. By now his son is probably learning to read. His humor turning blacker, he skirts the base of the melted statue of Ai'Bron and steps briskly down from the front dias to the floor, his jackboots clunking on the stone.

"Friend Superior Officer," a fellow with a weasel’s face in a gray uniform, with many fewer badges and medals sewn to his front, strides up to Immelmann, his fist over his heart in salute. Immelmann glances at the black armband bunched up at the man's armpit and frowns, but returns the salute. They sputter to each other in their native language, which would sound like nothing but coughs and hiccups to the few monks that might overhear them.

"Friend Watchman, reports from the field?" he replies, continuing his brisk pace, and the spy falls into pace beside him.

"Ja, a good many," he pushes a large sheaf of parchment into Immelmann's hands. It is too dark to read the bunched up writing on the page, and Immelmann sighs, folding it quickly and slipping it in his pocket, waiting for the summation. "Looting in the Bazaar has been limited by some of our men, but continues sporadically. Some citizens have been caught at checkpoints and the City Gates attempting to flee to the countryside. They've been turned back, but we cannot be sure how many have fled from the Outer City."

"It is not under control?" Immelmann frowns, tilting his head downward and looking at the spy from the corner of his eye as they approach the front doors. The junior officer shakes his head.

"It's too large, and too difficult to keep pace with events on the other side of the river," Immelmann exhales sharply. "The Entente forces, City Guard and monks have the Inner City well in hand. We can start moving outward by tomorrow." Immelmann opens his mouth and misses half a step, but checks himself, and they continue out the door into the weak sunshine, moving down the front steps and across the crunching gravel of the courtyard. He shrinks back slightly as they pass one of the arbarians, twenty-foot tall walking and talking trees. The creature's strange humming song, which moans in his ears like a dying man's last gasps, breaks his staidness, and he realizes that he and his spymaster are quickening their pace, almost running as they duck between the trees that have sprouted up around the Citadel. A monk had claimed they were massive bolts shot by the City Guard at the Citadel, which the arbarians had turned into sprouting trees by some musical magic. Immelmann was skeptical, but he swears he can almost hear the trees singing back to the arbarians.

As they break through the copse, the spymaster clears his throat and continues. "Yes, ah, and we've had little luck in finding the City Guardsmen who didn't surrender to the monks last night. I suspect they've either melted back into the civilian population or will soon give themselves up."

"Like the Neiholm Rebellion," Immelmann mutters, and the spy nods. They are marching across the courtyard to a makeshift corral, fashioned from planks of destroyed siege towers. Half a dozen nervous horses are snorting to each other in one corner of the enclosure, which is almost half a block long. At the other end, gnawing at what looks like half a goat, is a massive griffin, with glossy black feathers across its eagle's head and wings and a brass lion's body. Beside it, breathing rings of smoke through its mouth, is a brown-skinned dragon, covered with spikes and lumps down its back. Both have wings the size of carnival tents folded on either side of saddles, more like mounds of buckles and leather than a horse saddle, which clack and sway as the beasts readjust themselves. Each is three or four times as large as the biggest horse at the other end of the ring, but both wince and grovel at the yell of a keeper who stands at the edge of the ring, slicing open an apple and eating each sliver delicately. They approach the keeper, who nods to Immelmann and turns, yelling at the dragon, which rises from its haunches and trots over, causing the earth to shake and the horses to begin prancing nervously.

"As always," Immelmann says to the spymaster, "This briefing remains secret." The spymaster nods, but reluctantly.

"If I may speak freely, friend, I'm inclined to believe that this information is best dealt..."

"Now, now," Immelmann says, clapping him on the shoulder, nearly displacing an epaulette. "We're the military men, aren't we? They'll have their chance at the helm here. Only after us." Jumping up a series of boxes stacked at the side of the corral, Immelman leaps onto the flank of the dragon and scrambles up to the saddle. As he begins to latch belts around his thighs and snaps reins to clips on his gloves, he turns down to the spy and adds, as if now remembering: "Oh, and have you heard any rumors about Friend Generalissimo-King Leopold?" The spymaster blinks, surprised, but quickly regains his bearings.

"Ja, now that you mention it, odd things have been turning up," Immelmann cocks his head in interest. "The monks haven't stopped talking about how he was at the ramparts during the siege last night, but some of the City Guards have been muttering that he was arrested yesterday. Some of the soldiers are saying things about having seen him last night at the Armory, and I intercepted a report by courier that claims he should be on his way to the trial with a high-profile prisoner. The oddest stories are coming from some monks who are claiming that two Leopold Stevenses were seen a few nights ago in the Citadel, but I'm really not sure what to make of that." Immelmann twists down to tighten the last strap, holding him in a half-squat on the monstrous saddle, and feels the dragon straightening up under him, rising several feet in the air.

"Good, good," he calls down to the spy. "I'll ask that you keep that report. Give it to me with your final report at the end of the day. And Friend, remember: Leave the monks out of it." With that, the dragon leapt into the air, nearly knocking both men down with a harsh, hot wind.

********

Our man wanders into the Mess Hall, somewhere belowground in the Citadel, following the loudest sounds of voices echoing down the hallways. Hands in his pockets, sauntering slowly through the door, he looks something like a cross between a lonely man at a dance and a schoolmaster lazily surveying an empty classroom. The day before, an unusual mélange of soldiers, drifters and monks had filled the mess, but now it holds only a few bald men in loose robes, smiling to each other over steaming mugs. As our man walks into the room, they turn to him and begin cheering, raising their cups in the air in salute. One rushes up to him, embraces him, and shouts in his ear:

“The revolt is over! They caught the last of the rebels this morning in the Solarium!” Our man tilts his head, giving an awkward, somewhat confused grin, and pats the monk on the back a few times in staccato raps. The man releases him and runs back to his fellows, who start singing a boisterous song about beating badgers with “Slapping Sticks.” One of them forces a mug into our hero’s hands, and he looks down at it for a few seconds, still grinning awkwardly, and then takes a draught from it. His throat immediately burns with the taste of whiskey, but he swallows the gulp and raises his mug as the monks break into their refrain. He looks around for his manservant, but the ghoulish figure has once again disappeared, evaporating into the shadows. Sighing, our hero sits down, leaning his back against the edge of a thick table and taking other swig of the warm malt. Slowly, he begins to feel less lethargic, and feels the smile on his face become more genuine.

“Lord Leopold! Lord Leopold!” One of the monks, pimples still splattered across his forehead, crashes into the seat beside our hero, swaying slightly with drink. “You were totally… out there, you know, with that army?”

“The Entente!” one of the monks cries, and they all laugh. Our man smiles again, feeling his spirits rise with the laughter.

“Okay! Okay! The Entente! Okay,” the monk continues, snickering at himself. “How was that, were there any battles out there.”

“There weren’t any battles!” one of the monks cries. “Horace, come on!”

“No, no,” our man replies, waving his hand and putting down his mug. “It’s alright, we were a deuced army after all, eh boys?” Laughing, our man looks up at the doorway he has just come through. Standing there is Anthony Stevens, Silas at his elbow. Hands on his hips, Anthony shakes his head, scrunching up his mouth. Our man briefly meets his gaze, feeling the groping fingers of guilt and anger, but quickly looks away, back to the shining faces of the monks, who are now clustered around him, chattering about the man he is now pretending to be.

