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From: [e-mail] (Eric T. Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: STORY:  The Outlander  Chapter 7
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Date: 26 Jun 1995 15:06:06 -0400
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***************************************************************
What has gone before:  A mysterious outlander bearing a
tragic curse and an unholy artifact of limitless power has
arrived in Generica.  He calls himself Jake Shade.  While
returning from a drunken outing with his friend Tadmaster
the Mage, Shade rescued a beautiful young female thief from
the hands of Grace; a corrupt Lieutenant in the City Watch.
In addition to making an enemy out of Grace, Shade has earned
the enmity of several powerful factions whose designs he has
inadvertently thwarted by rescuing Yvette.  The raven-haired
Yvette is even now fleeing agents of these factions in the
company of her teenage brother, Winder.
***************************************************************






          Chapter 7:  Debt of Dishonor




     Tad and Yvette moved through the predawn streets like
two phantoms flitting through a churchyard.  They stayed in
shadow whenever possible, avoiding the main avenues whenever
they could.  Finally their objective drew within sight.

     Before them reared a massive building, three stories
high. Once the home for dozens of separate families, it now
stood quiet and dark, seemingly deserted. All the doors and
windows on the ground floor were shut and barricaded.  The
windows on the second and third floors were devoid of life,
black holes staring out into the heart of the Low City like
the empty sockets of a skull.

"What is this place?" Yvette asked in a fearful whisper.

"It is called the Fastness," Tad told her, equally quiet.
"I know some people that will let us stay here."

     Winder led Yvette around the corner.  Down the street
was an entrance to the building which was not sealed off.
Two men barely out of their teens stood by the entrance
with the air of experienced loiterers.

     The presence of the two men here at this hour made no
sense.  If they had been hanging around in such a manner
anywhere else but the Low City, the Watch would have run
them off.  Yvette realized abruptly that the two men were
not vagrants but were in fact guards. Winder raised his arm
to the men as he and Yvette approached.  It was an odd sort
of gesture, almost a salute.

"Hello Winder," one of the men said, returning the gesture
smoothly.

"I need to move into the Fastness for a few days, maybe a
few weeks." Winder said.

"No problem, Brother Winder.  You are welcome to stay as
long as necessary.  You should know that."

     Yvette felt like she had entered some kind of waking
dream.  Winder had obviously been living a double life for
some time, one she had never suspected. She had no idea who
these people were or how he might have met them, but he was
now obviously part of the same group.  The solemnity with
which they treated Winder - a youth still a few weeks short
of his sixteenth birthday - should have been comical.
Instead, she found it frightening.

"Who's the babe, Winder?  You thinkin' of shackin' up?"

    One of the two ruffians leered at Yvette in a suggestive
manner.  Yvette felt a surge of anger but suppressed it.  It
was time to let Winder handle things.

    Winder scowled at the man.  "She's my sister, weebo."

    The young man's demeanor changed almost instantaneously.
"Sorry about that, Winder. You and your sister go right in."

     The other man opened the heavy door of the Fastness for
them.  Winder took Yvette's hand and led her into the dark-
ness beyond the door. The door slammed shut behind them with
what felt like a note of finality. Yvette felt as if she had
been swallowed by some huge leviathan; one which would never
disgorge her to see the sun again.





        *********************






     It was a little before dusk when Jake Shade awoke in
suite #13 on the third floor of the Stumble Inn. Naked under
his cotton sheet, Shade sat up and rubbed his cheek.  The
skin was still rough where Grace had slashed him the night
before.  The wound was almost healed, one of the advantages
of his curse.  At least the pain was gone.

     Shade's rooms were sparsely furnished.  At his request,
Trestle had removed most of the lavish furnishings and
ornamentations.  Shade preferred his quarters spartan; it
made it easier for him to depart when that time came.  The
outlander had been on the move for a long time.  He did not
expect things to change here in Generica.

     Suddenly Shade became aware that he was not alone in
the room. Sitting at the table in one of two chairs was a
tall, clean-limbed man with dark hair and eyes.  The out-
lander's jaw dropped as he recognized the figure. The brown
clad man looked Shade in the eyes and smiled.

"It is a good day to die, Storm Hawk." the man said before
vanishing completely.

     Shade leaped out of bed.  Shock had weakened his legs,
he had to grab the headboard to steady himself.  He took a
deep breath, then walked over to the table and lifted the
yellow bottle which sat upon its surface.  The seal was un-
broken; it had not been opened. That ruled out the simplest
explanation for his vision of a moment ago.

     The outland warrior walked over to one of his suite's
windows and opened it; letting in the pre-dawn air.  The
air was cool and fresh, lifted by a gentle wind from the
nearby harbor.  Shade looked out into the streets. They were
quiet; the hustle and bustle of the awakening city was still
an hour or so away.

    Shade turned and eyed the bottle.  After a long moment,
he walked over to the table and picked it up.  The air
bubbles inside slid slowly through the yellow liquid as he
tilted the bottle first one way and then the other. A long
time passed before he carried it over to the chest which sat
in one corner, placing the bottle inside. Sighing, he sat
down on the chest and put his head on his knees. The ghosts
were coming back.





