Part One: Hard Lessons

The guards snapped to rigid, menacing attention when the courier rounded the corner. The boy... almost a man, but not quite there yet... strolled hurriedly down the hall toward them. In one hand he held a tightly-bound scroll whose wax seal bore the official imprint of the Tower Guard. His other hand clutched a unrolled sheet of dingy, tattered parchment, which he held up to show the guards.

"Uhhh.... Official Courier," the boy said. His voice quivered slightly... and he spoke with a reluctance that, under different circumstances, would have been suspicious. But, given the boy's age and his destination, a certain amount of fear was normal. Even expected.

"Pass," said the guard on the boy's left. The heavily armed and armored man stepped to the side to let the boy through the doorway behind him. The boy glanced up at him, and then shot a nervous look at the other guard. Neither man said anything further.

The courier passed between them and walked slowly down a short, torch-lit hallway that ended at another door. It was huge... six-inch thick ironwood, reinforced with iron rods and banded with steel. The enchantments it bore made the boy's nose-hair itch when he got close to it.

The boy stood before the massive door. He stayed just out of arm's reach, as if he expected the mighty construct of metal and wood to reach out and grab him. When it failed to do so after a reasonable pause, he took a step forward... extended his hand... made a fist... then lowered his arm back to his side.

He waited.... doing another 'reach out and grab' test just to be sure.

Without warning, a rectangular window in the door slid open, and a pair of brown eyes peered out at him.

"What are you doing out there?" said a stern, female voice.

The boy held up his pass... and then the scroll.

"M-m-message?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Ummm...." the boy looked down at his shoes.

The woman sighed, and the tiny window slammed closed. Then the door swung open. It was constructed so that it opened out into the hallway even though the hinges were on the inside. The boy supposed that was to make it more resistant to being bashed in from the outside, although it was almost inconceivable that anything that could make it THIS far into the East Tower and still have the strength to bash down a door.

The room beyond was... not a dungeon... not a treasury... but an office. The woman who had opened the door stood back and let the courier enter. She was a matronly, middle aged woman who's hair had nearly completed its transformation to gray from whatever color it had been before. She reminded the boy of his grandmother, only not nearly as fat. Her desk sat across from the door, where she could greet anyone that entered.... or transfix them with the crossbow she had hidden under her chair.

"Message?" she said, holding out her hand.

"It's for... him."

"Ohhhh. You'd better go give it to him, then." She pointed to another doorway. The door was open.

"Message for me?" The voice from inside sounded like a large boulder rolling down a steep, rocky mountain. "Bring it in."

"Go on," said the woman.

"But...."

"IS THERE A MESSAGE FOR ME OR NOT!?" shouted the man in the other room.

"Y-Yes, sir!" The young courier scurried into the office and skidded to a halt just inside the door. His eyes traveled across the carpet to the huge desk that dominated the room. It was a huge monster of a desk... obviously designed by the same man who'd created the massive door to the Captain's offices. The wood and metal construct looked like something a barbarian horde would use to break down castle gates. The wall behind it was adorned with weapons.... clubs, maces, morning-stars. All bashing-weapons. All polished and kept in pristine condition by the man who's massive chair sat before them.

Captain Hieronymous Physt wasn't a large man. In fact, he was considerably smaller than the hulking, ham-fisted 'heroes' that seemed so common in Montfort. But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in attitude and intensity. He was the kind of man that seemed twice as large as he really was. Larger than life. His 5'11" frame was broad of shoulder and packed with muscles that only hinted at their presence from behind the layers of his perfectly-tailored uniform. Only the occasional bulge of his arm or shoulder when he moved revealed the raw power that lay beneath. But his strength did not come from well-hidden muscle. It came from within, and it was born of the fact that the man was a walking contradiction. He was both young and old. Younger in age than many of his peers, but older in experience than some who would call themselves his superior. He was quick with his fists, and even quicker with his mind... yet always slow and cautious with his words. He was a man who could be involved and detached in the same instant, because he knew that it took heart AND brain to be victorious in all but the most trivial of life's affairs. And nothing was trivial. His eyes... those twin brown orbs that had stared into the face of more enemies than many of his subordinates could count... could convey cold calculation one second, and flaming rage the next. Sometimes both at once. To those who met him, he was an icon... an icon of physical readiness mated with cold, military precision. A man hardened by battle and years of experience, yet not jaded by it. He was a man of war, but also a man who believed that violence and open conflict were not always the way. Not always.

Of course, the courier knew little of this. All he saw as the Captain's physical presence. He saw a man who sat like a thing carved out of stone. Huge, rough hands curled into fists that rested on his desk like two anvils. His thick, dark lips curled downward in a seemingly eternal scowl... framed by a mustache and goatee of short, perfectly trimmed hair. The chocolate-brown skin of his bald head gleamed in the light like a mirror... any brighter and it would have blinded the boy. His eyes stared down at the courier with an intensity to which the boy... and most men... were unaccustomed. When he saw those eyes, the courier forgot all about his message. It was all he could do to keep from running out of the room in a panic. In fact, his constant squirming was indeed carrying him in the general direction of the door.

"WELL!" Captain Physt boomed. "WHAT IS IT!?!"

The boy's hand shot out. The official scroll jerked back and forth in the air, animated by the boy's nervous quaking.

"What do you expect... me to climb over this desk and take it from you?" The courier was two yards away from the desk, holding out his message as if it would fly out of his grasp and land in the captain's hand of its own free will. The boy took a few reluctant steps forward and held the scroll out before the captain.

Physt looked at it, but made no move to take it. The scroll slowly sank down toward the desk as the strength drained out of the boy's arm. The instant before the scroll touched the polished surface of the wood-

SNATCH!

Hieronymous Physt's large hand yanked the message out of the boy's loose grip.

"You're excused," he said.

"Huh?"

"GET OUT! NOW!"

The boy squealed like a wounded pig and bolted from the room. He ran past the secretary's desk without even bothering to pick up the coins she had set out for him. He streaked down the hall, where the guards just looked at him and shook their heads.

Meanwhile, the captain and his secretary were enjoying a good, raucous laugh. They quickly calmed themselves down... but then the captain burst out laughing again.

"Hirem Physt!" Henrietta said between chuckles. She leaned into the captain's office. "How DARE you keep scaring that poor child!"

"I can't help it, Henrietta," said Captain Physt. His 'permanent' scowl was now a toothy grin. "The boy... the boy just ASKS for it!"

"ONE day he'll get tired of your games!"

Physt's smile twitched slightly as his voice took a slightly more serious tone.

"One day," he said. "The boy will have enough of being frightened by people bigger and louder than he is. Then he'll be a man... more of a man than some of the people we have out patrolling the streets of Montfort right now."

"Oh, so scaring children is a public service now?"

"Yes. That and a great deal of fun!"

"Well..." said Henrietta. "I seem to remember a certain timid young boy who took quite a while to learn that lesson."

"I had reason to be timid."

"You had reason NOT to be, too. What's the message?"

Captain Physt glanced down at the scroll. He'd almost forgotten about it.

No. No, he hadn't forgotten. He just didn't want to open it.

"I already know what it says," he sighed. "But lets take a look at how they turned me down THIS time..."

Captain Physt broke the seal and unrolled the letter. His brown eyes ran back and forth over the page:

"Captain Hieronymous Physt.... blah, blah, blah... have reviewed your request... blah, blah... after due consideration of your needs and the available resources... etcetera, blah, blah..."

The captain sighed.

"...they can't even be original anymore," he said. He handed the scroll to his secretary. "File this with the others."

"No mage?" she said

"No. But they DID say that we should feel free to make liberal use of Azward to help fill in the 'gaps' in my resources."

"In other words: You already have a mage, don't ask for another one."

"Azward isn't a fighter! He's GOOD, yes, but he's an INVESTIGATIVE mage... of almost no use in a REAL situation! We need men out there in the streets!"

"Men?" said a voice that didn't belong to the captain or his secretary. Another person had entered the room. The dark-haired woman wore stylish pants and a light jacket... both loose-fitting, both black. She wore a sword on her right hip, and a large dagger on her left. The sword's full scabbard and the knife's sheath were both the color of midnight... as were her boots and gloves. The only splash of color in her otherwise monochrome ensemble was the bright purple scarf around her neck. It was tied loosely, with the ends tucked into her jacket. The woman herself was thin, but not frail or skinny. Her clothes didn't quite hide the curves of her petite breasts or shapely hips. Her skin was smooth and feminine, and her face... she had the kind of beauty that many men would kill for.

But all of this was ruined by her voice.

The woman spoke in a deep, husky, masculine whisper. The sound seemed poised on the verge of becoming a bestial roar or a thundering battle-cry at the slightest provocation.

"You know what I meant, lieutenant," said Captain Physt.

"Hello, Monica," said Henrietta.

Monica Drew returned the greeting with a smile and a silent nod. She stepped into the captain's office, moving with all the smooth grace of a dancer. She started to speak, but then she noticed the scroll that Henrietta was holding.

"No mage?" she whispered.

"Afraid not," said the captain. "Every third person in this town can spit blue fireballs or fry a man in his boots by looking at him cross-eyed... but the Tower Guard has a mage-shortage. I just don't understand."

"Most of the mages are on the wrong side of the law," said Monica... still speaking in whispers.

"Oh, that can't be true," said Henrietta.

"It is," Monica replied. "Power corrupts."

"THAT kind of talk brought this town no end of trouble," Henrietta said sternly. "Magic doesn't make a person bad."

"Doesn't make them good, either. But I'll tell you what...," the tone of Monica's whisper lowered... transforming into something just this side of sinister. "...you let me sing your grandchildren a lullaby, and I'll consider your point of view."

"Lieutenant," Captain Physt cautioned.

"Sorry," Monica said. She smiled apologetically at Henrietta. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," the secretary replied. "Don't mention it. But it does give me a new appreciation for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. What an amazingly strong and agile woman you must be... to go on patrol night after night carrying that mighty CHIP you have perched on your shoulder."

With that, Henrietta left the room and returned to her desk.

"I deserved that," said Monica.

"Yes," said Captain Physt. "You did."

"You left word that you wanted to see me before patrol?"

"Yes. I wanted to make sure you didn't leave without your new recruits."

Monica raised an eyebrow and gave the captain a wary look.

"Recruits?"

"Six just came in today. No mages... I'm sure you'll be happy about that."

"And how many am I getting?"

"Six."

"What?"

"Six recruits. They're all going on Darkwatch with you."

"ME!? But... but we've only got-"

"You're three soldiers short on Darkwatch. Plus, I've given Cedris, Simon, and Richard the night off. They'll report bright and early tomorrow morning... for Daywatch."

"But those are three of my best fighters!"

"Exactly. And I'm replacing them with SIX men, whom you can train to be their equals."

"Me? Why not give them to Dash? He always gets the new recruits-"

"Because he always gets the new recruits."

"There's a reason for that, sir," Monica said darkly. "Darkwatch isn't for amateurs."

"Are you saying that Daywatch is? Are you calling Sir Dascle an amateur?"

"No, sir. But the challenges are different, and I can't-"

"Don't sell yourself short, Lieutenant. You're a great fighter, and a good leader-"

"Dash is much better at training than I am-"

"And that's exactly why you're getting all six recruits. Split them up in your squads however you see fit... but I do expect at least TWO of them to stay in your direct command."

"But- You could have at least told me before now!"

"I am the commanding officer, am I not? Consider yourself privileged that I AM telling you now."

"Sir... you know... you know how things get on Darkwatch. Its dangerous. Its MORE than dangerous."

"They'll be fine. And so will you. This matter is not open to discussion."

Monica gave an exaggerated sigh. She looked Captain Physt straight in the eye... and began to pout.

"You know it won't work," he said. "Don't waste your time."

Monica sighed again... this time for real.

"Yes, sir," she whispered. "Where are my new recruits, sir? Did they even bother to show up?"

"They're with Touch. He's running them through the usual drill."

"Will they still be able to move when its time to patrol?"

"Touch gave me his word he'd take it easy on them. This time. If you hurry, you might be able to catch some of the fun. But Azward wants to see you first."

"Azward," Monica repeated the name with noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "This night's getting better by the minute."

"And that's exactly what he wishes to see you about." This time, Captain Physt was whispering. "Tonight."

"What about tonight?"

"Remember that... 'special operation' we had planned?"

"That? We're doing that tonight!? With new recruits-"

"You will make sure the new folks are occupied elsewhere... out of harm's way... while we take care of business."

A quick smile came to Monica's lips.

"Well, tonight won't be a total waste, then," she whispered.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Monica saluted the captain, and he returned the formality. She spun on her heels and marched out of his office.

"Have a nice night," Henrietta called as Monica passed by the secretary's desk.

"Oh, I will," Monica replied.

---

The East Tower was among the most heavily fortified and well-protected structures the city. Of course, that also meant that its corridors were about as colorful and appealing as a crypt. Sometimes the dreariness of the place was a perfect match for Lieutenant Monica Drew's mood. Other times, like tonight, it just irritated her. A lot.

Two burly guards saluted her as she passed between them. The salute she gave in return was half-hearted at best. Today hadn't been a good day so far, but hopefully it would get better. First, however, she had to get through her meeting with Azward.

She didn't have any real problem with Azward. She'd known him only for the few months he'd been stationed at East Tower, during which he had neither said nor done anything to earn her dislike of him. But he was a mage, and, except for certain rare exceptions, that was enough. It wasn't a personal dislike, however. No, for Monica, it was just a matter of principle. And just as Azward hadn't done anything to earn her scorn, neither had he done anything to get himself promoted to the 'rare exception' category. Maybe that would change soon.

But only if he put some damned lights in his study.

Monica paused outside the mage's office/laboratory and squinted at the inky blackness that awaited her. Azward's study was located deep in the heart of the tower, where the only light came from magic, torches, or lamps. Azward had obviously forgotten that fact, and, since Monica was one of the only three people in Montfort who COULDN'T see in the dark, her efforts to see into his office yielded only frustration. She couldn't even tell if he was in there.

"Azward." she said, still speaking in low whisper.

"Hmmm?" came a timid reply from the darkness. "Who's there? Oh, its you! Come in!"

"I would... but it'd be a shame if I tripped over something in the dark and accidentally blew the tower into next week."

"OH, you need light! ...so sorry..." Monica listened to the sounds from the room: a wooden stool dragging briefly across the floor. Shuffling footsteps. The rustling of cloth. And then Azward's voice: "Solarim Illumitat Noninflamitrix!"

The ceiling of Azward's study began to glow, emitting a strong, steady light that illuminated everything in the room with a minimum of shadows and dark spots. The mage was standing by his desk with his back to the door, his nimble fingers were tying a strip of cloth around his face to cover his eyes.

"Come, come," he waved her in. The mage was a strange looking man... strange, even for Montfort. He was barely 5 feet tall, with the palest, most sickly-looking skin Monica had seen since the Great Plague. Monica had seen corpses with more color. His round head was completely devoid of hair... no eyelashes, no eyebrows... and mottled with so many blotches and age-spots that he almost resembled a cheetah. Azward's arms and legs were unhealthily thin, even for a man of such small size. They looked like they'd be more at home on some kind of giant insect than a man. But Azward's most striking feature was the very thing that he was covering... his eyes. Monica had seen them only once before, when he'd first arrived. The large, multi-faceted orbs startled even her. The mage wasn't ashamed or self-conscious about them, but he still kept them covered when others were around. It generally made conversation with him much easier.

He finished tying the cloth around his eyes and turned around.

"Better?" he said.

"Hmmmm?"

Azward pointed to the ceiling.

"The spell. You like?"

"It's adequate," said Monica. It was actually quite good... it provided more than enough light to see without being distractingly bright. It was almost like sunlight. In fact, if Monica didn't know better, she's swear she was standing outside at high noon.

"Oh, I forgot. You don't like magic. Should I keep a torch around for you instead?"

"I have no problem with magic," she whispered. "Its MAGES that I don't like."

"Ah, so you DO have an appreciation for the art!"

"I didn't say that-" Monica began, but Azward kept right on talking.

"Did you know that there are over 6000 ways to transform magical energy into light? The spell I used is a Solar Plane... its actually artificially-produced sunlight! Indistinguishable from the real thing! Now, there is a rare derivative spell that produces artificial moonlight, but I can't really see the practical applications of-"

"Azward."

"Oh. I'm boring you, aren't I."

"Yes, you are."

"So sorry."

"You should find yourself an apprentice," said Monica. "Then the two of you can talk magic to your heart's content."

"I had an apprentice once," Azward began. He was clearly on the verge of a long and meaningless ramble, but he stopped himself before he could bore Monica further. But Monica actually wanted to hear the story. She knew very little about Azward's past, and judging from his face, the mention of an apprentice seemed to touch a rare nostalgic nerve in the mage.

"What happened to him?" she said.

"Ahh, well... he was a bit too eager. Wanted to learn too much too soon. Always wanting to learn new things instead of perfecting what he already knew."

"Get himself blown up?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I guess I wasn't teaching fast enough for him, so he left to find someone more his speed. That was years ago. He's been somewhat of a wanderer ever since."

"He'd better be careful. If he wanders too close to the East Tower, Captain Physt will draft him."

"Funny you should mention that..."

"He's in the guard?"

"No, but he was in Montfort not too long ago. Left on some fool expedition... something about finding an ancient city. Sheer nonsense if you ask me, but that's the type of thing he was always doing... rushing off halfway across the globe just to be the first to learn some new spell."

"Sounds like a dangerous man," said Monica.

"Not really," Azward replied. Then he thought for a moment. "Well... perhaps."

"And you taught him," Monica said accusingly. "Another dangerous mage on the loose. Thank you, Azward."

"I was but one teacher of many. And you have the wrong idea... even at his worst, he was no villain. Just a man cursed with a bit too much curiosity.... nothing like the fiend that-"

Monica raised her hand... a warning that Azward was about to trespass on an area that he was better off avoiding.

"Apologies." Azward bowed slightly.

"The captain said you wanted to see me." Monica steered the conversation back into more formal waters.

"Ah!"

Azward shuffled over to his desk, where he produced three small, draw-string pouches... each about the size of a coin-purse.

"For tonight," he said as he handed the pouches to Monica.

"Enough for everyone?"

"Of course! We wouldn't want any unfortunate... uhhhh...." Azward's words became more tentative, as if he were not sure how to finish the sentence without offending his guest.

"No, we wouldn't," Monica finished for him. "Will they work?"

"Naturally. As long as the exposure is limited to a few seconds."

"How few?"

"Ten at the most."

Monica weighed Azward's words against his body language and facial expression. There was no doubt or hesitation in either... the mage fully believed that his magic was up to the task. At least HE was confident.

"What about the other?" said Monica.

"Yes... you'll need this-" Azward gave her a medallion... a two-inch diameter disk hanging on a chain. Both disk and chain were of a dull, silver-colored metal. The disk was adorned with carvings on both sides... strange symbols that Monica didn't recognize. She slipped the item in her pants pocket.

"Uhhh..." Azward appeared suddenly upset. He turned away sharply and started sputtering like a nervous schoolboy. "I....Ummm... Lieutenant...uhhh... Ms. Drew..."

"What?"

"The enchantment in the...uhhh... medal is quite concentrated, and... well,... what I mean is...your pants are very...uhh... Not that I was looking...but...ummmm..."

The mage's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was the most color she'd ever seen in him.

"What's wrong?" said the Lieutenant.

Azward pointed nervously at the pocket where Monica had stashed the medallion. Monica looked down at her pants. They appeared normal, but then, she didn't have eyes like Azward... Eyes that perceived magical energy the way that a normal person could see light. With an enchanted item in her pocket, the thin cloth of her pants was probably completely transparent to him. Her underclothes would have been plainly visible... had she been wearing any.

Monica snatched the medallion from her pants and placed it in the outer pocket of her jacket.

"Better?" she asked.

Azward relaxed; his cheeks began returning to their normal, sickly pallor.

"I hope the view wasn't THAT bad," she whispered. This one was a sultry whisper, not her usual gruff one. She followed it with a wink.

Azward blushed again, this time more deeply than the first. Monica chuckled silently, finding the whole situation quite amusing.

"I'll see you tonight, Azward," she said on her way out. She'd barely gone around the corner when the light in Azward's study went out, plunging the room into total darkness once again.

---

The new recruits were battling in the courtyard just inside the rear gate... well away from the prying eyes of pedestrians and casual visitors. Their practice filled the evening air with the sounds of swordplay. Battle cries, the ring of metal on metal, and the occasional grunt of pain marked the playground of Lieutenant Touch, the East Tower's Training Officer. Lieutenant Touch was putting the six new recruits through a scaled-down version of his usual lesson. After a brief endurance drill, he initiated a miniature tournament... pairing them off at random and pitting them against each other in fights that lasted for either five minutes, or until one man disarmed the other. Touch walked calmly among the pairs of combatants, stopping to observe each bout for a few seconds before moving on to the next. Lieutenant Drew stood off to one side and watched the display, then marched out onto the field. Touch saw her and gave a shout, prematurely ending the current round of fights.

"Rest," he ordered. The recruits milled around aimlessly for a moment... until they noticed Drew. Then they jumped to attention. Monica gave the men a quick glance, then motioned toward Touch.

Touch... who's real name was something unpronounceable that ended in 't-che'... wore his usual non-uniform. No shirt. No boots. No weapons. The only thing separating him from total nakedness was the black silk pants that were the sum total of his wardrobe. Touch's tanned skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. He was a thin, lithe man... slightly shorter than average... with no bulging muscles or rippling biceps that were the stock and trade of most warriors. He was a man that LOOKED weak, but nothing could be further from the truth. Touch's body was rock hard, and so well defined that his physique seemed chiseled out of flesh-colored stone. His hair was perfectly straight, and perfectly black. He kept it cut to just below his ears. His skin was a peculiar shade of yellowish-brown, but the brownness was only due to his tendency to walk around in the sun with no shirt. His bare feet padded soundlessly in the dirt as he joined Lieutenant Drew. When he stood before her, he clasped both his hands together just below his chin and gave a deep bow.

Drew returned the gesture so precisely that it may as well have been a mirror image.

"How bad are they?" she asked. Touch smiled so widely that his almond-shaped eyes twinkled.

"Where you see lack of skill," he replied. "I see raw enthusiasm... a precious commodity that, with care and time, can be molded to form the noblest of warriors."

"On the streets of Montfort, 'raw enthusiasm' can lead to a very quick and embarrassing death. What do these boys have?"

"If you mean swordsmanship..." Touch shrugged. Drew couldn't help but watch the way the way his muscles moved. Tight, yet smooth at and fluid. The man was a work of art, no doubt about it. "They are better than most newcomers. Able and willing to learn."

"Will they last the week?"

"That depends on their leader. I hear that is to be you, this time."

"Yes." Monica eyed the row of new recruits. "I see I haven't missed the fun," she said.

"As usual, your arrival is quite timely."

"Good. Don't let me interrupt."

Monica bowed deeply, as did Touch.

"But remember," she added. "They have to be on the streets in an hour."

"Do not worry," said Touch. The Training Officer walked back onto the field and stood before his students. "You and you-" He pointed out two of the recruits. "Come forward."

The pair of swordsmen took two steps forward.

"Your names?"

"Nerris, SIR!"

"Wolfe, SIR!"

They shouted with comical enthusiasm.

"The two of you have proven to be the most able swordsmen of the group. Your skill is without match among your fellow students... except, perhaps, for one another."

