Chapter LCVIII: On the Trail

Tyrian watched the Tarutaru as he shuffled blades of dead grass between his fingers, letting the browning blades fall to the ground. He took a moment to sniff lightly at two of them, looking at them quizzically before lowering his ear to the frost-covered dirt. As concentration lined his brow, he lifted his head, adjusting the small beret he wore, and pointed north again. Tyrian sighed as he bounded off into the darkness once more, leaving the others to follow behind.

"Are you sure this guy knows what he's doing?" He asked, even as he urged his chocobo onwards.

"There are a lot of Rangers in Windurst," Titania told him, "and a lot of them specialize in tracking, but Holy-Moly is the best of them all."

Tyrian glanced doubtfully at the Tarutaru skipping away from them. With reluctance, he pushed down his fears and opted to keep moving on. He considered himself a passing fair Ranger, but he admitted he had barely been able to find Meowolf's trail. Holy-Moly had not only found the Galka's path, but pursued it out of Sarutabaruta and into Tahrongi Canyon. Still, he was dubious. Some of the traces he picked up as signs of Meowolf's passing through were questionable at best.

"If you weren't vouching for him . . . " he began.

"Believe me," Titania said reassuringly, catching her chocobo up to his. "Captain Rizzle knew what he was doing when he loaned us Holy's services."

"Maybe," he grunted. "I just wish that pig-headed fool hadn't run off in the first place."

"Tyrian," Sinti chastised at his side. "We know he had his reasons."

He set his jaw. "Reasons," he scoffed. "That two-faced witch isn't a reason to head off in the middle of the night chasing an army of demons."

"We don't know that's why he - "

"What, you think he went after Secure?" Tyrian cut the Mithra off. "Yeah, Klades wants to think that, too, but be serious." He directed his gaze out towards the distance, watching Holy-Moly continue to examine rocks, lightly brushing his fingers over them while peering at their surfaces. "Meowolf has never cared about revenge. He wants to protect people. And he's got it in his head that the Eastern whore is a damsel in distress."

Sinti did not reply, save a sad change of expression. Tyrian immediately regretted his harsh words, but did not take them back. They all knew why Meowolf had left, otherwise they would not have all decided to go after him and bring him back.

Of course, not all those who wanted to help were able. With Windurst's military exhausted by the war, only a select few who wished to help were allowed to leave Windurst. Himself, naturally, as well as Sinti and Klades were not bound to Windurst and thus free to come and go as they pleased. However, one of the original five Titania had brought back to the Federation with her had refused to join them.

"Windurst needs me, Tyrian." Yasuchika had told them, a pained but stern expression on his face.

"We need you, dammit, Meowolf needs you." He remembered standing in the Tarutaru's office, practically pulling his thick, dark hair out in aggravation. "Someone can take over for you here - "

"No," he said firmly, "they can't." The Black Mage looked from face to face, grimacing. "I've made my decision. This is my home, guys. I've got to protect my home."

Tyrian opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off as Klades walked in front of him. Kneeling, the Onion Samurai looked at Yasuchika eye-to-eye, an indiscernible expression on his face.

"Will we see you again?" He asked simply.

Yasuchika nodded. "One day, when this is all over, we can be Those Guys again."

"I would like that," the Samurai replied, and extended his hand. The Black Mage put his tiny palm forward, and the two shook hands briefly. Klades stood and turned, leaving the room without another word.

Tyrian began to protest, but Sinti put a hand on his shoulder. "Tyrian," she said in the voice that told him not to argue, "he has to do this."

He let out a deflating sigh. "Alright," he conceded. "Alright." With a look both serious and sad, he met Yasuchika's stern gaze. "It won't be the same without you," the Ranger told him.

The two shook hands as the Tarutaru smiled. "No," he agreed, "but I've made arrangements that I be replaced, so you'll still have some magic on your side."

And that was how they came to welcome Leeto-Eleeto as a traveling partner.

Spurred on by the thought of him, Tyrian turned to regard the combat caster in their ranks. He was chatting away with Klades, who for his part appeared to be politely enduring the onslaught of conversation. The mage had been vouched for by Yasuchika, and that would have to be enough. So, forward they went on Meowolf's trail, three Rangers, two mages, and a Samurai. And Tyrian went right on questioning the entire outing.

It wasn't long before they caught up to Holy-Moly, who was once again pressing his ear to the ground. Halting his chocobo, Tyrian gently rubbed the giant bird's neck as he surveyed the area.

"Have you found anything, Holy?" Titania asked as her chocobo pawed restlessly at the ground.

Holy turned to face them, but just as he was about to open his mouth Tyrian slid from his mount, eyes fixed on the patch of grass the Tarutaru was standing next to. The sparse clump of half-frozen greenery was pressed close to the ground and covered in frost. He walked slowly towards it, tilting his head as his eyes crawled across every inch of the surrounding area.

"What is it, Tyrian?" Sinti asked, still atop her chocobo.

He did not reply, save for to motion for silence. The grass was not really different from any of the other innumerable growths dying underneath winter's heel. Tyrian was fixated more on the ground surrounding it.

Squinting, he scrutinized several square feet all around the few tiny blades of grass, even as Holy-Moly stood over him, hands on his hips, waiting for his conclusion.

"Meowolf was here," he said finally, standing to his full height. Holy nodded happily, smiling at the others.

"Are you sure?" Klades had caught up with the rest of them, and he eyed the area suspiciously. "You've never been able to pick up his trail before."

"He's been following Secure's army, it's impossible - " he stopped when Holy-Moly coughed, lifting his eyes meaningfully. " - it's . . . very difficult," he amended, "to try and pick out one trail amongst so many, but this is different." Kneeling down to face the dead plant, he beckoned them to come close. "The ground here wasn't trampled. This grass is only being weighed down by frost. Secure's army didn't pass this way."

Klades looked up, casting a glance around the area. "There's enough room that they might have swung north here, towards Meriphataud, without coming this way."

"Yes," Tyrian affirmed, "but someone came this way. There's a blade broken off where someone brushed against it, maybe only a few days ago."

"Should I melt some of the ice?" Leeto was running towards them, flames already springing from his palms.

"No!" Tyrian shouted, stopping the wizard in his tracks. "Meowolf's footprints are in the frost. We can - " he stopped, his eyes widening. "Wait."

