'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Fourteen- Stalkers

Richard Vandross sat in his throne room, two days after Byron and his company had their night of story telling.  He had become aware of Byron's life force, through the magical bond that tied them together, and was now able after a day's practice to locate him within a one mile margin of error.  He could not tell what the undead warrior thought or did, or even what happened around him.  But he could tell where the man was, and that would be good enough for now.

            Vandross had forgone his decision to join in the fun of his minions, leaving much of the army to do as Roak found necessary.  When the Renkas had returned earlier that morning, they had brought with them several hundred power-hungry Khan who were now willing to join Vandross's cause.  Of course, the numbers could have been more than that, but Brink hadn’t been easily contained or kept under control, the Major informed him.  "Always good to be on the winning side of a war," their Chieftain had said with a smile.  That man's head now rested on a steel spear outside of Vandross's throne room, and the remaining Khan had been assigned ranks and duties. 

None of the Simpa the Renkas had encountered showed any interest in joining forces.  They had been summarily butchered by Brink and Tamriel.  The Renka apprentices hadn’t been able to accomplish nearly as much, as their powers were far less than those of their leader.  Vandross thought to perhaps send Tamriel and his two men to hunt and kill Byron and his company, but Vandross already knew that together, the Dread Knight's company would prove too much for even the hulking demons and his pet.  His feet itched from the cross-shaped scar Byron had left him with.  A Paladin spell, he thought as he rubbed his beard in the silence of the throne room.  Byron Aixler's soul had resurfaced, he was certain, but some elements only of his powers.  He remained Byron of Sidius at his core. 

            How was he to deal with such a seemingly invulnerable bunch?  Puzzling it over, he decided to speak with Vilec Roak and Tamriel and get their opinions on the matter.  He suddenly longed to have the military thinking of his former General, Bael, to fall back on.  But he had decided, rather hastily in hindsight, that the Lizardman was no longer necessary.  Yet with only a handful of reptile warriors and Cuyotai he had managed to harry Vandross's fleeing forces after their retreat from Whitewood.  "Hellfire," he spat into the darkness of the tunnels as he emerged into the daylight.  "Hell and blood."  He made a direct line for Tamriel, who had dispatched his cronies to check on the perimeter of Mount Toane.  "Tamriel," he called up the huge, bear-like demon, who turned to look down at him.  "Roak," he shouted, and instantly the Shadowbeast was at his side.  "I need some options."

            "Concerning what, my lord," hissed Vilec Roak.  The Shadowbeast hadn't seemed the same since Vandross's outburst at the dining table, a fact that had not escaped Vandross's notice. 

            "I wish to have Byron and his companions dealt with, but from a distance.  There must be some way to separate them, divide their numbers, so that they may be taken down more easily," Vandross explained, shifting his weight as he paced.  "Get them all alone if we can."

            "There is no need," Tamriel said, crossing his massive arms in front of his barrel chest.  "I shall take Moran and Doran to find them, and together we will crush them."  The demon said this with a smile, fully confident in his power.

            "I think not," Vandross said, looking up into the demon's eyes.  "No offense, but his little band of would-be heroes are more than a match for you three alone.  What you did in the Allenian Hills they could do a thousand times over, if properly motivated," he said, his anger rising in his tone.  "They are a nuisance, but a dangerous one."

            "Sire," hissed Roak, deciding to be helpful.  "I am sorry to say this, but, it will be nearly impossible to get any one of them alone.  Our spies have informed me that the Cuyotai and the Elf girl are romantically entwined, which would make them virtually impossible to split apart.  The new member of their party, the one-armed Monk, has made a strong and quick friendship with the Dwarf.  The Pyromancer and the Paladin have been joined in combat since Desanadron, which shall make them most difficult to divide, for they have an alliance forged from hardship.  The only one of them without a true companion is Byron himself, and he might still have the Ki Fairy as his friend, though it is always hard to tell if the bothersome little pest is around."

            "Which is to say nothing of how hard that bag of bones would fend for all of them," Vandross huffed, sitting on a nearby flat surfaced rock.  "You are both demons, and may have some insight that I lack, despite the influence and power granted me by the Orbs of Eden’s Serpent.  Surely there is some solution to our dilemma.  If we allow them to come at us freely, we may all be in deep shit," he said, admitting finally aloud that Byron and his little clan was a threat to him. 

