'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Two- Thus It Begins

Byron of Sidius awoke with a sudden start, shooting upright in his rented bed as he tried to shake off the memory called up in his dreams.   That had been the way of things in the land of Tamalaria for fifteen years.  But Rimzan of Grey, the Paladin supreme, returned to his homeland.  Shortly after arriving, he hunted down and destroyed Tanarak in his lair of Mount Toane, thus ending his long, harsh reign of doom.  The apprentice had not been accounted for, but the peoples of all the lands of Tamalaria rose up and crushed what was left of Tanarak's forces, save a few creatures.

            And Byron of Sidius was one of them.  Upon the final blow Rimzan struck, when Tanarak died, the former Paladin had regained control of his body.  Unfortunately, he was still encased in the creature he had been turned into.  So now he half-sat, five years later, brooding, looking out of the window of a dingy inn room in the plains city of Koreindar, in the year 844 A.F.  The dream left him feeling violated, unclean.  His body and mind reeled, the remembered experiences so vivid that he could not shake the feeling that he had been temporarily taken back in time.  His eyeless sockets took in the sullen, gray sky overhead.  Byron's mind wandered through hazy memories of the months that had passed since he had regained his freedom.  During the initial flight from Mount Toane, Byron had come upon several of Rimzan's followers.  Unable to master his own dark impulses, Byron had drawn a wicked blade from its scabbard and slain nearly a dozen powerful men effortlessly and rapidly.  He got up off of the bed, and seated himself instead at the hotel room’s lone table.

            Shortly thereafter, brooding in the darkness of his chamber, he gazed at the blade with which he had slain those men.  Their blood still soiled the blade's surface, coating the metal in dull crimson stains.  The weapon seemed to speak to Byron, as if it were taunting him.  Go ahead, pick me up, it cooed.  Reclaim the bloody glory that is yours!

            "No," Byron hissed, dust pluming up out of his skinless face.  In his service to Tanarak, other parts of his body besides his face decayed or became putrid with desecration and wickedness.  The air from his lungs blew like smoke through many a closed room, and more than once he thought his heart had stopped entirely since becoming a free creature.  Yet still there was a gruff timbre to his tone, like the sound of bears growling in his chest.  That voice had once terrified legions of men and women of all Races and Classes; now he spoke with that tone to a weapon.

            Where will you go, Byron?  What will you do, the weapon hissed, seductively yet accusingly.  You cannot hide forever.  That much was true; Byron had learned arts of Shadow magic from Tanarak's apprentice, and had in exchange shown him how to use a sword.  Both had withheld something from the other, but given each other enough to suffice.  One such art was wrapping shadows around his head and upper chest, to conceal from others his fleshless face and the Crest of Sidius that emblazoned his chest plate.  Both would certainly give away who or what he was to anyone, and he would be on the run again.

            Yet he could only sustain the illusion for so long in any given day.  Beyond a certain point, the magic would fail him.  As a result, he did most of his traveling at night, when the magic required much less focus and energy.  Still, he would not return to the path of Sidius, the path of destruction and desecration.  "I am no longer a servant of chaos," he whispered to the sword.  "I am my own creature."

            And what does that change, that statement, the weapon teased.  Nothing!  It changes nothing, o wretched one!  You can never be redeemed!  Jump into the flames of the Hells head first, and you may at least become a General of Diablo's armies!  At this, Byron opened the window, grabbed the sword and hurled it with all of the might he could muster into the distance.  After a few moments, he could see the glint of the metal coming down from an incredible arc just outside the city.  It mattered little; he had other weapons at his disposal.

            "Was that really necessary," a tiny voice squeaked near the windowsill.  Byron looked down to gaze upon Alex, his only companion since gaining his freedom.  Alex was as most Ki Fairy males tended to be; that is, he stood two inches in height, radiated a black aura of shadows, possessed an Elvish countenance, and had barbed spikes shooting out of his back.  Ki Fairies possessed dark magics and the power of illusion, and were for the most part very nastily predisposed.  Alex, while possessed of all of these traits, did not share one particular and vital characteristic of other Ki Fairies; he did not revel in other peoples' misery.  That is, not unless they really deserved it.  Sure, he had played his fair share of tricks on people, but he never went out of his way to maim or injure them as others of his Race did.