[LordLeopold]

Stevens steps through the door gingerly, and finds himself in an overgrown courtyard, its former elegance diminished but still dimly shining. The entrance to the abandoned mansion is set back from the gateway, at the far end of two wings that nearly meet the inside of the surrounding wall. Although paved, the ground has clearly become uneven in the years since the stone was laid down; the paving stones are cracked and tilted, some rising up until they seem to form misshapen steps leading to nowhere. Tall weeds and grass sprout from between the seams in the stone, some rising to shoulder-height. Shrubbery and small trees once grew in beds at the base of the mansion's walls, but they have either been choked by vines or have overgrown the beds, spreading out into the courtyard, smashing the paving further. The remains of a fountain are moldering near the doorway, tendrils of vine coating the stone. The mansion itself is stained from weather and time, black stripes running down the stone from the smashed gutters at the roof's edge. Windows are smashed in. A rat squeals at the sight of Stevens and ducks beneath the building. He can't help but mutter to himself, "Gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair."

As the door behind the duke groaned closed, he turned slowly to see what friend or foe had let him into this testament to evanescence. Pushing the wood closed, covered in a ratty, mouse-nibbled cloak, is a hunched over man, his face hidden by a heavy cowl. Muttering to himself, he pushes the door closed and slaps it with a horny old hand. Turning to Stevens, he raises his face, lowering the cowl wearily. His face his covered in dirt and soot, one eye wandering off, unfocused. As he opens his mouth to mumble to himself, his yellow and black teeth appear between cracked and bleeding lips. His nose has the crook of a boxer's, and what little hair he has is wispy and gray. Stevens feels the uncertain fear and loathing that the insane and homeless often arouse in the wealthy. Slowly reaching for his pockets, he realizes he is unarmed, and swallows. The hobbled man stamped forward, sniffing loudly, and spoke.

"Ah, professor, the captain has been waiting for you. Come, come," he waved one of his hooks of a hand and turned to race to the doorway, his bare feet making short little steps across the broken stone. Stevens watched the retreating figure, unsure of how to continue, running his tongue over his teeth in thought. It was immediately obvious that this squatter was afflicted with some crippling insanity. That could either make him entirely harmless or entirely deadly. Feeling that same horrific curiosity tugging him, Stevens nodded to himself, threw caution to the wind, and rushed after the man, treading carefully on the smashed courtyard.

As he drew closer to the door, Stevens found himself thinking back to the first - and last - time he had come here. It had been years ago. This entry promenade had been filled with well-dressed nobles and ladies, chatting fatuously, admiring each other's spouses. Although puzzled by the invitation when he had first received it in the inn room he used to rent, upon arriving at the party he had known immediately how to carry himself. Parties in his world had been much the same; at least some things were constant across England and Althanas. A few wide steps lead to the doorway, and Stevens caught up with his insane guide on the top one, nearly tripping on the slanted stone. Together they walked to the entrance, stepping daintily over the heavy wooden doors, which had both collapsed inward, lying flat across the marble floor. The interior of the mansion was no better. This reception hall, with a balcony ringing the roof, had once been decorated with numerous works of art, hanging tapestries and an impressive mosaic painted across the wide roof. An elegant stairway to the upper floors had stood opposite the entrance. Now the hall was largely empty. A few overturned plinths and a shattered vase were all that remained of the art. The balcony had collapsed along one wall, and the roof had cracked, water staining much of the mosaic a sickening black. In the middle of the hall the floor had been scalded black by cooking fires - probably those of this madman - and a pile of ashes and charred logs were still smoking in the middle of the scorch. Tatters of cloth and pieces of furniture lay haphazardly across the floor, and the first sprigs of weed were beginning to appear in the cracks between pieces of marble and granite in the floor. The staircase, although still standing, seemed to be sagging on one side, cracks appearing up and down the middle of the steps.

"The captain is busy now, you may wait here, professor," the madman sputtered, and limped to his pile of ash on the floor. As he prodded it with a still-green stick, Stevens let his feet carry him through the hall. He remembered meeting Findelfin the elf here, and smiled at the thought of the loquacious fellow. It had been their first proper adventure, fending off strange men in black suits and angry mansion guards. He remembered the blond-haired adventurer who was with Findelfin - where had that fellow gone, and why couldn't Stevens remember that unpronounceable name? - and the elderly librarian who had snuck with them into Lord Nazroth's library, uncovering evidence that the ignoble nobleman was an agent of Aesphestos and the Forgotten. Stevens shivered as he realized he was standing in the place where he had first come face-to-face with Aesphestos. Had it really been five years ago?

Immersing himself in his personal history here, Stevens felt a calm descending over him, a calm he hadn't felt in days. There was some sort of clue, he felt, in digging through his past, trying to divine how he had arrived at this point in his life. In a way, he guessed, this is where it had all begun: where the masked desert people called the kahh'jami had first appeared, bringing him into the Entente; where he had first become aware of the great evil threatening Althanas; where he had first had to truly face his own mortality alongside other men fighting for something good and pure. It gave him a shiver.

Looking around him, he focused in on a doorway only a few yards away. The thin door itself had come unhinged, and was wedged, barely standing, in the doorframe. Weak sunlight could be see through the cracks between the door and the molding. Stevens stepped toward it, pushing his cuffs back, ready to yank the rotting door from its frame. He heard the insane man howl behind him, but paid his jabbering little mind. "Professor, professor! The captain has forbidden it, those are his private quarters!" Stevens reached his fingers around either edge of the door, feeling his nails dig into the water-logged wood. His first yank nearly split the surprisingly firmly lodged door in half, but adjusting his grip further down the door, he gave another tug and ripped the door away. Trembling under the unexpected weight, he threw it to the side with a grunt. It hit the floor with a wet slap. Wiping off his sleeves and front, the duke stepped into the hallway.

He remembered stepping down this passage before, with Findelfin and company. The corridor was narrow, with slits for windows along the left side. Whatever glass had once been in them had shattered, and the breeze from outside swept in unhindered, giving some life to the deteriorating palace. The light that came in the hallway was meager, but enough to show a confusion of footsteps in the dirt that was layering the floor. Whatever that old nutter seems to think, someone's been in here, Stevens thought to himself, stepping down the hall. He couldn't help moving quietly, like a trespasser, despite the fact he was sure the place was abandoned. He tried the first door he came across, tugging the brass handle, but it was firmly stuck. Wheezing from the effort, the duke moved to the next, which was already ajar. Looking in, he gasped in terror as some bright figure jumped out from the dark toward him. Stepping back, he raised his arms.

Feeling no jolt, he looked through the crack in his sleeves and quickly lowered his arms, laughing nervously at himself. A foggy mirror was hanging on the far wall, a pane of bright reflection in the dark room, which on closer inspection seemed to be some sort of storage space. The mirror and a few boxes of candlesticks on exhausted shelves were all that was left in it, however, and Stevens moved on. He felt a sense of strong familiarity wash over him as he moved down to the next doorway, where two double doors stood, the floor beneath them polished smooth from where they had swung back and forth over the stone floor. The hodgepodge of feet in the grime seemed to be moving in and out of these doorways. Stevens stopped in front of the doors, smiling. Yes, this was the library where he and his fellows had first found books about the Forgotten Ones, where Findelfin had fought Nazroth to a stand-still, where the elf claimed a horrible dark sorcerer had appeared, tearing the very air to step out and chase Nazroth away. A thrill swept through him as he reached down to the doorknobs and threw both doors open dramatically.

