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From: [e-mail] (Jeff A. Simon)
Newsgroups: rec.games.frp.archives
Subject: Story:  The Outlander    Chapter 10:  Small Redemptions
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Date: 11 Jan 1996 08:06:55 -0500
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**********************************************************************
What has gone before:  The beautiful young thief Yvette Anastel
and her brother Winder have accidentally come into possession of
a mysterious artifact, a Talisman that is being sought by several
factions of powerful and shadowy figures.  One of these cabals is
led by a corrupt Lieutenant in the City Watch, a tall swordsman
known only as Grace.  A year ago Grace apprehended Yvette while
in the midst of a burglary, and assaulted her in a vicious manner.
Grace again manages to lay hands on Yvette; and intends to repeat
the assault after seizing the Talisman.  This time he is thwarted
by the appearance of a enigmatic outlander known by the name of
Jake Shade.  Thanks to the outlander's timely intervention, Yvette
escapes, still in possession of the Talisman.

Destiny continues to insert Shade between the Talisman and those
seeking to obtain it.  Finally a band of ruthless mercenaries is
dispatched to remove him from consideration.  The outlander manages
to kill his assailants in a bloody street battle, but is apparently
mortally wounded.  Guided by some force emanating from the Talisman,
Yvette finds Shade and nurses him back to health in the stronghold
of her brother's street gang, the Threadpenney Barons.  While Jake
fights his growing attraction to the young woman who has rescued him;
an increasingly alienated Winder decides to set out on a rash scheme
of vengeance.  Winder's attempt fails, leaving him in the hands of
the very man he intended to kill, the Watch Officer known as Grace.
***********************************************************************





        You are trapped in that bright moment where you
        learned of your own doom."

        -- Samuel R. Delany, _City of a Thousand Suns_




             Chapter 10:  Small Redemptions




     Darkness.  A chill dampness rises from the hard stones that
surround him.  Somewhere far away, the sound of dripping water
comes to him.  The interval between drops is the only way he has
of marking the passage of time.  A foul smell wafts from a hole
in the floor near one corner of the cell.

     Even when he sleeps, the young man is half-alert, listening
for the scurrying sound of the rats.  He is ever vigilant, waiting
for a repeat of the swarming attack which occurred during his first
night here.  He knows they will return . . . eventually.

    Finally the silence of his living tomb is disturbed, but not by
the sound of rats.  A slow, heavy tread can be heard in the passageway
beyond the door of his cell.  A strange, keening sound echoes in the
enclosed space.  It is several moments before the young man realizes
that he sound that falls upon his ears is coming from his own throat.
It is a moan of abject terror.

    With a clang that sounds like a metallic thunderclap after the
interminable silence of before, the door is thrown open.  The dim
light of the torch-lit corridor falls on his blinking eyes like the
glare from the midday sun.  A huge form is silhouetted within the
frame of the open doorway.

    The moan rises in his throat, swelling to a wail of terror that
he cannot stem.  Blind, unreasoning panic overwhelms him, and he
scrambles backwards.  His fingernails break and tear as he scrabbles
at the unyielding stones of the rear wall, seeking to climb it or
tear his way through it.  Anything to get away.

    A heavy hand closes on his shoulder and he is turned about to
confront the horror that has come for him.  Nearly seven feet of
unliving gray flesh glowers down at him with red-limned eyes.  A
hairless, monstrous automaton of unliving muscle and bone, marred
by horrible scars that ring its thick neck.

     Gobbling incoherently, the prisoner tries to flee past it and
through the open door.  An almost casual cuff from a stone-knuckled
hand smashes him to the stone floor, stunned.  The last thing that
he sees is the walls of the dungeon spinning by him as he is lifted
across those huge shoulders and borne away.





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





     In the heart of the Low City, two men just out of their teens
stood on the roof of a huge, three story building known as the Fast-
ness.  They passed a long-stemmed pipe back and forth as they watched
the sun rise; inhaling the narcotic fumes of smouldering Cha-weed.
At ground level something gleamed in the morning sunshine, catching
the smaller man's eye.  Setting his foot on the edge of the roof,
the young man shaded his eyes and peered down at the street several
blocks away.

     "Thunder, up the street," the gang member called, pointing that
way with one hand. "Over by where Mugwort used to set up. Tell me who
that looks like to you."

     The muscular, knife-scarred leader of the Threadpenney Barons
moved over beside him, also shading his eyes with one hand.  After
a moment, he made a noise of disgust.

     "Oh, this is just fucking fantastic," Thunder muttered darkly.
"Snake, get down below and spread the word.  Company's coming."

      Smiling, his adjucant sketched a salute and popped through
the roof-hatch.  Thunder waited until the man they had been watch-
ing drew within twenty paces of the Fastness, then leaned over the
edge of the building, one hand on his knee.  He called down to the
man in a voice that could be heard for half a block.

     "It's never too early to ruin somebody's day, isn't that right
Grace?"

     The tall Watch Lieutenant looked up at Thunder with a scowl.
"How 'bout coming down here, maggot?  I've got something I'd like
to speak with you about."

     Thunder chuckled.  "I like it just fine up here, Lieutenant.
I can hear you clearly, and the air doesn't smell as bad."

     The pony-tailed Watch officer's lip curled in disdain as he
reached inside his vest.  When he withdrew his hand, he had eight
necklaces in his hand.  Each one was a copper piece, Generica's
lowest coin denomination, threaded on a leather cord.

     "I took these of some off your boys the other night, Thunder.
Seems some of your catamites are getting a little cocky.  They
thought they had the balls to pull me down.  I had to kill most
of them, but one is still alive.  You know anything about it?"

     Thunder shook his head in apparent confusion.  "I don't know
what you're talking about, Grace.  None of my boys are missing."

     "Is that so?" Grace asked, as if surprised.  "Then you won't
mind if I come in and take a look around?  One of those punks took
something that belongs to me.  He says his sister is holding it for
him, and that she's holed up here."

     Thunder shook his head again.  "You know I can't allow that,
Grace.  My boys like to think of this as a place where they'll be
safe from the persecution of the world at large."

     "Why not?" the tall man demanded.  "You said none of your boys
are missing.  If this punk is lying, you have nothing to fear from
me."  As he finished speaking, Grace moved closer to the stairs
that led up to the entrance of the Fastness.

    Thunder placed two fingers in his lips and let loose with a
loud, piercing whistle.  Across the entire third floor of the old
building, shuttered windows were suddenly thrown open to reveal a
score of cocked crossbows in the hands of grim-eyed young men. All
of those weapons were leveled in the direction of one particular
individual.

     "Maybe you better patrol some other section of Generica,"
Thunder suggested.  "I've heard they have a higher tolerance for
bullshit in the Merchant's Quarter."

     Grace did not look very impressed.  "I want that Talisman, and
I want that woman, Thunder," he said.  "You can give them to me now
with no trouble whatsoever, or I can take them later after putting
you into a world of hurt."

     Thunder leaned back and spread his arms; a big cat stretching
lazily in the sunshine.  He yawned widely, bringing his hand up to
cover his mouth only as a belated afterthought.  Then he glanced
back down at Grace as if he had momentarily forgotten the tall man's
presence.  He pretended to be startled to find the Lieutenant still
there.

     "Better shove off now, Grace," Thunder recommended.  "Bad things
can happen to Watch Officers in this part of town.  I can't guarantee
that you'll make it out of the Low City alive if you tarry much longer."

     Grace sneered.  "That's pretty bold talk coming from a twit with
twenty of his buddies backing him up.  I hear you're pretty good with
a blade, Thunder.  Want to try your luck?"

     "Knives?" Thunder asked, without much real hope.

     "Get serious, gutter-trash.  When you're ready for a man's
weapon, let me know."  Grace flung the necklaces of the slain or
captured gang-members up onto the stairs of the Fastness, then
glared up at Thunder with glittering gray eyes. "I'll be seeing
you again maggot, real soon," he promised, then spun on his heel
and stalked away.

     As soon as the Lieutenant was out of earshot, a ragged cheer
broke out amongst the Barons below Thunder's feet.  The gang leader
smiled to himself as Snake popped back up through the roof hatch.

