Fan Fiction ❯ Burning Bridges ❯ Magic Visions Stirring ( Chapter 8 )

The sun had not yet reached its peak in the sky when the men and women of Müllenkamp entered the tunnels below Leá Monde, ready to leave on their journey east. The cart and horses had been readied during the early morning hours, and were tied up outside, so now that the brethren had gathered their meager personal possessions, they were prepared to set out. Duncan had told Hardin that they probably would not return until summer, if then, and Hardin glanced around idly as they made their way through the streets and the mines to the portal. After the time he'd spent within the walls of Leá Monde, and the exercises he'd done with Sydney, he knew the city quite well - even the parts he'd not actually set foot in. Despite all that had befallen him here, he suspected he might actually miss it.

As for Sydney, no trace of the morning's distress was apparent even to Hardin. He walked in the midst of his followers silently, his face remote but serene above the draped fabric of the cloak he wore when travelling, and Hardin wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angered. He had been worried, after all, and here Sydney was acting as if nothing had happened.

Padric, who had been at the front of the party, slowed his pace momentarily to walk alongside him once they had passed through the portal. "Is all well with you this morning, Hardin? I woke early, and you appeared to have been up for a while already."

"Yes, I'm fine," Hardin told him. "A bit tired, but it is nothing that will not be solved by a good sleep tonight. A dream awakened me, and I thought to get a head start on the day's tasks."

"I see." Padric lapsed into silence for a moment, then turned to Hardin. "Will you be staying on with us, then?"

"I shall," agreed Hardin. "You and the others are good company, and I've no good reason not to."

Padric's dark eyes flickered back and forth to see if anyone was listening, before he spoke again. "Forgive me if I am intruding, but has your... situation... with Sydney resolved itself, then?"

The others around them seemed to be absorbed in their own conversations, so Hardin decided he could speak frankly. "Not entirely, but things are better than they once were." Thinking back on the events of the morning, he wondered if that were true. "Perhaps I understand myself a bit more now, but I can't say that I understand him at all."

"He is a complicated man, certainly," Padric commented, "but a good one at heart, that I believe. Whatever your soul decides, Hardin, I'm sure you will make the right decision, as long as it is what you truly want."

"Thank you for the confidence," Hardin said with a light shrug. "It seems my decisions have not always been wise ones, though, or I would not have spent over a year in prison."

"And you would not be travelling with us now," Padric pointed out. "You would not have met Duncan and I, and gained this talent of yours. Perhaps if not for the extra coin, the time you and your brother had together would have been much shorter. And now, it may be that the chain of events you have endured, unpleasant as they may have been, are leading you onward to a life better than you would have had otherwise."

Hardin shrugged absently. "You have a point."

"I will spare you the theology, friend, but every man's life is filled with decisions. For years now, it has been my way to do what I feel in my heart is right, and I can honestly say that I have no regrets."

"None whatsoever?"

Padric paused and shook his head with a smile. "None aside from wishing that I had listened to my heart more openly when I was younger. However, the past is the past."

Hardin chuckled. "You make a good case, Padric. I'll be sure to keep your advice in mind."

"I hope it suits you well, then. You have a good spirit, Hardin - please trust in it always." Padric clapped him on the back. "Now, I must go speak to Kermiak, if you'll excuse me..."

Hardin considered Padric's words after he'd gone, and wasn't sure if he could agree or not. Even if Philip's life had been cut shorter, at least he would have been with him until the end. As it was, he didn't even know if his brother had died alone, and that possibility combined with the many agonizing months of imprisonment did not seem a fair price for an unusual power and a few months of a more peaceful life than he had known in the past.

As they approached the road that led through the wood, Sydney abruptly held up a hand, motioning for them to halt. "We have company," he informed his followers. "It appears the Cardinal has set his sights on us once again. Armed men lie in wait for us within the forest."

A murmur ran through the brethren, and more than one curse was audible. Sydney didn't seem troubled, though, as he began to give instructions. "It will do no good to wait them out; undoubtedly they will have brought ample supplies for a siege, and they control the roads as well, while we have little food remaining. We may as well take them now - perhaps we can even surprise them, by not allowing them to surprise us," he added with a sly smile.

His words seemed to give his followers confidence, and there were a few chuckles. "They number more than we do," Sydney continued, "perhaps by as much as two score. Considering that we can control the Dark and they cannot, I would venture to say that it shall be a very unfair fight - for them." There were more chuckles and a few affirmations from the brethren. "Let us pair off, one fighter with one sorcerer where possible, and travel a little closer together than usual. That way they shall also be close together should they choose to surround us, and we will be ready to strike as soon as they appear, before they can make their way into our midst."