            "Lord Vandross," said Tamriel, his booming voice level and calm.  "We have the might of an entire army behind us.  We number nearly twenty thousand strong.  We should simply rush this Byron as a whole!  He could not stand against so many!"  Vandross stood then, suddenly, swiftly, and floated up to face level with the bear demon.  He slapped Tamriel as hard as he could, power flaring into his palm, sending the demon sprawling to the ground. 

            "Fool," he screamed, his voice becoming the twin harmony it had when first he had absorbed the fourth Orb, when he had ranted at Vilec Roak.  The voice of a demon and his own speaking the words together, a horrific duet coming from one man.  "I was often with him when he was still under the command of Tanarak!  I have witnessed this creature slaughter thousands of highly trained soldiers and creatures of the gods themselves with his own hands and powers!"  Vandross swooped in like a hawk, bringing himself eye to eye with the huge demon, who cringed at his closeness, genuine fear revealed in his eyes.  "I have seen him wipe entire cities off of the world's maps with only a handful of allies!  You would be but a plaything for him to bat around if he felt pressured enough!  Small numbers, the element of surprise!  These are the things we need!  Raw power and brute strength will not serve our needs where he is concerned," he said, calming down, bringing his anger under control.

            "I have a suggestion," Vilec Roak said quietly, seeking to avoid his master's wrath.  Vandross stalked over to him, eye wide and burning red hot.  "Have you heard of Dreamstalkers, my lord," he asked, and Vandross shook his head.  His eye lost its crimson cast, and he sighed heavily. 

            "No, Roak.  Explain." 

            "They are demons that stalk their pray in their dreams, my lord.  They live and travel in the Dreamscape, the spirit world of slumber we all escape to when we rest.  Their company can be sleeping right atop one another, and it wouldn't matter.  The Dreamstalkers have total control of the Dreamscape, and can play on their weaknesses from the start."  Vandross nodded, thinking it through.  It was a good idea, he thought.  The demons were disposable, in the event they failed. 

            "How many will be needed," he asked Roak.

            "Sire, there are but ten of them in all the rings of Hell.  They have never failed, so their numbers need no shoring up," Roak said with a wicked grin.  Vandross smiled widely; here was the news, the solution, he required.  He would summon five of them, half of their numbers.  If they had never failed, then he needn't pull on all of them.  Byron would finally meet his match.  And he would never even be awake to fight his enemies off.

            The following day passed in a haze for Byron and his company, rain pouring down on them, drifting in with storm clouds from the north.  Everything about them had a grayish, dead cast to it, the grassy fields empty of life, the wooded expanses of land providing only partial shelter as the wind tore at the trees, whipping them back and forth like rag dolls.  Progress was slow, and the foothills in the central western plains gave treacherous footing a whole new meaning.  Morek, James Hayes, and Selena Bradford each went down several times in the slick grassland, and more than once Byron's heavy metal boots sank nearly four inches in the mud.  Alex had been forced to stay on Selena's shoulder, clinging to her loose red robes and dress to stay attached.  Only Shoryu and Ellen had no troubles at all, and David Spore seemed as though he were accustomed to such traveling conditions.  At around mid-afternoon, the company found a small alcove in a wooded area to take shelter in, making a small meal of bread and cheese.  Shoryu brought Byron a small flask of some sort, and guided the big Dread Knight a short way away from the company, opening the flask and letting Byron sniff at it. 

            "Blood," Byron whispered.  Shoryu smiled and held up a scarred palm.  “While I appreciate the gesture, there’s a few things you should know about this,” he began.

“I understand, good Byron,” said the Cuyotai happily.  “You need blood to survive, and I give it.  I am a lycanthrope, and so the wound heals quickly.  The blood recovery is swift.”

“Actually, there’s more to it than that,” Byron said, holding the flask but still not releasing it over his skull.  He cast his eye lights down into the flask, gazing longingly at the liquid therein.  “Shoryu, have you ever wondered why I only drip the blood of my fallen enemies on my skull to feed from?”

“I always assumed it was a matter of preference.”

“No, not at all, and yes, completely correct,” Byron said with a sigh.  “You see, when I take this into myself, your life force is given from the blood.  But if my, er, benefactor in these matters lives, the process also steals a small amount of their willpower, their sanity.”  Shoryu blinked rapidly at him, wondering after what precisely he was getting at. 

“Good Byron, I don’t follow, not entirely,” he said. 

