The Book of Korum

The Book of Korum

  Adam Knight

  Knightfall Productions Inc 2013

  Prologue : Power Builds

  The mists swirl.

  A being hangs within, eternally screaming in anguish. A dark being with no shape or form.

  Everything...

  Yet, a single being.

  All within sight, and yet … unattainable.

  It screams.

  My power … equal to none …

  Plots.

  Conjures.

  Creates.

  The being forms into the shape of man. Yet vague and unspecific. Ever-changing.

  Much like the mists of his prison.

  For a prison it is.

  Time … It's only a matter of time.

  A coalescing of mist swirls around what would pass for the being's hand. It writhes and forms.

  Hardening, assuming detail.

  A staff.

  Made of metal. Jeweled at the top. Black.

  The being clenches the staff with both unspecific hands, it as if it were all that was sustaining him. He is too ensorcelled. His power though great is yet restrained.

  The staff’s jeweled crown begins to glow.

  Red.

  Maroon.

  Crimson.

  The glow pulsates inwards towards the staff, seeping down along it’s haft is rivulets.

  ... More ….

  The being becomes more distinct. Details where before all was hinted at. In the blood red glow of the staff, the mists fade slightly. Evidence of a leanly muscular, powerful body takes shape.

  The eternal scream changes pitch and focus.

  Triumph.

  If there had been a ground in the infinite, colorless void the being would have sunk to both knees.

  Tired …

  The eyes remain closed. The expression on the hideously beautiful face is similar to that of a starving man having his first meal.

  The eyes snap open, flaring crimson as the staff.

  … More …

  Mist coalesces around the being. Armor. Black, impregnable, full plate armor. A long and flowing cape descends down the figure's back. Crimson red hair grows until it hangs around the shoulders.

  He smiles.

  Thin lips stretched across the charcoal tone of his flesh. White teeth stark in contrast.

  He hefts the staff and gazes around.

  Almost time.

  With the staff he can execute his escape. Reclaim his glory

  It must be eradicated.

  Frustration fueled by terror almost send him back into fits of despair for a moment.

  Then, he feels the surge of power from the staff.

  He revels in it.

  Drowns in it.

  Envelops it.

  Lets it become him.

  He laughs.

  Harsh. Deadly. In the soundless void.

  Closing his eyes and holding the staff before himself reverently, the power pulses outwards in waves. Exploring the distance in the endless mists and beginning to reach beyond.

  Chapter 1 - Leaves in the Wind

  Dawn.

  A chill autumn wind swirled through the mortared, stone walls of the keep. Rustling tapestries, causing torchlights to flicker, tousling hair and the like. The dry rustle of fallen high-oak leaves against the stone of the courtyard below could be faintly heard over the soft twitter of the few remaining birds, most having taken flight for warmer climates. Their presence a loss until their return in the spring. Soft golden rays from the Great Sun, spill into the cold, gray room and illuminate the slumbering woman's face.

  She was young. Ivory skinned, with shoulder length, wavy blonde hair. Slender built but not fragile or petite, and tall for a woman. Abruptly, she yawned. A long, peaceful, well-rested type of yawn. Like a cat she arched her back beneath the silken soft, fur covered sheets and stretched. Her liquid amber eyes fluttered open and scanned the familiar interior of her chambers as she sat up, holding the sheets against her bodice, attempting to keep the last remnants of warmth from escaping. Then she sighed and rose from her bed. Her brief, silken gown flowing as she gracefully strode across the carpeted floor.

  Off in the distance the deep toned ministry bell sounded, giving official call to the start of the day. She took a deep breath and savored the taste of the crisp ( but admittedly brisk ) morning air. She shivered slightly at the sensation and reached into her elaborate wardrobe. After a moment's thought, she selected a plain and in no way glamorous, brown coat and breeches. Swiftly she shed her gown and slid into the decidedly warmer garments. Securing a belt over the hip-length jacket she ran her fingers through her thick hair in a very basic attempt at presentability. Then, giving up on that, she walked over to her washbasin and cracked the thin sheet of ice covering it. She inhaled sharply at the bitingly chill water. Reaching to one side, she picked up the towel from atop her counter and swiftly dried herself off. She sighed again. Refreshed and ready to face another day.