It seemed like an odd tactic to Hardin, but then he was used to battles that involved weapons rather than spells. Spellcasters most likely would have their own tactics, just as archers, cavalry, and pikemen were all to be deployed differently in a more common army, and he supposed if he was to stay with Müllenkamp for any real length of time, especially as a swordsman, he should probably learn about them.

"Those who are paired with fighters will be at the edge of our party, while the others remain in the center, around the cart, but not too close together, mind you." His smile turned devilish. "And all of you who can call the elements, please do refrain from calling flame or lightning in the midst of the trees this time - I dare say our encounter with the templars in Suendia last year was shorter than our efforts to put things right afterwards." Laughter rippled through the chamber as Sydney began to assign partners.

When they were divided up, Hardin found himself partnered with Branla, a short raven-haired girl whom he recognized as being one of Sydney's consorts. Despite her being a magic-user, she wore a shortsword on her belt, though she confessed to not being very good with it yet. Even so, if something went wrong, she said, she would fight for Sydney and Müllenkamp in whatever way that she could.

As they dropped to the back of the entourage, Hardin decided that Sydney had probably paired them off intentionally, for she began to explain their usual battle tactics to him, just as he'd wanted to know. "A spellcaster does not have quite the range of an archer," she told him, keeping her voice low so that any scouts would not hear them, "but magic can be directed more precisely - even around allies or obstacles, if the caster is skilled. And unlike an archer, a spell can be cast with the same effect whether the foe is fifty paces away or standing right beside you. However, if an enemy is so close that a fire spell cast upon him would scorch the caster as well, or when a lengthy incantation might offer the enemy a chance to attack, that is when a more conventional weapon becomes necessary. The spellcaster can still be useful even then, healing the fighter's wounds as soon as he receives them." She gave him an impish smile that could have come straight from Sydney's face. "So in essence, your sword will be a last resort. If all goes well, you need do nothing but stay out of my way."

Considering that the statement was coming from a rather small woman, Hardin wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended by it. "Ironic... in any other battle, I'd have told you the same."

He was somewhat relieved when she laughed. "Indeed, you'll find that physical appearances can be very deceptive when magic is involved. You'll see soon enough... and speaking of which, we draw near to the forest, so we should talk no more of this. Naturally, they know of our talents - we have beaten back the cardinal's lapdogs many times, which is why they send so many now - but they do not need to hear us speaking as though we're about to use them."

"Yes, of course," Hardin agreed with a nod, despite his growing curiosity. Sydney had said that the cardinal's men in the forest outnumbered them by perhaps two score, which put their number at close to a hundred. It was beyond him as to why the church would go to such trouble over Müllenkamp, when there were any number of small cults springing up all over Valendia - or at least there had been the last he had heard, according to the gossip of the brethren.

To their credit, the brethren acted completely nonchalant as they followed the road into the woods, chatting and laughing as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Branla asked Hardin a few inconsequential questions, and he did his best to make small talk, though it had never been a strong point of his.

Soon enough, Hardin's well-trained eyes spotted a small movement in the brush a few paces back from the road. No one else in their number seemed to notice, and he considered pointing it out to Branla, at least, but then he realized that even Sydney continued to act as if nothing were amiss. If he could sense the presence of the cardinal's men from all the way back inside Leá Monde, he must know exactly how close they were now, and he chose to ignore them. It was all as he would have it, no doubt, but Hardin still felt an uneasy chill down his spine as he walked past the place where he had seen the movement, knowing that he likely was turning his back upon a potential attacker. Regardless, he had been tensed and ready for battle as soon as Sydney had informed them of the templars' presence. Though his body had not used such skills in earnest for quite some time, it still remembered them.

They continued on like that for some time before the entourage halted, presumably at Sydney's command, though Hardin could not see from where he was. He could hear the mage's voice, however, as it rang out with obviously false cheerfulness. "Well met, Father Lachus! It has been some time, has it not?"

"Well met indeed," a clear voice called out in return from somewhere ahead of their party, low and stern. "For today is the day your heathens will find true salvation, Losstarot, if they but repent and turn from the evil path you've led them down. Even your sheep, filthy and wretched though they are, may be cleansed and be welcomed into our fold."

"Oh my - how generous of you!" Sydney's mocking reply came. "And when you say salvation, Father, just what do you mean? Salvation..."