        **********************








      The two men standing outside Falchion's door winced
as the sound of splintering furniture came to them through
it.  They knew better than to look inside.  Various crashes
and thumps continued behind the door for quite some time.

"Man, he is pissed off BIG time," the red-headed man commented
to his partner, a large black man with a clean-shaven head.

"It's a bad one all right," the black man agreed.  "Ghirken
fucked up in a BIG way last night."

     His partner winced as the sound of breaking glass came
to them.  "He usually gets it under control faster than this,"
the redhead observed nervously.

"Grace and that Archmage have been putting the screws to the
boss in a big way.  They want that talisman and they want it
yesterday.  Add that to the fact that Bungg got trashed last
week and I'm surprised he didn't blow sooner."

"I knew we should have had the Barons handle it," the red-
head told his partner.  "More legs means a tighter net means
nobody slips through."

     The big black man looked at his friend skeptically. "You
ain't second guessin' the 'Man', are you Rust?" he asked.

"Hondrae, do I look that stupid?" Rust asked him.

"For a minute you did," Hondrae replied.

     The noises from Falchion's office subsided.  The two
men clammed up and stood a little straighter, knowing that
orders would be coming soon. After a minute, the door cracked
open an inch.

"Get in here, you two."

      They filed inside the office.  Except for the large
desk in the center of the room, there was no item within that
had not been destroyed.  The two men studiously ignored the
devastation, keeping their eyes front and center.  The straw-
haired man who had wreaked this havoc stood in the center of
the room with his back turned towards them.

"Hondrae, I want you to take Malfaedor's commission back to
him.  Tell him we'll absorb the cost of acquiring and trans-
porting the talisman as compensation for losing it on this
side of the ocean.  That crazy necromancer has already got
Grace and somebody else working on the recovery, so he might
let us off the hook."

     Falchion turned around.  His features were absolutely
calm and serene.  It was if the explosion of anger which had
wrecked the office had never occurred.

"Rust, I want you to take a message to Garman.  Tell him I
have a commission for he and Ironbar.  A very lucrative one.
Tell him I want him here as fast as possible.

"You got it boss," Rust said, turning for the door.  Falchion's
voice caught him before he made it through.

"Tell Garman that it's his chance to even the score for
Bunggarelli."







        *************************






     Ironbar emptied another bottle of wine and threw the
empty bottle into the tavern's fireplace.  It shattered
spectacularly, some of the glass spraying out over the
hearth and onto the floor.  The bartender glared at him
venomously, but didn't dare to say anything.

     Perhaps that had to do with Ironbar's size, which was
a lot closer to seven feet than it was to six; or the fact
that the big man had seen frontline action in the Middle
Marches campaign. Perhaps it had to do with his temperament,
which had been only a notch shy of homicidal ever since his
return from that desert wasteland.  Or perhaps it was
because of the two inch diameter, sixty pound iron quarter-
staff that leaned against the wall within arm's reach.  It
was from that fierce weapon that the giant mercenary took
his name.

     The door to the tavern opened, spilling bright light
into the gloomy interior.  Ironbar snarled as pain flared
in his bloodshot eyes.  His resentment faded as he saw that
it was his old friend Garman.  The wiry mercenary picked up
a wine bottle at the bar and brought it over to his table.

"I've got a big contract, Ironbar." Garman said without
preamble.  "I need you to come in on this one."

     Ironbar looked at the man across from him.  Garman's
skin had picked up a dark tan in the Middle Marches that
had never really faded.  His flesh looked as if it were
molded from some kind of lightly wrinkled leather.  The
blue eyes that stared back at Ironbar from Garman's dark
face were such a contrast to his skin that they were almost
a shock.

"What the fuck is this, Garman?" Ironbar's voice was a deep
rumble.  "'Hi Ironbar, I need you for a job!' Where's the
'Hello, how are you, long time no see?'"

"Yeah well, I'm sorry that I hurt your sensitive feelings you
fucking fragile desert flower," Garman growled back, opening
the bottle of wine.  "This is important.  I don't have time
to massage your delicate sensibilities."

     Ironbar would have killed another man for talking to
him like that.  In the past, he had.  However Garman had a
lot of leeway in that regard.  A whole lot of leeway.

"Well, you better start massaging like a five gold-piece
Blue House Girl, because I haven't changed my mind about
giving up the 'business'."

     Garman scoffed. "Ironbar, you couldn't give up selling
that brawny arm of yours if you wanted to.  Killing is the
only thing you're any good at. You don't know how to do any-
thing else."

      Although Ironbar was happy to see his friend, his good
will was running out.  "I'm serious Garman.  I've been think-
ing it over ever since I got back from the Marches.  All the
heat in my blood got frozen out back at Ragnarock. If I never
fight again, it will be too soon for me.  I'm done with it."

     Garman looked at Ironbar thoughtfully over the wine
bottle.  He took a deep draught, wiping his lips on the back
of his arm.  The wiry mercenary knew his big friend meant what
he said.  He also knew that Ironbar had no other talents with
which to make a living.  Garman pitied his friend for the
dilemma he would be facing in the months to come.