     "That went pretty well," Snake commented carefully.

     Thunder did not reply at first.  He was looking at the bits
of copper that lay on the steps of the Fastness, gleaming in the
morning sun.

     "Well, now we know for sure," he said to his adjucant quietly.

     Snake looked down at his feet and nodded.  He had advised
against the assassination attempt in the first place, but he knew
that it was not necessary to bring that up.  Thunder truly cared
about his 'soldiers', and would agonize over those lost lives for
months.

     "At least we know which one of them is still alive," Snake
pointed out.  "If Grace knows Winder's sister is here, he had to
have gotten it from Winder himself."

     "What the hell is this Talisman that Grace was ranting about?"
Thunder wondered.

     Snake cleared his throat.  "If you remember, Winder said he had
something Grace wanted.  It was the bait in his trap.  Doubtless he
was referring to the Talisman."

     Thunder sighed.  "Bring his sister up here.  I want a few words
with her."

     Snake was gone for no more than three minutes.  When he returned,
his expression was puzzled. He did not look happy that he was the one
who had to bring the news.

     "She's not in her room.  The outlander is gone too."

     Thunder exploded.  "Then find her!" he shouted.  "Why the hell
do I have to do all the thinking around here?  She can't be too far
away, get some men out into the streets."

     Snake nodded, shuffling backwards as he headed for the roof-hatch
once more.  As he set foot on the top rung of the ladder within, his
leader caught his eyes and pointed a finger at him.

     "I want her here yesterday, Snake," Thunder growled.  "Do you hear
what I am saying to you?  There are probably a lot of people who would
like to get their hands on her.  I want her first."

     "What if she doesn't want to come?" Snake inquired carefully.

     Thunder face darkened, and he glared at his subordinate with a
scowl that did not promise forbearance or compromise.

     "Then bring me the Talisman.  If she argues, tell her that her
brother's life might depend upon it.  If she still won't cooperate
with you . . . kill her."




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





      Leaves rustled quietly in the soft summer breeze and the rays of
the setting sun painted the evening in a ruddy glow.  On a grassy hill
overlooking the city of Generica, beneath the widespread boughs of a
giant oak, a muscular man lay with his head on the lap of a dark-haired
beauty.  Nearby, several empty bottles of wine lay amongst the gnawed
breadcrusts, stripped bones and other sundry remainders of a recently
devoured meal. The woman was tickling the man's forehead with a blade
of grass she had plucked.

     "This was an excellent idea, Yvette," the man commented sleepily,
lazily waving the blade of grass away from his face.

     Yvette smiled down at him, her crystal blue eyes sparkling.  "I
don't think that a picnic was what Gelamesh had in mind when he told
me you needed to get outside more, but I think we both needed some of
this fresh air and sunshine."

     The dark-haired woman's smile faded.  "I hate that place," she
murmured softly, referring to the urban fortress in which they were
currently staying.

     The man reached up with gentle fingers, smoothing away the lines
traced on her face by the uncharacteristic frown.  "I thought we had
agreed to speak of only pleasant things," he reminded her quietly.

     Yvette bit her lip and looked away. "I'm sorry, Jake."

     Jake Shade sighed and rolled to his feet.  He swayed briefly with
a momentary dizziness that had nothing to do with the wine.  He shook
it off quickly. Two weeks ago he had been unable to do so much as walk
across a room.

     He stretched down a large hand, tatooed with white scars faded
by the passage of years.  Yvette took it and reluctantly let herself
be pulled to her feet.  As she stood up, she allowed her momentum to
carry her forward until she was standing within Jake's embrace.  The
outlander looked down into her eyes.

     Yvette pressed her body lightly against him.  "Do we have to go
back already, Streak?" she asked, reaching up to touch the silver lock
which ran through his dark brown hair.

     Jake captured her fingers gently within his own, holding her hand
between the two of his as if it was some fragile butterfly.  He smiled
as he regarded her. "I think that it would be a good idea, Yve.  There
is a storm on the way."

     Yvette looked up at the expanse of sky above them, unbroken by
clouds of any kind.  She raised a skeptical eyebrow.  "Are you sure
about that?  It looks like such a nice evening."

     The outland warrior nodded.  "Trust me.  I have a feeling for
these things."

     Yvette ducked under Jake's arm as he turned towards the carriage
they had rented earlier in the day; manuevering so that his arm lay
across her shoulders.  Jake let her take enough of his weight that she
felt she was aiding him. Together they walked back to where a pair of
geldings stood in the traces, cropping the early autumn grass that
sprouted beneath their hooves.

     Jake clambered into the driver's seat unassisted, but he was
pale and sweating as he did so.  Yvette climbed up next to him, a
worried expression shadowing her face. The outlander did not protest
as she took the reins from his hands.  Yvette snapped them sharply
and turned the carriage in the direction of the city.

     As the carriage rattled and bounced down the dirt road, Shade
looked back over his shoulder at the sky. "Feel a storm coming . . ."
he muttered quietly to himself.





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




     Winder thrashed impotently in his chains as the last spasms
wracking his body finally quieted.  Near his feet, Grace grinned
at him, his face lit with malicious satisfaction.

     "Hurts like hell, doesn't it?" the tall swordsman laughed; his
dead gray eyes looking over to the bearded man who stood watching
from the shadows.

     Malfaedor had watched the proceedings without comment, watching
Grace at work.  The Watch Lieutenant was brutal, but did not possess
much imagination.  Malfaedor understood that brutality could at times
be very effective, but the youth writhing under their not-so-tender
ministrations seemed to possess unusually deep reserves of willpower.

     "How is his arm doing?" Malfaedor asked in his deep rumble. "Is
it showing any signs of bleeding again?"

     Two days ago, Grace had misjudged the seriousness of the wound
to the young man's forearm.  Their first session with Winder had been
cut short when the wound had opened in a massive hemmorage.  They had
almost lost the street-rat then, and the Necromancer had let Grace
know the depth of his displeasure in no uncertain terms.

     "It's fine," Grace replied, checking the arm.  He leaned over
the spreadeagled Winder and looked into his eyes.  "No taking the
easy way out for you, little man.  You're going to be with us until
you give us the answers we want."

     Winder turned his head and looked away, all the fire long since
tortured out of him.  All he could do was endure what was happening
to him.  And endure . . . and endure.

     "Where is it, Winder?" Grace purred.  "What did your sister do
with it?  Is it in that shithole you and your faggot buddies live in?
Did she give it to the outlander? Did he have it on him when I killed
him?"

     Inexplicably, the youth laughed.  It was a choked, bitter sound,
but it was laughter all the same.  Grace and Malfaedor exchanged a
puzzled glance.

     "Very well, then," Malfaedor sighed.  "It has come time for me
to take a hand, as I knew it would."

     The Necromancer walked by the great stone table upon which Winder
was bound, waving Grace away as he passed.  The beared Archmage walked
over to a large iron cabinet which stood against one stone wall.  The
helpless youth's eyes rolled as he strained to see what the Necromancer
was doing.

     Malfaedor walked back over to the table, holding a large, flat
box in his hands.  He set it on the table next to Winder's side and
leaned over the youth, looking into his eyes.

     "Now," Malfaedor said in an emotionless voice, "I have a gift
for you, Winder."




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


     Jake looked around the small shop curiously.  The counter had
been hacked in two by axes, the iron doors of the ovens twisted off
their hinges and discarded against one wall. Even the grinding stone
of the grist-mill had been shattered.  Black stains on the ceiling
and walls testified that long ago there had been a fire within the
building.

     "So this is were you lived," the outlander said thoughtfully.

     Yvette nodded.  "My father was one of the most famous bakers in
the city.  Someone wanted to buy him out.  When he refused to sell,
men came with torches and weapons and destroyed this place.  When he
tried to stop them, they killed him."

     "Your father was a brave man," Jake commented, examining the
hinges on the ovens.

     "He was a fool," Yvette commented bitterly.  "He should have
known better than to fight with trained warriors.  His bravery got
him killed.  After his death my mother just faded away.  We lost
everything.  Winder and I ended up living on the streets."