“You remember that story you told us a few nights ago, about losing yourself to your rage?”  Shoryu nodded.  “By taking the blood of a living person, I take as well a portion of that control.  By giving me your blood, you weaken your control over your anger, your aggression.  Are you willing to accept that risk?”  Shoryu appeared to think this over for a few minutes, and then nodded with a grin.

“We live in some troubled times as it is, my friend.  I will need my aggression.”

Byron thanked him and poured the flask's contents over his skull, feeling the warmth of the Cuyotai's lifeblood seep into his body.  Refreshed, Byron rejoined the company as they mulled over the poor travel conditions.  Morek suggested that they move on swiftly, for a small mining community lay only an hour or so further north.  He had come this way on his trip down out of the mountains to visit his friend Ellen of the Elves.  Hitching up their supplies, the group moved out, into the pounding rain.  The gray wash of the day hampered their progress and their collective mood.  Only nights before they had been tightly knit, focused, and buoyed by each other's tales of times gone by.  Now there was no conversation; no one spoke, not even to tell amusing anecdotes, something David had become known for among them.

            Finally, after another two and a half hours' march, the company came to the crest of a rise, and looked down on a medium-sized town, near the side of a large hill.  A miners' entrance stood out in the side of that hill, and the town sprawled out from it, becoming less dense the further the buildings got from the mine.  The company walked into the outskirts of the town, where it seemed the nicest homes rested, more than likely the homes of the governing individuals of the town.  Soldiers wearing Desanadron uniforms walked through the muddy streets past the company, a few of them recognizing Selena and Hayes, and one or two knowing who Byron was despite his shroud of darkness, giving him brief nods.  A protectorate of the city-state which had already begun reconstruction three days to the west.  The company asked some of the locals about lodging, and one kind old couple pointed them directly to the inn, for which all of them were grateful.  Byron paid the Gnome proprietor, a mottled-skinned fellow with glasses as thick as a hand and a smile as quick and easy as a snare trap, and they each paired up for a room.  Shoryu walked hand-in-hand with Ellen, and Byron saw the Gnome smile gently at the couple before burying his nose in a book again.  James, Selena and Alex entered a room of their own, while Morek and David Spore walked upstairs to their rooms.  Only Byron roomed alone, his chambers at the end of the first floor hallway. 

            He used the key he had been given to open the door, walking into a well-kept room with a king sized bed, a work desk, and a small eating table.  A bookshelf next to the bed contained a small collection of dusty volumes, most of them pertaining to Gnome sciences.  He plucked a story book from the second shelf, sat at the work desk, and lit the candles with a spark from his fingertip.  For a while, he stayed awake, but he felt drained despite the quality of Shoryu's offering earlier.  He read for a short while before he stretched out on the bed, his bare feet reaching the very end of the foot board.  He was asleep in minutes, unaware of the strange black cloud that seeped into his nostril hole from the corner of the room.  None of the others of his company were aware either, and each slipped silently into dreams.  It would be the last night of good dreams they had. 

            The company awoke and met in the main foyer of the inn the next morning, thanking the Gnome for the hospitality before moving out of the inn and north, out of town.  The day passed mostly without incident, and, much to their relief, without the dismal, gray wash they had traveled in the previous day.  They stopped a traveling fruit merchant at around midday, and enjoyed a simple meal on the move, finally coming to a halt for the evening only twenty miles north of the mining town. 

            They shared another simple meal, still remaining relatively silent, and Morek volunteered to keep the first watch that night.  As the members of the company drifted off to sleep, each had a black mist drift over their eyes.  In the darkness, the taciturn Dwarf didn’t witness this phenomenon, and thus, was not prepared for its meaning.

            Shoryu rose in a daze, stretching his arms wide, looking down at the slumbering form of his lover, Ellen Daires.  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and looked out the window of their humble little bedroom in Whitewood, Ellen's home only until recently.  He gazed out at the streets of the Elven city, watching the people walk past as he opened the window and breathed the fresh air.  He turned back to look at Ellen, only to find that she was not there.  There was no trace of her, not even her scent.  Something, he decided, was surely amiss.  Hadn't he fallen asleep outdoors?  He looked out again at the streets of Whitewood.  They were abandoned, the carts and animals remaining where there had been hundreds of Elves only a moment before.  Where had they all gone?  He was dreaming, he realized, pulling on his long, baggy hunting trousers.  He cinched the belt in place, grabbing his bow and quiver, strapping them to his back, and sheathing his short sword at his hip.  This was not right, he thought.  I have never had such control over even myself in dreams.  He took one more quick look out the window, and saw the Elves once again; they were being attacked by an army of Lizardmen and Greenskins, just like his village had been.    "Not again," he whispered, his voice haunted and shallow.  "Not again!"  He stormed through the cottage, past the familiar chairs and couches, stopping only briefly to call out to Ellen.  No response was forthcoming.  Bow in hand, he charged through the doorway, and out into a massacre.