The men glanced at each other. Nerris, the younger and taller of the pair, smiled at Wolfe. Wolfe's face remained expressionless.

"Therefore, I have chosen you to assist me with this demonstration."

Without waiting for an order, the two men squared off against each other and drew their swords. They waited for Touch's signal to begin the match that would decide who was the best swordsman in the class.

Touch cleared his throat loudly to get their attention. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said. "You- here. You-there." The Lieutenant pointed Nerris and Wolfe to spots on his left and right, respectively. The men went to their places and waited. Their confusion was evident... they were standing too far apart to spar with each other...

"Attack me," Touch said calmly. Instead of battle-cries, Touch received two identical looks of doubt and befuddlement.

"E-excuse me... sir?" said Wolfe. Wolfe had a deep, deep voice didn't fit his comical reluctance at all. It made Drew smile.

"Attack me," Touch repeated.

Wolfe looked at Nerris. Nerris looked at Wolfe. They both looked at Touch. Touch had his eyes closed. Nobody moved.

"Uhhh... sir?" said Wolfe. "You're an officer, sir."

Touch sighed and opened his eyes.

"Do you see an insignia of rank or office anywhere on my person?" Touch turned around in a circle so they could see him from all sides. "For all either of you know, I could be an intruder. So, for the purposes of this demonstration, let us pretend that I AM an intruder. Subdue me."

Touch stood still and clasped both hands behind his back.

"Okay," Wolfe said reluctantly. While Nerris stood in place and watched, Wolfe walked toward Touch and made a few tentative jabbing motions with his sword-

-Thunk!-

Touch's foot barely moved, and Wolfe's sword was laying in the dirt. Wolfe was rubbing his suddenly-sore fingers, trying to figure out what had just happened.

"...wha-?"

"I said ATTACK me!" Touch shouted. "THAT was NOT an attack!" Drew knew that Touch wasn't really loosing his temper, but he could certainly put on a convincing show of it. "Pick up your sword and try again!"

With Touch's attention focused on Wolfe, Nerris made a silent charge... a sneak attack on the distracted Lieutenant.

Drew saw it coming, but she decided not to warn him. She'd let Nerris find out the hard way... like she did.

Without taking his eyes off of Wolfe, Touch sidestepped the charge, then twisted sharply at the waist and rabbit-punched Nerris in the kidney as he rushed past.

"OOOOOOF!" Nerris stumbled a few steps, nearly tripping over his own sword as he dropped it. He stayed on his feet, however... doubled over in pain and clutching his side as if his gut were about to explode... but still on his feet.

"There!" Touch said to Wolfe. "Attack me like HE tried to do, only BETTER! Now both of you... pick up your swords and get back to your places."

Wolfe and Nerris took up their weapons and went back to their positions on either side of Touch.

"Now... attack me."

The two fighters immediately rushed Touch. Nerris bellowed a fierce war cry as swung his blade... a distraction to draw Touch's attention from Wolfe, who lunged silently, thrusting his sword toward the lieutenant's chest.

Touch hopped backward, then reversed direction and ducked in between the two men, who nearly collided with each other in their attempt to follow the nimble lieutenant's.

"I asked you to attack me," Touch said as the men circled him. "Please do so before I lose patience with both of you."

Again, the swordsmen moved in for a dual attack. Again, Touch evaded their blades with casual ease.

"You are starting to bore me," he said.

Nerris's gaze narrowed, and he glanced tellingly at Wolfe. The men had been holding back. They knew it... Touch knew it... and even Monica knew it. But that was about to change.

"HA!" Nerris shouted. He and Wolfe moved in once more, but this time the attacks were real. Monica studied their styles as they attempted to assault their superior officer. Nerris was what Drew called a quickster... he rushed in for short rounds of rapid-fire attacks, and then backed off to study their effectiveness. Wolfe was the opposite. When he moved in, he stayed in.... attempting to mow his target down with a relentless wave of strong, yet well-executed attacks. Nerris used his own speed and accuracy to his advantage. Wolfe did the same with strength and endurance. When working as a team, such a combination would have been quite effective.

But none of meant a thing when fighting Touch.

The lithe lieutenant ducked, dodged, and sometimes literally danced away from their best attacks as if they were both rank amateurs holding a sword for the first time. Nerris and Wolfe had quickly worked up a sweat, but Touch wasn't even breathing hard. Even worse, both of the lieutenant's hands were still clasped firmly behind his back. He was embarrassing them, and they didn't like it. They began to get annoyed... and then angry. But instead of growing sloppy, their attacks became quicker and more determined as they funneled their anger into the fight. They began to work together... signaling each other with furtive glances, grunts, and finger movements to coordinate their attacks. When they struck, their swords moved like two weapons controlled by the same man. Fast and furious.

Monica liked what she saw. These two had potential.

Touch liked it, too. This was exactly how he wanted them. Now it was time to begin.

He backed away from the fighters, and, as they turned to attack, he slipped back in between them as he had done several times before. But this time he wasn't trying to confuse or avoid them... in the blink of an eye, the game had been changed from 'keep-away' to 'combat.' His hands moved like darting birds, much too fast for either fighter to react. His fist drove into Wolfe's side like a hammer. A ridge-hand strike did likewise for Nerris' stomach. Both swordsman yelped in pain and jumped back. Touch hastened Wolfe's retreat with a front-snap kick that must have certainly loosened a few teeth. Nerris was already on the attack. Not learning his lesson from the earlier attempt, he was once again trying to rush Touch from behind. Touch rebuffed him with a spinning back-kick, driving his naked heel into the swordsman's solar-plexus. The tossed Nerris back several feet.... landed on his butt, eyes already glazed over with pain.

Wolfe narrowly avoided a similar fate. His rushing slash was met with a spinning side-kick to the face. The swordsman jerked his head back as he swung his sword in a downward arc across Touch's chest. Touch spun away from the blade and then launched into what Drew called a 'windmill'.... a relentless series of spinning kicks that came so fast and so hard that they were almost impossible to counter. Touch's feet zipped past Wolfe's startled face five... six... seven times before the swordsman even knew what was going on. Instinctively, he backed away from the spinning madman, but Touch followed him, driving him back even further. The lieutenant was too close for Wolfe to make effective use of his sword, so he kept moving back... and Touch kept spinning and kicking until he was literally chasing Wolfe across the courtyard.

And then he stopped.

Drew knew exactly what was going through Wolfe's mind at that instant. It was the same thing that went through HER mind when Touch had done it to HER:

Huh? What happened? Where'd the kicks go?

He was stunned and disoriented for an instant, and that was all it took. Touch dove into him with the thing Wolfe least expected... a round of hard, fast punches to the chest and abdomen. By the time Wolfe felt the first blow, Touch was pulling his fist back from his sixth. All the pain hit Wolfe at once:

"!!!!!"

Wolfe's mouth hung open and his eyes rolled back up into his head. He stood on one foot, sputtering and convulsing like a marionette with tangled strings. Finally, he collapsed.

Touch didn't pause to admire his handiwork. He immediately lunged to one side to avoid, Nerris' silent charge. The man had recovered his sword and his senses, and was now genuinely angry. Touch ducked under the slashing blade and spun around to Nerris's unguarded side. Nerris realized his mistake about the same time as Touch's spinning back-fist grazed his skull-

WHACK!

It was only a glancing blow, but a glancing blow from Touch was comparable to having an anvil dropped on one's head from a great height. Nerris blacked out for an instant... long enough for Touch to-

-do nothing.

Touch backed away, assumed a loose fighting stance, and waited. Nerris shook the dizziness away and locked eyes with his instructor. He glared at Touch. His fist tightened around the hilt of his weapon. Then he attacked.

"HA!" he shouted as he lunged forward... then reared back... then charged once more. His blade danced in complex arcs.... Slashes and thrusts and jabs and feints. Nerris fought like a champion fencer. Unfortunately, he was fighting empty air. Touch avoided the sword with ease each time it sought his flesh. He let Nerris back him up a few steps, then he disarmed him with simple maneuver. He twisted to one side and stepped in close as Nerris's arm thrust the blade forward. He grabbed the swordsman's wrist with one hand, then twisted it while yanking the man towards him. Nerris lurched forward... and his face ran right into Touch's extended elbow-

CRACK!

The gentle jab got Nerris' attention, but the backfist that followed it was STILL too fast for him to see-

WHACK!

Nerris stumbled backward, barely conscious. But Touch wasn't through with him. The lieutenant spun around behind him and kicked the swordsman back the other direction... and then repeated the maneuver... and then sent Nerris staggering to one side with a spinning axe-kick. Touch's fast kicks sent Nerris bouncing from one direction to another like a toy... literally UNABLE to fall until Touch allowed it.

"YAAAAAAAAA!!!" Wolfe screamed in rage as he charged, bearing down on Touch like an angry elephant.

Monica shook her head. Wolfe should have stayed down.

Touch took off running, straight toward the charging swordsman.... but with a quick hop, Touch propelled himself into the air, flipping Wolfe's head and landing behind him. Touch's hands came down like the blades of a guillotine, striking Wolfe's shoulders on either side of his angry, red neck.

Instantly, both of Wolfe's arms went numb.

Touch then pummelled the swordsman with a rapid sequence of punches... each landing just below the previous one, striking in a straight line down Wolfe's spine. One punch for every...single... vertebra.... in his back.

Wolfe collapsed like a straw house in a tornado.

FWWUMP!

"Uhhhhhnnnngh..." Nerris groaned as he tried to rise. He was on his hands and knees, looking expectantly at Touch. Monica knew what that look meant. He was hoping... no, praying... that the fight was over.

It wasn't.

Touch addressed the remaining students

"Your fellow soldiers have suffered defeat," he said. "As Guardsmen, you are honor-bound to rescue and assist them."

The four remaining recruits looked sheepishly at Touch.

"Well?" said the lieutenant.

The recruits exchanged glances with each other, and with Nerris... who was still on his hands and knees. Wolfe was unconscious... face down and drooling in the dirt.

"I will make it easy for you," said Touch. He planted his feet firmly in the dirt and folded his arms across his chest. "All you must to do rescue your fellow guardsmen, is to move me from this spot. Surely the four of you... four ARMED MEN... can accomplish that."

Don't fall for it... don't fall for it... don't fall for it... Monica thought to herself.

They fell for it.

The men drew their weapons and-

"Wait!" Touch shouted. "Surely you intend to formulate a PLAN before you throw yourselves into battle, do you not?"

"Plan?" one of the recruits said.

Touch nodded.

The men formed a huddle and whispered among themselves for several seconds. Then they lined up shoulder to shoulder in front of Touch. They crouched down low and prepared to charge

...oh, no... Monica thought. This NEVER works.

Each of the men locked eyes with Lieutenant Touch, as if attempting to move him with the force of their gaze alone. Touch was unmoved and unimpressed. He simply stood and waited.

On an unspoken signal, the recruits all charged. They held their swords before them as they bore down on the lieutenant... tearing through the space between them and their target like rushing, unstoppable wall of muscle and steel.

For a second, it almost looked as though they would succeed.

It must have certainly seemed that way to THEM, because they gave a glorious roar of victory even before they struck.

But then reality hit them. Literally.

Touch moved so fast that the man was almost a blur. Each hand snatched a sword by blade and yanked the weapons from their owners, while one foot delivered two quick kicks to a third recruit's crotch. His other foot remained planted on the ground. Touch tossed the purloined weapons away and, in the same motion, grabbed the fourth recruit by the wrist and spun him around. His fist touched the man two... three times. Three hard punches to vital nerve clusters in the neck and shoulder. With the soldier's arm sufficiently numb, Touch clamped his hand over the man's fingers so that the soldier wouldn't drop his sword. Then he turned the man himself into a weapon.

"HEEEY!" the soldier shouted. His eyes widened in disbelief as Touch's iron hands manipulated his limp arm like some kind of puppet. The sounds of swordplay once again filled the courtyard. Using the captured solider as a human sword AND a human shield, Touch sparred playfully with one the recruits who had already retrieved their weapon. Touch fended off a few amateurish attacks, then thrust his captive into his opponent. The two recruits barely avoided impaling each other as they collided. By now, the OTHER two recruits were rushing him. They had their swords, and they meant business.

Touch could have easily danced around them, but that would have meant abandoning his 'spot' and losing to his students. And if it was one thing that all newcomers to the East Tower learned on their first day, is was that Touch Did Not Lose.

The recruits' timing was off, and one of them arrived a split-second ahead of the other. Touch ducked under the man's clumsy slash and pummelled the poor man's lower chest with a rain of punches. The air exploded from the recruit's lungs in short, pitiful barks that made it seem as if Touch were beating the very words out of his mouth. Then Touch delivered a spinning back-fist to the second man's extended forearm. Touch's knuckles sent shockwaves of pain racing up and down the poor soldier's arm. He dropped his sword.

"Now pay attention," Touch told the stunned soldier. The lieutenant's's hands danced up and down the man's chest... his fingers were like sharpened steel rods jabbing painfully into nearly every soft space on the man's upper torso: Neck. Throat. Solar Plexus. Even the spaces between his ribs. The flurry of motion came and went so fast that it was impossible to follow. But the effect was devastating. The recruit's nervous system went into uncontrollable spasms that could very well have been fatal if Touch had used just a bit more pressure. A spinning back-kick propelled the quaking soldier right into the path of the other charging recruits. Three of them went down in an embarrassing heap while the fourth continued to charge. A single front-snap kick made the pile a foursome.

The fight was over. Those that COULD get up.... didn't.

The lieutenant's crouched down so that he was closer to his battered students. He balanced on the balls of his feet and waited for them to gather their senses. It took a few seconds.

"Believe it or not," Touch said, "You all fought well. You fought with spirit. You fought to the limits of whatever skill you possessed. You did your best..."

Touch paused dramatically

"...but had this been real, your best would have gotten you all killed. Some of you may now think me a cruel taskmaster, but, there is a purpose for the beating you have all received. In fact, there are TWO. The first is to introduce you to the fighting arts with which you will all become very familiar in the coming weeks. Captain Physt has declared that no one in the East Tower will ever be helpless simply because they are without a weapon. The Captain is a wise man; and my purpose here it to implement that wisdom. For the next three months, every hour that you do not spend patrolling or sleeping, will be spend here with me-"

A collective groan rose from the recruits.

"I have no doubt that the lessons I give you will save your lives one day. But only if you heed the SECOND reason for this demonstration. Are you all listening?" Touch looked at the recruits he'd fought earlier. Nerris was awake and sitting quietly in the dirt. Wolfe was awake as well... but in too much pain to move. He grunted to indicate his attention. When Touch spoke again, his voice had an edge that was not present before... an air grave seriousness and concern. The unexpected change seized the recruits' attention and held it like a vice. Even Lieutenant Drew listened, though she had heard the words many times before.

"Listen to me," Touch continued. "I want you to think of yourselves. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Your childhood and your families. Your enemies. Everything about you that makes you who you are... that makes you different from the person beside you. Different than everyone else in this Tower. I want you to keep those thoughts close to your heart and remember them as you walk these streets. Remember them, so that you will know what you are destroying when you take another man's life. Remember them, so that you will not take any life lightly. You will realize that an evil man... is still a man. A man who is vile and corrupt beyond all hope of redemption... is still a man. You do what you must to fulfil your duty to this city, but you must not strike that fatal blow without realizing... without FULLY understanding... exactly what it is you are doing."

The recruits lowered their eyes and nodded their heads in agreement.

"But-" said Touch. He paused a moment to clear his throat. "Just as you do not kill without cause and contemplation... you should also remember that your OWN life has worth... and it should not be thrown away without equal cause... equal contemplation. I do not speak of cowardice now, but of wisdom. Wisdom that you have seen and felt today at my hands. Wisdom that should have noted that I am the smallest man in this courtyard. And that I fight with no weapons or armor. Yet, I defeated the best of you with ease. And then, I prevailed against superior numbers without receiving so much as a single wound. This should serve as a warning to you. There are men out there who have turned their back on enlightenment, and now walk a path that is paved with murder and violence. These men..."

Touch paused once more. The emotion was thick in his voice. The men hung on his words.

"These men are better fighters than you will ever be. They are masters of weapons that you have never seen. Among their number are some who could defeat me almost as easily as I have beaten you today. They are traders in darkness and death... men who would knowingly strike you down... willingly destroy your precious gift of life... because you are an obstacle to their goal. Or simply because they CAN. So, I implore you all... no, I beg you to please... PLEASE be mindful of yourselves and your battles. Never fight an unfamiliar opponent alone. Never be too proud to withdraw and summon assistance... but never assume that superior numbers or weapons give you the advantage. They do not. Remember the lesson that one, un-armed man has given you this day."

His speech finished, Touch stood up, clasped his hands before him, and bowed deeply to his students. Half of them stood up. They and Touch helped the other half to their feet... except for Wolfe, who refused to move.

"Did I miss the show?" said a man walking up behind Lieutenant Drew. He was of average height, with broad shoulders and blond hair that was cut almost level with his scalp. The ruggedness of his build, sharpness of his walk, and the multitude of weapons hanging from his belt would have marked him as a man of serious demeanor. But the wide smile on his lips refuted that. He was Sergeant Wilk... the biggest prankster in the East Tower.

"Afraid so," Monica replied in her usual whisper.

"Hell, they're still moving around!" said the Sergeant. "What gives!? These guys made of IRON or something?"

"Touch took it easy on them."

"Huh?! I got the hell beat outta me on MY first day, so why do THEY get the-"

"So they'll still be functional on their first shift," said Monica.

"Yeah, well..." said Wilk. "A good night's sleep, some strong painkillers and a double-tankard of Inebrediee Gold will have 'em right as rain by morning. Or as right as they CAN be after a session with Touch."

"That's the problem.... they don't have until morning."

"Eh?"

"They aren't going to Daywatch. Physt wants them on Darkwatch with us."

"Huh? HA! AHA-HA-HA! OOOhhh, that's a good one! Almost had me for a second! New recruits on Darkwatch... HAA!"

"It's not a joke, Sergeant."

All the humor drained right out of Wilk's face... a sight that was humorous in itself.

"No..." he said.

Monica nodded.

"But we don't-"

"Physt took Cedris, Simon, and Richard and put them on Daywatch."

"Our BEST fighters!?!"?

"So now we've got three NEW vacancies on top of the ones we already had... and those are our new soldiers. Starting tonight."

"But Sir Dascle and Touch always train the new recruits! Darkwatch is no place for amateurs!"

"Then I suggest we get these soldiers trained and disciplined quickly... before they get someone killed. I'll be counting on you and Forester to do your part."

"Greeeat. That's just unbelievable. You know, sometimes I really LOVE this job. This ain't one of them times."

"You could always quit," said Monica.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen. How are we doing this?"

"We'll split them up evenly between the three squads. I'm taking those two-" Monica pointed to Nerris and Wolfe. "You and Forester can fight over the rest."

"Fight, hell," said Wilk. "I'm here first, so I get first pick. I want the big guy there, and-"

"Not so quick there!" said Sergeant Forester, who stormed up to Monica and Wilk as if he were intending to knock them both over. Forester was shorter and broader than Wilk, with brown hair and a rough, pock-marked face framed by a scraggly mustache and goatee. Forester was a gruff, unkempt man with a voice that always seemed one step away from a growl. He and Wilk treated each other like mortal enemies... constantly trading insults and challenging each other to fights.... but, in truth, they were best friends. A fact that neither man would ever admit.

"I don't know what's going on," Forester grumbled. "But it sure as hell looks like I'm bein' cheated!"

"Nobody's cheatin' ya, ya paranoid bastard!" Wilk retorted.

"Good. Then who are these fellas here you was pointin' at?"

"New recruits," said Monica. She explained the situation to Forester, who took it without complaint or comment. The man enjoyed a good challenge... probably a bit more than was healthy.

"Fine," he said with a nod. "I'll be taking that big fella there and-"

"Ah-Ah-Ahhh..." Wilk stepped in front of him. "The REAL men go on MY squad."

"Then what are YOU doin' on your squad?"

"Funny. I got first pick... I was here first. YOU take that little skinny fella there-"

"ONLY if you take my little skinny BOOT up your-"

Lieutenant Drew left the two sergeants to argue it out while she gathered her new recruits. All six men snapped to attention... or as close to attention as they could get... when she approached.

"Nerris. Wolfe. You're with me. The rest of you will be with one of those two men over there-"

Forester and Wilk were yelling at each other... pointing and beating their chests like baboons. Wilk had turned a very nice shade of red.

"Ummm..." said one recruit. "They... they aren't going to b-beat us, are they, ma'am?"

"Only if you screw up. Which you will."

"Ma'am?" said another man. It was the 'little skinny fella' that the sergeants were still fighting about. His voice and demeanor pretty much matched his size, but other than Nerris and Wolfe, he showed the most skill with a sword. "Ma'am? Permission to speak freely, ma'am?"

"What is it?" the Lieutenant whispered.

"Ma'am... you don't know me, but, I just wanted to say that its a real honor and privilege to finally meet you."

"Meet me?"

"I saw you a long time ago... back in New Venyce-"

Oh, no. Another one of THOSE...

Lieutenant Drew looked away, and her lips tightened into a frown. She started shaking her head, as if unconsciously ordering the man to stop talking. But she didn't say a word. She'd learned that it was best just to let them go on.

"The concert was at the amphitheater in the Gardens... remember that one? Oh, how silly... there must have been so many that you can't possibly remember them all."

"...the flowers," Monica sighed. "The stage was decorated with pink and yellow flowers. I remember."

"Yes! That's it! I was there, and it was the most amazing thing I've seen! When you sang... your voice... it was like listening to a piece of heaven! Your voice and those words went straight to the heart of everyone in that garden. I've never heard anything so beautiful in all my life. Grown men wept just from hearing your voice! When you left the stage, there wasn't a single dry eye in the audience... mine included. I hear that even ole Gabrial Brinks shed a tear or two."

"...a standing ovation..." Lieutenant Drew's whispering voice dripped with sadness.

"RIGHT! We stood there clapping for almost ten minutes! No one.. NO ONE... had ever heard anything like it before or since! The critics gave you reviews-"

"They said the audience had died and gone to paradise," said Monica.

"Yes! That's exactly what they said! Not that you needed critics to tell you how you sang. You came back the next year, but I missed that show. I was a hundred miles away, but I STILL tried to make it back to hear you sing. A lot of people did! People came from five or six cities away! Well... I never thought that I'd actually get to MEET you in person... let alone WORK with you. I mean... its like-"

"I'm not the person you think I am," said Monica.

"Eh? But... you ARE Monica Drew, aren't you, ma'am? I mean-"

"If I was her, would I be here in Montfort working for the Tower Guard?"

"Well... I... I DID think it was kind of strange. But you said you remembered the concert, so I assumed-"

"I don't sing anymore," said Monica. "That part of my life is over. The person who sang those songs is gone."

The recruit stood there, blinking at her like she'd just told him his family was dead.

"Wha... but... I don't understand."

"There's nothing TO understand. I just don't do it anymore."

"But... why? Why? Your voice was so-"

"It's gone," Monica said finally.

"Gone?"

"Yes." Monica carefully unwrapped the purple scarf around her neck and showed the man what was underneath it. The soldier saw the angry thing on her throat... the red, bulging, fist-sized lump that sat where her voice-box SHOULD have been... and he backed away, gasping in horror. Monica swallowed once, and the lump convulsed like a clenching fist. The veins and arteries that crisscrossed its gnarled surface pulsed wickedly.