"Well, that's a noble ambition Ironbar.  You'll have to delay
turning over that new leaf for a day or two, though."

"Why's that?" Ironbar asked reluctantly.

"First, I need your help.  The target is a first degree bad-
ass.  Some outlander with a talent for mayhem.  Falchion
wants at least five guys on this.  I'm going for at least
six, besides myself."

     Ironbar chuckled. "A little extreme for one man, don't
you think?"

"You tell me.  I'm putting you in charge of this one.  You
can decide for yourself after you look into it."

    Ironbar was starting to get annoyed at Garman's persist-
ance.  "I told you that I was -"

Garman cut him off. "You haven't heard the other two reasons."

"Feel free to finish up any time then," Ironbar growled.

"The second reason is the amount Falchion is laying out for
this job.  If you're going to quit the merc business, you'd
better have a decent amount of cash laid aside to keep that
big carcass of yours fueled.  This is your opportunity."

"How much?" Ironbar asked, in spite of himself. Garman named
a figure.  Ironbar whistled appreciatively.  "Falchion must
really have a hard-on for this guy.  What'd he do?"

"That's the other reason. This outlander is the guy who fried
our pal Jacobius last week.  You remember Bungg, don't you?"

     Ironbar glanced at the crude tattoo etched into his brawny
left forearm.  Garman had one just like it.  So did Bungg.

"I remember him.  I guess that makes this a debt of honor."

"So that's it then.  You're in, right?"  Garman wanted to be
sure.

"I'm in." Ironbar agreed.  "I'll get the other guys for you,
if you want.  I know several guys with experience that are
in town.  They're way above the ordinary cut of sell-sword.
Real professionals."

"Any chance you could get ol' V.T.?" Garman asked hopefully.

"Who, Vlad?" No, he took off for parts unknown awhile ago,
him and that pseudo-dragon of his."

"That's too bad," Garman said wistfully. "Vlad really knew
his shit."

"These other guys aren't exactly lightweights," Ironbar said
somewhat angrily.  "They won't be cheap either."

"That's okay.  Falchion says there's more money if we need
it."

"That figures.  He was always one to take care of his debts.
Although I don't see him getting concerned enough to do any
of his own wetwork."

"C'mon, Ironbar.  He's above that shit now. You don't really
expect the 'Man' to stoop back down to street level, do you?"

"You're damn right I do!" Ironbar rumbled.  "Falchion was
there with the rest of us.  He should be here now.  A debt
of honor means that you handle it personally.  It means you
don't farm it out for someone else to handle like it was
yesterday's pail of slops.  I know it . . . and you know it
too.  That's why we're going to do this thing."

"I'm gonna do it 'cuz there's a shitload of money in it, pal.
The fact that we get to nail the weebo that took down Bungg
is just gravy."

"I don't believe that, Garman." Ironbar told his friend.

     Garman pulled the bottle of wine away from Ironbar and
polished it off.  "Yeah, well you believe whatever you want
to Ironbar.  Just be sure you handle this job right. I need
you at your best. Anything less, and we'll all end up dead."







        ***********************








     It was late evening before Tadmaster managed to cut
himself loose from the academy.  He hurried up and down the
usual streets were the Happy Mage could be expected to appear.
When he found it, he wondered if the outlander had been able
to locate the place.

     The moment that Tad set foot into the Happy Mage, he
realized that not only had Shade found the tavern, he had
been drinking for a long time.  The outlander was sitting
in his usual place against the back wall of the tavern, a
dour expression on his face. The silver-haired young Mage
sighed when he recognized the mood Shade was in.

    It might be a long night. Tad had learned that Jake was
not a man who did things half way.  When he was in a bad
mood, it was not likely to be a spell of mild grumpiness.
Tad stopped at the bar on his way over to grab some forti-
fication.

     The young Mage was beginning to understand that there
was some kind of tragedy in Jake's history.  It was not
something that the outlander talked about, but it was there
all the same.  There was a pain deep inside Shade, a wound
that festered but would not heal.  Usually the outlander was
the best of companions, but when a large quantity of alcohol
was mixed in with that wound, some of that pain began to
bleed out of him.  Not without reservations, Tad took a
seat at his friends table.

"What kind of name is the 'Happy Mage' anyway?" Shade asked,
suddenly.

"Huh?" Tad said, not sure that he had heard correctly.

"I said, what kind of name is the 'Happy Mage'?  For a bar
I mean."

"What the hell brought that up?" Tad wanted to know.  "The
tavern's main clientele are adepts and students from the
Mage's Academy.  When they drink, they enjoy themselves.
Hence: the Happy Mage'."

"It's a stupid name," Shade snarled. Tad belatedly realized
that Shade was drinking, and he wasn't happy.  Then again,
he wasn't a Mage, either.

"Back in Aurauna, they had some great names for Mage Taverns.
The Soused Sorcerer.  The Wailing Warlock.  Now those were
some bars.  The 'Happy Mage'. . . Feh!"

