'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Fifteen- Bait

The company from Whitewood sat about the campfire, the early half-darkness of dawn approaching.  Byron had just awoken and joined them, greatfully accepting a mug of coffee brewed from Morek's supplies.  The Dwarven Boxer, despite having gone without sleep for most of the night, didn't seem to be in bad shape save a few cuts and bruises.  Everyone had been damaged in their enchanted slumber, the wounds becoming real as they came out of their sleeping encounters.  Shoryu was the fastest to heal, his lycanthrope regeneration kicking in as he helped bind Ellen's scratches, being as gentle as a lamb with his love.  Yet, once, during his assisted ministrations, he had pinched her arm, seemingly without reason.  Ellen blew it off as playfulness, but Shoryu knew that it was a part of his cost of giving Byron his blood.  "So, how did you all fare," Byron asked darkly as he thought once again on the twisted mirror image of himself as he kicked it into the grave meant for him.

            "We got by all right," James Hayes said, using a Paladin healing spell on an open hole in his shoulder.  "I personally had the privilege of facing one of my greater fears, a Vampire Lord," he said, slumping forward with fatigue.  He looked haggard and disheveled, and truth be told, he was thinking over a great deal the fact that Byron had gone through such an extraordinary change during the past week.  Had the mighty Oun accepted this dark creature back into his fold, he wondered.  If Byron had a shot at redemption, then perhaps he could find vindication for his failure to protect Fort Flag, something he had been seeking since news had reached him of its demise.  "I didn't come away unscathed, but you should see the other guy," he said in a half-hearted attempt at jesting.  No one laughed, as he expected.

            "Dreamstalkers," said Ellen in a hushed whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the fire's crackle.  "Greatly formidable demons.  We should be grateful we are all in one piece," she said, clinging tightly to Shoryu for support.  "If Shoryu and I had not been together, I may not have survived," she said, and all eyes were suddenly on the couple. 

            "You were together, eh," Alex squeaked, deciding to be playful.  He buzzed around their heads a few times before landing gingerly on Selena's shoulder.  "What were you doing together, if I may be so bold as to ask," he asked, grinning from ear to ear.  Shoryu blushed and scratched the back of his head, stammering to get an answer out.  A wave of relief and laughter issued from the company, who could always rely on the Cuyotai Hunter and the Ki Fairy to lighten their spirits. 

            "You needn't answer that," said Byron with a chuckle.  "We have a Monk in our presence, and I don't think it would be good for him to hear of such things," he said.

            "No, go ahead, and don't spare the nasty details where appropriate," David jested, smiling like an imp.  Of everyone, he had received the most severe injuries, his lacerations deep enough to cause him discomfort when he moved.  James would heal him before they headed out, making sure to purge any poisons or taints from the Shadowbeast weapons.  But for now, he could barely shift his position without pain rearing its ugly head at him.

            "What happened to you two anyway," Selena asked, taking a bit of her bread and cheese from her pack, giving a small bit to Alex like a parrot.  "I thought you didn't sleep?"

            "We didn't," Morek said, spitting into the fire.  His eyes were getting heavy, and he needed to rest at least a couple of hours before they headed out.  "I think the Shadowbeasts were sent as insurance.  Vandross didn't want to leave everything to the off chance that we would all sleep at one time.  Stupid of him, though, to send so few.  Suppose it had been James or Byron on guard?  I hate to admit it," he said, growling at himself for saying anything that made him seem inferior to anyone in battle.  "But either of you Paladins would have made very short work of them.  If David hadn't used a sutra, he might not have survived," he said, serious as he could be. 

            "Well, he did, despite his decided disadvantage," commented Byron as he poured more of the thick black coffee down his throat.  "At least for this particular ass-kicking contest he was one-armed and not one-legged," he finished, dumping the rest of the tar-like liquid on the ground.  He began packing some of his things, though not all.  "Morek, David, get some rest.  Any of the rest of you who are still tired, too.  I can keep watch, but we head out again at noon.  We'll make good time across the plains once we're fully clear of these woodlands."  He looked off into the northern distance, trying to gauge how much time it would take without horses to make the trip to the monastery.  Almost twelve days by his calculations, if they had a limited number of interruptions.  They had been fortunate to be such a highly skilled troupe; most other adventuring parties would have died in the course of such an attack, if not in Whitewood or Desanadron.  But Byron had chosen his companions well; or perhaps it could be said that they chose him.  Each had a good reason for sticking by him; Shoryu had the destruction of his village, James Hayes with Fort Flag, Selena with Desanadron, and Morek and Ellen, and even David Spore, from the siege of Whitewood.  He had known them all for less than two months, yet they had formed quick and strong friendships and alliances. 

            Shoryu and Ellen were the clearest example of this.  The company could easily be divided into pairs, Byron thought, his mind working through the strategies available to each pairing.  Shoryu and Ellen each possessed magic, hers natural, his from his weapon.  A mage and a warrior, well suited to each other's talents and abilities.  Then there was Selena and James, with Alex in the mix.  Once again, a good mage and warrior combination, and a sensible one seeing as how risky Selena's magic could be.  And then there was Morek and David, two hardened, seasoned veterans of hand-to-hand combat arts.  And who was Byron to pair with, then?  He wondered after this line of thought for only a moment, sparing little attention on this detail.  He worked just fine on his own, and could mingle with the others as need be.  Truth be told, however, he was most keen on Shoryu.  He had saved the boy from destruction and despair, to be certain.  He was Byron's charge, now.  But with the inclusion of Ellen to the group, he didn't feel that obligation as strongly as he had before.

            As his thoughts turned further to analyzing the young Cuyotai, Shoryu wandered over to him, having tucked Ellen in for a good nap.  He stood next to the huge Dread Knight, who only moments before, he realized, had been referred to as a Paladin by Morek Rockmight.  Byron looked over at Shoryu, taking in the worried look of silence in the Hunter's eyes.  "Not all of us will survive this struggle, will we," he asked, his voice barely a whisper. 

            "I won't lie to you, my young friend, so no, we won't all survive.  I am hopeful that we will all see this through, but I highly doubt it will be so.  Why do you ask," he said, putting an arm around Shoryu's shoulders.  The young man didn't seem to mind, and actually seemed put at ease by the gesture.

            "I am afraid," Shoryu said, his head lowering.  "I have been afraid many times in my life, but few times with such motivation.  I fear for Ellen's safety.  I fear that this love between us is only temporary, forged out of need and circumstance."  Byron smiled gently, his jaw slipping slightly on his skull. 