"Gone," she whispered. "Stolen." She re-tied the scarf. "If you enjoyed my voice, then I hope you have a very good memory... because that's the only way you'll ever hear it again."

The soldier hesitated... trying to think of something to say. Finally, he gave up and silently excused himself.

"Lieutenant DREW!" Wilk called. He and Forester were jogging toward her. They were both excited about something.

"Sergeant?"

"We just got a runner from Daywatch," Wilk continued. "Sir Dascle's group has encountered some hostiles. A band of thieves. Dascle has 'em trapped in the old Garret Mansion."

"Trapped?" said Monica. "That doesn't sound like Dascle's style. Why didn't he just take 'em down?"

"Well," Forester said with a smile. "There's about fourteen of 'em. And they've got a hostage."

"Oh."

"AND a mage."

Now, Monica smiled. It was a sly, sinister smile.

"Did Dascle say he needed any help?" she said.

"No, Ma'am," said Wilk. "Says he has it covered. Doesn't need any help."

"Well..." Monica adjusted her scarf, brushing her fingers lightly over the scarred bulge in her throat. "He's gonna get some anyway."

---

Part Two: Villains

Seven horses thundered down the Montfort streets at a furious pace. Lieutenant Drew pushed her mount as fast as it could go, racing through busy thoroughfares as if daring pedestrians or bystanders to get in her way. The rest of her squad followed close behind her, not wanting to risk her wrath if she turned around to find them lagging. Houses and shops melted away as the Tower Guard sped through the city toward their destination.

The crowd was the first sign that they were getting close. A huge mob clogged the street, with more people arriving every minute. The sun had almost set... these people should have been at home or tending to their stores. Whatever was going on, it was a spectacle. But they were still a good distance away from the mansion.

The crowd parted when they heard the horses, and that's when Monica saw the barricades: Two passenger wagons were parked across the road. Monica slowed her horse... but didn't stop. Ahead of her, soldiers saw her squad approaching, recognized them, and quickly pulled one of the wagons aside.

The lieutenant's squad resumed their previous speed and thundered through the opening. They were a little more than block away from the end of the street... Monica could see the Garret mansion looming ahead of them, and she could see grand mess that Sir Dascle was in the process of making.

Monica signaled her squad to halt while she studied the scene from a distance.

Wagons, over-turned carts, and huge bales of hay littered the street in front of the large, two-story house. Eight armed men crouched behind the various items, using them as cover and concealment from whoever was inside the mansion. Some of the men had crossbows. Most had only swords. But all wore the uniform of the Tower Guard.

Things were obviously not going well. One of the hay-bales was on fire, and one of the wagons had an enormous man-sized hole burnt right through it. Fortunately, no one had been hiding behind it when the fireball hit. Everything else had at least one arrow protruding from it.

Snipers. And a mage.

Sir Dascle's people were dug in and waiting... for WHAT, Drew had no idea. She needed to find out, but just walking down the street and asking would be suicide. She turned her horse around and went back to the wagons blocking the street. The squad dismounted and secured their animals while Drew conferred with the guardsmen tending the barricade.

"What's going on?" she whispered as they exchanged salutes.

"We chased 'em across town and into the mansion, ma'am," said Yelth, one of the guardsman. He was a round-faced young man that had come in with the batch of recruits just before the last one. Not nearly experienced enough to take part in an armed siege, which was why Dascle had him guarding the street. The man beside him was Crof... a bit older and uglier, but equally inexperienced. "Now they say they ain't coming out until we withdraw and leave 'em a clear path to the river."

"I heard there was a hostage."

"Yes, ma'am. A woman. Daughter of one of the families they robbed... they just picked her up and carried her away along with the loot. They say they're gonna kill her if we move on the building."

"Do we even know if she's still alive?"

The two guardsmen glanced at each other and shrugged.

"Where's Sir Dascle?" said Monica. "I need to get to him."

"He's out there somewhere, ma'am," said Crof. "I think he and Des was behind the big wagon."

"The big wagon that has a hole burnt in the middle of it?"

The men shrugged again.

"Are these buildings clear?" she asked. She was referring to the stores surrounding them.

"Yes, ma'am," said Yelth. "We cleared 'em ourselves. All empty and locked up tight."

"Good." She turned to her squad and made a series of hand-signals. Everyone returned to their horses and began gathering their equipment. They donned thick belts that hung low with knives, hooks, pouches, and various other mysterious and unidentifiable items. They threw dark-grey capes over their shoulders and fastened them at the throat with tiny black clasps. The capes were hooded, but the hoods stayed down for the time being. Someone produced a small jar of an oily black substance, which the men smeared over their faces to render their skin invisible in the darkness. They changed their weapons... discarding their heavy swords and replacing them with lighter implements like daggers, shuriken, and miniature throwing-axes. They did all this silently, without so much as a grunt or a whisper. Moments later, the members of Darkwatch stood ready. They still wore the uniform of the Tower Guard, but they now looked more like a squad of assassins than a group of warriors. At least MOST of them did.

"Uhhh..." said Nerris. He looked around at the others. Of them all, only Wolfe and Lieutenant Drew were easily recognizable. "What just happened?"

"As far as you're concerned, nothing," whispered Monica. "We're going in. The two of you will stay here and control that crowd. Once things get started, they'll probably want to rush the barricades for a good look. You'll keep that from happening."

"Yes, ma'am."

With more gestures, Monica sent two of her guardsmen to opposite sides of the street. They had their longbows with them, as well as arrows, long coils of rope, grappling hooks, and backpacks bulging with other items. When they reached the shops, Paro and Corgan tossed their hooks up to the roof and began to climb. They moved quickly and silently, pulling themselves up the ropes with such ease that, for a moment, it seemed like gravity was working FOR them instead of against. They reached their respective rooftops at the same time. They paused for a moment to scan the surroundings from their new vantage point, then used hand-signals to report back to Monica that the way was clear. They had two more rooftops to cross before they reached the end of the street. From there, there was nothing but the wide open space that Monica and the others needed to cross to reach Dascle. That space was a deathtrap without proper cover. Corgan and Pero would provide just what they needed. Both archers held up four fingers. The lieutenant nodded, and produced a small pocketwatch from a pouch on her belt.

It would be four minutes before Corgan and Pero were in place. Monica and the two remaining guardsmen had exactly that much time to get into position. Monica studied her timepiece. She held up her hand, fingers extended, and dropped one finger for each second that ticked past.

four...three...two...one...

At 'one,' Monica clenched her fist, and the archers raced toward their destinations. Monica and the others darted down a nearby alley and lost themselves in the shadows. Unfortunately, all of the alleys on this stretch of road were blind; high brick walls and imposing fences prevented passage to the streets beyond. They couldn't use side or back streets to get into place, unless they felt like knocking down a brick wall or two. The only way for them to get where they needed to be was to take to the rooftops with the archers, or walk down the street in plain view.

Or perhaps not.

Monica ran one gloved hand down the wooden door to her right. Side entrance.

She tapped her finger on the door. Instantly, one of the guardsmen knelt in front of it and began picking the lock. Four seconds later-

-click-

...followed by an ominous-

Hmmmmmmmmm....

The space around the door frame flashed an angry red as the protective wards sprang to life.

"Breaker," Monica whispered.

The guard produced a metal disk about one inch thick and as wide as a man's outstretched hand. Both sides bore deep engravings of arcane symbols. It was a WardBreaker. Powerful. Dangerous. Expensive. And illegal for anyone other than law enforcement to possess. It was to protective wards what a battering ram was to a cheap door. The guardsman slammed the disk against the door; his fingers danced across the symbols.

"Knock, knock," the guardsman said with a smile.

The disk made a deep, almost-silent *THUMP* that sent tiny shockwaves through the door, the walls, and the floor. The red fire around the door winked out instantly. The city would no doubt have to reimburse the storekeeper for the destruction of his expensive magic, but that wasn't Monica's concern at the moment.

"Clear," said the guard.

The guardsman stormed into the empty shop. Their eyes darted from shadow to shadow as the moved quickly to the opposite wall. There was no door there, but there WAS a window leading out into the alley on the other side of the store.

The window was boarded up.

Swords and muscle-power tore the thick planks free of the wall. They raised the window and climbed out into the alley.

Two more buildings to go.

The next door had no magic protecting it, but it DID have a huge, complex lock that took almost a minute to pick. The lock eventually yielded to the guard's nimble ministrations, and they were inside. Another window. More boards. Another alley... a door with an even nastier-looking lock AND wards sealing the perimeter.

"I just can't catch a break," Monica whispered. Time was wasting. They had less than a minute to get ready. The WardBreaker disposed of the magic, but the lock was a pick-proof monstrosity that must have come out of some insane locksmith's nightmare.

"To hell with it," Monica whispered. "Hack it down."

The guardsmen attacked the door with their swords. After three or four strong blows, the door gave way. It fell away from the frame and landed on top of a display case filled with something that looked fragile. Both the case and its contents were demolished. More property damage for the city to reimburse.

Monica pointed to the large glass window at the front of the store. The window looked out onto the street, but the very edge of Garret Mansion was just visible from the corner of the store. Monica could see two of the guardsmen crouching behind an overturned wagon. One of them was a massive man wearing a metal breastplate and chainmail. A long, golden ponytail hung down his armored back, and an enormous metal shield leaned against the wagon beside him.

Monica studied the lay of the land between their current position and Sir Dascle. She studied it WELL, because she wouldn't be able to see it in a minute.

"This door's got another one of those locks on it," said one of the guardsmen. The lock on the store's front door was bigger and more complex than the one in the alley.

"Forget it," Monica whispered. "We'll go through the window. Crossbows-"

They all backed away from the window. The two guardsmen each loaded their crossbows and waited. Monica watched the second-hand on her pocketwatch mark the final seconds. Her archers should be in place by now... this needed to be timed just right.

"On my mark," she whispered. With six seconds left, she held up her hand and counted down from five

-four...three...two...one!

Monica clenched her fist, and the guardsmen in the store fired. Their bolts shattered the store window and, before the glass shards had even hit the ground, arrows began to rain down from the roof. They weren't aimed at the guardsmen, or the mansion... but at the ground between the storefront and Sir Dascle's troops. As each arrow struck, small pouches of chemicals attached to the shafts burst open-

PAF!

-to release thick clouds of dark smoke. As more arrows flew, the smoke became thicker and darker.

PAF!
PAF!
PAF!
PAF!

Within seconds, visibility was almost zero.

Monica and the others leapt out of the store window and dashed through the cloud as the archers continued to lay down a wall of smoke all around them. When the smoke finally cleared, Monica was crouching safely behind Sir Dascle. The two guardsmen who'd come with here were likewise secured behind a hay-bale several yards away. The archers that had covered their arrival had withdrawn to the far side of the rooftops where they could safely observe the scene and await further orders.

Sir Dascle gave Monica a surprised look. Beside him, Sergeant Des was staring into some object that Monica couldn't see. He paused to salute her, then went back to whatever he was doing.

"Hello, boys," Monica whispered. "What's new?"

"Twas an entrance worthy of an army," Sir Dascle's smooth bass voice rolled off of his lips like water. "I didst think that we were attacked from behind... but e'en as I didst prepare for battle, the mists parted to reveal the lovely form of Lady Drew. Welcome to the field of battle, milady!"

Dascle smiled expectantly at Drew. She sighed and extended her hand, Dascle took it in his own armored palm and kissed it gently.

Monica hated that.

But then, Sir Dascle was a knight... an honest to gods knight... from some tiny kingdom where hand-kissing, chivalry, and archaic, convoluted speech was tantamount to law. But the knight had a heart of gold and more bravery than any ten men she'd ever known... so she cut him some slack. A little.

"Tis a pleasure to be in your company once again, Lady Drew, though I wouldst prefer surroundings less dire. What brings you hence?"

"What brings me? What do you think?"

"Most curious... didst my messenger become confused on the way to yon tower? Twas a statement of status he carried, not a summons for assistance."

"You know how the captain is."

"Ah. The captain didst dispatch thee to my side?"

"Of course. Well... he would have; I just saved him the trouble. So what's the situation here?"

"Villainous rouges didst barricade themselves in yonder manse. They seeketh not battle with the heroes of East Tower, and thus doth attempt to prevent our charge with cowardly magic and archery. But 'tis the safety of the innocent they keep with them that stills our weapons... not their works of fire and cowardice."

"Do we know the hostage is still alive?"

"Indeed," Sir Dascle said grimly. "They doth parade yon maiden before the windows to ensure their own safety."

"So what are we dealing with, here?"

"They be many in number," said Dascle. "Fourteen of them didst conduct cowardly raids on the homes of noble townsfolk. When confronted by the guard, the villains didst retreat toward the river. But I didst have the road already blocked, so they took refuge in yon manse."

"Weapons?"

"Swords and bows. They be not brave fighters... they strike and run quickly. One man wearest curious armor; I suspect that he and the mage art the leaders of this band of cowards."

"The mage. What's he done so far?

"He spitteth fire and magic bolts from the windows. His aim doth suffer terribly... he striketh targets more by accident than intent."

"Sounds more like a frightened apprentice than a real mage." Monica's whisper bore a hint of disappointment. "So what's your plan? Wait them out?"

"Zounds, no! We doth wait only until the setting of the sun."

"And then?"

"Yon sewer-grate is the key to our plan." Dascle pointed to the ground several yards to their right. There was a manhole, half-covered with a large hay-bale. "A matching grate layeth not far from yon building. Soldiers already wait below for the sun's final rays. Under the cover of night's embrace, they shalt rise from their place and storm the building. Their assault shalt be too swift for the villains to lay harm to the fair maiden."

"Not a good plan, Dascle," Monica whispered. Without a doubt, Sir Dascle was a grandmaster of the art of battle, but his skill at stealth and 'indirect conflict,' left a lot to be desired. That was the domain of Monica Drew and Darkwatch. To the knight, anything that wasn't an outright fight was cowardice and, therefore, beneath him and his men. Even sending troops through the sewers to get closer to the mansion was a surprising move from Dascle. Monica was impressed, even though his plan was a bit flawed.

"We don't know the layout of that building. We don't know what they're up to in there. We don't-"

"Ahh, but Azward's trinket doth dispell your objections, milady."

"Trinket?"

"He gave it to us to test," said Des. The Sergeant was holding what looked like a hand-mirror trimmed in silver. But instead of a reflection, the mirror's surface held a confusing rats-nest of glowing green lines and tiny, flashing dots. At first the lines appeared to be an indecipherable mess... then she realized that she was looking at them upside down. When she moved around to see the lines as they were intended, their meaning became clear.

The image mapped out the interior of the building... every wall, every floor, every crawlspace. The mirror had the mansion's entire floor-plan laid out right in front of her.

"He calls it a Magic Detecting and Ranging unit," said Des. "Sees through walls, even those with low to mid- level concealment spells. These are the people right here." Des pointed to the flashing dots in the image. There were fifteen of them spread throughout the building. The image didn't show how big they were, what weapons they carried or what they were doing, but it did pinpoint their exact location down to the inch.

"This one's the hostage," Des indicated one dot in an upstairs bedroom. "They only let her out when they want to show her to us... then they take her right back. This guy here is the mage-" He pointed to a dot near the front wall, not far from the hostage. There were two other dots in the general area... "And those are two of the archers. They've got another one watching the rear of the house here. Everyone else is just wandering around."

Monica studied the movement of the dots.

"They're waiting for something," she said. "They're nervous. See that guy... he keeps pacing back and forth. So does this guy in the back. And what's this dot here?"

There was one flickering dot that remained motionless on the upper level. Its glow was much weaker than the others... so faint that Monica didn't even see it at first. It winked in and out of existence like a nervous ghost.

"I think that's an echo," said Des. "Azward said that large amounts of metal or magic in the walls might cause that."

"I don't think so," said Monica. "I don't like it."

"The downstairs doors are all guarded. But there's this one unguarded room in the back... no door, but its got a window near where the sewer-grate comes up. Its accessible, but only if the archers upstairs don't see you. That's our point of entry."

"How many men are you sending in?"

"Four," said Sir Dascle. "We shalt draw the villains' attention whilst-"

"Four is wrong," said Monica. "It's too many for a stealth entry, and not enough for a raid. There are fourteen people in there... your Daywatch fighters are good, but not that good."

"Never sayest that Sir Dascle be too proud to accept help from another. Especially one who knoweth more of such tactics than he. What doth the lady suggest?"

"One person can secure the girl and keep her safe during a frontal assault. Assuming that the assault is quick and decisive."

"Oh, it shalt be, milady. And who shalt this one person be?"

"Who do you think?" said Monica. She cast a quick glance toward the sky. The sun had almost set. "It'll be dark in a few minutes. Take this watch." She handed Dascle her pocketwatch. "Wait for my signal, then storm the building. If I haven't signaled in twenty minutes, move in."

"What about the hostage?" said Des.

"If I haven't secured her in twenty minutes, it means we're both dead. I'll try to take out the archers and the mage as well, but I can't promise anything, so be careful."

"What's your signal?" said Des.

"When it happens... you'll know." She tucked her long hair down into her cape and pulled the dark hood over her head "See you soon."

"But-"

Lieutenant Drew sprang from behind the overturned cart and landed in a forward-roll that ended just past the sewer manhole. Two arrows streaked down from the mansion and struck the ground where she'd just rolled through. Monica crouched behind the hay bale, risking one peak toward the manse. The archers couldn't see her. They knew where she'd gone, but they couldn't see what she was doing. Good.

With one solid yank, Monica snatched the manhole cover up and slipped into the sewer below.

---

Lieutenant Touch's quarters were deceptively simple... a reflection of the man who resided in them. Touch kept the room almost completely empty, as he believed that an excess of belongings tended to distract one from the path of enlightenment. Plus, an empty room was easier to keep clean. He hung no paintings or adornments on the walls. There was no window, and thus, no need for curtains. He had ordered the bed removed, and instead slept on a simple pad which lay on the bare floor. There were no tables or chairs... unless one counted the two old wooden crates that sat in the corner. There was a small fireplace in the room, but it didn't have a single speck of ash in it. When it got too cold in the room, Touch simply went elsewhere. The lieutenant stored his flew clothes in a neatly-folded pile on a shelf in the closet, alongside his one blanket. His dress uniform, which he had never worn, hung from a hook behind the closet door. The only 'decoration' that he had was a small ornate rug, on which he knelt for prayer and meditation.

Touch usually kept his door open, even when sleeping. He was not concerned with theft because he had very little to steal. Closed doors invited undo curiosity and speculation... things that were poison to the mutual trust and respect that was the life's blood of the Guard. Like all men, Touch had his secrets... but he did not announce them with veiled whispers and closed doors. He lived an open life. If his secrets were to be known, then so be it. It was more important that those around him felt comfortable... that they could approach him at any time, for any reason.

The last edge of the sun had just dipped below the horizon when Touch returned to his room.

He closed his door.

And then he locked it.

Touch knelt on the rug in the center of the room and began to meditate. He lowered his head and closed his eyes... and tried to achieve the perfect stillness of mind. The stillness was the beginning of the meditative journey that he took daily.... but this time, it did not come.

His thoughts were wild and unruly, refusing to be tamed by force of will. Touch let them go. He let his thoughts run free, and he watched where they lead. He studied their patterns, seeking out the source of their stubbornness. He already knew what it was. He had felt it earlier when he was with the students:

Fear.

Touch was afraid. It was not terror or panic... he seen and done too much to be subject to those demons. No, this was something worse.

Fear.

It was fear that had him sitting in a closed room, behind a locked door. But that was the illogic of fear... because he could not lock out the source of his dread. He couldn't seal himself away from it, because it was within him.

And it was growing.

Someone knocked on the door. Touch was on his feet in an instant. He unbolted the door and opened it.

"Captain," he whispered.

"I thought I'd find you here," said Captain Physt. "May I come in?"

"Of course." Touch stepped back and allowed the captain entry to his room.

"Your door was closed," said Physt. "Why?"

"My apologies-"

"It's your door, you can close it if you want. Its just not like you."

"I was..." Touch just shook his head and looked away.

"What's wrong?"

"I am having misgivings."

"About tonight."

"Yes. I don't think... perhaps..."

"You don't want to do it."

"No. No, I do not."

"So..." Physt paused to close Touch's door and re-apply the lock. "Should we talk about this as captain and lieutenant... or as two friends?"

"I will do what you ask of me," said Touch. "Not for the designs that you wear on your uniform, but for the good of innocents... and for the debt that we owe to each other. I merely think that perhaps we should delay and contemplate this further... perhaps another way will become apparent."

"Of course there are other ways, Touch. There always are. But we won't find a BETTER way by sitting on our asses and thinking... because while we're doing that-"

"I know," said Touch.

"You've read the reports, Touch. You know how long this has been going on. How many more lives is another week of 'contemplation' going to cost? You more than ANYONE should be pushing to get this thing done as soon as possible."

"But this... this I should not do. I am not ready."

"Touch, if everything goes as planned, you won't even have to DO anything. Nobody will. Azward's magic-"

"When has the world ever yielded itself to the plans of men or magic?" said Touch.

"Never. And I don't expect tonight to be an exception. But if there's anyone at this tower who can turn this thing back into our favor if it goes wrong.. it's you. Not Drew. Not Dascle. Not Azward. You."

"But there is the danger that you have not considered," said Touch.

"And what's that?"

Touch glanced at the closet. It was a quick and furtive, almost fearful motion.

"You know," said Physt. "I can count the times on one hand that you've ever left his tower. Everyone you know lives here in this building... and I doubt that anyone outside the Tower Guard even knows you exist. At first, I thought it was just some weird aspect your discipline. Then I figured that maybe you were punishing yourself in some way. Now... now I've finally figured it out. You're afraid, aren't you."

"Yes. Yes I am. Tonight-"

"I'm not talking about tonight, Touch... I mean in general. All the time. Every day. You're scared to death."

Touch sighed. He gathered his thoughts, trying to seek the best way to explain what he felt. Finally, he decided to just open his mouth and let his heart speak for itself.

"One does not travel as far down the path as I have... and then turn back on a whim," said Touch. "You must tear yourself away from the beast, and when you do part of you stays with it... and part of IT stays with YOU. You know what I was, Hieronymous... you know the path I have walked. You know that I have walked it farther than most."

"And if I thought there was the slightest CHANCE of you going back there again, I wouldn't let you set foot in this city... let alone serve in the Tower Guard."

"But that does not give us cause to tempt fate."

"Fate has no place in this," said Physt. "People think I have you train my soldiers because you're a master of the art. But that's not the reason. The reason you train them is because you have more control and restraint... more discipline... than anyone I've ever met. If you instill even a FRACTION of that in your students, then you've done more for them than all the combat training in the world. And yet, with all of that control, you're too afraid to walk out that gate."

"Freedom is a blessing," said Touch. "But I have abused mine. I was an abomination to all that I now hold most precious."

"'Was,' Touch. 'Was.' That's in the past now. You're a different man. You once told me that weapons shatter, and muscles grow old and weak, but no man can ever be deprived of his enlightenment. But that's exactly you're afraid of. Why?"

"You do not understand."

"Oh, I understand. I may not understand everything you've tried to teach me over the years, but I DO understand this..." Captain Physt stormed over to Touch's closet and yanked open the door. There was a large wooden chest sitting on the floor. "Fear must be faced."