The room was filled with the smell of must and decay. Surprisingly, hundreds of leather spines and rotting scrolls still lined the walls, and the only window in the room still held its glass. Furniture was overturned and sheets of parchment lay on the floor - some seemed to be stained black with blood - but generally the room had fared much better than the rest of the mansion. This, however, was not what attracted the duke's attention. Lying across the heavy table taking up the center of the room, splayed among torn books and rumbled maps, a lean, tan young man was on top of a pale, soft girl. As the doors moved open, both their heads turned to Stevens, and a shrill scream filled the air. The duke stumbled back, covering his eyes with his hand, and jumped aside, out of view of the doorway.

"Oh dear, terribly sorry, terribly sorry!" he cried, "I had no idea!" There was a scrambling in the library, the sound of bodies untangling and feet hitting the floor.

"It's okay, he's only a hobo," the man's voice could be heard around the corner. Stevens, his hand still over his eyes, frowned, and mouthed the word "Hobo?" But, uncovering his eyes and feeling his chin, looking down at the dirt, grime and even blood across his tattering clothes, he realized what a fright he must look. Although nuns of Ai'Bron had healed him earlier, taking away his tiredness and wounds, he knew how pale and baggy someone could look if they used a monk's healing in lieu of sleep, and he hadn't had a real night's sleep in nearly three days. Still, he couldn't keep his hand off his stubble, or his finger out of a hole in his sleeve.

After a minute, the young man stepped out from the library, adjusting his belt and the rapier hanging from it. With a narrow, muscular frame, his hair was jet black and his eyes were shifting and uncertain. His boots were soft leather, his clothes colored silk and frills. He was, it was clear to tell, a neighborhood boy: The son of one of the rich merchants of Radasanth. No more than twenty or twenty-one, he turned to look at the aging Stevens, his eyes resting on the holes and stains across his riding jacket. Sighing, he dug into his vest and pulled out a wide, thin gold coin and flipped it in Stevens's direction. The coin bounced off his chest and hit the ground, where it bounced with a tinkle.

"Stay out of here from now on, won't you?" The lad asked, and without waiting for an answer turned and strode to the end of the hall. Stepping up and grabbing both sides of one of the open windows, he heaved himself out. Squinting angrily at the coin on the floor, Stevens huffed and kicked it in his direction. It skidded and bounced down the hall ineffectively. Fuming, Stevens stepped back into the library's door. The delicate girl, balanced on the edge of the table, was slowly pulling her simple dress up around her shoulders, staring at a point in the floor. Her brown hair was unwashed, falling around her shoulders loosely. Even across the room, Stevens could see the black around her fingernails and on her palms. She bent down to buckle her plain shoes, and the blue bruises on her bare arms clashed strikingly with her milky skin. The duke cleared his throat and she turned her head, gasping, and leapt to her feet, backing along the side of the table, glancing around in vain or an open window or door.

"Oh, now, now, my dear," Stevens said, softly, taking a step back. "I only wanted to see if you were alright." The girl, her blue eyes sparking, looked back at him silently for a few seconds before bursting into tears.

[EarlStevens]

Our man steps out from the mess hall, the sound of laughter following him out the door. A big smile is plastered across his face, and he can't help but puzzle at why he felt so depressed earlier. The monks had been so cheerful, so willing with a joke and a clap on the back. Their heady brews hadn't hurt, either. Although he walks through a corridor of shadow and murk, it seemed that the hall just ahead and behind is lighted with a cheery glow. Our hero, when he was in the mess hall with those monks, was no longer the adventurer we have come to know and love. He took on the skin of Lord Leopold Stevens, and the monks had shown him something that he hadn't felt for the months he had spent trapped in one of their cells: Genuine love. Nothing of his man has changed. He is still the same collection of fears and hopes, memories and dreams, loves and hates. He has no new name, no new face. All that is strange now is the person others think they see in his clothes, another man entirely. Although our hero is himself, he is also the ultimate imposter, and that lie has lifted his spirits.

His feet move of their own accord, his mind too preoccupied with this new elation to guide them. They expertly move him through this Citadel that he barely knows, traipsing up and down stairs, tapping through antechambers and through doorways. Without realizing it, he emerges into the entrance hall of the Citadel. He isn't sure how long it has been since the sun has risen, but it seems barely brighter than dawn on the other side of the main doorways. Trees are growing on the outside. He thinks he can hear a birdsong. Whistling back at it, he moves to the pedestal of the melted statue and sits down, twirling his cane lightly with one hand.

He doesn't notice Silas Witherspoon sit down beside him, or Icarus and Petunia alighting on his other side. After a moment or two, however, he feels silent eyes staring into him, and turns to his left, where the hawk-sized dragon and the chicken are staring up at him. He smiles. "Why hello, old chaps," he says. Neither seems impressed. Petunia the chicken, especially, fixes him with an accusatory glare, clucking angrily to herself. Icarus, his wings folded at his sides, is making some stuttering sound in his throat, and only looks skeptical. Our posturing hero can't help but keep smiling, however. Hours before, he would have only seen blank eyes looking back into his own. Now there is personality there, a flickering life that he senses the other Leopold must share with them. Perhaps they are his daemon.

"Indeed, a hectic morning," Silas says at his other elbow, and our man turns back to him. "I do not profess to know the intricacies and finer points of the art and science of wars, but this one seems quite the complicated venture." Our man doesn't feel any irritation at the bloviations of this con-man, but rather pats him on the shoulder.

"We're in the same boat, then, Silas old man," he says. The two sit in commiserating silence, mutually overwhelmed. The hall is slowly filling with rows of pews, candelabras sprouting up among them as a team of monks moves the furniture into place. Their former use as barricades is obvious from the errant crossbow bolt sticking from a pew's leg or seat. Thoughts of the previous night's battle, the bangs and whimpers, swim in our man's head as he sees monks yanking the bolts out and playfully tossing them at each other. Rather than feeling them drag him down, however, they buoy him up. He imagines what a heroic figure Lord Leopold Stevens must strike during these battles, waving his men forward and crying out the orders of the day. His voice, his mouth, pushing men forward in spite of their baser nature.

"Where do you think Lord Leopold is?" Silas asked, his usual effervescent language sliced down to the marrow. A sort of fear can be heard on his words, giving them a furtive sound, like a man hiding his lesser emotions from his wife. Our man replies with another pat.

"There, there, old chum," he says, "We'll take this matter in hand. I've no doubt it'll all be sorted out." The magnanimous words of the monks' hero. Silas smiles. It's a cold smile, one our man isn't sure Witherspoon usually wears, but it seems to speak of some grim determination. Self-satisfied, our man turns back to the entranceway. Anthony Stevens is standing before him, his too-small uniform now exchanged for the flowing robes of one of the desert people. Apparently his new boots allowed him a stealthy approach. He walks forward, his foot-falls silent, frowning at Silas, who quickly stands up, putting a few more inches of distance between himself and our man.

