Prologue
The Game that was Being Played
Balic, Aldren, and Garrick arrived in Scarda’s throne room covered in cuts and bruises. Standing before them was Scarda.
Balic and Garrick were both leanly built fighters, Garrick’s black hair spiked and Balic’s steel—grey hair cut short with a widow’s peak. Each had a rapier at his belt. Aldren was short and stocky, but moved with a speed that belied his size. He had a short sword in hand.
Any beauty or grandeur that may have existed in the room was stolen entirely by Scarda. He stood at over ten feet tall, wearing black armor with a glassy sheen. It was covered with cruel blades and spikes. Of Scarda’s body, only his head was visible, pale and wan, unwashed black hair tumbling down to his shoulders. Set in the chest of his armor was a green gemstone the size of Garrick’s head, a perfect, flawless sphere.
He said nothing when they entered, only twisted his face in a scowl and charged. He moved like lightning, trailing darkness, faster than anything Garrick had ever seen, far faster than Garrick expected from a ten—foot tall man in full plate. He trailed darkness. A massive fist connected with Balic, who was thrown like a doll to the far wall. There was an audible crack as his back snapped.
Scarda moved again, but Garrick was prepared for him this time, and managed to leap backwards. Not far enough. Scarda grabbed Garrick between his thumb and forefingers and lifted him to his face.
Garrick flailed out wildly, and his hand touched the gem. He was sucked into a different reality, one greater than all other realities but connected to each nonetheless.
He saw before him infinite realities. Infinite choices. All he had to do was reach out and touch one, bring that one into reality.
He saw the man in his hallucinations, facing him across an array of futures. I see that you are not dead, Garrick Silversteel. Does this surprise you?
“I guess so, yes. Who are you?”
I hold the twin to Scarda’s Scion Stone. Where Scarda wields power that facilitates creation, my stone facilitates destruction. I am known as the Destin. I am a god, I suppose.
“And because I’ve touched the Scion Stone….”
You can wield its powers as well, yes. But do you want to? If you claim its powers in full, you will cease to want them. And if you do not claim its powers in full, Aldren will kill you to satisfy his pride. It was his to begin with.
That was when Garrick understood the game that was being played. Scarda had taken the Stone without understanding its powers; Aldren had gone to reclaim it. Scarda wanted no part of such power, but he could not give the stone back, because Aldren could not let the challenge go unanswered. Garrick could choose now, give the victory to either Scarda or Aldren, and either way he would die.
“Could I do it without losing myself? One small creation?”
Yes.
Garrick looked at all of the possible futures and chose one that would never happen without the Scion Stone. And then he returned to the real world.
Corrant, Delna, and Storn were standing in the throne room, recreated. Their movements trailed light. Storn rushed Scarda, swinging his great axe. The weapon struck Scarda and cut straight through his armor, leaving a huge gash in Scarda’s leg. Corrant rushed in, nimbly jumping aside from Scarda’s clumsy blows, and drove his rapier straight into the gash left by Storn’s attack. Scarda dropped Garrick and began to flail as Delna launched two arrows straight into his eye.
The armor began to dissipate into black mist, leaving only a human—sized Scarda and the Scion Stone behind. Corrant, Delna, and Storn also faded away.
Garrick lay on the cold stone floor, although the palace itself was beginning to fade away as well.
He didn’t even wince when Aldren’s short sword ended his life.
The sun was rising over the Darhabbid desert. Aldren stood in the desert’s heart, alone for miles. The Scion Stone was finally his again. He reached out and lifted the bauble, delicately, reverently, slowly lifting it towards the merciless sun. He marveled that unlike all other gems no light passed through it.
He heard a noise and spun just as the Destin appeared. “You,“ Aldren snarled.
Yes, the Destin replied. Me. The god stared Aldren in the face, face completely devoid of emotion.
“It’s no matter!“ Aldren shouted. “I have the Scion Stone! I reclaimed what is mine from that fool Scarda.”
You did, didn’t you? Congratulations, Aldren Hightor. Your rightful power is once more yours. Scarda no longer threatens your pride.
“I’m not threatening your precious world! It is mine, and I have won it back! That is all, you weakling of a god!“
Do you really believe the Scion Stone to be your inheritance? For you, it is nothing more than a possession to be won. Scarda taking the Scion Stone was nothing more than a blow to your great pride. Corrant would not be happy.