            "My dear boy, most relationships are thus.  My wife and I were married mostly at the behest of our parents, so that they could combine their finances and fortunes.  At first, I doubted very much if I could love her," he said, his twin lights becoming smaller than needle heads, his mind filling with the wonderful memories of her affections.  "But I found out rather quickly that she was a very strong-willed girl, and more than competent with a staff.  Sit down with me, I'll tell you a story," he said, moving over to a sturdy stump.  Shoryu sat on the ground in front of him, in the tribal fashion of his people, legs folded inward.  "My wife's name was Alice Montegart, and her father was a nobleman once, cast down from high society for rooting around and telling the truth of the corruption of central government.  He made his living then as a blacksmith, something he was very good at.  His business was flourishing, but he didn't have the political power he once enjoyed.  Trade agreements became hard to come by for him, for he had been blacklisted by many a city-state for his purported treachery to the governing body of Desanadron.

            "My father was Roderick Aixler, an officer of the court and the watch," Byron said, summoning to his mind's eye memories of the towering, muscular rock of a man his father had been.  "He was no nobleman by any means, but he was well liked in the courts and in the public, and thus gained the title.  He made good money, despite never having taken a bribe in his career, and had on more than one occasion been awarded lands and properties by the Desanadron Parliament.  So although he was not a noble, our family had much.  One day, after a long and hard-fought arrest of a local thug, my father went to see a blacksmith about getting his armor repaired.  It had been dented heavily by the thug and his cronies, but my father himself was in good shape.  He prided himself on keeping his belongings in good condition.  The man never threw anything out; he'd pay to have things repaired even when it turned out to be more expensive than getting a new one.  That's just the way he was.  Anyhow, he had gone to Alice's father, on the recommendation of one of his subordinates, who regularly had to use his services. 

            "They began talking while Mr. Montegart worked, him telling my father of his political woes, and my father speaking much about the stresses of being a watch commander.  They shared some tales of their works and doings, and became good friends in the days that followed.  Mr. Montegart confided in my father that he had a young daughter and an ill wife, and could do little to help either financially.  He didn't have enough customers due to his lack of materials, and my father saw the opportunity to help a decent man who had been unjustly tossed into a hard place.   He gave Mr. Montegart and his family both money and one of the houses we owned to live in, and even sprung for a healer to tend to his wife, and a tutor to teach his daughter.  The same tutor as he had for me, mind you young Shoryu.  I often watched Alice playing in the yard from a distance, and I remember thinking even then that she was beautiful.  But she was a gruff little girl, my boy," he said, laughing aloud.  "The first time I tried to play with her, she kicked me in the shins and ran to her father!  He informed her that she had to play nice with me, that some day she would be my bride.  Oh, I got a number of beatings from her after that, though in truth, I never fought back for fear of hurting her and getting in trouble with my father.

            "A few years passed, and my father told me that Mr. Montegart had not been jesting about his statement.  He had promised Alice to me as my bride in exchange for my father's kindness.  When I was a young man, now fully trained as a Paladin by my father and members of the Order of Oun, we were wed.  It was a soft autumn evening, and the ceremony was small, held in the courtyard of the judgement building.  Alice and I had come to a mutual liking of one another, though nothing like love.  But as we lived together, I fell hard for her.  Her little patterns, her habits, the way she carried herself," he said longingly.  "I would do anything to return to that time.  Three years passed, and we had our son Jacob.  The rest is too painful to speak of," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.  "I tell you Shoryu, family is the greatest thing in the world.  I am sorry for your loss of your father," he said, thinking back on the big Chieftain lying dead on the ground as the village burned around him.  Shoryu waved it off, forcing a smile.

            "He was not my real father.  My true father died in the battle of the Final Push," the Hunter said.  Byron remembered a particular Hunter at the Final Push, one with a fantastic enchanted bow and arrows.  So, the cycle of time comes around, he thought.  Where I failed to protect his father, I must succeed with him. 

            "Thanks for the story, good Byron," said Shoryu with a grin.  "I have greatly enjoyed this time with you, my friend.  That makes my next question difficult," he said quietly, as he looked up into Byron's face.  There was a sadness there, the cause of which Byron was uncertain of.  "Byron, James Hayes and Bael have both told me that when you destroy Richard Vandross, the bond of magic that ties you to him will dissipate, and you will die.  Is this so?"  Byron was taken aback; he hadn't been prepared for anyone to feel badly at the idea that he would pass on.

            "Shoryu, I am not entirely sure," he said, putting an arm across Shoryu's shoulders.  "But I think that it must be so," he finished, his voice barely a whisper as he looked out at the stretches of woodland. 

            "Perhaps then, there is an alternative.  Some way of stopping him without killing him.  Imprisonment in a Paladin outpost, perhaps?"  Byron thought it over for the merest fraction of a moment, knowing that such a thing would only result in the warlock's eventual escape.  He shook his head slowly, knowing that such a result was not acceptable. 

            "No, young Hunter.  That is no good.  Richard Vandross must be destroyed, in the end.  If there were any hope for redemption, he would already have been saved.  There is hope for his soul, if he repents to the gods he has offended, including great Oun.  But if not, he is doomed to the Pit; in any event, death will be the only end to his tyranny.  Come, let us make ready once more," he said, waking those who had slept another two hours.  The company was heading out just before noon, in order to make it out of the Elven Kingdom as quickly as they could.

            Richard Vandross himself had become so furious that he had destroyed a handful of about twenty Shadowbeasts, simply because they were there.  "Failed?!  How in the seven Hells did they fail?!  Unacceptable," he fumed, his voice slipping into the double echo of his rage.  Vilec Roak stood before him as he sat upon the throne, kneeling at the foot of the great seat of bone, waiting for Vandross to smite him.  But he did not; the Human warlock fumed and ranted, but did nothing to Roak himself, taking out his wrath on those foolish enough to poke their heads in on the Shadowbeast Prime and he.  "I thought these Dreamstalkers were unbeatable!  Garrrgh!"  He tossed a bolt of lightning into the high vaulted ceiling, causing the entire mountain to tremble in response to his outburst.  Vandross closed his eye and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.  "Tell me what happened," he said, his voice low and dangerous.  Vilec Roak raised his black head, his feral, yellow eyes glowing with fear.  He had to clear his throat for a bit before responding.

            "It is unknown how, but the Cuyotai and his Elven mate shared their dream.  They share a connection that is greater than flesh, my lord.  They were able to overcome their demon, outnumbering it and apparently able to use their powers in combination.  The Dreamstalkers gave me this to monitor their dreams," he said, revealing a black orb from his pockets.  It showed nothing now, the demons having been destroyed.  "I sent a small squad of my men as insurance, in case any of them were of the insomniac persuasion, but the Dwarven Boxer, Morek Rockmight, and their new companion, the one-armed Monk, managed to destroy them handily."