            "Yes, my little friend," grumbled Byron to his diminutive ally.  He looked down at Alex as the Ki Fairy threw his long, dirty brown hair back over his shoulders.  “Had I not gotten rid of it, that sword would surely have found its way into the body of yet another hapless victim.  I’ll have no more of it.”  Byron thought back on how he had gained Alex as a companion, and attempted to smile.  His face, though a mere skull, was somehow animated, and he could convey such emotions and expressions.  He could feel the smile slowly form, a slight, rueful grin made by one side of his jaw hiking up his face.  The effect was less than desirable, and he shuddered to himself at the image as he gazed in the mirror.

            Alex had been in the first town that Byron had taken refuge in, a little farming community due south of Mount Toane.  The Ki Fairy had been engaged in making people trip when walking through the doorway to the only inn in the town, and had not figured on Byron entering.  As the Ki Fairy attempted to trigger his magic, the Dread Knight (as fallen Paladins are known) lunged sideways and drew his weapon on the innkeeper, keeping his Shadow magic in place.  "Who dares attempt the use of such magic on me," he had growled.  Alex had been stunned; no normal man, regardless of age or skill with the sword, could detect Fairy magic.  Either the man was a powerful spell user, or a creature not quite of flesh and blood.

            The innkeeper had been flustered, for he had witnessed his guests throughout the day, and had seen all but this one man fall flat on their faces.  Unfortunately for Alex, the innkeeper was familiar with Fairies, especially tricky ones.  "M-most likely a Fairy or Sprite, my good man," he said.

            "I am NOT your good man," Byron had bellowed violently, his caution and trepidation rising.  He had been chased by Paladins, harassed by Knights, and accosted by Clerics of several orders in his flight from his dark past of fifteen years.  What he needed was rest, cover, time to think things through and recover himself sufficiently to organize his thoughts.  His Shadow magic was failing, and Alex could see clearly the creature that searched the air in the room for him; it was a Dread Knight.  But it was no ordinary Dread Knight, he thought to himself as he hovered in the corner. For starters, it was a creature of the undead.  That, and the man-thing had come into a civilized, rural town, straight to an inn, and had not slain the Human who tended the counter. 

            And it concealed itself.  On this point, and this point alone, Alex had decided that he would risk his fate.  No ordinary Dread Knight would go through the trouble of concealing its identity, particularly in a small rural town such as this.  His translucent wings flapping, Alex descended until he hovered a scant few inches from the creature's shining, white lights.  "Greetings, creature," he whispered.  "Can you see me?"

"Of course I see you, Ki Fairy," Byron growled in response, sheathing his sword.  "You would be wise to not trifle with me now.  I shall forgive you your trespass, for you are a Fairy of the clan Ki, and are prone to such trickery.  But in exchange for sparing you your meager existence, I require a service."  Alex fluttered slightly back, sensing a preparation of magical power in the Dread Knight before him.  He knew suddenly that the creature could kill him on a whim, if it so chose.

"Certainly," Alex squeaked, fearing for his life.  "Whatever you require, good sir, um, what is your name?"

"My name is of no concern right now, little one.  And what I require, is for you to accompany me to my room, and keep me company this evening."  Alex had no words for his simultaneous relief and distrust.  That the creature chose to spare him was surprise enough; that it wished to keep company with him was suspect.  Nevertheless, Alex agreed, and that night Byron had related to him the events of his life.  Alex had felt fear when Byron invoked his title as Byron Aixler, and had felt greater fear at learning that the very same man was now this creature before him, Byron of Sidius. 

And now the little Fairy was asking him, most seriously, if discarding the wretched weapon that Tanarak had given him was necessary. Byron continued his previous response.   "Yes, ridding myself of that blade has eased my troubled mind some.  More so, it has eased my heavy heart."  More dust and smoke plumed from the Dread Knight's mouth as he spoke.  Alex waved his hands back and forth before him, to clear the air around his face.

"No matter my lord," he said through gouts of coughing.  "I have a suitable weapon for you to wield.  It is in my Fairyspace.   Allow me to retrieve it."  Byron had long known of Fairyspace; pockets of magical space that Fairies could stash any number of items in, opening and closing on the whim of the Fairy.  Alex now summoned a rather standard broadsword from the pocket, and used his magic to float the weapon to Byron's hands.  The undead warrior hefted the weapon, measured its balance.  The sword, though it looked like a standard soldier's weapon, felt feather light.