    Tad was beginning to feel a bit defensive about the whole
thing.  "I can't believe that I'm sitting here defending the
name of a tavern to you," the slight scholar said in a bemused
tone.

     Shade took a drink of his ale and curled his lip. "Man,
I've yet to encounter a good beer in this city.  Some day
I'm going to show these Genericans how to brew."

     Tad sighed in exasperation.  He liked Shade immensely,
sort of like the older brother he had never had.  But when
the outlander's mood turned black, it blocked out every ray
of sunshine in the city.  The young Mage took a sip of his
cold filtered, micro-brewed, dry ice Budvaeider.  It tasted
fine to him.  Tad screwed up his courage.

"What's with you today, Jake?  You're like a cow with curdled
milk.  Completely sour."

"More like a fine wine that's aged right on through maturity
and all the way to vinegar," Shade opined, lightening up a
degree or two.

     Tad decided that it was safe to ask questions.  "So
what's made you so bitter tonight?" he asked.

"It hasn't been a good day, Tad.  All day, I've had this
feeling that I'm being watched."

"By who?" Tad asked, secretly wondering if his friend had
surpassed his tolerance for alcohol.

     Shade took another drink from his tankard.  "When you
get the chance, let your gaze wander past that guy in the
corner.  Don't stare at him, just pass your eyes over him
and look at something else for a few seconds."

     Tad did as his friend had instructed.  The man Shade
had indicated was a nondescript sort of fellow with hair
that was thinning and a bushy black beard.  He looked like
a laborer of the common sort, not something a swordsman
like Shade would normally be worried about.

"What about him?" Tad asked.

    Shade looked at the young Mage with a peculiar sort of
expression.  Tad felt a slow, sinking feeling in his stomach.
Something told him that he failed some sort of test; failed
to live up to the outlander's expectations somehow.

"Look at him again," Shade ordered. "Use the Primal Eye this
time."

    Tad was astonished that Shade even knew about the Primal
Eye.  Also known as the Eye of True Seeing, it was one of
the last things that a Dreamweaver was schooled in before
donning the mantle of Mage.  The silver-haired Mage shelved
his questions for later and concentrated on opening the Eye.
After a moment, he turned back towards the corner.

     Tad's jaw dropped wide with astonishment.  Shade kicked
him under the table, hard.

"Ow!" Tad turned towards the outlander angrily and froze.
The Primal Eye was still open.  Seen through the Eye, the
outlander looked very different.

     Shade realized what Tad was doing and raised his left
hand, which bore a ring set with a large emerald.  The gem
strobed with a brilliant green flare, blinding the Eye.  A
sharp burst of pain stabbed through Tad's forehead.

"Don't ever do that again," the outlander snarled.  The
young Mage was abashed; to turn the Primal Eye on a friend
was an insult of no small consequence.  None of the other
patrons of the tavern were disturbed; the flash had been
magical and only seen by the Eye.

"Why did you kick me?" Tad asked, rubbing his shin under the
table.

"You were staring at it.  You almost gave the whole game
away."

     Tad's mind turned back to the figure sitting at the
corner table less than forty feet away.

"What is that thing?  I've never seen anything like it?"

"We had something like it back in Aurauna.  It's called an
Astral Hunter.  It tunes in to the unique aura of its victim
in order to achieve a sort of lock. Once it has accomplished
that, it can follow its quarry forever, even into other
planes of existence."

"Is it tracking you?" Tad asked, horrified.

"Yes." Shade's voice was grim.

"Did it follow you from Aurauna?" Tad asked, sneaking another
peek at what once again appeared to be a bearded man having
a well deserved ale at the end of a long day.

"No.  It didn't lock on to me until I walked into the this
tavern.  I sensed it when it happened."

"I think I remember something about Astral Hunters," Tad
said slowly.  He dragged the reluctant memory out of the
dark attic of his mind and into the daylight.  "Only an
Archmage can summon one of them and set it on the hunt." He
looked at his outland friend somewhat fearfully.

"Yeah," Shade agreed with him, "But I don't recall pissing
off any Archmages lately."

"Worry about that later," Tad advised him. "How are you
going to handle that thing?"

"I have a plan," Shade confided.

    Tad groaned.  "I was afraid you were going to say that."



        **************************



     Ironbar met Garman at the appointed place.  With him
were three men of his acquaintance.  Garman had another three
with him.  Together, they were a rough looking lot.  The men
wore armor that had seen hard use and bore weapons that had
been bloodied often.  Despite the wear on their gear, the men
kept it in excellent condition.  They were professionals.

"Did you find him?" Ironbar rumbled.

     Garman looked up at his giant friend.  "Yeah, I found
him.  He's been hanging around with a Mage from the Academy.
It was easy to tail the Mage until he hooked up with the
outlander.  That stupid wizard never even knew we were
following him."

"A Mage, eh?" Ironbar asked.  "That changes the equation
somewhat." The big man did not look too thrilled at the news.

"It's no problem," Garman assured him.  "We'll just keep an
eye on them until they separate.  We'll jump the outlander
as soon as he's alone.  After all, we're not getting paid
to take down the Mage."