            "In other words, they did little damage to the two of them," Vandross growled.  He waved his hand dismissively.  "What of the others?"

            "Well, the Pyromancer, Selena Bradford, she was nearly deceived into her doom, but her command of the fire magic proved too formidable.  James Hayes sustained some damage, but his righteous powers kept him alive.  And Byron-"

            "Don't bother to tell me," Vandross said, clenching his fists in rage.  "I suspect there is almost nothing short of myself or the Prince of Lies that can stand in his way," he said, fuming.  "Damn you Byron of Sidius," he shouted, slamming his fist down on the arm of the throne, breaking it off.  He stopped to think for a while, not dismissing Vilec Roak just yet.  "Roak, leave me for now.  I must think of some more clever way to deal with our undead friend and his companions.  Something discreet, something they will never suspect.  Perhaps, a false friend," he said, his voice low and level, his thoughts clear.  "You are dismissed, General," he said, and Vilec Roak bowed and left the central chamber.  The Shadowbeast Prime slunk through the darkness of the mountain labyrinth, his thoughts uneasy and his mind clouded with thoughts of his recent failures.  He had been certain that the Dreamstalkers would succeed where all others had failed.  Perhaps Tamriel, the huge Renka, was right.  Perhaps a large force, solely focused on Byron's company, would be the best way to go.

            No, he thought after a moment, passing by a knot of Khan who saluted him.  He returned the salute without thought or enthusiasm, listening as one of the tiger-men fell into step behind him.  As he made his way to the mouth of Mount Toane, the Khan snapped to attention at his side.  "Major Bloodfang reporting, sir," he said, his guttural voice echoing off of the rock face of the mountain.  Vilec Roak returned the salute.

            "At ease, Major.  What's on your mind," he asked, sitting on one of the rock outcroppings. 

            "Sir, my platoon just returned from Ja-Wen, as per his lordship's commands.  I have a report to give, and his lordship seems entrenched in thought.  I shall give the report to you, sir."  Hmm, thought Roak.  This Khan is very militant, a good soldier.  No surprise he had worked up to the rank of Major without Roak realizing it. 

            "Very well, Major.  Let's hear it," he said, leaning back on the rock as the Major stood at parade rest. 

            "Sir!  Of the fifteen hundred men dispatched in my unit to Ja-Wen, twelve hundred returned alive.  We suffered heaviest casualties from the northwestern quadrant of the city, where a number of elite soldiers laid in wait.  They were fierce warriors, sir, highly trained.  I removed my men, had them fall back and take a tactically superior position in the northeastern quadrant, where there were fewer buildings for the city's defenders to take easily defensible positions.  The decided advantage there belonged to us, sir, but we were routed from that position by defenders come out of the southern quadrants.  The city's army has easily tripled in numbers since the first recon on the city only a few weeks ago."

            "That's no surprise, really," Vilec Roak responded, bored with this man's report.  "Is there anything of relevance in all of this, Major?"  The Khan raised an eyebrow, but his eyes told Roak that something had been out of the ordinary in Ja-Wen.  "What is it Major?"

            "Sir, permission to speak freely?"  Roak nodded.  "Sir, something truly unnerved me about the city and its defenders.  They were all wearing some sort of armband, a leather item on their left biceps.  There were Elves among them, mounted cavalry.  They were some of the Black Guard, from Whitewood."  Roak's eyes widened.  Already Elven riders had reached Ja-Wen?  They must have had the aid of a teleportation hub from the High Council of Whitewood.  No matter.  "Sir, on the armband, there was the design of a skull, with eyes of white light," he said, and the Shadowbeast Prime's heart skipped a beat.  "Sir, I believe you know whose countenance that is," the Major said in a low voice.  Roak nodded; Byron of Sidius!  The Elves had been dispatched to spread the word of the Dread Knight's deeds and his struggle against the armies of Richard Vandross! Things seemed to conspire constantly around his lordship.  Roak looked into the past, trying to glean what he could of the few facts he remembered from the time of Tanarak of Sidius.  Many things, events in the last few weeks, were beginning to mirror that time perfectly, except that Vandross did not yet hold control over any regions like Tanarak had.  But he surely was a more straightforward man that Tanarak had been, and to his benefit.  Vandross didn't have to keep his forces spread out so long as he kept to the tactic of beating a city into submission, and then leaving it to lick its wounds.

            But a resistance would form to stand against him, that much was certain.  Vandross seemed to be more capable of summoning demons from the Pit than his former master, and this also played to his advantage.  He was more charismatic than the dead warlock, and more importantly, still breathing.  But Byron stood in the way, and nothing Vandross threw at him seemed to truly stand a chance of phasing him.  How could he help in this matter?  He didn't dare face the Dread Knight alone, even with a platoon of his very best men, and the Renkas for backup.  But now that the Dreamstalkers were dead, there seemed little in the way of options left to him, aside from a full frontal assault, and in the open plains that Byron's company would be crossing on their journey north, for they seemed to be heading that way, would be an invitation to slaughter.  Vilec Roak would not stand a chance.

            It was a matter to stew over for a while, and Roak went to his chambers to do so.  But he fell asleep before he could stew about anything.

            Into the forested foothills bordering the northernmost tip of the Elven Kingdom Byron led his company, James Hayes keeping some relative company, along with Selena right behind him.  The rest of the company kept itself evenly spaced and spread out, in the event of an attack.  The uneven footing in these hills became treacherous, and several members of the company, all in fact, save Shoryu, slipped and fell at one point or another, before reaching a winding path up through the hills and woodland.  Rows and rows of evergreens stood like sentinels around them, stretching forever towards the sun, trying in vain to touch it.  The affect was not lost on Byron; few trees, even in the Elven Kingdom, were as hardy as these.  They had been tended to, cared for, by someone or something living in the forest.  Ellen, he noticed, had become suddenly apprehensive.  "Ellen, do you know what resides here," he asked her, his voice barely louder than a hoarse whisper.

