<u>Part Five, Chapter 1</u>


    It was late that night when the war bells rang out, and Lord Arvendahl’s horrible “orchard” went up like a demi-god funeral pyre. Brother Arnulf was just coming out of the Staggering Wench. Nearly dropped his tithe-box, staring at a writhing tornado of roaring bright flame that spread shadows all over Milardin. The summons hit him a few moments later, as both Sister Constant and Brother Humble pounded their holy symbols, calling for aid.


    Arnulf (Villem, when he was at home and out of his paladin gear) nodded. Succeeded in closing his mouth and putting the tithe-box away before setting off for the mission. Oberyn’s temple was east, in a fashionable neighborhood close to that giant, spiraling staircase. The Constellate mission, by contrast, lay deep in the heart of Milardin’s waterfront district, where the air smelt of fish and decay; just a homey tumble-down shack, refusing shelter to no one, whatever their deeds. Receiving the summons, the paladin turned and sprinted back to his waiting brothers-in-Oberyn.


    Arnulf raced through alleys and backstreets, arriving just as his brethren… and love… were emerging. Brother Humble was a mountain orc, grey-skinned, scowling and muscular. Sister Constant was a darksome, flashing-eyed warrior, her braided hair threaded with clattering, blue-and-gold beads. Meliara was a high-elf oracle, too beautiful... too rare... for the likes of <u>him</u>. And yet, somehow, they’d fallen in love.


    “I’m here!” gasped the young paladin, thundering up from a narrow under-bridge tunnel. “What’s happened?”


    Vorbol, the orc, reached out to steady his brother-in-battle, preventing Villem from crashing into the mission’s warped, slanting wall.


    “Not sure,” he grunted, sounding exactly like a seven-footer, trying to speak through a mouthful of jumbled, sharp fangs. “The war bells toll, but how many foes has Milardin?”


    “None, that I know of,” put in Nadia, frowning. “Lord Oberyn’s peace still graces the land… more or less. Can’t say that I’m sorry to see the end of that corpse farm, though. Gladly drain a flagon with whoever’s torched the vile thing.”


    Meliara glided forward, her slender feet hardly touching that rough, cobbled street. With light fingers, she stroked Villem’s face and unruly brown hair, saying,


    “It is the doing of my brother’s son, Valerian. He is here in Milardin, in flight from the city guard.”


    Villem managed to focus despite the brush of her gentle fingers, the sight of her lovely eyes and gold hair. He nodded, taking the she-elf’s slim hand and kissing it.


    “Aye, that. I met him at the Broken Teeth, this afternoon. He said that he’d be along to visit, later... but it looks like something’s come up. Can you see where he is, Mellie?”


    Her wide blue eyes went dead-white for a moment, as Meliara Tarandahl ad Galadin parted the strands of fate’s web. Then,


    “He is near the base of the Water Stairs, with a group of companions, and he is hard-pressed. Lord Arvendahl, also, is… no… they have taken flight upward, very high on the staircase.”


    Her voice had an elf’s normal music, to which was added the sunshine and spice of genuine love. “We must make haste, Villek, if we would aid Valerian, perhaps stopping unfortunate slaughter. The signs are not clear, but there is great trouble ahead.”


    Again, the dark-haired paladin nodded. Turning, he shot a questioning glance at Nadia and Vorbol.


    “I love a good, unfair fight,” grinned his blade-sister. “Arvendahl’s a donkey’s rump, and I’ll tell him again, as I know he can hear me: Donkey’s rump and dangling sack. Mean it.”


    Vorbol said simply,


    “You do not have to ask, Brother. I fight at your side. Rest when you rest.”


    Stolen story; please report.


    That settled, Meliara cast a spell of safe-keeping over their rickety, wood-and-tin shack. Wasn’t much in there to steal, but sometimes people were desperate, and a little was better than cramped, empty bellies and nothing at all. Once her wards were in place, the companions were ready to go. Nadia gated them all to the Water Stairs, using her port-bracer.


    “Hurry,” she urged, straining to expand its shimmering border (normally the size of a tightly clenched fist, now displaying the harbor and magical staircase). “Can’t hold this… unh… for long.”


    Which was why they arrived in such tumbling haste, in the midst of a desperate fight. Valerian was back from above, without Lord Arvendahl. He’d been speared like a fish, though; was thrashing in bloody surf as he fought to prevent himself being hauled back out of the water. Meanwhile, on the stair just above him, a ragged, albino drow held a young high-elf up by the throat, dagger pressed to his captive’s bared flesh.