"I see you've got new clothes," our man says, a half-smile on his face. Anthony plucks at the sand-colored cloth, strapped on with hidden clasps and string, and frowns more deeply.

"Wog clothes. Wouldn't wear them if I hadn't ruined my suit last night," he responds. "Still pretending to be my brother?" Our man stands up with a huff, the chicken and dragon at his side flapping clumsily to Anthony's feet. They turn and array against him, and he now faces three pairs of flashing eyes. A bit cowed, our man clears his throat.

"I say," he begins, "Perhaps a hero, a symbol, is what these people need. All else has fled them, and..." Our man stops as Anthony raises his hand to his face, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his brow. He sighs deeply. Gritting his teeth and pausing to begin again, our man stops as he sees something stirring in the shadows beside the doorway, far back over Anthony's shoulder. It shifts and takes form, a tall pillar of shadow topped by a white mask moving forward out of the darkness. His manservant has returned. Our man feels a pang of shock and fear, and words escape him.

"Why do you people keep insisting," Anthony begins, his voice strained with frustration, "On believing Leo is some sort of god? You, especially, who don't even know him." The manservant draws closer, a swelling guilt heralding its approach. "I can understand if you're having some sort of identity crisis. God knows we all are after finding out there are two of you, but I can't even imagine what both of you are going through. But despite what charade O'Mally and you are pulling, you aren't him!" Our man takes a step back, his euphoria slipping away as an army of darker feelings charge through him. His manservant is sliding up the inner aisle of the pews, monks leaping out of its path, clutching their hems fearfully. His mouth takes on a sharp slant. The refuge he has built for himself out of another man's soul is crumbling around him.

"Well, darling viscount," he snaps, "I shan't steal your brother away from you. It would sap your righteous indignation." The manservant glides around Anthony, and before he can respond the younger Stevens jumps as a chill envelops him. The ghoulish figure moves to our man's side, and a sickening chill descends over him. Anthony and Silas both slide backward a few steps, eyeing the ghastly creature. Inside our man feels a cancerous horror growing: A horror at the death rattle of the monk on the icy lake yesterday morning, a horror at the man's brains, spilled across the Citadel last night, a horror at how he had let himself be swallowed up by his doppelganger's persona. He doesn't have the energy to fight this wretchedness, and lets it eat through his body. He is returning to himself; yet he longs to escape again.

"Ah," O'Mally's voice rings through the entranceway, and they all turn to see him striding forward in full regalia at the head of a column of marching monks and soldiers. As he approaches, the priest lets his eyes slide quickly over Anthony, fixing on Silas and our man. "I trust you are ready for the trial."

[LordLeopold]

"Are you alright?" Stevens asked, stepping forward hesitantly. The girl, her face cast downward, nodded. She was clutching her arms around herself fiercely, against some cold wind that only she could feel. "Er... there, there," Stevens muttered, reaching out to pat her on the shoulder. His fingertips brushed her bare skin and she leapt back, her mouth open in a silent shriek, scrambling along the edge of the table, her dress catching on splinters. The duke drew back, himself, face flushing. Oh mercy, he thought to himself, crossing his arms and awkwardly looking about the room, as if the ceiling and silent books could give him guidance. He glanced at the tabletop, saw a smear of blood, and groaned, his heart aching. Looking again at the girl, who was now rubbing her reddening eyes with the back of her hands, he was caught in a surge of pity so strong he felt he could no longer stay silent.

"Ah, cold?" He managed to force out, and silently cursed how idiotic he sounded. She stayed silent, but moved her chin just enough to nod. Somewhat heartened, Stevens slowly rubbed his hands together. "I think the, ah, gentleman who stays here now may have a fire going in the main hall. Why don't..." he reached out again, but quickly pulled his hand back, his conscience snarling at him. He gestured toward the door, but the girl was already lost to him, venturing into some dark dream world. Stevens clasped his hands, befuddled, his eyes darting around once again. Looking down at his dirtied cuffs, an idea struck him, and he shrugged off his coat, revealing a tweed jacket, brown cravat and cotton shirt beneath. It was too hot for it, anyway. He leaned forward, careful not to touch her delicate shoulders, and draped the heavy cloth over her. She started, abruptly brought back to reality, but didn't leap back as violently. She looked over the dirty coat now covering her; though she didn't smile, something about her demeanor softened. She looked Stevens in the eye, almost befuddled, and he blushed again. "Come, come," he gestured toward the door. "This place is far too musty."

They walked into the main hall, Stevens a few steps ahead of the girl, both hesitantly picking their path toward the center of the room. As they approached the addled squatter, he looked both up and down, snapping his stick against the side of his leg like a field marshal. "Ah, the duchess has returned after so many years with the admiral. The war must finally be over. Oh happy day." he said, without any emotion. "I bet she's stolen my silverware," he continued, just as loudly, but adopted a conspiratorial face, as if his inner thoughts were spilling right from his brain to his mouth without him realizing it. "Her fingers were always a bit sticky, picky, ficky." The girl seemed on the verge of horror at this beastly fellow, and Stevens looked from one to the other, distressed. He quickly struck upon a solution, however.

"I say, old crumb," he directed to the vagabond. "Could you perhaps call on the captain's aide-de-camp, I believe he's preparing a text for me." The hobo snapped to attention.

"My honor, sir!" he said, and hobbled off, limping heavily. Stevens smiled to the girl, who seemed much relieved. Looking around him for something that might serve as a seat, the duke found a chair missing its legs, tipped over on its back. Picking it up, he placed it on its base before the girl, gesturing for her to take a seat. As she lowered herself carefully onto the threadbare cushion, the duke perched upon an overturned pedestal that was lying beside the ash pile like a log beside a campfire. He was immediately uncomfortable, his back and tailbone aching, but smiled as warmly as possible. The girl's face remained blank, but at least she was looking at him now.

"Ah, not much of a fire after all, eh?" he said with a half-laugh in his voice, and she looked at the ashes sadly. He chuckled a few seconds more before finding it too lonely and stopping. "So, my dear, do you live nearby?" The girl doesn't reply, which Stevens takes as a cue to continue. "I haven't been in Radasanth in ages. I used to live in an inn near the Citadel. Maybe you've heard of it? The Old Boar." The girl didn't speak, but the duke sensed something of a sparkle in her eye, a sense of remembrance of better times. "Always a warm fire in the winter, a cool cup of malt in the summer. Splendid." Stevens felt himself caught up in memories: evenings in the common room, chatting with Devon over half a turkey; a visit from Peter O'Mally every once and a while; morning calls from Bazaar distributors (had it really been so long since he had worked there?); tall tales with travelers from Concordia and Gisela. Two years in an army camp made you forget how warm and open a sturdy place to call home could be. Home - the word drew him back, not only to the inn, but to manors and chateaux, to running back to Blenheim Palace in the pouring rain, Anthony too small to keep up, Katrina bunching up her skirts as she pulled ahead.