            "Indeed," she said, casting about the ranks of trees, their features only distinguishable to her eyes.  There were few differences between these trees, and only her trained eyes could pick them out among the group.  She darted her eyes left and right, following a stealthy movement in the trees.  "An Anudian, one of the Earthly Chosen.  We trespass on her territory, Byron.  She follows us even now," she said, catching another flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye.  Her heart turned cold, her skin standing up in goose flesh, fear racing down her spine in a single sweep.  Such was the effect of any close contact with the Anudian.  As the company moved forward, they slowed their pace, choosing to be ready if anything hostile approached, rather than try to evade confrontation.  As they passed out of the woods into a small clearing, a single woman, Elven in appearance, appeared as though out of nowhere in the middle of the field.  Upon closer inspection, Byron realized, the woman's skin had turned to bark in patches on her arms and face.  Her features were fine and delicate, and she was lovely to look upon, he thought.  But there was an old anger burning brightly in her bright green eyes. 

            "Callet ta chock, intruders," the Anudian growled across to them from twenty yards away.  "Who dares to pass through my domain?"  Magic flared to life in the woman's hands and eyes, her fury transformed into a clear indication that she would not tolerate their presence long.  Byron stepped forward a few steps, his long strides nearly halving the distance between them.  He felt the flux of magic being brought to bear, and made a subtle gesture with his left hand, creating an invisible warding wall against attack. 

            "I am Byron, formerly of Sidius," said the Dread Knight loudly, his head held high, his tone formal.  "With me are my companions, whom I shall introduce my lady," he said, bowing deeply.  "This is Shoryu Tearfang, a Cuyotai Hunter of noble right and mind.  Next to him is his mate and our friend," he said, watching as both Cuyotai and Elf blushed deeply.  "Ellen Daires, Elven Gaiamancer.  Her purpose in life is much the same as thine own," he said, remembering tales of these creatures.  Formality would see them through this woman's territory better than any sword.  "Standing there, with the full plate armor and air of a holy man is James Hayes, Human Paladin, and member of the Order of Oun," he said, and Hayes knelt and bowed his head to the Anudian, who actually deigned fit to smile at the Paladin.  "The lady in red is Selena Bradford, Human Pyromancer.  Her passion equals her wisdom and constraint, my lady.  You need not fear her flames," Byron continued, watching as Selena curtsied politely.  "To my right, the Dwarven man is Morek Rockmight, a Boxer and a landowner hailing from Traithrock.  Next to him is the Monk David Spore, a spiritual man and, though he has only one arm, a capable martial artist.  And lastly, crouched on Selena's shoulder, is our tiny scout, a Ki Fairy by the name of Alex, who has traveled with me far and wide, my lady.  We travel from Whitewood to the north, towards a monastery in the mountains of the north.  We ask that you kindly grant us safe passage through your lands."  The Anudian seemed to consider this, a small smile tracing over her lips.

            "You claim to be of Sidius formerly, creature, yet I sense none of the warlock taint in you," she said, much to the company's confusion.  "Indeed, you bear a resemblance to the warlock Tanarak's former General of glory, yet your soul, I sense, belongs to a holy man, like your friend James Hayes.  A proud Paladin soul," she said, her voice now little more than a whisper.  She stood silently, her magic dissipating.  She looked up then, floating forward toward Byron.  She was inches away from his chest, her head level with the symbol of Oun on his breastplate.  She reached a hand up to touch his cheekbone, and her hand rested there only a moment.  Something passed between the two of them, though what, Byron didn't know.  The Anudian recoiled suddenly as though stung.  "Such pain!  Such agony have you suffered in your lifetime, Byron!  And such purpose in your actions now, such a heavy burden you bear!  No, I shall not hold you and yours any longer here," she said, stepping aside.  "Go now, and keep well, thou tortured soul!  May whatever god you worship grant you mercy in the afterlife, for you have already seen enough of the Hells on earth!"  Byron bowed to her, and the Anudian slowly moved away from the company.

            The group from Whitewood moved swiftly then, onward north for several hours, until finally Ellen moved up beside Byron, who led the group at a half-jog.  "Byron, you have received a deep honor from the Anudian!  Her words, though harsh," she said, looking at the ground for a moment.  "Were words of pity!  The Anudian only pity their own, the woods, and the truly worthy.  What happened when she touched you," she asked, her voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial whisper.

            "She saw into my soul, into my memories," Byron replied after a long pause.  He had in turn, he thought, received a glimpse of the Anudian woman's torments over the ravages of time; men of the axe, hacking at the trees, her very children.  She had felt their pain, cried out many nights in anguish, the burning pain of an axe head tearing into her body.  Such pain!  She took it into herself, in order to spare the trees.  She had done so for more than two thousand years now; how long could the spirit endure such agony, and not become embittered?  But what of his own pains, he thought to himself, watching as Ellen fell back into step with Shoryu.  The Anudian had seen him stand by, helpless, while his wife and only child were beheaded by Richard Vandross.  She had looked at the torment of his transformation into the thing known as Byron of Sidius, from Byron Aixler.  She had felt his dread as he watched from the private prison of his soul, unable to die, unable to control himself.  She had watched his memories flicker past, dark and forbidding.  Finally, she could not handle it, and had to leave his mind.  But she had left something there, as well.  A thought, a single litany that he took some measure of comfort from; "May the Gods weep for you, Byron Aixler.  May they grant you their love and mercy."  It had been so heart-felt, that Byron had nearly felt the urge to cry, but he choked the urge down.

            Now, the company was on the road again, and making good time.  That evening, they camped near the northernmost border of the Elven Kingdom.  Byron slept like the dead.

            Vilec Roak got out of bed some time after midnight, stalking through the tunnels of Mount Toane.  His thoughts were still hazy with sleep, but he remembered with sudden clarity what he had been thinking about before he had gone to sleep.  Byron of Sidius, and his accursed company.  They seemed so indestructible!  How could a small pack of mortals be so powerful?  There had to be some way to get to them, to cause a weakness.  But how?  How would he do that?  An impish grin spread across his lips.  They seemed to have a penchant for helping the weak.  He could use that to his advantage.  All it would take was a single strike, executed with surgical precision.  Once again the nagging question of how to do this raised its ugly head. 

            Roak was no one's fool, especially not Byron's.  He had been silent thus far, a background player in the game of war between Dread Knight and one-eyed warlock.  But no longer; he had the inklings of a plan forming in his mind.  Like a streak of lightning he darted for the throne hall, finding Richard Vandross sitting in the seat of bones, his chin in his palm, looking bored out of his mind.  "My lordship," Roak said, bowing deeply.  The man turned warlock looked up from his unfocused stare to gaze at him.  Roak could feel his good eye scrutinizing him, testing his measure as a competent ally.  Vandross had become strangely distant, as Roak had been musing before, only on this occasion the distance he had gone to took a good measure of time to return from.  His good eye flared just once, a flicker of the demonic crimson cast beaming out from his handsome, yet shadowed, face. 