“My brother was a fool and he’s dead. You only seek to dissuade me from laying claim to the power that is rightfully mine,“ Aldren protested.
I seek to dissuade you from laying claim to that power. In truth, it is no one’s. The Destin smiled. But I will not be successful.
“Because it is my power, and you cannot prove otherwise!“ Aldren yelled. “Get away from me! I will claim the Scion Stone, and neither man nor god will stop me!“
You will claim its power. The Destin paused for a moment. Scarda knew enough to fear its power. Scarda, though weaker, was a far wiser man than you.
“Be quiet!“ Aldren screamed.
But wisdom often comes too late. We will speak of this in time.
“We will never speak again! I will claim the Scion Stone, and I will be beyond everything, you included!“
Did you ever wonder why Scarda did not claim all of the power of the Scion Stone? It was that exact reason. The Destin paused for another moment. When even time dies, I will remain. As will you. And then we will talk.
The Destin turned around and began to walk away, but not before he left Aldren with one final thought. As I said, wisdom often comes too late. Rest assured, we will speak in time.
And then the sun was high in the sky, but no light touched Aldren.
1
Watered—Down Ale
Two days earlier
The sun was rising over Yefna, a small town on the edge of the Darhabbid desert. There were several small palaces on the north side of town. One of the taverns, known as the Leaping Lord, was known as a place where mercenaries and soldiers gathered and drank off their pay.
It was into this particular bar that Garrick Silversteel walked, thirsty, tired, and angry. Right now he was too angry and thirsty to feel sad. If he had his way, he’d soon be too drunk to feel anything.
They were dead now. Corrant, Delna, and Storn. They were dead.
He had never seen creatures like them before. Half—men, half—beasts, ferocious, unstoppable. The one that had finished off Storn had been gashed in five places before it finally died, and the wounds didn’t even seem to slow it down.
Where had the creatures come from?
Garrick had been a mercenary for eight years. He was covered in scars, he had almost died more times than he cared to recall, he was at least partially fluent in every language that he had ever encountered, and he had seen a lot of people die. Everyone except for Corrant, Delna, and Storn. And now they were dead too.
As hard as Garrick tried, he couldn’t get the image out of his head. Corrant leaving his neat, precise mark on the beasts, not enough to stop them. Corrant finally falling and Delna’s look of surprise – after all, Corrant had been keeping the things away from her. Delna being cut down even as Garrick was fighting his way through to save her. Storn going down after what must have been a hundred blows, his side torn in two places, still swinging his great axe as he finally gave in to the macabre kiss of death.
Garrick had finished the creatures off, although he had nearly died in the process. He supposed it was the need for revenge that drove him. He wasn’t sure. Then he had slept, cried, buried his friends, and returned to town.
Garrick could observe two major problems with his current situation–the people that he had spent the past seven years of his life with were dead, and he wasn’t drunk. He lifted the mug of ale, which was starting to grow warm, and began to swallow it.
Halfway through downing the ale, Garrick almost choked on memories. Storn had always downed his ale in a single gulp. Sometimes it had taken him two.
Garrick put the mug down and just let his head fall against the counter of the bar.
The musician on stage was playing a mournful song badly. Garrick could not decide if the music was depressing him even further or if it fit his mood. A voice from somewhere in the bar called out to the musician, “Play something cheery, you bastard! We don’t want our ale watered down!“
That was when Garrick made his decision about the music. “Let him finish the song,“ he said to the anonymous voice. “Some of us want our ale watered down.”
“And who’re you to talk?“ the voice called back. The man stood, and Garrick quickly evaluated the man. Powerfully built, but a lot of it looked like fat. He was several inches larger than Garrick. A cudgel hung at his belt. Garrick knew that he could take the man.
“Garrick Silversteel,“ Garrick replied, “who’s too angry right now to pick a fight himself, but is too angry not to fight if he’s provoked. I suggest that you let the damn bard play whatever the hell he wants to.”
“Silversteel?“ the man sneered. “That’s a dangerous name you’ve picked. I have one too. I’m Darnak Dragonhunter, and I’ll kill any runt who doesn’t know his place.“ The bar was hushed at this point.
Dragonhunter. Garrick had heard that name somewhere. Then it came to him. “Dragonhunter, eh? Nice name. Run in the family?”
Darnak turned red and began to finger his cudgel. “I have as much a right to that name as my grandfather!“ he shouted. “And I’m willing to prove it! How about you, runt? Are you going to back up your name?”