            "Beg pardon, Alex, but is this weapon in some way bewitched or possibly Enchanted?"  A knowing smile spread across the Ki Fairy's face, though it bore a strong resemblance to the sort of smile that torturers possess when they are aware that their subject truly knows nothing. 

            "I am not certain, my lord, you tell me," he sniggered, fluttering up to sit atop the dresser in the far left hand corner of the room. 

            "Well, Enchanted or not, it is a good enough weapon on its own.  I thank you."  The two strange companions were silent a while, but finally, the Ki Fairy broke the silence.

            "By the way, my lord.  What exactly drew you to this city?  I mean, why Koreindar?  It is a city full of life and people, and people tend to talk and talking tends to lead to trouble, doesn't it?"  Byron himself had wrestled against this very same question.  Why had he been so drawn to the city of Koreindar?  What could possibly be so important that he pay for a room for a fortnight?  What could happen in this city in the next two weeks that wouldn’t occur anywhere else?  He could not answer himself.

            And so he said simply, "I am not certain why I came here.  I felt, compelled to be here," Byron explained.  But this was sufficient for the Ki Fairy, who stretched out atop the dresser, and quickly fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.  Byron wished he could do the same.

            Richard Vandross could not feel the sting of the cold, hard-hitting rain as it fell from the clouds over the area around the city of Koreindar.  The storm neared its end, but even its final fury could not touch him.  He could not feel it, for all he could feel was the desire to attain the power that the warlock Tanarak of Sidius had been in possession of.  And he knew how to attain that power.  It was common knowledge throughout the networks of creatures whose goals are what most men call wicked, that when Tanarak died, the five artifacts he had taken into his being had scattered.  These were the Orbs of Eden’s Serpent.

            Richard Vandross was not an unhandsome man.  He possessed a rugged, battle-worn look that had made more than a few women of the Human Race he belonged to long for the feel of his loins.  But his attractiveness held, for the most part, the same sort of appeal that famous pirates and gladiators are known for; in short, he was bad news, and the girls who liked that sort of thing loved him.  The only blemish on his features that he did not care for, and tried hard not to think about, was the patch that rested over his left eye.

            His recent group of servants had inquired about the state of the injury, and how it had occurred.  One particularly curious Lizardman had asked after it so often that Vandross had reached towards him, his palm flat forward, and summoned a Cone of Flame spell so potent it had reduced even the bones to dust.  Henceforth, none of Vandross' minions inquired about the eye. 

            Said minions marched along behind their leader, watching as he strode towards the city like a juggernaut.  His blue full plate armor gleamed as bright lightning crashed into the ground.  A leather belt held several vials of strange and assorted liquids at his hip, as well as a scabbard with his favorite sword.  He brushed his long, black hair out of his vision, and stopped at the top of a hill overlooking the city.  The first of the Orbs was here, buried under the Church of Oun.  The priests therein knew of its presence, and would attempt to guard the artifact.  Not that they would stand a chance against Vandross; he alone could snuff the whole of the city, he thought.

            But as with all things in his life, his ego clearly tripped some sort of trigger to balance his karma.  At that moment, a wicked-looking, curved blade came shooting from the sky and plunged itself into the face of one of his lieutenants.  The Lizardman went down, and the assorted members of his Race and the Orcs and Trolls that also accompanied them fell silent and still.  While the Lizardmen lived a tribal and simple life, they contained enough brain matter to be reasonable, rational warriors.  They might inwardly panic and tell themselves that such things were bad omens, but they never said such things aloud if the role of leader belonged to another.

            Greenskins, on the other hand, were big, dumb and superstitious.  As soon as the Lizardman hit the ground, Vandross inwardly growled.  He would have to convince an entire half of his current group that this sort of thing happened all the time, and shouldn't cause any sort of uproar among seasoned veterans.  Ah, he chided himself, there's another problem.  Greenskins, meaning Orcs and Trolls and Goblins and Ogres, didn't have veterans, mainly because they didn't believe in the subtle art of combat known as 'defending oneself while making an attack'.  In their own way, Greenskins made the most fearsome frontline attackers of any army.  They didn't care who or what they hit, as long as it died.  And the Orcs had a saying in their tongue that translated into the Common tongue as 'I will die this day.  But though I die, I take at least two of mine enemies with me, faroom!'  While a good quote, it lacked many survivors to keep it alive for any length of time. 

