'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Three- Realizations

Richard Vandross walked out of the flaming church, the blaze casting him in a silhouette.  He descended the steps, and with each step he took, small ringlets of black energy radiated from his feet across the ground he walked on.  The onlookers of his horde, formidable warriors though they were, felt compelled to stop what they were doing, and bow deeply at the waist in reverence to him.  Their eyes appeared to Vandross to have gained a sort of glossy sheen.  Was this an effect of the Orb of Eden’s Serpent, he wondered?  Yet, he noticed, Bael did not appear to have been similarly affected. 

            "Hear me my minions," he shouted over the din of the burning and collapsing church.  The screams of escaping townsfolk seemed drowned out by his voice; his words echoed in the air like a Giant's.  A large section of the church’s roof collapsed into the main vestibule behind him, the sound of cracked and burning timber crashing against the pews music to his ears.  The scent of smoke filled the air, and he breathed it deeply.  "I have gained possession of the Orb, and have absorbed it.  I have more power now than most any Human, or any man for that matter, regardless of Race!  Stay with me, and you shall all know the glory of waging war on the whole of the land!  You shall taste the sweet tang of conquering and conquest!  I shall be as a god, and you shall be my chosen army!"

            Bael, his right-hand man and leader of his Lizardmen, raised his fist high into the air and shouted, "Hail!  Hail lord Vandross!"  In response to their leader, the whole of the horde, Greenskins included, shouted like a pack of zealots, "HAIL!"  Vandross noticed that even the Greenskins, though easily set to the uses of clever men, seemed strangely compelled to show allegiance.  The only creature in his command who seemed to retain some bit of himself was Bael; but this was no surprise.  After all, he was his tribe's leader.  Perhaps when he attained more Orbs, Richard would have power over even him in this fashion. 

            "Not that I'm complaining," Vandross whispered to himself.  "My minions, I am in possession already of the knowledge of where the next Orb resides," he proclaimed loudly, getting their attention once more.  "But I shall need more men for the task.  Go you now to your clans, your tribes, and tell them that I command a legion, and they are to join it!  If they do not wish to join, then show them the error of their ways!"  The assembled horde raised their fists and shouted as one, "HAIL!"  Then, they were splitting off into packs and heading hurriedly out of the city.  Only Bael and a pair of his best warriors remained with Vandross.  To him, Vandross whispered, "Remain here.  I wish to check on the two warriors who I assigned the task of eliminating our shrouded witness."  Bael gave a stiff salute, and posted his two warriors at positions of guarding. 

            Before Vandross had made half the distance, however, a pair of grizzled veteran warriors came towards him, chanting low in their throats in the tongue of the Lizardmen.  Between them, floating in the air and wrapped in some sort of magical cocoon, one of the two scouts he had come to check on lay prone.  Misery hung off of the creature, a pain not at all associated with failure, but with physical suffering.  For a moment, Vandross stood there, prostrate before his veterans.  He could think of nothing to ask, to say, to do.  After a moment's hesitation, he shook his head, clearing his thoughts.  "Forgawr," he said, addressing the magically wrapped creature.  Forgawr was one of the three cousins of Bael in his current ranks, though none of the talent had apparently rubbed off on this one.  "What happened?  Can you speak?"

            Almost immediately, the stunned creature began to rant in his native tongue.  The veterans waved their staff-like weapons over their kinsman and chanted the same mantra that allowed them to bear him.  Slowly, they began making arcane gestures in the air, allowing their own power to move the young Forgawr until he stood on bound feet before their leader.  Vandross straightened, said once more, "Can you speak?  The plain and Common tongue?"

            Forgawr shook his head negative. 

            "Would something in the magic crush you if you spoke any words other than your native language?"

            Nod, nod.

            "Did the man I sent you after do this to you?"

            Nod, nod.  As Vandross looked at the weaving of the dark purple energy, he became gradually disconcerted by the familiarity of it.

            "What happened to the other one I sent with you?"  Forgawr stuck out his forked tongue, letting it flop on his lip like a dead thing, and crossed his eyes.  "Dead?" 

            Nod, nod.