     The other mercenaries murmured in agreement.  Some of
them had faced wizards before.  A Mage could be killed, but
it was not something a man would want to attempt if it could
be avoided.

"Let's go." Ironbar said.







        ***************************








"Are you ready?" Shade asked quietly.

     Tad did not reply.  He lifted his tankard to his lips
with a shaky hand.  He took a sip of ale but tasted nothing.
His breathing was beginning to quicken and he could not slow
it down.

     Shade reached across the table and squeezed Tad's
forearm.  "I know you're nervous Tad.  If you don't want to
go through with, I'll understand."

     For a second, Tad felt relieved that Shade had given
him a way out.  Then shame burned in his face.  "I'm not
nervous Jake," he lied.  "I was just getting into the right
frame of mind.  I'm ready now."

     Shade smiled at his young friend encouragingly. "That's
the spirit Master Tad.  Don't worry, I've done this plenty
of times before. They look tough on the outside, but they're
not so much if you confront them directly."

     Tad nodded.  The two men stood up casually.  After
tossing a few coins down to cover their bill, they headed
for the back door.  As they opened it, the bearded man in
the corner stood up.  As the two men stepped out into the
alley behind the Happy Mage, Shade slammed the door behind
them."

"Quickly Tad!" he implored.




     The Astral Hunter threw the door open with more than
human strength.  The door slammed back against the outside
wall of the tavern with a crash.  It glided out into the
alley with a weird, gliding walk, looking about itself. Less
than ten paces away, the outlander waited for it.

"I thought you'd find your way out here," Shade said grimly.

    The Astral Hunter let out an otherworldly humming noise.
There was a note of satisfaction in the sound.  It began to
glide forward, towards the waiting outlander.  Suddenly, it
halted.  Something was wrong.  The stalker from beyond cocked
its head, looking around with a puzzled air.

     It was too late.  A muscular form materialized out of
the shadows behind it, blades flashing.  The swords ripped
through the air with such speed that it looked as if there
were a dozen of them, all slashing through the Hunter's
human looking form with ruthless violence.

     The Astral Hunter tried to wrap its arms around its
assailant.  Its attacker continued to plunge the gleaming
blades into it again and again, until it collapsed in the
litter-strewn alley.  Victorious, the sword wielding warrior
threw back his head and let out a blood-curdling howl of
triumph.

"That was pretty impressive," Shade told himself over the
fallen body of the creature.

"Thank you," the outlander replied as his twin's form began
to shimmer and blur.  After a few seconds, his doppleganger
transformed itself into a frail looking silver-haired young
man.

"I didn't think that your plan would work," Tad confessed.
He handed Shade's cloak back to him.  "I guess wearing an
item of your clothing in addition to the illusion spells
helped confuse its aura tracking senses."

"I don't know," Shade said doubtfully.  "It looked like it
caught on just before I jumped it.  Good thing I moved fast.
I think we were a second or two from losing the element of
surprise."

"Speaking of the element of surprise . . ." a strange voice
reverberated in the close confines of the alley.

     Startled, the two men whirled to see the torn body of
the bearded man floating into a vertical position.

"I thought you said you'd done this before!" Tad shouted in
a panicked, accusing voice.

"I was trying to reinforce your confidence," Shade told him.
"I embellished the truth a little bit."

"You lied!" Tad shrieked in disbelief.

     The Astral Hunter began to shed the torn husk that made
up its disguise.  Long strips of skin began to peel away and
dissolve in midair.  Its true form began to slowly become
visible.  It floated in the air above the two men, looking
like nothing so much as a human-shaped tornado with two
glowing eyes. At the end of its long arms, the air shimmered
with the suggestion of razor-sharp claws.

"The hell with this!" Shade blurted out.

     Tad looked at his friend.  As the Astral Hunter began
to move towards the two men, the Mage became aware of a high
pitched shrieking noise that grew louder and louder.  At
first he thought the sound was coming from their otherworldly
stalker, but even the Astral Hunter ceased advancing and
started looking for the source of the sound.  Suddenly, the
creature looked up.

    A tremendous explosion rocked the alley.  Tad was thrown
violently off his feet, slamming into the ground with bone-
jarring force.  The ground shook with an aftershock as dust
filled the air, obscuring everything.  Tad waited for the
earth to stop spinning before he opened his eyes.

     Shade helped the young Mage to his feet.  The dust
cleared and Tad worriedly looked for a sign of the Astral
Hunter.  Just below where the otherworldly demon had been
floating, the ground had collapsed into a ten foot diameter
crater.  The back wall of the Happy Mage was cracked and
sagging out into the alley as if near collapse. It was as
if a meteorite had struck exactly where the Astral Hunter
had been.

"What the hell was that?" Tad asked.

"It's a spell I was saving for an emergency." Shade told
him.  "I call it the Adamantite Anvil from Andromeda. Or AAA
for short."

"Stupid name for a good spell," Tad said. "I was starting to
suspect that you were a Mage of some sort.  The shadows back
there aren't that dark, you were using some sort of invis-
ibility spell."