Klades dismounted his chocobo, placing a hand on his great katana. "What's wrong?"

The Ranger dropped down to his knees, fingers pressing against the frost hastily as he perused the ground. It took him only moments to confirm his suspicions, and he cast a grave stare at the other.

"There are other tracks here."

"What?" Klades looked at Holy-Moly, who nodded grimly at Tyrian's words.

"We're not the only ones following Meowolf."


Huddled close to the small firepit he had dug, Meowolf stared into the flames as he sought to stave off the cold. The onset of winter in Tahrongi Canyon had left the barren landscape concealed beneath a layer of frost. All around the armor-clad Galka, the world was becoming frozen, encased in relentless tomb of ice. With no sun in the sky to illuminate the landscape, no moon to cast reflections upon the freezing ground, everything was simply cold and dead. Shivering, his breath freezing in front of him, he pulled the slim mantle around his shoulders closer.

Just miles from him, the remnants of Secure's army marched inexorably north. In the time he had followed them, he had yet to discern any reason for their distant trek across this harsh tundra. Yet still they moved, further every day, heading away from Windurst and towards Meriphataud Mountains. He had caught up with them in a matter of days, but no opportunity had presented itself to try and infiltrate their ranks. Even following them had proved dangerous, and he was forced to alter his path after a few days to avoid running into demons straggling behind.

Once, briefly, he had seen Cullen. Hidden atop a cliff peak he had been able to see the entire camp. In the middle of it was a single tent, where Secure spent his days. The Elvaan never left, as far as Meowolf could tell. When they began marching, a group of Vanguard lifted the entire thing up on poles and carried it. Only during one of their stops did he see Cullen emerge, shouting some of Secure's demands, and then disappear again into the tent. He could only barely see her, not enough to make out her face, but enough to see the chains wrapped around her wrists.

He felt a flush of heat at the thought. He had to find her again. She needed to be protected.

He may well have fallen asleep near the fire, formulating ways to sneak in and save her, had he not heard footsteps approaching.

Immediately he was on his feet, snatching his sword from its scabbard as he looked across the frozen landscape. His eyes struggled to pierce the darkness covering the canyon, but he could just barely make out two shapes close by, wandering near his camp.

He watched them carefully. They didn't appear to be walking towards him, and indeed after a moment they stopped altogether, turning and talking to one another.

Their voices carried on the wind, and Meowolf recognized a Bastokan accent when he heard it.

"Hey," he shouted, and the two turned in surprise. "Hey!"

"Who's there?" One of them asked cautiously. "Show yourself!"

"Over here," he waved his arms, but did not put away his sword. "Who are you?"

The two figures whispered something to one another, looking back and forth at Meowolf. "Is that a fire you have going over there?" One of them asked.

"Yes," he called back. "Come into the light where I can see you."

They remained where they were. "How do we know you're not a demon?"

"Do I look like a demon?" The Paladin called back angrily.

The duo talked amongst themselves again. Meowolf's eyes were adjusting to their shadowed forms, and he could tell now that both speakers were Galka, like him.

"We're cold," he heard one of them say, and realized the wind was carrying their conversation his way. "He doesn't look like a demon, let's just go down there."

"He could be disguising himself," the other protested. "I don't want to risk it."

"He has a fire," the other one said plaintively. "It's freezing out here."

"But - "

"Hey," Meowolf called out again. "I'll come to you, and we can walk back together. I'll lead you here."

A moment of silence followed, broken up only by some urgent whispering he couldn't quite make out. Finally, one of them called back his way.

"Alright," he said, "You come to us."

Sheathing his sword, Meowolf came forward. As he got closer to them, he started to make them out a bit better. One of the Galka was dressed in heavy black armor inlaid with brass, in a style very similar to that which Klades wore. He had a sword, a great katana, fastened around his waist. The one next to him was covered in layers of heavy blue robes, and he could see a gnarled staff on his back. Both were large and foreboding, eyeing Meowolf warily as he climbed the icy hill towards them.

He had made it almost half way when he heard a sound like a twig breaking, and then the ground pulled away from him.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. Wind rushed past him as he was lifted into the air, and thick hemp ropes pressed into his face. An angered cry escaped him as he struggled, but the net around him only tightened with each twist. He could see the other two Galka coming forward now, looking up at him from several feet below. Both were smiling, watching his plight without concern. Growling, he reached for his sword, but his arms were trapped in the ropes. Every time he moved it felt like it just made they only cut deeper into him.

"Bang up job, mates," a voice called from the darkness. Meowolf ceased his struggling, clutching angrily at the net as he looked around for the speaker. From the flickering flames of his still-burning fire, a grinning man stepped out from the shadows. One of his eyes was a brilliant shade of blue, so vibrant it was visible even by the scant firelight. The other was a blind white, a long and jagged scar running from forehead to chin crossing over it. The sides of his scalp were shaved, and the hair atop his head was drawn back into a tight ponytail behind him. His hands were clasped behind his back as he slowly walked a circle around the net, nodding to the other two Galka as he did. "I can't believe ye offered to come to them." He laughed. "Never saw that coming! Ha!"

"What is this?" Meowolf demanded. "Let me down!"

"Quit yer bellyachin," the scarred man said dismissively, turning around. "Dark Templar, Dark Goliath," he said, acknowledging the other two, "you done good. Let's truss this sucker up an' head back."

"You got it, boss," the one with the sword marched forward, and with one swift cut he severed the rope holding up the net. Meowolf came crashing to the ground, the wind rushing out of him. Spots flashed before his eyes as a heavy foot suddenly pressed down on the small of his back. He grunted as ropes pressed the chain mail links of his armor into his wrists. His struggles were rendered futile as an oppressive weight forced him down, and he saw the Galka wearing robes chanting a binding spell at him.

"Done up like a Starlight Eve dinner, you are," the scar-faced man laughed. "Alright mates, pick 'im up, let's get 'im movin'."

"Where to, Magitek?" the armored Galka asked.

Meowolf felt himself being pulled up, and with a sudden jerk he was eye-to-eye with his abductor. The one-eyed man was kneeling down, a toothy grin on his face. Violently the Paladin lurched forward, straining agains the ropes holding him back and the magic holding him down. Magitek did not even move, instead smiling broader at his struggles.