"Should we try to find your family?" he asked, and regretted it in a second as the girl raised a hand to her face, covering her mouth. "Oh, ah... my brother's name is Anthony!" he said, trying desperately to find another topic. "He's out there somewhere, probably worried sick about me. I'm the one whose family we should be trying to find, ha ha!" she seemed no more satisfied now, and Stevens grasped out, his voice warbling. "I haven't even told you my name! Goodness, you know Anthony's but not even mine. Leopold Stevens." The girl smiled, and Stevens grinned back broadly, his teeth showing. "Duke of Marlborough," he continued, and although her smile shrank a bit, the name still brought her some small pleasure. Stevens tried to remember what other outrageous names he went by. "Marquess of Blandford. Oh, I'm a baron of Wormleighton. And a generalissimo!" The girl did laugh, shortly, holding her hand to her mouth, but Stevens knew this was worth peals. "And yours, dear lady?" he asked, holding out a hand and bowing his head in mock obsequiousness. She laughed again, putting her hand on his, her touch soft and cold.

"Marietta, m'lord," she said, quietly, and Stevens pulled his head up.

"Marietta! Call me Leopold," he shifted his hand, grabbing hers in a firm handshake. She jolted, surprised, but after a moment seemed amused. "Good show, good show." he said, and released her hand, leaning back. "Now, old girl, if you don't mind..." Stevens heard stumbling steps at the door and turned. Wavering in the doorway, clutching his side, blood coating his face, was the driver of the cart, his lips moving soundlessly. Stevens leapt to his feet. Marietta screamed. He rushed to the voluminous man, who was beginning to lower himself down on one knee. A gash split his scalp and forehead, and beneath the veneer of red his skin was deathly pale. Spit bubbled at his rubbery lips, and his eyes were slowly rolling in his head, light draining from them. He was pressing a hand over a bloody hole in his side. Stevens moaned, his hands already soaked with blood as he felt the man's neck for a pulse. Blood moved faintly between his fingers.

"Oh God," he said, helplessly, feeling the pulse fade away to nothing and the man's eyes roll back in his head. He had never seen a man die like this, so close to him, his breath still in the air. The air grew thick about him, as if filled with the driver's fleeing soul. It was chilling. Stevens wondered whether he would ever die like this, unexpectedly and among strangers. He hoped not. He remembered meeting the other Leopold Stevens in the Citadel, feeling the urge to stamp him out before the mirror image somehow erased him. If he had succeeded two nights ago, would that Leopold have died like this poor soul? Could he really do that to another person? He realized it didn't matter - he already had. The duke had brought this man here this morning, to the spot where he would die. Stevens murmured a quick prayer and tried to forget. Pressing the driver's eyes closed, he stood, looking out across the courtyard to the open gates. Where was the colonel?

"Oh, good, Peddler Sam has returned," the phlegmy voice of the squatter approached as the black robed man shuffled up to Stevens. "He's fallen down again - must be the vertigo. Up, up!" He reached down, snapping his fingers. Angrily, the duke slapped the man away. Even in his insanity, the vagabond suddenly realized that a life had just passed. He muttered something that might pass for a prayer and fell to his knees, pressing his hand against the grey, still-bleeding forehead. Stevens, still focused on the open gate, stepped outside. Hearing whimpering in the main hall, he turned to see Marietta, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Marietta!" he called, "Marietta, stay here. I'll be back straight away. I'll only be gone a moment." She didn't seem convinced, but nodded. "There's a good girl," Stevens said, and turned back, quickly skipping between the overturned pavings, kicking through weeds and jumping over puddles. He stopped before reaching the door, trying to see as best he could to either side, searching for signs of whoever had killed the driver. He heard and saw nothing except the cart, now empty. Again lamenting the lack of his sword cane, Stevens took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and stepped out onto the street.

No one was on the road in either direction that he could see. A light breeze swept down the boulevard, its quiet whistle an exclamation point to how alone he was, and how exposed. The cart was intact, and the colonel was nowhere to be seen. Nor was the old nag that had brought them here, its reins and yolk snapped. Walking around the cart, all Stevens could find was the colonel's bonds, slashed, lying on the street. Other than that, the stones were as smooth and clean as before. Holding the cut ropes in his hands, Stevens looked up and down the road, his face scrunched in thought. The road curved somewhat down the block, so that all he could see in one direction was an unbroken chain of mansion walls. Down the other way, the road turned into dirt and wove off into the city, the walls of Inner Radasanth rising above townhouses in the distance. He was uphill from the old district, where the nobility made their homes among ancient monuments, parks and palaces. The baron's mansion was barely visible down the slope - he thought he could see tufts of black smoke rising from its grounds. But no one within sight could offer him aid.

"The patrol," he said aloud to himself, and immediately trudged back in the direction the cart had come, walking awkwardly over the cobblestones, crossing the grassy median. His joints were aching again, and the spongy turf felt much better than the uneven stone. He muttered angrily to himself about the confounded road, but kept up his pace. Down the next block he could see a figure sprawled on the street, and hastened his pace. As he drew closer, he noticed a black slick surrounding the figure, and moved faster in panic. "Oh no, oh dear Lord," he breathed, breaking into a run.

Lying on the pavement, a sea of blood soaking the road all around it, was the body of the monk from the patrol he had seen earlier. Stevens tasted vomit in the back of his throat as he bent over the body, one boot planted in the darkening red. "Cliffton," he said, remembering the look of terror on his friend's face when he had found him dead. The same night he had faced down his double in the Citadel. So much death. The taste of vomit was stronger. He couldn't look down at the man's face, although it was serene and unknowing, without thinking of the cold gray of Cliffton's. Looking away, he stumbled backward, trying to make for Nazroth's mansion again. He had to get away from that terrible stench of blood and death. Looking down at the blood on his hands, he felt faint.

"Hey! Hey you!" A coarse voice roared, and Stevens looked up, lifting his crimson palms, his vision slightly blurry. But the voice wasn't hailing him. Half a block away, two men, short swords drawn, wearing the armor and cloaks of one of the merchant families in the district, were standing over a huddled man who was slowly picking his way across the street. He was caked in dirt, his cloak no better than a torn sack, obviously some wretch who had snuck beyond their master's walls for the night and had recently been discovered. Stevens cocked his head, and although his head felt like he was swimming in a whirlpool, he opened his mouth to speak. He snapped it shut, though, as one of the guards pulled back his foot and landed a heavy kick in the man's stomach. With a grunt, he curled up, and the other guard swung down with a mailed fist, striking him across the head with the handle of his sword. Stevens, horrified, took a step back. For a moment, the wretch and the monk's corpse took on the same form as the man rolled over, another boot hitting his ribcage. Both the bleeding body and the quaking victim repelled him, and he turned, running, his legs beyond his control, forcing him back to the mansion. As he ran, his horror and sadness was drained, replaced by the rush of pain and excitement that a fierce run creates in a tired man. And he was tired. Another two bodies before breakfast.

He rushed past the empty cart, not bothering to close the gate behind him. Tripping over the corner of a stone, he caught himself, scraping his hands and knees, but pushed to his feet and moved on. There was only one place to be safe, now. He felt vile thinking of it as a haven - how much blood had seeped into its foundations? - but there was no choice. He knew he had to return, and what he had to do there. The past two days had proved it. He jumped up the stairs two at a time, pushing past the grumbling, crazed vagabond and sidestepping the body on the stairs.

"Marietta," he said to the girl, who had stopped crying but was holding her hands to her mouth, and again had adopted a cold mien of shock. "We have to get out of here. Do you know the way to the Citadel?"