Touch backed away from the chest as Physt dragged it out into the room.

"What are you doing?" said Touch. "Do not... do not open that."

"That is the very PURPOSE of fear, you said," Physt continued. "to be faced so that you can grow stronger." The chest had no lock. Instead, it had a latch with several small indentations. The captain pressed his fingers into the indentations and applied a precise amount of pressure with each finger... just as Touch had shown him long ago. The latch popped open.

"Please," said Touch. "I know what you are trying to do-"

"Remember when you told me that?"

"Yes, I do. But this will accomplish nothing-"

The captain threw the chest open.

"Will it? Then WHY do you even KEEP this stuff-" Physt reached into the chest and grabbed the black thing that lay there. He pulled it out. "-if not to be reminded of where you came from? To be reminded of who and what you were... so that you will never be that monster again."

Physt held the midnight-black cloak by the hood. The thick cloth hung from his fist like a shroud... dark and ominous. The very sight of it made Touch physically ill. His heart pounded in his chest, and his skin flushed painfully, as if he'd been poisoned. He felt the revulsion churning angrily in his gut. Touch turned his face away from the loathsome thing.

"No, no," said Physt. "Look at it. Take a good, long look, Touch. Face your fear... remember? Well, THIS is what you're afraid of. You're a member of the Tower Guard now, but you were part of something ELSE before, weren't you? You've got a dress uniform hanging in that closet, but what about THIS one!? Do you remember when THIS used to be your uniform!?"

The captain's words stung like razors across Touch's flesh. He remembered. He didn't want to, but he did. It was all so clear. He remembered how the cloak felt against his skin. He could feel its weight on him even now...weighing him down like the lid of a tomb. His muscles ached... his SOUL ached to be free of it. But he never would be. He would never be free of what he was...

"You wore it with pride," Physt continued. "A black death-cloak, with the hood always covering your face so that no one could even tell you were human. You were just a faceless black spectre. There was no blood in your veins... just greed and violence and your own twisted code of honor. You and the rest of your order... trained to be engines of destruction, loyal only to yourselves. Leaving fear and blood wherever you went-"

"That's enough," said Touch.

"No, it isn't. I want you to look at this thing. You need to see it again. It feels heavy... Are the weapons still in it? Do you need to see those, too?" Captain Physt felt around for the hidden pockets that he knew were there.

"No!"

"Maybe you do. Maybe you need to see them. Is the blood still on them? Can you remember how many lives you took with them?"

"Every one," Touch said painfully. His eyes remained fixed on the floor... he couldn't bring himself to look up.

"Do you remember the looks on their faces as they begged-"

"Please.."

"You made them beg, didn't you, Touch? You made them cry and scream for mercy before you-"

"STOP!" Touch's tear-filled eyes pleaded for the captain to stop this cruel assault upon his soul. "YES, This body did those things, but it wasn't ME! It wasn't ME, do you hear! IT wasn't ME!"

"It was you, Touch. This-" Physt shook the fearsome black cloak. Something inside it rattled. "THIS was you!"

"NO! I am not that man any longer! Please STOP this, I BEG of you!"

"No, YOU stop it!" Captain Physt threw the cloak back into the chest and kicked the chest closed. The sound made Touch jump. The silence that followed was deafening.

"I am sorry," said Touch. "I have disgraced myself-"

"You did that a long time ago," said Physt. "When you put on that cloak for the first time, you became a disgrace to the good, honest man that you are now. Now look at yourself and tell me that, somewhere deep down, you really want to go back to what you were before."

"No! NEVER! I would DIE before I take another life! You KNOW this!"

"Then what, exactly, are you afraid of, Touch?"

Touch couldn't answer. He couldn't answer, because that WAS the answer: nothing.

"All this time, you thought you were standing on the edge," said Physt. "But you backed away from that abyss years ago."

"It is still there," said Touch.

"Yes it is," the captain replied. "And it always will be. There's a place in your past that you don't want to go back to, Touch. I guess that makes you about the same as every other man in this world... myself included."

Touch nodded.

"You paid for what you were. Some might say you paid too much... others, not enough. But now its time to get on with life. And duty."

"A wise man... will always receive more wisdom than he gives. Thank you, old friend."

"Friend? I thought we were in 'Lieutenant' mode."

"Thank you, sir," Touch corrected.

"That always sounded funny coming from you."

Captain Physt opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

"Tonight," he said before he left. "You don't have to be willing... but be ready." Then he walked away.

Touch listened to the captain's footsteps until they were gone.... wondering just what it was that had brought the captain to his quarters in the first place.

---

The sewers.

Monica didn't like sewers, but she figured that anyone who DID was sick and possibly deranged. The very CONCEPT of a sewer was unsettling to anyone with an ounce or normalcy in their veins, and the fact that someone might enjoy being in one was almost as disturbing as the sewer itself. Not that there weren't such people in Montfort... she just didn't happen to be one of them.

Still, sewers had their uses. Other than the obvious, the sewers of any large city served as a catch-all for everything that people didn't want around. It was a graveyard of the lost and unwanted. 'Misplaced' evidence, dead bodies of murdered spouses, failed magical or alchemical experiments, runaway children, miscellaneous beasts of all types and temperaments.... no matter what it was or where it came from, it found its way into the sewers more often than not. Captain Physt considered Montfort's subterranean tunnels so important that he once proposed a dedicated 'sewer squad' to patrol them. Fortunately, Drew and Dascle managed to talk him out of that.

Yet, here she was anyway. At least this section of Montfort's bowels was reasonably clean. The city flushed the sewers with river water on a semi-regular basis... a massive and expensive undertaking that involved more magic than Monica cared to consider. But it kept things moving and prevented the various animal populations from building up to dangerous levels. This tunnel had been flushed earlier in the week. The foul-smelling sludge that normally coated the floor and walls was now only a thin, greenish brown film. It smelled the same, there just wasn't quite as much of it. The slime glistened in the light from her glow-stone as she traversed the short distance between Dascle's position and the next manhole.

The soldiers saw her light and gave a low, short whistle in her direction. Monica whistled back... her response was longer and of a different tone. The non-verbal password earned her the right to approach without being riddled with arrows.

Just as Dascle said, there were four men waiting in the sewer. They stood silently in the darkness; having extinguished their own glow-stones in order to better judge the fading light from above. Justin, Woodlake, Mortier, and Carter were Dascle's best fighters... short of Dascle himself. They saluted Monica as she joined them.

Mortier pointed to the manhole above them. The light that filtered down from it had almost dwindled to nothing. The sun had set. In a few minutes, it would be dark enough to make a move.

"You four go back to Dascle," Monica whispered. "Stay underground until the action starts."

Woodlake gave her a perplexed look.

"Ma'am?" he said. "I thought we were gonna charge the manse from here? At sunset?"

"Charge? No," Monica replied. "Infiltrate, Yes. I'll take it from here."

The men looked at each other as men often did when women gave them orders. They shrugged. They grunted. They chewed their lips until they finally convinced themselves that maybe they'd better do what she said.

Monica returned four very reluctant salutes and watched the men slowly trudge off in the direction she'd just come. They took no pains to hide their disappointment. The quartet of warriors was itching for a fight... which was exactly why Monica sent them away. They had no place in this. They were Daywatch... the best that Montfort had to offer. Strong, swift, and bold... with more swordsmanship in the tips of their fingers than most people had in their entire families. They were soldiers... trained BY the best to BE the best, because Dascle, Physt, and the citizens of Montfort would expect nothing less.

But that was Daywatch.

At night, things were different.

At night, the streets, rooftops, and sewers of Montfort became home to a different kind of vermin... villains who broke the law for more than just a thrill, a reputation, or a few silver coins. To them, violence was a way of life. Professional thieves. Hired assassins. Creeping horrors of every species imaginable. These were the things who's very existence demanded that someone... someone other than THEM.... must bleed or die, or worse. For them to continue to draw breath, the safety and sanctity of Montfort must be violated again and again. And they were very good at it. To them, soldiers were things to be avoided or killed... not feared. A soldier was just another target... a target that bore its riches in the form of expensive weapons and armor instead of gold or silver. At night, the enemies of Montfort became darker and bolder. At so, one the sun set, the East Tower met those who'd break the city's laws with a different, darker face. Not the face of a soldier. Not the face of a warrior. But the face of the one thing that night's predators DID fear: Themselves.

Shadows that moved like the wind and struck like giants. Creeping figures that could rain razor-sharp fury upon a man before he even knew they were there. An army that could be both everywhere and nowhere.... that could strike with a single fist, or a hundred daggers. This was what the predators feared. This... was Darkwatch.

Monica applied a fresh coat of black-oil to her face and turned her eyes skyward. There was nothing but darkness above her. Good. This had gone on long enough... the time had come to end it.
---

This was very odd.

The ghost watched the would-be kidnappers from her hiding place, and as they wandered through the manor... as they paced nervously from window to window, peering out at the crowd of armed soldiers waiting for them outside... it became that more and more obvious that something was not right.

Not that kidnapping were ever right. This was just wrong in a different way. The ghost had seen enough of this type of thing to know better. This shouldn't be happening. But since it WAS, then it shouldn't be happening like THIS. Unless there was something else going on.

And that was why she was here. Watching. Listening. Studying.

She moved from room to room, passing through the walls without a sound... traversing from one end of the manor to the other without revealing so much as a trace of her existence. Not a sound. Not a glimpse. It was almost as if she really WERE a ghost. But whereas a creature of ectoplasm would simply fade and reappear where it pleased, this flesh and blood ghost resorted to hidden crawlspaces and secret passages between the walls. The normal-seeming manor was actually a maze... but only to those who knew the secrets behind the oddly-shaped rooms and thicker-than-normal walls. Lara Maxwell knew those secrets. The men she was studying obviously didn't.

The girl had maneuvered herself into an incredibly narrow crawlspace that separated the mansion's two floors. From here she could go almost anywhere, but the space was so small that she literally had to pull herself along with her fingertips to move around. It was a tight fit even for HER limber joints. She brought her left eye even with a tiny spy-hole in the ceiling and looked up into the room above.

It was the study. There were no books, or course. The mansion had been quite empty when her mentor had purchased it. But the previous owners had left just enough furniture behind in the large, dusty chamber for it to serve as a war-room. Most of the important players were gathered here. The large, armor-clad mercenary named Garrerra was on the verge of wearing a groove in the floor. His metal boots thumped loudly on the thick carpet, and Lara could feel the vibrations from every step he took. His helmet was clasped tightly under his arm. Sweat had plastered his mop shaggy black hair to his scalp like a wet hat. His face bore many scars, but none of them were fresh.

"It's dark," he growled. He glanced at the windows for perhaps the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. The archers were still there, dutifully guarding the windows while at least having the sense not to stand directly in front of them. "We should go now."

"No," said the mage. Xeridan looked more like a priest than a mage. His dark purple garment was reminiscent of a monk's robe... except it that it was silk and had far too many pockets. Xeridan's light gray hair was every bit as unkempt as Garrerra's black locks. His eyes had a sly, manipulative look that Lara didn't like. It reminded her of herself. "We wait just a bit longer."

"The plan was to make a move at sunset," the mercenary grunted. "The sun has set."

"How very observant," Xeridan retorted. The mage reclined in the large padded chair and gazed up at the ceiling. "Rest assured, we will move very soon. Just not now."

"What are we waiting on, then!? The courtyard is alive with Tower Guard! We'll never make it to the river if-"

"Faith, brother," said the mage. It wasn't the first time that Lara had heard him address the mercenary as such, but she knew that they weren't related. They were too different. The other men she's spied upon called themselves 'brother' as well. Very strange. "We'll be free of this predicament within the hour."

"Hour, eh?" Garrerra glanced at the window yet again.

"Yes. Probably much sooner than that. Much, much sooner."

Lara's brow wrinkled in thought. Her earlier guess had been right: the men were waiting on something. Or, more specifically, the MAGE was waiting on something. Something who's timing he could not control directly. But she still had no clue as to what it could be. Lara thought back over what she'd learned so far. The band worked in small groups, hitting multiple targets at once. Homes. Businesses. Couriers. Each target was chosen to yield the maximum amount of loot with the minimum risk... and ONE of them happened to correspond with a location that Lara was watching for her own plans. The robberies went about as well as could be expected from armed thugs. They got their money, but they also got the attention of the Tower Guard. Lara didn't know where the hostage came from... she was with one of the groups when they rendezvoused near the old market square.

That was a mistake.

Not only was kidnapping a much more serious offense than simple thuggery, but stopping in a semi-public place to plan their next move was a error that even an imbecile would avoid. Unless, of course, they WANTED to get caught.

The Tower Guard fell upon them like storm of anvils, and only a surprise display of Xeridan's magic kept the criminals from being taken on the spot. Amid a storm of poorly-aimed fireballs and half-formed illusions, the thugs managed to slip away. Magic and archers kept the Guard at bay as the band of thieves ran for the river.

By now, Lara had given up trying to follow them. Curious though she was, leaping from rooftop to rooftop alongside a band of desperately fleeing criminals wasn't the way she'd planned on spending the afternoon. She retreated to the Garret mansion, content to learn the details from the morning paper like the rest of the city. Much to her surprise, the thugs were right behind her. They abandoned their charge for the river and took refuge inside the manor.

Logistically speaking, it was a very, very stupid thing to do.

The Guard charged immediately. Xeridan's magic and the screams of a young hostage gave the soldiers pause. They retreated behind the wagons and carriages that the thieves had overturned in their mad dash for safety, and thus began the hour-long siege. The Tower Guard was no doubt merely waiting for sunset to make their inevitable move. Lara assumed the same of the criminals until just now, when Xeridan's words indicated otherwise. But if their plan wasn't to slip away in the darkness (a fool's move, given the number of Guardsmen surrounding the building), then what WAS it?

As hard as she tried, Lara still couldn't figure it out. In her expert opinion, this entire exercise was doomed before it began... and yet Xeridan was clearly unconcerned about their immanent arrest. In fact, if it was indeed HIS leadership that had put the group in this position, then it would almost seem that he had done so... intentionally?

The realization struck Lara like a bolt from the gods.

This entire operation was a ruse. The thieves were either the unknowing victims... or they were the bait.

And if they were the bait, then that meant that when the Tower Guard rushed the manor... as they inevitably would... then they would be rushing headlong into a trap.

---

Monica sprinted silently through the darkness, clutching her cape tightly around her as she ran. She didn't let the garment billow wildly behind her like some idiot in a children's story... it was a CAPE, not a curtain... it had to stay close to her so that its magic could do its job. The dark color helped her to blend in with the night, and a special enchantment in the cloth absorbed her body heat... thus rendering the more popular infra-vision spells and night-seeing abilities useless.

She was only in the open for a few seconds. If anyone happened to be looking at the space where she ran, all they would have seen was small, fleeting shadow. Maybe a bird or animal. Maybe a trick of the darkness. Maybe someone running toward the building... but probably not.

Monica reached the wall and, without pausing, quietly opened the window and slipped inside. The room beyond was dark and unoccupied, but nevertheless, her thin hand hovered above the hilt of her sword. She waited, crouching low to the floor just beside the window. Nothing moved in the room, but there were many old crates and empty boxes strewn around... offering far too many places for someone to hide.

She waited another second, then dashed across the room. She didn't run for the door, but instead she slipped past it and ducked behind a large crate just adjacent to it. Again she crouched and waited. Watching. Listening. One second... two...

Her eyes went to the gap between the door and the floor. The construction was good... there was only a tiny sliver of light shining through from the hallway outside. Not quite enough to see through. Monica searched the room for other exits, and saw that there were none. The door was the only way out, and she had no idea who was on the other side of it. Monica thought back to the schematic she'd seen in Azward's magic device. The room occupied the end of a short hallway that emptied out into a large den. There would surely be people in the den AND on the stairs beyond it.

Monica ventured forth from the shadows and pressed her ear to the door. She heard voices. Male. Five or more, engaged a heated conversation. Distracted... but with that many people, chances were that at least ONE of them was in a position to see the hallway. She couldn't risk opening the door for a visual inspection. Instead, she waited a few seconds longer... listened a bit more, using the men's voices to try to judge their locations. Then she heard footsteps... someone coming down the stairs. Perhaps several someones. Yes... three people... one of them wearing heavy armor. There must have been someone important among them judging from the way the conversation halted when the trio arrived.

"Anything?" said a man's voice. Probably one of the newcomers.

"Not a bloody thing," someone else replied. "But they're gettin' ready to storm this buildin,' I guarantee it. We'll never make it out of here alive."

A rumble of worried agreement murmured through the crowd... enabling Monica to amend her assessment of their numbers. There were at least ten men in the room.

That was almost all of them. All the thieves. They'd all been spread throughout the house before, but now they were gathered together in one room. Why? Something was going on.

"Yes we will," said the first man. "Xeridan says its time to move."

Xeridan. Monica didn't recognize the name, but she committed it to memory.

"'bout bloody time!" said the second man. Monica heard the sounds of weapons being drawn... of armor being adjusted and of heavy boots walking to and fro across the room. "What's the plan... sneak out the back and head toward the river?"

"River, yes," said the leader. "But we're going out the front."

"Are ye out of yer BLOOMIN MIND!" said a third man. He had a comical, high-pitched voice. Monica smiled when she heard it. "Have ye SEEN what's WAITIN' fer us out there!?!?"

"You think they ain't watching the back as well as the front? You think they haven't gotten the rear entrances covered... haven't got the streets covered? They EXPECT us to sneak out the back way, you IMBECILE! But we're gonna give them what they AIN'T expecting... a frontal assault. A hard drive, straight through the middle of 'em-"

"They'll EAT US ALIVE!"

"Not with Xeridan and the archers covering us from upstairs."

"What about the girl," said a fourth man. "We take her with us, we can convince the guard to back off."

"The girl's gonna stay here."

Monica winced. That was perhaps THE MOST STUPID plan she'd ever heard. If it wasn't, then it was definitely in the top ten. A frontal assault? Sir Dascle's men would pound them into the ground like tent-pegs! This was ludicrous!

"WHAT!?"

"How else are Xeridan and the archer's gonna get away?" said the leader. Monica noticed the rattling of armor that accompanied his words. "They need her as a bargaining chip."

"WE need her!"

"We should stick together," a fifth rogue suggested. "All go at once."

"Then how are Xeridan and the archers going to COVER us?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah."

This was very strange. For someone who was a 'leader' the armored man endured far too many questions about his decision... as ridiculous as it was. Perhaps he wasn't the leader after all. Perhaps it was this 'Xeridan' that he kept mentioning.

"What about the loot?"

"Yeah... Silvermass won't be happy if we came back empty handed."

Silvermass? Monica committed this new name to memory as well.

"He won't be happy if we got CAPTURED, either."

"We're not all gonna make it out of this alive, are we?" said the man with the high-pitched voice.

"Maybe not," said the armored man. "You know the guard. You know they won't hesitate.... and neither should we."

Nonsense. The Tower Guard didn't kill... unless the perpetrators forced their hand. If anyone died tonight, it would be the fault of THESE men, not the Guard.

"When do we move?"

"Fill your pockets with as much gold as you can carry and still fight. Then we move. Xeridan's ready when we are."

And so was Sir Dascle. He and Des were no doubt watching the entire assembly on Azward's mirror. They wouldn't be able hear the conversation, but Dascle was no fool. The second he saw this many people gathered together, he'd know that something was amiss. Still, Monica wished there was a way to warn him.

But there wasn't.

And she had other matters to tend to.

A battle was about to take place, and the hostage had to be secured before the first sword made its strike. Time to move.

Going through the den would be suicide, so Monica would have to find her own way upstairs. She backed away from the door and climbed on top of one of the empty crates. She looked up. Standard wood... nothing fancy. And, if her memory served her correctly, there was just an empty bedroom upstairs.

Monica drew her sword.

The Ghostblade slid free of its scabbard without a sound. The sabre's pale, translucent blade was almost invisible in the darkness... like an ethereal phantom hovering in the air beyond the solid hilt. The sword had no weight at all, and, as Monica made a few test slices with it, it whispered through the air with a faint, haunting sound. Monica twirled the blade briefly, gathering her thoughts and focusing them into a razor-sharp edge before driving the blade straight up into the ceiling.

The sword sank into the wood with no resistance whatsoever.

Monica paused for a moment to re-focus her mind. The brief pause was not an indulgence... it was a necessity. The Ghostblade responded to the will of its user, becoming whatever they willed it to be. If Monica wanted the sword to be sharper than a razor... it was.

And if she wanted it to cut through hardwood like a hot knife through warm butter... it did.

But maintaining it long enough to be useful took concentration. Monica's brow furrowed as she began sawing the blade back and forth through the wood, silently cutting a three-foot diameter plug out of the ceiling. She kept her cut shallow, slicing only with the very tip of the blade in case someone was watching the room upstairs. A transparent sword sticking up out of the floor would definitely draw unwanted attention.

The hole took only a few seconds to make. She sheathed her blade and slowly lowered the circular plug of wood to the floor. Then she looked up and saw...

...another ceiling?

She'd forgotten about the crawlspace. There was an empty layer between the first and second levels, and Monica had only cut through the bottom of it. That was fortunate, for if she'd cut through them both, then the top piece of wood would have fallen onto the bottom piece, giving away her location.

Monica silently cut through the top layer and removed THAT section of floor as well. Then she climbed up, pausing briefly to peer into the darkness between floors.

She got the distinct feeling that something was watching her. She didn't hear anything. She didn't see anything.

But there WAS something there.

Monica didn't like it. This type of oddity was grounds to cancel the entire mission... but she had already committed herself to rescuing that hostage. Monica pulled herself up into the room upstairs, leaving the crawlspace and its unseen occupant behind.

---

That been way, way too close.

Lara Maxwell lay on her stomach in the darkness, not six yards away from where Monica Drew had just sliced her way through to the second floor.

If Lara hadn't moved... if she'd stayed where she had been for a second longer... her dead body would be gushing blood all over the lieutenant's silk clothes. Lara hadn't seen or heard the lieutenant's come in, but she did hear the faint, almost imperceptible creaking of the floorboards when the woman stopped to listen at the door. Lara had made her way through the crawlspace to watch, and had moved away just in time to avoid being impaled by the woman's strange sword.

Too close.

And what was worse, the lieutenant had almost seen her.

The guardswoman looked RIGHT at her when she'd paused on her way to the second floor. Lara didn't know how the woman was aware of her presence... but she was. They looked into each others eyes like predator and prey. And if the lieutenant had decided to come in after her, there was very little that Lara could have done.

Lara fought the sense of unease that grew within her. She'd almost been caught. What did that mean? Maybe it meant that she wasn't a good as she THOUGHT she was. Maybe it meant she wasn't worthy of Dokan's legacy after all...

Maybe it meant she'd better get out of here before something ELSE happened....

---

Monica waited by the door and listened. Again, she referred back to what she'd seen in Azward's mirror. She was in a bedroom. There was a long hallway beyond, with other bedrooms off to either side, and a study at the end. The study was where the archers were. And the mage.

But the hostage had to come first.

Ordinarily Monica wouldn't have ventured so boldly out into the hall, but she knew that the band of thieves were all stuffing their pockets downstairs... abandoning their watchposts in pursuit of what little gold they could carry with them. The hall was empty, but the door to the study was open. She saw one man, standing by a window with his back to her. He had a crossbow. If he turned around and saw her, he could transfix her with a single shot from his weapon.