Hardin felt a nudge at his side as he loosened his sword in its sheath, and looked over to see that Branla had a wide grin on her face as she lifted herself up onto the back of the cart. "This should be amusing," she whispered. "Sydney takes great delight in provoking them. Come up and watch."

Apparently it was all right, or she would not do so, and so Hardin followed her lead. Careful to remain fairly low, he still had a decent view of what lay before them - a dozen templars, armed and armored, blocked the width of the road before them as a single man addressed Sydney. Tall and fit, though in his middle years, and with an arrogant lift to his chin, Hardin assumed that this had to be Father Lachus.

"Salvation can mean so many things, as I'm sure you're aware, Father," Sydney continued, tapping one of his metal claws upon his crossed arms thoughtfully. "The villagers far to the north, where your men traversed for the last year... was salvation what you brought to them?"

The man's eyes narrowed a bit, and his chin raised higher in pride. "Yes, it was, but that has naught to do with you."

"Ah!" Sydney said brightly. "I see! This salvation of yours - it means to remove all traces of sin from the flesh by way of fire! And salvation occurs when peasants starve, children die, because they are forced to support an army greater than their land can support with the small amounts of grain that can be grown in its poor soil."

The man held his proud posture, not giving an inch. "Lies," he stated. "It is true we burned witches - those who would not repent. For those who did, as I pray your followers will have the wisdom to do, forgiveness was granted, and they entered into the holy fellowship of God. And certainly we are not responsible for the poor harvest they endured that year."

"It was no poorer than years past, Father. In fact, I do believe they received a bountiful crop indeed - no doubt due to your blessed presence," Sydney added with a bow that managed to be rather sarcastic. "And yet, they suffered many losses due to hunger and disease. How very strange... Could not your powerful god have provided supplies for his army, instead of simply laying out a harsh plan of taxes and tributes that left many innocents penniless, unable to buy food?"

"We are not gods, but men, - earthly beings who must attend to their own earthly needs," Father Lachus replied. "Those villagers who died were taken by God to abide with him after they had repented of their sins. Perhaps he decided in his wisdom that they had endured enough; the life of those who dwell in the north is an ardous one. Indeed, what was given to us from the people of Gorilan was given as payment for the protection we offered from the bandits who plague them each year."

"Ah, I see I have misunderstood," Sydney said innocently. "That could not be the kind of salvation you offer my followers, as they are harried by none but yourself. Perhaps, then, you meant the kind of salvation you would like to give Brother Rohan, who serves now as your second. The kind of salvation you fantasize about as you watch him run through sword drills, and as your men bathe under your very watchful eye."

A few uncomfortable murmurs ran through the men positioned behind the priest, and he looked over his shoulder in shock. "What!? How dare you!" Father Lachus sputtered as he turned back to Sydney, his face turning red with fury - or was it shame, Hardin wondered with amusement? "Lies - again, lies! You seek to cause dissention among my men, but they are not so foolish as to believe the ludicrous accusations of a heretic such as yourself. All know it is you and your kind who engage in such filthy activities, witch - not the likes of us!"

"That I will not deny," Sydney replied simply, and when he turned back to face his followers, he had a very smug look on his face. "What say you, Aiden?"

"I say if such activities are filthy, then let me remain steeped in it."

"And you, Jared?"

"I've no care for the Father's 'salvation' - he appears stiff, boring," the man spoke up from somewhere in the middle of their number. "He does not look as though he would be as exciting a lover as you, Sydney."

A few chuckles arose from among the brethren, and Sydney smiled. "Thank you, dear Jared. And what think you, Gwynn, love?"

The young man stepped forward to place an arm intimately around Sydney's waist. "I agree with Jared. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Father, but I simply do not find you as attractive as Sydney."

Exclamations of disgust were audible from the templars behind Father Lachus - and even a few from those concealed within the forest, Hardin noted - as Sydney brushed his lips against Gwynn's. Next to Hardin, Branla was laughing openly, as were some of the other brethren, but he didn't know whether to be disturbed or amused.

"Hmm... how sad," Sydney commented as Gwynn returned to his place. "It looks as though my followers would rather remain in their sinful ways than accept the salvation you so generously offer, Father. Truly it is a shame, but we have someplace to go - so if you would kindly move your men...?"

Father Lachus looked absolutely ill after such a display. "Never, Losstarot. We have been sent in the name of the blessed St. Iocus to purge the land of the evil you spread - and if your followers refuse to repent and walk in the light, then they will die in their sins, just as you will when the examiners are through with you."