            James Hayes suffered at that moment from similar illusions.  He stood atop a parapet in Fort Munduka, an Order of Oun outpost in the far northeast.  Legions of undead creatures assailed the walls and gates of the walled city, crashing into the fort from all sides.  Wraiths floated up the sides of the fort, pulling the very souls of Paladins and Knights from their bodies, leaving them wide-eyed, empty shells that lay about twitching on the stone.  The sun had set many hours ago, and poltergeists, phantoms and even Vampires, the most deadly of the undead Races, stormed the fort from all angles and directions.  Even floating in from above, exposed to arrow fire and Paladin magic, they continued to come on without slowing.  Yet this seemed more than an ordinary nightmare, James thought.  He could feel the sweat on his face, the bruises and cuts of battle as he plunged his silver sword into another Vampire's chest, watching it become so much smoke and ash.  Everything seemed alarmingly real. 

            Had he been sleeping?  Had he dreamed the whole experience with Byron of Sidius and the company of Whitewood?  No, he thought, clenching his teeth and throwing a burst of holy magic into a phantom.  This is a dream, though one not like any he had ever had.  The shriek of wood splintering apart tore through the air, and he looked down to see that the gates had fallen.  Hundreds of creatures poured through, cutting down and devouring everything in sight.  And there, at the forefront, stood a thing more dreaded than most; a Vampire Lord. 

            Selena Bradford awoke lying in the middle of a dirt road, somewhere in the middle of a city's outskirts.  She lifted herself off the ground, and smelled smoke coming from somewhere nearby, accompanied by the screams of young men.  She darted off without thinking, her feet taking her off on instinct, and she made her way through several back alleys, until she came upon a small courtyard area, where she saw a young girl, no older than thirteen, standing amid a circle of six or seven boys.  One of the boys was running around, flailing, his entire body on fire.  None of the others challenged the girl, each holding a short, blunt instrument.  Terror filled their eyes, and the girl in the middle of their ring stood there, her long auburn hair waving from the fluctuation of some inner force.  Flames spilled and sputtered from around her eyes.  Selena remembered this scene; she had been that girl!  Among the boys was a bully she had gotten in trouble a few years previous to this memory, his hands gnarled and his face puffy from the beatings his father had given him for always being in trouble.  He had gone and enlisted the aid of some of his friends to help him get his long-stewing revenge, and Selena had let her anger flow freely, no longer afraid of anyone.  She had perfect control of her powers.

            But this scene was not right, somehow.  Selena remembered panicking when the first boy had burst entirely into flames, her power out of control and out of reach.  She had put up a barrier of flames then, and three boys had been foolish enough to try to reach her.  The whole incident had been put behind her, and she had sworn to take control of her powers.  But not so here; this girl turned her power on the other boys a moment later, sending fireballs and serpents made of fire into each of them, causing them to scream in terror and pain, thrashing about on the ground, running into each other, and running into innocent guards who had come to see to the problem.  "This is a lie," Selena screamed at the sky, knowing that this was some trick, sensing that her dream had become a threat to her.  "This is not what happened!"

            "Isn't it," said the girl who had been Selena Bradford.  The child stalked toward Selena, her movements strange and jerky, halted.  She moved like a shimmering mirage, disappearing for a moment and appearing suddenly closer two or three times, her image shaking and vibrating out of focus.  In the blink of an eye, she stood before Selena, her flaming eyes burning up at the Pyromancer.  "You killed them, you know," the girl said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a perversion of Selena's own husky voice.  The hair had turned black and lank, and she had become as tall as Selena, staring her in the face with those fire-rimmed eyes, the sockets become empty hollows in which a demonic flame burned.  "You let go, burned them all!"  The Selena-thing struck her across the face with a hand that stank of death, and Selena's face went cold where she had been struck.  She leaped back, lashing out with her flames, creating a semi-circle of protection to ward against this creature.  She sensed something wrong about it, beyond the fact that it was a mirror image gone awry.  It was no dream phantasm; it was a demon!