"Fiesty one, aintcha? S'alright, fight all ye want. 'Ey, Goliath," he turned to the robed Galka, "yer magic whammy's got 'im down nice 'n secure like, don't it?"

He nodded, folding his arms into his robes. "He's not going anywhere, boss, not unless we want him to."

Magitek turned back, still smiling. "Ye see there? Ye should save yer strength, boyo. Ain't gonna be easy gettin' where we're goin'." Standing, he smoothed out the front of the heavy furs he wore. "Well, enough jaw stretchin'. Let's get a move on. Client ain't gonna wait forever."

"But boss - " the one with the sword started.

"Ah, right, where are me manners? Sorry, Templar, plum forgot." He patted the Galka on the shoulder. "Into the mountains, that's where 'e's waitin'. Better hurry before th' weather gets even worse."

"Who," Meowolf growled, trying to force his legs up. "Who hired you?"

The three exchanged a series of glances before Magitek finally shrugged, an indifferent expression on his face. "Guess there ain't no harm in tellin' ye. Don't know who ye are or what ye did t' make people wanna kill ye even after th' end o' th' world, but - " he smiled again. "I don't get paid for askin' questions. I'm here t' take ye to a fella named Dracu, an brother, I wouldn't wanna be in yer shoes once we get there."

Chapter LCVII: Stories

"I do not like the look of this souffle," the chef complained, fretting over the half-risen lump. "Perhaps there is too much gravity in the oven?"

Ayn looked across the mess hall irritably. As busy as Norg was in these troubled times, only he and a single Galka were seated in the dining area. Yet even with two people to feed, the woman behind the counter was still having a great deal of trouble getting their food out to them.

"I didn't order a souffle," the Galka said, tapping his fingers against the counter. Ayn had opted for a private table, hoping to avoid conversation. As the sturdy-looking man turned towards him, he felt that hope crumbling to dust. "You didn't order a souffle, did you?"

With a sigh, he sank back into the wooden chair where he sat. "No," he replied.

Staring flatly at the chef, the Galka turned back to her. "So neither of us ordered a souffle."

She looked at him blankly. "But souffles are delicious."

Rubbing a hand down his face, he clenched it into a fist as it sank to the counter. "Look, woman, I'm a Bard. I need to take good care of my voice, and part of that is a proper diet. Now all I'm after is some chamomille tea and a salad."

The chef wiped her hands on the white apron she was wearing, looking again at the crumbled mass inside the oven. "Souffles are made from eggs, you know. They're very healthy."

"I ordered my tea half an hour ago!" She seemed unfazed by his shouting. Eyes pleading, he turned to Ayn. The Thief was contemplating an escape from the room, but he was hungry. "Can you talk some sense into her, friend?"

"People keep using that word around me," he muttered. He was hungry, he decided, and he wanted no part of the sad-looking confection the auburn-haired woman was baing. "Miss, I wanted the red curry? How far along is it?"

"Oh that, you don't want that," she shook her head. "Give me a few minutes, I'll make you some fish."

He wondered inwardly how many generations it had been since her relatives married outside the family. "I know what I want or I wouldn't have ordered it. Now kindly do your job and make me some red curry."

"But the flavor is just all wrong," she complained, looking genuinely upset. "The ingredients don't combine dynamically. There's no harmony to it."

"I'll tell you what is and isn't harmony," the Bard rose from his stool, pushing down on the counter. "Now make me my tea!"

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Fine, fine, gravity looks to be holding down my souffle anyway." Peering again into the oven, she reluctantly began dousing the flames. "You know, space is full of gravity."

"For Altana's sake Quanteria, just boil some water for me and I'll put the tea in myself." Turning to Ayn, the Galka shoved a thumb in the chef's direction, shaking his head. "Can you believe this woman? It's like this in here every day."

Ayn displayed exactly how much he cared on his face, but to his dismay the Galka stood up and walked over to his table, pulling up an uninvited chair. "Don't - " he started to say, but it was too late.

"I'm Gaard," he introduced himself, "traveler extraordinaire, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Looking back at Quanteria, humming away as she threw things haphazardly in a bowl behind the counter, Ayn's hunger began to seem less important.

"Look," he told the Galka, "I'm very hungry and this conversation has a good chance of being very boring. I'd rather avoid it if I could."

To his surprise, Gaard erupted in a deep belly laugh, slapping the table in amusement. The utensils upon is shook and clattered, nearly falling to the floor. "I'm a Bard, pirate, it's my job to be entertaining. And I'm very good at my job."

"I'm not a pirate," Ayn rebuked indignantly.

"Oh?" Gaard raised an eyebrow as Quanteria walked to the table, setting down a pewter platter with a steaming cup atop it. "Aren't you Ayn, the Pirate President's son?" He smirked, taking a sip, but then sputtering and spitting out the dark liquid. "Quanteria!" He fumed at the woman as she walked away. "This is chai!"

"Chai is better for your auras than tea." She called back.

Gaard's face sank into his hands. "Of all the places I could have been stuck, it had to be here."

"The Boss isn't my father," Ayn told him darkly. "He just knows good talent when he sees it. How do you know me?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, to which Gaard smiled again, blowing on his unwanted beverage.

"I collect stories, like most Bards, and this place is always talking about you." He looked down at his cup, flicking his eyes briefly back up towards Ayn before taking a sip. "They say you're about to undertake a secret mission for the President."

"Ha," Ayn scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Hardly. More like running an errand for him." He folded his arms, tilting his head back. As with most things in Norg, the mess hall was inside a cave, with wooden planks laid down to simulate an actual floor and walls. The ceiling was left bare, however, and a craggy gray surface stared back at him. "So, you're a Bard." He gave up, realizing the hefty Galka wasn't going anywhere. "Seen anything interesting?"

"Anything interesting?" Gaard exclaimed. "I've walked through the libraries of Adoulin. I've seen the totem pole dances of Ulbuku. I sang at the princess's naming-day ceremony for the royal family in Olzhirya. Even tried to get up to Rahzowa, once, but my ship was attacked by Gigases from the shore. I drifted at sea for weeks after that, eventually finding myself rescued by an Imperial ship in Arrapago. From there I - "

"You could've just said no." Ayn stabbed his fork into the table, the shaft springing back and forth with the impact. "Where is that curry?" He demanded.

