'Freedom or the Fire' Chapter Ten- Inside the Soul

Richard Vandross paced about the throne room, trying to come to terms with the full implications of his dream.  He had already decided what to do, and had set his plans into motion.  He had summoned around two hundred or so Shadowbeasts from the Hells, placing Vilec Roak in command of them and a contingent of three hundred other assorted creatures of his army, and ordered them to begin the long march to Whitewood.  That much hadn't required too much effort.  In addition, he had cast out his mana, and felt his first demon, his experiment as an apprentice, awakening.  Grigory Molis would shortly enough be under his control once more. 

 The next part of his plans took quite a bit out of him.  He had called Vengeance into physical existence, and as the cone of purple energy flowed from Vandross's good eye, he had felt as though his body and soul were being torn apart.  After the howling winds and shrieks of what sounded like damned souls, the smell of foul bile and vomit had died, Vandross had looked up to see the monstrosity within his throne chamber.  It had not changed from his dream.  "You, called me, master," it shlooped.

            "Indeed," Vandross wheezed, out of breath.  "I have sent a platoon to Whitewood, which you may very well know.  You possess the teleportation magic, so in three days I want you to join their group and report back to me on their progress.  Without myself and with the wide assortment of Races I dispatched, I doubt very much that any use of magic will speed their progress up."  Vandross chided himself inwardly; it would most likely take twetny full days of marching with little or no rest for the platoon to get to the city of Whitewood from Mount Toane.  He hadn't thought about the needs and habits of the creatures he sent to Whitewood.  He only knew very well that the Shadowbeasts could travel for days without food, water or rest.  But they had only been one third of the forces he sent.  Greenskins, Khan, and several types of unnatural abomination had gone along as well, including a handful of Vandross's own Dread Knights. 

            "I have, heard, your worries," slurped Vengeance.  "It is, not such, a bad, thing.  You, will be given, time, to plan your attack, on, the city.  Also, I have, some news, of, my own."  Vandross returned to his throne from his pacing, weary and worn out.  He signaled with his hand for Vengeance to continue.  "It, concerns, Locke."  Vandross sat upright in his seat.  The guardian, though fearsome, had intrigued Vandross, mainly because the Keeper had supposedly existed in his soul from birth.  "He has, become, irritable.  He does not, allow, any of us, to roam your mind, freely, anymore.  He, only allows, one of us, out, at a time.  And, he, accompanies, whomever, leaves, the chamber.  Earlier, he, locked us in."

            "Can he do that," Vandross asked, amazed that he was carrying a conversation with this creature, who resided chiefly in his soul, about another creature who also lived within him.  Madness seemed to crawl all around him, for he hadn't ever considered that the soul could encompass its own little reality.

            "He, apparently, can.  But Power, was able to, open the door.  When she did, the Keeper, Locke, was not, there."  Vandross paused a moment, running his fingers through his stubbly beard.  The implications disturbed as well as intrigued him.  The Keeper roamed through his soul and his mind, but for what purpose?  How, or better yet, why, had he locked Power, Vengeance and Spite in the central chamber?  Vandross decided that he would speak to the Keeper when next he slept.  He would get the creature to divulge whatever information Vandross needed or wanted, or he would pay for it.  "My lord, I, think, I know what, you plan, to do.  I would, advise, against it."  The spider-beast skittered a short way away, toward the entrance tunnel to the throne room. 

            "Why is that Vengeance?"  Vandross could hear a trace of fear in the watery-voiced manifestation, and it didn't sit well with him.

            "Keepers are, inherently, neutral.  But if, you confront him, his neutrality, may not rule over, his, rage.  He was not, as, intimidating, or aggressive, as he, is now, until we, showed, up."

            "He wouldn't dare harm me," Vandross growled, his ire rising, turning his blood to liquid fire.  "I am his host!  Besides, Power said that Keepers act in the best interests of their host."  Vengeance's multiple eyes blinked rapidly, making a wet smacking noise like bloody hunks of meat slapped together.

            "Usually, yes, they do.  But," Vengeance said, raising one of his eight legs like an upward thrust finger.  "Not always.  Keepers act, as they do, in what they feel, is the best interests, of, the host.  Their idea, of what's best, for the host, sometimes, is in, disagreement, with, the host's idea.  Now then, let us, change, the subject."  Vandross was all for that.  The topic of Locke had made him reach the high limit of his tolerance.  But he was tired once again, and dismissed Vengeance in order to go to his old quarters which he had slept in during his apprenticeship to Tanarak.  After the long walk to the dusty chamber, he felt even more fatigued than he had previously.  Richard Vandross stood over his bed a moment.  Then he fell face first onto its soft, welcoming surface.  He was asleep in seconds.

            Ellen Daires led Byron's company through the city streets of Whitewood, the shrouded Dread Knight following closely behind, wrapped in shadows and smoke.  The scent of freshly baked pastries warmed everyone's noses, and each in turn smelled their own clothing.  None of them were exactly satisfied with the difference.  "Do you think we could take baths at your home," asked Shoryu, who had shown a keen interest in the Elven Gaiamancer.  She smiled and nodded at him, a simple gesture, but one that filled the Cuyotai youth with a giddy fluttering in his stomach.  Byron held back a moment, drawing himself parallel to the young Hunter.

            "Quite taken by her, aren't you," he whispered into Shoryu's ear, making the pup start and jump.  But Shoryu grinned broadly and shoved Byron playfully.

            "Well, I've always had a thing for Elves.  And she's gorgeous."  Byron agreed with Shoryu's assessment.  Ellen Daires truly was a fair Elven woman, fairer than most he had seen in the city. 

            "And she likes canines," added Alex from Byron's shoulder, also concealed by the shadow magic.  "Gonna see if she wants to share your bone," teased Alex, which earned him a flick from Byron's finger. 