Garrick thought for a moment. “I’d rather not have to kill you.”
Darnak sneered and laughed. “I knew it! At least I’m willing to fight to prove my name! What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever fought, a toad?”
“I’ve killed things that would take you apart in a minute.“ Garrick undid the top few lacings of his shirt and traced a dark line from his collarbone to his jaw with his finger. “Do you see this? This was one blow. I have many more, although not all are so impressive.“ Garrick was amazed that he was still restraining himself.
“I’ve heard of you,“ Darnak said, more quietly. “Garrick Silversteel… don’t you normally travel with three others?“ he asked, sneering. “Did they leave you when they realized what a coward you were?”
Garrick didn’t know why he attacked. It was probably because Darnak had insulted his friends, intentionally or not. All he could say was that at that moment, he hated Darnak Dragonhunter more than anyone or anything else.
Garrick unsheathed his rapier and charged. Patrons scattered out of his way. One table away from Darnak, Garrick hopped onto a table and instantly regretted it—he landed on an edge of the table and his leg wanted to give way under him. The table tipped over, and he barely had enough balance to manage to roll away from Darnak’s attack. He came to his feet quickly—almost too quickly, as Darnak’s next heavy blow flew barely over his head.
Garrick recovered his balance. He hadn’t started the fight with the intention of killing Darnak. All he knew was that he took the opening and attacked.
A spray of dark blood coated him. The patrons of the bar grabbed him and held him back. Something knocked him unconscious.
2
Does that Mean You Should Die?
Prison.
The word filled Garrick and tormented him.
He tried to think of what Storn or Delna would say.
Garrick, what happened to you?
It was too painful.
He tried to think of what Corrant would say.
Garrick, you idiot.
That was no better.
For the tenth time he looked around his stone cell to try to find a piece of rope or something remotely sharp to hang himself with or cut his own throat. The guards would hang him in the morning anyway. He wanted to deny them the pleasure.
Garrick considered trying to smash his head against the wall. He decided not to try it. He would probably stop after the third or fourth hit. All he’d achieve would be a ringing headache.
Garrick did not know how much time had elapsed before one of the guards, anonymous in his armor, stopped by the doorway to the cell. “Food,“ the guard muttered as he tossed a chunk of bread in.
The bread landed in a small puddle on the floor and stayed there. Garrick lifted baleful eyes up to the guard. The guard paused for a moment, seemingly unnerved, and then chuckled. “As you will. You’re going to hang tomorrow anyway.”
More time passed. He received another chunk of bread. He ignored it and the growing pain in his stomach. There was a wooden pallet on the side of the room, but he ignored that too. He simply sat, crunched against the wall. His back started to hurt. He ignored that.
He started to doze off for a moment. When he came to there was a man sitting on the pallet. The man was probably just a delusion. Garrick decided to ignore him.
Garrick Silversteel, a voice said straight into Garrick’s mind. The voice was nothing but further proof that he was hallucinating.
Are you truly so willing to accept death, Garrick Silversteel?
Yes, he thought back. I have nothing left to live for.
And should that mean anything? Man is only man when he rules himself by his actions. When he is ruled by his actions, then he ceases to be man.
Is there really a difference?
It is a subtle one, but it is present nonetheless. In one, he watches as thoughts and feelings flow by; in the other, he chooses those that will flow by.
I’m exhausted, sore, and sad. I think I fit all of the categories for ’willing to die.’
The man sitting on the pallet turned to Garrick. Does that mean that you should die, Garrick Silversteel?
“Garrick Silversteel?“ a voice asked. Garrick looked up, eyes bleary with restless sleep. There was a thin, nervous—looking man standing there, flanked by two guards.
“What?“ Garrick cast a quick glance towards his pallet. The man was gone. Definitely a hallucination.
“My master would be willing to pardon you of your crimes, if you would perform a favor for him in return,“ the nervous man said.
“Who is he?“ Garrick asked, more to keep talking than for any other reason.
“He will not permit me to reveal his name in these….“ The nervous man glanced at the guard. “Open situations. Rest assured, his power is very real.”
“Well, obviously that guard knows his name, because otherwise he’d never let me go. So tell me who it is.”
The nervous man licked his lips. “His name is Aldren Hightor.”
Garrick had never heard of Aldren Hightor. He guessed that the man was probably one of the minor nobles who held ceremonial power in Yefna. Garrick stood, wincing, and rolled his neck to alleviate a cramp that had begun to build. “What’s the favor?”