[LordLeopold]

Marion started awake, his face locked in a silent scream forced by a forgotten nightmare. He wasn’t sure where he was, and when he tried to sit up he found he couldn’t. He lay back down on his sore back as he slowly realized where he was. He was lying on cool, smooth stone, the paved floor of some kind of large barn. The air was cold and dry and smelled of fresh wood and sap. It was dark and quiet inside, although hushed voices could be heard outside. The room was huge, and it was hard to see its entirety from the floor, and the baron wasn’t sure whether he was alone. He tried to get up again, straining against something pressing against his leg. Reaching down with his puffy hands, he could feel splints wrapped around his thigh, which flared with pain as his fingers touched it.

“Baron,” he heard someone say, and footsteps shuffled close, a man dressed as one of his guards hurried from the shadows. The sallow guard bent down and unsuccessfully tried to heave the baron into a sitting position. Marion almost immediately became impatient, and pushed him away with an angry snort. As the guard fell to the ground, wincing, Marion shook his head exasperatedly and let it rest heavily on the floor. The voices outside continued in a muffled, periodic way, like nurses outside a hospital room.

Marion decided he must be in the barracks near the river, and tried to gauge how long he had been sleeping: Anything to get his mind off the dragon attack. It was ironic, he thought, that for months he’d been trying to find a spare few days to tour the countryside. The guard at his side was shuddering to his feet, and Marion waved listlessly in his direction. “Get me someone more competent,” he said. The rumble of an opening door, a burst of warm air and a flood of light answered him. He could not look up over his bulging stomach to see who had opened the door, but several pairs of feet scraped across the stone before the door ground closed again, the cocoon of chilled darkness once again surrounding him. There was hushed chatter, undecipherable from this distance, and the slow patter of approaching boots. Marion’s guard stepped out of sight, despite the baron’s violent gesticulation in protest. More muted chatter, more soft stepping on the stones, and the doors opened and closed once again, a brief caress of light and warmth rolling over the room. For a few seconds more, the room felt totally empty, a complete quiet falling across it. Then a few deliberate footsteps, each one a soft rap, echoed off the beams and ceiling, as someone approached. There was a rustle of clothes and the squeal of leather boots as the man, who Marion could barely make out over the edge of his rotundity, sat down on the stone a few feet away. It was quiet again. Marion waited for the man to speak, but hearing nothing except his own raspy breathing, he quickly became anxious. Screwing up his energy, he rocked his body sideways, cursing his throbbing leg, and managed to slide like a sick cow onto his side.

He could see the man entirely now. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, a hand on each knee, his black eyes staring forward, he seemed some sort of serene demigod, descended to observe the actions of one of his many moral followers. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat of felt or cotton, flopping down at the edges and casting a grim shadow over his face, obscuring it to near-invisibility. Despite it, he was still striking. His face was sharp and long, and with his thick locks of black hair and sunken eyes he could pass as an overlarge crow or raven. Although there weren’t any lines on his face, he seemed incredibly old. Perhaps it was his mouth, which frowned with the disdain of an ancient cynic. His neck was buried by a coarse cravat, blossoming like a dead rose from his rough, poorly cut clothes. They were those of a middling yeoman, too large and poorly stitched together. They flowed about him, his heavy overcoat coming confused in the rolls and bunches with his plain, buttoned shirt and mud-stained trousers. Odd gray patches were sewn up his right sleeve, but they seemed to be decorative instead of just a poor repair job. His boots seemed to be the only thing he wore that fit him or had been made by someone with talent. Coming nearly up to his knees, they caught even the miniscule light in this room and gleamed from their thick soles to their overturned tops. It was difficult to keep his head up, sprawled as he was, but the baron managed to wriggle one of his flabby arms under it, propping himself uncomfortably.

“You’ve heard of me,” the man said, and the baron immediately knew who he was. Joel McMarmott, a brigand king who had promised to purge Corone of magicians and magical creatures. The stories that had been traveling around Radasanth about his followers and their violent exploits had never described him well, but those eyes made him obvious. They were the eyes of a mesmerist, and this man was Joel the Hypnotist. It had always struck the baron as an odd name for a warlord, but it seemed all too natural now. “And I’ve heard of you, and why you’re here.” The baron nodded, finding himself unable to think of anything to say. The Hypnotist stared back, his eyes black and motionless as ever, but his mouth seemed to now have acquired the beginnings of a smile. “We’re both men who’ve been spurred to action.” The baron nodded again. The Hypnotist picked up his hands and laced his fingers, resting his wrists across his thighs, letting his locked fists hang loosely. “This land is like a tub filled with water. When you drop an unwanted stone in it, something sloshes out. Us.” Marion found the metaphor idiotic but nodded yet again, his head moving almost of its own accord.

“Did you ever wonder,” the Hypnotist continued, now openly smiling, “How many picked themselves up out of their homes to follow me? Men with women at home. Women with children at their side. Children with no one. We didn’t have anything. My first sword was a part of a rail fence that I sharpened with my only knife. I remember weeks I didn’t eat. Alna always found us a way.” He bowed his head slightly as he said the name, and looked even more like a terrible crouching crow. “When we took this barracks last month… I shouldn’t say we took it. Your men gave us everything in it, and then themselves. When we received this barracks last month, we had 2,000 fighters with us. That includes everyone: the cook and his mother and everyone who sleeps under our tents. Which I should thank you for, your men gave us most of those, as well. I suppose you might be surprised at how many of your subjects want those mongrels and magicians out of our country.”

“You consider me responsible for the Entente being here?” the baron replied, speaking slowly and thickly as if eating molasses. He felt the Hypnotist had expected this response, as he nodded like a man who has just won a bet, although his mouth was frowning again.

“I think you are as upset now, that you have been expelled from your own palace, as all the rest of us have been since we were expelled from our own lands. We must feed and clothe these subhuman intruders, step aside when they ride through our roads, congratulate ourselves on being so tolerant as to allow them here. Mankind deserves some dignity more than what you have afforded us as their hosts, my lord. The time for your people to act, with your allowance or not, has come.” Marion continued nodding compulsively, thinking over how foolish he had been in allowing the Entente into his barony. They had starved the land, smashed his city and humiliated his people.

“What do you propose that we do?” the baron asked, scooting as best he could closer to the Hypnotist. McMarmott raised his hands to his chin, resting his head atop his fingers.

“I propose we march to Radasanth. We will ask the men untainted by magic to leave. And then kill the rest.”

[EarlStevens]

Our man steps out the entranceway of the Citadel into the sun. He feels the sunlight warming his face, still clammy from the dark interior of the fortress. Wishing it penetrated a bit deeper, he follows O’Mally down the front steps. Soft footsteps pat behind him, but he knows that he cannot hear the most frightening of his entourage; the shudders and contorted faces of those crossing his path make it clear that his manservant is not far behind. Cursing the ghoul and Anthony Stevens in turns, our man crunches out across the gravel of the main square surrounding the Citadel. Despite his dour mood, he cannot help but realize, thankfully, that this is the first time in months that he has left the heavy stone of the Citadel, and feels himself breathing a bit easier. The air is still here, but lacks the grave-like dampness and odor of the motionless air in the cathedral. Beneath his feet, the ground slightly gives way with each step, and he realizes how long he has been pacing across unforgiving stone. It sounds like the outdoors here. Noises cleave the air briefly before fading, instead of echoing hollowly like someone shouting into a bell. The sun isn’t filtered through sparkling dust or deadened by stained glass. It is a pleasant feeling, but fleeting.