Gaard was laughing again. "I see you're not an easy man to please." He sipped at his chai, sighing as he peered into the cup. "Why such a chip on your shoulder, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do," he replied as Quanteria came by again, setting down a steaming hot bowl of distinctly yellow curry in front of him. Ayn's knife was half-drawn before he told himself it wouldn't be worth it, and sighed as he plucked his fork free from the table. The Hume woman hummed to herself, oblivious, as she walked back into the kitchen.

Sighing, Gaard leaned back in his chair. He placed his near-empty cup back on the tray, giving Ayn a contemplative stare. "As usual, the source of the story is the hardest person to get information from. This is why so many Bard's tales are full of things so hard to believe. We try to talk to the people actually involved, but they're always so damned unapproachable that we end up hearing everything second or thirdhand, and the story gets a little more exaggerated every time."

"Sounds like a hard life." Ayn had to begrudgingly admit that the curry wasn't at all bad, even if it was not what he ordered. Hunger was definitely the best sauce, he decided.

"Ha, you see there? I can now record your sardonic wit into any songs or stories about your exploits. That aspect of your personality might have been lost to history otherwise."

"You know," he replied in a bemused voice, "I am really amazed at how this place finds a new way to make me hate it every day I'm here." Pushing aside his dish to let it cool a bit, he placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. "I don't want to talk to you, or anybody in this stupid place. I want to do whatever it is my Boss needs me for and get back to living my own life. If you want to make me happy, go spread a song around Norg called "Don't Bother Ayn," I'd be an instant fan."

Once again surprising him, he found Gaard now staring at him intently. "Would that make you happy, Ayn? If everybody left you alone?"

"Oh for the love of - " he was just about to finish his sentence when the double doors to the mess hall swung open, and a noisy procession followed.

"Buona sera!" A ringing voice announced. With a flourish, a dashing figure in brilliantly shining armor burst into the room. It was Celtico, one of the crewmen of President's Charybdis. He stood stock still , one arm extended in the air, the other planted on his hip. Unmoving, he stared at the ceiling, until a burst of smoke billowed from behind him with a loud "poof," and in the next moment four more figures had appeared, stretching their arms out dramatically.

"Ta-da!" They all cried at once.

Ayn pushed his face into his palm. "Just what I needed," he moaned.

Argentina's personal retainers approached the counter separating the dining portion of the room from the kitchen. Celtico was in the lead, striding confidently forward in his heavy armor, meticulously styled silver hair cascading down his Elvaan ears. The two other Elvaan, Illidan and Aramyl, followed close behind him. Aramyl had been in Norg for as long as Ayn could remember, serving under Gilgamesh before being transferred to President's operation. He wore thick, black armor not unlike Zealot's, and carried two axes on either side of his waist. His hair was graying, and his face starting to show his age, but he still wore a wide smile. Illidan, by contrast, was younger by a good ten years, his hair still jet black. Most of his armament was a seemingly random assortment of armor with stiff plates covering his shoulders and joints, with a long great katana as his weapon of choice.

Behind the three Elvaan were Kyraska and Tigs. The former was a Hume with black hair, wearing the signature tabard and hat practitioners of the school of Red Mages gravitated towards. Greyheart's own garb was similar, but Kyraska's included a skirt instead of breeches, and was far more form-fitting. Tigs, on the other hand, was a Mithra in very conservative blue robes, leaving much of her figure to the imagination. As close as Ayn could discern, all five of them originated from the same place, and their native tongue was a language highly dissimilar from his own. Fortunately, they knew a few words here and there, so communication was not impossible.

"Quanteria, signora," Celtico spread his hands out on the counter. "Your cooking, signora, such a thing of beauty, stupendo!" The Elvaan brought the tips of his fingers together and kissed them to emphasize his point. "Your pescatora, I have never tasted its like on this side of the ocean. And your meatballs!"

"Deliziso!" Illidan exclaimed, and the others nodded in agreement.

"You're all so kind," she smiled at the pirates. "What can I get for you today?"

"Meatballs!"

"Fettuccine!"

"Pasta!"

"Slow down, slow down," the auburn-haired woman began writing down their orders, stopping only to argue with them about their choices.

Gaard was watching the group with some speculation as Ayn regretted ordering the curry. It was far too spicy for him to wolf down and leave while the Galka was distracted. Sighing, he ate a bit more, half-watching the antics of the foreigners as Quanteria tried to make their menu for them.

"That must be an interesting story." The Bard tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about that lot?"

"They're loud and they eat a lot," Ayn blew on a forkful of his own meal before chewing on it. "What do you care, anyway?"

"Being a Bard is competitive work, Ayn. You always have to be on the lookout for the next subject of a song or tale, or there won't be any demand for your work."

Something about that actually piqued his interest. "I would've thought people only cared about hearing things they're familiar with. The classics."

Gaard shrugged, spreading his hands. "Sure, sure, there's a lot of that, but mostly from the older crowd. The young ones, they want to hear about the latest exploits of the great adventurers and linkshells. They want something to aspire to, the way I see it." With a satisfied sip, he finished off the last of his chai, setting the cup down as he leaned forward. "Have you never heard adventure beckon, Ayn? Is there no greater calling you want to follow?"

Ayn bit down on his dish, tearing it from the fork while keeping his eyes on Gaard. He chewed slowly, dark eyes directing an unsettling gaze the Bard's way, before he swallowed and took a moment to wipe his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his chair back, he stood, looking down his nose at the Galka.

"We're done here. Goodbye, Bard."

Gaard sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head. "Remember, Ayn, we all leave a story behind." Ayn rose slowly, acutely aware of the piercing eyes upon him. "Will yours be worth telling?"

Ayn said nothing, leaving behind the half-finished dish. He had lost his appetite.


"Stupid Bard," he muttered to himself as he wandered the caverns of Norg. The last thing he wanted was people telling stories about him. All he wanted was to be left alone and answerable to nobody but himself. His entire life, it seemed, one person or another was pulling his strings, and just before this demon business got started he had finally started to make his own way in the world. Now he was right back in it, working for other people. Be it his father, his first mentor, or even President, everybody was concerned only with how Ayn could benefit them.

Well no more, he promised himself. He would do the last job President gave him and then catch the first ship headed east. That would take him away from all the grand manipulators trying to use him as well as the idiots he had to deal with along the way.