            "My lord," said one of the veteran Lizardmen.  "We found him not far off.  He appears to have been slain with little effort."  Here was another affirmation for Vandross, whose newfound power suddenly seemed insufficient.  "Whoever did this, he is quite a skilled swordsman and wielder of magic.  Before you proceed, lord Vandross, allow my brother and I to attempt an undoing to this magic that binds Forgawr."  Vandross acquiesced with a nod and turned to look back at the city or Koreindar.  His forces had begun to make short work of the little city, even without the Orb of Eden’s Serpent.  With the power the artifact gave him, he should be able to crush any opponent.

            For a few minutes, he watched in numb anticipation as the veteran brothers undid the binding magic that ensnared Forgawr, and when the magic tore free, the young Lizardman gasped for air as though he had been drowning.  "My lord," he sputtered, coughing and wheezing.  "The creature who did this to me, I recognized him!  We must flee at once, and go nowhere near him!"

            "Pah!  That's ridiculous!  There are none who are powerful enough to stand against me!  And I already know where the second Orb is, though it is some way off.  Tell me then, who was this creature, that you are so afraid," Vandross asked, his ego in full swing, his hands on his hips as if to say he were already victorious over this unknown opponent.

            "My lord, it was Byron of Sidius!"  Vandross heard the name, and somewhere deep in the pit of his blackened soul, a volcano of doubts and screams erupted in protest of his brain.  Byron of Sidius!  How could that be, he thought.  Byron belonged to Tanarak, and with Tanarak's death, the Dread Knight should have crumbled into dust and ashes!  How-

            He would deal with that later, he thought.  "Forgawr, you have done well to tell me this.  You two, take him back to Bael, and have everyone meet back at our camp when extra forces have been gathered.  I shall be there shortly.  First," he said, cracking his metal gloved knuckles in their gauntlets.  "I must take care of some business."  With a burst of wind that kicked up around him like a small tornado, Vandross pelted out of the city at unbelievable speed.  The Orb, it appeared, had not just given him knowledge and abilities, but increased speed and endurance.  Oh, how wonderful it will be, he thought, when I have all five in my possession!

            Like a bat out of hell he ran out of the city and to the south, following a set of tracks made by an unmistakably large pair of iron boots.  Byron of Sidius, he mused.  How wonderful shall it be to take you out of this world?  Abruptly, he stopped dead in his tracks, because suddenly there were no more to follow.  "What the he-" he started, but was cut off by a large, heavy body crashing into him from the side.  In his pursuit, Vandross had not realized he had come into high grasslands, where trees were plentiful and bushes provided plenty of cover for an ambush.

            Landing heavily on his back, a metallic thud going up into the air from the impact, he braced himself and heaved to his feet in a low crouch, his blazing scimitar unsheathed and held in both hands.  In the darkening evening, he could make out a heavily armored and cloaked man a small distance away, hidden in the shadows.  Why was the man so far away, Vandross wondered; surely he could not have run that far back after colliding with the one-eyed warlock.  Then Vandross suddenly, chillingly, knew how his opponent stood so far back; he had been tossed nearly ten yards off the path by the bulldozing attacker!

            "Come out of hiding, you cur," Vandross spat.  "I haven't got time for this nonsense, and I've lost a very important trail!"

            "I bet you have," the creature rasped from the shadows, stepping forward and drawing a broadsword.  Byron of Sidius, Vandross screamed mentally at himself.  It's him!

            "Byron of Sidius," Vandross cooed, fully prepared to taunt the undead warrior.  "I know a lot about you, you know."

            "Most men with wicked hearts do," Byron said, circling now with Vandross, the two of them playing a game of cat and mouse, each deciding to try to goad the other into making a move out of anger, impulse. 

            "Byron, Byron, Byron.  I am not a wicked man," Vandross said innocently, putting his free hand over his heart.  "I am simply better educated in the ways of the world.  For example, I know that those who have power, are the only people who are really free."

            "What were you after in that church, vile one," Byron rasped, irritation slipping into his tone, dust slipping out of his teeth.  "Why did you attack that city?"