“My master would also prefer if I did not reveal that.”
“His name is out, so there’s no meaning in maintaining the charade. Tell your master that I’ll think on it.”
“He said that you would say that, and asked me to point out that your time is—“ the nervous man glanced at the guard again—“limited, to say the least.”
“All right.“ Garrick thought for a moment. He could go two ways. One, he agreed to perform the favor, and maybe lived. Probably not. Two, he refused and died. There was only one real option. “Tell your master yes.”
3
A Werewolf, an Assassin, and an Alchemist
“You can tell him yourself,“ the guard said, speaking for the first time. “You’re free to go.”
Garrick raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “All right.“ The guard took a ring of keys off of his belt and tried several. After finally finding the one that worked, he opened the door and Garrick stepped out. “My rapier?”
“Don’t stretch it,“ the guard replied.
Garrick was very ready to smash the guard’s head in against the wall, but reason imposed itself on him and he realized that his death would be guaranteed if he tried that. No minor noble could get him out of two murders. His desire to hold onto his memories of his former allies was weaker than his desire to live.
“Aldren will happily provide you with a new weapon,“ the nervous man offered. “I am Stilvo, by the way.”
“A pleasure,“ Garrick replied flatly.
Stilvo led Garrick through the streets. There was a wide berth around the two of them. A couple of men—he assumed from the bar—spat on him. He didn’t react. He didn’t care. He was numb by now. He knew that, in all likelihood, he had made a devil’s deal. If he knew nobles, this Aldren Hightor wanted him to kill someone and take the blame, which would put him exactly where he had started.
Stilvo took him to one of the palaces on the north side of town. Garrick barely spared the palace a glance; he didn’t particularly care, and he had seen far prettier anyway.
It was two flights of stairs to the double doorway, which was somewhat impressive—it was made of heavy wood, probably imported, and inlaid with a bit of gold and a large ruby on either door.
The guards at the door clearly recognized Stilvo and opened the door for him. Garrick followed. After a few twists and turns through the halls—again, moderately impressive, but not the best Garrick had seen—they reached a study with three other people standing inside. Stilvo motioned for Garrick to enter and then left.
Garrick walked in and looked around. The room had four huge bookcases on the back wall, a desk, and a few chairs. There was a lean, scruffy man looking out of the window. He turned around as Garrick walked in to regard Garrick flatly and Garrick saw that he had yellow eyes. Garrick shuddered in spite of himself.
The next man was lean and well—groomed with a rapier on his belt. He was leaning against the wall, one out—of—place lock of hair falling over a steel grey widow’s peak. His clothes were simple muted blues and browns.
The third man was plainly young, not much more than a boy. His clothes were bright and gaudy; he had at least six belt pouches that Garrick could count, not to mention several glass vials and tubes arranged on a bandoleer across his chest. The rim of a huge hat kept falling over his eyes. He was sitting at the desk, flipping through an old book.
So. These were the men that Garrick was to work with.
A werewolf, an assassin, and an alchemist.
4
Living Kills Us
The assassin raised an eyebrow when Garrick walked into the study. “Well, we’re all here now, aren’t we?“ he asked rhetorically. “All we’re waiting for is Aldren.”
“I’m Garrick Silversteel.”
The assassin chuckled. “I know.”
Garrick was slightly taken aback, but he couldn’t give the assassin the edge. “You have me at an advantage. I don’t know who you are.”
“Balic Skane. Aldren’s man.“ Somehow that didn’t surprise Garrick.
“You’ve killed for him, I know. Just by looking at you. You’re no stranger to death.”
“Look who’s talking,“ Balic replied. “Only one of all four of us is.“ Both Garrick’s and Balic’s eyes immediately went to the alchemist.
“It’s a good thing that you’re no stranger to death. We’re all going to die here.”
“How can you be sure?“ Garrick asked.
“We’re working for Aldren. Everyone around him dies. We haven’t heard from his brother in seven years. His best friend vanished years ago. His wife died of a wasting sickness. Two of his men and all of his brother’s men have died. I myself killed his father.”
That surprised Garrick. “What do you mean?”
Balic chuckled. “Aldren ordered me to kill his father and I did it. It was easy too. Two drops of poison in his wine.“ Seeing Garrick’s look of shock he smiled without a hint of mirth. “Like I said. Everyone around Aldren dies. It’s only a matter of when.”