  Facing her open window, and consequently the Great Sun, she gently lowered herself to her knees and offered up a silent prayer to whichever of the Gods Above were listening. That done, she rocked back on her heels and, as she had done every morning since discovering her peculiar ability, stretched out and let her mind wander free.

  As if through a bird's eye, she saw William, the baker, as he lovingly extracted his latest batch of pastries from the stone oven. He inhaled their oh so sweet aroma and smiled. Setting down his luscious delights he picked up the front of his apron and casually wiped off his flour covered hands before adjusting the wide belt holding his breeches up over his impressive girth. Then, when he believed that no one was looking, he slipped a cookie from one of his many jars and quickly consumed it, fearful that someone might catch him cheating on his wife-imposed diet.

  The scenario blurred momentarily until she saw Aeros, Captain of her father's personal guard, as he strode powerfully out onto the courtyard. His face was freshly shaved and his armor polished to a glossy perfection. With a pride that he would never show, yet one that he felt all the same, he began hollering out orders to the men under his command. A widower, Aeros happily considered those under his command the children he would never have.

  Another blurring shift she saw her father, the Lord of the Keep, Baron of the Vineyard Grove and supreme winemaker throughout all the Lands, down in his vineyard. He was overseeing the cleaning and polishing a stomping drum. A smile was on his face and a tune whistled softly between his teeth as he worked. He spoke quietly to the servant girls who were busy stomping away on the ripe grapes in other vats and, in his polite way, criticized their technique and offered to demonstrate the correct method. He was an elderly man with some vigor of his youth still remaining to him. Noting the now familiar presence of his daughter's mind on his, he smiled again and offered a silent greeting to her. She happily returned with one of her own and moved on.

  The minds that she visited blurred by as she touched as many as she could without over exerting herself and taxing her still new, confusing abilities. She softly shook her head and refocused back onto herself. Rising from the floor and absentmindedly smoothing out the wrinkles that only she could see in her clothing, she took one last look around her room. Then, assuring herself that she had all that she needed for the moment, she headed down towards the kitchen for some breakfast.

  Out in the hallway she found more activity and people as they bustled from one job to another in their own particular hurry. Of course they were all exceedingly courteous as they flew past. "Good morning to you, Lady Tasha," one asked. "How did you sleep, Lady Tasha?" from another. "I'm sorry Lady Tasha, but I really can't talk right now.”

  And so on down the line.

  Tasha sighed. Being the dau
ghter of a Baron had its own peculiar advantages and disadvantages, as all things do to one degree or another. Of course, there's the recognition and notoriety. Everyone knowing who you are and what you're doing. Everything you want, you can have within some level of reason.

  And of course there's the vast number of handsome young men traveling from all reaches of the lands to meet with you for one reason or another.

  In Tasha's opinion, those were exactly what made up all of her disadvantages. The popularity is nice for a time, but it could get so tedious. Just once Tasha would like to be able to go somewhere where someone either didn't know who she was, didn't care, or just treated her like a person instead of some sort of fragile object that might break at the slightest touch.

  Tasha was anything but fragile. The youngest child of four boys made life interesting for her. As well as challenging on occasion. As is the case with most young boys, her brothers were heavily into wrestling, learning swordplay and dreaming about being gallant warriors. Consequently, if Tasha had wanted to be accepted by them at all, she had little choice but to join them in their games.

  Needless to say after years of roughhousing with bigger boys, she quickly lost interest in things like dolls, or clothes or the typical "princess things". Her father was initially very supportive of this whole idea, much to the dismay of her now deceased mother. But as the boys grew older and stronger, he slowly became less eager to see his only daughter leaping into a fray with them. Especially as how Tasha was seven years junior to her closest brother.

  However the Baron didn’t become terribly worried until Tasha got older and began to notice other things about boys in specific. Like most girls, she changed. A little bit. Basically, she accepted the fact that they were there and actually enjoyed their company now and then. But since most of the boys she met ( most notably the 'young' noblemen from other towns and such), all seemed to be looking for the same thing. Someone to hang on their arm, laugh when they were supposed to, look pretty in public and eventually produce an heir.

  Long story short? Tasha wasn’t interested.