            "Get your mind out of the gutter, Alex," Byron growled at the Ki Fairy, glaring at him from under his hood.  "He's just a boy."

            "A young man as I recall," retorted Alex, hovering just in front of Byron.  "And young men have to do certain things to become real men.  Like, I don't know, having a little-" Thwack.  Once again he was struck, only this time by Shoryu.  Ellen, a good ten feet in front of the group, had been spared this little bit of banter, and Shoryu couldn't be happier about that.  He didn't want her to think he was some sort of pig, or child.  At last Ellen approached the front door of a small cottage on the outskirts of the south end of the city.

            "I have an old friend over, so I'll pop in first and tell him I have company.  I'm sure he'll be interested to meet you all."  Ellen slipped inside, and Alex fluttered up to the keyhole. 

            "It's a Dwarf," he squeeked, stunned to see a single Dwarven man in a city full of Elves.  "Burly fellow."

            "Most Dwarves are," commented James Hayes, who until that moment had been wrapped up in his own thoughts.  He was thinking back to Desanadron, and the short trip he had taken during the celebrations to Fort Flag.  The place had lain in ruin, bodies already decomposing in the sun, flies raging about like the sound of a thousand hornets.  Something had drawn him back, had led him directly to the small church within the fort walls.  His mentor, Commander Mensia, had been eaten alive by something, but his weapon still hummed with holy power in the middle of the floor.  Hayes had retrieved the Morning Glory, sheathed it, and gone back to Byron in Desanadron before they departed.  His thoughts strayed back to the present as soon as Ellen had gone inside her home.

            "Thank you, oh master of the obvious," snapped Alex.  He had been unusually grumpy, Byron had noticed.  Perhaps the Ki Fairy felt left out.  After all, with the company's assorted powers and abilities, the little trickster must have felt useless.  Byron hoped inwardly he'd come around soon, but would be patient with the Ki Fairy if he didn't.  After all, Alex had been his first and only friend since Byron had regained his free will.  "Augh," Alex shouted as the door swung open on him.  A Dwarven man, tall for his Race, stood in the doorway, his features craggy and weathered with time and battle.  He wore a dirty white tunic, and black flowing pants, very lightweight protection for a Dwarven warrior.  But his face appeared to have been broken many times over the years, and his beard was better trimmed and shorter than most men of his Race.  Open fingered gloves hung tied together from his belt, blades sticking out of the knuckles.  He was a Boxer, Byron realized, and very, very familiar.

            "Friends, I'd like to introduce you to a good friend and companion of mine for about the last ten years.  This is Morek Rockmight."  A rushing gale of static noise blared inside of Byron's head.  Morek Rockmight!  He had led a unit of his men in Mount Toane during the Final Push!  He had survived the horrors of Tanarak's minions, and all the years since!  Byron saw that he was not alone however, in remembering the Dwarf.

            "Morek Rockmight," breathed James Hayes.

            "James Hayes," rumbled the unusually light, tenor voice of the Dwarven Boxer.  The two shook hands, stepping back afterwards.  "I'll try to guess the rest of you.  You must be Shoryu," he said, shaking the Hunter's paw.  "Selena Bradford."  Another handshake.  "Alex, the Ki Fairy," he said, merely nodding at Alex, who was rubbing his head.  "But you, stranger, Ellen did not name.  Who are you?"  Byron hesitated a long moment, uncertain of how to proceed.  Dwarves tended to react violently at the sight of things like Byron.  Dread Knights weren't exactly on their list of tea-time invitations.

            "Let us go inside first, Morek," Byron said, looking up and down the busy street.  "I don't want to reveal myself in public."  Morek raised an eyebrow at him, but went inside anyway.  The front door led directly into a comfortable den, where everyone took a seat on a chair or the couch.  Morek's belongings sat on the floor next to the day bed, where he had slept the last two nights. 

            "All right, we're inside," the Dwarf said, getting right to the point.  Typical Dwarven impatience, Byron grumbled to himself.  "Who are you?"  Byron waved his hand and dismissed the concealing magic.  Morek Rockmight immediately put his gloves on and took up a fighter's stance. 

            "You have known me, Morek Rockmight, son of Tumari Rockmight, son of Shugek Rockmight.  I am Byron, formerly Byron of Sidius."

            "Formerly nothing, beast," screamed Morek as he tensed himself.  "The foul crest of Tanarak and his people stands on your chest!"

            "Let me finish," Byron sighed patiently.  "I am Byron, formerly of Sidius, formerly Aixler."  Morek stopped his habitual bouncing, his hands slowly drooping to his sides. 

            "Byron," he asked quietly, looking the undead warrior up and down.  "How was I so stupid?  Byron Aixler disappears, and suddenly," he said, walking to the couch, flopping down beside James Hayes and Selena Bradford.   "Suddenly this creature, Byron of Sidius, appears?  I should have known."  Morek Rockmight stood up like a bolt of lightning, a grin spreading maliciously across his face.  "So you say you're Byron Aixler, eh," he asked.

            "Formerly," Byron said with a nod and a frown.  He added it in the same way he added bits to Lee Toren's stories. 

            "Well, I guess you won't mind answering a few questions then.  Just to prove you're not still the beast that slaughtered the men and women in the end of the battle of Final Push.  First question, creature.  Who was the first man killed during that battle?"  Byron knew this one easily; it had been funny, in a macabre sort of way. 

            "It was Harold Dutchess, a Human Knight.  He was seventy-four years old, we all wanted to let him get his dying wish, one more battle.  He had a heart attack before we even entered Mount Toane."  Morek nodded his head slightly, impressed but not going for it yet. 

            "All right, next question.  Who was your family?"  Byron's heart hammered in his chest, and his lungs felt suddenly tight and useless.  His wife, his son, both dead.  How, he could not remember, but he knew that they had died after his own ill-fated defeat at Mount Toane.  He could remember the smell of his wife, Alexia, as she held him tight to her body, begging him not to join the Final Push.  His son, Jonas, clinging to his leg, determined not to let his father go into battle.  The dampness on his finger as he dried Jonas's streaming tears, lifting his chin and telling him to be brave for him.  Byron realized he had been staring at that pointer finger for a minute or two, Rockmight still waiting for a response.