"You don't live as long as I do without picking up a trick
or two," Shade dissembled.

"How long is that exactly, Shade?  When I first met you, I
thought that you were in your early thirties.  It's becoming
apparent to me that you're somewhat older."

     Their discussion was interrupted by a loud bang.  The
back door of the Happy Mage was apparently jammed in its
frame as a result of the concussion.  The patrons of the inn
were pounding something against it in an effort to open the
door.  It was obvious that within minutes there would be a
large number of people crowding into the alley to investigate.
Neither man felt a pressing need to unburden his soul to
any inquisitors.  They dashed from the alley.







        ***************************






     Yvette awoke with a start.  For a moment she fought off
panic as the unfamiliar surroundings seemed to close on her
threateningly.  Then she remembered where she was and the
claustrophobic sensations dwindled.  She sat up on her straw
sleeping mat and tried to recall what had awakened her.

     The air in the room was close.  Humid.  Yvette's skin
was slick with a sheen of perspiration that would not evap-
orate.  Her bangs hung limply in front of her eyes.  The
window, open to the street below, was no relief.  There was
no cool summer breeze to stir the hazy air.  To her left
Winder slept, oblivious to the heat and snoring softly.

    The interior of the Fastness was quiet, completely silent
like some forgotten, underground tomb.  No mouse creeping in
search of a meal, no drunks staggering home late from a night
of carousing.  There was no explanation for why she had woken
from her sound sleep.

     Puzzled, she lifted her left hand and began toying with
the talisman that hung on a silver chain around her neck.
The moment her hand closed around it, a vision flashed behind
her eyes.  Urgent.  Immediate.  Yvette did not question the
vision; she knew why she had awakened.

     Silently, Yvette got to her feet.  Momentarily she
considered changing into her street-clothes, but she would
have to step over her brother to retrieve them.  Afraid of
waking him, she moved to the open window in her frayed night-
gown.  She grabbed the window ledge and slowly, quietly,
lowered herself out the window.

     She hung at arm's length along the outside of the huge
complex known as the Fastness.  Arms burning from the strain,
she hunted carefully with her toes for purchase on the rough,
stone wall.  Finding it, she let go of the window ledge with
one hand, using it to search for a crack or projection that
would support even part of her weight.  She continued on this
way; moving slowly, inexorably downward.  It took her nearly
five minutes just to descend far enough to drop the rest of
the way to the cobblestones below.

     Yvette landed noiselessly, like a cat.  She stood there
motionlessly for a moment; listening for any signs of life
coming from the window above.  Satisfied, she set off in the
direction of the river which runs through Generica, the river
known as the Ceruputhon.








        **************************







    Shade was halfway home from the Mage's Academy when he
sensed the men shadowing him.  There were eight of them.
Shade took a few deliberate wrong turns in order to confirm
his suspicions.  They were definitely following him.

     Shade turned down a small side street, and picked up
his pace.  Before his pursuers turned that corner, he ducked
into an arched opening and started to jog.  He came up short
against a brick wall.  He was in a courtyard.

"Oops." Shade said.

     He whirled and jogged back in the direction he had come.
The outlander was approaching the archway when the eight men
fanned out in front of him, blocking his way.  They had not
come to ask him directions.

 I do not know you men," Shade stated calmly. "Perhaps this
is a mistake."

"No mistake, friend," Ironbar denied, "You're the outlander
we've been looking for."

    Ironbar began to slowly twirl the heavy metal staff from
which he took his name.  Behind him, his men fanned out to
either side, weapons gleaming in the moonlight.  Shade un-
sheathed his shortswords, holding the blades almost casually
by his sides.

"You've been looking for me? " the outlander asked. "Perhaps
this is a matter of honor, then?"  Shade grinned, his smile
somewhat sardonic.  Ironbar felt a flush of shame creeping
up the back of his neck.  The men behind him began to fidget.

"I wish that I could say that it was only that, outlander.
Instead, I must inform you that it is also a matter of gold."

"Ah, gold."  The outlander smiled knowingly. "What man among
us has not felt its sweet allure, has not heard its Syren
song?"  The outlander's demeanor seemed to signify rueful
acceptance of an unpleasantness that could not be avoided.
He backed further into the courtyard.

     Ironbar could feel the eagerness of the men with him.
They were anxious, like wardogs straining against the leash.
Ironbar did not share their anxiety to set upon the outlander.
Something at the back of his mind told him to approach this
warrior cautiously.

"I heard a story last week," Ironbar mused aloud, "A man
tore four gangmembers apart with his bare hands in an alley
over by the fishmarket.  Was that your handiwork by any
chance?"

Shade bowed with sardonic grace. "It must be that I heard a
Syren call of my own," he admitted.

"Enough of this conversational bullshit!" one of the merc-
enaries with Ironbar growled, leaping forward, His sword
gleamed in a deadly arc as he attacked. The other men, more
seasoned, remained by Ironbar's side as the lone mercenary
rushed headlong at the outlander.





"Nice moves," Ironbar commented about three seconds later.