            "General Roak," Vandross said, the twin tone of demon and man creeping through.  The sound of it made Vilec Roak cringe, inwardly flinching as though about to be struck.  "Come, speak with me Shadowbeast," he said, his voice returning to normal once again.  What had his lord been thinking about?  Why did he slip in and out of those states of inhuman tone and mood so often in the previous two days' time?  But these were doubts that could only lead to peril if followed.  Roak would stick to his plans.

            "My lord, I believe I have devised a way in which to waylay and injure Byron's company.  Perhaps even kill one or two of them."  Vandross laughed harshly and spat at the floor at his feet.

            "I want the utter destruction of all of them, fool," he growled, his voice slurring into the twin harmony.  "Do not waste my time with anything short of that, Vilec Roak, or you shall find yourself cleaning up after the torture masters of the Hells once again!"  Vandross's good eye gleamed the color of blood, and his hands became clenched fists.  But Roak, though afraid, would hold his ground.

            "My lord, a wise leader does not bull rush his enemy.  He picks him apart, piece by piece, ally by ally, until at last, when the greatest foe of the wise leader looks for aid, there is none for him but the promise that he shall join his dead companions," Roak said, quoting the great Tanarak of Sidius.  Vandross's socket returned to normal. 

            "This is indeed good advice, General.  Tell me more," Vandross said, taking a long pull from a liquor flask at his hip.

            "Lord Vandross, have you not noticed that Byron and his band have helped all those they can against you?  No matter who they are, what they are?"  Vandross nodded, remaining silent, his hands coming to rest under his chin.  "Think of it.  After Koreindar, you told me, Byron assaulted you openly.  He let you go, because the soul of a Paladin has its limitations.  He had no cause to fear you then, as he does now.  He went on to help save the Cuyotai whelp, Shoryu Tearfang.  Together, they healed Bael outside of Fort Flag.  In Desanadron, they came to the defense of the city along with James Hayes and Selena Bradford.  In Whitewood, they met Ellen Daires and the Monk, whose name I have yet to memorize.  There also they met Morek Rockmight."

            "I know all of this already," said Vandross softly, remaining patient by Roak's measure.  "What does any of this have to do with your plans?"  Roak smiled viciously from ear to shadowy ear. 

            "Don't you see," Roak hissed, his eyes glimmering like gimlets.  "All of his companions have been gained through some result of other catastrophe!  One more misfortunate man, someone willing to stay close and join his cause, would be a welcomed gift to him!"  Vandross ran his hand through his short cropped beard, nodding his head slightly.  Roak feared and respected his lord, particularly his ability to foresee the outcome of certain events, and the ideas they might lead to. 

            "There are several villages between them and wherever they go at the least," Vandross rumbled, climbing down the steps from his throne to stand beside Roak.  The Shadowbeast felt gladdened and terrified by his lord's closeness; he could not predict when Vandross might become dour and violent anymore.  "You would suggest that we send disaster before him, and plant one of our own as a victim, to win his trust," he said, making it a statement, not a guess.  But guess though it was, Roak thought, it was perfectly accurate.  And why not?  There would be little risk to whomever claimed to be a victim of Vandross, for all in the lands of Tamalaria were his victims!  But this was no small gambit to be dared by a fool.  It would require someone of skill, and power.  And not a demon; no, the Paladin, Hayes, would know a demon on sight, as might Byron at this juncture.  That would be too great a risk.  One of the higher ranking mortals would have to be selected for this grisly task.  Someone of power, ability, and great cunning.  The latter would be needed in even greater amounts than the former, for all would hang in the balance of the man's cleverness.  "Who would you suggest?"

            "I am not entirely certain yet, my lord.  But none of the demons would do.  We are too easily detected for what we are.  I shall have to think long and hard about it, my lord."

            "You have one day," Vandross said, his good eye suddenly focused completely on the here and now.  But though his time limit was harsh, Vandross smiled wickedly.  "If even one of them is killed, I shall bestow on you a grand decoration, Roak.  Whatever you want," he said, whipping his head to the side to look directly into the Shadowbeast's eyes.  There was maddened hunger there, and something much more deadly.  Something murderous.  "Monies, territories, whores, whatever you wish within my scope!  Just be certain that someone dies besides one of our own," he said, his tone become a whisper.  "But it will not be Byron.  No, I want the Dread Knight for myself, Roak.  I shall slay him as surely as the viper slays the hare.  Remember," he said, stalking swiftly away from the stunned Shadowbeast General.  "One day.  I expect him or her before the entrance of Mount Toane tomorrow to be briefed.  Go."  Vilec Roak was left alone once again with his thoughts.  Who would be worthy of the task at hand?  What single mortal would make due from Vandross's thousands?

            Byron's company consisted of a Dwarf, an Elf, three Humans, a Ki Fairy, a Cuyotai, and Byron himself, who apparently didn't fit any one category.  Their skills made them a Boxer, a Gaiamancer, a Pyromancer, a Paladin, a Monk, a misfit, a Hunter, and a Dread Knight.  What combination of Race and Class would have a chance against them?  He didn't want there to be any common bond between his 'victim' and the company of Byron of Sidius.  There would be too many questions then.  Too much chance that a secret might slip out.  Then what?  Humans, Elves and Cuyotai were the most common Races of the land, and Vandross's forces had several thousand of them, Illeck taking the place of their good-hearted Elven brethren.  The Khan were all known to be fairly loyal as an entire Race to whoever had power in stock, so that too would be an ill choice. 

            But what of the few Lizardmen that Vandross had not dismissed, he wondered suddenly.  They were said to be assassins all, crafty and dangerous Ninjas and Rogues.  None of them had fallen in any of the conflicts they had been involved in, not even the utter destruction of Vandross's deployment to Desanadron; they were the only ones to have survived that massacre unscathed!  And as far as Byron knew, all of Bael's kinsmen had abandoned his lord's cause.  One of them would make the perfect tool for his plan!  What was their leader's name?

            A half hour later, the Lizardman Ninja moved out of the shadows behind Roak, who had summoned him to his quarters.  How had the man gotten there without him noticing?  It didn't matter in the long run.  It was a sign of his skill in fact, and one that Roak relished.  The slight and short reptilian assassin looked out at him from behind a traditional black head mask, his eyes small slits in the darkness.  "You summoned me, master Roak," he whispered, his voice more of a hint of noise than an actual statement of words.  His every action was entirely silent, reserved, and calculated. 

            "Indeed I did.  We have a mission for you, Tal." 