     Jake regarded the young woman, his face inscrutiable.  "It is
not always easy to be a husband and a father," he said eventually.
"Your father was trying to protect your family's livelihood."

     Yvette hugged herself and shivered, not answering him.  It had
been weeks since she and Winder had fled this place.  On that dark
night, they had managed to slip away seconds before men hunting the
Talisman battered the doors down.  The empty shop disturbed her as
it never had before.  It no longer felt like home.  It felt like an
empty grave that she had just barely avoided filling with her own
body.

     "Why did you ask to stop here?" Yvette asked eventually.

     The outlander grinned and shrugged.  "I guess I just wanted to
see the place for myself. See the place where your family lived, the
place where you grew up."

     "It's nothing but a bad memory now," Yvette told him.  "One of
many."

     "Then let us take our leave, and hope that there are better ones
ahead for you," Jake said, stepping carefully over debris as he headed
for the door.

     Yvette remained where she was, watching the outlander pick his way
across the room.  She looked for a sign that one of his wounds might
have reopened.  Other than an evident stiffness, he seemed to be okay.
Jake looked up and saw her regarding him.

     The outlander's even white teeth flashed in a broad smile.  Yvette's
heart fluttered and a hot flush suffused her body as she smiled back at
him; feeling somehow foolish and excited at the same time. 'He knows how
I feel,' she thought to herself.  'He has to know.'  But the strange Out-
land warrior did not betray what his own feelings might be.

     As Jake watched her expression, his own smile faded. "What is it,
Yve?" he asked.

     The young woman just looked back at him, her normally bright eyes
clouded with some inner pain. Suddenly Jake realized what was coming, he
could see it rolling towards him like an avalanche.  He nervously wiped
sweat from his palms on the legs of his trousers.  An irresistable wave
was about to break over him, and he could see no way to avoid it.

     The outlander knew that his relationship with this woman was rapidly
approaching the point where it would demand definition.  He had saved her
life, and in return she had saved his own. They were indebted to each other.
To admit that there was something more between the two of them was to open
up a world of complications. But it was obvious that Yvette had made up her
own mind as to what their relationship would be. It would not be much longer
before he would be forced to do likewise.

     But not yet.  Before Yvette could speak, Shade turned back toward the
doorway.  "We'd better get back to the Fastness." he told her.

     Behind him, a hurt expression flashed across Yvette's face.  Then she
followed the man back outside.

     "Maybe Winder will be there when we get back," she muttered.




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




     It was impossible to believe that the scream could come from such
a scrawny chest.  The cry of agony went on and on, then suddenly broke
into a series of great, gasping sobs.  The young man's broken babbling
was almost unintelligable amongst the moans and tears.

     "What did you say?"

     Grace pulled the young man up off the table by the front of
his tunic and then slammed him back down against it.  "What did
you just say, you little shit?!?"

     "Grace!" Malfaedor snapped angrily. The tall swordsman stepped
reluctantly back.  Winder's head lolled back bonelessly.  It was
obvious that he had lost consciousness.

     "He said that the outlander is still alive," the Necromancer
informed the Watch officer blandly.

     "Weebo shit!" Grace swore.  "I told you, Malfaedor.  The man was
bleeding like a stuck pig when I tossed him off that bridge, from wounds
that no man recovers from.  He never came up for air.  I watched for
a quarter hour."

     "You just cannot grasp reality, can you Lieutenant?"  Malfaedor
shook his head in contempt.  He walked over to the table they had
strapped Winder to and lifted one of the youth's eyelids, peering
underneath.

     "We will probably have to wait a while for confirmation, but it
is definitely possible that this outlander is still alive.  I told
you that there are no coincidences where the Talisman is concerned.
If that outland swordsman keeps showing up, it is because of the
protective magics involved with the Aegis."

     The Necromancer began pacing around the cavernous chamber, his
fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully.  "The Talisman would not
bother attracting a guardian if he were too feeble to survive the
myriad dangers of Generica.  We must assume he is resilient enough
to survive.  We must examine every detail of this outlander's time
here.  Everything he has done, every ally he has made, might be a
potential factor in the outcome of the game."

     Grace sighed and took a seat on the edge of the torturer's
table.  Malfaedor was an Archmage of formidable strength, but he had
convinced himself of the existance of powers that lurked in shadow,
helping or hindering them depending on their peculiar dispositions.
The tall Lieutenant saw little point in becoming paranoid over the
possible actions of abstractions that could not be seen.

     Malfaedor eventually stopped pacing and let out a sigh.  "If
you possessed brains enough to avoid damaging this potential source
of information so severely, we would not have this problem."

    Grace snarled.  "Hey, mighty Archmage, you're the one who says
he commands the energies of the spheres and all that crap.  I found
the twit, getting information out of him is your problem."

     The Necromancer turned and regarded Winder's unconscious form
once more.  "I could just finish the job you started and kill him,"
the Archmage mused.  "A little Soul Trap, a little Spirit Wrack, I
think maybe . . . ."

     After a while, Malfaedor seemed to come to some sort of decision.

     "Rabnori!" he shouted.  Somewhere in the darkness, a shuffling
noise began to approach them, coming in answer to the Necromancer's
summons.

     "We will keep this one alive for now," Malfaedor told his ally.
"I have some things I want to check into before we begin questioning
him once more."

     Grace started to reply but stopped himself as the golem entered
the room.

     "Take him back to his cell," Malfaedor instructed the undead
construct.  "Then bring me the prisoner from the cell next to his."

     The golem stood still, eyes unblinking as it digested its orders.
After a moment, it gathered the unconscious Threadpenney Baron into its
tree-like arms and shuffled away. Grace smothered a shiver as the thing
exited the chamber.

     "And I used to think he was ugly in the old days," the Lieutenant
observed, with a certain macabre glee.

     "Spare me your feeble attempts at humor, and get out of my way,"
Malfaedor rumbled.  The Archmage began to draw various strange items
out of the large iron cabinet.  Grace watched him quizzically.

     "Feel like telling me what you're doing?" the Watch Officer asked.

     "The boy's interrogation has intrigued me sufficiently enough that
I have decided to use supernatural means to verify our information," the
Necramancer replied.  "Perhaps I will be able to dig up some new facts
in addition to what we already have."

     "What are you gonna do, summon a demon or something?"

     Malfaedor gave his henchman a faint smile.  "Very astute of you,
Grace.  That is exactly what I am going do."

     The Lieutenant blanched, his hand nervously plucking at his belt
near the hilt of his sword.  "What's the point to that?" he inquired,
feigning nonchalonce.

     The Necromancer sighed, turning his back on Grace,  He began to
set up various arcane paraphanalia with an ease that denoted long
practice.  As he worked, he spoke to the tall Watch Officer over his
shoulder.

     "I have not used arcane methods in the matter of the Talisman up
to now, because the Mage Guild watches for such things.  Magic of the
sort I use is something they frown upon. They would abolish me and all
my kind if they had the means."

     Malfaedor turned back towards Grace, his gray and black beard
jutting out fiercely.  "I feel we have drawn close enough to our goals
to risk it, now.  Here in my tower, in my place of power, I should be
screened from their watchful eyes.  If not, we are close enough to the
Talisman that it will not matter."

     Grace gave a tiny sneer.  "That's the spirit, mighty Archmage.
Let caution fly to the wind.  Full charge, dead ahead!"

     Malfaedor drew himself up in anger and was about to reply, when
the golem reentered the chamber, dragging a shrieking wretch by one leg.
The prisoner was starved and filthy, long hair and beard matted beyond
belief.  It was impossible to tell the pitiful creature's age.

     "Put him on the table," Malfaedor instructed the golem.

     The undead automaton did as instructed, securing the feebly strugg-
ling wretch with the same iron clamps that had held Winder prisoner but
minutes before. Then it stepped back and waited for further instructions
from its master.

     Malfaedor placed a large bronze brazier on the floor, then filled it
with lumps of charcoal.  The weirdly carved bronze object was hammered into
the rough shape of a pentagon.  Passing his hands over the object, Malfaedor
spoke aloud in a language that was harsh and sibhilant.  Then he walked over
to where the prisoner lay thrashing on the stone torturer's table.