            As the Greenskins began chanting in their respective languages for protection from the angry gods who chose to rain swords upon their heads, Vandross turned his attention on the felled Lizardman.  The blade appeared to have entered from a slight angle, as if coming down off of a tremendous arc.  With his one good eye, he stared hard into the city.  Who or what therein could hurl such a weapon, which weighed as good as his own two-handed blade?  Surely only a Jaft or a Minotaur, but neither of those Races inhabited the city-state of Koreindar.  The Jafts always lived near the waterways, and the Minotaurs preferred the mountains they shared with the Dwarven peoples of Tamalaria. 

            "Right then," he said aloud to no one in particular.  "Bael," he snapped, and a Lizardman in dark brown leather tunics and plate mail responded at once by coming before his master and dropping to one knee.

            "What isssss your charge, ssssire," the General known as Bael asked.

            "Inform the Greenskin Elder that his men may remain here if they like.  I think our Lizardmen are enough for the task."  A brief look of doubt crossed Bael's face.

            "Sssire, we number only twenty at pressssent.  And three of them are old, too old to have agreed to sssswear fealty to you, ssssire.  I believe their old memories of the halcyon dayssss when our people were feared and made powerful through allegiance to Tanarak have blinded them to their limitations.  I beg that you let me kill them now, that they shall not be a liability later."  Vandross nodded his agreement.  The Lizardmen struck him as an archaic society at times, but their devotion to efficiency on the battlefield made him smile broadly.  As he watched, Bael approached the elder Lizardmen, and with a single motion, he beheaded two of them.

            The third old creature put up a pleading hand, and hissed something in his Race's tongue.  Bael handed the old one his sword, and the elder Lizardman thrust the weapon through his own heart.  Withdrawing the weapon, Bael wiped the blade with a cloth and approached Vandross.  "Now we are prepared, ssssire," he hissed. 

            "Very well.  Speak with the Greenskin Elder, and inform me when you are done.  Our time is nigh upon us."  As Bael left him alone, Vandross eyed the weapon which had stricken his second lieutenant.  He reached down with his hairy, muscular right arm to grasp the hilt of the weapon.  When he made contact and grabbed the handle, his entire arm recoiled as though struck by the venomous fangs of some viper.  The trace signature of the weapon's former owner felt as anathema to Vandross; he could not touch the weapon.  He gazed up at the city, and knew that somewhere within, someone presently had the power to defy him.

            Whoever it was, he would crush them as flat as shale.

            "We are leaving, my lord," Alex asked as he watched the undead warrior pack his few meager belongings.

            "Yes, Alex.  Whatever reason I had in coming here, I can no longer bear to be ignorant to.  We shall leave with as much haste as can be mustered," Byron said, packing his belongings.  When he felt prepared, he wove his Shadow magic about his head and upper body.  In order to complement the effect, he put on his black hooded travel cloak.  Moving as softly as he could, Byron retrieved the key to his room from the table, and walked down the hall to the check in desk.  The same old fellow who had been there when he checked in stood there, but he paid Byron no attention.  Instead, the old Human seemed to be watching something through the window facing the eastern entrance of the city.  Byron gazed into his eyes, and saw flames reflected in them.

            Whirling about, Byron saw through the window that a wicked-looking Human led a pack of about fifteen or sixteen Lizardmen, all of whom carried lit torches up onto the steps of a church.  At first, Byron considered simply leaving, not getting involved.  Yet something assured him in the back of his mind that he would be dragged into things anyhow.  "My lord," Alex squeaked beside him, breaking his focus.

            "Yes, Alex?"

            "Well, it's nothing really, but I think we would be best served by making away from this place post-haste," the Ki Fairy said, looking out the window.  Byron agreed inwardly; he did not want any trouble if he could avoid it, and this man and his Lizardmen were trouble.  Swiftly, he dropped the key on the check in counter, and moved for the door. 