            The sun rose over the horizon, spilling golden rivulets of light down amid Byron's company as they awoke from a good evening's rest.  The morning was spent in the usual way, in contemplative silence, as the morning chill gave way to the late morning/high noon warmth of late spring.  Down through valleys and over ridges they traveled, until finally they approached the border between the Elven Kingdom and the independent central plains.  Byron realized now that he had sorely miscalculated their travel time, not having accounted for the landscape between himself and the mountains in the far north.  Still, they made decent time.  They would travel near and into the outskirts of city-states for the remainder of their journey north, but many days still lie between them and their destination.  Black Guardsmen stood in evenly spaced pockets of men, patrolling the border, keeping those unwelcome from entering the southernmost regions of Tamalaria and their Kingdom.  A few of them, Byron noticed, wore a strange black armband of leather, with a white skull embroidered on it.  Was this part of their uniform now that the struggle of Whitewood was over?

            He led the company openly toward the border, and several of the Elven elite warriors hailed them with wishes of good fortune, and one group even exclaimed "Hail!  Hail good Byron!"  Now he understood the armband; it was a symbol of their victory in Whitewood.  It was possible that others outside of the kingdom would wear them, though, wasn't it?  Even if the Elves had come up with the idea, surely the peoples of Desanadron would be eager to embrace the cause of Byron and his crew.  With a renewed spirit, he led the company directly toward the bordermen. 

            "Hail and well met," Byron said, trying to smile at the large group of Elven patrolmen.  He saluted the tallest of the men, seeing that he wore the insignia of a Major.  "Major, may we speak together, as common men?"  The almost feminine features of the Elven Major, his high cheekbones, soft-looking and powdered skin, lent him an air of aristocratic grace.  But his eyes told a different story; this man had seen outright war more than once, and had survived some really shit situations.

            "Neigh, good Byron," said the man, smiling as he dismounted his midnight-black steed.  Looking at Byron, he offered a hand to the Dread Knight.  "Let us speak as comrades in a common cause."  Byron shook the man's hand, which was surprisingly strong for one so lithe in appearance and frame.  Again, Byron looked into his eyes, and saw not the eyes of an over-educated politician, but the cold, hard eyes of an efficient soldier.  "Anything we can do to aid in your journey, we shall.  Pray tell, what would you have of me, sir?"  Byron looked back at his company, who were each talking to members of the border patrol.

            "We require horses, Major, I won't skirt the issue.  We need to travel to the northernmost region of Tamalaria, and we need to make haste.  While we travel afoot, the warlock Richard Vandross," he said, noting the involuntary cringe of disgust and fear in the Major's muscles.  "He shall work against us.  He is a devious one, whose machinations we seek to put an end to.  But he has the power to summon demons, and most demons can travel faster than any running man.  Not only this, but they are able to make use of his ability to use the magic of teleportation, hence sending them anywhere in but a moment's time," Byron said, trying to keep his voice low, so as not to spook the younger, lower-ranking men of the border patrol.  "Will you aid us?"  The Elven Major seemed to ponder the undead warrior's need, weighing it against his own duty.  But the hesitation was only momentary.  The military man was soon shouting to a companion in Elven, a language that, unfortunately, Byron never took the time to learn.  The man he had shouted to came sprinting over, his chain mail armor clanking together loosely.  This Elf didn't seem much older than Shoryu, however, and since Elves lived considerably longer lives, Byron was taken aback by his youth. 

            "Good sir Byron, meet Sergeant-at-Arms Thomas Duradian.  He is also our current quartermaster."

            "Sergeant-at-Arms," Byron asked, incredulous.  "He is barely out of his adolescence!"

            "That's true, sir," said the young Duradian, a smile plastered to his face.  He had an air of rough and quick experience about him, Byron thought.  "But I have already seen a good deal of skirmishes.  I am a prized tactician, schooled at the Elven Military Academy for eight years.  I graduated second in my class last year, though due to my age, I was not afforded the rank of an officer.  I must wait five more years before I am deemed proven of the post of Lieutenant, sir," he said, his words short and snappish, militant.  Had the boy been raised for this post, Byron wondered.  It wasn't uncommon in lower class families to raise a child for military service.  The city-states and kingdoms of Tamalaria afforded their servicemen  a decent living, both in pay and benefits.  A child from an impoverished home could be made into a good soldier, and could live better than his or her parents.  But often these individuals had short-lived relationships, and families that were torn apart by their service.  Divorce was not a common practice in Tamalaria, but was a recognized one nonetheless.  It was often what resulted from military marriages.  Byron had been fortunate in his situation in life, for Alice had been remarkably understanding.  Would this young Elf be so lucky?

            Byron was brought out of his reverie as the Major began speaking to the young Sergeant-at-Arms.  "These folks require horses, Sergeant.  How many are there of you, Byron?"  Byron looked back at the group.  There were eight in all, himself, James, Shoryu, Ellen, Selena, Morek, David and Alex.  But the Ki Fairy didn't need a mount, obviously, and Morek cold easily ride with David. 

            "Five horses, nothing more," he said.

            "Four, Byron," called Shoryu, who had been listening with his pointed coyote ears.  "I can take my animal form and run alongside.  I am a Hunter, and can run as well as any horse."  Byron nodded to the Major, who sent the young Sergeant and quartermaster off to get the steeds required.  Byron milled about the small encampment with the others, speaking with this borderman and that one, making idle small talk until the horses arrived.  He did not have to wait long, thankfully, for he found the conditions of the patrol camp dismal.  The men had an air of defeat about them, though why he could not hazard a guess. 

            "Major," he said, taking the Elf aside as the Sergeant returned with the horses.  "Why is everyone so downcast?  An aura of gloom lingers over these men."  The Major's eyes turned from bright to dark and depthless in a second.  Had the Major feigned gladness for his benefit, or for the sake of his men? 

            "Byron, word has reached us that Richard Vandross's armies march all over the east, razing entire cities and looting from small villages.  While we stand safely on the other side of the continent, others suffer at the hands of the warlock.  And we can do nothing, for our Queen commands that we remain here to protect our borders.  My men wish to fight, Byron.  They wish to march into the heart of the enemy and squeeze it.  But we cannot disobey our orders.  We cannot neglect our duty.  Besides, only a few platoons have been allowed to leave for the east, and bordermen are not to leave their posts.  We await those platoons’ return."  The Major's tone had gone from simple dissatisfaction to disgust as he spoke, and his hatred of the one-eyed warlock was clear.  This man lost someone, Byron thought to himself.  This border patrol wasn't even established until after the battle of Whitewood.  Lines of pain marked the Major's face, but he said nothing.  Once more he slapped his fake smile on, and motioned Byron's troupe toward the horses.  "Here are the mounts you require.  They are all fine beasts, and can sprint across the open plains like few others.  We have given you our best, good Byron.  May Oun protect and guide you," he said softly as Byron mounted a hulking charger. 