            "My wife was Alexia Ashburn, daughter of Father Victor Ashburn, a Cleric in the Order of Oun.  My son," he said, his voice breaking inexplicably, catching in his throat.  Though he had no eyes, Byron could feel the hot sting of tears welling up inside his sockets, somewhere behind the twin pinpoints of light.  "My son, was Jonas Aixler.  He was my whole world," he said, his words and voice trailing off.  A flush of embarrassment hit him, and he excused himself momentarily into Ellen Daires's kitchen.  He waited until the door between the two rooms had swung shut, and proceeded to cradle his face in his armored hands.  Jonas, he thought.  My sweet, playful boy!  His mind reeled with memories of his Human life, and he began to sway where he stood, experience a bout of vertigo that would easily unbalance a normal man. 

            But his presence of mind kept him upright.  He didn't want to wreck the Elven Gaiamancer's kitchen just because he couldn't control his emotions or his mind's eye.  Another image flooded his mind, and Byron found himself looking at his son and wife over his shoulder as he rode off with the army that would ultimately fail to bring Tanarak of Sidius to a halt.  In the end, he had been reduced to the creature he now was, and had lost his family during Tanarak's reign.  He had nothing left to live for, except to see Richard Vandross brought down.  It would have to be enough. 

            "Are you all right," a soft, feminine voice asked next to Byron, who still held his hands over his face.  He expected to see Ellen Daires next to him, but it was the Human Pyromancer, Selena Bradford.  A look of honest concern lay on her face, her eyes open and searching.  Byron had not known the woman long yet, but he had formed the opinion in his mind that thus far, she was an impenetrable fortress when it came to emotions.  She leaned towards aggression, consternation, and could be said to be rough around the edges.  Yet there she was, a hand touching gently on Byron's elbow.

            "I was just, remembering," he offered weakly, his hands lowering to his sides, his chin touching his chest plate.  "My wife and child are dead.  I am not certain how I know this, but I do."  He took a deep breath, his chest expanding, and slowly released it, smoke and dust misting out of his armor. 

            "If it's any consolation, I'm sorry," said Morek Rockmight in his guttural voice as he too entered the small kitchen.  Byron slowly turned to face the tall Dwarf, who had removed his gloves and had one thick hand extended.  Byron took it in his own, easily holding the whole of it in his palm.

            "All is forgiven," Byron said, a small grin pulling his jaw-bone up.  The two men kept their hands locked a moment longer.

            "It's good to have you back, Byron," Rockmight whispered, releasing Byron's hand and standing almost at attention.  "The young lad, Shoryu his name is?"  Byron nodded.  "He's briefly told me the situation.  Vandross is a name that does not carry well here in the Elven Kingdom, I'll tell you that.  And not just because of recent transgressions either."  Byron wanted the chance to know anything about Vandross that he could find out.  Perhaps Rockmight could provide.

            "Does he have a history here, Morek?"  Byron moved to return to the den, but Morek stayed in his path.  "Something wrong?"

            "Well, er, the lad, Shoryu that is," Morek said, apparently embarrassed.  "They seem to be hitting it off rather well.  Thought we might give them a chance to chat, get to know each other."  The normally taciturn Dwarf grinned like a fool.  "The boy's quite taken with her."  Byron rolled his eyes and shook his head.

            "We've noticed," squeaked Alex from his perch on Byron's shoulder.  "One can only imagine the sort of horrible mental images I'd get if they started getting, you know, reeeeeal close," Alex taunted, receiving yet another flick off of Byron's shoulder. 

            "Back to business," Byron said with a tone of seriousness, though he was indeed interested in Shoryu's sudden and unexplained attraction to the Elven Gaiamancer.  Sure, she was pretty, and sure, that sort of relationship had occurred a few times in the land of Tamalaria, but would Shoryu be so open about it if his father were around?  If his people knew?  But that was still sore territory for the pup, and Byron wouldn't broach the subject any time soon.  "What do you know about Vandross, Morek?"  Everyone took seats around the kitchen table, including Alex on top of the table itself.  Morek grabbed a pitcher of cold tea from Ellen's cold storage closet, poured himself a glass, and sat down, thinking about where to begin.  Byron waited patiently while the Dwarf ran his hand through his well-trimmed beard. 

            "Well, first off, he's well known here in the kingdom.  About ten years ago, he came through, looking like something out of the seven Hells.  Big armor, big weapons, bad attitude.  But he kept himself within the boundaries of the kingdom's laws.  The first thing people noticed was his frequent visits to the Lizardman villages throughout the area, especially the one near the capital here.  It's only a half-day's walk away from the city.  Anyway, people didn't like him.  A lot of folks talked about connections between him and Tanarak.  Of course, no one could prove anything, so he was kept watch on, but no one made any move against him.  The Elven Kingdom has laws stating that no one can just be arrested or jailed just for being suspicious, except in times of war."  Morek took a long pull on his tea, wiping his mouth with a burly forearm.  His eyes had the hazy aspect of someone remembering something unpleasant, but he continued despite his thoughts.