            Ellen Daires, meanwhile, had just dashed from the room in which she and Shoryu had been resting.  He had gotten out of bed to look out the window, and Ellen had felt a connection that should have been more real.  But she was familiar with the Dreamscape and its dangers; she did not think twice before bolting from the room.  Shoryu could have been a deception, she thought as her robes flapped loosely about her, but he had felt as real as he could.  Had she been sharing in his dream?  She did not want to risk it, and would find out soon enough at any rate.  As she burst through the door to her cottage, closing the door behind her, she heard the whistle of something flying at her, and brought up a shield of rock in time to block a spear thrown by a Lizardman.  She darted away, letting the green fleshed warrior chase her, dodging more of the reptilian warriors and Orcs as she tore through the streets of Whitewood.  She knew this city better than most, and would not be cornered unless she chose to be.

            Bringing her magic to bear, Ellen spun and sent a hail of dagger-shaped rocks from the ground into the following creature, watching it fall dead to the ground, huge, jagged holes torn through its flesh.  But where it dropped, five more were coming pounding after it, accompanied by two towering Trolls, the largest and most dangerous of the Greenskin races.  Ellen backed slowly away, summoning her powers from the earth, forming in her mind the image of a powerful Knight.  She sent her magic into the ground, throwing her palms toward the ground to raise an enormous rock defender, a Stone Golem.  As it came into being, she felt a sense of security, but a dark shadow darted from the rooftops, a Shadowbeast, leaping down onto the Golem and entering its body through its stone flesh.  Ellen froze and watched in horror, breaking her panic only in time to be knocked flying by her own defender.  She felt the pain of the blow as she landed atop a fruit stand, crashing through its boards.  This dream, she thought, would try to kill her.  She came to roughly the same conclusion as Selena Bradford, who lay in the waking world only a few yards from her through a wall; a demon of some sort had infected her dreams.

            Byron, who had only fallen asleep shortly before, felt himself land with a thud in the middle of the familiar cemetery.  But something was different, and he felt it instantly.  His Paladin magic was screaming to be released as he got to his feet, looking out at the graveyard, seeing the differences right away.  The headstones here were scarred and old, several of them broken, and not a single inch of the ground was not occupied by a body.  The void-like blackness outside of the fence had a slight crimson tint to it, a waving red mist that seemed almost to threaten.  "Voice," he called out, drawing the Morning Glory from its scabbard on his back.  The entire length of the blade shone a brilliant white blaze, and he heard no response.  Byron stalked through the grounds, keeping his body shifting, his eyes scanning the landscape for any sign of life.  But he saw none, and for that matter, as he walked for a good ten minutes, he didn't once see an end to the iron fence perimeter.  The cemetery seemed to stretch on in front of and behind him for eternity.  The headstones took on a more solid look as he went, and he could not help but look from grave to grave, trying to read the inscriptions.

            Each of these he read were men and women who died during the years of his service to Tanarak of Sidius.  He felt a sudden surge of guilt; more than likely, these corpses were his to claim.  He brushed the feelings in his heart aside, becoming the hardened warrior he needed to be.  He ground his teeth together, creeping through the cemetery like a grave robber at work.  He could sense another presence, something still in the distance, something wrapped in the fog that slowly permeated the entire grounds around him.  It was something sinister, and yet familiar at the same time.  His left hand held fast on the Morning Glory, his right palm extended to bring his magic to bear, he stalked like the shadow of Death through the soft, white fog, the blade of his holy sword beginning to glimmer even brighter still.  There, ahead, in the darkness, something huge, crimson eyes smoking, darted behind a ragged, decaying oak tree.  Byron approached swiftly now, determined not to play any games with this antagonist.  He stopped some ten feet from the tree, looking down at the headstone resting at the head of an empty grave.  The engraving stood out as clear as the sun at noon; it read 'here lies Byron Aixler'. 

            From behind the oak tree stepped a towering figure, equal to Byron in height and size.  Even its shape resembled his, and as the Morning Glory pulsed, the light from the blade revealed the creature to him.  It was an exact reflection of himself, as he had appeared under Tanarak's control.  A wicked, curved scimitar hung loosely in its right hand, vile green light glimmering in its clenched left fist.  "Greetings, Byron of Sidius," the dark Dread Knight said to himself.  "I have come to add you to my collection," it said, lifting the scimitar into position. 