Or he could try.

Monica ignored him.

She crept silently down the hall, counting the doors as she went. One... two.... third door on the right.

The hostage.

Monica reached for the latch on the door... then pulled her hand back. The thieves had a mage, and he may have warded the door against unauthorized intrusion.

It would be best to open it from a distance.

Glancing once at the archer in the study, Monica backed away and drew the Ghostblade one more. She formed a picture in her mind... and then enchanted blade changed shape to match it, the translucent metal warped and flowed before her eyes, transforming from a sabre to a longsword. She quickly... and quietly... sliced a hole in the door around the latch, cutting the still-locked latch away from the wood. She sheathed the blade and, after another quick glance into the study, snuck into the room.

The girl wasn't quite as young at Monica as expecting. Perhaps fourteen. Maybe thirteen. She'd be a grown woman in some societies. She was lashed to a sturdy chair with thick rope. Her blonde hair was mussed and her expensive clothing was torn to shreds, but the skin beneath them didn't appear to have been so much as touched. The thieves had conveniently tied a rag around her mouth... which kept the girl from gasping in surprise when she saw her rescuer.

"Shhh...." Monica whispered. She knelt behind the chair and used her dagger to cut the rope free and the gag free.

As she did, she heard someone shouting in the study. It was a warning, but it wasn't for her...

---

"BACK AWAY!" Xeridan's magically-amplified voice boomed out over the besieged courtyard. "WE HAVE A HOSTAGE! IF YOU MAKE A MOVE TOWARD US... NOT ONLY WILL YOU BE INCINERATED, BUT THE LAST SOUND YOU HEAR WILL BE THE DYING SCREAMS OF AN INNOCENT WOMAN! BACK AWAY AND LET US PASS!"

To emphasize the point, Xeridan sent a huge ball of orange fire hurtling down into the enter of the courtyard. The roiling sphere of flame exploded in an earth-shaking thunderclap that sprayed tendrils of flame in all directions... and lit the courtyard up as bright as day.

Then, with their movements half-cloaked by the smoke and fire, the squad of thieves burst from the mansion and ran straight toward the guardsmen. They had their weapons drawn, but it was clear they wanted no battle... they were running too fast.

Sir Dascle and Des were neither surprised nor impressed. They'd watching the thieves assembling on the lower level, and had been expecting this predicable and foolish move. He leapt to his feet and shouted-

"HOLD, VARLETS!" he bellowed. His non-magical voice was almost as loud as Xeridan's amplified one. "THINE COWARDICE SHALL NOT GO UNPUNISHED THIS DAY!! STAND AND DO BATTLE! DAYWATCH! SURROUND THESE RUFFIANS!"

All around the thieves, soldiers of the Tower Guard rose and moved in to surround them. They didn't charge... but they clearly weren't going to just let the thieves walk away

"I SAID BACK AWAY AND LET US PASS!"

A rain of magic missiles... bolts of angry green fire... streamed down from the mansion's top floor. Guardsmen ducked and dodged the poorly aimed missiles as the thieves tried to rush toward them. Soon, bolts from the archers began to join the deadly downpour.

"Argh!" one guardsman went down, a bolt protruding from his shoulder, mere inches away from his heart.

"We need to TAKE these guys!" Des shouted.

"Not whist the hostage is endangered!" Dascle replied. "We shalt endure this barrage and hold the villains here until Lady Drew doth give the signal that all is clear.

"But they're killing us out there!"

"Then SIR DASCLE shalt bear the brunt of the villainous assault HIMSELF!"

Dascle grabbed his huge shield and waded boldly out into the barrage of magic and missiles.

"HOOOO, VILLAINS!" he shouted. "DIRECTEST THINE COWARDLY ASSAULT TOWARD ME IF THOU DAREST!"

The archers were more than happy to oblige. Flames and projectiles bounced off of Dascle's gleaming metal shield in a continuous onslaught. Dascle shouted and roared and bellowed... drawing the thieves attention while other guardsmen darted to retrieve the injured.

Meanwhile, two of the guardsmen... the two that had arrived with Monica... surveyed the scene and quietly moved into the shadows.

The Darkwatch snipers resumed their firing positions on the rooftops behind the courtyard. The enemy wasn't in range yet, but they would be soon. Each man made the same preparations: setting out their arrows and... one at a time... filling the specially-made arrowheads with a fast-acting poison. The compound wasn't fatal, but it would induce painful paralysis within seconds of impact. It was the kind of thing that Sir Dascle and his Daywatch soldiers would dismiss as cowardice during their daylight patrols... but was the stock and trade of Darkwatch. And... unfortunately for the thieves... the sun had set a long time ago...

---

Monica hurriedly sliced the hostage free, but held the woman in the chair just long enough to whisper into her ear.

"Three bedrooms down... there is a whole in the floor. Drop down to the lower level, go out the window, and make a run for the sewer grating."

The woman nodded. She got up, but Monica added to the instructions:

"Run fast," she said. "And cover your ears."

"Cover my-"

Monica nodded. She crept back to the door and checked the study. The archers and mage were busy pelting Daywatch with arrows and magic. No one saw the hostage streak down the hallway and vanish into another bedroom. No one saw Monica prod the severed door-latch with her boot, then pick up the hefty piece of metal and stroll calmly down the hall into the study.

She stopped in the doorway, took a deep breath, and knocked loudly on the wall.

"Wha-"

Both archers spun around... but one was a bit faster than the other...

WHOOSH-KRUNCH!

The quick one got the door-latch to the face. Monica hurled it across the room, where it impacted the man's skull and sent him spinning giddily into unconsciousness. The second archer wasn't so lucky.

He turned and brought his crossbow around... intending to fire. He never got the chance. Monica opened her mouth and forced the of air from her lungs with the same practice and control she'd been using since she first learned to sing.

And sing she did...

...one... single... perfect...note...

Every window in the mansion shattered.

The walls and floor in the study groaned against the incredible strain... straining to resist the hideous noise that spat forth from Monica's mutated vocal cords. The archer's crossbow turned to splinters in his hand as the wall of sound slammed into him. It hit him like a fist, breaking several ribs throwing him violently out of the window behind him.

He took a small chunk of the wall with him, and screamed all the way down to the ground.

---

"AAAARRRRGH!" Des clamped his hands to his ears as the mansion's windows exploded, showering he courtyard with glass. A single figure fell... no, FLEW out of an upstairs window and fell screaming to the hard ground. Only no one could hear him scream... all they could hear was that sound! That Sound! THAT ACCURSED SOUND!

And then it was gone.

"That be the signal!" Sir Dascle shouted. "Lady Drew hath secured the hostage! DAYWATCH! ASSEMBLE AND ATTACK!"

Armed guardsmen charged the frantically fleeing thieves. The thieves quickly took stock of their situation and, led by the armor-clad Garrerra, prepared to fight a desperate battle for their freedom.

"YAAAAAGH!" Garrerra shouted as he charged. Two guardsmen rushed him. He threw a fist-full of sand into the face of one man, and engaged the other in swordplay. But they'd only exchanged a few strikes when three other thieves collided with the guardsman from multiple directions, overwhelming him and knocking him down. One man raised his sword to strike-

ttthhwwwack!

An arrow appeared in the center of his upper thigh, just a bit lower than his crotch.

"AAAAA!!" he shouted. "AAAA-AK-AK-AK-"

THUD!

The Darkwatch sniper's poison dropped the man like a stone. Still alive and conscious, all he could do was gaze blankly up at the sky and wait for his violently cramping muscles to unclench. That was going to be loooong wait. The other two thieves ran for their lives... as Garrerra had done an instant before. They didn't get far.

Two dark shapes exploded from the shadows and veered toward the fleeing rogues. The soldiers of Darkwatch caught up with them quickly. The thieves tried to fight, but they were faltered before an onslaught of punches, kicks, and painful slices with tiny blades before they could even strike once with their swords.

A speeding shuriken impaled one man through the hand, severing tendons and slashing delicate nerves. He screamed and dropped his sword. He tried to run, but one punch to the small of his back sent bright spasms of pain arcing up and down his spine. Something swept his feet out from under him, and he fell to his knees. A dark hand pressed a tiny blade to his throat... not hard enough to break the skin, but more than enough to get the thief's attention.

"Don't move," a voice whispered into his ear.

THUMP

Beside him, another thief hit the ground, and a second black-clad soldier thrust a tiny blade against the downed man's throat.

"You're under arrest," the soldier whispered.

All around them, the battle was quickly drawing to its inevitable conclusion. The thieves were outnumbered and overmatched. Those few men who could call themselves TRUE swordsmen, learned that the Tower Guard was filled with BETTER swordsmen. Those who could barely discern the correct end of a sword, simply ran for their lives. Darkwatch snipers picked them off one at time, their expert arrows seeking only the non-fatal areas.

The last to fall was Garrerra himself. The coward ran from fight after fight, leading his men into battles just so that HE could retreat and skirt around conflict unharmed. Several arrows bounced harmlessly off of his plate mail as he scurried arcross the courtyard. Garrerra lowered the visor on his helmet and looked for a place to run. He found one.... and he ran-

KLONG!

-right into Sir Dascle. The knight had jumped into the coward's path and watched with bemusement as Garrerra bounced off of his gleaming shield.

Garrerra staggered back several feet before finally catching his balance. He beheld the mountain of man and armor that stood before him.

"Avast, Coward!" Dascle bellowed. "To ARMS!"

Garrerra drew his sword and charged... then veered away at the last minute, intending to run past Dascle and make a break for freedom.

Dascle would have no part of it. He stepped to the side and drew the huge knotted mace that hung from his belt. He swung it at the thief as he charged past-

KA-KLLOOOOONNNGG!

Garrerra pitched forward and collapsed... his prized helmet now bore a huge dent that mated perfectly with the profile of Dascle's mace.

Dascle looked at his weapon and scowled.

"BLAST!" he growled with righteous fury. "Yon villain's SKULL hath besmudged my weapon!"

---

Meanwhile, the business in the mansion was not quite finished. Monica cut her initial blast of sound short in case the hostage hadn't made it out of he house yet. Her voice was a weapon that struck indiscriminately, without regard to friend or foe. The second that the archer flew out of the window, Monica silenced her assault and turned her attention toward the mage.

Xeridan staggered away from the window... still partially stunned by Monica's sonic attack. He winced and blinked several times, visibly trying to clear his head enough to cast a spell.

Monica just stood there. She watched him.

She knew that this was not the man. She had known it all along... but somewhere deep inside her had been the hope that it WAS him... that she would step into the room and see HIM standing there. But that was not to be.

Not this time.

But he was still a mage. He was a dangerous criminal. And he had to pay.

Xeridan looked at her. He raised his hands and began to gesture-

"No," Monica said. She did not whisper as she usually did... this time she spoke with her true voice... or rather, with the grotesque, angry thing that had replaced it. The sound emanating from her vocal cords was horrid beyond description... and painful beyond words. The hideous, rumbling screech resonated at a thousand different frequencies... each of them attuned with different systems of the human body... each of them inducing a different kind of pain in those tortured souls who were cursed with hearing it.

Her one word jostled all of Xeridan's internal organs... his stomach and kidneys went into spasms and his heart clenched painfully. Nerve endings all over his body pulsed with random messages of unendurable pain. The mage fell back against the wall and gasped for breath.

Monica waited.

Again, Xeridan began to cast-

"NO!

The mage spat forth a mouthful of blood and slid down to the floor. Monica's voice had ravaged his body like a severe beating at the hands of angry trolls. The mage was still conscious, however. His eyes remained tightly closed as he gathered his strength. When he opened them, he saw that Monica had crossed the room and was now kneeling beside him. She reached out, grabbed his chin, and lifted his head so that he was looking right into her slightly parted lips. She leaned in close to him and whispered-

"...at this range, one word will rupture your skull like a mellon. Is that what you want?"

Xeridan shook his head weakly.

"Then don't cast another spell. Ever. And by the way... you're under arrest."

"NOOOOO!!"

The shout came from behind, along with the sound of running footsteps. Monica jumped to her feet, turning as she rose. It was the hostage!

The crazed woman came charging into the room, holding a shortsword up over her head, ready to bring it down in a fierce chop. At first, Monica thought the woman was about to exact vengeance on the man who kidnapped her... but NO! She swung her weapon not at Xeridan, but at MONICA!

"DIE, YOU filthy PIG!" the woman screeched.

The woman's swing was neither clumsy nor wild... she certainly knew how to use a weapon. But Monica still managed to sidestep the attack. The Ghostblade was in her hand the following instant. The 'hostage' came at her again-

CLANK!

Both blades met in the air. Monica quickly spun and slashed-

Whoosh!

The woman jumped back... then lunged. Monica twisted away from the sword and counterattacked. The Ghostblade sliced toward the woman's chest... the attack WOULD have fallen short, but with a mental shove, Monica added six more inches to her weapon... transforming it from sabre to longsword once again.

The blade carved a shallow, bloody groove across the crazed woman's right breast. The wound wasn't meant to be fatal, Monica simply wanted to frighten or shock the woman into giving up. It didn't work. The fake hostage responded with unexpected rage, laying into the lieutenant with a dizzying series of strikes. The weightless Ghostblade danced in the air as Monica deftly blocked each attack, then lashed out as Monica responded with an assault of her own. The enchanted weapon changed from shortsword to sabre to scimitar... moving through a dozen different shapes to assume whatever was most effective for the strike at hand.

The hostage's skill with a sword was remarkable... but she was no match for a lieutenant in the Tower Guard. Especially one wielding an enchanted weapon. Monica could have ended the battle in an instant, but she didn't want to kill or seriously injure this woman. The hostage could be enthralled or under some kind of mind control... and Monica refused to strike her down until she knew for sure.

But out of the corner of her eye, Monica saw Xeridan reaching into his robe. She knew that this had to end NOW, before he could finish whatever it was that he was planning.

Monica stepped back and swung the Ghostblade as hard as she could. But even stronger than her swing was the focus of her mind as she concentrated-

CLANK-K'TING!

The top half of her opponent's blade hit the floor. The Ghostblade had cut it cleanly in two, slicing through the metal as if it were nothing.

"SILVERMASS!" shouted Xeridan. He had something in his hands now... a piece of silver-colored metal carved into a strange symbol. He was holding it above his head, arms stretched toward the ceiling. Monica inhaled, preparing to splatter the mage and his magic all over the wall, but she was too slow.

The symbol flashed bright, bright white. And then it vanished.

"FOR THE PEOPLE!" Xeridan cried. He looked at Monica and smiled-

SPLUTCH!

-then his chest exploded in a spray of blood. It looked almost... no, EXACTLY like the mage had been stricken down by some invisible sword. The hostage looked from the mage's falling corpse to Monica's surprised face. The woman opened her mouth to scream-

SLUCK!

- and her head toppled from her neck and landed at Monica's feet. Blood splashed up onto the lieutenant's's clothes as the headless body fell. It hit the floor and continued to spasm... not from residual nervous energy, but from the multitude of blows that fell upon it from some unknown source. Cut after vicious cut tore the body to bloody pieces right before Monica's eyes. She could see no source for the assault, unless the wizard's final spell had released some invisible creature that immediately turned upon its master. She glanced at Xeridan's corpse, and saw that it, to was being hacked to pieces by something unseen... as was the unconscious body of the archer she'd knocked unconscious earlier. But there was no growling, no voices, no footsteps... no sound at all other than the sick, wet sound of flesh yielding to steel.

Monica could do nothing. Not for Xeridan or the woman, and not for HERSELF if this thing decided to turn against HER. The lieutenant ran from the room and sprinted down the stairs, hoping to escape whatever horror had been unleashed.

But escape was not to be had. For when she burst into the courtyard, a horrible scene awaited her. All of the prisoners... every last one of them... were howling and begging for mercy as unseen weapons tore them apart. The Tower Guard scrambled to save them, but there was no opponent for the brave soldiers to fight. All they could do was grab the besieged captives and try to drag them away to safety... but there WAS no safety. No matter where they went, or how many guardsmen surrounded them, the thieves could escape the unseen horror. It struck them down repeatedly, and even after the fatal blows, it continued slice at their bodies until blood flowed like water in the courtyard.

The sight of it stopped Monica Drew in her tracks. She had seen many things in her life, but never this.

It was a slaughterhouse.

"VILLAINY!" Sir Dascle shouted. He had just tried to move Garrerra's unconscious body to safety, but the top of the thief's torso separated from the bottom half when the knight started to drag him away. "VILLAINY MOST FOUL!"

"...Silvermass..." Monica whispered, repeating the word that Xeridan had shouted. She had no idea who or what it was... but something told her that she had just witnessed its handiwork. "...Silvermass..."

"MURDERERS!"

Monica didn't recognize the voice. She turned toward in the direction from which the shout had come, but instead of one person, she saw a hundred. A huge crowd of onlookers surged into the courtyard, having finally broke free of the pitiful defense that she and Dascle had left to control them. And when they arrived, they saw the carnage that the now-departed 'Silvermass' had left behind. Bloody chunks and pieces... only a few of which were recognizable as bodies. And the Tower Guard, their clothing and armor covered with blood from their efforts to saved the band of thieves.

The conclusion was as inevitable as it was incorrect.

"THEY SLAUGHTERED THEM!" a woman shouted from the crowd. "THE TOWER GUARD SLAUGHTERED THEM!"

"MURDERERS!"

"KILLERS!"

"MONSTERS!"

"YOU KILLED THEM ALL!"

"No, Wait!" one of Dascle's men said to the angry mob. "It isn't what you think! There was-"

"YOU BASTARDS!

"GET OUT OF OUR CITY!"

"GET OUT, YOU MONSTERS!"

"WHY!?! WHY DID YOU BUTCHER THEM LIKE THAT!!?"

"HOLD!" said Sir Dascle. "THOU DIDST NOT SEE WHAT HATH TRANSPIRED HERE! I PRAY THE, HOLD THINE JUDGMENT UNTIL THE FACTS BE KNOWN-"

SPLAT!

A ripe tomato struck the brave knight squarely in the face. It would have been humorous if it weren't for the rocks and sticks that followed it. The angry crowd grew unruly, and there were more of them arriving every second.

"MONSTERS!"

"GET OUT!"

"BUTCHERS!"

Sir Dascle turned a worried face toward Monica, and Lieutenant Drew could see the pain in his eyes. The crowd wouldn't listen. They thought that he and all of his men were murderers.... villains. No man who lived by honor and bravery could stand falsely accused without defending his good name. Dascle could explain what happened, maybe even PROVE it... but they JUST WOULDN'T LISTEN. They honestly thought he was a cold-blooded killer... and it was breaking his heart.

Monica gestured to him, then backed slowly away until her dark clothes and cape blended into the shadows. The darkness swallowed her, and she was gone... along with the rest of Darkwatch.

"D-DAYWATCH!" Sir Dascle shouted. His once-powerful voice was weak an unsteady. "Assemble and RETREAT!"

The Tower Guard closed ranks and retreated before the unruly mob. Shield-bearers, Sir Dascle among them, kept the crowd's projectiles from pummeling the soldiers as they retreated to the safety of the Tower.

...meanwhile, a young, horrified face peered down from the one of the mansion's many shattered windows. Blood spilled in tiny droplets from Lara Maxwell's ears, which still rang painfully from Monica Drew's sonic assault. But she didn't notice. She didn't know what she had just seen, but she did know that it wasn't over. The crowd would not forget this, not even when the real truth came out. If it ever did. And deep down, she knew that this was only the beginning. The Tower Guard had been played for fools. Whoever or whatever this 'Silvermass' was, it wasn't going to stop with this. It was only going to get worse from here.

Much, much worse.

Lara cursed herself for not leaving when she hat the chance. But now it was too late. Lara was already caught up in it. No, not just caught up... she was involved the worst possible way. A way that GUARANTEED that this 'Silvermass' would come after her, and would KEEP coming after her until she was dead:

She was a witness.


[To Be Continued]

---

Part Three: Battlefield

The meeting room was large enough to fit 50 men comfortably, but would easily hold up to twice that many if comfort wasn't a consideration... as was often the case with soldiers of the Tower Guard. On this occasion, however, the chamber was almost empty.

At least, physically.

The handful of people in attendance filled the room from top to bottom with their very presence. Captain Hieronymous Physt presided over the impromptu affair. He said at the head of long, wood-and-metal table and peered down its length like a divine judge. The medals and adornments of his perfectly-tailored uniform gleamed in the lamplight. To his left sat Sigert Azward... Elder Wizard and Senior Investigative Officer... also bedecked in official attire. The gold sash tied tightly around his eyes matched the trim of his midnight black robe. The chair to the Captain's right was vacant, but only because the man who's place it represented preferred to stand. Lieutenant Touch stood beside and slightly behind his chair... bare arms folded across his equally-bare chest. The man was a statue. He had not moved once throughout the entire affair, which was well into its third hour.

There were two chairs at the opposite end of the table. Lieutenant Monica Drew and Lieutenant Teramiden Dascle sat side by side, each dressed in the same clothes they had worn earlier that night. Events had progressed far too quickly to allow them time to change. Sir Dascle did manage to divest himself of his cumbersome armor, but his clothes still bore tell-tale stains of blood and sweat. Monica's cape was folded neatly in her lap, and she fingered the cloth nervously as the Captain addressed them.

"I don't think I need to tell you why you're here," said Physt. "You already know."

"Is this an official inquiry?" Monica replied. Her normal speaking voice was always a whisper, but that was usually for practical reasons. Not this time. Monica's voice was more tentative and reluctant than it had ever been.... as if even whispering the words pained her.

"No," said Physt. "Not yet. But you should consider this to be a dress rehearsal for the inquiry that will most certainly follow."

"Yes, sir." Monica lowered her eyes and tried not to meet the Captain's iron gaze. There was an uncomfortable pause, and the captain continued.

"Something happened this evening," said the captain. "Something unfortunate... something that resulted in the loss of life on a scale that this city is unaccustomed to. The fact that this incident took place in view of the public and involved members of the Tower Guard... of Darkwatch, specifically... makes the situation all the more delicate. People are already beginning to talk. People who were talking BEFORE this incident, are beginning to gain support and attention. We have several eyewitnesses who are willing to swear in court that they saw Tower Guard soldiers brutally slay and dismember several-"

"NAY!" Sir Dascle jumped to his feet. "NAY, Tis NOT SO! We didst try to SAVE lives this night, NOT destroy them!"

"Sir Dascle, no one is accusing you of anything," said the Captain. "If I may finish..."

Dascle sat back down.

"Of those witnesses, half of them were admittedly drunk at the time, and the other half are known criminals. One was an escaped convict, whom we promptly took into custody."

"Aye." Sir Dascle nodded.

"No one... no one IMPORTANT... gives any serious credence to those charges. Our superiors are... for now... satisfied with the way the situation was handled. For now. But the storm has already begun to gather. The court of public opinion is in session... and the mob is not interested in facts. All they need to know is what the person standing beside them THOUGHT they say. In order to combat that, we not only need to get to the bottom of what DID happen tonight... but we need to find out what DIDN'T happen, what COULD have happened, what MIGHT have happened, and what SHOULD have happened. Hopefully that will be enough. In the past four hours, we've spoken with every member of the Tower Guard who was within shouting distance of the Garret Mansion tonight. We've assembled some early statements from several civilian witnesses, and Azward has taken some preliminary renderings from a few of the bodies. And in our SPARE time, we've had to inform city officials, field questions from what passes for the press in this town, and coordinate with the other towers to help disperse an angry mob... a mob that had already trampled vital evidence and was well on the way to tearing the entire crime scene to shreds. But, despite their best efforts, we've managed to piece together a general idea of what transpired. There are still a few gaps, however. I despise gaps. Especially ones that could mean the difference between the East Tower coming out of this unscathed, and the lot of us being tossed out of Montfort on our rear ends. So... here you are. The final two witnesses. Time to fill in the gaps. I will ask the questions... and you will answer them."