     "Relax," the Necromancer told the man, patting him on his shaggy head
the way a man might do with a favored hound.  "I am about to release you
from your bondage."

     The manacled wretch retained enough of his own mind to discern the
sinister intentions which lay behind the sorcerer's soothing words.  He
shrieked even louder, pulling at the clamps holding him down until blood
ran from his wrists and ankles.  The veins stood out on his forehead and
neck, until it seemed his heart would burst.

     "Shhhh," Malfaedor said, placing his hand gently over the man's mouth.
There was a brief flash, and then suddenly the screams subsided. Grace saw
with morbid fascination that the Archmage had sealed the man's lips with a
spell of some sort.  It was if the mouth had completely vanished, the
entire area beneath the man's nose was one smooth expanse of featureless
flesh.

     "That is better," Malfaedor said, then placed his hand on the man's
chest. The prisoner suddenly arched his back violently, his body contorted
so that it was completely off the table except at the wrists and ankles.
Malfaedor slammed the man back down flat, and Grace saw with horror that
the Necromancer's hand had sunken into the man's chest up to wrist. There
was no blood, but somehow Malfaedor had pushed his hand inside the man's
agonized body.

     Then the Archmage withdrew his hand and suddenly blood was everywhere.
A huge amount of it, gouting everywhere in great jets of scarlet.  The
prisoner gave one last convulsive jerk and then was still.  Malfaedor paced
back to the brazier, his hand clutching a hunk of dripping red flesh.

     Chanting aloud in that same strange tongue, the Necromancer began to
slowly pace around the bronze object.  He held his hand out, squeezing the
prisoner's heart as he moved along. Wringing blood from the still twitching
muscle, he painted a pentagram around the brazier.

     When he had completed the form, he cast the heart into the brazier.
It burst into flames immediately, setting the charcoal on fire.  The flames
flared up in a crackling pillar of flame, belching out clouds of foul smoke.
After a moment the flames subsided, though those noxious fumes still poured
forth.

     Grace peered into the brazier, waiting for the foul smoke to clear
away.  When the haze had faded, a tiny figure stood revealed.  It stood
no more than eight inches high.  Humanoid in form, it had a barbed tail
and scaled skin.  Its ears were large and somewhat bat-like.  The elong-
ated canines jutting from its mouth and yellow eyes that darted about
nervously further enhanced the bat-like mien.

     "That's all you get?" Grace snorted, incredulous.  "I've sneezed
out more impressive specimens."

     The creatures slitted eyes narrowed even more, and it spoke out in
a reedy, piping voice.  Grace shook his head in irritation.

     "I can't hear what you're saying," he informed the tiny mite.

     "I'd teach you that it's the size of the fight in the demon, not the
size of the demon in the fight that is important," the figure squeaked in
a barely audible voice.  "But someone else is going to do it for me, in a
very short time."

     "What are you talking about?" Grace demanded.

     The tiny creature cocked a finger, beckoning him nearer.  "Lean over
me so I don't have to shout," the creature squeaked feebly.

     "Grace!" Malfaedor shouted, his mouth curved tightly downward in a
disapproving frown.

     "What?!?" the tall Lieutenant demanded, straightening up and
turning towards the Archmage.

     " . . . ought to let it pull your tongue out of your head and teach
you a lesson," Malfaedor muttered blackly as he stomped over, pushing the
pony-tailed swordsman out of the way. "I could probably sneeze out a more
impressive intellect!" the Archmage growled, not caring if Grace heard him.

     "You got that right!" the demonic mite sniggered, its voice no longer
weak and indistinct.

     Grace frowned blackly while he mulled it over.  His eyes regarded the
summoned creature, half suspiciously, half incredulously.

     "That's right, Stretch!" the demonic mite shrieked, making an obscene
gesture in the Lieutenant's direction.  "Your boss just saved your ass from
a mauling!"

     "Silence demon!" Malfaedor barked, scattering a handful of ochre powder
across the brazier's glowing coals.  The imp screamed as its skin blistered
wherever the powder had touched it.  It hopped about the coals in agony,
leaping about with savage malice, biting and clawing in the Necromancer's
direction.  As much as it cursed and wailed, it was unable to breach the
edges of the bronze, pentagon-shaped object.

     "You are bound here by my will and unviolable demonic law," Malfaedor
intoned.  "To win your release you must answer the questions I put to you,
in good faith with no attempt at misdirection, either by falsehood or by
the ommision of fact."

    "Yeah, yeah, the usual tired old routine," the imp's voice was bitter
and sullen.  "I been through it all before.  Ask away."

     "Can you see the location of the Aroch Talisman?" Malfaedor asked.
"Is it being kept at the place we have been told?"

     "Yes," the imp replied.

     "Is the memory crystal still intact?" the Necromancer inquired.

     "Yes."

     Malfaedor grinned triumphantly at Grace. "Has the Aegis been activated?"
he asked, after thinking for a moment.

     "You betcha, beardo!" the imp shrieked, howling with laughter.  "You
and your boy fucked up big time!"  The demonic homulculus capered about on
its fiery stage with manic glee.

     Grace growled in fury and strode forward, his sword springing from its
sheath in a flash.  "Back to Hell for you, demon-jizz," he snarled.

     "Grace, you idiot!" Malfaedor screamed in fury, almost apoplectic in his
rage.  "If you break the borders of the pentagram, that thing will have your
eyes in a heartbeat.  Think, man!  It is trying to provoke you!"

     "Bah!" Grace shouted, slamming his sword back in its sheath.  "I wash
my hands of this wizardly business!"  The tall Lieutenant stormed out the
door and up the stairs.  A door slammed, far away, as he exited the tower.

     "Making 'em without brains these days, eh?" the imp asked in a jeering
voice.  It pointed at the golem standing against the back wall.  "You put
all the brains in that one and didn't save any for Stretch, right?"

     Malfaedor tossed a pinch of that strange powder on the braziar, and
ochre smoke broiled up.  The imp yelped in pain as the smoke touched his
scaly form.

     "Watch your tongue, Lowborn!" Malfaedor said in a commanding voice.
"I ask the questions here."

    "Yeah, yeah." the imp acknowledged in a surly tone, kicking at a white
coal bitterly.

     Malfaedor put his hands on his hips and looked down at the demonic
creature.  "What do the protective spells involve?  How can I counteract
them and how powerful are they?"

     "You can't do shit, Malf," the imp replied.  "Once the Aegis has been
activated, its sets all the events in place.  It has attracted a guardian
to itself, and that's it.  You can't circumvent the spells, because there
is no longer anything active going on."

    "Is this outlander who keeps getting in my way the Talisman's guardian?"

     "There's no hiding anything from you, bright-boy," the imp sniggered.
Its laughter dissolved into a moan of fear as Malfaedor reached once more
into the jar of ochre powder.

     "What I meant to say was, you have spoken correctly," the imp corrected
itself.

     "One more of your venomous blatherings and I will have you writhing in
agony for the rest of the week," Malfaedor snarled.  "Now tell me, why THIS
outlander, and what is so special about him?"

     "No can-do, mighty Demon Lord," the imp said solemnly.

    Malfaedor was not in the mood for the hell-creature's mysterious
word games.

     "Explain yourself, Hellspawn." he ordered tersely.

     "Well, not that you Mages have ever displayed the ability to appreciate
a good joke, but you have stumbled onto an area of information that I am not
allowed to divulge.

     Malfaedor was taken aback  He looked at the imp with suspicious eyes.
It was possible that his spell was somehow being sabotaged.

     The Necromancer's scrutiny was making the infernal mite nervous.

     "What's the matter?" the imp demanded.  "Why are you looking at me
like that?"

      "I am trying to determine the likelihood that the answers you are
giving me are incorrect," Malfaedor told him, bouncing the jar of ochre
powder lightly in one hand.

    The imp raised his hands and backed to the far side of the pentacle.
"You got it all wrong, mighty Demon-Lord."

      "Then explain to me how one single mortal can be a topic that is
off-limits to one such as you?"

     Malfaedor was astonished to see the little imp close his fanged
mouth and cross his tiny arms across his scaled chest.  Most imps didn't
have the spirit to cross a Necromancer once, let alone twice.  The Arch-
mage took another hand full of ochre powder out of the jar.