  Not at all.

  The notion of marriage ( especially to someone that she barely knew ) particularly to someone more interested in the title he bore and the and inheritances he would receive than her was appalling.

  She entered the broad tabled dining room and sat easily into her familiar seat, to the immediate right of the table's head. The serving girl and Tasha's friend, Olarra, came out from the back and smiled in greeting. "Good morning, Lady Tasha. How was your sleep?"

  "Well, thank you." she said in her firm, alto voice. "And yourself?"

  Olarra huffed, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of her worn dress. "Oh, same as always. But who sleeps? I'm usually up before the birds to get things ready for the day."

  Tasha sighed sympathetically. "I see. Is the rest of the staff …"

  A loud crash accompanied by a man bellowing out Olarra's name pierced the morning calm. A hand flew to her mouth and eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, damn! I left the potatoes to boil." She started to sprint back to the kitchen, but spun back and remembered her manners at the last moment. Turning back with a hasty curtsy and a mumbled “Milady” before stumbling back into the kitchen.

  Tasha sighed again. She felt bad for Olarra and wished for something she could do to help her friend. But as her father had pointed out on more than one occasion, she could hardly take one person out of the kitchen only to throw someone else right there in their place. ”Everyone needs to work, my dear. Even baron’s and their daughters.”

  As she neared the end of her breakfast there was a sudden chorus of deep, brash laughter from out in the courtyard. Curious, she rose from her chair and headed towards the disturbance. As she neared the entrance to the main hallway, an immense shadow stepped out from the darkness and very nearly bowled her over. Then, seeing that Tasha was in his way, he pulled up short and snapped to military attention.

  He was a large man to say the least. Well over six feet tall and nearing three hundred pounds in weight, most of it heavy and hard earned muscle. With rough scraggly brown hair, dark weathered skin and a generally disheveled overall appearance despite his military dress gear should have made this man imposing to most people.

  That is, he would be if he wasn't soaked from head to toe with a deep flush of embarrassment spread across his face.

  Still standing at attention the man averted his gaze away from Tasha's curious amber eyes. "Good morning to you, Lady Tasha," he mumbled in his surprisingly soft and nervous voice.

 

  "Oh, Hal" she exhaled, reaching out a hand to straighten his soaked shirt. "What happened?

  He continued to avoid her gaze by scrutinizing the little nuances of the pave stones below, trying to ignore her hands on his sodden shirt.

  Tasha prodded. "Hal. What happened?"

  His face darkened a deeper shade of red and still refused to meet her gaze. "Nothing happened, milady” he mumbled in a barely perceptible whisper. “Just an accident is all."

  Tasha's penetrating stare bored into the big man's forehead. He stood there stoically and refused to say anything more or lift his gaze. "Hal, I find it unlikely that you would take it into your head to go swimming with your military dress uniform on."

  No response.

  Silence stretched uncomfortably.

  Tasha stepped toe to toe with her large friend, her raised chin barely reaching his shoulders. "I've seen you out on the practice field, Hal. You've got remarkable balance when you put your mind to it. I've seen you sprint through Lord Aeros' obstacle course and take on two men at once on the practice field. So I find it unlikely you managed to lose your balance in such a spectacular fashion." Tasha poked one finger into his beefy, soaked chest. "So. Are you going to tell me what happened yourself, or will I end up overhearing about this tale from one of the other guards?”

  A harsh voice cackled merrily behind her. Turning, Tasha saw a small, thin figure draped from head to toe in dark robes sitting at the breakfast table and laughing. Several bulging pouches lined his belt while his small backpack containing an assortment of books sat at his feet.

  Tasha quirked an eyebrow at him. "Something funny, Garn?"

  The figure drew back his hood to reveal the thin face of the young mage, Garnthalisbain. He smoothed back his long, dark hair with one hand before speaking. "You and the oaf, are what's funny, Tasha." His voice was thin and reedy, yet still strong. Garn gestured towards Hal. "Once a week our over muscled friend walks into this hall with some sort of visibly obvious problem that he does not wish to speak of. And still, without fail, you try to pry it out of him." He smiled, almost cruelly. "Why do you think I'm laughing?"