As if summoned by the thought, Ayn rounded a corner only to nearly collide with Greyheart Hiralda. The Red Mage stopped just short of the Thief, who almost stumbled forward in halting himself. "Ah, Master Ayn," the Elvaan bowed deeply. "So sorry I didn't see you there. Ah, tell me," he glanced about furtively. "Has Miss Kyraska ventured this way? She's a Red Mage you see, from a distant land, and I thought perhaps a . . . cultural exchange would be beneficial."

"Where's Tikinas?" He ignored the gray-haired Elvaan's idiocy. "For that matter, why are you out of your cell?"

Greyheart gave a soft smile. "Yes, that. It seems after ascertaining the stability of the fire crystal, Sir Klistel and Madam Tomiko returned here and were received by Gilgamesh. After hearing the whole story about our encounter with the Duke, it was decided that your . . . fears, shall we say, about us were finally put to rest. We are now allowed to roam Norg freely."

"How great for you." Ayn said flatly. Wonderful, he thought to himself. The crazy dragon lady and her hippy friend were here now, too. "Have you seen Tikinas or not?"

The Elvaan shrugged. "Can she be seen if she doesn't wish to be?" He paused thoughtfully, staring into the distance for a moment. "Though now that I consider the matter, while I was following Miss Pinkfae I heard her - " he stopped, looking at Ayn, and then nonchalantly hooked his thumbs in his belt. "That is to say, our Paladin companion spends much time with Lady Tikinas. Find one and you may find the other - and Miss Pinkfae was on her way to see President."

"Ugh." Ayn's head drooped back, and he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. He drew a frustrated hand down the length of his face.

"Is everything alright?" Greyheart sounded concerned. "Do you need to talk about anything, Ayn?"

"Altana, no," he said emphatically. "Why do people want to talk to me today? Just . . . go make yourself useful somewhere. Get out of my sight."

"Suit yourself," the Red Mage shrugged, "but do be aware that the offer stands, if you ever do - "

"I won't." Ayn brushed past him. He could feel the Elvaan's eyes on him as he walked away, but ignored it. He had nothing to say. Hopefully he'd be able to find Pinkfae easily and avoid talking to President.

Being located within a seaside cave as it was, Norg was a fairly small town. Busy at is was now with pirates, thieves, and spies moving back and forth constantly to try and prepare for war, the central section had become noisy and crowded. For almost two straight weeks it seemed, the harbor was always full with ships moving in or out. Some were carrying refugees brought in from Mindartia or Quon. Others brought in weapons of war, ready to be distributed - for a price, naturally. Occasionally a ship flying a foreign flag would lay anchor, allies from afar called in by Gilgamesh or President. Familiar faces waved at Ayn or shouted greetings as he brushed past the bustle of activity.

Eventually he managed to break through without anyone else trying to stop and talk to him. He thanked Altana for small blessings as he stood before the heavy doors leading to President's office. With a sigh which made his shoulders slump, he rapped on the door, awaiting a response.

It opened a crack at first, and then swung open wide. The stocky, black-coated figure of President stood in the doorway, smiling broadly. "Ayn! Come on in, son, come in." He gestured for him to follow, even as he walked back inside. "Wasn't expectin' ye. Getcha a cup of tea? Brandy?"

"No, thanks," he looked around the room carefully. Besides some basic furniture and a sea chart tacked to the wall, it was practically bare. The only ostentation was an intricately crafted statue resting on the pirate's desk. A black dragon perhaps two feet across was mounted on a wooden stand, gleaming under the torchlight. From the look of it, the scales were actual onyx, and the spikes on its tail fashioned from real ivory. It took him only a moment to realize that two small emeralds made up the eyes, and the teeth were all carefully cut diamonds. The tiny thing probably would have been worth a fortune simply for the level of detail. With all the precious stones involved, Ayn imagined he could buy the port of Mhaura and still have change left over.

He then took a look at President himself as he sat down behind the thick oak desk. With his tattered hat and plain, nondescript clothes, the only thing that stood out about him was his coat. The black-and-gold garment was a masterpiece, probably a greater symbol of authority than any crown or scepter. That was President's way, it seemed. With his room and himself, he picked one thing to stand out, but in a way which left no doubt as to his position.

"I can't stay," he said quickly, "I was just coming to see if Tiki was here. It looks like she isn't so . . . "

"Sit, sit," President gestured towards a chair in front of him. He lit a match, igniting a pipe pressed to his lips and puffing at it slowly. "We've got things to discuss."

"No, I'm really just looking for Tikinas - "

"Ayn." His voice was hard. "Take a seat."

He stood where he was, returning President's flinty gaze. "Look," he began, "I've already agreed to go run your errands for you. There's nothing else to talk about. I only came back to Norg because I had to - as soon as this is done, I'm taking a ship east and forgetting all this ever happened. So I don't have to - "

The knife lodged itself in the wall beside Ayn's ear with a solid thunk, and then a slight ringing sound as the metal vibrated in the wood. He had not even seen the old man move. Even now, he sat at his desk, still calmly puffing his pipe.

"When ye can catch that knife, yer ready t' be calling yer own shots. Until then," he indicated the chair again with the stem of his pipe. "And bring my knife back to me, will ye?"

Ayn felt his face turning red. He had to keep his body from shaking as he reached up, tearing the small blade free. Splinters of the wall came out with it, and with an angered toss Ayn sent it arching through the air, landing point-down in President's desk. The dagger was not nearly as sharp as Ayn's gaze as he sat down.

President shook his head, thin rings of smoke puffing out from his pipe. "Yer so angry at th' world lately," he criticized. "Ain't ye happy to be so useful?"

"Useful," Ayn repeated darkly. "It still means being used."

Tossing back his head, President let out a sigh which sounded more like a growl. His boots stamped on the ground as he leaned forward quickly, taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping ash out into a tray on his desk. "Ye never got over bein' so suspicious of th' whole damn world. I know ye didn't get that from yer father, which means that first master o' yers musta drilled it into yer thick head."

"Let's not bring him up." His tone bordered on acidic. "What do you want to talk to me about?"

President stared hard at him, eyebrows knitting together as his teeth ground down the stem of his pipe. "Fine, son," he finally shook his head, putting another match up to the mouth. "Fine." The old man took a moment to enjoy another long puff, and then his visage drew into the look he always wore when talking business. Ayn had seen it more than enough to recognize the shark-like gleam in his eye.