     "Before you do that, I want you to understand one thing," the imp
told Malfaedor.

    "You're asking questions that are way out of my sphere.  They're too
big." The imp shot a quick look at the jar of powder in the Archmage's
hand and shivered slightly.  "You can dump that powder on me until my ears
curl, and it still won't change the fact that I can't tell you.  Sure,
maybe after you torture me long enough, I'll answer your questions just
to put an end to the pain."

     The imp looked up at Malfaedor resolutely, as if resigned to his fate.
"But whether you let me go, banish me, or destroy me, the Big Boss will
find out what you were asking me here.  And he'll send somebody that looks
as big to you as you do to me.  That somebody will come here and explain to
you in the worst way you can imagine that you don't butt into Infernal Affairs
of this magnatude.  And believe me, you won't like it when one of the 'Boss's
Own' puts the screws to you."

     The imp uncrossed his arms.  "So what's it gonna be?"





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




     "We're being followed," Jake murmured as the carriage clattered
past the street that marked the northern-most boundary of the Low City.

    "What do you -, who is following us?" Yvette asked, sitting stiffly
as she fought the impulse to look around.

     "I can't tell yet," the outlander replied, looking about them in
a manner that was studiedly casual.  "There are two of them, at least."

     Yvette noticed that the large emerald ring Jake wore on his left
hand was gleaming, the center stone shining with a green light.  She
had never seen it do that before.  Shade glanced down to see what she
was looking at.  He covered the ring with his other hand.

     "I'll explain that later," he promised, looking uncomfortable.

     The outlander reached behind the carriage's bench seat and lifted
up a long, narrow cloth bundle.  The rags parted beneath his hands to
reveal the greatsword he normally wore across his broad shoulders. Jake
hooked the sheath to his sword belt and slid the weapon into its usual
position.

     "Where did that come from?" Yvette asked, her crystal blue eyes
looking straight ahead.

     " . . . ." Jake mumbled.

     "I suppose you'll tell me about that later, too," Yvette ventured,
obviously not believing that an explanation would be forthcoming.

     Whoever their pursuers were, they made no effort to approach the
pair as they drove deeper into the Low City.  The man and woman returned
the carriage to the livery from whence they had rented it, Yvette making
sure to retrieve their deposit. Then the pair began walking further into
the Low City, nearer the Shunned Center.  Jake had to stop often to rest.

     Her ire of a few minutes ago forgotten, Yvette took Jake's arm with
one gentle hand.  "Are you going to be okay, Jake?" she asked, her voice
touched by concern.

     "I'm fine," Jake replied, a faint smile on his lips.  "I am using
this opportunity to keep an eye on our pursuers."

     "Who do you think they are?" Yvette asked him, slipping under his
arm again and turning him towards the Fastness.  "What do they want?"

     "They are members of your brother's gang," Shade replied. "I have
a suspicion that we will find out what they want when we return to the
Fastness."

     Their pursuers materialized just as the couple approached the
front door of the Fastness.  The ragged young men did not approach
too closely, merely stood between the pair and escape.  Jake Shade
smiled a tiny little smile of ironic amusement.  His scarred right
hand unsnapped his sheath and it slid down his shoulder belt until
it reached his hip.  He stood there in a widespread stance, left
hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

     "Who are you trying to impress, cripple?" demanded one of the
two men standing guard at the door.

     Yvette cringed when she saw the scraggly-bearded young man.  It
was Splatter, one of the nastiest members of a foul-tempered bunch.

     "What's going on, Splatter?" Yvette asked, placing a soothing
hand on Jake's wrist.  The raven-haired ex-thief knew that the man
was in no shape for a fight.  She also knew that he would start one
without heisitation if he thought they were in danger.

     "The Boss wants to see you in the War room, babe." Splatter told
her with a smile.  "You better shake that tail of yours and get up
there, he's been waiting an awful long time.   It ain't too smart to
keep Thunder waiting."

     Jake and Yvette exchanged glances.  The outlander gave her a
small, almost imperceptable shrug.

     "Then let's go," Yvette told Splatter.  "Take us there now."

     The gang member leaned back against the wall and began cleaning
his nails with a nasty looking dagger.  "Just you, sugar-britches.
The cripple wasn't invited."

     "I've got an idea," Shade said thoughtfully. "Why don't you and
your big mouth come down here and try to get her?"

     The two gang members at the door surged towards him, like attack
dogs straining at the leash.  The two ragged street-rats behind them
drifted forward, one to either side.

     Yvette pasted a big smile on her face and gave Jake's arm a
squeeze.  "Now, Jake, there's no reason to make a fuss about this.
I'll just run along and see what our host would like to speak with
me about.  Maybe he can tell me where Winder has been the last few
days."  She smiled at the broad-shouldered outlander sweetly.  At
the same time,  her eyes begged him to back off for the time being.

     Apparently, Jake understood what she was trying to communicate.
He relaxed visibly and dropped his hand away from the hilt of his sword.
For a brief second, Yvette was certain that she had heard the weapon
emmit a soft cry of disappointment.

    "That's a good idea, Yve.  Why don't you see what Thunder wants?
I'll just head on back to our room."

    The two young men behind them moved up to the door, gesturing for
Yvette to follow them.  Jake watched her depart with them, his brow
furrowed in thought.

     After they had gone inside, the two young men guarding the door
remained before it, glowering down at the outlander.  Jake realized
that they might intend to stop him from entering the Fastness at all.
He took a deep breath, and set his foot to the steps leading up to
the door.

     The two young men remained motionless as he ascended the broad
steps, not moving aside.  Jake kept moving forward, throwing his wide
shoulders back so that his substantial breadth became even greater.
At the last moment, the two young men stepped back.

     Jake paused directly between the two gang members, not looking
at them.  His hands twitched slightly for a moment as he stood there,
waiting.  Then he continued on in to the Fastness and began to climb
the stairs leading to the third floor.  His wounds were stiff, but he
forced himself to make the climb without pausing for rest.

     Behind him, Splatter cried out in a high falsetto.  "Oh, Jakey,
don't make a fuss.  Mommy wouldn't want you to get your ass kicked,
sweetie-pie."

     The outlander sighed and kept climbing the stairs.  Behind him,
the two young men giggled at each other.

     "Fucking outlander must enjoy being crippled," Splatter remarked
to his partner.



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



    In a small religious Charity Ward near the Low City, a man
awoke surrounded by blackness.  The absence of light was so com-
plete, his slide across the terminator between the states of
unconciousness and wakefulness so gradual, that at first he was
unaware of the transition.  Then the man's environment began
to intrude upon his awareness.  The sound of his steady breathing,
the smell of his own body, ripe within his nostrils.  The feel of
his sweat evaporating on his skin.  For a long moment the man lie
there motionlessly.  Then the man known as Jacobius Bunggarelli
began to sob.

     Someone who was unfamiliar with Jacobius could not have
realized what a monumental thing that was.  No one would have
credited Jacobius as a man who had a penchant for strong emotions.
Jacobius was not a good man.  No, more than that, he was an evil
man.  He had not shed a tear of remorse or sadness in more than
twenty years.

     Those who DID know Jacobius would not have believed it, even
had they been within the charity ward to witness it.  As Jacobius
felt his body tremble with wracking, gasping sobs, part of his own
mind did not quite believe it.  He was experiencing emotions that
were so alien as to be unknown.

     Eventually the sensations of sorrow and relief began to ebb
somewhat, and Jacobius regained control of himself.  As the tears
dried upon his face, he gave silent thanks that he was now once
more within the ranks of the living.  But he knew that there were
concerns that needed to be addressed.  And chief amongst those
thoughts was the burning question: 'What next?'

     Jacobius Bunggarelli had grown up on the mean streets of
Generica, a child of the Low City.  His mother might have had a
nodding acquaintance with his father, but Jacobius never knew
him.  His mother raised him and his four brothers in a filthy,
cramped two-room apartment just a block away from the corner
where she plied her trade.