Sydney just shook his head slowly. "The problem with your 'light'," he said, his voice soft and yet authoritative, "is that those who stare intently upon it will lose their vision. Just as many of your men, who refuse to believe what I have seen within your heart - many, Father, but not all! - for they are blinded by your light, and cannot see where the shadows truly fall. It is not the Dark that casts shadows upon mankind, but the light."

"More blasphemy and lies," Lachus said firmly through gritted teeth, his hand on the sword at his waist. "I hear tell that you do not die easily, Losstarot, and that is just as well, for the examiners want you brought in alive. But I'm very interested in seeing just how unpleasant this rumored 'immortality' of yours can be made."

"Then you are welcome to try, Father Lachus." With a flourish, Sydney's sword was drawn, and the cloak he wore thrown back over his shoulders to allow freer movement, as he regarded the priest with an arrogant smirk. Following the lead of the brethren, who also readied what weapons they carried, Hardin likewise brought his sword to hand as he and Branla climbed down from the back of the cart to resume their positions at the edge of Müllenkamp's party. "Though the despicable deeds and desires I have seen within you have already made my day far more unpleasant than anything you could do with your sword, you may try."

"Well then," the priest muttered, drawing his own weapon. Raising it, he gestured towards Sydney and the brethren. "Let us purge the land of their perversity!" he ordered his men. "Kill all but the prophet!"

A great shout arose from those behind him, and from those stationed in the forest as well as they revealed themselves, rushing in to surround Müllenkamp with weapons drawn. Long before they had come close enough to engage the brethren in hand-to-hand combat, bright lights flashed through the air, reflecting off the gilt-edged iron helmets and breastplates of the enemy, and nearly blinding Hardin, who had been watching their approach intently, and certainly had not been expecting that. He cursed himself for an idiot - what had he thought would happen, when Sydney had paired the fighters off with spellcasters? - and regained his composure, preparing to act as soon as the templars were within the range of his broadsword.

Branla held her shortsword straight before her, cutting a slim silhouette against the glare as her voice rose in a chant. As she finished, holding the weapon aloft, a bright light engulfed the blade before streaming out to engulf the templars that were headed their direction. Exclamations of pain emerged from their throats as they crumpled to the ground, at least one mortally wounded, as far as Hardin could tell. The others were taken care of almost before they got to their feet by another spell from Branla, this one surrounding the young woman's blade in a globe of darkness before tendrils of dark energy shot forth, silencing the templars forever.

Hardin just watched in astonishment. It was just as well that Branla had told him to simply stay out of her way, because he had no intention of rushing forward to engage the enemy, several of whose armored corpses already littered the road. Firmly he reminded himself what Sydney had repeatedly told him about the Dark, that it was not evil, and it was not something to be wary of, but something that could kill so easily, with naught but a few spoken words... how could any sane person not be wary of it?

Spell after spell burst in a circle around the brethren who gathered together at the center - wreathing their attackers in fire, freezing them in place, or simply striking them down with unearthly energy - but the cardinal's men pressed onward, gaining ground in several places. Hardin could hear the clash of swords beginning somewhere behind him, on the other side of the cart, and he knew that soon it would be his time to act, for Branla's chants were slowing, and she sounded out of breath. He shifted his blade in his right hand, crouching to spring forward when the enemy drew just a bit closer.

After one more spell, Branla turned to Hardin, looking weary, and made a beckoning gesture. "Your turn, swordsman. I shall back you up, of course - and don't you dare flinch when I assist you, or we both may die."

He nodded, moving to stand between the young woman and the templar that rushed at them, blocking the man's blade easily as it came down nearly upon his shoulder. Tossing it off, he made a thrust of his own, and though the templar's armor inhibited his movement somewhat, his parry was enough to knock Hardin's sword aside, causing it to merely dent the templar's armor slightly instead of dealing a killing blow.

His concentration on the battle at hand, he did not realize that he was being enchanted until motes of light swirled around him abruptly, settling on his weapon and on his person before vanishing. Branla had warned him not to flinch, and the detached, logical state of mind that went along with his swordplay reminded him of that, forcing him to ignore the uneasiness that he felt at being ensorcelled. He focused instead on the sudden burst of power the spell had given him as he continued to exchange blows with the soldier, who finally fell after a quick strike to the neck, barely exposed above the metal breastplate emblazoned with the symbol of St. Iocus.