  Hal's gaze came up slightly, eyes flicking up to the smirking mage briefly. He muttered something inaudible before bowing his head respectfully to Tasha and left the room. Tasha watched him go with a frustrated shake of her head before taking the seat next to Garn.

  "That was mean, Garn. And well beneath you." She chastised gently, and took a sip from her water glass. "You know how low Hal's opinion of himself is. He doesn't need any of your negative encouragement."

  The young mage laughed. "Oh please, Tasha." He began in his unconsciously patronizing way. "You know what Hal's like as well as I do. He wouldn't be able to find his way out of the water closet if there was more than one entrance. He's a good and gentle man, but makes his own problems." Olarra returned quietly with a flagon of wine which Garn took with murmured thanks. He took a draught and smacked his lips softly. "I can't be held accountable for stating the truth, can I?"

  "Hal isn't dumb," she insisted for what seemed like the thousandth time that week. "You've seen him with battle tactics and weaponry. You know how good he is with that sort of thing. Having brains isn’t his problem."

  Garn waved his hand in disgust. "Any moron can learn how to swing a sword and tell other morons where to swing theirs. It takes a true intellect to learn the finer things in life." He rais
ed one hand, palm out to his friend. He narrowed his eyes minutely. A tiny, bright white trickle of energy danced from the tip of one finger to the next like lightning. Garn then snapped his hand into a fist, returning the energies back to the supposed nothingness from which they were drawn. The mage leaned back in his chair. His thin, self-important smile stretching across his face. "Like I have," he concluded.

  Tasha was unimpressed. She had seen her friend practice that little trick for years. "So what is Hal’s problem then O Enlightened One?”

  “Who cares? Where is that woman with my breakfast, dammit?”

  "You're not exactly helping him, you know. You treat him the way everyone else does. Like he's an imbecile, an oaf. But he's not. And you know better."

  "Hey, it sounds like a personal problem to me." Garn glanced hungrily at the kitchen. "What does one have to do to get any breakfast around here?" he growled loudly.

  She looked at him strangely. "You rarely finish half of whatever it is they give you. What’s your hurry?"

  "I have to eat something, Tasha. And I hate waiting."

  Olarra bustled out of the kitchen with a steaming plate of eggs held in her hands. She winced in pain the whole way and all but dropped the plate in front of Garn. She briskly shook out her hurt fingers and subtly tried to brush away the tears in her eyes with her apron.

  Garn looked at her, a strange glint in his normally sarcastic eyes. "Olarra, are you hurt?" he asked blandly.

  She quickly hid her hands behind her back and started to move away. "N - No, Lord Wizard. Not at all."

  Garnthalisbain sighed. "Come here," he commanded. Reluctantly Olarra did so. At his impatient prompting she meekly let him see her fingers. They were very red and a few of them had already begun to blister up. "Well, that was exceedingly stupid," he vented softly as he started to rummage around in one of his pouches. "What were you thinking? If the plate was too hot for you to carry, you should have waited until it had cooled down."

  "I had intended to, Lord Garnthalisbain. But, I heard you mention how long it was taking for me to bring you your breakfast so I..." she trailed off as she saw the expression on his face turn dangerous.

  The young mage finally pulled a small vial from out of one of his many pouches and began to spread some of its contents over the burned flesh. "Next time," he began, his voice almost too quiet to hear. "You will wait until it is safe to bring me my food without hurting yourself. There is no need to fear that I will destroy you in fiery balls of death that rain down from the sky because you were a bit tardy in bringing me my omelet." He then wrapped her fingers softly in a clean cloth from yet another pouch. "Now go back into the kitchen and tell Chef William that I am personally giving you the permission to take the rest of the day off. Go get some rest," he insisted as an afterthought. "You look tired."

  During the whole procedure, Olarra's face dissolved from an expression of fear and nervousness to one of soft disbelief. Tasha watched the whole exchange and hid her smile behind a sip of water.

  Olarra scampered back to the kitchen, bandaged hand and all as Garn stared disgustedly at the food in front of him. Using both hands, he shoved the plate aside before rising from the table and draining his half full goblet of wine in one draught. " I'm not hungry anymore," he muttered and picked up his loaded with books backpack and started to shuffling away.