     The young Jacobius learned early that the only kind of love
his mother had to give was the kind that could be rented out by
the hour.  To her sons she gave little thought and even less care.
All men were to her nothing more than a bother to be dealt with
as quickly and as coldly as possible.  That coldness insured the
swift departure of her sons once they grew old enough to under-
stand it.

     It was no different with Jacobius.  He was out of his family's
apartment and hustling the streets by the time he was six.  Swiftly
Bungg came to learn the ethics and morals of his new life. In short,
none existed.

     The young boy learned rapidly that the law was an abstaction
that did not apply to the poor.  It was a luxury for the rich, who
had the power to see that it was enforced.  No officer of the Watch
had ever protected Jacobius from a bully's beating or kept his food
from being stolen.

     What kept Jacobius fed and safe was his willingness to do things
that the law forbid.  His food was what he could steal, his safety
came from his savageness and willingness to commit violence. That was
a trait that Bungg was working hard to cultivate even at that age.

     When Jacobius was a teenager, one of his favorite ways to
amuse himself was to capture a small animal, and see how long he
could make it suffer before it died.  He thought it was marvelous
entertainment, always different.  The outcome was never sure.  He
had started small in those days, but it hadn't taken him long to
move on to bigger and better things.  In other words, he began to
apply the same attitude towards people.

     By the time he was fifteen, Jacobius had become a well known
figure on the streets of Generica.  Recruited by the gangs at an
early age, his complete ruthlessness enabled him to become the
youngest enforcer in the history of Generica.  On his eighteenth
birthday, Jacobius cut out the heart of the gang leader who had
recruited him into the Threadpenney Barons.  It was his gang now.

     In a way, Jacobius was a Low City success story.  He had
committed and gotten away with every sin known to man or God in
his quest to succeed.  Murder, robbery, rape; they were all as
second nature to him.  He possessed a complete indifference to
the suffering of others that made it easy to commit such crimes.
Whatever his immediate need happended to be - money, sex or drugs -
satisfaction was always as close as the nearest victim.

     For the next few years, the world was Bungg's oyster.  He
had more money than he could spend, more Cha-weed than he could
chew in a dozen lifetimes.  He had a new whore whenever the charms
of his latest one began to wear thin.  It was a good life, but
eventually it began to pall for him.

     There was something standing between Bungg and happiness. It
was his  intelligence.  It was funny, really.  No one would have
expected a street-rat such as himself to have anything more than a
low, animal sort cunning.  But Jacobius Bunggarelli was blessed,
or cursed, with a keen intelligence.

     A less intelligent man might have been satisfied to remain
top dog in the pack of mongrels for the rest of his life.  But not
Bungg.  Bungg noticed certain things.  Little things, like the way
everyone respectable would move out of the neighborhood whenever he
took up a new residence.  The way he was studiously ignored by the
other patrons in the city's finest resteraunts, no matter how fine
his clothes or how flashy his jewelry was. The way women of quality
crossed over to the other side of the street whenever they saw him
coming.

     These things ate at Bungg's heart.  For months he tossed and
turned at night, sleepless as discontent burned his soul.  Then, he
developed the plan.  One day, he gathered the war council of the
Threadpenney Barons, and informed his startled peers that he was
quitting.  Although it was a tantamount to death for anyone to walk
away from the 'family', they were so stunned they just watched him
leave.  Jacobius strolled out of the Low City and up to the first
military recruiting station he found. At the age of twenty one,
Jacobius Bungarelli enlisted.

     He intended to serve his two year stint in the military and
return to Generica as a war hero.  A respectable war hero.  His
background and past would be polished away in the gears of that
huge military machine, replaced with all the honor and stature a
fearless man such as himself could earn in such a dangerous and
respectable profession.

     Then the Middle Marches campaigns began.  A conflict of black
sorcery and bloody steel and freezing death.  A war of such savagery
that more men were casualties of battle-madness than injury.  A war
where women and children were nothing more than targets of opportunity,
where whole towns and cities were destroyed so fully and completely
that they might never have existed at all.

     It was there that Jacobius Bunggarelli learned something about
himself.  He enjoyed war.  He loved it.  It was like the struggle of
trying to survive on the streets, but evem more dangerous.  It was
like gang-warfare, only bigger. It was the struggle of man against
man stripped down to its most elemental nature: Kill or be killed.
And Bungg was an exceptional killer.

     For the first time, he made friends.  Other killers, mostly.
Men who took to slaughter the way ducks take to water.  Men who
could creep purposefully across a battlefield with bloody knife in
hand while all around them, entire legions were going insane from
fear and horror.

     And then one day it was over. The Middle Marches were a memory,
and Jacobius returned to Generica.  But things did not go the way he
had planned them.

     It seemed that Generica was not ready to welcome its conquering
heroes back with open arms.  It seemed that word of what had gone on
during the Middle Marches campaigns had somehow gotten back to the
good people of the city.  And the people did not seem to feel that
the use of black magic, the augumentation and mutation of humans for
the purpose of war, the slaughter of women and children and the all
out extinction of entire cultures were good or desirable things.

     Bungg, and the rest of the Middle Marches veterans found them-
selves in the odd position of returning victorious, only to find that
the people they had won the war for did not want them back.  Even
Bungg, who had been generally reviled as a villain and ne'er do well
BEFORE the war, had a hard time accepting the Generica's rejection of
the returning veterans.  Like so many others, he turned to drugs and
alcohol to salve his soul.  Within months, there was very little to
differentiate him from the winos and Cha-heads he had victimized for
so many years.

     When Falchion found him sleeping in the alley behind Ratty's Pub,
the former commando did not retain enough of his own nature to even
be ashamed of the state his friend had discovered him in.  Falchion had
been in the Marches, however, and he understood.  He helped Bungg back
on his feet, dusted him off, and set him on the long road to recovery.
When Bungg was ready for it, Falchion offered him a job.

     Together the two men began to tame Generica's fierce underworld.
The two men moved amongst the shadowy circles of crime with ruthless
authority.  It was not long until they had built a syndicate, an un-
paralleled organization of vice and sin.

     The day before the two men were scheduled to take a step that
would make them the undisputed masters of all crime in Generica,
Bungg's life was changed forever.  On that evening, he had stepped
into the Dragon's Inn for a celebratory ale and a little fun. More
than a little drunk, he had begun to bully a newcomer to the city, a
strange outlander with the eyes of a man on parole from Hell.

     Looking into those eyes, Bungg had felt an uncustomary moment
of doubt and uncertainty.  Perhaps that shamed him, or perhaps he
was just drunk.  Whatever the reason, Bungg overreached himself. He
had taken one step too many, and now he could never go back.

    Remembering that night and all that had come since, Bungg ground
his palms into his eyes and choked back another sob.





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






     Jake was sitting on the window sill watching as the rain fell into
the street below when Yvette returned to their room.  The young woman
remained silent for a moment, her eyes tracing his body, searching for
signs that one of his wounds might have reopened. As if sensing her
presence, Jake turned his head slowly until he saw her standing in the
doorway.

     They regarded each other for a long moment.  "What are you doing,
Jake?" Yvette asked finally, to break the silence.

     The outlander's smile faded as he turned back to the street outside.
"For a while, I was watching the rain.  For the last hour or so, I have
been watching these two animals guarding the door."

     Yvette walked up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she
bent forward to look for herself.  She made a small noise of distaste.
"Diamondhead and Splatter.  Thunder keeps assigning them to gate duty as
a way to discipline them.  From the amount of time they spend out there,
I have to conclude that they're incorrigable."

     "I just watched them beat some old wino halfway to his grave," Jake
told her in a brooding voice.  "He wanted to stand under the eaves and
get out of the rain."

     Yvette straightened back up.  Her fingertips tingled slightly were
they had rested against Jake's muscular shoulder.  "They're all a savage
bunch," she told him.  "But those are two of the worst.  They threatened
to slap me around when I tried to bring you in the night I found you.
Winder and Kilborn made them back down, but ever since that day, Splatter
has been giving me looks . . . ." Her voice trailed off and she sat down
on one of the cots, suddenly weary.

     "Why do you stay here, Yve?" Jake asked.  "I can understand why
Winder lives here, he's one of them.  But you, you don't belong here."