“When the hell did this happen?” He hears Anthony asking close behind him as they reach a ring of trees shivering in the morning air. Although young, the trees are thick and their roots tangled together, spilling out of the ground and tripping our man up as he picks through them. A shattered metal spike and huge, wilted fletching sprouting from one of their bark makes their source clear – these are the remnants of the huge arrows which the arbarians had knocked out of the sky earlier. A low, familiar rumbling in the air turns our man’s head, and he can make out the swaying, leafy frame of one of the walking trees through the canopy, its arms slightly raised. It might be mistaken for an overgrown scarecrow, were it not nearly three stories tall. Tripping over a root, our hero stumbles out from the copse, and quickens his pace to catch up to O’Mally, as well as put a little more distance between himself and those singing trees.

O’Mally is standing between four of the Arab sorcerers, the five magicians muttering to each other in cryptic language. Feeling a strange tingle, as if a buzzing in his ears had spread all over his skin, our man realizes they’re all wielding their magic, snapping it about themselves. Although he can’t quite make out what it is they’re doing, he gets the sensation of some great power linking them all together, drawing their energy together to one end. About two dozen paces away, two monks are wrestling with the reins to a clutch of horses, snorting and kicking at the dust. Perhaps they find the magic being held in the air around them disturbing. Or perhaps it is his manservant, whose chilling presence has enveloped our man. He shivers and draws his arms close to his body, trying to keep himself looking forward. The viscount steps around him, hands clasped behind his back, and our man tightens his mouth and turns his eyes aside. It is then that he sees the cage, rumbling into place behind the horses.

Even without closely inspecting it, our man can assess its basic form. Heavy, rusty metal bands have been molded together to form its rectangular box shape. Thick bolts press the pieces together into a checkerboard of air and steel through which the far side of the cage can barely be seen. It is held on a thick wood and metal platform, part of a large-wheeled cart that looks as if it could hold up a house. Two oxen, weary looking beasts but still snorting ferociously, are yoked together to pull it along. Odd soldiers, dressed in cream colored uniforms and sneering at each other, are sitting or crouching at each corner of the cart, holding narrow, unsheathed swords at their sides. And inside it all is a severe looking, swarthy man, dressed all in red cloaks that reach his ankles. His clothes are much like O’Mally’s, the flowing capes and sleeves of a bishop, but his head is bare and he holds no crosier. His hands are latched together, hanging at his front, and he seems to have some sort of brace around his neck, connected to his wrist-clasps by a thick chain. His face is vaguely recognizable as one of the men who had been with the Pontiff two nights before. Obviously, this man is one of the war criminals who the monks intended to try at their court-martial. And it seems they’re taking no chances about his escape. Our man realizes that the magicians must be weaving some sort of magical net to keep this divine trapped in his cage.

“We’re ready now,” O’Mally says, turning around, ignoring Anthony and nodding to our man and Silas, who has stepped beside him. “Take any horse, it doesn’t matter which.” The two monks bring them forward and each man moves to a stirrup, hoisting himself awkwardly into place. There is a brief awkward moment as Anthony and O’Mally approach the same horse, but without looking into each other’s eyes, they both move to different steeds. Our man looks at it for a few moments before shrugging and deciding to take it. He steps into the stirrup and scrambles up. As he settles into his saddle and lays his cane across his horse’s back, Petunia the chicken collides with the horse’s mane, clutching the thick, coarse hair to steady herself from her awkward landing. Our man looks down into her beady eyes, and the two exchange sceptical glances. Each apparently satisfied, they break eye contact and Petunia settles down as best she can in the beast’s hair. Icarus perches on Silas’s shoulder, and Anthony groans loudly as the bevy of purple penguins, suddenly scurrying out from the trees, bounces in between the legs of his horse, causing it to whinny and stomp angrily. “They can go back,” O’Mally says after swinging himself into place and straightening his robes. The penguins don’t stop their clucking, but seem less enthusiastic, as if finally accepting that Anthony will have to go somewhere they can’t follow.

“We are settled,” one of the Arab magicians says to O’Mally, and our man realizes that none of the brown-clad magicians is riding a horse. Rather, each is astride a tall, sharp-taloned bird that reminds him of a fierce emu. Each snaps its razor of a beak and twitters, flapping stubby wings as the magicians nudge them past the horses into positions flanking the caged bishop. The guards sitting on the cart glance at each other sardonically but say nothing. O’Mally nods and kicks his horse’s flanks. Following him, the small convoy sets out, leaving the courtyard behind. A shadow passes over them and the ground shakes as they enter the city proper, and our man’s jaw drops as he sees a giant winged lizard, snarling in a cloud of dust and sand, stomping in a corral in the corner of the main square. A man seemed to be standing on its back, yelling to several figures skipping in and out of the dragon’s path. The astounding sight disappears behind the corner of an inn, and our man is only left with the impression of something scaly and deadly growling in the shadow of the Citadel.

The cavalcade moves in silence, only the creaking of leather and the clink of horseshoes against the occasional fragment of paving stone breaking the morning quiet. The streets they ride down are silent, as if in a small town on Sunday morning. “This area must have been evacuated during the battle,” our man thinks to himself. “Nobody’s come back yet, I suppose.” But it was something other than that. The pit of his stomach was heavy and tingling, his hands wet with nervousness. He felt like he was riding through a graveyard, the houses around him wooden crypts. Someone is watching them, but was it the blind eyes of a corpse or the squinting gaze of a cemetery keeper? Our hero realizes with a start that his manservant isn’t with them. Usually this would put his mind at ease, but now it seems ominous. He begins to wish that someone would say something, but can’t force himself to speak. Frowning at the back of O’Mally’s head, he begins to wonder whether the old man is keeping quiet just to spite him.

“Deuced creepy,” Anthony mutters behind him and to his right. Our man turns, still frowning. Now he finds himself upset that he hasn’t just been imagining things. Anthony looks back at him, wrinkling his forehead at our man’s face and raising one hand quizzically. The Citadel is slowly disappearing behind block after block of houses. They turn a corner onto a broad avenue and it vanishes entirely. Amazing how quickly it has disappeared. Or perhaps not, our man realizes he is entirely unsure how long they’ve been traveling through the city. Where was the sun in the sky when they left? It seems hotter and brighter, but as our hero turns to look around him he feels lightheaded and small spots appear at the edges of his vision. His mouth is dry, maybe he just seems some water. Opening his mouth, he tries to ask O’Mally if anyone has a canteen, but feels unable to force words out into the silence.

The road opens up into a square, a pillar standing in its center. The buildings lining the edge of the courtyard are taller here, and our man can see that further down the road they spread out into baronial, ornate facades and ancient buildings, obviously much richer than the neighborhood from which they have just emerged. There don’t seem to be any more people there, though; the street ahead is as dead as that behind. The square is still, only a prancing cat moving across it. Any small comfort – or disquiet – that the closeness of the buildings along the street may have given disappears as the massive square swallows up the entourage. From above, our man imagines, they must appear as tiny black seeds on a white plate. There is a certain loneliness to the thought.