Pulling his blood-smeared blade free, he immediately raised it again to strike at the next to approach. It had been a few years since he'd taken part in a battle, and he'd never been a part of such a large-scale melee, but he found quickly that the instincts he'd developed in the PeaceGuard were still as sharp as ever, as he felled enemy after enemy. After a short time, Branla resumed casting her spells towards those who approached their protective ring around the cart and the unskilled brethren in the center, which allowed no more than one or two of the templars to engage him at once, and the challenge was severely lessened. Still, the brethren were vastly outnumbered, and Hardin was beginning to tire when he was startled out of his fighter's trance by Sydney's voice, cutting through the din of battle in a chant of his own.

"...Perdes-illyr-vitonis-gylmota... Armor which averts solitude, blade which averts solace... In darkness do you dwell; from the blood I call you forth!"

The templars attacking Hardin threw their arms up to shield their eyes, abandoning the battle as a brilliant light illuminated the surrounding area and a sudden burst of wind whirled down the road with a great howl. After a moment's surprise, Hardin dispatched them before turning to see what sight had stopped them in their tracks.

Atop the cart piled high with crates, Sydney stood with one hand outstretched in a gesture of petition, the other shielding his own eyes as he gazed upwards into a vast disc of glowing energy, edged with runes just as the magic circles he drew were. Hardin nearly forgot the battle at hand as he saw two large armored boots emerge from the middle of the circle of light, descending to reveal dark plate leggings, and then the rest of a massive suit of armor hovering above, in perfect alignment despite being empty. As it settled upon the crates before Sydney, the sleeves moved to draw from the sheath at its immaterial waist a great sword, larger than any normal man could have wielded in both hands. The empty suit of armor, however, gripped it in a single armored fist as the light and the wind ceased, and it leapt down from the top of the cart, out of Hardin's view. He could, however, hear the panicked shouts and cries from the templars that lay in that direction, and could plainly see the slight curl of a satisfied smile on Sydney's lips as he looked on.

"By the gods..." Hardin breathed, staring after the monster in disbelief. As alarmed as he was, he didn't hear the templar approaching him from behind until Branla cried a warning to him. Though he whirled to block the man's blade the moment he heard her voice, it still penetrated his clumsy parry well enough to strike him in the side. Before he could retaliate, the ground buckled upwards just behind his attacker, sending the man stumbling to his knees, and Hardin quickly slashed the man's neck.

More motes of light settled around him, and the pain of his wound faded almost to nothing. "Pay attention to the task at hand," Branla reprimanded him as the healing energy dissipated. "Though Sydney's summoning gives us a great advantage, and the templars are scattering, the fight isn't over yet." Firmly putting aside his distraction, Hardin spared a moment to give her an apologetic nod, and then looked about to see from which direction his next opponent might come.

Much to his relief, few of the templars still seemed interested in fighting. Somewhere behind him, Father Lachus was screaming at his men, many of whom were disappearing into the surrounding forest rather than facing the unearthly creature Sydney had summoned. "We are the army of St. Iocus, blessed by God - do not behave as weak, faithless mercenaries! Have courage, men, and fight - we cannot be defeated by these heretics and their witchcraft!"

Seeing as no foes were left nearby, Branla relaxed and crossed her arms, chuckling, though her sword remained in hand. "Tell that to the dozen or so men that Sydney's little pet has already slaughtered."

Looking back, Hardin could see the top of the phantom warrior's armor as it moved about beyond the cart, and the blade of its sword cutting sharp arcs through the air as it attacked. "Should we go to aid the other brethren?" he asked, albeit with reluctance; having healing and protective spells cast upon him was something he could deal with, but he did not want to get anywhere near that creature if he could help it.

Branla shook her head. "We have been positioned here, and here we shall remain until the battle is won, unless something drastic is to happen. And besides," she said with a mischievous grin, "I believe they've enough help already."

Hardin nodded. It was on their side, he reminded himself, no matter how frightening an apparition it was. There was little time to think on it, though; the templars were regrouping, and though the fighting was not nearly as fierce as it had been, the occasional soldier rushing to aid his companions found himself blocked by Hardin, whose strength and stamina were supplemented by Branla's spells as needed. His concentration not fully necessary, he could spare a puzzled thought as to why he could hear Duncan cursing a blue streak on the far side of the cart; the man had a rough tongue, but he was hurling insults at the templars that nearly made Hardin's ears bleed, just from what he could hear over the sounds of battle. It was unlike him to be so spiteful - but then, he'd never seen Duncan in a true battle before, and some of his fellows in the PeaceGuard had always seemed to fight better when they fought with their voices as well. Duncan was not the only one shouting, though, and there seemed to be a great commotion in his direction.