            "Well," Morek said, continuing his tale.  "He sort of dropped off of everyone's map for a few weeks.  Disappeared from his inn room one night, and no one saw him for a while.  When they did see him, he had company.  About a dozen Lizardmen were allowed into the capital with him, because the Elves try not to harbor any bad feelings with them.  But these particular reptiles, they came from a tribe well known for their aggression.  Well, that night, there were screams from his room, and guards were sent to investigate.  They broke down his door and found him pulling his armor on.  He had an Elven woman," Morek said, having difficulty continuing his story.  He didn't like to recall these sorts of things; he personally held Elven folk to be one of the kindest, wisest and noblest of all people in his opinion.  What had happened was a tragedy in his mind as well as the city's.  "He had her strapped to the bed, spread eagle.  He had raped her and beaten her, though not to death.  The guards moved in to arrest him, probably throw in a few good punches and kicks on the way," he said, spitting the words with disgust.  "They ought to have killed him," he snarled, slamming a meaty fist down on the table.  Silence hung in the air a moment, until he continued.  He shook his head, his eyes glued to the table.  "But he was quick.  He used some sort of spell on them, and the guards killed each other.  Vandross ordered his men to accompany him out of the city.  They slaughtered eight more guards and constables on their way out.  No one has seen him here in the capital since then."

            "What about the woman," Byron asked, his voice hushed.  He could tell that Morek was not on comfortable ground here.  The Dwarven Boxer was not a man of words, but of action, and these were not words easily spoken, even by a neutral party, which Morek was not.  Morek took another long swig of his drink, then stood up and walked to the sink, washing the dish in the pump water. 

            "She lives still here in the city.  And," he said, looking Byron in the eyes.  "She has a son.  He is the bastard child of Richard Vandross."  Byron, James Hayes and Selena Bradford all stared in disbelief at Morek, who spat in the sink.  "I only use the word because of the nature of his birth.  Timothy is a good lad, even with his father's last name."

            "She gave him Vandross's last name," Hayes asked incredulously.  Morek nodded somberly.

            "The young woman hates what was done to her, but she loves the boy.  She thinks he will do something good with the name.  Vandross has a long family history of Fallen Knights and Necromancers.  I guess he wanted to follow tradition as hard as he could," Morek said, sarcasm edging his tone.  "The boy is a Half-Elf of nine years of age, and has already shown some talent with magic, though the nature of his talents is disliked.  He is a Void Mage."  Byron cocked the bone where his eyebrow had been over his left eye, uncertain of what exactly a Void Mage was.  He had never heard of them.  "Right, you've likely not heard of them Byron.  Void Mages are extremely rare, and typically despised by other magic users.  You see, they gain magic powers by simply being around them.  Anyone with magic near him may have their powers absorbed into his arsenal."  Byron was intrigued; a form of magic wherein years of study were not necessary.

            "I assume he has to be around another magic user to be helpful?"  Morek shook his head, however.

            "No.  Once a spell is taken, the Void Mage has permanent use of it, at the same level of power as the one who it was taken from.  But it is difficult to get a spell just being around it.  The best way for a Void Mage to learn a spell is to be struck by it themselves.  But Void Mages also learn fighting techniques in the same way."  Byron raised his bone-brow once again in surprise.

            "Warrior mages who can learn by observation and receiving punishment?  Hell's bells, sign me up," he jested, getting a chuckle out of the group.  "But seriously, the boy and his mother can be of no help to us.  He's too young, she too personally connected to this all.  I'll just take what you've told me into account.  I hardly want to learn anything from those poor people.  In any event, we'll need to make ready."  Byron stood from the table and walked into the den, where Shoryu and Ellen were whispering to each other.  Both looked up and slid a little bit apart as the big Dread Knight shouldered through the doorway.  A sloppy grin formed on Byron's skull, and he folded his arms in front of his chest.  "Getting along well, are we," he asked sarcastically.  Shoryu's cheeks burned bright crimson, as did the fairer skinned Ellen, whose color change lit up the room.  Byron gut-laughed for a moment, and clapped Shoryu on the knee.  "Not to worry young one.  But you should wrap things up shortly.  We still have to go talk to Bael, so we need to head out soon."

            "I'll come with you," said Ellen as she stood up razor-straight.  There was a look of hope, and a look of peace in her eyes.  There was also a slight heaving in her bosom.  Just how long had Byron been in the kitchen talking with the others?  Was it long enough for a conversation, the sort of which would cause a young woman to be heavy breathed?  He leaned over to look at Shoryu, who suddenly found intense fascination with the design of the front door.  Heheh, Byron thought.  Why not?  He'll have a new 'friend', and we'll have a competent mage along who doesn’t want to kill everything in her path.

            "Very well.  But," he said, pointing an accusatory finger at her.  "Pack light, young lady.  We're only going to a Lizardman village nearby, and we should be back by morning.  No need to be heavy with belongings."  She nodded and quietly thanked Byron, then skated past him towards her bedroom.  In her absence, Byron sat down next to the young Cuyotai Hunter.  "Sooooooo," he said, drawing the word out like a school yard chum might if he were teasing his friend for having a girlfriend.  "You know, we may be on a long journey yet, Shoryu."

            "I know," the pup said, not looking at Byron, clearly still embarrassed. 

            "And there may be, well, times when someone will have to buddy up, to keep our number of tents low," Byron went on, not bothering to hide his innuendo.

            "I know," said Shoryu, slightly more flustered.  He was practically sweating a waterfall.

            "And you know, she is a very pretty girl.  About your age I suspect," Byron said.  Finally he decided to abandon the whole playful teasing.  "Look, Shoryu, I've come to really appreciate your presence.  Your friendship means a lot to me."  Shoryu looked into those dark, eyeless sockets, and for a moment, he saw not the fierce and capable warrior Byron was.  He didn't even see the regal Paladin he had once been.  He saw, in those cavernous spaces, heard in the tone of his words, the father Byron had once been.  Shoryu's thoughts turned to his own father, and his caretaker after his father's death, the village Chieftain.  He was still young, it was true, and for a moment he resented Byron's seeming assumption of the role of caretaker.  But how could he be angry about it?  Byron had probably saved his life from the very woman he was falling quickly in love with.  He would let whatever Byron said go, and take from it what he could.  "When this whole business with Vandross is over, we'll have a long talk about your future.  I see great things ahead for you, Shoryu," he said, patting the boy on the back as he stood up from the couch.  "I really do." 