     Shade bowed to him again, then kicked the downed man's
sword across the courtyard. The mortally wounded mercenary
thrashed at Shade's feet for a moment.  A cry rattled in his
throat, then he expired in a frothing cough of blood.

"That man had no discipline," Ironbar observed. His look at
the other men signified that they should learn from this
incident.  One or two of them nodded in silent ascent.

"Shall we get down to it, then?" Ironbar asked politely,
turning towards the outlander.

"I'll bring it to you." Shade told him.  Suddenly, the out-
lander rushed their line.

     Ironbar leapt forward to meet the outlander, who was
charging directly at him. The huge mercenary sent a crushing
blow from his iron staff whistling towards the outlander's
head. The outlander's rush was a feint, he veered to Ironbar's
left at the last second, dodging the blow with ease.

     Shade crossed swords momentarily with the second man
to Ironbar's left; but that too was a feint.  The outlander
veered off yet again and attacked the leftmost man in their
line.  Shade ran the man through with a lightning thrust.

     The man dropped dead in his tracks.  Shade now stood at
a right angle to the mercenaries' original line.  They had
to swing their line around and advance over their dead body
of their companion in order to continue their attack.

     Seasoned warriors, the men were too canny to attack
the outlander singly.  When they reengaged him, Shade was
forced to deal with three of them at once.  He countered a
flurry of vicious attacks while he tried to circle them
clockwise.  He failed.

     Under pressure, Shade gambled on a two-pronged attack.
It partially succeeded, he killed one mercenary and hamstrung
another.  The third man, relieved of the need to defend him-
self for a split second, managed to cut the outlander high on
his left arm before he could reestablish his guard.

"The odds begin to tell."  Ironbar observed quietly.

    Shade snarled at the big man and rushed them again.  The
wild attack seemed pointless.  It had no other effect than
driving them all back a few paces.

"Better conserve your energy." Ironbar told him.

"Don't waste advice on your elders," Shade retorted.

     The outlander leapt backwards, rising high in the air.
He landed squarely with both feet on the skull of the man
he had previously hamstrung.  The man's scream was cut short
as his skull crunched like an eggshell against the cobble-
stones.

    Ironbar was appalled at the ruthlessness of the act. He
exchanged a glance with Garman, who had gone pale. This was
not going as planned.  The outlander had not even looked
behind himself to check his aim.  It was if he had eyes in
the back of his head.

    Unbidden, a battle-cry came to Ironbar's lips; one he
had heard in the cold wastelands of the Middle-Marches; but
never uttered himself until now. He sprang forward, smashing
his iron staff down upon the outlander; intending to end the
battle with a single mighty blow.

"Let's finish this!" Garman shouted from behind Ironbar,
rushing forward to help his compatriot.  The other two
mercenaries followed, knowing that their only chance of
survival lay in overwhelming the outlander.

     They pressed the attack, pressuring Shade relentlessly.
He fell back before them, parrying with an intensity born
of desperation.  His skill and speed were inhuman. He might
have prevailed had they all wielded swords, but Ironbar's
weighty metal staff could not be parried, only dodged.

     Shade cried out in agony as Ironbar's massive staff came
sweeping in from the left.  The blow lifted the outlander
completely off his feet, throwing him six feet to his right.
His sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers; the huge
mercenary had shattered his left arm.

"Not bad!" Ironbar observed, truly impressed with the out-
lander' skill.  Two more of his men had died in that final
assault.  Now there remained only he and Garman to finish the
job.

     Shade hobbled backwards, cradling his left arm across
his chest as he retreated. A trail of bloodspatters followed
him across the cobblestones.  Ironbar saw that the out-
lander's tunic was now bloodstained on the right side as
well as the left.  Garman had also managed to penetrate the
outlander's guard as well.

"I'll take him," Garman said, advancing carefully.  As
Ironbar moved to follow, he noticed that he had taken a
wound of his own, high in the large muscle of his thigh.
Cursing, he limped to Garman's right; moving to flank the
outlander on the side of his crippled side.

    Garman began attacking cautiously, probing the out-
lander's defense.  Shade parried each attack, but Garman
came closer to piercing his guard with each vicious attack.
The game was nearly up.  Another slashing stroke from the
wiry mercenary caught Shade across the wrist.  Sparks flew
briefly as his shortsword rang against the cobblestones, out
of reach.

    Garman advanced steadily, keeping the tip of his blade
within eight inches of Shade's throat as the outlander back-
pedaled.  The unarmed outlander retreated until his back
touched the bricks of the courtyard wall.  He watched the
two mercenaries intently over the blade hovering near his
jugular.

"You fought a good fight, outlander," Ironbar said tersely.
"Grace himself couldn't have done any better."  Ironbar
waited for Garman to finish off the wounded warrior.

"It's not over yet," Shade growled.

    As Garman thrust in lightning quick for the kill, Shade
brought his broken left arm up even faster. Garman's blade
pierced the outlander's forearm completely.  As it spurted
blood, Shade twisted the arm, wedging the blade between the
two bones in his arm.  He dragged the blade to one side of
his body.