"Sir-" Monica began. The captain raised his hand and motioned for her silence.

"We are all reasonably clear on what happened before the siege. Simultaneous attacks on homes and citizens, ending in a chase. The perpetrators took refuge in Garret mansion... and that's where things begin to get unclear. That's where those gaps begin to appear. Sir Dascle."

"Aye."

"Why were the fugitives allowed to occupy a private residence for several hours? Why were they not taken immediately?"

"Twas prudent to hold our swords whilst an innocent was endangered. The villains didst take a hostage, and didst threaten to perform vile deeds upon her lest we stay our assault."

"The hostage," said Physt. "You saw her."

"Aye."

"With your own eyes."

"Aye. During the chase, I didst spy her... bound and gagged. She didst appear very frightened. Nay... terrified."

"Who was she?"

"Twas rumored to be the daughter of some-"

"AHEM!" Captain Physt gave Dascle a stern look. "Were this an official inquest you would have just buried yourself. We can't dispell rumors with more rumors. Perhaps you should start again, and stick with what you know."

"Aye, sir," said Dascle. "I did not know who the woman was."

"But she was bound and gagged. A prisoner, as far as you could tell."

"Aye."

"And, once they reached the mansion, the fugitives threatened to harm her unless you stayed back."

"Aye."

"They said this explicitly?"

"Aye. They didst threaten her many times."

"So your plan was what, Sir Dascle? Wait them out?"

"Nay. I didst send four of my best warriors to hide in the sewers 'neath the manse. Upon the setting of the sun, they wouldst storm the manse and overcome the villains that didst hide within."

"To the best of your knowledge, would that plan have succeeded if it hadn't been stopped by Lieutenant Drew?"

Sir Dascle looked at Monica, then back at the captain. The knight opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He looked at Monica again and fidgeted nervously in his chair. After trying, and failing, to speak once more, Sir Dascle glanced around the room, trying to find a place to park his eyes that didn't involve looking at anyone. After several uncomfortable seconds of that, he locked eyes with Captain Physt and said absolutely nothing. Monica's heart went out to the man... his own code of honor wouldn't let him answer the question because it might cast suspicion upon HER. A knight would never harm a woman by word or deed, nor allow one to come to harm. Dascle had already broken one part of that code tonight. He wasn't about to break another.

"That was a test, Sir Dascle," said Physt. "And you failed. Find an honest answer to that question before I ask it again. Do you understand?"

"Aye."

"Lieutenant Drew."

"Yes, sir."

"Why was Darkwatch on the scene?"

"Sir?"

"You heard me, Lieutenant. Why were you there?"

"It's my understanding that there was a hostage situation that may have required our assistance."

"And what lead you to that understanding."

"A runner came... with a message from Dascle."

"This message?" The captain held up a sheet of parchment bearing Sir Dascle's distinctive, eloquent script.

"I wouldn't know," said Monica. "I never saw the message. Sergeant Wilk relayed the information to me verbally."

"The Sergeant's account of that conversation has already been noted," said the captain. "After speaking with Wilk, was it your understanding that Sir Dascle had asked for assistance or reinforcements?"

"No, sir."

"Then why were you there?"

"Because it was a hostage situation, and I know that Sir Dascle's experience is limited in that area."

"But he didn't ask for your help."

Monica looked at the knight beside her, then back at the captain.

"He... may not have known he needed help at the time, sir."

"So you're saying that Sir Dascle... senior officer of East Tower, veteran of two wars,... doesn't know when he needs help?"

"Not in a hostage situation, no. Sir."

"So you offered your assistance, even though he hadn't asked for it. Even though Sir Dascle had the situation under control AND had a plan for ending the confrontation."

"Sir Dascle may not have had the situation as 'under control' as he believed. Sir."

"Sir Dascle, Was the situation under control prior to Lieutenant Drew's arrival?"

"I..." Dascle hesitated.

"Answer the question, Sir Dascle."

"The heroes of Daywatch didst have the villains surrounded."

"Does that mean 'yes'?"

"Aye."

"Then SAY 'yes' next time. Lieutenant Drew, it would appear that Sir Dascle disagrees with you."

"And? Sir Dascle and I disagree with each other every day... why is it significant now?"

"Because you shouldn't have been there."

"There were fugitives on the loose and an innocent life in danger... why shouldn't I have been there?"

"Because you weren't needed."

"Yes, I was."

"And there is the disagreement. Which of you do I believe, lieutenant? You... or Dascle."

"Neither," said Monica. "Believe yourself. Had you gotten Dascle's message before my departure, would you have sent me to assist him?"

"That's beside the point."

"Is it?"

"Yes it is. I'm not asking you these questions as your superior officer... I'm asking them as a possible member of a board of inquiry, which you MAY or MAY NOT have to address before this thing is over. Some citizens are already demanding that... and the members of the Council are listening. That board will want to know which of you to believe. They'll ask the same things I'm asking you now... and you will tell them...what?"

"That I have relevant experience and expertise that Sir Dascle does not. My record will prove that to be true."

"Good answer."

"And yours? Would you have sent me to help Dascle?"

"Yes," said Captain Physt. "But that decision was taken out of my hands by a headstrong lieutenant with a history of challenging authority... among other things."

"I made the right decision, sir."

"It wasn't yours to make."

"It doesn't matter if you sent me or if I sent myself... the end result would have been the same."

"No," said the Captain. "No, there'd be one important difference. If I had made the call... then I'd be in a position to shield you from some of the fallout that will inevitably descend upon this Tower. I'd be able to protect you... or take the fall for you if it came to that. But you've made that impossible now."

"I don't need anyone to take the fall for me. And neither does Sir Dascle. We're both adults.... both responsible for our actions."

"And what were those actions, lieutenant? Let's get back to filling in those gaps. You arrived on the scene and countermanded Sir Dascle's plan. You went into the house yourself... and then what happened."

Monica told him story. She related the events from the moment she dropped into the sewers to the instant she stepped into the courtyard and saw the slaughter that the mage had somehow. She spoke at a quick and even pace, going into as much detail as she could... leaving nothing out. Both Azward and Captain Physt took copious notes, but neither of them had any outward reaction to her story. Interest. Disinterest. Doubt, disbelief, concern, shock. Nothing. They just wrote everything she said, holding all their questions and comments until she was finished.

"I think that should fill in all of the 'gaps,'" Monica said when she'd spoken the last of her narrative.

"It covers the facts, yes," said the captain. "But it also introduces new questions."

"Like who is Silvermass?" said Monica.

"There is that... but the people of Montfort will be more interested in this one: Why did you enter the mansion alone?"

"A solo operation had the highest chance of success."

"Why you? Why did YOU go?"

"I was the only one on the scene that had the necessary skills-"

"You've just destroyed your career, lieutenant," said the Captain. "A board of inquiry would immediately call me or Lieutenant Touch to testify as to the truth of your last statement. We would be legally bound admit that ANY member of Darkwatch could have performed that mission in your place."

"Not was well as I could."

"Lieutenant Touch could have cleared the entire mansion before anyone even knew he was inside. And he wouldn't have had to wait until sunset."

"Touch wasn't there."

"But he COULD have been, had you requested it."

"Touch doesn't go on patrols or missions. Everyone knows that. And there wasn't enough time to send for additional personnel."

"So you went in alone... a clear deviation from the policies that Touch and myself established for the East Tower: Never Enter and Unknown Situation Alone."

"The situation wasn't unknown. Azward's mirror provided the necessary reconnaissance."

"Not unknown."

"No, sir."

"Then why were there dead bodies all over the courtyard of Garret mansion five minutes after you entered. Did you KNOW that was going to happen?"

"No, sir."

"Did you know there was a mage in the building?"

"Of course, sir."

"Did you know there was a mage among the fugitives when you decided to 'help' Sir Dascle?"

"Yes, sir."

"And did that fact influence on your decisions... either to assist Dascle or to enter the building alone?"

"No sir."

"You're lying, lieutenant. Everyone in this room knows you better than that. Your prejudices against mages are known to anyone who's spent more than ten minutes in your presence."

"I was the only one on the scene who-"

"Sir Dascle already had men in place."

"They would have failed."

"Sir Dascle. Would those men have failed?"

"Nay. Tis my belief that they would have succeeded... but tis also my belief that Lady Drew-"

"I didn't ask you anything else, Lieutenant. So which of you do I believe, Lieutenant Drew? Do I believe the guardsman with no known prejudices... no motive for wanting to be alone in that house with a mage... or do I believe the guardsman who has spoken IN PUBLIC about the evils of magic, and has suggested IN PUBLIC that all mages should be locked up-"

"That was out of context-"

"AND that they should all be BRANDED with hot irons-"

"I didn't mean-

"And that they should just be rounded up and slaughtered!"

"I never said those things!" Monica looked at Azward, who continued to observe the proceedings without emotion. She couldn't see his eyes, so she couldn't judge his reaction. "Azward, I didn't mean those things the way they sound... it's all taken out of context. I don't really feel that way... I would never-"

"Am I the exception to the rule, then?" said Azward. His voice was even and cold... very UNLIKE the man she'd grown to know over the past few weeks. The sound of it made the corners of Monica's eyes sting

"Azward... please-"

"I'm asking the questions here, Lieutenant."

"Sir! You took those out of context!"

"Under what context does 'they should all be rounded up and slaughtered' become an acceptable statement from a member of the Tower Guard?"

"I was talking about criminals! I was talking about mages who abuse their power and harm innocents-"

"Like the mage in Garret Mansion?" said Captain Physt. "HE was a criminal, was he not? So are you saying that mages like HIM should be rounded up and slaughtered?"

The realization hit Monica like a hammer. Captain Physt had manipulated her... gotten her to almost ADMIT that she went into the mansion for the express purpose of killing a man. But that wasn't true! Was it? Of course it wasn't... but after listening to her own words...? Did she REALLY have an ulterior motive for her decisions?

Of course she did. But it wasn't murder. It COULDN'T have been.

Could it?

"...oh, gods..." Monica whispered as she turned her face away from her captain. The only direction she could look was down. She hid her face in her hands as the captain continued.

"Answer the question, lieutenant," said Physt. "Mages like the one in the mansion should be rounded up and slaughtered... yes or no?"

"NAY!" Sir Dascle roared. The huge man leapt from his chair and shook his thundering fist at the captain. "I say thee: NAY!!! The Lady Drew be a GOOD and TRUE woman! And a SOLDIER beyond equal save for those who sit in this room! I will NOT sit idly while her GOOD NAME be tarnished by those she once called friends! Thou mayest be my superior in rank, but thou shalt take back thine accusations against her NOW, 'for the matter come to BLOWS between us this night!"

For the first time in hours, Lieutenant Touch moved. One dark eyebrow crept upward in a look of amused curiosity.

"Sit down, Dascle," The captain said calmly.

"NAY! I will DEFEND her honor to the last drop of my blood! THIS, I SWEAR!"

"Dascle, please..." Monica grabbed Dascle's belt and tried to pull him back down to his chair. It was a futile gesture. "Please sit down..."

"NAY! If one more false accusation doth pass his lips, then I shalt challenge him to a DUEL on your behalf!!"

"They're not false accusations, Dascle," said Monica.

"But he doth say things that I KNOWEST that the fair Lady Drew wouldst never speak!! He doth make thee out to be a VILLAIN! A VILE and HATEFUL-"

"I said those things, Dascle."

"NAY! The lady is confused by-"

"Not the way he meant them. Not the way it sounds... but yes, those words came from my lips. And he's not really accusing me... he's just twisting my words on purpose to make a point. To show me what other people will see if they probe too deeply into this."

Sir Dascle looked from Monica to Physt and back again. He stood before his chair with wide eyes and red face... obviously unsure of what to do next.

"Sit down," said the Captain.

Dascle sat down.

Physt sighed.

"Sir Dascle's outburst notwithstanding," he said. "Had this been an actual, official inquiry, you'd probably be in chains by now. On your way to the dungeon."

Sir Dascle mumbled something. Monica couldn't hear it, but she was pretty sure it started with 'Nay.'

"You understand what I'm doing here, don't you?" said Captain Physt.

"Yes," Monica replied. "A test. I failed."

"Not only did you fail... but you failed miserably. Another five minutes and I would have had you confessing to murder."

"I didn't kill anyone," she said. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Yes. But what I believe is irrelevant. I'm going to do everything in my power...legally... to make sure that this investigation doesn't go beyond East Tower. I'll do what I can to keep this a CRIMINAL investigation and not a matter for internal affairs... but my influence will only go so far. If the stench of those corpses rises too high... then you'll be sitting at a table like this one, answering questions just like the ones I just asked. I wanted you to get a taste of that now, so you'll know just HOW your career will be destroyed if you don't learn to keep your prejudices out of the public's scrutiny. Assuming that its not already too late."

"Thank you, sir."

"Keep your opinions about magic to yourself in the future," said Physt. "This isn't the first time I've had to tell you that... but the other times I was speaking as your friend. Now, I'm ordering you as your captain: Keep Your Mouth Shut. Do you understand me, lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir," said Monica. "Are we finished, sir?"

"For now. We'll continue this in the morning... after we've completed tonight's OTHER business."

"We... we're still doing it?" said Monica.

"There is a killer still on the loose, is there not? The city gave us permission to try this ONCE. I'm sure they're considering a change of heart after the debacle at the mansion, but they haven't changed their minds YET. This is likely the only chance we'll get for a while. I'm not going to waste it." Captain Physt rose from his chair. "Make your final preparations. Be ready and in place."

"Yes sir," said Monica.

The Captain left the room, with Lieutenant touch following not two steps behind. The two of them were talking about something, but they were out of earshot before Monica could tell what it was.

"I knew of your predisposition against the users of magic, Ms. Drew," said Azward as he got up from the table. "but I had no idea your feelings were so... extreme. How very, very unfortunate."

"Azward, I didn't mean... Azward!"

The mage was gone. He walked out on Monica's explanation as if she weren't even talking.

Monica sighed.

Beside her, Dascle stood and grumbled loudly.

"Games!" he growled. "Games and deceit! I am made to be a fool for the sake of amusement!"

"Dascle," Monica grabbed his massive arm, but he pulled away violently. He stormed out of the room without a single backward glance.... leaving Monica alone in the chamber. She rested her head in her hand and blinked back a few tears. "I'm sorry," she said.

But then, no one seemed to be interested.

---

The streets were unusually quiet, even for the dead of night. Drunks, rogues, wanderers and other nocturnal denizens of Montfort were mysteriously absent, giving the city a deserted, almost ominous air... at least for the two block radius that was the focus for this mysterious quelling of Montfort's night-life. But, just because there was no movement... no drunken songs... no surreptitious footsteps... that didn't mean that the streets were empty.

In this case, it meant quite the opposite.

Armed men lined the streets... black-clad soldiers standing motionless and invisible in the night. Archers crouched on the rooftops, their black arrows held ready as they peered down at their brothers below. They waited as more soldiers arrived... sneaking out of the shadows and taking their places. And, unseen by all, two more squads took their positions in the sewers beneath the streets. All of the movement was as silent as a tomb... made so not by magic, but by skill. And, when the movement halted and everyone was in place... the newcomers shimmered and faded away as the spell blanketing the area took them in and cloaked them from sight. Then there was nothing but silence.

There was no need for anyone to signal their readiness... everything been timed perfectly; readiness at the appointed hour was an unspoken assumption.

Lieutenant Monica Drew checked her pocketwatch... its face glowed slightly in the dark, allowing her to see the sweeping of its hands across the numbers. She nodded, then closed the watch's cover. To her left, Captain Hieronymous Physt stared out at the empty street.

There was nothing to see. But he kept staring anyway as Monica counted the seconds off in her mind.

Right on time... or rather, one second early... Azward appeared to Monica's right. There was no crackle of energy or flash of light to announce his arrival. In one instant there was nothing beside her but empty space, and the next: Azward.

Monica turned her head slightly to glance at him. The mage wore a black robe with elegant, amber trim about the sleeves and neck. The sash that he usually wore over his eyes was missing... allowing the bulging, insect-like orbs to glisten in the darkness. Monica couldn't tell where the mage's strange eyes were looking... but his face was pointed out into the street. What he saw there was undoubtedly very different from what she or Physt perceived. Monica guessed that he was studying the glowing, flowing bands of his own magic... watching them for some signs of difficulty with the dozen or so spells he'd woven throughout the area. But that was only a guess.

Physt didn't ask Azward if anything were amiss... he didn't have to. If there was, then the mage would have indicated it. Everything was going as planned.

Silence claimed them for a few more seconds. The last of Darkwatch was in position now. Sir Dascle's men... aided by Azward's magic... were hiding in plain sight along the street. Monica, Azward, and Physt stood at the mouth of an alley between two buildings.

They waited.

No one said a word.

Monica counted the last fleeting seconds. As the appointed time arrived, the flow of Monica's thoughts focused into one overwhelming dread: she hoped... no, prayed... that everyone had remembered their equipment. She hoped they were all wearing the special earplugs that Azward had made for them. If they weren't....

...she didn't think any further than that. She couldn't. Time was up.

There was a deep rumble somewhere beneath the street. The city shuddered... then shook... then went still.

And then the street before them exploded in an incredible blast of fire and light. Flaming debris flew in all directions as something burst up from below... something huge and hideous that brought the flames of hell with it. The shapeless mountain of heat and fire tore through the street and reached skyward, bathing the city in its infernal light. More of its twisted, flaming body erupted from beneath Montfort, and, plainly visible within the living firestorm, was the dark and evil shape... ten times the size of a man... that raised both its arms and howled in triumph.

"...arrrRAAAAAAAA!!!!"

Monica felt the intense heat hit her like a solid wall. She couldn't help but shudder. Beside her, Physt did the same. Of all that beheld the thing, only Azward was unfazed... but then, he did not see what they did.

They watched as the inferno pulled more of itself out of the immense and ever-widening hole it had burnt in the street. The entire city shook before its bellowing rage.

Azward turned toward Physt and nodded sharply.

Monica's stomach clenched. Nervousness and fear crept up into her throat. But there was no time to be afraid now-

It happened so fast that if it hadn't been for Azward's warning, Monica would have missed it entirely. It moved like lightning... faster than the wind... faster than most men could even think...

No one could see the thing itself... all they saw was the fading blue streak it left in its wake as it raced down the street toward the flaming, bellowing illusion that Azward had created.

The vigilante... wanted for murders and disappearances dating back for months... had taken the bait. And now the trap was about to spring.

As soon as the speeding human passed the store to Monica's left, its extreme velocity triggered Azward's magic. A complex network of wards and spells...layer upon layer of concealed magic, carefully drawn out by Azward over a period of weeks... all sprang to life simultaneously, unleashing a storm of magic so intense that it could be felt...and heard... for blocks in every direction. Miniature lightning-bolts darted out of the darkness as multiple fields of glowing energy rose from the street to wrap around the speeding figure... trapping it in their crackling, humming grasp. The vigilante was fast... but, as Azward had conjectured... he was not faster than magic. Especially not HIS magic.

It was over in an instant. The throbbing and crackling of the mage's spells subsided, revealing a single glowing sphere hovering in the air two feet from the ground. And inside that sphere was a man. He was trapped like an insect in amber; his body held motionless by multiple stun and paralysis spells, each capable of stopping a rampaging elephant in its tracks. The man's blue hood and mask still covered his face... his blue cloak hung frozen in the air behind him. One black-gloved hand held a wide, curved sword: a scimitar. Its mirrored blade reflected the flickering light of the magic that held it and its wielder prisoner. Nothing inside Azward's sphere could move, and any attempt to do so would only trigger MORE magic to strengthen the containment.

A series of secondary spells activated just a few instants after the first storm. Several waves of magic flooded the street...

The fiery demon vanished before the first wave like a candle-flame in the wind. The wave continued outward... illusions and concealment-magic of all types flickered and died for several blocks in all directions. The invisibility spell cloacking the Daywatch soldiers faded, revealing the group of armed men lining the street...

...and, inside the glowing containment sphere... the prisoner vanished.

What once had been a man bedecked in a bright blue hooded cloak was now just a small, ordinary-looking stone.

"...damn..." Drew whispered. She'd been on the verge of breathing a sigh of relief... but now it appeared they'd been outsmarted. Their speeding target had cast an illusion of himself around a rock and thrown it into the trap. The stone's speed triggered it while the true target remained at a safe distance.

Or so he thought.

"There!"

Physt pointed. There he was... standing on the edge of the street. He'd been hiding behind a spell of invisibility, but Azward's magic had dissolved that spell... and had done so so smoothly that the target probably didn't know that he was now completely visible.

He'd find out soon enough.

"Drew, NOW!"

Drew wanted to hesitate... but she didn't. She inhaled deeply, fixed her eyes on the target... and screamed-

---

Blaymore knew something was wrong from the start. Montfort was a strange and eventful town, true enough... but lava-fiends didn't just burst out of the street without warning. It just didn't happen. Not here. Not anywhere.

But even the ILLUSION of such a powerful creature bore investigation. He found the spot easily enough. Following the roaring and bellowing took him right into what he already suspected was a trap. A simple illusion of his own proved him right. He tripped the speed-triggered trap with a stone, and watched as the magic poured out of nowhere to capture the decoy. His own magic-detection spells hadn't seen a thing... whatever mage had created the complex trap was very good at concealing his work.

He was still admiring the mage's handiwork when everything went to hell.

His illusion faded. Then soldiers appeared on both sides of the street... weapons drawn and ready. Blaymore recognized their uniforms as belonging to the Tower Guard... and that's when a flying, invisible anvil dropped from the sky and struck him in the chest.

Or at least that's what it felt like.

The only warning was a sound... a hideous, unholy shriek that made his bones rattle beneath his flesh. Intense pain radiated outward from both of his ears, but before it could reach his extremities, something hit him. Hard.

The blow knocked Blaymore off his feet and flung him to the other side of the street. He twirled in the air, trying to use his supernaturally quick reflexes to prepare for impact before-

-too slow.

WHAM!

Wall. Wood. Hard. Pain.

Blaymore was unconscious for an instant. He remembered hitting the side of a building, and then opening his eyes to see the star-filled sky above. There seemed to be about six times as many stars as there SHOULD have been... and they were all spinning rather rapidly. He was hurt. Dizzy. In pain. His organs were still trembling from the invisible force that had hit him... but none of that seemed pertinent at the moment. The more important thing was the archers that were taking aim at him from the rooftops. He hadn't seen THEM before, either.

This was turning into a very bad night.

Blaymore rolled to his right just as the first arrow left its bow.

-tthwwock!-

It sank into the dirt, pinning his cloak to the ground and narrowly missing his arm.

That shouldn't have happened. Blaymore twisted, grunting against the pain-

-wwhzzzzz-

Another arrow tore a whole through his hood as it flew past his right ear. He ducked and threw himself to the left as three arrows formed a line in the dirt... each one missing him by ever-smaller fractions of an inch. He glanced at the rooftops. His vision was just clear enough to see the storm of arrows raining down on him.