"Th' first thing I oughtta do is ask ye why we had three people who saved th' whole damn island locked up." He bit into the stem of his pipe again. "But I know ye'll just say somthin' flippant an' brush it off, so, we'll move on." Ayn was a little wounded by that. He had thought of a great flippant response and now it was going to waste. "So let's get down t' th' heart a th' matter. Yer going t' th' Temple a Uggaleppih. Yer takin' th' others with ye, too, because we both know it'll be too dangerous for just you 'n Tiki."

"It's the Temple of Uggalepih, even the monsters in there usually stay clear of people. Don't you need people here? With so many out to sea the security here looks like a skeleton crew."

President shook his head. "We'll be fine. I don't think Norg's gonna fall under attack. But with th' demons stirrin' things up, th' Tonberries are like t' be restless. Take yer friends."

"They're not - ugh, fine." He tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. "Why am I going there in the first place? What in that stupid temple could be so important, anyway?"

"Not what," President corrected, "who."

"Who?" Ayn raised an eyebrow doubtfully. "Only Tonberries live in the Temple."

"Almost true." President took another puff from his pipe before again tapping out the ash. He laid it aside, folding his fingers together as he spoke. "There's one fella in th' deepest, darkest part, an' that sure enough is who yer after."

"You're kidding me."

"Not at all, Ayn. I'm sendin' ye in t' go meet th' South Wind, an' Altana willin', bring him back with ye, too."

Chapter LCVI: Demon of War

The political scene in the Republic of Bastok was not a pretty place. San d'Orians had it easy, for the most part. With all titles and powers assigned hereditarily, only the infrequent heirless noble caused any confusion. All they had to worry about was the occasional coup or civil war. Windurst was even better off, being a theocracy. Once every generation or two they held a fancy ceremony, named a new Star Sibyl, and that was the end of it. There were internal power struggles, to be sure, but those were the games played between politicians. In Bastok the people had the power to elect their own officials, and that meant that any dirty trick in the book to sway public opinion was fair and valid.

To become a leader of men in Bastok meant you were cunning, shrewd, and always on the lookout for the knife about to be stabbed in your back. Winning an election was the easy part compared to surviving politically afterwards. Every action came under scrutiny from opponents, and they in turn passed on their dissent to the voters, often with a good dose of hyperbole. Then there were unions to deal with, activist groups, special interests, lobbyists from powerful mining syndicates - all in all, it was amazing anyone managed to bear the pressure.

That was why Emblim had a great deal of quiet respect for Hrichter Karst. Bastok's President had weathered many a storm both personal and political, and in their current situation he showed not a hint of the intense strain that had to be weighing on him. Dark, smoldering eyes leveled at Emblim were as sharp and penetrating as ever, like a raptor watching its prey from the air. He was still wearing his ridiculous hat, so that took a little bit of the edge off.

"Captain Emblim," the President's tone rode the border between authoritative and snooty, "I understand this is an area you have experience in."

The Hume's eyes drifted around the room. In the Presidential pavillion, a tent three times the size of the next largest down, an emergency evening summit had been called. Karst sat at the head of a crescent-shaped table, the other leaders of Bastok situated around him. All eyes were focused on Emblim and his companions. Erilan, Atreides, Feldin, and Etrien all had gathered, summoned by the council to give testimony in regards to the latest development in the sands of Altepa.

"As you know," Emblim began, "before finding you in Korroloka, we encountered a demon lord, the Marquis Decarabia, in Konschtat Village."

They all shifted uncomfortably at mention of the Kindred lord's name. The horror of the Marquis was still fresh to them, despite the weeks since their battle. Still Emblim could hear the strings of his bloodied harp as he tormented the villagers with his sickening performances. As revolting as his presence was, he was even more formidable an opponent. Had he not underestimated them, they likely would have all been made into parts of his demonic orchestra.

Karst was whispering something to Invincible Shield, the armored Galka nodding silently. Leaning back into his seat, he pyramided his fingers and let his gaze weigh down upon each of them in turn.

"And you killed this demon lord, correct?" He slid one hand back and rested his chin on the thumb, forefinger stretching out over his cheek.

"I sent the devil back to hell, yes," Feldin snapped, looking a shade beyond irritated at being questioned. "Is there a point to any of this?"

A wave of murmers passed through the assembled Bastokans, and Emblim shot him a warning glare. Erilan, on the other hand, barked out a laugh.

"You're not helping," he muttered to the other Paladin, who only rolled his eyes in response.

"The point, Sorcerer Feldin," Karst replied, "is that we have verified the presence of another demon lord within the desert. We are choosing to take you at your word as to how dangerous they are. We want to know if you can kill this one, too."

Emblim was momentarily stunned. He was suddenly very aware of all the eyes on him.

"Wait," Erilan spoke up, stepping in front of his friend. "Why are we concentrating on the demon lord? We don't know anything about what it's doing here yet."

"Furthermore, I fail to see how this problem affects us from San d'Oria." Feldin's brow knit dangerously. "Our only task from this point on is returning to King Destin and informing him that Rabao is safe and determining how to move the royal family here safely."

"And the other survivors from the Kingdom, of course," Atreides said in a not-so-subtle tone to the sorcerer.

He was unruffled. "Of course."

One of Karst's eyebrows slowly rose as each Elvaan spoke in turn. Leaning forward slowly, he let his surprisingly powerful presence call for silence amongst the muttering members of Bastok's council. Once quiet had been restored he spoke again, addressing Feldin directly.

"Sorcerer Feldin, we have decided there are two likely scenarios which have drawn this new demon lord to such close proximity with us." He shifted his gaze to the scarred visage of Commander Volker, leader of Bastok's military, at his side. "Commander, will you inform our San d'Orian friends what it is we have determined?"

"Of course," the brown-bearded Hume cleared his throat, and Emblim caught the grave look in his eye. "The first, most likely case, is that the Kindred have formed an alliance with the Anticans. They have made no move in the desert for the last three weeks save to continue marshaling their forces and making what appears to be preparations to march. The arrival of this demon lord forces us to speculate that they have been waiting for their commander to arrive, and he is it."