    An entire troop of furious guards held the thorn-wrapped stairway above. Concerned for the hostage, they’d ceased casting spears and firing arrows. Bad, wrong, very much not good. With a heartbeat or less to make a decision, Brother Arnulf recovered his balance, then rushed to that savagely grinning dark-elf.


    “Kaazin,” he asked, “What’s happened? What are you doing? We raised enough money to get you released… just waiting on his lordship’s signature… Why are you…?”


    The drow spat, but not at the paladin. At those milling guards and the thought of Lord Arvendahl.


    “For your shelter and food, my thanks, Mortal. Come I this way again, you and your people will live. For Arvendahl and all of his day-loving ilk, I have nothing but blood, steel and ice.”


    Brother Arnulf reached out, inwardly chanting the Peace of Dawn. Kaazin the dark-elf had spent time at their mission, healing from terrible wounds. He’d left them after a month, only to wind up a "guest" of Lord Arvendahl.


    “Did you start this, Kaazin?” asked the paladin, deeply concerned. “Did you or Valerian attack the high lord?”


    “My doings are my own, Mortal,” snarled the drow, encasing a probing spear (hand and all) in deadly black ice. “As for the day-walker, my oath he did not seek trouble with Arven-drek. He hasn’t the guts.”


    That was good enough for Villem, Vorbol and Nadia.


    “Go,” ordered Sister Constant. “We’ll cover your retreat. See to Mellie’s nephew, as release from your life-debt.”


    Kaazin grunted assent. As the Constellate paladins spread out on the stair, the drow shifted his grip on his hostage, then plunged down into the bloodied and churning surf. He had scarcely vanished when sudden, eye-searing light flared. So bright, that even through tightly shut lids, they could make out the shadow of people and objects around them. Saw the veins in their own scrunched up flesh.


    When their vision cleared, Lord Arvendahl hovered over their heads, glowing like a particularly furious, raven-haired star. He’d been injured, but was healing, fast.


    “You would balk me?” inquired the high-elf, his voice a silky and dangerous purr. “You… mendicant priests in my city… would prevent me from stopping a murderous rebel?”


    Meliara had been busy all this while, healing the wounded and saving a guard who’d been shrouded in seawater. Now, stepping in front of her love and his warrior comrades, the she-elf called out,


    “Calm your wrath, Great Lord. There is no need for violence, when counsel can clear this unfortunate misunderstanding.”


    Wise, soothing words, but a change had come over Lord Arvendahl. A creeping dark force had taken control of him, body and soul.


    “I accept,” he whispered, talking to someone the gathered folk couldn’t see; didn’t hear. “Come with your power, grant me revenge.”


    And someone took heed, for the icy-cold elf lord now changed. Still achingly handsome, but all at once armored in frosty black metal and coiling smoke, his lordship plunged from on high like a thunderbolt. Halting just over the stairway, Arvendahl radiated chaos. Pulsed with dark manna and ruthless, implacable hate.


    With a sweep of his gauntleted hand, Arvendahl summoned a powerful mage-fist to catch up and crush the mortals, the orc and their she-elf.


    “Silence,” he commanded, preventing spells, blocking outcry to Oberyn’s haven. Next, Lord Arvendahl lifted them up and spread them all out like a handful of playing cards, faint amusement touching his glacial blue eyes. “Three useless priests and an accursed Tarandahl,” he mused, adding, “Kin, it would seem, of my quarry. I wonder… how best to send a message to he who has dared strike his betters and then scuttled off to the deep for safety?”


    He might have wondered, but something inside of him whispered… whispered… causing the high lord to nod. With a mocking smile, he inscribed greenish runes. Summoned mage rope, heavy stones and tight lock-collars. Soon had them all weighted and bound, hovering over the water (just where it boiled with magical force). Only, he wasn’t finished yet.


    Conjuring up a tarnished and flickering spirit-blade, his lordship addressed Nadia. Heeding his will, the blade swept down to snik at the female paladin’s chin, drawing a thin line of blood.


    “Donkey’s rump, I believe you stated,” he murmured, almost crooning the words. “And donkey’s rump, you said yet, again, daring me to hear and respond. Behold, your challenge is answered. Let us be certain, fair one, that such coarse words never again leave your mouth.”


    And with that, still smiling, Arvendahl made a sudden, brutal chopping motion, causing that hovering blade to bite deep. Then, laughing, he dropped them all into the sea.