But something was wrong. Blaymore's mind and body existed in a state of permanent haste... normally, even speeding arrows moved like the slow trotting of a tired horse. But THESE arrows were coming at him like... like ARROWS!

Blaymore spun. His arrow-riddled cloak billowed around him, confusing the archers for the instant it took for him to reach into his pocket and toss a small pouch of powder onto the ground. The pouch exploded, producing a cloud of thick smoke that quickly rose up to conceal him. He tried to cast an invisibility spell, but the magic fizzled at his fingertips. His spell of intangibility yielded the same results: multicolored sparks and numb fingers. Whatever the Tower Guard's mage had done... it had rendered nearly his entire repertoire of magic useless. As if it had been targeted specifically for HIM.

Meanwhile, archers were still firing arrows into the cloud. They couldn't see him... but they were still trying to either drive him out of the cloud or take him down with a lucky shot. Blaymore decided to give them what they wanted. He paused... drawing all of his strength and concentration... sprinted out of the cloud at the greatest speed he could muster.

-thwip!-
-thwap!-
-thwip!-

The archers left a trail of arrows in his wake... but that was IMPOSSIBLE! At maximum speed, he wouldn't even be a blue blur to them... he'd simply be an invisible gust of wind streaking along at roughly the speed of thought. There was no way they could even track him, let alone target him... unless...

...unless he wasn't AT maximum speed.

In fact, judging from the way the soldiers were rushing to surround him... he was moving only slightly faster than a normal human.

"DAMN!" he swore. "A SLOW-FIELD!"

Blaymore reversed directions suddenly as more arrows hit the ground in front of him. He threw another cloud behind him, cutting himself off from the soldiers as he ran the other way. He zigzagged down the street, changing directions at random to throw the archers off. It was a skill he hadn't had to use in years, but he was glad he knew it. It helped that the archers seemed to be aiming for his extremities and avoiding the fatal areas. Extremities were harder to hit even when the target was standing still, so if he kept moving, he might have a chance. But that left the soldiers on the ground. Blaymore was still fast-enough to outrun them easily... but it was a bit too late for that.

They already had him surrounded. They'd formed a wide circle around him.

The night had gone from bad to worse. There were too many of them. Too many to defeat at this speed. The slight speed-advantage that he DID have may had been enough to take three or four of them... but twenty?!? And even if he COULD take them all...

...was this a battle that he wanted to win? This was the Tower GUARD! Protectors of the law! There was no way he could escape without seriously hurting them, and that was a line he simply refused to cross.

Unfortunately, the Tower Guard didn't see him in quite the same light.

"DAYWATCH! ATTACK!" shouted a large man wearing a strange combination of plate and chain-mail. He carried a huge gold-colored shield, and his longsword was thrust skyward as he shouted his orders.

The army of trained soldiers moved in to try and take him down. Blaymore's mind raced... which is to say: he thought only slightly faster than everyone else on the enchanted battlefield.

Enchanted?

If their mage had blanketed the area with a slow field, why weren't the SOLDIER'S affected?

...it probably had something to do with the identical talismans that they all wore. Blaymore hadn't noticed them before, but now that the soldiers were all lined up together, it was impossible to miss. Talismans. Protection from the field. HE was slowed... THEY were not.

Beneath the blue sash covering his mouth, Blaymore smiled.

Time to Play, he thought.

Hasted or not, Blaymore always had a few tricks up his sleeve. Literally.

The daggers were strapped to his forearms, and in the blink of an eye the razor-sharp blades were clasped tightly between his fingertips. Ordinarily the blades would have been invisible, but the enchantment that made them so was snuffed out along with all the rest of his magic. But invisible or not, they could still fly.

The first two daggers left his fingers... followed immediately by the second two.

One blade sliced a groove along the first guardsman's leather armor... it cut across his chest and severed the thin cord that held the talisman around his neck. The medallion fell away, and the instant it was gone, the man who'd been wearing it b e g a n t o s...l...o...w... d......o......w......n......

...until finally he was barely moving at all.

Of the four daggers that Blaymore launched, two struck true... one missed entirely and another bounced off of the talisman itself. Blaymore didn't get a chance to throw another. The soldiers were upon him.

He drew his scimitar and prepared to for battle...

---

"This isn't working," Captain Physt said the three of them watch the fight unfold. The vigilante had chosen to engage Dascle's fighters rather than run. At twenty against one, the odds were definitely in Dascle's favor... but those odds had been reduced by two before the fight had truly began, and now the target was rapidly working to whittle them down even more.

The assassin was outnumbered, but he was still faster than the fastest swordsman out there. Able to make two and sometimes three strikes to a normal man's one, he was more than quick enough to block the first few blows and slice away another man's talisman... further tipping the advantage away from Dascle's crew. A knot of guardsmen closed in on him, but the assassin back-flipped out of their tightening circle and landed in a low crouch, another dagger in his hand. He threw it, and yet another guardsman's movements slowed to almost nothing.

Then he quickly turned to block the guardsman coming behind him. Their swords met in the air, and a brief but intense swordplay commenced. The assassin went for the talisman, but the guardsman blocked... and blocked again. He was good. When the assassin realized that the others were surrounding him again, he launched into a series of somersaults and narrowly escaped them.

"Look at him," Physt turned to Lieutenant Drew. "How can he fight like that after taking one of your blasts? How is he able to move at all?"

"I... I don't know," Monica lied.

"You know," the captain replied sternly. "You know good and well how that could happen. You held back."

"I had to," Monica explained. "Without knowing what kind of armor or protection he had under that cloak, I couldn't risk it. I could have killed him."

"I told you to hit him with everything you had. One blast... short and effective. That's how we planned this. If you had followed my orders this would be OVER now."

"Yes... with another corpse for the city to hang over my head?"

"And what if he kills one of Dascle's men out there? What if he gets away and kills someone else? Who's head will THAT hang over?"

"ARG!" the assassin grunted as one of the guardsman sliced him across the shoulder. The vigilante yanked himself away from the blade... without fear of another attack. In the same instant that the guardsman had caught HIM, he'd cut the guardsman's talisman and rendered him effectively motionless. He spun and, instead of trying to get clear, tossed two more daggers. One more guardsman went still, but-

CLANK!

-the second blade bounced off of Sir Dascle's shield, which he'd just managed to get up in time.

"Azward, that man is still to fast. Do something!" the captain demanded.

"I'm sorry," said Azward. "But I can't. You have no idea how much power I'm using just to slow him down THIS much. His speed is truly phenomenal. I have never seen-"

"Admire it AFTER we have him in custody. Dascle's loosing men out there... can't you do anything?"

"I'm using all of my concentration to sustain the various fields as they are. I can't increase the power... or cast another spell... without risking an Ethereal Chain-Cascade Failure."

"I assume that's bad."

"I wouldn't know... no one has ever lived through one."

"I see."

"This level of magic is not without its inherent dangers. And just having this conversation is increasing that danger ten-fold, so if you don't mind..."

"I can take him," said Monica. She drew the Ghostblade, but Physt thrust his arm in front of her, holding her back.

"You've done enough damage," he said. "And besides... we're not out of surprises yet. Lets see how this goes..."

---

Blaymore's scimitar danced around him, swiftly blocking or delivering strike after strike. The blade changed directions with such speed accuracy that it was more like a hummingbird than a deadly weapon. In the first few seconds of the fight, the assassin wove his way through the soldiers like a predator... seeking out the slowest and weakest among them so that he could take them out with a well-placed slash... not to the throat or gut, but to the thin cord that held their protective talismans. He was faster than them. Not as fast as he SHOULD have been, but still quicker than the best fighters among the guard. But as swift and skilled as he was, it still wasn't enough to make it an easy battle. The guardsmen were good... even better than their considerable reputation. And not only did they have him vastly outnumbered, but their leader... the large man with the armor... was barking out steady streams of orders in some sort of code that Blaymore couldn't decipher. With every order, the guardsmen changed their formation and tactics to quickly nullify whatever plan of assault or escape Blaymore was using at the time. They kept him surrounded. No matter which way he ran, they hemmed him in and make retreat impossible. Blaymore tried anyway, hoping that what little speed he had would allow him to slip past. Not so. He ended up having to fight his way back into the clear. He claimed another talisman in the process, but picked up several painful wounds in exchange.

His cloak was already in tatters, and the black armor he wore beneath it had several deep gouges... some of which cut into the flesh beneath. His left arm throbbed from the wound he'd taken earlier, but he kept the pain from his mind and kept on fighting. If it could even be called that. He spent more time blocking and avoiding than making attacks. He had to. There were too many of them and they were too good. What remained of his speed seemed just enough to prolong the inevitable. He had to find an edge... some advantage that he could exploit to either gain the upper hand or allow for a hasty escape. Preferably the latter.

Blaymore snatched up one of the talismans that he'd sliced away earlier. He was hoping that it would shield him from the slow-field as it did for the Tower Guard. But instead of the welcome rush of his speed returning, the talisman buzzed angrily and sent painful shockwaves of energy up into his arm. His glove began to smoke. Instinctively, Blaymore threw the medallion away... right toward an approaching guardsman-

"HEADS UP!" the man shouted. He threw himself to one side while the guardsman behind him ducked. The speeding, now red-hot talisman passed them both and quietly melted away to an unrecognizable glob of molten metal before it could hit the ground.

Blaymore decided not to try and grab another talisman. Unless...

Hearing movement behind him, Blaymore spun and launched himself at the two guardsmen who were charging him. He pushed his reflexes to the limit... not to defeat them, but just to keep them from impaling him. He blocked everything they threw at him... barely... then suddenly dropped into a crouching leg-sweep. One guardsman leapt over his agile limb, but the other caught the heel of Blaymore's boot across the ankle. He fell. Blaymore blocked the first soldier's strike and threw himself into a forward roll, literally rolling over the downed man. The guardsman's talisman came away on the blade of Blaymore's sword. The rest of the soldiers were closing in for an attack. Blaymore palmed the talisman, and when its anti-theft defenses flared to life, he tossed it into the throng of armed men. They scattered. Two of Blaymore's daggers followed the red-hot medallion. Both were knocked aside by Sir Dascle's shield; then the soldiers charged again.

-PAFF!-

Blaymore tossed his last remaining pouch of dust right into their path. The cloud rose up around them, swallowing them all. A couple of the soldiers backed away, but most kept on coming. Visibility inside the cloud was almost nothing... except for Blaymore. The Tower Guard's mage had taken his speed, his illusions, and his intangibility... but his low-light vision spell was working perfectly.

He almost smiled as he sliced the first of the medallions away from the surprised soldier's throat. The man didn't even see it coming. Neither did the next one. Or the one after that. The cloud lasted only a few seconds before dissipating, but it was long enough for Blaymore to tilt the odds further into his favor. Sir Dascle shouted a retreat. Blaymore followed the shout to its source, determined to nullify the leader and perhaps throw the soldiers into disarray. He spotted Sir Dascle and sprinted silently through the remnants of the cloud-

WHOOSH!

Sir Dascle spun and swung his shield. Had the blow connected, it would have surely knocked Blaymore across the street for the second time tonight. Blaymore dodged just in time... just as he realized that Sir Dascle's shout may have been an attempt to draw him out.

He SHOULD have realized that much sooner, but he wasn't thinking as quickly as he normally did.

Sir Dascle followed with a slashing attack from his longsword. Blaymore side-stepped the knight's blow and looked for an escape path-

WHUNK!

He took Dascle's armored boot to the bottom of the chest. The knight was quick for a man wearing heavy armor. Gasping for air, Blaymore stumbled backward... right into the hands of the soldiers who'd been closing in behind him.

Someone threw their arm around his neck while someone ELSE folded Blaymore's arms behind his back. A third person tried to strike him in the head with the pommel of his sword... but mere choke-holds and arm-twists would not hold the Blue Death. In the blinking of an eye, Blaymore wiggled free. He elbowed one man in the throat and introduced another man's crotch to the heel of his boot. He snatched the third man's medallion and spun away just as Sir Dascle's sword came arcing down. Blaymore struck back. His sword drew sparks from the knight's shield. Dascle launched into a string of attacks... strong and fast... using his sword AND his shield as weapons. Blaymore danced around him... trying to get past his defenses, but the knight was too good of a fighter to allow that. His attacks drove Blaymore back toward the shadows. The assassin's sword was already dented and warped from seemingly endless combat, but blocking Dascle's thunderous blows would have been too much for even a fresh weapon.

Dascle slashed, then twisted and thrust his shield forward toward Blaymore... attempting to drive him further back. Blaymore saw an opening and went for it. He lunged to the right, then spun to the left. His quick reflexes would have taken him past the knight and into the open street... if Sir Dascle hadn't been expecting that very maneuver. The sword came around in a horizontal slash aimed for Blaymore's neck. Blaymore twisted away... too slow! He quickly raised his sword to block-

K-TANG!

-and his weapon shattered before the knight's onslaught, leaving the assassin with nothing but a shattered stump of a sword. Blaymore reached for one of his knives while deftly avoiding the-

WHAM!

Dascle's shield struck him squarely in the face. Blaymore flew several feet before landing on his back. He rolled-

CHUNK!

-just as the knight's blade impaled the remains of his cloak and pinned him to the dirt. Dascle raised his shield and brought it down hard on Blaymore's chest-

WHUMP!
"UNGH!"

-it was like being pummeled with a sledgehammer.

The shield raised again-

WHUMP!

"AAGH!"

rrrriip!

Blaymore pulled free, but Sir Dascle's gauntleted hand closed over his throat and lifted him up into the air. He now stood face to face with the knight... except Blaymore's feet were a considerable distance off of the ground.

"Thou art under arrest," the knight informed him. "Cease thy struggling, lest I be forced to pummel thee again!"

"Pummel THIS!"

Blaymore cast an invisibility spell. As he'd hoped, the suppression field caused the spell to fizzle and spark at his fingertips... fingertips that were mere inches from Sir Dascle's face.

"AAAAGH!"

Suddenly blinded by the spray of multicolored light, Sir Dascle dropped Blaymore and backed away... minus his protective talisman, which came free in Blaymore's grasp. Sir Dascle's stumbling slowed... slowed... and halted in seeming defiance of gravity as his motions succumbed to the slow field.

Blaymore had lost count of the guardsmen, but if there were any left, they certainly weren't enough to keep him from escaping. He turned to run, then quickly leaned back as-

WHHHOOOOSH!

Something flew past him.

A foot... a leg... a man...

The flying side-kick missed Blaymore by a hair... so close that the wind of its passing ruffled the assassin's hood. But then, just as he thought the kick had missed, the attacker twisted in mid-air and delivered another-

KRACK!

The bare foot spun Blaymore around several times and delivered him to the tender mercies of the hard dirt. Blaymore rolled to his feet and spun to see this new attacker-

"You are under arrest," said Touch. The bare-chested, unarmed lieutenant snapped to a rigid fighting stance. His cold, dark eyes locked with Blaymore's. "Surrender yourself now if you wish to be conscious for your trial. Resist, and you will be... broken."

---

Part Four: Blood in the Streets

Blaymore watched the man that had attacked him. He studied the stance... the expression... It only took a second for Blaymore to come to the necessary conclusions:

One: This person honestly thought he could defeat Blaymore one-on-one.

Two: Now probably wasn't the best time to prove him wrong.

Confronted with a slow-field, a mage of unknown ability, and whatever other surprises the Guard had waiting for him, Blaymore decided that his best course of action was to get out of here as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, thanks to the slow-field, that decision took a split-second too long...

Touch was on him before Blaymore could take the first step. The flying side-kick almost caught Blaymore by surprise. But the slow-field hadn't completely robbed him of his speed... it left him with just enough of an edge to react to what would have been a fight-ending blow to the head. Blaymore slid away from the kick, and then spun... ready to bolt. Touch twisted and threw a hook-kick as he landed. The kick missed Blaymore's jaw by an inch. Blaymore was just realizing that the kick was a distraction when the spinning backfist came for his head. Blaymore blocked it, but the lieutenant's arm was like an iron bar. Just blocking it bruised Blaymore's already injured forearm. The pain had hardly reached his brain when Blaymore's feet left the ground... knocked out from under him by a simple leg-sweep.

Blaymore dropped and rolled immediately, avoiding the downward punch intended for his chest. He rolled to his feet-

WHOOOSH-

-if it weren't for what little speed-advantage he had left, he never would have avoided the kick. He lunged to one side and grabbed for Touch's extended leg, but then he quickly ducked as Touch's leg bent and came back toward him... knee aimed straight for Blaymore's face. Blaymore ducked under the kick and threw a quick rabbit-punch at Touch's exposed side. The lieutenant's's iron fingers came out of nowhere and clamped down on Blaymore's wrist. Blaymore tried to pull his arm away, and realized his mistake a second too late.

Touch lunged forward, throwing his weight into Blaymore and forcing him further off balance. Another leg sweep snatched the legs out from under him. He fell... but never hit the ground.

Touch still had his arm.

The lieutenant YANKED him back up and-

CRACK!

thrust his bare elbow straight into Blaymore's face. For an instant, the world was full of flashing colors and singing birds. And pain. Touch released Blaymore's arm, and Blaymore stumbled backward a half-step, then quickly blocked Touch's finishing blow. He deflected the kick with a hasty block, then launched into a furious retaliation before the next attack could come. Blaymore spun in close and shot punches at Touch's face and throat.

At full speed, Blaymore could reduce a man to pulp before the pain of the first blow even registered. Even at this reduced speed, his reflexes were still faster than a normal man's. No one could stand a chance against the dizzying storm of punches that Blaymore had unleashed upon Touch...

...so HOW was lieutenant blocking them all? Touch's hands moved like bees darting from one blossom to another... lazily deflecting everything Blaymore threw at him. Then, without warning, Touch's hands went from defense to attack. Blaymore back pedaled before the avalanche of knuckles that danced before his eyes. He kept backing away until he realized-

WHOOSH!

He ducked just in time. The kick roared over his head. Blaymore straightened and spun-

WHOOSH!

a second kick arced past his face. He twisted and blocked the ridge-hand strike coming for his neck, then threw a punch at Touch's exposed armpit. Touch grabbed Blaymore's arm, but Blaymore punched him in the wrist. Or at least he tried. Touch's hand vanished, and Blaymore ended up punching himself in the hand... and then quickly spinning to avoid another ridge-hand strike, this one to the side of the head.

Realizing he needed to get some distance between himself and Touch, Blaymore spun... his tattered cloak flared out around him, blinding Touch for an instant-

-or at least, that was the intention.

Touch made a fist and extended his thumb out to the side. He bent the thumb at a 90-degree angle, forming a crude talon... a talon with sliced through Blaymore's cloak like sword.

-rrrrrRRRRRIP!-

The bottom half of Blaymore's blue cloak dropped to the ground. The kick came immediately after it. Blaymore spun away from it and ducked under another kick. He touched the ground briefly, then came up and slung a fist-full of dirt right into Touch's face.

Touch didn't gag, gasp, or yell when the dirt hit his eyeballs. His simply shut his eyes and THEN blocked Blaymore's punch. And the punch after that. Between the second and third punch, Touch twisted and lunged forward, driving his fist right into the center of Blaymore's chest.

It felt like a keg of black powder had gone off behind Blaymore's ribs.

The blow sent Blaymore staggering back as pain exploded through his chest cavity. He tried to regain his balance, but ended up on the ground anyway... clutching his chest and wheezing in pain.

Who IS this man? Blaymore thought as he slowly got to his feet. His reflexes are almost as good as mine! Maybe better! And that punch... it felt like he could've cracked every rib in my chest if he wanted to...

Meanwhile, Touch was calmly blinking the dirt out of his eyes while walking toward Blaymore.

"Do you wish to continue this farce?" said the lieutenant.

"You haven't beaten me yet," Blaymore replied. He was already looking for a way out... a way to run. But there were archers still perched on the buildings, and with his injuries, Blaymore didn't think he could outrun them any more. But then... if they still had any arrows left, they would have used them by now... wouldn't they? Could he risk it?

"I wouldn't," said Touch. "You are already captured; you just fail to realize it. Further attempts to fight or flee will only result in more pain to you. Yield now."

"...you're a telepath," Blaymore hissed. Even though he'd detected no intrusions into his mind, Blaymore knew that the man HAD to be reading his thoughts to predict his attacks... there was just no other way.

"No," said Touch. He prepared for combat once more. "Merely a better fighter than you."

"I warn you," said Blaymore. "I've been holding back."

"So have I."

Blaymore ran. There was enough distance between him and Touch to make for a good head start, but Blaymore hadn't taken four steps before-

WHOOOSH!

Touch grabbed Sir Dascle's shield and threw it like a giant discus.

WHUMP!

"ARRRRGH!"

Had Blaymore been just a little faster he could have dodged it... but instead he ended up face-down in the dirt with bright arcs of pain dancing up and down his back. If it weren't for the light padding of his armor, the flying would have snapped his spine in two.

Blaymore pushed his way through the pain and jumped to his feet, just as Touch tried to sweep them out from under him again. Blaymore spun away from the lieutenant's, then immediately came back with a spinning backfist that was supposed to be a surprise attack.

Touch blocked it easily, then drove his own fist into Blaymore's side, just below his underarm. The one punch... five fingers... one fist, driven by naught but muscle and bone... felt like a team of mules kicking him all at once.

"AAGK!"

The entire right side of Blaymore's body went numb. He stumbled, but still had enough control to reach for the medallion hanging from the draw-string of Touch's pants. If he could snatch it-

Touch grabbed his arm and twisted it... forcing Blaymore's body to contort into a painful and awkward position. Then he punched Blaymore in the left shoulder. Hard.

He started to fall, but Touch yanked him back to his feet... he was about to deliver a spinning elbow-strike to the back of Blaymore's head, but Blaymore regained his balance at the last moment. He ducked out of the way and threw a series of quick punches at Touch's gut... using all the speed and momentum he could muster. The first two punches landed, but Touch's iron-hard hands swooped in to deflect the rest. Touch's knee arced up toward Blaymore's groin. Blaymore twisted away, then turned the dodge into a spinning back-fist. Touch blocked it with ease, then grabbed Blaymore's wrist... just as Blaymore's boot left the ground in a front-snap kick. Touch jerked his head to one side, allowing the kick to zip past his ear. That's when Blaymore made another grab for the medallion. Touch twisted, taking the prize just out of Blaymore's reach... then sent the heel of his hand toward Blaymore's nose in an upward arc. Instead of ducking, Blaymore blocked the attack. He grabbed Touch's wrist and tried to hold it, but Touch snatched it out of his grasp and tried to tag Blaymore with a strike to the throat. Touch's fingers shot toward the sensitive tissues of Blaymore's neck, but Blaymore was too quick. He leaned to one side... leapt over a leg-sweep... ducked under a back-fist strike... blocked a ridge-hand to the neck... and then caught a single kick to the chest that sent him stumbling backward. Other kicks followed, coming so quickly that a normal man would have been overwhelmed. Blaymore pushed himself... blocking and dodging the storm of attacks. Amazingly he held is ground, but he knew he couldn't do so for long. His injuries were already beginning to slow him down.