"Yes," Karst interjected, "and I doubt the Kindred will want to leave their rear exposed should they march through to Quon. That means Rabao, a San d'Orian principality, will be in grave risk of direct attack by the Antican army."

"Our second theory," Volker continued, looking at Emblim, "is that he is here to exact revenge for the death of the last demon lord, the Marquis Decarabia."

"Tell me, Sorcerer," Karst suddenly barked, clapping his fists down upon the table, "what is the penalty in San d'Oria for murdering a member of the aristocracy?"

Feldin's gaze could have burned a hole through the tent, and he ground his teeth as he responded. "If found guilty of such an onerous crime," he growled, "the family of the noble in question may choose to have another member personally execute the offender."

"I see." The President tapped his fingers against the surface of the crescent-shaped table. "Perhaps now," his tone was quieter, though no less dangerous, "you understand exactly why this situation should be your concern?"

The Elvaan did not reply, though Emblim noticed a spike in the temperature around his person. He uncomfortably moved aside, even as Atreides began speaking.

"Pardon, good sirs, gentlemen of Bastok." He took a step forward, smiling as he rolled the beads around his palm back and forth. "I wonder how we are to go about finding this demon lord and executing him - surely with the Antican army so close by, opportunities to find and strike at the fiend will be slim."

"If the first scenario is true then we are willing to give you time to strategize," Karst replied, once more bringing his fingers into a pyrmaid. "And should the second case be right, this demon lord will likely come to you."

"Mm," Atreides bowed his head slightly. "Your wisdom is appalling."

"Is that the right term?" Emblim heard Etrien whisper.

"Yes," Erilan confirmed, "Yes it is." The other Paladin then cleared his throat, standing tall before the council. "Gentlemen, I have no problem eliminating this Kindred scum, but I don't see why this was necessary. This kind of a gathering reeks of accusation - if you simply wanted us to help you kill a demon lord, you have our support."

"We do not seek your support, San d'Orian," Karst said bitingly. "The only one in this room I am capable of passing down an order to, technically, is Captain Emblim. Emblim, whose ill-advised attempt to pass through the Korroloka Tunnel cut us off from our capitol city entirely. Emblim, whose actions made it impossible to attempt rescue of any of the Bastokan citizens held in slavery by the demons occupying that city."

"Now hold on -" Erilan's tone was scandalized.

"So yes, "Captain" Erilan, I am ordering Emblim to eradicate this demon lord, and do so knowing I will not be risking the lives of any more of Bastok's citizens in the attempt. I simply wanted to make everyone aware of the situation. You San d'Orians may do as you wish. Captain," his stare was a battering ram into Emblim's chest, "you will move at earliest opportunity to kill the demon."

They stood in stunned silence at Karst's outburst. The other council members looked stern, and Emblim knew that this was no surprise to them. This was a decision they had discussed, a consensus they had reached. The worst part of it was that the things they were blaming on him he actually was responsible for. He felt a child being brought to task by his parents.

"President Karst," he replied, slowly bringing his fist up in salute, "as you command."

"Emblim!" Erilan shouted at him.

"Hold still, knight!" Feldin's voice was like a whip. "He has been given an order from his President. This is no less for him than if King Destin himself had spoken to us."

"Then I will stand with him!" Erilan declared. "I will not let my friend confront a demon lord by himself!"

"Your responsibility," Feldin began.

"The royal family will keep, Feldin!" he raged. "What greater threat to them is there than the demon lords in any case?"

"Do what you want," Karst said dismissively. "Our decision has been made. Captain Emblim, be prepared to move out as soon as we locate the demon again."

"Yes, Mr. President," he acknowledged, prompting an angry gaze from Erilan.

"The rest of you are dismissed." Karst waved a gloved hand, indicating the massive tent flaps behind them.

"Come on," Atreides urged them silently. "There is no good in arguing amongst ourselves in front of the council."

"Fine," Erilan agreed, "but the audacity of that man, blaming you for - "

"Excuse me."

They stopped, turning to find Etrien had not moved from where they stood. He was facing down the council, standing eye-to-eye with the President. A tremble went through the young Warrior's body, but only briefly.

"Mr. President?" He went on.

"Your presence here is no longer required, boy," Karst told him, already in discussion with Volker. "Take your leave."

"Mr. President, I would like to be given the task of killing the demon lord as well."

Karst cocked an eyebrow, turning slightly more towards the boy. Emblim stepped forward, clapping a hand on Etrien's shoulder.

"Etrien, stop. Let us handle this."

"President Karst, sir, I was the one who led them to Marquis Decarabia, and I took part in that battle." His voice grew steadier as he spoke. "If the demon is here for revenge, it is as much my fault as anybody's. Also, I am the one who showed Captain Emblim how to get into the city. If there is any blame to be had in what happened after that, I share in it as well."

Karst was staring contemplatively at the young man. "Etrien, stay out of this," Emblim said firmly. "This is a matter for adults."

"Wait," Karst held up a hand. He leaned forward again, rubbing his chin as he settled his elbows on the table. Emblim froze, dreading what was coming next.

The President of Bastok narrowed his eyes, fingers slowly tapping against his desk. "You have a point . . . " he muttered. "But, boy - Etrien, is it? You are neither a Bastokan soldier nor a Musketeer. I cannot order you to do anything directly."

Etrien swallowed audibly. "I understand, sir, but it is my wish to volunteer for the same duty as Captain Emblim."

"Hrm," Kart seemed to mull it over, eyes flicking back and forth between the youth before him and Emblim. "Very well, to that end, based upon established merit in combat, I grant you the rank of Iron Musketeer, 9th class. On a provisional basis, of course, up for review pending the end of this conflict."

"Yes, sir!" Etrien saluted. "I accept!"

"Good, now get out and get ready to be shipped out. Wherever Emblim goes, from now on you're going to follow."

"But sir!" Emblim protested, but Karst was already shooing him out.

"My decision on this stands! Now follow orders, soldier!"

He felt like his teeth might crack. Wordlessly, he spun on his heel and made a beeline for the exit. Not one of the others said a word as he brushed past. His face felt so hot that he was sure he saw steam begin rising when he stepped out into the chill desert air. When he heard the tent flap rustle behind him, the Paladin whipped around, his fury undisguised.

"What are you thinking?" Etrien shrank at the Captain's voice. "Do you know what you're getting yourself into? You were there for Decarabia, Etrien! How can you do this?"