  "I'm heading into the village today, Garn” Tasha called over her shoulder, watching his form fade into the shadowed hallways. “Do you need anything?"

  He shook his head as an answer, without turning back or slowing. He left the room.

  Tasha smiled, and stood up. Time to get on with her day.

  Out in the courtyard she had a young groom prepare and saddle her mare for the ride into town. From a peg in the stables she removed her riding jacket and the small hunting knife that was the sole weapon her father allowed her to carry at all times. Patting reassuringly at the comforting weight the blade added on one hip, Tasha donned her jacket and led mare out of the stables.

  On her way to the main gates the keep bustled lively. Smiths worked their bellows as hammer rang on steel, horseshoes and barrel rims the likely order for the day. Messengers trotted back and forth, carrying commands from one set of guards to another.

  And of course, every person she passed acknowledged her presence with at least a nod or a murmured “milady.”

  Anonymity was not for the baron’s daughter, no matter how plainly attired.

  Reaching the gates, she found the guards on duty immersed in their own mirth. Chortling softly and pantomiming broadly to greater mirth. Seeing her walk up, the men stood to attention and nodded politely.

  “Anything on the road to Milton I need to be aware of?”

  One of the guards shook his head in a negative. “All clear that we’ve been made aware, milady. No reports of raiders this day.”

  “Will you be requiring an escort into town, milady?” The other guard asked. “We could easily provide a carriage for carrying goods and yourself.”

  Tasha smiled as she climbed into the saddle on her mare. “Not today. I am not looking for anything more than a pleasant ride and some browsing. If necessary I can have goods delivered to the keep.”

  With that settled, the guards separated slightly and permitted Tasha to prod her horse into a trot onto the well-traveled road.

  Golden brown leaves swirled in the air , dancing in intricate little patterns along the ground. The wind was gentle, soothing. Good for taking the troubles off one's mind or allowing one to relax. Focus.

  Tasha let her eyes stare at the furthest point in the road and accessed the corner of her brain to activate her abilities, stretching out and just let the feeling of all the people out in the world encompass her.

  She reveled in it.

  Sensing the animals in the underbrush and their frantic, single-mindedness as she passed by. The intensity of her mare, knowing the importance of her job and the determination to please her rider. The birds flitting from tree to tree, gathering and hunting for their young.

  Stretching out further to the confused hum of activity that could only be the townsfolk of Milton, too far away to pick out individual thoughts or emotions. But enough together to create a resonance.

  And something else. Almost like a buzzing at the very periphery of her senses. She had noticed this sensation more recently but was yet unable to focus on it.

  Strange.

  She reached the village of Milton before the Great Sun had moved more than an hour across the sky. There was a bustle of activity as people prepared wares and livestock for the market day. Farmers on their ox-drawn carts hauling in preliminary stock from their fields, whilst travelling merchants set up exotic booths displaying wares ranging from quill pens to weaponry.

  In recent years, the Milton Marketplace had grown significantly. With the success and popularity of the wines produced out of her father’s keep more and more merchants were making the journey from more populace and well-to-do countryside’s in hopes of garnering better profits.

  The change had been good for the townspeople, and good for her father. Success in Milton garnered more taxes for the barony, which resulted in more repairs to roads, the ceremonial fountain in the center of town and greater protection for the population. Certainly, rivalry and the occasional thuggery took place. But knowing there was a guardsman within quick shouting distance had made Milton a much safer place for families and business alike.

  And success in business meant that every week there was always something new for Tasha to see in town.

  At the first stable she came to Tasha slid down from her mare and handed the reins to the regular boy, generously giving him a silver piece for his efforts. The boy smiled gap toothed and began to unbuckle the saddle for a proper brush down.

  Tasha loved touring the Marketplace, stopping at every booth along the way and inquired as to what was being sold and for what price. It was rare when she actually bought something, and even when she did, it
was usually something small. A trinket of some sort, nothing of any real value. A bracelet here, a scarf there, a tinder box to send to her brother in Southmoor.

  She walked on, stopping here and there along the way in a random fashion. Tasha sampled some of the edible delicacies that some booths offered while enjoying a small sense of anonymity. While some townspeople recognized her, none made a scene or much of a mention aside from a polite “milady” as was appropriate.