There was a moment of silence until a low, rough voice spoke. “Balic speaks the truth.“ It took Garrick a moment to realize that the werewolf, facing away from the rest of them, was speaking. “We all go to the base of the great forest in the end. Living kills us.”
Balic smiled. “A man after my own heart,“ he said softly.
Garrick noted that the alchemist had stayed silent through the entire discussion. He seemed obsessed with his book. “That one’s young,“ he said quietly so the alchemist wouldn’t hear.
“I don’t question Aldren,“ Balic replied. “He has his reasons for everything.”
The door swung open and all talk ended.
5
To Our Success
A man walked in with Stilvo in tow. The man was solidly built and short, standing at five feet eight inches. His hair was ragged and an unwashed shade of blond, and his eyes had the fevered madness of a prophet, but also the cold dispassion of an assassin.
Balic nodded. “Lord Aldren.“ The alchemist looked up, realized who he was facing, and hurried to bow, but that ridiculous hat fell off of his head. The werewolf remained facing outside—towards the far—away forests, Garrick realized. Garrick himself remained stiff, not bowing like the alchemist, but also not ignoring Aldren like the werewolf.
“Balic.“ Aldren looked over all of them in turn, acknowledging each with a nod. “Drune.“ The werewolf. “Marcus.“ The alchemist. “Garrick Silversteel.“ Aldren turned his burning stare to Garrick, who met it coldly. “You will all forgive me if I have failed to meet certain standards for hosts. Our foe, a man named Scarda, must be killed as soon as possible. He has serving him hordes of half—beast, half men.“ Those prophet’s eyes turned to Garrick again. “The same beasts, I believe, that killed your friends.”
“How did you know that?“ Garrick demanded.
Aldren chuckled. “What noble is without his sources? It’s of little matter, Garrick. The point is that they reproduce rapidly and will destroy us all given half a chance.”
“No army?“ Garrick asked. “You’d think one of any number of kings would want to hear about this.”
“I’m sure they would,“ Aldren replied. “And that’s why they can’t find out. Our strength lies in that Scarda is unaware of our presence. An army would only complicate matters.”
“When do we move out?“ Drune asked.
“As soon as we possibly can,“ Aldren replied. “Stilvo?“ The nervous man brought forward a crystal glass of dark red wine. Aldren took it from him and lifted it to his lips. “To our success.”
That Aldren was the only one to drink was not lost on Garrick.
6
He Would Not Like Me to Believe So
Aldren predicted that it would be one more day’s travel before they reached their goal. Apparently Scarda had made himself a castle in the middle of the Darhabbid desert.
Garrick and Drune had first watch. They sat on opposite sides of the crackling fire, not wishing to ruin their night vision. “An odd man, our patron,“ Drune remarked.
“The men who are working for him aren’t much better,“ Garrick replied. “A werewolf, a mercenary, an alchemist, and an assassin.”
“What are you doing here, Garrick Silversteel?“ Drune asked, his voice flat and ancient as ever.
“It was this or death. I killed a man.”
“Life is death. The living simply don’t know it yet.”
“That’s a depressing way of looking at the world.”
“Only for you. It is comforting for me. It reassures me that no matter what happens, I am only achieving the fate that I was destined to in any case.”
“I suppose.”That hallucination came back to him now. Does that mean you should die, Garrick Silversteel? For a moment Garrick could have sworn that the man from the hallucination had appeared in front of him. “Why are you here?”
“I am bound in service to Aldren Hightor.”
“His slave?”
“He would not like for me to believe so.”
“But you are.”
It was a long moment before Drune replied. “As I said, he would not like me to believe so.”
“How did it happen?”
“His father, as I understand, was involved in the death of my parents. I was taken and raised to be… his servant.”
“For someone who’s never known his people, you seem pretty confident in your religion.”
Drune was silent for another long moment. “I worship my god as best as I am able. I do not think he will hold it against me, for I had no chance to learn his truth. But then, that all counts on me being right, doesn’t it?“ Drune laughed, a hoarse, barking sound. “I assume. That’s all we can ever do, Garrick Silversteel. Assume.“ They were silent for the rest of the watch.
7
They Probably Stood a Chance
Garrick threw himself aside from the vicious axe—blow and counterattacked. The rapier he was using was finely made. It was a gift from Aldren.