            Once outside, he could see clearly that several of the Lizardmen had set fire to the church, and the Human who commanded them seemed to leer with glee at their handiwork.  Byron had done such things in his service to Tanarak; of course, he had also done much worse things.  Shaking his head to clear it of the memories that haunted his soul, Byron stalked to the middle of the road.  He was prepared to turn and leave the city, but he felt compelled to watch this grim spectacle for a short time, if only to assure himself that evil still existed in the world.  Evil that was not necessarily related to him.

            Meanwhile, only thirty yards away, Richard Vandross felt eyes upon him and his minions.  Scanning the area, he saw a shadowy figure in the road a little way off.  He could not discern any details of the man, but felt discomforted by his presence.  Motioning to a pair of Lizardmen, he instructed them to "Take care of that witness."  The reptilian chuckles of his servants disturbed him, but Vandross knew they were dependable warriors; the job would be done quickly, and already he could see their victim scurrying off into the distance.  Regardless of the man's presence, it seemed he was no different than any other low-class fighter in the face of two experienced Lizardmen; he was a sudden coward.  Vandross entered the burning church, stalking like Death incarnate up to the pulpit, where the last living priest knelt in prayer.

            Gracefully, elegantly, Vandross put his left hand under the priest's chin, lifting the becalmed face to meet his gaze.  The priest had longish ears, emerald colored eyes, and skin that was fair and soft; yet his face also showed some of the signs of age, such as wrinkles and a smattering of facial hair.  Half-Elf, thought Vandross with mild disgust.  He had never cared much for Elves, and for a Human to mate with one and produce offspring, well, he didn't hold with the idea.  The mating, sure, he could understand that.  Elven women were mostly quite beautiful.  Still, he held the man's head in his hand gently, pondering his next move. 

            "The Orb," he whispered soothingly, releasing small amounts of a unique sort of Illusion magic into the priest via his touch.  "Can you tell me where it is?"  In the priest's mind, he saw his former pastor pleading with him this question, and knowing only love and admiration for his mentor, he nodded and smiled.

            "It is where we have kept it for years, Father Tora," he whispered back, seeing the flames growing larger on the edges of his vision.  "But we must leave it, Father.  The fire shall soon consume the church and everything in it."

            "No no, silly boy," Vandross cooed, stroking the Half-Elf's left cheek tenderly.  "We are protected by our faith in Oun.  Remember, the great god shall not let harm come to us here in our home of worship."  The Half-Elf smiled, and tears streamed down his face.  Vandross himself felt a worm writhing in his guts at uttering the god’s name.  His own father had been a believer in Oun, and what good had it done him?  None, he thought bitterly, pushing the memory aside. 

            "This is true, Father.  Come, I shall show you," he said, suddenly springing to his feet and leading Vandross towards the back door that led to his own chambers by the hand.  This much Vandross had not expected; the potency of the spell, or the priest's love for his former mentor, made this possible, and Vandross could not be sure which effected the man so.  Still, if it got him the Orb of Eden’s Serpent, it mattered little to him.  The Half-Elf opened a wardrobe, and reached behind a priest's habit, pulling down a small lever.  A section of his bedroom wall began to slide open, and Vandross looked behind him at it in triumph.  There, on a pedestal, sat the first of the Orbs of Eden’s Serpent he sought.

            "You have done well, my son," Vandross said, reaching back absent-mindedly and touching the priest's face.  "It is safe and intact.  I am going to take it away to a safer place than this.  You have served Oun well," Vandross said, relishing the hopeful and blissful look in the Half-Elf's eyes.  "Now, go join him."  Vandross reached out with his other hand, and with a deft twist, snapped the priest's neck.  The Half-Elf's limp body crumpled to the floor, with the look of bliss still on his face. 

            Vandross walked over to the Orb of Eden’s Serpent, feeling the waves of dark energy flow into his body.  Slowly, ritually, he extended his left hand, placing his palm on the Orb.  A deep, rumbling voice spoke to his mind from the artifact itself.  Doth thou seek the power? 

            "Yes," he rasped in a sharp hiss. 

            Doth thou seek to behold the might of the glorious Mother of Destruction?

            "Yes," Vandross said, louder than before. Strange warmth had begun to spread through his arm, up to his shoulder and down to his groin. 