            "And you, Major.  Long live the Queen," he called to the bordermen.  A loud responding shout of the same words echoed in the distance, and as Shoryu shape-shifted into his animal form, the group rode off into the sun.  With the riders fast becoming little more than dots on the horizon, the Major went back to his duties, not noticing the sick Corporal, who had been otherwise silent and unmoving, slink off from the encampment, his movements masked by the stealth and speed with which he darted away.  The Corporal returned to his natural form, his black, oily substance becoming something Human-like, but completely dark.  The Shadowbeast spy sent a mental message back to his General, Vilec Roak, who had already laid down the foundations of the trap he prepared for Byron and his troupe.

            Byron and his company rode at a good clip for the remainder of the sunlight hours, stopping in the early evening to rest their horses near a stream, and to settle in for the night.  Selena offered them a fire to sit around, and the group sat in relative silence, each lost in their own thoughts.  James Hayes, who had basically become the second-in-command of the company, found himself floundering in his mind for answers.  The great god Oun, it seemed, had accepted a creature such as Byron back into His fold, that much appeared certain.  So why couldn't he shake his feelings of doubt, of guilt?  Why didn't he feel worthy anymore?  The massacre of his kinsmen at Fort Flag had been devastating, and he had not fallen out of faith, but rather, had plummeted like a boulder.  The assault on Desanadron might have been successful, if not for Byron.  James could not think like this undead warrior, with his military efficiency, and his own methods had gotten hundreds killed in the city-state capital.  Their headstones would forever haunt him, remind him of his lack of ability, of worth.  But though he thought these harsh words, Byron seemed to trust him to a fault. 

            But then, the Dread Knight, or Paladin, James thought, trusted in all of them.  He had called them all his friends, and held no anger or grudge toward any of them.  In point of fact, Byron obviously felt strongly about Shoryu, the young Cuyotai Hunter.  When the two of them talked together, James thought of a father watching out for his own son.  That made sense, in retrospect; Shoryu, aside from Alex, had been with Byron since the beginning of this whole journey.  And he was a young man, so Byron's take on the situation might have been a simple matter of an older veteran looking out for a young warrior.  But James smiled, watching the two of them jostle each other over some joke the Cuyotai had made, and their manner reaffirmed his first feeling.  Father and son, for family was a matter that transcended flesh and blood.  Family was about the spirit of two or more people, and no other analogy fitted properly for the two of them.  James volunteered to take the first watch that night, and as the others settled in for sleep, he stood up and began walking around the camp in a sweeping perimeter.  After only a few minutes, he sensed eyes upon him.

            Caution came naturally to him as a Paladin, and he brought light to his hand, clenching it in a fist, holding the magical illumination in front of him.  In the distance only a short way, a Lizardman in tattered black leather armor lurched toward the company, dragging his left leg as if crippled.  Blood shimmered off of his front, ragged wounds bleeding freely.  James hesitated only a moment longer, seeing that the man bore no weapons as he fell to the ground in a heap.  Moving at a sprint, James rushed to the Lizardman's side, rolling him over and spreading a healing magic over the reptile warrior's body.  The wounds closed, and breath heaved into the man's chest.  His eyes darted around, as if seeing still the beings that had attacked him.  After a moment, the Lizardman clutched Hayes's shoulders, hauling himself to his knees, his eyes wild and filled with panic.  "They're coming," he rasped at James, sweat pouring over his scaled forehead.  He shook the Paladin roughly, getting to his feet.  "We must flee!  Surely they are demons sent from Al-Hiyus!"  James put his hands up, trying to tell the man to calm down, but so afraid was this warrior that he had to slap the man to get his attention.

            "Be still, Lizardman," James spat.  Al-Hiyus, James thought.  The Lizardman tribes each held their own superstitions, and Al-Hiyus was the deepest pit of Hell for some of the older tribes.  "I have friends over there.  I shall wake them shortly for a change of shift.  For now, come with me to the fire.  I'll give you some food and drink to soothe your spirit."  He took the reptilian warrior's arm with his hand, feeling the involuntary jerking of the muscles as the Lizardman spun his eyes this way and that.  Obviously something serious had attacked the man; he was not as large as some of his kinsmen, but he had the aura of a great fighter about him.  Shadowbeasts alone would not leave one such as this man so spooked.  Gently the Paladin led the wounded man to the fire, giving him some bread and dried strips of meat, which the Lizardman tore at as though starving.  "Tell me a little about what happened, and give me your name," James said. 

            "Very well.  My name is Phazion Lurik, a member of the Dusanari Tribe.  I am a Battle Priest, as was my father before me.  Oh father," he cried, throwing his hands in the air.  "May your soul rest now in mother Gaia's breast!  We were returning from a pilgrimage to the deep southern regions, in the Elven Kingdom.  Several villages of our people lie within the kingdom's borders," he said, taking a swig of ale.  James heard Byron moving toward them, sensing the Dread Knight's movements before he actually saw the undead warrior sit across the fire from them.  Lurik, as the man had called himself, stared wide-eyed at Byron for a moment before continuing.  "You are the mighty Byron, who aided Desanadron, are you not," asked the Lizardman.  Byron said nothing, but nodded.  James looked into the pinpricks of light in his eye sockets; Byron was still worn out, but he knew the Dread Knight would not rest now.  "Anyway, we were a small handful of Priests and soldiers, bringing the betrothed of our tribe's healer back to our home in the far north.  But along the way, we were attacked by a pack of creatures as black as night, and with them they brought a huge abomination!  It tore at us without mercy, striking down my father before my very eyes!"  Byron looked up at Hayes and both men nodded; they had seen the demon in Whitewood.  "In all of my years, I had always seen my father as this immortal warrior, incapable of dying!  Oh, how foolish I have always been," said Lurik, bursting into tears.  James tried to pat the man on the back, but knew a little about Battle Priests; already the man's pride was in tatters, as he openly wept before other warriors.  No sense in making the matter worse for him.