     The pain had to have been excruciating. Ironbar, who
had seen horrible things in the Middle Marches, froze in
shock.  He had never seen a man subject himself to such a
terrible wound willingly.

     Ironbar's momentary hesitation cost Garman his life.
Shade seized the wiry mercenary by the throat, lifting
Ironbar's friend completely overhead with his right arm.
The outlander dashed Garman to the cobblestones headfirst.
Ironbar didn't need to hear the crack of vertebra to know
that his friend would never rise again.

"Who . . . WHAT are you?" Ironbar asked the outlander in
a kind of despair, lifting his staff for what he knew would
be a final assault, one way or the other.

     Shade grinned at the huge man, his teeth bloody, his
face a deathskull. He wrenched Garman's sword from his left
arm.  The sound it made as it came free was something you
might hear in a charnel house.  The scream it wrenched out
of the outlander was more animal than human.

"When you get to hell, ask them about Jake Shade," the
outlander snarled at his foe, "They'll tell you all about
me."

     The two men circled each other warily.  The stones of
the courtyard were soaked with blood.  It squished beneath
their boots with each step, making the footing treacherous.

    The two men drew themselves up in preparation, weapons
ready. Ironbar felt the old battle lust surging in his veins
one last time and welcomed it as he never had before.  Two
battle cries rang against the walls of the courtyard as the
two warriors came together with elemental fury.  The cold
moons looked down from up high as one of those cries ended
forever.




        *****************************






     Grace paced the streets in a silent rage, the way he
had so frequently these past few days.  Unable to sleep at
night, he had doubled the number of his patrols, extending
them late into the night.  He was a night-wolf stalking
amongst sleeping sheep, all the while garbed in the guise of
a shepherd.  The raging bloodlust within him sought any and
all opportunities to slake its thirst.

     The tall warrior strode onto one of the many bridges
that crossed the Ceruputhon.  As he prepared to cross, he
spotted a civilian leaning against the railing on one side,
apparently injured.  Normally Grace would have passed on by;
the welfare of Generica's citizens rated on his list of
concerns somewhere below how well his boots were shined.

     But some detail of this man had caught his eye.  Grace
walked over to him, trying to place what it was that had
seemed so familiar.  When he recognized the injured man, his
face broke out into a huge grin.

". . . and they say there is no justice!" Grace exulted.

     Jake Shade levered himself around painfully and beheld
the tall, pony-tailed swordsmen he had met two nights before.
His eyes narrowed and his mind began to race.  There was no
question of him defeating Grace in any kind of physical
contest now, his injuries were too severe.  But how to make
his escape?

    Grace drew his blade, the steel rasping sibilantly as it
cleared the scabbard.  The sword was a nasty piece of work; a
cross between a longsword and a rapier.  A duelist's blade.

     Grace flicked the blade back and forth playfully.  The
air hissed as the blade cut through it.  Shade coughed wetly,
clearing his throat of blood.

"Would you like me to turn back around?" he asked. "I figure
that's how you won the majority of your duels.  I wouldn't
want you to have to try anything new."

    Grace's eyes narrowed in anger and his lip curled in an
involuntary snarl.  The outlander aroused hatred in him the
way few other men ever had.  It took tremendous effort for
the Lieutenant to master his emotions and resheath his blade.

"I suppose running you through while you're in this con-
dition would be tantamount to killing a cripple," Grace
allowed. Jake said nothing, but his eyes were watchful.

     When Grace moved, it was with phenomenal speed.  He
lunged forward and seized the outlander by the swordbelt
with both hands. Anticipating anything but this, Shade made
a desperate grab for the Lieutenant's throat with his one good
hand.  Slickened by blood, his fingers slipped off Grace's
neck.  With a tremendous heave, the Lieutenant sent the out-
lander flying over the rail and off the bridge.

     Grace heard a satisfying splash from below as he looked
over the railing.  Shade broke the surface of the Ceruputhon.
thrashing weakly as he fought against the relentless downward
pull of his sodden garments.  The waters closed over his head
once more.

"I hope you haven't eaten within the last half-hour," Grace
called down to the water, chuckling.  "Those cramps can be
murder!"

     Grace remained on the bridge for a long time, watching
the river.  Part of him hoped the outlander would surface.
A few bubbles came to the surface and popped, then nothing.

     Grace smiled again.  "Nothing like washing a little
dirty laundry!" he said.

    The Lieutenant checked his uniform for inadvertent blood
stains.  There was a patch of blood on his neck from where
the outlander's fingers had brushed his throat. Grimacing in
distaste, Grace produced a small square of cloth and wiped
the offending area clean. Satisfied, he strode away jauntily,
whistling a happy tune he'd recently heard sung in the common
room of the Dragon's Inn.

     On the night streets of Generica, all was silent.






*****************************************************************
All characters appearing in this Jake Shade story are copyrights
of Jeff A. Simon, 1995, all rights reserved.  The republication
of this or any other Jake Shade story, with the exception of
Archive requests, is strictly prohibited without the express
permission of the author.  Jake Shade would like to take this
opportunity to thank Eric T. Simon, who is helping to keep him
connected with the internet.
******************************************************************