     Yvette's laugh was bitter.  "Where DO I belong, Jake?"

     Jake turned back towards the woman, surprised by the pain in her
voice.  "What's wrong, Yve?" he asked gently.

     "I was just thinking about how willing people are to offer helpful
advice," Yvette stated.  "It's only when helpful action becomes necessary
that they become reticent."

     Shade's eyes narrowed.  The outlander was slightly taken aback
by the acidity of her tone.  "That meeting didn't take very long," he
commented. "What did Thunder want?"

     "I have no idea," Yvette said.  "He was meeting with the Dukes when
I went down.  I'll have to try him again later.  I'm hoping he might be
able to tell me what Winder's been up to."

     Yvette continued to regard the outlander patiently.  Shade grew
uncomfortable under her gaze and turned back towards the window.

     "Coward."

     "What?!?" Jake asked incredulously, whirling to see the young
woman standing with her fists clenched.

     "I said, 'You are a coward.'" Yvette told him.  There was no anger
in her voice, just a deep weariness that was somehow worse.

     "What are you talking about?" Jake asked, his bewilderment plain to
see.

     "Don't play the fool," Yvette told him, her voice scornful.  "You're
not as thick as you've been pretending."  She laughed, a brittle, jagged
sound.  "The only man in the city of Generica with the guts to face down
Lieutenant Grace, scared to deal with a woman half his size."

     Jake fidgeted, obviously wishing to be somewhere else.  "Look, maybe
I should pack my stuff.  I'm recovered enough to move around, and it is
obvious that you need some space.  I had Tad reserve a room at the Dragon's
Inn for me-"

     "That's right," Yvette interrupted, "Run away. Just like you always
do.  The big bold warrior, kicking up his heels as he flees a fate worse
than death."

     "What are you talking about?" Jake exploded.  "Would you just come
out with it?"

     Yvette's eyes bored into his own, her lovely face tight with her
determination.  "I want to know what your plans are Jake.  I want to
know how you feel about me, and where we stand."

     "I'd like to stay with you Yvette," Jake said haltingly. "This thing
with Grace and the Talisman is not over yet.  I'd like to be here for you,
in case you need protection."

     "Fine, Jake." Yvette interrupted.  "Stay here and protect me.  We
wouldn't want anything on your conscience now, would we?"

     Yvette turned towards the door, trying to keep the tears from her
eyes but failing.  It was obvious that she had been fooling herself.
Nothing to do but leave before her pride was completely shattered.

     "Yve."  Jake's voice was soft.

     "What?" she asked him, turning slowly and trying to keep the light
of hope from showing on her face.  Her voice was the soft cry of something
wounded and alone.

     "Could you leave the Talisman for me?  I want to have Tad check it
out for us, just in case-"

      "You bastard," Yvette said softly, bitterly.  She tore the silver
thing from her neck and hurled it at him angrily, then turn and fled out
the door.

     Shade's nails dug small, bloody crescents in his palms as he turned
to the window.  For a wild instant, he considered throwing himself out of
it, but unless there was a cistern of acid below, there wouldn't be much
point to it.  A bleak, despairing sound tore itself from his throat.  He
pressed his hands to his eyes and cursed softly.

     Behind him, the door creaked open slowly.

     "Hi, Jake," Tad said as he entered the room.  He looked at Jake's
face.  "Say . . . is this a bad time?"

     Shade squared his slumping shoulders and mustered a grin.  "No,
it's not a bad time, Tad.  No worse than any other."  He tossed his
friend the glittering silver object.  "Well, now that Yvette's gone,
take a look at this."

     The young Mage plucked the Talisman from the air with a juggler's
ease.  He let it dangle from its fine silver chain, watching as the
blue stone at its center reflected the light as a thousand tiny stars
within its multifaceted, transluscent surface.

     "What is it?" he asked after a time.

     "That's the object that has caused all this excitement," Shade
told him.  " It's the reason Grace tried to arrest Yvette the night
we rescued her.  It's probably the reason I got jumped by those mercs.
It's obviously a magical artifact of some type, but I can't learn the
first thing about it.  Can you identify it?"

     Tad tossed the Talisman lightly up into the air. When it reached
the apex of its upward arc, he seized it with his mind and suspended
it in midair.  The Talisman levitated there, inches from the ceiling,
its fine silver chain swinging beneath it in minute circles.

     The silver-haired Mage closed his eyes and concentrated. Invisible
to normal human sight, magical energies flickered about the Talisman in
startling levels of power and myriad degrees of complexity.  Tad strove
to mentally untangle the labrythine maze of enchantments woven about the
object.

     Five long minutes passed.  Eventually, Tad sighed and reopened his
eyes. He stretched his hand out and the Talisman dropped into his palm.

     "Jake, this is beyond me," Tad admitted reluctantly.  "Maybe if I
took it back to the Academy, where I could use some of the instruments
the instuctors keep, I could identify it.  But probably not.  All I can
tell you is that it is actually two magical items."

     Tad held the Talisman up at eye level, looking at it with a thought-
ful expression.  "The gem set within the center of the silver structure
seems to have one type of enchantment, and the jewel itself seems to have
another sort.  The Talisman seems to be a kind of protective device. Both
enchantments are very old, and very powerful."

     The outlander nodded, as if he had already known or suspected much
of what Tad had told him. "I guess that it's not important," the warrior
stated after a while.

     "How can you say that?" Tad asked.  "If we knew what purpose the
Talisman was designed to fulfill, we might be able to use its powers to
help us.  If so many people are willing to go to such lengths in order
to possess it, the Talisman might well be a very potent force."

     Jake sighed.  "It is enough for me to know that the men who want
this thing are evil.  It does not matter what purpose they seek to
fulfill with it, they will not have it as long as I am able to prevent
it."

     Tad smiled inwardly.  From the moment he had met the outlander,
Jake had seemed reluctant to embroil himself in the events that had
been swirling around the two of them.  Now it seemed that his friend's
reluctance to take a stand was ending.  He walked over to Jake and
handed him the Talisman back.  He put his hand on the gloomy warrior's
shoulder.

    "Careful, Jake," he said solemnly.  "You sound like a man about to
set forth on a crusade."

     Jake Shade did not smile at the young Mage's words.  "No crusade,
Tad.  I can feel things coming together out there.  It's like there is
an irresistable momentum being built up.  Forces are moving and players
are aligning in battle position. Soon things will be put in motion, and
all we can do is play out the endgame."

     Tad looked at his friend silently for a moment.  "Are you familiar
with the concept of paranoia, Jake?" he asked.

     Jake turned and stared out the window for a moment.  "I wish that
I had been so wise as you, when I was young," he remarked.  His voice
was cold.

     Tad flushed at the outlander's sarcasm.  Then he nodded.

     "Okay, Jake, maybe there is something to what you say.  But what
can you do about it?  Whatever will happen, will happen.  All we can do
is take things as they come."

     "I prefer to give fate a prod in the right direction now and then,"
Shade demurred.  He handed the Talisman back to the silver-haired Mage.

     "What do you want me to do with it?" Tad asked.

     "I have an errand I want you to run, Tad. Don't mention this to
Yvette, either."





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





        The young journeywoman's expression was almost fearful as she
knocked lightly on the open door of Urcohea's office.  Although most
of the Mages of the Guild were very supportive of the younger staff,
it usually took a year or two for a new arrival's sense of awe to wear
off.  Gynamjen had been at the Guild for almost three years, and she
still had not overcome her shyness.

     Urcohea looked up sharply, but his gaze softened at the young
woman's obvious nervousness.  "What is it?" he asked her gently.

     "It's, there is a -"  The girl seemed flustered to an unusual
degree, even for her. "There is someone here to see you, sir," she
said, finally getting the words out.

      Urcohea sighed.  More distractions.  Still, duties to perform
and all.

      "Send him in," Urcohea instructed the Journeywoman.  She nodded
once and disappeared back into the hallway.

      When he looked up again, Urcohea better understood Gynamjen's
flustered demeanor.  The Archmage who had come to visit him had
been known to have an unsettling effect on even the most seasoned
of Mages.