            "The Orb of Eden’s Serpent, Byron," Vandross said, taking a step closer, tightening their circular dance.  "I wanted the artifact of power for myself, now that the warlock Tanarak is dead.  I mean, he isn't going to be using it anytime soon, now is he?"  Vandross chuckled mirthlessly behind gritted teeth.  Byron had begun making strange motions with his left hand, and Vandross hoped inwardly that perhaps the Dread Knight had suffered an injury while fighting his scouts.  But soon he felt something stirring in the night around him; magic!  Before he had a chance to cast a spell, Vandross would have to strike the Dread Knight!

            But as he made his vicious overhead hack, Byron easily brought up his broadsword one-handed and let the blade slide down his weapon, harmlessly away.  Raising his voice, he finished his mantra and executed his spell.  "HAGATAAAAA!"  A small, swirling ball of yellow force pounded Vandross' chest plate, beating him back and slamming him finally into the dirt.  With another brief gesture, Byron made the energy pound on Vandross' wrist, holding his weapon hand still.  Byron planted a heavy, metal-clad foot squarely on Vandross' throat, applying a slight amount of pressure.  Vandross knew the weight of the armor alone would be enough to crush his larynx, but he knew he still had a chance.  If he could just free his wrist…

            The tip of the broadsword came down two inches above his good eye.  "Who are you, cretin?  Who is your master," Byron growled, but his voice sounded more and more these days like a decaying crypt come to life. 

            "I am, Richard, Vandross," the one-eyed warrior managed as a small pressure pushed at his neck.  "And I, serve no one, but myself." 

            "How do you know me, cretin," Byron demanded, the red pinpoints flaring dangerously in their sockets.  "How is it you know me?"

            "Well," began Vandross, deciding to take a chance on his natural sarcasm.  "There's the skull, the eyeless sockets, and the big metal Crest of Sidius on your chest plate.  That and you've acknowledged yourself."  Byron seemed to muse on this point a moment, grinning.  Not that he had much choice in his facial expressions.

            "Your lackeys seemed to know me.  I know the Lizardmen served once under the thumb of Tanarak of Sidius.  Were you also one of his mindless slaves," Byron growled again, rage suffusing him.  Slowly, agonizingly, he pressed down harder on the one known as Vandross' throat.  The Human warlock coughed and sputtered under the strain, kicking and thrashing his legs wildly. 

            "N, n, no," Vandross finally managed as the pain subsided.  How had he been so easily bested by the Dread Knight?  He possessed an Orb of Eden’s Serpent, and had his own arsenal of spells and sword techniques!  How had he come so suddenly to this?  Be still, a voice from somewhere in his mind said to him.  Taunt him, but do not attack him.  Let him think you weak and defenseless.  He will let you live.  And if I strike at him, then what, Vandross thought loudly in defiance.  Then he will crush you now.  He will do it.  Do not test him.  Play on his mercy.  All right, Vandross thought to himself.  He didn't like being forced to do such things, but it only added, he realized, to the long list of cunning things he had accomplished.  Put on a show, sure, he thought.

            "I should kill you right now," Byron said, almost to himself.  More dust plumed out from his exposed neck bone, but a small amount of rotted flesh also rolled up over the edge of his armor, and dropped onto Vandross' face.  Nauseated, he felt suddenly that half of what he was about to say were true.

            "No, p-please," he whined, putting on slight waterworks.  Just a little, he thought.  Make like you're trying to hide it.  "I just, I wanted to be powerful, like the Lizardmen, like Tanarak!  I didn't want to be a victim anymore!  Please, just, let me go!  I'll forget about my vengeance, I swear!  I'll never even go near the bandits," he said, pulling Byron along, trying to play on his mercies.  Yet there was just enough truth to his words that he knew he could get away with an incomplete story; his childhood home had indeed been raided by bandits.  The thing was, he thought to himself, he had already hunted down and slaughtered the lot of them three years after their raid on his village.  And he had taken his time with the last of them, their leader.  Oh, how he had reveled in torturing that man to death!