            In the kitchen, with the door cracked open barely an inch, Alex made a gagging gesture at Selena, Hayes and Morek.  The Paladin thwacked him with one finger, causing more curses to be muttered by the Ki Fairy than he imagined could exist in one language. 

            The world shimmered into focus around Richard Vandross.  He was staring straight up at a high, vaulted ceiling.  He propped himself up on his palms, looking around at what appeared to be a display room for statues.  Busts of several men and women he knew and didn't know stood atop white marble pedestals in the circular chamber.  He had not been here before, but he knew he was within his own soul once again. 

            Blue marble floor stretched all the way to the walls, the room itself about fifty feet in diameter.  Vandross tried to get to his feet, but found the going rough.  It required much more effort than he would have thought necessary, and his lack of strength most likely reflected his fatigued state in the waking world.  At least, that was his rationale for it.  He could think of no other explanation.  He looked around the chamber once more, making note of one door on either side of him, both equidistant to his position.  He would have left, but the statues held his interest.  Slowly, methodically, he started to stalk from artwork to artwork, taking in the detail and arrangement of each piece.  Most were small sculptures depicting battles fought by Vandross and his minions under the rule of Tanarak of Sidius, but a few were of more recent victories.  A few, however, were of his own men being butchered by soldiers and mages.  The one that he stopped to look at the longest, for it infuriated him the most, was of Byron standing over his body after the Dread Knight had knocked him out, all those weeks ago outside of Koreindar.

            There were also paintings hung upon the walls, and these he cared for not at all.  They were family portraits, pictures he recognized from his younger days.  One in particular was of himself, his mother and his father.  His father, Brian Vandross, had been a simple, hard working farmer, quite unlike Richard’s grandfather, Simon.  Simon Vandross had been quite the conqueror in his time, a Fallen Knight who had carved a nice chunk of the northeast out for himself.  He had ruled over the Port of Arcade for forty years, mocking his son Brian for his ethics and morals, and eventually casting him out of Arcade.

            And there, upon the wall next to the door to his left, was a shifting vision in paint, a replay of the slaughter of Richard’s hometown and its people.  The perspective was very familiar; he was watching the scene of the carnage as he himself remembered it, the bandits hacking and piercing his townsfolk with blades and arrows, showing no mercy as they rampaged, looted and burned.  “No,” he whispered, watching the bandits morph and shift into the forms of hulking black monstrosities.  “No!  That is not how it happened,” he cried, watching his father beg for his life before being cut down.

            A piercing headache throbbed painfully behind his good eye, the pain shooting suddenly from somewhere in the back of his skull.  He clutched his head with both hands, cupping his ears as the pain produced a high pitched whining noise in his head.  Slowly the pain receded as he drew in large, calming breaths.  “He was weak,” he hissed at himself, at the painting.  “He deserved his end, and so did those bandit fools.” 

His hand once more at his side, he looked down at the statue of his defeat at Byron’s hand outside of Koreindar.  With one iron-gloved hand he swatted the artwork to the floor, smashing apart on the marble floor.  He smiled, but noticed that only his own visage had broken.  He growled deep in his throat, and crushed the figure of Byron under his boot.  "Was that really necessary," said a familiar, booming voice from directly in front of him.  Vandross looked up and saw the Keeper, Locke, standing there in his huge red suit of armor.  The armor itself had become more angular since last Vandross had seen him, giving it an almost bladed look.  Those huge, feline, bloodshot eyes glared out of the darkness within the red feathered helmet, bearing down on Vandross without quarter. 

            Blind rage pumped through Vandross at the sound of that voice, the sight of those eyes.  "Bite me, blowhard," he screamed at Locke, picking up a chunk of the broken statue and hurling it at the huge Keeper.  The very action itself satisfied him, but as he watched the object sail through the air, there was a blur of red movement, and in the blink of an eye, the giant suit was looming over Vandross.  He heard the chunk of statue break apart against the wall where the Keeper had been standing.  "How?  That isn't possible," he rasped. 

            "That was foolish of you, Richard Vandross," boomed Locke.  The Keeper brought his hand back, and slapped Vandross hard across the face, sending him sprawling to his right, ten feet from one of the doors out of the room.  As he got to his knees, he looked up, saw the big red menace slowly marching toward him, and tried to backpedal to the door.  "Thou hast no need to fear now.  Thou struck at me, and I have struck at thee.  We are even."  Locke ceased his approach.  Vandross rubbed his cheek where he had been back-handed; the blow had hurt more than anything he could remember in a while.  "Stand up, and I shall speak unto thee about the nature of this chamber."  Vandross did as he was told, his stomach filled with bile that made him want to wretch.  No need to fear, he thought. 

            "I am Richard Vandross.  I have no fear," he said stoically, stalking boldly up to the huge Keeper.  Locke's eyes remained wide open, showing no inflection or change of mental state.  But there was something there, something more menacing than anything Vandross had ever seen in his life.  He spoke brave words, but in truth, he was quickly becoming reacquainted with an emotion he had long since thought dead in him; terror.

            "Indeed, thou speaks unto me bravely, but this is your soul.  The vibrations within thee tell me a different tale.  Now," Locke said, looking about the room and spreading his enormous arms wide.  "This is my Hall of Truth.  It is one of the few chambers within your soul that is my own, and mine alone.  How thou arrivest within, t’is a mystery to me.  But I shall explain as best I may what thou sees.  When first I spake unto thee, I warned thou about the things thou wouldst see here.  Alas, that thou hast broken one of my finest pieces in thine anger."  Richard looked down at the crushed figure of Byron.

            "You made all these," he asked in a hushed tone.  The Keeper nodded. 