            Morek Rockmight did not care for keeping watch on his own, and so he had awoken David Spore, who didn't mind one bit.  He didn't sleep much anyway, he said, reassuring the Dwarf that he had interrupted nothing.  The two fighters had spoken a bit of the old days, back when each had been young and still naive in the ways of the world.  They had just finished sharing a good laugh at one of Morek's long Dwarven jokes, when they noticed that the members of their sleeping company had begun to thrash in their sleep, seemingly out of control.  Unsure of what to do and suddenly feeling the need to be on their guard, they had tried to wake the others, but to no avail.  Snarls issued from the darkness nearby, and they scanned with their ears and eyes for any sign of intruders.  David was the first to spot one of the cat-like movements of a Shadowbeast approaching.  He remained silent, nudging Morek to catch his attention.  The Dwarven Boxer looked as he strapped on his silver-studded gloves, nodding slightly.  "We don't move from the group," he whispered.  "We'll let them come to us.  The others can't do anything to protect themselves in their state.  Be ready to take the other side," he said, and David shuffled around the company, seeing two more of the creatures, their movements furtive and cautious. 

            The first one they had seen charged then at Morek, bringing three of his demon allies from the shadows at the Dwarf.  They brandished long swords made of the same substance as their bodies, swinging with deadly intent at Morek.  He ducked and dodged the attacks, shoulder tackling one of them to clear himself some space, launching crushing uppercuts at the other two as he evaded their blows.  One of the Shadowbeasts lashed out with a claw as it fell, catching Morek a glancing blow to the arm, blood running from the wound in rivulets.  Damn, Morek thought.  I'm usually more careful.  David Spore, however, wasn't having the best of luck either.  Despite his expertise in the martial arts, he was still a man with only one arm.  And he had not thought to grab his mystical sutras when he was awoken by Morek.  Two long gashes had been torn in him, one in his left side and another down his back.  Blood soaked the ground around him, mixed with the ashes of one of the demons he had managed to kill by collapsing its throat with a well-aimed kick.

            Morek had managed himself to beat a couple of the Shadowbeasts to death, his hammering punches making short work of the lesser demons.  But he was sweating freely in the suddenly stifling heat of the night, his clothes clinging to his skin, his eyes stinging as beads of sweat dripped into them.  He could not shake the last Shadowbeast, feinting and lunging, hoping to find an opening in which to make a final strike.  But the demon remained out of his short arm reach, keeping him at bay with its long blade.  His anger and frustration began to rise in his throat, bile that burned his mouth as he gnashed his teeth.  Finally, an opportunity opened as the creature stabbed down at him, missing by scant inches and burying its blade in the ground.  Morek spun and launched a solid blow to the demon's throat, the strength of the blow and the enchanted silver combining to turn the creature to dust.  He spat on the ground, grunting at the piles of ashes around him.  He looked up to see David Spore roll away from two Shadowbeasts, back toward where he had been sleeping, coming up in a half-crouch.  Between his fingers, he held a strange piece of paper.  A sutra, Morek realized.  He sat down nonchalantly and began bandaging his wound as a flare of light and a hideous scream of pain went up as David activated the sutra on the remaining attackers.  David came over and began working on his own wounds, using a salve to staunch the flow of blood.  Still their companions thrashed in their sleep.  The Monk could detect the auras of five other demons, however, though he could not see them.   He felt their closeness, and with a gasp as he applied the salve, he realized where they were.

            And there was nothing he or Morek could do about them.

            Shoryu could smell Ellen suddenly, the scent too solid and familiar to be anything else.  He had been firing arrows at marauding Lizardmen and Greenskins, unconcerned with what he hit.  This was, after all, a dream, and nothing more.  He felt the sudden release of a great magic, the same kind that Ellen used.  He bolted then, from his sniper spot atop the library to the streets.  He found Ellen lying in a heap behind a wall of vines and thick tree roots, sprung from the ground to ward off a lumbering creature of stone.  She looked in his direction for a moment, and he saw hope spring into her eyes.  "Shoryu," she cried, and he darted past the defending plants to her side.  "My Stone Golem, a Shadowbeast inhabited it," she shouted, gripping her lover by the shoulders.  "If it gets through my defenses, we'll be crushed!"  Shoryu looked through the screen of defending plant life, seeing the eyes of the Golem.  No ordinary Shadowbeast had possessed it; it tossed defenders aside like they were paper, tore at the wall of magic that Ellen had generated with increasing success.  Shoryu doubted altogether that it was a Shadowbeast at all within the stone flesh of the Golem.  An idea had been forming in his mind, however, since he had seen the creature.  It was a plan forged in haste and desperation, but if it worked, they would be done with this nightmare. 

