Prologue [[Closed]]

[Maverick]

The cold sun shone dimly upon the desolate, sparsely inhabited landscape of Salvar. Hidden amongst the thick banks of snow, a solitary figure ambled towards a warm fireplace and a hearty meal somewhere in the emptiness. His hand shaded his eyes from the stark, blinding sunlight reflected in the snow as he trudged through deep drifts. His cloak was thick and warm, but was scarcely enough for the Salvarian winter. Somewhere, somewhere there would be food and rest. One hundred paces to the east, he could see a faint outline of an inn flanked by a small stable. A surprise indeed, especially since the people from the town before had made no mention of an inn on the path towards Knife's Edge, the home of the fabled hot springs of Salvar. Although he knew better than to trust a backwoods inn in the middle of nowhere, Girion knew he had no other choice -- he needed food and rest before tomorrow. There was no other place of refuge in this bleak, inhospitable land for thirty leagues around. With slight trepidation, Girion made his way over to the inn, not knowing what to expect.

The door he pushed open creaked loudly as if it had not been used in many years. The inn was empty except for a disreputable bartender who had fixed his dull eyes immediately on Girion. The former general shuddered internally as the man gave him an oily grin and beckoned for him to come closer.

"Kin I help you, suhr?' The bartender asked thickly, putting extra emphasis on the 'suhr'. Girion nodded, asking if the man had a room in the inn. The bartender responded, " 'Course we do. Don't see nobody else in here, d'ya? It'll be 20 gold pieces for the night plus 20 extra in the mornin' for breakfast."

"All right, here's the gold." Girion dropped the coins on the scuffed, greasy countertop. He had a strong feeling that the food would be less than sanitary, judging from the bartender's greasy smirk and the state of the inn. Still, he would be rested and out of the harsh, biting cold winds outside. The bartender gave him the key, and Girion climbed the stairs to his room. It was odd and perplexing that no one else was staying overnight in these rooms, especially since there were at least a dozen rooms vacant. Quite odd indeed.

Girion let out a sigh as he landed on the warm bed. Despite his initial dislike of the inn, the bed and room were well kept and clean. That was enough for him. Still, he would be smart to keep a weapon near in case the innkeeper was less than scrupulous. Many thieves had mistaken Girion for a common traveler with no experience fighting others. His age belied his physical vigor and strength, and thus he was able to escape in the face of danger as no one suspected him of once serving in the military. Ah yes, the military. Girion's thoughts had rambled before, but now focused on the past. The Battle of Durroth's Pass still rang clearly in his memory, the scent of blood flowing freely in the abandoned streets. His men had been slaughtered in that ambush by the combined rebel and Lytton forces, only a handful remaining to continue the battle. Girion's features contorted in anger as he thought of the treacherous commanders who had betrayed him and deliberately set an ambush for him. Every one of them would remember Girion, Son of Sol if it was the last thing he did in life. He had to return somehow, and leave this world -- Althanas the locals called it.

But how could he return? He could remember little of the portal that had sent him here. Girion relaxed in the bed, closing his eyes sleepily. Despite that, his hands grasped the long sword hidden under the blankets. Tomorrow would be interesting.

[Logan]

The cool, dry air nipped at Logan as he walked steadily onward toward Knife's Edge. He had received word just a few days prior that an old friend of his was on his death bed and had requested Logan's presence before he passed on to the afterlife. The psion sighed deeply. It had been a long time since Logan experienced death from the other side. It had become something he'd blocked out of memory. There was nothing he could do and the utter feeling of helplessness made him feel like crap. A few tears rolled down his face.

It had been a long time since the psion allowed himself to cry. It was a simple response to sadness and sorrow, yet it was a sign of weakness. Or was it? The psion had always believed in being true to yourself and in respect, and the more he thought on it, the more he saw crying as a sign of surrender to ones own weakness. That very surrender was itself an act of humility and in turn something he'd come to respect, yet he'd not allowed himself to do so. The tears began to flow as a release took place deep inside him.

He fell to his knees in utter disrepair. The emotion consumed him and he found himself thankful for the emptiness of Salvar. Only moments prior he'd despised it's loneliness. He'd so desperately wanted a companion, someone to share in his journey. The psion thought back to his past comrades in traveling and tournaments and even in clans. There was his best friend, Ryan Kale, who always seemed to find a way to show up when Logan least expected him. There was Gild who in one simple act had taught the psion one his most important lessons in humility. The psion chuckled as he wiped the liquid from his face and out of his eyes.