            "Indeed.  All of your greatest moments have I sculpted and forged in mine furnace, to keep here, that I may review them at my leisure.  I have even painted a few pictures, as you see.  At present, I have little time for them.  I shall not have time to replace that particular piece.  It took me the better part of a week to do.  Thou art busy lately, and I have little time aside from mine duties to spare for this hobby."  Locke sighed heavily, bending slightly in clear disappointment.  "You have a question," he said, knowing that Vandross was about to grill him.

            "How is it that you are able to strike me, Keeper," Vandross demanded angrily.  His fists began to ball up and shake with rage.  "How is it that you are changed from the last time I saw you?!  What are you doing here?!  I don't want you here!"  Locke stood once more to full height, turning fully to face Vandross.  The enigmatic creature easily had two feet on Vandross, and was broad in the way that roads are long. 

            "I do what I must to keep the host's best interests protected.  Thou struck at me, the very protector of thine soul.  So I struck you."

            "What, for my own good?!  I find that very hard to swallow," he huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

            "As to your second question," Locke continued, ignoring Vandross's outburst.  "I change as you change.  Thine actions affect the soul, and thusly, me.  Thy plans are to prepare for war, and so, I too must prepare for war.  And lastly," the Keeper boomed, bending down so that his helmet visor was eye level to Vandross, his face plate brushing the man's nose.  "I don't care if you want me here or not.  I have a duty to perform, and may still complete sufficiently.  Thou may live long enough to see thy son."  As Locke stood up, Vandross's mouth hung open.  Son?  He didn't have any sons!  Surely the Keeper was trying to test him, see what sort of effect such an idea might have on him. 

            "You cannot fool me," Vandross said, pointing his finger at Locke, who half turned to face him once more.  "I have no son!  I shan't fall for such a ploy!"  Locke shook his massive head slowly, and pointed to one of the artworks near the opposite side of the room from Richard Vandross.  The one-eyed devil's heart jumped into his own throat, and a sickening quake shook his gut.  He stalked swiftly through the statues, and came upon one that sparked his memory.  It showed an Elven woman, tied to a bed, weeping, as Vandross adjusted his upper armor, across the room.  He had completely forgotten those events.  He had spent most of those days in a drunken stupor, given vacation time from his master’s death.  The entire time had been little more than a blur for him, but memory had a way of slamming into him lately. 

            "Your son resides in the city you plan to attack, Whitewood.  He is a Half-Elf by the name of Timothy Vandross," Locke said, approaching Vandross once more.  There was silence in the Hall of Truth for some time as Richard Vandross stared at the sculpture.  The air around him had gone cold, raising gooseflesh on his arms.  The scent of jasmine, one of his favorite odors, wafted through the air in a haze.  It had been the odor of the perfume the Elven woman had worn when he ravished her.  The room had been cold.  Slowly, the Hall of Truth began to take on more aspects of that moment, and Vandross shook his head against the encroaching memory. 

            "I don't want to, I don't want to remember," he rasped, feeling the Keeper's hand rest gently on his shoulder. 

            "Locke," a female voice cried out from behind them.  Power stood in the Hall of Truth with Spite, both of them glaring disapprovingly at the Keeper.  "You know that you have no authority to bring him here!"

            "He came of his own volition," barked Locke back at the incarnation.  Power flinched, clearly afraid of the creature.  "But thou art correct," he said with a sigh of disappointment.  The room returned to its original stale, clean smell and temperature.  "I have overstepped my boundaries.  But know this," Locke said, pulling the same dashing maneuver he had pulled on Vandross.  Vandross could see that Power had tripped over her own feet in shock, trying to put distance between herself and the Keeper.  "Those boundaries only apply to you so long as he wishes you to remain here.  The moment he comes to his senses and banishes thou fiends, I shall fall upon thee like the wrath of a furious God.  Make no mistakes about that."  Locke turned and vanished, simply disappearing into thin air.  Vandross felt a lifting sensation, like a great weight had been removed from him.  He smiled at Power. 

            "Thank you, Power," he said, shaking his head.  "I was beginning to lose my conviction for a minute there."

            "Keepers tend to have that effect on people," she said, brushing herself off.  "I sensed that you were here.  There is something you should know."  Vandross raised his good eyebrow for a moment, interested.   He gave her a hand signal to indicate he was listening.  "Our brothers, Deceit and Despair.  Both are not necessary to resurrect the Mother," she said, walking gracefully toward Vandross.  His vision was becoming hazy, blurred.  He knew his own body was waking up in the real world.  He didn't have much time.

            "So it can be done with only four," he asked, his voice losing strength.  "Why do you tell me this?"

            "Because Byron of Sidius already prepares to face you in Whitewood.  He has many allies now, and together they are a formidable foe."

            "Wait," Vandross said, putting up a finger and shaking off the blurring in his vision.  "How do you know that, yet I don't?"

            "My connection to Vengeance.  He has already gone ahead to check the situation.  All does not bode well.  We need to proceed with caution."  Vandross nodded, knowing himself how dangerous Byron could be.  With allies, it could get very ugly.  And his own dark powers may still be a match for Vandross's own magic.  He would have to get Vengeance back soon, so he could find out what the spider-beast had learned.  Then it would be a nice trip right back into his soul for the drowning-voiced critter.  Vandross's head began to swim in noise, and he sat upright in his bed.

            The village's new leader, a man who had been gone a long time but was still loved and cherished among the elders, walked from hut to hut, tent to tent, meeting and greeting the individuals under his charge.  Life had been very complicated for the poor man, and here he was being given a second chance.  But although life in the village seemed simple, many of its denizens had been soldiers at one time, and understood the need for his requests.  Smithies were hard at work pounding out weapons and armor, fletchers busy making bows and arrows.  There would be war in the coming weeks, and they did not want to be caught off-guard or out of position.