            Byron abruptly shot upright, his head whipping from side to side.  He had heard something in the near distance moving, and whatever it was, it was huge.  Had the demon followed this Lizardman?  Or perhaps Shadowbeasts had found him, it didn't really matter which, Byron thought, his hand itching to reach back for the Morning Glory.  But he stayed his hand with an effort.  Whatever the noise had been, he realized, James Hayes and Phazion Lurik had not heard it.  Neither man had even looked up when Byron moved, and he excused himself quietly from the Priest and Paladin.  Phazion Lurik finally looked up at James, his eyes imploring him silently.  Protect me, they said to him.  "Do you require our aid, Lurik," James asked, raising an eyebrow.  "We can guide you to your home village safely.  I am sure that no one else will mind," he said quietly, so as not to wake the others.  What had bothered Byron so much that he had rather abruptly left James to deal with this refugee? 

            Byron, meanwhile, stalked a short distance away from the camp, searching the night darkness for signs of intruders.  There was only the vague sense, however, that something powerful approached.  No noise, no movement, made itself immediately apparent at first.  "Getting paranoid," he whispered to no one.  He was ready to turn back and return to the camp, when he heard the noise again, and felt something moving through the ground.  Byron tensed his entire body, keeping his hands loose at his side.  He would wait to spring on his enemy when it approached.  But there was no sense of urgency, no tension in the air other than his own.  Nothing was poised to strike at him.  Slowly, cautiously, Byron turned back the way he had gone from the camp, and saw in the distance what he had felt and heard.

            The creature was vaguely humanoid in shape, huge and hulking, and wearing some sort of armor.  In the darkness, Byron could make out few other characteristics, but decided silently that he would move in for a closer look.  Using the breeze to cover his soft, furtive movements in the tall grasses, Byron slinked to within twenty yards of the armored man.  It stopped abruptly, turning slowly toward the Dread Knight.  Angular, crimson armor shone in a thin shaft of moonlight that broke through the clouds.  Round, feral cat's eyes shone yellow through the slit that served as a visor in the creature's helmet.  Up close, Byron realized just how large and intimidating this thing was, and felt a moment of panic race down his spine as he looked at the wicked blade at its hip.  But just as he was about to remove himself from the area, the creature turned fully toward him and spoke.  "Thou hast no reason to fear me, Byron of Sidius," the creature bellowed, its voice shaking the very ground beneath the Dread Knight.  How does this creature know me, Byron thought.  I have never seen him before!  The colossus moved closer, kneeling some ten feet away from Byron.  Even kneeling, the armored creature was a foot taller than he. 

            "How do you know me, creature," Byron rasped, finding it difficult to speak.  His fear had gone, but he still could not speak well. 

            "I know all peoples, Byron," rumbled the colossus.  "My name is Locke.  I am an unsuccessful, and as such unnecessary, Keeper.  All mortal things have a Keeper, Byron.  Know thou the form of thy own Keeper?"  After expelling himself from Vandross's body, Locke had beseeched the Great Gods to give him a new charge, but they had none available.  As such, he had been told to roam the lands of Tamalaria, until such time as he was summoned.  He might, they said, find someone without a Keeper, who might take him in.  Or, as one of the Gods had alluded, he might serve best for now as a sage to all mortal men.  Byron, meanwhile, had been thinking of the Voice, the one he heard when he lapsed into the strange cemetery of some of his dreams.  He thought he understood, somewhat, what exactly this creature was. 

            "Yes, I know its form.  I call it Voice," Byron said, his voice still a whisper.  He put his hand to his throat, but did not feel any pain or strangeness there.

            "Thou art concerned, good Byron," the colossus said.  Yet no words rippled the air, Byron thought.  They seemed to be spoken directly to his heart.  "I keep thy voice low, that thine friends might not know you speak to mere shadows and spirits of ethereal substance.  Thou seest me for thy body and soul exist in a strange place, somewhere between mortality and death.  Few can ever see Keepers who have been expelled from their hosts.  Yet, thou dost.  Tell me, hast thou seen others such as I?"  Byron thought long and hard on this, but had to shake his head. 

            "No, I have not," he said, looking up into the helmet of Locke, his own pinprick lights gleaming in response to something he could not see there, but rather feel.

            "Hm, curious.  Mayhap there be a reason thou can see me, and yet not others.  Yes," Locke said, finally making the connection in his mind.  Of course he'd see Locke; Byron's hatred and tie to Richard Vandross would allow this.  "Of course.  Sit with me a brief spell, Byron.  There are things I seek to explain to thee, and they shalt make things clearer."  As Byron hesitated, Locke sat in the grass cross-legged, hanging his head for a moment, trying to think of the quickest, clearest way to explain the Keepers and their purpose to this man.  As Byron took a seat, Locke began, relating the basic purposes of Keepers, how and why they differed in appearance and how they could be changed to suit their host.  He explained their duties and responsibilities, as well as the laws that governed them.  As Byron nodded, Locke prepared for the response he would get when he made his last statement aloud.  "I myself am formerly the Keeper of one you know.  I was the Keeper of Richard Vandross."  Locke prepared mentally to defend himself against attack; much to his surprise, however, Byron only grunted. 

            "Hmm.  I imagine you have seen a lot of destruction then, Locke," Byron whispered, rubbing his chin pensively.  He was trying to think of what the Keeper might have looked like once upon a time, but as Locke had said, a Keeper's appearance changed in order to either protect it from an unwilling host, or in order to encourage the behavior the host was participating in.  Keepers were generally neutral, Locke had said.  They often only changed when the host acted against its own best interests, or against the Gods' designs.  Locke must have also felt somewhat threatened to have developed a weapon and armor of the caliber he possessed, Byron thought.  "But you have also seen the man's thoughts and plans.  You know precisely what he intends.  Will you tell me?"  Locke thought long and hard on this; on the one hand, if he helped, he would be directly interfering in the world's affairs, something that until recently, he had never fathomed doing.  On the other hand, if he did nothing, he was in effect letting Richard Vandross do as he had wanted, which might very well lead to utter chaos for all of the lands of Tamalaria.  He had made his decision. 

            "I shall tell thee all there is to tell.  But not tonight," Locke rumbled, standing to his feet.  "And not directly.  I shall speak with your Keeper, and he in turn can relate the matter to you.  I trust that is fair enough."  Byron nodded, and reached out an armored hand.  Locke took it in his own, and was almost torn apart by the conflict he felt and saw within Byron's body and soul.  Like the guardian of the forestlands to the south, the Keeper was taken aback by the knowledge he siphoned from that single handshake.  For a long moment, he just stood there, as if roots in his feet had fastened him to the earth.  He released the Dread Knight's hand, and spun violently away, stalking off into the distance with a single image in his mind; the image of Byron standing helplessly by as Richard Vandross slaughtered his family.  But Locke knew something about Byron that even the Dread Knight did not.  With this secret in his mind, Locke was able to put aside the image of the former Paladin's pain, and smile inside his helmet.