It was none of his concern at the moment, though, and Hardin firmly put it out of his mind until he found the road empty, no foes remaining. "Well done! Anyone who is not too weary, heal the wounded!" Sydney's voice called out, and Branla left Hardin's side to seek out those who might need help.

Hardin was in something of a daze as he wiped the blood from his blade, looking around at the bodies of the enemy scattered across the road. Smoke curled upwards from a few of the corpses, and he swallowed hard against a sudden surge of nausea. He'd had no idea that any of the brethren could be so powerful, except for Sydney himself.

And on the other hand, some of the brethren had been dealt what appeared to be mortal wounds, from the looks of them, but the quick ministrations of the sorcerers that knelt beside them quickly mended the torn flesh, binding the bones back together. The power to kill or heal with a word... Nothing could stand against that. He could have that kind of power, Sydney had told him, but he found himself troubled by the idea. He'd done nothing to deserve that sort of power, to take a man's life or give it back with little more than a thought. Even if there were no gods to decide matters of life and death, it did not rest in the hands of mortals; there were too many selfish and dishonest people in the world for it to be safe.

"Hardin." Branla's urgent voice roused him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see her standing at the corner of the cart. "I'm afraid something has happened..."

The grave look in her grey eyes told him that it was something serious; from the little they'd talked, she did not seem to be the type to fret over small things, and so he quickly followed her past the injured and the bodies of the templars to the far side of the cart, where the lesser powerful brethren had been huddled together during the fight. The massive creature Sydney had summoned was nowhere in sight, at least, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Those who were neither injured or aiding the injured were gathered there, and they wore solemn expressions as well. A few were in tears, including Kirrienne, who gave him a worried look before averting her eyes, and some of the others appeared bitterly angry. Hardin's first anxious thought was for Sydney's safety, but the mage stood at the side of the road a short distance away, speaking softly to Duncan, who looked furious.

"What do it matter, Sydney? I would've... gah, those bloody butchers!"

The mage nodded as he spoke more soft words. Hardin couldn't make them out, but the redhead's fists clenched tightly, and he gave no reply aside from a sullen nod. Apparently satisfied with the response, Sydney approached the assembled brethren, and Duncan followed, his face still dark and angry.

Sydney paused to look over those who stood before him, and his eyes lingered on Hardin for a moment before moving on. "We shall wait until everyone is present," he told his followers. "It should not be long before the wounded are healed sufficiently."

Wait for what, Hardin wondered as Duncan joined them silently, glaring down at the ground. "What is it?" Hardin murmured to him, going to speak with his friend.

"Ah, Hardin..." Duncan muttered helplessly. "Padric... he..."

Hardin looked around, frowning. The tall man was nowhere to be seen among the crowd of solemn faces, and an unsettling thought occurred to him. Searching the ground all around, though, he saw only armored bodies, though he knew Padric and Duncan had been placed just where the brethren were gathered. Something was most definitely wrong, though, or Padric would have been at his friend's side, as distraught as Duncan was. Hardin's anxiety grew stronger, but he could not bring himself to ask Duncan to explain.

"It be my fault," Duncan muttered under his breath after a moment. "He took a blade the bastards meant for me... turned to dust and light before my eyes. If I'd been quicker..."

Hardin was puzzled by his words. He couldn't mean... "Turned to dust and light?"

Duncan hesitated for a moment, shaking his head in disgust. "No one told ye, did they?"

"Told me what?"

"We servants o' the Dark have an unusual end," Duncan said bitterly. "We leave no trace. Padric took a sword in the neck, he disappeared like so much smoke."

Hardin narrowed his eyes in thought - Duncan wouldn't be making jokes if it were true that Padric had died, but... "You can't be serious."

"I wouldn't be nothin' but bloody serious!" Duncan snapped at him. "My best friend just died, Hardin! What do it matter if he vanished, or left his mortal body behind, or turned into a-"

"Peace, Duncan." Sydney's voice was firm as the mage drew closer, placing a comforting hand on Duncan's shoulder. "He did not know... that is my fault."

The redhead fell silent, his jaw still clenched tightly in rage, and Sydney turned to Hardin. "I should have warned you," he admitted. "In all my concern for your training, it slipped my mind... and besides, it is not a subject that happens to come up often. You see, Hardin, those who serve the Dark do not die as normal men; as Duncan said, they leave no trace of their physical body behind."