            But the plea had done its work.  Byron let his foot off, and offered a hand to Vandross.  Tenuously, Vandross accepted, and the Dread Knight hauled him to his feet with no effort.  Byron brushed him off, something Vandross hadn't expected.  Mercy, sure, but not nicety.  "Vengeance is a very attractive thing, young warrior," Byron rattled through his teeth.  "But you must not let it control you.  I understand your lust for revenge, as I have had lust for revenge in my time.  But all things balance out, I think you'll find.  They did for me, when Tanarak died.  I am free willed once again, as you can plainly see," the undead warrior said, sheathing his sword.  He placed his hands on Vandross' shoulders, the weight of his gauntlets of black iron stressing Vandross' pain threshold.  "Now, you have absorbed the Orb of Eden’s Serpent, this is true.  But if you meditate on your acceptance of reality, and pray to, well, whatever god you worship, I am certain he or she can help you expel the Orb from you.  For the time being, you are a hazard to yourself," Byron rasped, pulling Vandross into a tight embrace.  There was something in the Dread Knight's tone, something like compassion, empathy.  Could Byron of Sidius feel these things?  Perhaps, but the last statement he had made carried another tone with it; regret.

            With a deft snap of his elbow, Byron brought the ridge of his hand down into the back of Vandross' neck, and the one-eyed devil saw his vision go black from the impact.  He floated downward, sinking through the various stages of consciousness with great alacrity.  As he strained to keep his eye open, he saw Byron picking up his scimitar and taking it away with him.  Great, Vandross thought as he passed out.  Now I'm weaponless, and unconscious.  Well, it could be worse, he thought.  It could have been the Byron of old.  He could easily have been killed on the spot.  But his mind wandered now, the soft, dark blanket of sleep wrapping him tightly in a cocoon of warmth. 

           

            Byron stalked away from the unconscious form on the ground.  Though he regretted harming the man, there would have been little other choice.  Something still bothered him, though.  In the back of his mind, Byron could feel something primal, instinctive and ingrained into his very soul screaming at him to kill the man who had assaulted him.  Mercy is for the weak, it bellowed at him.  The goal of combat is to destroy your opponent!

            "No," he mumbled to himself aloud.  "I am not like that anymore.  I am not that creature."  In silence he marched southward, Alex fluttering alongside him as a constant companion.  But the little voice in him hadn’t just been speaking harshly from his former perspective as a creature of darkness.  Something had been very familiar about the one-eyed man, something that made his right arm itch to go back and hack him in half.

Shadows loomed about him in the brightly moonlit night, and some of these he wrapped about his upper body, effectively erasing his countenance from sight.  There was little or no sign of life around for some time as he stalked, until he came upon an emaciated pack of wolves.  The pathetic pack predators eyed him with hunger making mad requests of them.  The Dread Knight allowed his eyes to smoke and glow red a moment, and all four of the lupine hunters swiftly turned and ran, the voice of their hunger cut short by the bellow of reason.

            Still he plunged ahead into the night, taking shelter as he saw the first rays of golden light shoot out over the land.  The sun rose majestically, a single circular oriflamme, with its heat radiating through the air and the land it touched.  "Time to rest Alex," Byron rumbled as he leaned himself in a seated posture against a large, thick oak. The Ki Fairy fluttered up into the higher reaches of the tree, disappearing from Byron's line of sight swiftly.  A few yards away, hidden and cowering in a jumble of brush, a trio of squirrels watched as the soft yellow lights in the undead warrior's eye sockets dimmed to nothingness.  Sleep swiftly claimed Byron, and he went unresisting into that darkness. 

            The Dread Knight had not known a peaceful slumber in a considerably lengthy time.  Often his dreams were the stuff of horrors, the sort of nocturnal imagery that drove men to their basements with a sword in hand, eyes wide with terror.  Perhaps they came to him thusly because of his bodily nature.  Perhaps they came because he slept during the daylight hours.  Whatever the reason, the former Paladin of glory could not find peace in his sleep.  But stretched periods of sleeplessness often taxed his endurance, and so he resigned himself to compulsory rest periods every two or three days. 