  In the near distance, she could faintly hear the sound of a lute being played. Around the expansive fountain in the center of the village was a small group of minstrels dressed in bright, frilly clothes with long pointed hats and shoes to match. Each of them carried a different style of lute and played different chords, blending it all into a pleasant three-part harmony.

  One of the minstrels’ hats had been placed on the ground in front of them. Already it was half full with coins even though they had apparently just begun.

  "This song," spoke one of the minstrels, stepping momentarily ahead of his associates. "Is known as, The Ballad of the Knights of Southmoor." Then, after strumming his lute once, he broke into song. His fellow musicians accompanied him during the chorus.

  It was a long song, as all ballades are. But for Tasha, the words soon melded into the music, quickly becoming indecipherable from the rest of the song. Closing her eyes, Tasha envisioned rolling hills of lush green grass that seemed to stretch on forever and a day. She could picture tall, healthy trees and small woodland creatures flittering between them happily. In the distant background, she got the image of a castle under siege by an army of what appeared to be men and soldiers that just radiated pure evil. But then, on the horizon, were the Knights. Layered from head to toe in gleaming, silver armor they sat atop their strong, healthy chargers, merely waiting for the signal to attack. Their lances pointed straight up into the sky, pennons flapping in the breeze. Then, the signal came. As one, the Knights of Southmoor barreled down the hill and calmly, coolly obliterated the evil soldiers and sent them back from whence they came. That's where the song ended, leaving Tasha with a feeling of purity and triumph.

  The audience broke into a loud, appreciative round of applause. The minstrels, being the true showmen that they were all bowed deeply, accepting the praise with grace and aplomb. Tasha shook her head and forced herself back to reality.

  As she turned to leave, Tasha deposited a handful of coins into the minstrel's cap, not caring how much she dropped. It must have been quite a bit though, for each minstrel blinked in surprise and bowed very deeply. Tasha inclined her head and made to leave the courtyard, passing into the throng of people.

  A hand roughly grabbed her arm and hauled her aside. Tasha cried out angrily as she was all but dragged through the crowd.

  Twisting her head around, she caught a quick glimpse of a man holding a rusty knife up to her face. Tasha struggled fiercely for a moment or two and was hurled to the ground for her troubles. Coughing at the dust that suddenly filled the air, Tasha tried to rise to her feet but was painfully grabbed by the hair and forced up to her knees.

  The grimy man who held her by the hair spoke with a heavy lisp that was apparently caused by the lack of teeth in his mouth. Tasha found herself nearly gagging at his personal stench and the distinct odour of very cheap ale. "Listen, lady," the man began, obviously fighting the lisp as best he could. "I know yer th' daughter of th' Lord in th' keep o'er yonder, 'an t'be perfectly honest that don't mean nothin' t'me an' th'boys. So I'll make this real simple." He leaned in close to her and pressed the knife up against her throat, leering suggestively the whole time. "If'n y'don't give us what me'n m'pals 'ere want, we'll b'forced t'send you back to yer father in pieces. What do y'say?" He chuckled then, wheezing softly in the back of his throat. His friends grinned right along with him.

  Tasha stole a glance past her assailant. Taking in the sight of three other similarly, shabbily attired men with disreputable faces and expressions. Knives and were present amongst them all.

  For a moment, Tasha panicked. Fear seizing her tighter than the grimy grip in her hair. Some small part of her screamed inside, imploring her to reach for her gifts and … well she wasn’t sure exactly what she could use those gifts for. But it seemed like there should be something.

  And then another man stepped quietly into the alleyway behind her assailants and Tasha found herself smiling.

  Then she looked back at the grossly drunken man who held her captive. He was still leering broadly, the back of his throat visible between the gaps in his teeth.

  So the look on his face was priceless after Tasha to calmly spit in his eyes.

  The man cried out and took a step back, releasing his grip on her hair. This gave Tasha the opportunity to knock his knife away and get back to her feet. As the decrepit blade flew away, the drunken man managed to wipe the spittle away and charge forward. Tasha hooked his arm with one of her own and dragged the man right over her shoulder. He landed flat on his back with an explosive whoosh of breath and a noisy thump.