Hardin tried to fathom this concept, and found it incredibly disturbing. So when he died, he would simply vanish? Nothing to be buried, or burned, or...

"We can speak of it later," Sydney told him. "You are not the only one who is distressed at the moment."

Hardin's mind reeled as the full implications of Sydney's words sunk in - Padric was dead. The idea seemed almost laughable. Of course people died in battle, but Padric was the best fighter among them, according to everyone he'd spoken to. He couldn't truly have been killed by the templars, especially not with the brethren's spells to back him up. They had slain dozens of the cardinal's men before swords had even become necessary - how could the most skillful swordsman among them have fallen? It was absurd...

A few minutes had passed while those who had been wounded and those who had attended them one by one joined the assembly, and Sydney finally addressed them.

"The battle belongs to us, brethren, but no victory is without its losses. ...We've lost a good man and a fine warrior in our friend Padric today."

A few murmurs ran through the brethren, from those who had only recently joined them and thus had missed Duncan's outburst. "He did not die in shame or in fear," Sydney continued, once the murmurs had quieted, "but with honor and courage - defending us, his sworn friends and family from their oppressors. A senseless death, yes, but one which praises him nonetheless. Doubtless the gods have rewarded him greatly for his faithfulness." Folding his metal hands in front of his chest, he bowed his head respectfully. "Ext liabrin taan gyltaris miakha."

The brethren murmured what must have been a ceremonial response in the ancient language, indecipherable to Hardin's ears due to the many voices, slightly out of sync with each other, and then Sydney's head rose again. "We must press onward - I fear the cardinal's men have planned something more for us than this skirmish," he told them. "Those who are up to the task, clear the road to the east. The rest of you... simply relax, and strengthen your hearts. This is not the last of our troubles by far." Little conversation passed between the brethren as they nodded and went to do as Sydney had said, a dark mood having been cast over the sunny day.

Hardin simply remained where he was, staring at Sydney in disbelief as the mage stood by, overseeing his followers as they set about removing the templars' corpses from the road ahead of the cart. His face remained perfectly serene and composed, just as it had been throughout his words to the brethren - he didn't seem to care at all, Hardin thought. Even he could not be so heartless, could he?

Finally Hardin summoned up the nerve to approach the mage. "What the hell was that all about?" he demanded. "Our friend just died, Sydney - Padric died! He turned to dust! And you calmly speak a few vague words of spiritual nonsense and bid us to set off on our way again?"

Sydney's expression did not change, though he grasped Hardin's wrist firmly, leading him away from the brethren who were glancing at the two of them in alarm, and he gave them a knowing look over his shoulder. It was so patronizing that it only increased Hardin's anger. "Do you even care that one of your devoted followers died, Sydney? Or is that below you, seeing as you have no reason to fear death yourself?"

"Be calm, Hardin," Sydney told him coldly, not even looking back at him as he strode through the underbrush into the forest, pulling the larger man behind him. "You have lost a comrade in arms before, have you not? Do you always behave as such a child, when a man gives his life in a battle he chooses to fight, knowing that his death is a possibility? Such is the way of a warrior."

"I'm well aware of that, but this is different!"

Sydney halted, and turned to him. "How?"

"He..." Hardin stopped in mid-thought; he couldn't put it into words, not when he was so upset.

"Because he was your friend? And mine as well?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Hardin. "The man gave up everything to follow you, and died doing so - and you don't appear to be the slightest bit upset about it. It's as if once he vanished, he had never existed!"

Sydney's face grew somber at the accusation. "What do you suppose upset me so badly this morning?" he asked softly. "I have already grieved for Padric."

Hardin stared at him in astonishment, before he exploded with rage again. "Gods - that makes it even worse! Are you saying you knew he would die in this battle?"

"Yes."

"Why then did we engage the enemy at all, if you knew he would die? Why did you not keep him out of the battle? Could you not have at least warned him?"

"I did warn him."

Hardin bit back on an angry reply, not having expected that answer. The conversation he'd had with Padric just after they'd left Leá Monde suddenly came rushing back to him - You have a good spirit, Hardin - please trust in it always. Padric had always been subtle; no wonder Hardin hadn't noticed that he sounded as though he were saying goodbye. "He knew..."

"He did." Sydney's voice, though quiet, was firm.

"Then... why...?" Hardin didn't know what to ask first.