Logan stood to his feet and gripped the hilts of his swords. A veteran knew full well the dangers in these parts. The bandits were the worst and if they saw Logan is such a state they'd have him for dinner, all of him. The psion trekked forth knowing that soon he'd been in Knife's Edge with a hot meal awaiting him. As he looked up, though, he saw the faint glow of an inn off in the distance only a short ways off. A quick grin pursed his lips before he muttered a thank you to himself. The psion set off in haste and soon arrived inside the warmth of the inn's foyer.

“What brin's ya here, suhr,” the bartender asked with a wry smile. The psion hated these types. They were simply in business to make money and didn't care how they did it. Logan wouldn't have been surprised if a bandit wasn't waiting for him to flash some gold before he sprung into action to steal it. The psion sighed deeply, “I need a room, bud.” The bartender nodded as he raised his left hand to stroke his mustache,”Twen'y gold ta stays tha night n' anotha twen'y for tha breakfast.” Logan grumbled loudly as he threw the gold quickly on the counter,”Ensure I get a decent night's sleep, ok?” The bartender nodded as he pointed to the room.

The psion threw the door open with a thud. It was quaint and small, but it'd do. Besides it was far warmer inside than outside and at least he'd sleep peacefully for the first night in over a week. The past week had been filled with visions and nightmares about an old nemesis of Logan's. The psion shook his head. He had no time to dwell on those now. He needed what little sleep he'd get to finish his journey the next day. The psion tossed his swords on the ground next to him and he collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep.

[Maverick]

"Courage, men! Fear not the rebel blade or stinging arrow. Defend each other, brothers, if one of you falls before the enemy." Girion cried out to the rumbling approval of the soldiers banging swords against shields. Three thousand strong they were, a force to be reckoned with. He strode before them in silver armor and dark cloak. Most of these men had served with him for last ten years, toughened veterans of the many Lytton wars. His voice boomed once more, "Do not fear death...it is inevitable for all of us. We are all dead men! All we can choose is how we meet our end...so that we are remembered as soldiers of Lytton! Fight for victory, for King and country, for honor and glory! It is yours for the taking!"

He breathed deeply. The morale of the men was strong now, and if everything went according to plan, they would take Durroth's Pass in a few days. But, things never went according to plan, he thought wryly. Encamped here within twenty leagues of the dead city, Girion's army had been sent on a mission to flush out those rebels against the King suspected of hiding in this town. Unexpected, to say the least. Girion rubbed his chin, speckled with a light beard, wondering if this expedition had been assigned due to his desire to leave the armed forces. He was uncertain. Still, the commander knew he had to complete his task before thinking of military politics. He had confidence in his men to succeed in capturing the rebels and reclaiming Durroth's Pass for His Majesty, King Sirius XVI.

---

Durroth's Pass, Three Days Later

"ARCHERS! Position yourselves in the two hills to the east and west of Durroth's Pass. Let's go, men, hurry!" Lieutenant Sundar bellowed. The lightly-armored archers with bows in hand moved quickly to deploy themselves within range of the city. Sundar looked over at the marching soldiers and cavalry under Girion's command moving into position for a pincer style offensive. While the infantry would anchor the core of the battalion, the cavalry and special troops would make up the side "pincers" to make quick, deep raids into enemy lines. Scouts had reported locations of major rebel encampments in the city. The archers would fire a volley to flush out the rebels while the pincer attack would effectively destroy most of the resistance. A common but useful strategy. Sundar kneeled on one knee and scanned the area below the hill; upon his signal, a firestorm of arrows would burn the decrepit, broken down buildings below. He raised his right hand, three fingers up signalling the archers to be ready. The arrows were cocked, and ready to be tipped in fire. Two fingers, and the arrows were dipped in naphtha and fire. The smell of burning wood was sharp and pungent.

One finger.

The rain of arrows blazing in yellow-orange fire was horribly beautiful set against the dark, night sky. Each arrow shot was a fiery missile exploding into thatched roofs and rickety wooden buildings. One large building burst into flames licking and spreading around the town. As the smoke flushed out one rebel after another, Girion awaited them with a massed force of over two thousand. Surprised rebel soldiers defended themselves with their blades to no avail against a better prepared, well-equipped Lytton force. The horsemen under Girion's command swept out widely, cutting clusters of rebels into pieces. Sundar could not see well, but saw that Girion had the upper hand. Something felt wrong though, something had gone awry.