            The middle-aged leader, Bael, saw to the arrangements himself, and became quickly involved in the preparations.  He had spent the week and a half since his return to his hometown getting his soldiers from Vandross's army to convince the people of the village that he was their long-lost son, the great General Bael.  He was General no more, but he still commanded, and the village knew him to be the young reptilian warrior who had set out all those years ago to prove his greatness to the world.  They had heard of his exploits, and though they held no pride for what he had done, they did give him their respect for his capabilities and commanding presence.  He had been named the new leader in less than three days after his arrival.

            Now he stood in front of a smithy tent, viewing the progress on the repairs to his armor.  He had promised to aid Byron and his company in the battle against Vandross, and when all had been said and done, he would be returning here, to a new life.  He would be finished for real with being a soldier.  But he needed one more battle, one more war.  He needed one more victory.  And he would stop at nothing to get it.  He walked around the outskirts of the village after seeing that all was going well with his armor.  He nearly walked right into a pale young Elf woman, and had to excuse himself.  Before he could look away from the Elven woman's captivating smile, his eyesight blurred as he found himself looking cross-eyed into a huge crest on a suit of armor.  He looked up and into the depthless wells of Byron's eyes.  The undead warrior's jaw pulled up to the left, giving him a wicked looking smile.  "Greetings, Bael," he rumbled from deep in his throat.  "I told you we'd come to chat."  Bael smiled and embraced the Dread Knight, clapping him hard on the back and laughing.  Dust plumed out of Byron's mouth as he coughed at the harshness of the blow.  Bael seemed to forget that he was especially strong for his Race.

            "Of course my friend," Bael said cheerfully.  He looked at Ellen Daires and Morek Rockmight, a question on the tip of his tongue.  Selena Bradford and James Hayes appearance didn’t surprise him.  They were just Humans.  But an Elf and a Dwarf, he thought.  "I see you've made a couple of additions to your band of merry men!  Who are these two," he asked, pointing at the Elf and Dwarf. 

            "This is Ellen Daires, a Gaiamancer and a formidable opponent," Byron explained.  "We stumbled upon her on our way, though no coincidence occurred there.  And her friend is Morek Rockmight, one of the leaders of the city of Traithrock."

            "In the Western Mountains," asked Bael.  "Well," he said, crossing his arms.  "You are a long way from home master Morek.”  The Dwarven Boxer nodded and looked around at the scores of working and chatting Lizardmen and women.  “And the Humans?”

“They are James Hayes, Paladin of the Order of Oun, and Selena Bradford, Pyromancer of Desanadron.”  Bael gave them a small bow.

"Come with me," he said, leading Byron's company to the village's center.  The whole of the village sat in the forest in much the same arrangement as Shoryu's home.  The young Hunter began to think about home, and how much he missed it.  He walked arm-in-arm with Ellen, with whom he quickly developed a strange sort of relationship.  There existed a natural attraction, but he couldn't figure out if Ellen wanted him to make the first real move, or if he should wait on her.  They had spoken at her house of the ways in which they seemed similar and the ways they seemed different; yet, throughout it all, they had inched closer and closer to each other, until Byron had opened the door from the kitchen and started teasing him.  Though he had been irritated by the big undead warrior, he felt grateful for the companionship the man offered.  It was almost like having his father back.

            The company was motioned by Bael to sit around the circle of a huge fire pit.  When everyone had taken a seat, Bael called in his gruff, guttural natural tongue for someone working one of the smithy shops.  A burly, busty Lizardwoman sauntered over and handed him a folder of some sort.  Everyone kept questioning eyes on Bael, who looked about with an expression of 'what' on his face.  "Pretty handy, Bael," chided Byron in the same fashion as he had Shoryu.  "Strong, skilled, and ample.  A looker for you, maybe?"  Bael sat stunned for a moment and then erupted in laughter.

            "A looker, eh, Byron?  Well, I should think so," he said, giving Byron a playful shove that knocked the Dread Knight off the log he was seated on.  "My mother takes good care of herself!   Hahahahaha!"  Byron, feeling like a bit of an ass, got back to his seat, the rest of the company giggling at his expense.  Fair enough, he thought, grinning despite himself.  "This is a packet of information I received from some of my allies in other places.  I've been getting them via messenger bird for a few days now."

            "Information on what," asked Hayes, coming out of another memory trance.  He had been slipping in and out of memories the last few days.  He had been questioning his faith despite Byron's help in Desanadron.  He had so many questions that he could not help but think them over when not engaged in conversation.  Selena had known to let him alone while he remembered, respecting his distance.  She had seen the Paladin at his most desperate, and though she didn't have feelings for him like Ellen and Shoryu had for one another, she was concerned nonetheless.  He wouldn't be much good to the group in its purpose if he froze up. 

            "Information concerning Vandross and his movements.  There's a very large and mixed bunch marching on Whitewood right now," Bael said, leafing through the letters.  "At their current pace, they'll arrive at the city's gates in about thirteen days' time.  Byron, Whitewood needs to be warned, and they need to start making some friends very quickly.  They take well to alarms being raised, but not so much so to the idea of making non-Elven friends.  No offense meant, miss," he said, nodding to Ellen.  She smiled at him slightly and shook her head. 

            "I do not agree with all of the policies of the city, Mr. Bael," she said calmly.  "The entire kingdom needs to be a bit less centrist and racist.  Do you know there are dozens of Cuyotai villages in the kingdom, and his majesty won't even allow them to live in the cities?  They can come in and stay at an inn, sure, but they are not allowed to own property within a city!  It is folly," she said, spitting on the fire pit. 

            "Well, what do you suggest we do, Byron," asked Hayes, his eyes locked on the undead warrior.  He still couldn't understand how Byron subsisted.  How did the man eat?  Hayes had seen him toss back water and liquor, but the Dread Knight hadn't eaten anything that he had seen.  Not that Byron couldn't eat; indeed, he enjoyed the taste of food, but it was all devoid of sustenance for him.  He still hadn't shown the others what it meant for him to feed, other than Shoryu and Alex. 