            A soft gray fog rolled around Byron as he walked in darkness.  This struck him as unusual, as his dreams rarely began so uneventfully.  But something else was amiss.  He could smell things in the dark and fog, and could actually appear to control himself.  He slowed his shambling gait to a complete halt, looking around, attempting to pierce the veil of featureless smoke with his vision.  Slowly but surely, his surroundings began to shimmer into focus like a mirage.  He stood idle as a village formed out of the mist around him.  The inhabitants were tribal Cuyotai, were-coyotes.  Byron attempted to summon the shadow magic that concealed his features, but found that he could not.  Vexed at his inability to hide himself, he uttered a curse under his breath, and quickly darted behind a small thatch hut to keep from being seen.

            As he rounded the back of the domicile, a stout Cuyotai Hunter passed within inches of his back, but the young warrior said nothing.  A voice called out somewhere nearer to the center of the village, and the Hunter turned and ran toward the voice, through Byron.  It dawned on Byron that he was insubstantial here, and so he moved to follow the youth.  As he stalked after the young Hunter, Byron overheard the trilling laughter and calling of the pups, the crackle of cooking fires, and the odd but melodic sound of adults carrying on in their native tongue.  All in all, this appeared to be a quaint little village.  Yet as he walked into the middle of the village, an ominous light shone from within one of the larger huts.  Byron could only describe it as a glowing darkness, and it radiated in a rather circular fashion. 

            The smell of deer meat roasting on the fire distracted Byron, but only momentarily.  The image of the village began to shimmer again and distort itself, becoming wavy and vague.  The sky overhead swiftly darkened, and thunder clouds rolled in with the speed of vultures.  Soon flames erupted from all around him, and the image solidified once more.  Lizardmen and Orcs, slavering and screaming raged through the village, tearing apart the defenders like so much dried firewood.  Only a small handful of the Cuyotai warriors held their ground, but they were darting back towards a wood line in the distance, attempting to flee the carnage in their home.  The scent of roasting meat rapidly shifted to the stench of blood and burning fur and flesh.  The aroma made Byron heave and gag violently, doubling him over and forcing him to his armored knees.  Why would Lizardmen and Orcs band together to attack a seemingly harmless village of tribal Cuyotai?  Byron lifted his head and focused his vision on the hut where he had seen the dark glow; there, coming out of the hut and holding an orb over his head, stood the one-eyed man whom Byron had spared.

            He screamed in rage as he watched Richard Vandross absorb the second Orb of Eden’s Serpent.

            "Byron!  Byron," a high, tinny voice shrieked at the Dread Knight's head.  He could make out someone screaming as well, and as the red lights blazed in his sockets, he clamped his jaw shut and realized it had been him. 

            "I am awake, Alex," Byron muttered, smoke spilling out of his throat.  He raised himself slowly to his feet, looking out of the small woodland he rested in.  Dusk still approached, an hour or two away.  Yet in the fading daylight, Byron could see a hamlet in the distance, just atop the next set of hills.  "When night falls, we go into that town, Alex," Byron said as Alex flew up in front of his face.

            "Oh yes, I'm certain the folks there will be more than happy to welcome the man who just sounded like a demon from the fifth or sixth ring of Hell," Alex mused, mustering all of his formidable powers of sarcasm. 

            "This is no time for witty repartee, Alex.  I have had a vision."  Alex's face scrunched up, and he harrumphed. 

            "There's always time for my wit.  Though, given the sounds you were making in your sleep, I'm willing to listen to an explanation."  Byron relayed briefly to Alex his dream, and throughout his description, Alex remained quiet and seemingly thoughtful.  "Well, I can think of two explanations, me lord.  Would you hear them?"  Byron nodded lightly, looking at the surrounding woods.  A chill raced up his spine, starting from his thick steel boots.  Eyes were upon him, he felt sure of it.  "The first explanation, me lord, is that you have indeed had a premonition, and the man you scuffled briefly with deceived you rather well.  I did detect an intense amount of dishonesty in the man, but your old Paladin habits seemed to take over for you, so I saw little gain in telling you my thoughts on the matter."

            "And the second explanation, my minute vassal," Byron inquired, looking as hard as he could into the Ki Fairy's eyes.  Those blackened orbs held years of experience with the darker side of things, but they also held an unrepentant streak of mischief. 