The cut sliced open the beast man’s throat—Aldren had called them Scardites, and the name was as good as any—and a spray of dark blood flew out. The beast man that had been trying to fight through to Marcus sagged over, almost dead. Garrick gave it a few more quick cuts and a push—he couldn’t risk letting it kill him as it bled to death.
“On the left!“ Marcus cried in his gratingly high—pitched voice. He let a capsule fly even as he spoke. It landed among the beast men and exploded, badly wounding three of them. A bad wound to these creatures was something that would have killed a human outright. Balic and Aldren were immediately among the new group, cutting and thrashing furiously. The three wounded ones went down to surprisingly neat killing blows from Aldren’s short sword, and two more went down to a series of sliced necks and wrists from Balic’s saber.
Drune was even more in the thick of the fight than the rest of them. The werewolf was fighting like a madman, not using any weapon except for his bare hands. One lanced out and drove itself through an opponent’s throat. His other blocked an attack from a crude maul and snapped. Drune did not even wince as the bone broke—he launched a powerful kick and sent the creature staggering back as his arm reformed. Garrick had heard that no unsilvered weapon could deal the killing blow to a werewolf. Drune was living evidence.
They were in the entryway to Scarda’s castle, fending off waves of the Scardites, trying to gain the entryway. Marcus was behind the doorway, throwing his compounds with wild abandon. Some were bombs, some were designed to make the enemy’s eyes itch or make him sneeze, and others did nothing. Each success made the young alchemist’s eyes light up and each failure stole the same light.
Drune, Balic, and Aldren were fighting off the main press of the creatures, Aldren and Balic on the left and Drune on the right. Garrick was responsible for dealing with the few that managed to fight their way through. As long as the alchemist was still alive, they probably stood a chance. Probably.
“Another group on the left!“ Marcus cried as he let fly. Garrick sighed and moved towards a pair of Scardites that had made it past Aldren and Balic. The fight wasn’t over. The fight wouldn’t be over.
8
A Badly Burned Hat
Garrick rolled with a blow that would have crushed his side otherwise. He came unsteadily to his feet—this fight had been going on for a while, and he had already been exhausted when it had started—and drove his rapier into the Scardite’s neck. The creature’s death throes tore the rapier out of his hands and sent him flying. He was prone on the ground as two more Scardites came near him.
This was it, then. There was nothing left that he could do. Only accept his fate. Fate, however, had another trick to play.
Marcus tossed a capsule at the Scardites closing in on Garrick. There was a tense moment. Nothing happened. The boy pulled out a dagger and launched himself at them. He slammed into one of their backs and stabbed downwards. At that moment, the capsule exploded.
When the dust cleared, Drune, Balic, and Aldren had dispensed with the remaining Scardites. Of the young alchemist, there was only a smear and a badly burned hat.
9
He Tossed his Head Back and Howled
Garrick, Balic, Aldren, and Drune were sitting in a study in which they had barricaded themselves, all thinking, contemplating Marcus’s death as Scardites hammered on the door. It was heavy wood and would likely hold for another hour at least. None of them knew if they could fight their way through without the young alchemist. They all expected that they couldn’t.
Garrick broke the silence. “We can’t turn back. There’s only forward left.”
“True,“ Balic replied. Garrick knew what Balic was thinking. I told you so.
“Death is not an ending,“ Drune, staring out of a huge window, added. “When we go to the base of the great forest, we only help it to grow. Let his sacrifice not be in vain.”
Balic smirked. “Clichéd, but not entirely untrue.”
There was a long silence. Garrick, twirling Marcus’s hat in his hands, shifted on the chair he was resting on. Balic, leaning against a bookcase, licked his lips. Aldren tapped his foot. Then he seemed to reach a decision. When he looked up, his eyes once again held the fevered purpose that they had when Garrick had first met him.
“We go forward,“ he said. “What will history think of us if we turn back and flee? Fools, fools who may have doomed the world.”
Balic chuckled. “History will likely think us fools in any outcome, and history is made of bigger fools than us.“ Aldren glared at Balic, and Garrick suddenly knew that there was a game being played, one in which Balic was playing the wrong part.
Drune said, “One of us must guard the rest. If we go out, one of us will have to keep them away from you or they will cut you down in an instant.“ No one responded. “I will do it.“ Although Garrick could not see his face, he could sense that Drune had smiled. “I had always wished to die under a full moon. I guess a new moon will have to do. I can only hope that the great forest will accept my sacrifice.“ Then he tossed his head back and howled.
THE END
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