            "Ellen, the walls of stone you can make to protect yourself.  Can you make a dome," he asked, laying himself down and pulling her down next to him.  She seemed confused, but nodded her head.  "Good.  Make one now, and leave its center of creation visible for me," he said, taking a long look at the demon-Golem.  It had slowed its advance, seeing him now and looking confused.  Ellen summoned her magic once more, fatigued nearly to the point of sleep, except that she knew she could not sleep here, for this was the realm of dreams.  To fall asleep would not rest her any, and she would not dream.  She lay back, leaving a small circle of shimmering force directly in front of Shoryu's line of sight within the protective dome. 

The Cuyotai Hunter drew his bow, notched an arrow, and watched the magic of his arrow glow.  He looked back and forth from the arrowhead to the circle of the stone dome that was now being shaken by the Golem's fists crashing down on it.  The barrier would not last long now, but Shoryu waited until he could make the rhythm of the enchanted arrow and the dome match up.  Listening to the exertions of the demon without, he timed its downswing, and released the arrow from its notch.

            Brilliant blue light flashed as his weapon's magic combined with that of Ellen, collecting and pooling together, pushing the demon back with its strange brilliance.  The two magics swirled together, and Shoryu and Ellen stood to their feet, hands clasped together, watching as the magic tore a gaping hole through the Golem.  A scream of fury and pain erupted from the demon as it returned to its natural form, a strange and twisted half-breed of snake and man, its blood spraying black and acidic on the ground.  "It, cannot, beeeee," it screamed.  "You cannot, destroy, cannot, destroyyyyyy-," and nothing more.  The Dreamstalker's eyes turned gray and dead, and its body crumbled like dirt. 

            "We shall stand together always," Shoryu whispered to Ellen before they awoke from their thrashings.  Morek and David Spore had already started a fire to cook food, and the Dwarf was instantly at their side. 

            "Are you two all right," he asked hurriedly.  The Cuyotai rubbed the sleep from his eyes, remembering the dream as vividly as if it were reality.  He looked around at the group.  They were all shaking, but appeared otherwise to be asleep.  What was going on?  Was what had happened to him and Ellen happening to the others as well?  "Don't try to wake them," Morek advised, helping the speechless lovers up and over to the fire.  "I did, and nearly got a face full of fist from Hayes.  He's got it particularly bad."  They all sat about the fire, while Ellen and Shoryu relayed their part of what they had experienced.

            Selena Bradford had begun fighting for her life against a perversion of herself as a youth.  The demon-Selena had begun hurling streaks and balls of fire at her, and she could do little more than dodge and block the fury of the magical strikes with her own flame shields and walls.  "You couldn't control the power," the demon screamed at her in horrid delight.  "Now let it consume you!"  The demon struck out with such fury and force that Selena was left no opportunity for a counter-attack.  Guilt ate away at Selena, for one thing about the memory had been correct; she had set one of the boys on fire, and he had run into a shop, dying in the building's collapse.  Several businesses had burnt to the ground, taking the lives of five more people, and she had been to blame.  And all because she could not control her temper and her powers.  One of the demon's attacks ripped through Selena's shield, blowing her back against a wall to an inn.  She felt her will to fight slip away; the demon was right.  She had been foolish and rash, and innocent people had paid for her arrogance. 

            But wait, she thought, her mind clearing.  She had been barely a young woman.  She had been a teenager, and of course she had not had full command of her magic!  She stood, wrapping herself in a ring of flames, letting the demon's attacks be absorbed as part of the ring of defense.  She had been a child then, but she was a full grown woman now, experienced beyond measure, the most powerful Pyromancer in most of the lands of Tamalaria!  "I am a sorcerer supreme," she rasped under her breath.  "There are none who are my equal!  Certainly not some half-remembered child who is no longer who I am!  Get you back into the Pit, demon!"  The demon-Selena growled in fury, sending down the meteors of the Meteor Strike spell, but Selena shifted her weight and focus, holding the flaming boulders with her ring of magic.  With an inward twist, she sent the spell and her own ring of flaming streaks spiraling back at the demon, who stood wide-eyed in horror.  With a ghoulish shriek, the demon exploded as the magic struck him, turning his body into ashes.  As she awoke, she found the faces of her friends hovering over her, smiling the smiles of those who are happy to be lacking sleep.  Among them were Morek, David, Shoryu, Ellen, and James Hayes, who had conquered his own nightmare rather easily. 