They approach the central pillar. Characters are written across it in a strange, curvy script, wrapped around it and its granite base. A light wind whistles across our man’s ears. Abruptly, O’Mally stops his horse, which grumbles and shakes its head. The rest of the convoy stops, and our man suddenly and passionately wishes they had kept moving. Nervously turning back and forth, his eyes lock on a shadow passing between two walls, far down a side road. His manservant. His stomach sinks.

“Go back!” O’Mally cries, snapping his reins to the side and turning his horse awkwardly around. His face is calm but his eyes are flashing with anger and fear. Someone shrieks and a horse screams behind him. Our man looks back to see a magician falling from his mount, a narrow arrow sticking in his chest. The other magicians raise their arms, moving their mouths silently, and the magic around our man buzzes furiously, igniting in his bones and veins, disorienting him and making him feel nauseated. Blinking, he grabs at his face and moans. Arrows are hitting the ground around him and brushing past his head. One of the magicians yells a slurred curse. Something crashes nearby, and our man peeks out from his eyes to see the front of a four-storey building being ripped away by huge invisible hands, several men screaming and falling with the collapsing stone and wood. He lowers his hand, watching the incredible sight, as each house next to it implodes in clouds of dust and splinters, more tiny men in green cloaks and plumes buried in the rubble.

“Don’t separate…” O’Mally screams from behind before being overcome by a ear-shattering wail. There is a flash of blue and white flame from behind the magicians, engulfing the steel and wooden cart. Its piercing light forces our man to cover his eyes again, but not before he sees the charred corpses of the guards flung from the blast, disintegrating in mid-air. He feels his horse giving way under him. Already unsteady, he falls off as the stallion’s back legs collapse, and rolls across the ground, his hands and face stinging.

[EarlStevens]

Unsteadily, our man rises to his feet. Some terrible odor fills his nose and mouth, pricking his eyes. Oily black and grey smoke is slithering across his body, and he coughs, stumbling forward. Splotches of color in his vision cover the small breaks in the clouds of smog filling the air. A rhythmless hum is in his ears, and bumbling through the smoke, without sight or hearing, he can barely tell where the ground and sky are. It's all a heady confusion, like a stirred up riverbed or a blizzard at midnight. He gropes forward, mouthing words he can't hear. Eventually, after years of being lost, a figure forms head of him. Dark at first, framed by the meagre sunlight filtering weakly through the smoke, it steps closer, gathering shape and color, firming and brightening, a man emerging from the swirling, acrid mists. His robes are bright red, and as the last strands of fog between the two men parts, our man can see a wicked grin upon his face. They are only a few feet apart, and below the high whistle in his ears, our hero can feel the deep tremble of magic in the air. He realizes he doesn't have his cane. There are spinning orbs in front of the criminal priest's outstretched hand. It is impossible that they hold anything but death.

A sharp whine breaks through the cotton in his ears, and our man falls to one knee as sound and light break back through the confusion. He can hear again, his eyes are clear, and the smoke is quickly fading. Looking up at the priest above him, the man's face is pale with shock and horror, staring down at a smoldering ruin at his elbow. His arm has been blasted away, splatters of blood and flesh caked to his body where the magic projectile has torn him apart. The remains of the arm are red, charred black at the end of the stump, a bright spot of white at the center of the wound, like some strange pencil snapped in half. He doesn't scream, but his face betrays the pain well enough.

Our man hears a voice calling to him, but doesn't understand the words as his attention is fixated on the gore. He feels strong hands pulling him back, so firmly that he is yanked to his feet and dragged backwards, his heels bouncing along the ground. He is whipped past O'Mally, who is standing with his staff at his side, bands of smoke rising from its end, and feels the hands let down. The momentum keeps him moving backwards, and he knocks against two men who grab him and shake him. He nods his head vigorously, as if this will reassure them, and realizes from the sound of the voices that it is the Viscount Darby and Witherspoon behind him. It seems he is safe.

"Is he alright?" O'Mally asks over his shoulder.

"I am!" our man responds before the other two can. "I'm not quite..."

"Leave," O'Mally says, and our man can sense a quiver in the priest's voice. Anthony and Witherspoon pull our man straight and begin to lead him away by his elbows, mechanical in their obedience, but he cannot tear himself away from the scene. The last of the smoke has wafted away. Charred corpses of men and oxen and the remains of the prison cart are smoldering on the ground about them. Another horse, unburned, lies dead as well. The smell is still terrible. O'Mally stands with his back to them, one hand firmly planting his staff before him, the other quivering at his side. The red-cloaked priest seems to have recovered from his surprise, but his face is still pale and he continues to stare at the remains of his arm, held out before him in a most grotesque gesture. Magic is in the air.

"You're a traitor, Alvar," O'Mally says, his voice firm now. "You knew Aesphestos was amongst us and did nothing. And then you fought against your brothers in the Citadel." The priest doesn't respond, but lowers his arm to his side, grimacing. He outstretches his other arm, his remaining hand open, palm down. It moves slightly, in a way that our man immediately recognizes. Prestidigitation! A small, invisible magic pocket opens in midair and something leaps out of it, slapping against the priest's hand. He snatches it and slams its tip into the ground beside him. His own crosier, a heavy black staff with a gilded gold crook atop it. O'Mally recoils.

"Your monks didn't find it," the priest growls in a Castilian rasp. An erie feeling comes over our man, like his skin crawling away from his feet up toward his scalp. Witherspoon yelps beside him and the viscount groans, and he knows some strange wizardry is being wielded. Indeed, beside the Spanish priest, a large black pool, viscous and bubbling like tar, is seeping out of the ground. Our man has never seen this before, but he immediately knows what it must be, and a stark terror grips him.

"Necromancy?" O'Mally incredulously scoffs. "A dangerous game, Alvar. You're only helping the prosecution's case for your trial." The priest laughs, and our man has the strange feeling that O'Mally is smiling, too. No longer bubbling, the puddle of tar has spread and is now quivering, at first gently but increasingly violently. Now it is shaking and frothing like an opened champagne bottle. As if to complete the imagery, the puddle leaps into the air in a foaming jet, connecting with the stump of the Spanish priest's arm. It latches on like a long, squirming leech and disconnects from the ground entirely, worming up into the air, shaking and solidifying. Our man steps back, his throat dry, as the blob forms a palm and five fingers. The obsidian fist opens and closes, and it is clear that the priest has more than sufficiently replaced his lost limb.

"You could have stopped me," the priest says, still smiling viciously. O'Mally shrugs.

"I've always given you a fighting chance, Alvar. Ah, Anthony. You haven't left yet?" The viscount starts at our man's side, and tugs him more strongly at the elbow. Our hero, now sufficiently shaken, turns away from the two priests. Magic crackles in the air like venomous popcorn, screeching and hissing in his head. He looks into Anthony's eyes. "Where are we going?" He asks, breathless. Anthony grabs his lapel and yanks him, running for the edge of the courtyard, leaving the question unanswered. Behind them there is a massive, bone-fracturing explosion that nearly knocks them all to the ground. Clumps of dirt, fused into blocks of glass by fire and noise, shatter on the ground around them. A paving stone cartwheel past them like a renegade child's hoop, nearly slicing off Witherspoon's arm, bouncing up into the air and then coming down into the facade of a house, smashing through the building. Our man holds his head down and rushes for what may prove to be the illusory safety of the alleyways.