Sundar's eyes widened as a force of soldiers dressed in familiar Lytton blue encircled the victorious battalion under Girion. "Traitors!" He screamed, realizing what had happened. The rebels knew they had been coming, and had made arrangements with the Lytton commanders to ambush Girion's forces and kill the general. Below, Girion realized this at the same time, his men attacked by their brethren mercilessly. The general wheeled around on his horse, charging into the fray.

"Who dares this?! You would attack your brothers! Filthy scum!" Girion roared, his blade seeking blood. The rebel allies continued their attack, making it difficult for loyal Lyttonites to distinguish between rebel and loyal. Realizing this battle had been lost for the time being, the commander shouted for his men to retreat into the center of the city. As the retreat occurred, Girion was somehow displaced from his men, surrounded by rebels. They pulled him off his horse, but he brandished his long sword before them. The rebel's sword slashed against him. "AAARRGG--!!"

"--HHH!!!" Girion cried out, startled and awake. He sat on the bed, sweating and breathing shallowly, eyes wide. He noticed his white-knuckled clutch of the blade. Another nightmare...visions of the past. Hands relaxed, Girion scanned the room for any intruders. A shadowy figure was rifling through his belongings, somehow unaware of Girion's consciousness. Only dressed in undergarments, the ex-soldier gently stepped onto the floor, trying not to make any noise to alert his "guest". He was near enough now, extending his blade to poke the thief.

"And what exactly are you doing?" Girion asked in a low voice. The thief looked up, startled, bringing his hands to his chest protectively. Girion could not see the thief's face as it was hooded by a cloak, but that was quickly remedied. The cloak fell off with a shuffle of his sword. Girion cocked his head, trying to make out the intruder's face.

It looked strangely like the innkeeper's face, except with a long scar across the eye and pockmarks on his cheeks. The same oily grin, though. Girion asked him icily, "Mind telling me who you are and what you're doing in my room, friend?"

Just then, a loud clamor was heard outside his door, several mens' voices laughing harshly. What was going on here?

[Logan]

In the midst of his unconsciousness Logan was startled awake by unfamiliar screams and sounds from down the hall. Wiping his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness the psion rose from the bed and hurriedly grabbed his swords and made himself somewhat presentable before he peered his head out into the dimly lit hallway. As his eyes began to become fully adjusted to the darkness the figures of three men began to come into focus. One of the men looked to be rather robust in his stature, another rather sly and meek in his, and the last appeared slightly between both builds; kind of a cross between both. Logan opened his mouth to speak but before he could utter a word he was interrupted by the sounds of two voices from the room he'd heard the noises from only moments earlier.

Normally the psion would take himself out of a situation like this, especially since it wasn't his battle or even his business, but something drew him to approach the men in the hallway. Logan coughed to get the attention of the three men. The largest of the men spun around and could only laugh. He had Logan covered in both height and weight by nearly double. It didn't look good for the psion. “I mean you no harm, I only would like to know what you are all doing here, and what's going on in there,” Logan said with a small air of doubt in his voice. The other two men spun around as well and looked at Logan and then at their compatriot as they let out a rather loud chuckle, which Logan was sure could be heard inside the adjacent room.

The psion had to think quickly as all three men began to approach him weapons drawn. “Why don't we do this fairly? I'll take each of you on one on one. That way you can each have your shot to best me on even terms,” this was more a tactic to buy some time, but the psion didn't care what the response was. The smallest of the bunch nodded his head, “Fairly, you say? Well, if you can manage to beat my swordsman, you get a shot at my giant. And well, if you can manage to squeeze past my giant, you get a shot at me. I am a Sicilian after all. And as I'm sure you know, we Sicilians are rather smart and cunning.” The psion tried to refrain from chuckling. “Sounds like a deal,” was the psion's response.

The swordsman smiled as he approached slowly and methodically, measuring up Logan for his attacks. The psion smiled as he unsheathed one of his swords. “You know, you don't have to kill me. Just let me by and we can go our separate ways,” the psion was trying to reason with the man. “You know I can not do that, my friend, it is not my way. I am a Spaniard and I cannot let you go. By chance, how many fingers do you have on your right hand,” the swordsman queried Logan. The psion raised his right hand, his sword drawn in his left, to show he had five, “Five. Why would you ask that?” The Spaniard smiled,”No reason. You've been quite gracious, but I suppose we should get on with this.” Logan nodded,”Have it your way, friend.”