            "I suggest, James, that we head back to Whitewood.  It is the Elven capital, and so their military leaders will be there, right?"  Ellen nodded in agreement.  "Good.  Then all we have to do is convince them that their city is at risk.  You folks will deal with that," Byron said, looking up at the sky.  "I don't think they'd want to speak with one such as I."

            "And what will you be doing, Byron," asked Selena Bradford, who was playing with her magic, making shapes out of fire in the air. 

            "I'll be looking for the Orb of Eden’s Serpent, and a way to keep it away from Vandross," Byron said heavily.  He was now spoiling for another encounter with the one-eyed devil.  At every turn, Vandross seemed to just slip away, just out of grasp.  He had perpetrated the slaughter of Fort Flag, the nigh-destruction of Desanadron, the genocide of Shoryu's people, and gods only knew what other travesties.  There would probably be more transgressions on Vandross's soul than even the seven Hells could handle.  He may find himself in a nice position to ask for a job from Diablo himself!  But he had to pay for his evils, in this life, if not in the next.

            "You know the hazards involved in coming so close to the Orb, don't you Byron," asked James Hayes slowly, gauging the danger in his own question.  He didn't want to offend the powerful Dread Knight, but he had to put it out there so that Byron knew the risks he took.  If his former persona, that of the ruthless slaughterer and madman, were to break free as a result of proximity to the Orb, their whole purpose as a group would be for naught.  Sure, he and Selena were powerful, and Ellen had proven greatness.  Even Shoryu could be deadly in a battle, but even all together they wouldn't be enough.  Each would hold something back, hoping to subdue their undead companion.  But that wasn't going to happen, for Byron had been a completely efficient killing machine in his day. 

            "I am aware of the risk involved, my friend," Byron said with a heavy sigh, slumping forward with his elbows resting on his knees.  "But there is little other choice in this affair.  I have my own magic to counteract the Orb."  Hayes scoffed openly at the notion.

            "Byron," he said, rising from his seat.  Selena fell off of her seat, having been using Hayes as a support on the log.  The Paladin walked around the circle to Byron.  The Dread Knight looked up into those eyes, which had seemed desolate and wasted not so long ago.  There was instead a look of grim determination, as though, despite his inner failings, Hayes had found the conviction to continue.  "Draw your sword, good Byron."  The undead warrior raised an 'eyebrow' at him, wondering what direction this was all going to go in.  "Draw your sword."  Hayes stood there, his own sword now in hand.  The Morning Glory blazed with holy energy and magic, burning brighter than any fire might.  The Dread Knight recognized the weapon, and knew who it had belonged to.  Commander Mensia, a brave and brilliant Elven tactician.  For the weapon to be in Hayes’s hands meant that the noble Paladin had been felled at Fort Flag.  Byron stood to his feet, towering over Hayes by nearly two whole feet.  He drew his broadsword, holding it lightly at his side. 

            With his free hand, Hayes took the broadsword from Byron, hefting it and testing its weight.  "Here," he said, and without warning, thrust the Morning Glory's handle into Byron's hand.  Byron expected it to burn, to hurt, to react in some negative and violent way.  But it did not.  The white flames surrounding the blade continued to burn bright, and for an instant, seemed to flicker out.  But then, a sound like the sea crashing into a break wall swept over the village, and power roiled within Byron's body.  His head threw back toward the sky, and Byron clutched the sword in both hands, holding it high over his head.  He let loose a wild scream of power, and a single cone of light shot from the Morning Glory to the skies above.  Everyone in the village gathered around to watch this awesome display.  The light of the blade coiled down in a silver stream around Byron's body, wrapping him in its magic.  Surely this should kill me, Byron thought as he continued to scream.  Silver power erupted from his eye sockets, rocketing into the sky and blinding him.

            Everyone had taken a safe distance from Byron and watched in awe as the Morning Glory continued to stream energy into the heavens above.  Finally, Byron stopped, slumping forward and dropping to the ground.  Shoryu and Ellen rushed forward to check on him, giving the thumb's up to the gathered villagers and their companions.  "He sleeps, I think," said Shoryu.  "We'll have to get him rolled over."  Together with James Hayes, the two companions managed to get the armored Dread Knight onto his back.  The twin white lights in his sockets flickered into being, and he sat himself up, shaking his head and grasping it with one hand. 

            "Wow, that's a headache of another nature,” he mumbled.  In truth, his head felt sore enough to have been pelted with stones for hours at a stretch.  “Feels like that sword burned through my hand," he said, offering Hayes the Morning Glory back. 

            "No, good Byron," Hayes said, raising his hands in protest.  "The sword has chosen its rightful wielder.  I cannot have it now," he whispered to the Dread Knight.  Pain still seared through Byron's metal glove to his hand, and he put the sword down and began to remove the gauntlet. 

            "Could you two turn around?  Certain parts of my body are in a slightly rotted state, and I'd rather you not see or smell this thing.  It's probably burned up to boot."  Both Hayes and Shoryu walked back over to the rest of the group, while Byron turned his back to them.  He expected to see his rotted hand was thoroughly burnt, but he was unprepared entirely for what he looked at under his metal glove.  His hand was whole, intact, and furthermore, showed no sign of decay or rot.  He marveled at his Human hand, turning it over and moving the fingers.  The movement hurt a little, but that did not concern him.  How, he wondered.  How is this possible?  He quickly put the gauntlet back on, feeling for the first time in a long while the cool feel of the gauntlet's metal against his flesh.  He stalked briskly over to the group, and held his head up high as he sheathed the Morning Glory across his back.  "All right folks.  We're going to Whitewood.  We're going to speak with the council on the matters at hand.  We have to help them defend against Vandross, and we haven't got much time to do it."  Everyone nodded in agreement.  "Let's go."  And so, empowered by a renewed sense of purpose, Byron led his company out of Bael's village with the promise of his support, and made for Whitewood once more.