            And to what end doth thou seek to use this might?

            "To destroy, rend, and conquer!  To be as a god on the Earth," Vandross shouted, lifting the Orb over his head.  “To take for mine own a kingdom, nay, an empire, that shall be eternal!”  He thought once more of his father, his mother, defending their little village from the bandits that had roamed the southeastern plains years before.   They had been powerless, and had died for nothing.  Richard had vowed then and there, watching them die as he was dragged to safety by his uncle Robert, that he would never be so powerless as an adult.  Never.

            Then so be it.  At this, rippling waves of black and purple energy pulsated through the room, and the smell of brimstone permeated the air.  A vortex of wind swirled and slashed about the room, sending up howls like a dying animal.  The furniture around the room whirled about, crashing into the walls and splintering into a hundred pieces, but still Vandross held on to the Orb of Eden’s Serpent as if his life depended on this one moment in time.  The dark glow of the Orb pulsed through all of his body now, working through his every blood vessel, and deeper, into his very soul. 

            His long, black hair whipped about his head in the maelstrom created by the Orb, and his robe flapped like a vulture's wings in the strange dark light.  He could feel his muscles restrict and then contract, bulging outward.  His own magic pulsed in his mind and heart, warping, becoming something more.  Now the smell of brimstone filled the air so thickly he felt he might gag on it, but his will to have the Orb's powers filled him with immunities.  After another minute, the mad purple waves of light pulsed more rapidly, as though racing against time.  Say the words, now, o seeker of the power!  Speak, and the first bit of that power is yours!

            Throwing his head back in a baleful laugh, Vandross spread his feet apart to gain balance.  "I, Richard Vandross, do claim that the power of this Orb of Eden’s Serpent, is mine to command!  The power over life and death, is mine!"  The vortex kicked, and the wind became so wild that the flames that had reached the back room were extinguished upon contact with it.  As one last shriek of unnatural delight escaped the Orb, a sound like a demon screaming in glee, the Orb flashed and disappeared, leaving only a small purple glow.  This ball of baleful light entered Vandross' chest, and he fell upon his back in the room.

            Instantly he was back on his feet.  Such power and strength he had never known, never felt for himself.  So, he thought, this is what it feels like to attain greater power.  I must have the other Orbs!  For a moment, he wondered after what strange new powers he might have available to him.  But it didn't matter, he decided.  He would find out soon enough.  Out of curiosity, he attempted to punch through the wall to the outside.  The result, he discovered, was merely a hurting hand.

            "Well," he said as he stalked through the flames of the main church toward the exit.  "It was worth checking on."

            Byron had only scant yards to go before he reached the safety of the open plains, when he felt vibrations in the ground from behind him; he would be set upon by Lizardmen in a matter of seconds.  With a graceful twirl, he untied his cloak and threw it over the first would-be attacker, confusing the reptilian warrior long enough for a solid, metal-gloved punch to the skull.  The Lizardman went down in a heap, unconscious.  The second creature gave pause a moment, drawing his long sword and circling his would-be prey.  Strange, it thought.  I cannot see his face or chest, yet I know they are there.

            Byron drew his new weapon, the broadsword Alex had stored in his Fairyspace.  Gripping the handle one handed, he took a fighter's stance, aggressive but withholding.  Slowly he and the Lizardman danced a bit around each other, the Lizardman sizing him up, and he inwardly yawning.  Such creatures as these Lizardmen would offer him no challenge, he thought, and his suspicion became true as the reptilian warrior made a lunging stab that Byron could read a second before it struck. 

            Whirling his blade against the weapon like a stirring stick, Byron parried the stab and let his motion spin him fully around, bringing the heft of the broadsword's blade crashing down through the Lizardman's skull.  The weapon buried itself halfway through the creature's chest, and remained stuck there a moment as the warrior shuddered one last death throe.  Byron planted his right boot against the reptile's chest and pulled his weapon free, kicking the corpse to the ground in the same movement.