He pushed himself further... faster... beginning to slip counterattacks in between his blocks. Touch was a better fighter, of that there could be no doubt, but Blaymore still had the advantage of speed. His hands became blurs as they sought openings in Touch's defenses. But there were precious few to find. Touch's fighting style was so fluid that the man could react to almost anything Blaymore threw at him, no matter HOW fast. The man's reflexes were phenomenal... if not superhuman. He fought as if he knew every move Blaymore was going to make before he made it. And not only did he know how to block them, but he knew what openings they would create and how to exploit them. Blaymore couldn't make a single attack without inviting wave after wave of assaults, all perfectly timed and executed to break past his defenses and attack his weak spots. But Touch's attacks rarely left such openings... and when they did, they were merely traps to draw Blaymore in. Such skill was more than Blaymore could overcome. Touch fought like a grand-master. No... he was better. He fought like a man who'd lived and breathed the art of combat since birth... a man for whom it was NOT an art, but a way of life, or even...

...a...

....a religion...

The realization broke across Blaymore's mind like a thunderclap in slow motion. The fighting style was different... subdued, almost as if Touch was hiding it. But glimpses of it showed through in his movements. The style. The skill. The strength. The speed...

...the occasional flash of hunger and excitement his eyes...

This man he fought was not a member of the Tower Guard. He COULDN'T be... not if he was what Blaymore thought... KNEW... he that was. Blaymore's heart beat faster as the fear welled up in him. He knew... he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could NOT beat this man. Not like this. Not without his speed. He knew that the consequences of losing to this... thing... were more than a dungeon and a trial. Blaymore couldn't guess what game was being played here, but he did know that he was about to die very, very painfully.

"NOOOO!!" Blaymore shouted. Every ounce of reservation and reluctance evaporated before the sudden surge of fear and desperation. Blaymore's attacks became harder and faster as he drove himself into the assassin before him. Flesh met flesh as Touch rebuffed Blaymore's assault. Blaymore drove Touch back a few steps, but it was a calculated retreat... and Blaymore knew it. Touch was studying him the way a hawk studies a hare... watching for the best moment to strike. But if Blaymore could keep him on the defensive-

Touch struck.

Iron-hard hands smashed through Blaymore's blocks. Blaymore threw himself backwards, jerking his head and neck out the way of Touch's deadly fingers. Blaymore couldn't tell of Touch were going for the nerve-bundles in his neck, or if he was merely trying to rip his throat out with his bare hands. It didn't matter, the end result would've been the same. Blaymore ducked under another punch, and tried to block a third. His already bruised arm folded before the attack, and he caught the ridge-hand strike on the left temple. Dizzy and half-delerious with pain, Blaymore managed to spin away from a hook-kick that would have shut him down instantly. Touch's bare feet began to dance before Blaymore's eyes in a dizzying series of spinning kicks. Blaymore backed away at first, but then threw himself into the storm... blocking with both forearms while sending his own boot arcing toward Touch's chin. He missed. Touch threw a kick from the other direction. The kick bounced off of Blaymore's arms as Touch's fist pummeled Blaymore's kidneys.

"ARRRGH!"

"Fear," Touch hissed as Blaymore staggered back. "I can see it in your eyes. I can read it in your movements. You're not holding back any longer... but you still can't beat me-"

"Shut up and fight," Blaymore spat.

Blaymore ducked as another kick soared over his head, then he exploded into a backfist strike that Touch barely had time to block. Touch's fingers darted for Blaymore's side. Blaymore twisted, ducked.... and took a spinning back-kick to the chest.

"UNGH!"

The simple kick tossed Blaymore several feet. He landed on his back.... right where he WANTED to land. His hands scurried through the dirt... finding what he wanted.

He rose to a crouching position with a dagger in each hand. He threw them without hesitation... as hard and as fast as the slow-field would allow. One aimed for Touch's throat, the other for the medallion on Touch's belt. Either one would end the fight-

Touch snatched both daggers out of the air... and threw them right back at Blaymore-

THWOCK! The first dagger sank to the hilt in his left shoulder.
THWOCK! The second made an identical hit to the right.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGH!" Blaymore howled. He tried to get up, but ended up falling over backwards. He yanked the blades from his flesh... got to his knees-

Then ducked-

WHOOSH!

Touch's kick would've probably cracked his skull open like a mellon. Blaymore blocked the lieutenant's foot on its return trip to his head-

"AAAGH!"

Pain exploded from his shoulders as the kick knocked him over. He rolled... got to his feet-

CRACK!

Spinning back-kick. Chest...just below the neck. Something cracked, and Blaymore was down again... in too much pain to even cry out.

There was something next to him.... Dascle's shield.

Blaymore snatched the golden shield and raised it over him just in time-

KLOOONG!

Blaymore expected Touch's fist to put an enormous dent in the shield, but the metal held up to the assault. Blaymore's arms did not. The force of the impact knocked the shield from his grasp. It fell to the ground beside him just as Touch's fist came down again.

WHUMP!

One punch to the lower chest. Blaymore coughed up a mouthful of blood and managed to curl into a ball... from which he thrust his leg up at an angle, catching Touch in the gut.

"UNGH!"

Touch backed away a single step-

Blaymore thought it was enough. He tried to rise... he was on his hands and knees when Touch's fists rained down his back, pummeling his spine... striking at every vertebrae from his neck to his pelvis.

Only sheer willpower kept Blaymore conscious through the storm of pain as his nervous system went into uncontrollable spasms. Blaymore rolled over onto his side. His legs were trembling... almost useless. His arms were like sandbags filled with pain. Blaymore fought his way through it and made a clumsy grab for Touch's medallion...

Touch grabbed his hand and twisted it-

SNAP!

The wrist snapped easily in his iron grasp. Blaymore didn't even feel it.

Blaymore searched for something... ANYTHING that he could use to continue the fight. He'd used all his weapons. He had no more surprises. No spells, no magic... no speed. His life's blood was pouring out of him through a dozen wounds. Cracked ribs. Broken wrist. Internal injuries.

He had nothing.

He was done.

He raised his other hand, not in an attack, but in surrender...

"...yield..." he mumbled through the blood that was filling his mouth. "...I yield..."

But Blaymore looked up into Touch's eyes and saw that there would be no surrender. Somewhere along the way, the pretense had been dropped. If there had been some doubt before, it was now dispelled. Blaymore saw it plainly. There was no mistaking what he saw in Touch's eyes.

He had seen it before.

Blaymore tried to move away as Touch reached down and grabbed him by the throat. Touch yanked him up to a kneeling position and held him there. Blaymore grabbed Touch's wrist and tried to peel the fingers away from his throat... but they wouldn't budge. Instead, they dug deeper into his flesh. Touch's fist drew back for the final blow. The punch would shatter Blaymore's skull like cheap crystal...

"...I know who you are..." Blaymore choked. "...I know... what...you are..."

The fist hovered in the air, ready to strike...

"Ysuin."

The word struck like a weapon. Touch gasped as his faced transformed into a mask of terror. He released Blaymore, who immediately fell back to the ground.

Touch backed away... feet sliding heavily through the dirt... gazing down at the bruised and beaten man who lay before him.

"What have I done," he gasped. "WHAT HAVE I DONE!!!"

---

Captain Physt, Lieutenant Drew and Azward watched from the edge of the street. Touch had subdued the vigilante and was about to make the capture, when suddenly he started backing away... screaming.

"What's going on!" Physt howled. "TAKE HIM DOWN!"

As Lieutenant Touch continued to back away, the vigilante began to stand. With the other members of the guard frozen in Azward's slow-field, there was nothing between Blaymore and freedom except empty space.

"DREW! Hit him... NOW!"

"W-what?" said Lieutenant's Drew. "I can't-"

"This man is a suspected murderer!"

"SUSPECTED, sir... SUSPECTED!"

"He has ATTACKED members of the Tower Guard!"

"But we attacked him firs-"

"I'm not ASKING you to splatter him all over the street... just put him down!"

Lieutenant's Drew swallowed... she watched the bloody wreck of a man struggling to his feet. A murderer? Maybe. But she couldn't look at him and do what the captain wanted her to do. She could kill him. And after what had already happened-

"He's injured, sir LOOK at him... I can't tell how much he can take-"

"HIT him NOW! That's an ORDER!"

"Sir-"

"AN ORDER!" The responsibility is MINE, not yours! Now DO it!"

Drew nodded. Every fiber of her soul told her not to follow Physt's order. But she was tired. It had been a long and terrible night. Members of the guard... men she knew from the day she'd gotten here... were out there frozen and helpless while a suspected murderer was about to walk away. Monica was sure that there was a reason somewhere... and she was sure she'd think of it later. But for now, all she could do... was scream:

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-"

It was already too late when Physt's error in judgment became apparent. By then, they could do nothing but watch it happen.

Blaymore hadn't been stumbling around blindly... he had a plan. He reached Dascle's shield just as Monica's sonic blast hit him. He had just enough time to turn and brace himself.

The wall of sound struck the shield like a shot from a cannon. Both the shield AND the man behind it were thrown backward...into the air... down the street... and into an alley beside a building. The alley had a rotting wooden wall at its end. Monica's blast sent Blaymore through the wall and out onto the street beyond...

...right past the outer limit of Azward's slow field.

In the blink of an eye, the vigilante was gone.

Physt sighed and shook his head... then walked out into the street. Monica followed.

Azward dispelled the network of spells, and the street was filled with yelps of surprise from the soldiers as they suddenly returned to full speed.

"ZOUNDS!" Dascle roared.

"Calm down," Physt said as he walked past. "Nobody's hurt."

"Didst we capture yon murderous villain?"

"He got away," said Monica.

"SURELY he didst not defeat Touch in battle!"

"No," said Physt. "Not exactly. Touch?"

Physt and Monica confronted the lieutenant's, who couldn't bring himself to look at either of them.

"Touch... what happened?"

Touch kept his eyes fixed on the dirt at his feet. He said nothing.

"Touch, you had him," said Monica. "What... why..."

"You were in control, Touch," said Physt. "I was watching you. And I've seen you before... I know the difference. You were in control... you weren't losing it. Why'd you stop?"

"...I felt it..." Touch said weakly. "... scratching at my soul... clawing its way up with every blow I struck."

"Touch-"

"It was looking out through my eyes. He saw it. He knew what it was. He knew what I was. What I AM."

"You were in control, Touch."

"Was I? How can you be so sure... when I don't even know myself."

"I know," said Physt. "I know what kind of man you are. I know you-"

"Your confidence is not enough," said Touch. "Not for me. Not any more. Do not ask this of me again. Never, never again."

Lieutenant Touch turned and walked away.

"Touch! Where are you going!"

"Back to the Tower," he said. "Where I should have stayed..."

---

The Captain trudged down the dim hallways, wandering almost aimlessly in the general direction of his office. He returned the guards' salutes with halfhearted flips of his hand, and when he finally found himself before the imposing doorway, he sighed and started to unlock it with the key hanging from his belt.

The door was already unlocked.

He pushed the door open and entered.

"That bad, eh?" said Henrietta. Physt's secretary sat at her desk, shuffling through the stack of official documents that needed to go out with the morning courier.

"How can you tell?"

"From the look on your face," she said.

"What are you doing here so early?"

"Well... one: it's not as early as you think. And two: I wanted to see how this 'secret mission' of yours turned out."

"You knew?"

"You never could keep a secret from me, Hirem."

"But this was... oh, forget it. I'm too tired to argue."

"Did anyone get hurt?"

"Not physically, no. Unless you count the vigilante. He took a beating.... still got away. We'll check around at the healers tomorrow. We won't find anything, but that's what we're expected to do... so we'll do it."

Captain Physt made his way to his desk, where he sat down and slumped in his chair.

"So what happened?" said Henrietta.

"The short version?" Physt replied. "Drew and Touch held back. And Drew has a problem following orders."

"But you knew that already. She has a mind of her own."

"Yes, she does. That's what makes her so good at what she does. But she still needs to follow orders. Dascle and his men were over-confident as usual."

"Well, what did you expect?"

"I expected everyone to follow the plan and get the job done. That didn't happen."

"What about Azward?"

"He did the best he could."

"I'm sure everyone did."

"No they didn't; that's the problem. Drew was still sensitive from this 'SilverMass' nonsense. And Touch has his own issues that I can't get into. Either ONE of them could have turned that operation around and brought this guy in. But instead, he ended up making us all look like clowns."

"I thought you said you hurt him-"

"Yes, but we looked like clowns doing it! ONE man, Henrietta... ONE MAN! We throw and entire TOWER after him and STILL come back empty-handed. If I can't trust my people to give a hundred percent at ALL times, then there's no way we're ready for..."

"Him," Henrietta said. "It's always about him, isn't it."

"Yes, that's what its about. No, I'm not going to have that conversation again. Wintermane has his Cult of Pain, and I have him."

"Oh, I'm not going to talk you out of your little... whatever it is you're trying to do-"

"You know what I'm trying to do-"

"But let me remind you...again... that there are more important things than this little crusade you're brewing."

"I disagree."

"You don't have to agree... as long as you know that other people have different ideas... different priorities that are as important to THEM as YOURS are to YOU. You have to remember that you're dealing with PEOPLE here. Not the people out there on the street, but the people right here in this tower. There's a difference between helping someone achieve their potential, and trying to CHANGE them so they'll fit into your own little scheme. Now which one are you trying to do here, Hirem?"

"I didn't come here for a lecture."

"Life's just full of surprises, isn't it."

"You're right," said Physt. "I know you're right. But things still need to be done. The streets still need to be safe."

"Hirem... the streets are about as safe as they're going to get. A town like Montfort... with all kinds of people coming and going... its a wonder that there aren't a hundred bodies washing up in the river every day. YOU keep that from happening. The Tower Guard does."

"So I shouldn't try to make it better than it is. Is that what you're saying?"

"You should try. But you shouldn't become a damned fanatic about it."

"I disagree with that, too."

"I know. That's why I'm here... to give you a thorough tongue-lashing when you start to get out of line."

"So, I'm not out of line yet?"

"Not yet. But you're getting there."

"Good. That means I've still got a little ways to go."

Physt glanced at the papers covering his desk. He tried to read a few of them, but the thoughts just wouldn't come together. Finally, he stood up and started for the door.

"Going for a walk?" said Henrietta.

"Yes."

"Its still dark outside... be careful."

"Tell that to the dark," said Physt as he left the room.

---

Physt began his mind-clearing walk with tour of the tower. He wanted to see just how much damage had been done. Touch was meditating quietly in his quarters. The lieutenant didn't have anything to say to him when stopped by, so Physt went on his way and left the man to his thoughts. Monica and Darkwatch were out finishing off the remainder of perhaps the most disastrous night they'd ever had. Sir Dascle was in his quarters. The door was closed, but Dascle was grumbling and sulking loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway. Physt didn't bother him. Azward was sleeping soundly in his darkened lab. Physt heard the mage's light snores coming from the general direction of his desk... he'd probably been trying squeeze more power out of his spells when the night's exertions finally caught up with him. Physt paused long enough to pull the mage's door closed... and lock it... before moving on.

Captain Physt left the tower and decided to seek his peace on the streets... assuming that some Darkwatch sniper didn't mistake him for a rogue and put a poisoned arrow in his throat. Not that that would actually happen, but it would have been a fitting end for the night.

And tomorrow would just get worse.

Fallout from the SilverMass debacle AND the failed capture would be nose-deep before noon. Interviews, debriefings, forms and reports... that was just the beginning. Hopefully the Council wouldn't get involved. Or, if they did, they'd want to hear from Physt and not Drew or Dascle.

But worse than that, there was still a dangerous vigilante roaming... or limping... the streets. Tonight had been their best chance of capturing him. Next time, they wouldn't be able to surprise him. Next time, somebody might have to get hurt. Then there was this 'SilverMass.' Was this a new threat... or an old threat disguising itself under a new name? Time would certainly tell, but by then it may be too late.

Dawn was less than an hour way when Physt noticed that his 'random' wanderings had taken him back to the street where they'd failed to capture the "Blue Death." The air still held the acrid sting of Azward's magic. There were black marks in the street from where the medallions had exploded. On a whim, Physt found the exact spot where he'd been standing before. He stood there and replayed the night in his mind... wincing at every mistake that had been made.

"More archers," he whispered to himself. "Fewer soldiers... more men who can strike from a distance. We needed another mage... someone who could've cast spells while Azward maintained the fields. And the medallions were ridiculous. They made it much too easy..."

Physt's words trailed off when he realized that he was being watched. He didn't know from where... or by who... but he got the distinct and unmistakable feeling that he was being studied.

Hopefully it was some thief sizing him up for a grab.

Physt waited. There was only silence and darkness for a long while.

Then came the voice.

Deep and low...

"You know what he is, don't you?"

Physt didn't jump or yell or show any reaction to the voice that had spoken almost directly into his ear. His only movement was to turn his head calmly to one side and glance at the empty air beside him.

"It's you, isn't it," he said.

A fine blue mist rose from the ground next to him. The mist thickened... taking on the shape of a man... then it solidified.

Blaymore stood not two feet away

He was whole. His clothing and body showed no signs of the beating he'd taken earlier at the hands of the Tower Guard. This, of course, meant that Physt was probably talking to an illusion.

"Scene of the crime?" said Physt.

"You think me a criminal... but we're fighting the same war. On the same side."

"You know the difference between a murderer and a vigilante?" said Physt. "Choice of victim."

"I've killed no one in this city who was not intent on harming me or someone else."

"'In this city.' Interesting... how you qualified that. 'In This City.'"

"That is the limit of your concern, is it not?"

"Maybe. You know the only reason I haven't slapped you in chains right now is because I can't catch you."

"You're not going to try?"

"Do you want me to? Why... so that you can 'defend yourself' by slicing me into a hundred pieces?"

"No. I just assumed from your attempt earlier that you had some sort of fixation with futility."

"Jokes," said Physt. "You make jokes, now, eh? Is that what you're here for... to gloat?"

"I'm here to make sure you know the truth."

"What are you talking about?"

"The lieutenant that fought me."

"The one that beat you to a bleeding, purple pulp? What about him?"

"You know," said Blaymore. He was speaking more to himself than to Physt. "You know what he is."

"A lieutenant in the Tower Guard."

"And an assassin."

"Like you?"

"Not like me. He is something worse. Something darker. He is Ysuin."

"I have no idea what you're talking about-"

"Worshippers of fear and violence. Loyal only to themselves. Some say that they sell their souls to become unbeatable."

"Ohhhh," said Physt. "You mean the guys with the fancy weapons who never show their faces..." He glared at Blaymore, who's face was hidden by his blue hood and sash.

"You knowingly harbor a monster in your midst... and you call me a criminal."

"You are."

"There are those who wouldn't agree." Blaymore began walking in a tight circle around Captain Physt. Physt didn't react. "And those who might call YOU such if they knew the truth about your lieutenant's."

"You don't want to play that game," Physt snapped. "If you want to go down that road... go. But if you do, then Touch isn't the one you need to worry about.... its me."

"The words of an angry thug who's power is threatened. Is that what you are?"

"Call me what you want," said Physt. "To me, you're-"

"I'm the only ally you have in this fight."

"What fight would that be?"

"Do I have to explain it?"

"Yes."

"I'm talking about our common enemy."

"And who might that be?"

"Oh, come now," said Blaymore. "A small army of trained soldiers. A female warrior. A mage. An assassin. The only thing you're missing... is a necromancer. I'll bet you've already requested one, haven't you..."

"I don't see your point."

"You see it. Tonight was a test run... and your people failed. They have a lot of work to do before they're ready to take on December."

"Who said anything about December-"

"You don't have to say it. It's obvious. But you can't beat him that way. People have been trying for decades, and they always fail. But you have an advantage... something at your disposal that no one else has had before."

"And that would be..."

"Me. I will help you-"

"HAHAHAHA!" Physt's laugh echoed down the street. "So now you're going to HELP me!?!"

"Yes. You need my help. And I need yours. December has a-"

"Sounds more to me like you're fishing for a DEAL to save your own ass! You help me with December, and you never go to trial for all the bloody chunks you've left all over this city... is that it?"

"I don't need to make a deal for that. Even if you could catch me... no prison can hold me."

"HA! How many times have I heard THAT one!"

"I see you're not going to be receptive to my offer."

"You got that right."

"...at least not yet. Not until the bodies of your friends start piling up like cord wood outside the tower gates."

"Is that a threat!?"

"If your intentions are obvious to me... then they're obvious to him. He'll let you play your game for a while... but one day you're going to wake up and find that you're the only one left alive in that Tower. You'll wonder how it all went wrong. Then something will step out of the shadows... and explain it to you... in detail."

"You underestimate the Tower Guard."

"I fought the Tower Guard. If anyone knows what kind of a chance you have... its me. And you have no chance."

"And you do, I suppose?"

"With the proper resources-"

"Ahhh, resources. But what do you need US for? If you're the vigilante, then why don't YOU kill him and be done with it. Then we'll arrest you... you'll be found guilty at your trial... and then you'll be hung by the neck from the highest tower in Montfort. That way, EVERYONE gets what they want. Especially me."

"You misunderstand me. I don't want to kill December."

"What DO you want?"

"That information requires a certain amount of trust. Do we have a deal?"

"There is no deal. No partnership. We don't need your help. And just because you're coming into this day a free man doesn't mean you won't see tomorrow from the inside of a cell. We'll find out who you are. We'll find out where you sleep. You may not see what you do as a crime, but one night... one night very soon... I'M gonna step out of the shadows... and explain it to you... in detail. Until then, the only thing you can do for me it get out of my sight."

"Very well." Blaymore began to fade away... the color slowly drained out of him, leaving nothing but a vanishing outline... "I hope you know what you're getting into. Because I do. Lets hope that by the time you realize you need my help... its not too late..."

And he was gone.

Captain Hieronymous Physt remained to watch the sunrise.

---

The single lamp did little to illuminate the small room. Even when Frestus' torch added its light to that of the oil lamp, the chamber still seemed abysmally dark... almost in a sinister, predatory way. As if the light and those who bore it weren't welcome here.

Not that Frestus NEEDED light. He was what he was... and the torch was only a formality.

Frestus paused on the threshold, then took a step back and knocked on the rotting door frame.

"Enter," came a voice from within. The furnishings were sparse... consisting only of a chair, a table, and bookshelf. All were ancient and seemed on the verge of spontaneously collapsing at any moment. The chair's high back hid the source of the voice, but from the light of the oil lamp on the table, Frestus could make out an elbow and the cuff of an old robe. He could hear a faint rustling... the turning of pages. The sound continued for a moment, and then stopped.

"What news?" said the voice from the chair.

"News from Montfort." Frestus' voice was high and light... not from fear, but simple because that's what it was. "Everything was as planned."

"Good. With a single act, we have rid ourselves of the greedy fools in our ranks, and fertilized the soil that will yield the fruit of revolution. Xeridan's name will be added to the list of martyrs to the cause. Many more will join him soon enough."

"Yes," Frestus said with a nod. He wasn't quite sure if he'd been dismissed or not, so he waited.

He heard a book close, and he saw a gloved hand reach out from the chair. The book flew from that hand and took its place with the others on the old bookshelf.

"The time has come, Frestus," said the voice. "The place is chosen. The evil rich will be brought down. First, their attack dogs must be neutered and de-toothed. When the hounds have fallen, the poor and exploited shall rise up and snatch their masters from the high places and rend them to pieces in the streets. All power rests with the people.... and soon that power shall flood the cities, consuming the greedy and all those who serve them. Tell the others, Frestus. Tell them to make ready. The time has come. The place is chosen. And that place... is Montfort."

[The Beginning]