Sydney sighed softly. "I was also shown what would happen if he did not fight," he told Hardin, his eyes lowered. "If he was not to fight this battle, Duncan would have been partnered with someone less familiar, who could not protect him adequately. Though Padric would have lived, Duncan would have died in his stead."

Hardin was again stunned into silence by Sydney's words, and the memory of Padric's. ...Every man's life is filled with decisions. For years now, it has been my way to do what I feel in my heart is right, and I can honestly say that I have no regrets.

Turning away from Hardin, Sydney idly fidgeted with the low-hanging branch of a maple tree, plucking a few of the fresh new leaves to absently twirl between his claw-like fingers. "I let Padric know that the choice was his to make. If he chose to remain in the midst of the brethren instead of rushing to the forefront, it would not be his fault that Duncan died, but the fault of our attackers. Even so, he chose to fight, to defend Duncan."

"That's just not right," Hardin muttered helplessly. "There had to be something that could have been done to change it. You could have held us back in Leá Monde another day or two, even a week on the supplies we had remaining," he realized, growing angry once more. "We didn't have to go out to fight today-"

Sydney interrupted his ranting with a small, bitter laugh. "Do you think I did not consider it?" he asked. "You know nothing of prophecy, Hardin; the visions do not work in such a manner. Suppose I had followed my initial instincts and decided to wait a few days, until the danger was past. Perhaps three days from now would have been the day which the gods showed me, rather than today. Even had we been able to tarry in the dark city for another year, Padric would have died the day we left Leá Monde - that is what was given to me to know. The very day I met him, I knew that someday he would die in my service, though I did not know how until this very morning." The metal blades of his hand closed in a fist over the leaves they held, inadvertantly shredding them. "It was written long ago, and I am no god - I cannot change the course of a man's fate!"

Sydney sounded just as frustrated as Hardin was within his careful shroud of self-control, and Hardin realized that his own fury was misplaced; the mage was helpless to the whims of destiny just as any other man, even if he was able to predict them. "It's just not right!" Hardin repeated angrily. "What good are the gods, if they will place even their followers into a hopeless situation, with no hope of deliverance? Why should we honor them at all?"

Sydney hesitated a moment before turning back to him, a small bittersweet smile upon his lips. "Ah, Hardin..." he said gently. "I told you only hours ago that you would believe, but I did not know that you would come into this reawakening so indignant, crying as a babe pulled from the warm safety of his mother's womb."

Hardin opened his mouth to protest, then the full meaning of Sydney's words struck him. In his frustration, he hadn't entirely thought his words through, but Sydney was right - he did believe. What other explanation besides prophecy was there for Sydney's foreknowledge of Padric's death? And Sydney could not be lying, for Padric himself had known. It was the only logical conclusion, as illogical as it was...

And Sydney was right. He hated them. "Answer my questions, Sydney," he told him coldly. "If the gods will allow such things as happened today to occur, why would anyone want to serve them? What good does it do?"

"Faith and respect for the gods is not a miraculous solution to all mankind's problems," Sydney responded. "The only sure path by which a man can be freed of his troubles is death. It is not the gods that cause him pain, but the iniquitous souls of men. As long as man exists, there will be hardship."

"But if the gods are so powerful and worthy, why do they not stop this?" Hardin demanded. "Why do they allow injustices to continue - to let men slaughter and prey on the poor and the innocent - even in their names?"

Sydney raised an eyebrow. "And revoke one of their most precious and valuable gifts to man?"

"What the hell are you babbling about now?"

"Free will, Hardin," Sydney answered. "The gods gifted mankind with free will; and man, being an impure beast, often uses it in ways that harm others. Is that the gods' fault?"

"Yes! If they have the power to protect those who follow them, as Padric did, they should do so!"

Sydney shook his head, reproving. "Hardin, you are upset. Talking of theology or philosophy when one is overwrought very rarely leads to a meaningful epiphany." Turning away from Hardin, he began to walk back towards the road. "Besides, the brethren are waiting for us. Quiet your heart, and we shall talk again later if you wish."

"Damn you, Sydney!" Hardin exploded, making no move to follow him. "Is that all there is? Or are you merely running away because you can't answer me? If there is a reason for this, tell me!"

Sydney glanced back over his shoulder. "Your questions have been asked since the dawn of mankind," he admitted, "and perhaps there is no answer that a mortal man can comprehend. Or perhaps the answer is simply impossible to fathom after today's tragedy." Stretching out one metal limb towards Hardin, Sydney beckoned him to follow. "Come, Hardin. As much as has already taken place, the day is still young, and we have far to travel. I would not leave you behind."