  At that point the other assailants started to advance on Tasha.

  It was in that instant that Hal struck.

  Dropping the materials that he had been sent into town to procure for the guardsmen, Hal displayed a speed unheard of in a man his size. Hal lashed out open-handed at the man about to move in on Tasha from behind. The smack of flesh on flesh echoed repeatedly throughout the alley. The man's head rocked back, a huge welt spread across his face as he crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

  Hal took two quick steps forward and whirled back to face the other assailants who were suddenly none too eager to enter into combat with the big man. Looks of fear began to spread across their splotchy faces. Seeing their obvious reluctance, Hal boldly strode forward and slapped aside their ancient weapons with the palms of his hands. Grabbing the nearest man by the front of his tunic, Hal mightily flung the thug several feet through the air to land painfully out of the alley and near the fountain.

  Seeing his opportunity, the other man desperately turned about and tried to flee. But Hal's long reach kept him from going very far. Catching up as they exited the alley, Hal spun the man around and smacked him solidly across the face. The man's knees started to wobble and his eyes rapidly lost their focus. Hal then placed one hand on the man's head while grabbing hold his belt with the other. Taking two steps forward, Hal bodily hurled the man through the air. The thug collided heavily with the fountain's centerpiece before landing wetly in the shallow pool.

  Tasha, so astonished by what she'd just seen, didn't register her initial opponent fleeing away through the alley's entrance. Belatedly, Tasha took off in pursuit.

  The man made it about two steps into the village market when Hal caught up with him. Effortlessly, Hal hauled the man up off of the ground until the two of them were eye to eye. The unfortunate thug's feet dangled a full foot off the ground.

  Absently, Tasha realized that the crowd that had gathered to watch the minstrels perform was now almost nowhere to be seen. To a man, every person had deserted the area around the fountain and had gone about their business, leaving the thugs to theirs. Even the minstrels had packed up and vanished.

  For a long moment Tasha would have sworn that Hal was going to say something. His mouth twitched in a way that said he wanted to deliver some sort of epitaph but couldn't find the words. Flicking a quick glance back at Tasha, Hal shook his head, mumbling something that she couldn't hear. Then, without warning, he drew back one meaty and powerful fist and let fly.

  His arm was almost a blur as it connected with a solid crunch that Tasha heard and openly winced at. Blood spurted darkly out of the man's mouth, along with his few remaining teeth. The body flopped haphazardly before slamming down next to his buddy at the fountain's base.

  Shaking out his hand for a brief moment, Hal walked over to the stone fountain and stepped up on it's narrow ledge. Bending over, he grasped a hold of the man he had casually hurled into the water and started to haul him
out. Tasha came out of her stupor and stalked over to him. "Why did you do that?" she demanded half angrily.

  Hal looked at her quizzically, glancing at the unconscious men sprawled around the fountain. "Do what, milady?" he asked, obviously confused.

  Tasha pointed at the now unconscious thug who had been threatening her. "Why did you take that last guy away from me? I had him under control!"

  "But, milady. I didn't want you to get hurt... "

  She waved that off with a frustrated sigh. "I don't want you to treat me like a piece glass, Hal ! I'm not going to break that easily. Besides, I can take care of myself."

  Hal looked down at his lady, his blue-gray eyes very serious. It was a long moment before he spoke, but when he did he said, "My Lady, while I'm around, you don't need to take care of yourself. That's what I'm here for."

  Tasha blinked in surprise. That was the closest thing to a compliment that she'd ever heard Hal give himself.

  It was at that very unfortunate moment that Hal, still crouched down on the narrow ledge of the fountain, tried to stand up, hauling the inert body of the unconscious man with him. However, the extra weight of the man and the slippery surface of the ledge, caused Hal to lose his precarious balance.

  His arms windmilled like mad. He swiveled back and forth and back again. Shifting and re-shifting his weight like a tightrope walker. Then finally, with a startled howl on his lips, he fell over backwards into the icy water of the fountain. Kicking up a great big splash as he did so.

  Tasha just shook her head, a small, rueful smile spreading across her lips as his head broached the surface explosively, splashing water all over the place. "Oh, Hal," she muttered.