            "The second explanation, me lord, is you're losing your mind and you have a penchant for seeing the worst in people."  The little man flew around Byron's head at dizzying speed and laughed, all the while the Dread Knight standing there immobile.  With a sudden snap of his hand, Byron caught Alex around the body, chuckling softly as the Ki Fairy spat curses at him and struggled futilely in his grasp.  As he released Alex, Byron swung his broadsword up over his shoulder and into its scabbard.  The black-armored warrior turned and began to walk out of the wood line, the sun fading behind his back.

            "Come, Alex.  We have much to do this evening.  And we need information."

            "Information," asked Alex, dusting himself off as he hovered where Byron had been standing.  "About what?  And who are we going to ask?"  Byron half turned to look at him.

            "We need to find out about a Cuyotai village.  And we are going to ask the most common, and often most reliable source of information any town can offer."  Alex cocked his head to one side inquisitively.

            "The mayor," he ventured.

            "No," Byron said with a smirk, or at least whatever he could muster for a smirk.  "The village drunk."

            Getting into the town itself had presented no problem.  Like many small hamlets in the eastern regions of Tamalaria, the town of Melarky had no guards.  It had no watchmen.  It had no real way of policing or protecting its citizens, but there was little or no threat of such a small place being attacked.  The townsfolk probably thought that picking up and moving would be easier than defending their little township.  It would be safe from bandits like it was, because there wouldn’t appear to be much to gain from raiding it.  The next nearest city was Ja-Wen, a powerful city-state, and probably the actual governing body of Melarky.  Ja-Wen welcomed new denizens with open arms, and would most likely be where the townsfolk would retreat to.  Several other villages and townships sprang up around the city, such as Narfan, one of the larger and more heavily guarded townships.

            Wrapped in shadows and his great cloak, Byron slipped into the town with no one being the wiser of his presence.  The businesses of the hamlet had obvious marking posts; the smithy had an anvil-shaped sign over his door, the inn a bed, the sundry goods store a satchel, and the tavern a mug of ale.  "Rather cliche, isn't it," Alex whispered from inside of Byron's cloak.

            "Yes, but it's quaint as well."

            "That's just a polite word for boring," mused the Ki Fairy from his hiding place.

            "Actually, Alex, it means charmingly odd."

            "Oh yes?"

            "Yes, especially in an old-fashioned way."

            "Are we here to argue Common skills, or get information," Alex snapped.

            "Yes, of course, you're right," Byron agreed begrudgingly.  He trod softly over to the entrance to the tavern, its saloon-style swing doors adding to the flavor of the town.  As Byron opened the doors, he scanned the inside of the tavern for points of exit.  It was the first of many things he did automatically when entering any enclosed space.  In his years of service, he had learned that for a warrior to be an effective fighter, he must first be of a strategic mind.  He must find and exploit all weaknesses of an enemy's defense, including terrain and available fighting room.  In the event the warrior became disadvantaged, he must have a pre-determined escape route. 

            Seven men, he thought, four at the bar, three together in the corner.  Humans at the counter, most likely the smithy among them, he thought.  This he surmised by the smithy's blackened apron.  His analysis continued; a Human, an Elf, and a Cuyotai in the corner, most likely tradesmen, judging from their apparel.  Three windows, one door behind the counter, most likely for a kitchen.  Byron had seen no eatery or restaurant in the rest of the hamlet, and so assumed this would be the only away-from-home-at-home cooking anyone could get in the town.  A sign hung above that door saying quite clearly, kitchen closes at nine.  The barkeep, Byron noted, was a burly Dwarven man, and a tall one at that.  The Dwarf stood about four and a half feet, and Byron could see the glint of an axe head from his vantage point.  All of this he took in in a matter of seconds, stepping in and letting the doors behind him shut.

            One of the men at the bar seemed to be distancing himself from the others, he noticed, and so he chose to sit next to this man.  The barkeep approached, cleaning a glass in that most ceremonial way the barkeeps are apt to doing.  "What'll it be, stranger," he asked, his eyes darting about Byron's facial region, trying to get a look at this dark traveler.