"I - I - " he stammered.

"Dammit, we're trying to keep you safe you little fool! The battlefield is no place for children!"

"I'm not a child!" He shouted, surprising everyone, himself included. "I can take care of myself!"

"How can you - "

"Emblim." He was surprised when a familiar hand clapped his shoulder. Erilan moved beside him, Elvaan eyes looking at Etrien as if seeing him for the first time. "The lad knows what's at stake better than any of us. He's man enough to make his own decisions."

His words felt lodged in his throat. Coherent thought was being lost in a swirl of conflicting emotions as he searched for some way to respond to the other Paladin. It was Etrien who broke the silence, however, drawing their attention back towards him.

"I was there when Decarabia came, Captain," his voice was just above a whisper. "I couldn't do anything to stop him." His head shot up, and his eyes glistened as he shouted. "I'll do whatever I must to keep that from happening again!"

Erilan sighed heavily as Emblim looked at the young man in front of him. Nothing seemed to be the right thing to say.

"I'm going back to my tent," he finally hung his head, giving in. "Good night."

He heard Etrien try to speak up, but Erilan stopped him. Through the cold grasp of Altepa at night, Emblim trudged his way back to the tent he called home, and collapsed into bed.


He did not know how long he was asleep before the glow woke him.

At first he imagined he must be dreaming. Blinking, he lifted himself from his sheets and stared, not comprehending what he was seeing.

There was a light reaching up from the ground. It was dark and purple, practically black, and there was smoke billowing forth from its core. Emblim stared at it, not knowing what to make of this thing. Something about it felt . . . wrong. More than simply the fact that there was a shaft of light swirling forth from nothing in the middle of his tent. It radiated a sensation that made his skin crawl. Within the rapidly moving light, just behind the smoke, he could almost make out distinct faces, contorted in agony.

He began backing away, and as soon as he moved a shaft of light burst from its center and struck him in the chest.

The next thing he knew, sand was covering him. He choked as his throat filled with tiny grains, and his eyes stung as they were assailed. The wind was howling in his ears, and he couldn't free his legs from the ground. Buried past his knees in the sand, he was exposed to the storm raging around him.

"There!" He heard a voice shout. Confused, he turned to see Atreides beside him, pointing at something in the distance. Erilan was there too, he realized, and Feldin. The three San d'Orians were all trapped as he was, trying to keep the raging wind all around them from biting into their flesh.

He followed the Bishop's hand, even as the sense of a presence nearby bombarded him with its force.

Within the storm, standing still and watching them, was a demon.

No, he realized instantly. It was the demon lord.

The fiend stood taller than any of them, taller even than Towering Inferno. He was thick and bulky, massive limbs reaching out from a body like a tree trunk. His wings were also larger than those of other demons, their gnarled black mass draped at his back like a cloak. It stirred in the wind, adding to the effect. The demon itself, however, stood almost completely still, watching them. Its face was hidden behind a helmet, forged from some black steel into the shape of a death's head. Protruding from the sides, stretching down in thick stalks, were the demon's own horns. They ended in skewering points near his neck, protecting the vulnerable area.

Every inch of the demon's body was covered in armor which alternated between jet black and blood red. Spikes stretched out from the joints, and cruel, hooked blades were forged into the shoulders and gauntlets. It was covered in runes Emblim could not even begin to decipher, yet even looking at them turned his stomach. Writ on the monster's body was some dark incantation so profane that it befouled him just by being in its presence.

What most grabbed Emblim's attention was its weapon. Slung over one shoulder, the demon had an axe unlike anything he had ever seen. The blade alone was the size of a grown man, a length of ebon steel the Hume was sure he could lay down upon without falling off. Opposite the axehead on the other side of the weapon's thick shaft, three more blades, these shaped like scythes, stretched out like claws from a tiger. It had to be nearly as long as the demon himself, and at the bottom a crushing steel mace surmounted with spikes completed the atrocious instrument.

Without moving, the demon spoke, and the ground trembled.

"You are the ones who slew the Marquis Decarabia."

They all buckled beneath its voice. In it was the sound of a thousand bones splintering, a thousand fires raging, a thousand swords clashing. In just hearing his voice, Emblim felt like he was in the heart of the most disastrous battle he could imagine.

"We are!" Feldin's voice rose defiantly over the sands. "It was by our hands the monster fell, and we will kill you, too, demon!"

"Yes," it replied, "you will try."

Firmly, the demon planted its axe in the ground. The resulting shockwave nearly tore Emblim free from the sand, rattling his teeth in his skull. Around the weapon a wave of blond grains shot forth, pelting them mercilessly as the wind continued to howl.

With two clawed hands, the demon slid his helmet free, and the four of them felt the same tremor of fear simultaneously.

Burning in the Kindred's skull were two eyes which literally blazed. Tongues of flame licked the air from behind the demon's mouth and within its burning sockets. Beneath his flesh they could see veins of fire pulsing, and with each movement his eyes scattered sparks into the air.

"Decarabia was the least of us," he bellowed, flames dripping from his maw. "He knew nothing of war. He could not savor the sight of his enemy scattered before him. He never felt the jolt up his arm after severing a body's limbs. He knew not the sweet taste of blood running down his throat. Decarabia was a pompous fool."

"Why," Atreides shielded himself against the wind slicing into them, shouting above it, "why have you brought us here?"

With one mighty hand, the demon swept up the great axe he held. Its' blade cleaved through the sand, rending the earth it struck as he leveled it at them. "So that I could properly declare myself. Because I am not Decarabia. I do not slink through tiny villages. I leave them as rubble in my wake. My task has no audience, no bystanders. It involves everyone, touches everything, sweeps it all together within my grasp so that I might crush it!" He swung his weapon aside, sending another blast of wind howling through them. "I am Count Zaebos, mortal specks! I am war!"

Emblim was bleeding, the sand scratching skin from his body as it roared past. He was forcing his legs to remain upright, trying desperately to pull himself free, when just like that, the sand was gone.

Emblim sat alone in his tent. There was no strange light. The wind outside sounded calm and steady.

But there was still blood from his shredded skin dripping down in thick rivulets where the sand had torn at him.

As he pulled back fingers red and wet, a final declaration rung in his ears.

"I am here for you," it said in a voice like steel grinding.

"And I am inevitable."