            Crimson life fluid spattered Byron's legs, and in a few seconds he stood in a spreading pool of the Lizardman's blood.  The Dread Knight held the blade over his bare skull, and allowed his fallen enemy’s blood to splash down over the bone.  A hissing arose from the spot, and the crimson stain soon vanished, its energy absorbed to fuel his life force.  Byron pulled his cloak off of the other creature and wiped his sword clean on the cloak's inner lining.  With a satisfied grunt he looked over at the fallen warrior; he had dispatched the creature in about four seconds total.  Roughly he slapped the unconscious warrior until it awoke.  The first thing it could see as its eyes came into dizzy focus, were the twin crimson lights of Byron's eyes as they flashed with bloodlust.  Before the creature could cry for help, Byron clamped its snout shut with one powerful hand.  The metal of his gauntlet chilled the Lizardman to the core, for the reek of untold horrors befouled it.  He could clearly see now that the creature he had fought was a Dread Knight, and on its chest plate, it bore the Crest of Sidius.  The Lizardman squirmed in Byron's grasp as it realized who the Dread Knight was.

            "Listen to me, little man, and answer my questions.  If you do this well, I shall spare you your miserable existence," Byron growled in a low voice, his words barely audible, dust rolling out of his bone mouth.  "I am going to release your mouth now.  If you so much as squeak, I shall tear your head off with my hands alone, and drink deeply of the marrow of your spine.  Do you understand?  Nod your head for yes, shake it for death's sweet release."  The Lizardman nodded violently, nearly breaking its own neck.  If there could be escape from Byron of Sidius, the reptilian warrior would accept it gladly.  Slowly, cautiously, Byron removed his vise grip on the warrior's face.  The Lizardman rubbed its snout softly, trying to regain feeling in it. 

            "Ask your questions, Byron of Sidius," it hissed in a whisper.  "I shall ansssswer."  Byron twitched a little, because the creature did not whisper, but rather, spoke in a moderate volume that might attract unwanted attention.  I’ll deal with that if the need arises, he thought. 

            "Very good.  Nice to see you've decided to be amiable.  Now, first off, who is that man that you work for?"  Byron kept one hand on the hilt of his sword as he spoke, lest anymore interlopers should come along.  The fire in the church, he noticed, was really beginning to spread.  The man he had seen before had disappeared into the church as he looked up.  No matter, he thought, if he dies, all the better.

            "Hisss name isss Richard Vandross," the reptile whispered.  His tone had decreased at the mention of his master's name, as if the words were poison that could choke his soul.  Byron recognized the name vaguely, though he could not think of where he had heard it before.

            "What purpose does he have in destroying a church of Oun," Byron grated through his teeth, a sense of dread tightening into a knot in his stomach.  In life, he had himself been a Paladin in service to the Church of Oun.  Something big was going on in that church, of that he felt suddenly certain.  The Lizardman hesitated, looking back toward his brethren.  Catching the look, Byron twisted the Lizardman's head towards him, clamped one hand over its snout, and with the other twisted and broke the creature's wrist.  In agony it writhed, its eyes watering over and its feet stamping the cobblestones of the road.  "I told you to answer my questions well, reptile," Byron hissed dangerously.  "The next thing to break shall be your neck!  Now, what purpose does he have?"

            As Byron removed his left hand, the Lizardman said through choked sobs of pain that wracked his body, "Go, fuck yourself."  The creature spat blood into Byron's eye socket. 

            "Bravely said, whelp, but a poor move on your part.  I shall leave you to think over what you've done.  And I'll even leave your boss a little message, by way of maiming you, not to screw with me."  At that, Byron raised his right palm toward the Lizardman, and a stream of dark blue energy wrapped around the reptilian assailant.  His body floated into the air, as though he bore no more weight than a common house cat.  The energy clamped his mouth shut, but Byron could make out the screams it attempted to let out.  A sadistic streak in the undead warrior, one he had developed in his service to Tanarak, savored the creature's dismay.  But that part of him that remained Byron Aixler, his very soul, cringed. 

            Abruptly, Byron changed the nature of his spell, a last second decision that spared the Lizardman of further pain.  Rather than torture him, the magic simply held him, and would continue to do so until long after Byron had left.  Turning his back with a satisfied nod at his handiwork, Byron whistled through his teeth for Alex, who had been hiding in his chest plate the entire time.

            "Are we off now, my lord," Alex asked, sounding exasperated.

            "Indeed, my tiny friend.  Let us went." And so the odd companions left Koreindar behind, but not their troubles.