            "Scotch," Byron replied out of habit.  "And get this gentleman another of whatever he's having."  The barkeep eyed him suspiciously.  But when Byron placed seven gold pieces on the countertop, the businessman inside the Dwarf shoved his cautious side out of the way with a quick heave. 

            "I'd be careful about getting Clem here much more to drink," said the Dwarf in his thick tenor.  "He's already half in the bag.  I wouldn't want him here tomorrow complaining about another round with his missus."

            "Aw, lay off Porum," slurred the down-trodden fellow.  "Just keep 'em comin'.  Thanksh pal," he said, clapping Byron amiably on the back.  The drunk called Clem shook his hand a moment, pain slightly registering that he had hit something quite solid and quite metallic.  "Where you fum', stranger," he asked, looking not at Byron, but at his already emptied shot glass.

            "Alexis, originally," Byron said, pouring a little of the scotch down his throat, having to bypass the fleshless mouth.  The shadows kept his actions well hidden, however.  It tingled warmly in his stomach for a moment, and then settled just like everything else he put down his gullet. 

            "Wow, that's waaay out wesht buddy," the drunk replied.  "What bringsh you to thesh partsh?"

            "I have some business with a tribe of Cuyotai around here.  I'm not exactly certain where it is though, so I'm at a bit of a loss."  He raised the glass to his hood, but a tiny head poked out of his chest plate and consumed what little alcohol was left in the glass.  Growling inwardly, Byron motioned to the barkeep for another round for himself and his new 'friend'.  With the money on the counter, Byron could have easily bought the bottle of scotch and the brandy Clem was drinking, but he found it best to get his information as quickly as possible.  After drowning his troubles a little more, the drunk turned to Byron and placed a friendly arm over his massive shoulders.

            "Well, dat's not too hard, buddy, hic.  You headsh to the easht shide of town, shee?  You'll go about five milesh that way, and there'll be a good sizhed woodsh.  In the middle of thosh woodsh ish the village you're lookin' fer.  Might be a bit dangeroush goin, though."  Byron raised his eyebrow, or what he could of it.

            "Why's that?"

            "Cause the Cuyotai and Lizardmen of this region have been fighting over that land for years," replied the barkeep as he cleaned another glass.  "You'd best be armed, though I can see already that you are.  And from the looks of your gauntlets, you're well armored too."  Byron nodded in agreement.  He got to his feet slowly, trying to act as though the scotch were mildly affecting him.

            "Thank you both.  I'll be leaving now.  And barkeep?"

            "Yes," the Dwarf replied as Byron was already halfway to the door.

            "Cut him off after that glass.  Keep the change."  Without another sound, Byron of Sidius left the town.  After only walking to the edge of the town, he saw a ragged old man approaching him with a walking stick.  The old man moved the stick about the ground in an odd fashion, and Byron recognized him as being blind.  Yet without error the old man stopped a couple of feet away from him.  After a moment of awkward silence, Byron asked quietly, "Is there something you need, aged one?"

            "The evil you seek, lies at your destination," the old man rasped in a cryptic tone.  "But the other who seeks it, is nearer.  You will be too late."  Stunned, Byron took a defensive step back. 

            "Who are you, strange one," he uttered, anger slipping into his tone.

            "I am but a humble oracle, dead one.  The one known as Richard Vandross approaches the second Orb of Eden’s Serpent as we speak.  You will be too late to stop him.  But you must go there.  There is a person there who you must save and protect.  He shall aid you in your quest."  Without waiting for a response, the old beggar shuffled off into the town, as silently and suddenly as he had shown up. 

            "What are we waiting for," asked Alex.  "Let's go after him!"  Byron ran down the alley the old man had shuffled through, but when he arrived on the other side, the beggar was nowhere to be seen.  Another encounter with the one-eyed man, Byron thought, might not be so good.  He had used his entire physical force to bulldoze the man to the ground, and his Hagata spell had been cast at full power, despite his attempt to hold it back.  Yet the man, Vandross, had not broken or suffered major wounds from it. 

            In the distance to the east, he saw smoke rising out of the woods.  His vision, he thought, was about to come to pass.