            "Are we all awake," she asked groggily, half sitting up.  Shoryu shook his head despondently, looking over at the one remaining form who thrashed in his slumber.  Selena looked over to see Byron twitching violently in the night.  There was nothing they could do for their leader, except pray.

            Byron stood with his shoulders squared to his dark copy, the Morning Glory gripped in both hands, his legs apart with knees bent to give him freedom of movement.  Anticipate the first strike, he thought over and over in his mind, a litany to which he adhered often.  The dark Byron shifted right, coming around the open grave.  Its eyes glimmered a pulsing crimson, the dark color of settled blood on the ground.  With a twist of the hips, it charged at Byron, slashing and hacking from upper left and right angles.  Byron easily deflected the blows, keeping his footing and composure.  The copy lunged and feinted, using many of the tactics that Byron employed in combat, with one clear difference; these attacks were foreign to the creature, whereas Byron himself had years of experience with the maneuvers.  The dark copy landed a glancing slash on Byron's left shoulder, and blood ran freely from his split shoulder plate.

            But Byron had made a worthy trade, letting the blow strike as he launched a series of rapid, shallow stabs into the copy's chest, black, thick fluid pouring from the wounds.  The copy leaped back ten feet, holding its chest in pain.  "It seems our swordsmanship is still the stuff of legends," the black creature hissed at him.  "But I shall not be defeated so easily," it said, waving a hand over the wounds.  They disappeared entirely, and Byron gasped that something like this obvious demon could heal itself so entirely.  Byron prepared for a strike, but the copy faded into the shadows, disappearing completely.  Where had it gone, Byron thought, searching the field.  A sudden burst of dark energy slammed into him from the side, sending him flying into an unsteady oak tree nearby, snapping it in half.  As the upper half of the tree came crashing down, Byron rolled away from it, avoiding a nasty pinning situation.  He sprang to his feet, listening as the demon laughed mockingly at him. 

            "Ha ha ha ha haaa!  Where am I, Byron?  To your left, to your right, or am I right in front of you," it echoed through the air, as another ball of energy hit Byron from behind.  He was better prepared for the impact, digging his heels into the ground as he was pushed forward with ease.  He remained on his feet, but felt drained and battered, the damage from the dark magic taking its toll.  Shadow magic, he thought glumly.  Much more advanced than my own.  "Why don't you use the same trick, eh?  Make yourself less of a target," the voice shouted, taunting him. 

            "I would not resort to such trickery," Byron yelled, the sword in his hands blazing brighter still, almost blinding him.  "I am not a creature of such deception any more!  I am not Byron of Sidius!"  He glanced about the shadows, seeing a flicker of movement too late.  He was crashed into by the copycat, and the two tumbled to the ground, armor glinting in the dim light of the cemetery.  The demon was unbelievably strong, getting the upper hand as they stopped, pinning Byron to the ground.  Byron's sword arm was held fast to the ground, and he could not get a good shot with the Morning Glory.  The demon, on the other hand, began punching him in the face, trying to shatter his skull. 

            "You will die here, Byron of Sidius," the creature growled as it drooled on him.  "I have even gone to the trouble of digging you a grave!  In the name of the Seven Hells, you will die!"  Over and over the demon struck him, being careful to keep the Morning Glory pinned.  Something squirmed inside of Byron, and he felt warmth spread through his body.  His eyes filled with holy magic, the pinprick lights becoming huge and blazing as brightly as the Morning Glory.  The light repelled the demon, tossing it off of him with ease.  He stood up, and marched up to the flailing demon, hacking its left arm off, the wicked scimitar held fast in the detached hand.  Howls of pain rose up out of its throat as it fell to the ground, maintaining its disguise.

            Byron stopped right before the creature as it knelt before the open grave.  He thrust his palm to its chest plate, and righteous fury filled his entire being.  "Go now, demon!  Return to whence you came, and never return!  Great Oun, of Paradise high!  Grant me power, from your seat in the sky!  Holy Cannon!"  A riptide of white light blasted forth from Byron's palm, tearing a hole through the demon, yet leaving all else it touched intact.  The life ebbed from the demon's eyes, turning them into hollow, lightless pits in its skull-face.  Still it knelt there, dead as could be.  Byron put one heavy boot against its head, and kicked, sending it into the empty grave.  As he turned away, stalking toward the opening gates out of the cemetery, he stopped a moment and looked back.  "And my name, is Byron Aixler."