The swordsman shot forward and swung down and to his left and Logan blocked. The block sent the swordsman's blade clanging away and Logan merely smiled as he refrained from his own attack. The swordsman approached once more, swinging down and to his right this time, the psion's blade shot upward as it ran into his opponent's weapon. “You are very good my friend,” the swordsman said. Logan nodded, “I was trained by a good ninja. Ninja Roberts.” The swordsman responded, “Ahh yes, I have heard of this Ninja Roberts. He is said to be an amazing swordsman, but, I confess, I have a secret to tell you.” Logan's eyes grew wide,”Really now?” The swordsman nodded as he tossed his sword in the air catching it in his right hand,”I am really right handed.”

The swordsman attacked much faster as he swung left and then right, tearing a small hole in Logan's shirt before Logan slid out of the way. Logan grinned as he responded,”I, too, have to confess a secret.” The swordsman looked surprised but obliged the psion,”What would that be, my friend?” Logan's right hand shot around to his right sword as he unsheathed it,”I, too, am right-handed.” With that Logan swung his left blade directly into the swordsman's blade as he swung the slammed the hilt on his right into the skull of the swordsman. The swordsman fell to his knees and then to the floor unconscious from the blow. Logan smiled as he looked up at the giant. The small man screamed,”GET HIM!” The giant looked to the smaller man,”What should I do?” The small man yelled,”I don't know throw something! You're bigger than him! Do something.” The giant looked around and grabbed a table. He lifted it up above his head, slamming it into the ceiling with a loud crack.

Logan chuckled as he bolted forward and slammed into the stomach of the larger man sending him sprawling over the little man. The big man fell to the ground smacking his head onto the hard floor as the table fell directly over his face. The psion laughed to himself, I'll be damned, I just bested his giant! The psion peered into the fearful eyes of the Sicilian. “I'll give you two choices, Sicilian. We can battle with swords or with our minds,” Logan knew his mind was far superior to the Sicilian's. The Sicilian nodded,”Let us have a battle of wits then, friend.” Logan pulled out two bottles with a small amount of liquid in each. He handed one bottle to the Sicilian and kept one for himself.

“Here's the game. In one of these bottles in a potion that will kill a man in three seconds once he drinks it. To win all you must do is figure out which one holds that potion,” the psion explained patiently. The Sicilian reached down for his bottle and picked it up,”That's all? Why, I've already won. You see, clearly, you bested my swordsman which means you are well trained and therefore hold much honor and pride, so I clearly cannot pick the bottle that I hold.” Logan nodded as he set both bottles on the table in the hallway,”So that's your choice then?” The Sicilian shook his head,”Oh no, there is much much more to this. You see, you also bested my giant, which means you are strong and may have put the poison in front of yourself believing yourself to be strong enough to handle the effects. Yet, you also know I'm a Sicilian, and you would know that Sicilian's are very smart, and as such, you would give yourself the poison hoping I'd over analyze the situation. I clearly cannot pick the bottle in front of me though, as I know that this poison looks a lot like Aricaine which comes from the mountains of Salvar, which means you were clearly strong enough and hardy enough to obtain this poison.”

The psion closed his eyes for a moment and then reopened them trying to alleviate the headache he had begun to feel,”So, which bottle is it then?” The Sicilian pointed at the door behind Logan,”Look!” Logan spun around and as he did the Sicilian switched the bottles quickly before the psion could notice. Logan spun back around,”I see nothing was that some kind of trick?” The Sicilian shook his head,”Oh no, I thought I saw someone. My mistake. Well, let's drink the one's we both have in front of ourselves.” With that the Sicilian picked his up and Logan picked his up. They both downed the liquids in the bottles. The Sicilian began to laugh uncontrollably and Logan looked confuse,”Why are you laughing?” The Sicilian laughed,”There are two things you should know. One is to never get in a gunfight with a knife. The other, slightly less well know, but still important nonetheless, is never go into a battle of wits with a Sicilian!” Logan looked confused still. “While you weren't looking I switched the bottles, so you lose,” the Sicilian screamed as he laughed haughtily before falling to the ground dead.

Logan smiled, ”And there's something you should know, friend, both bottles contained Aricaine. I've spent the last few years developing an immunity to it. And never go into battle of the minds with a psionic, especially one named Logan.” With that Logan looked to the closed door in front of him as he stepped forward. He pushed the bulk forward and it opened with a screech.