      Urcohea stood up and indicated a comfortable chair near his desk.
"Malfaedor.  How good to see you again," he said in a voice that was
tight with civility. "It has been long since your last visit." Urcohea
tactfully refrained from mentioning the circumstances surrounding that
last visit.

      "Spare me the pleasantries," the Archmage growled. "I've come to
ask you what the Guild Council is doing about The Sword."

      Urcohea refrained from allowing any reaction to register in his
expression.  He knew Malfaedor for one of those Archmages who would
resist the Guild's interference in his own agenda with venomous anger;
yet at the same time, Malfaedor would feel free to intrude on the
Guild's business whenever it served his purpose.  Urcohea surmised
that the Archmage's visit was probably related to something personal.

    "What are we doing about 'The Sword'?" Urcohea repeated the query
in a thoughtful voice.

     "I have reason to believe that an outlander has brought one of the
Weapons of Darkness into Generica," Malfaedor stated in a grim tone.
"One of the Chaos Artifacts.  I want to know what you are doing about
it."

     Urcohea's immediate reaction was to wonder what it was the outlander
had done that had roused Malfaedor's ire.  Every Mage knew that Generica,
being a dimensional focal point, was bound to attract more than its share
of major arcane menaces.  Malfaedor's concern could hardly be the genuine
article.  However, the presence of a Chaos Artifact in Generica would be
grim tidings indeed.

     Malfaedor was suspected by the Guild - but never proven - to have
Necromatic leanings.  He did not strike Urcohea as a man likely to become
distressed by the presence of evil in Generica.  Rather, the Archmage was
more likely to try to harness it in order to further his own ends.

     Urcohea refrained from mentioning that, of course.  Malfaedor was
one of the Archmagi; and as such he could not be taken lightly.  No one
was really sure about the upper limits of his power.  It was wiser to
placate him to a certain degree rather than to antagonize him unnecess-
arily. It was always easier to give the appearance of cooperation while
working to uncover his real purpose.

     "We are looking into the matter," Urcohea smoothly assured the
sinister looking Archmage standing opposite him.

     "And I have matters of my own to look after, Urcohea," Malfaedor
replied, "I hope that you do not mind if I take my leave."

    "Of course not, Malfaedor . . ." Urcohea replied as the bearded man
walked over to his door.  The Archmage in charge of Mages Guild Internal
watched as Malfaedor took his leave.

    ". . . because I wish you'd never come at all."  Urcohea sighed.




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





     Tad walked into the small shop, and looked around.  It was
somewhat messy, reminding him of the Alchemy instructer's lab
back at the Academy.  Streaks of clay discolored the floorboards
where careless feet had tread upon discarded material.  Various
tools and raw material were stacked everywhere, in no particular
order.  A chaotic place, Tad thought to himself.

     A graceful looking young woman came out of the back when she
heard the door shut behind him.  She had light brown hair that
dropped to her shoulders, and she was rather pretty. "Can I help
you, sir?" she asked the Mage in a pleasant voice.  Tad noticed
that her voice had just a touch of the Low City about it.

      He smiled at the woman, and looked around.  "I am looking
for a man named Gabriel," he informed her. "A friend of mine has
a commision for him.  Apparently my friend has heard some good
things about Gabriel's work, for he is determined to have this
piece done by Gabriel and no one else."

     The woman looked at the young Mage doubtfully.  "I am sure
that Gabriel would be happy to accept this commision, but right
now we are swamped with orders.  We are trying to fill a rather
large one from the Count DonAdder.  Perhaps my father, Addon,
could . . . ."

     Tad sighed and stepped forward.  Under normal circumstances
Tad would never do what he was about to, but now time was of the
essence.  The Mage snared the woman's eyes within his own.

     "It is very important that I speak to this man, Gabriel."
he told her.

     "It is very important," the young woman repeated, her eyes
looking into his own without blinking.  Her voice sounded a bit
distant, as if she were thinking of something else.

     "Gabriel will be very happy with you when you bring him to
me, because this commision will bring him a lot of money."

     "But the money isn't really the important part of it," the
woman protested dreamily.

    'Gah!' Tad thought to himself.  'Women!'  The young Mage
moved closer to her and redoubled his concentration.  Shadows
seemed to drift from every corner of the small shop, wrapping
themselves about the slender young man's form.  Only his eyes
remained clear in the woman's vision.

     "You will bring Gabriel to me," the Mage insisted.

     The young woman turned and walked through the doorway
which seperated the front of the shop from the back. After
a moment, Tad heard footsteps returning.  An average looking
man of slightly greater than average height stepped into the
room. He was looking over his shoulders, back the way he had
come.  When he turned to regard Tad with deep brown eyes, a
mystified expression had not quite vanished from his face.

     "My name is Gabriel," the man said, extending his hand in
a friendly manner.  "Christina said that you had a commission
for me.  She also said it was important." The man's voice held
a slight note of puzzlement.

     Tad shook the man's strong hand in his own, while carefully
ignoring the man's unspoken question.  With his other hand, he
produced the Talisman from his belt pouch.  "Can you produce a
duplicate of this object in clay?" he asked.

     Gabriel stretched out his hand, and Tad handed him the silver
object.  The master potter held the object up for inspection.  It
glittered in the light which came through one dirt streaked window.

     "It's very beautiful," the man commented.  "Of course I can
reproduce the shape, but it would be impossible to duplicate the
unique textures of silver and the refractive properties of the
gem in the medium of clay."

     "All that is necessary is as close an approximation of the
shape as you can manage," Tad replied.  "I will use my magic to
take care of the other details, but an illusion with one foot in
reality is the best kind."

     Gabriel lowered the Talisman and considered the young Mage
for a while.  "I am wondering why you would want me to do this,"
the man said after a moment. "I would hate to think that somehow
my work was being used for a purpose that is less than noble."

     Tad thought about laying his will upon the man's mind, but
there was something about the man that seemed to suggest that his
mind would be somewhat harder to influence than the woman's had
been.  The Mage decided to see what response honesty would elicit.

     "In fact, in this case your work would be achieving something
more than noble," Tad told the man. "It may, in fact, prevent much
evil from being done."

     The craftsman looked into Tad's eyes for a long moment.  Then
he nodded. "Come with me," he said, indicating the back of the shop.
"I'll get the kiln fired up."





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





     Yvette felt her pulse beating rapidly in her throat as she entered
the large room where the leader's of the Threadpenney Barons met.  Her
eyes were instantly drawn to the shirtless Thunder, lounging indolently
on his throne-like chair.  The man leapt to his feet and glided towards
her, the other gang members almost seeming to fade away in the presence
of his dynamic personality.  Knife scars glowed a faint white against
his tan skin in the dim light; souveniers of the knife duels necessary
to rise to the top of the Threadpenneys.

     "Yvette, it is so good of you to come," the muscular street bravo
purred.  He seized her hand and lifted it to his lips as if he were some
dashing rake from the mansions and she some wealthy noble's daughter.

     "Won't you please take a seat?" he continued, gesturing towards one
of the chairs clustered around the huge, battered table in the center of
the chamber.

     Yvette took a seat, her nervousness not in the least abated by the
gang-leader's solicitous treatment.  She had been living in the Fastness
for nearly a month, and not once had Thunder evidenced a desire to speak
with her.  Now the hungry-eyed street wolf behaved as if she were the
most important thing in his little kingdom.

     "I requested a moment of your time because word has been sent to us
concerning your brother Winder." Thunder told her, his dark eyes watching
her reactions carefully.

     Concern for her brother instantly washed Yvette's other fears aside.
"Is he all right?" she asked fearfully, well aware that she hadn't seen
Winder in almost two days.  "Is he hurt or in some kind of trouble?"

     "Well, my dear, your brother IS in a great deal of trouble," Thunder
confessed reluctantly, as if afraid to stir her fears unnecessarily. "Your
hotheaded younger brother took it into his head to settle old scores with
an Officer of the Watch."

     Yvette closed her eyes, pressing one hand to her throat. "Lieutenant
Grace," she said numbly.

     Thunder smiled.  This was going more easily than he had expected.
"Yes.  I understand there is some bad blood between your family and the
Lieutenant. Anyway, your brother is under arrest for the attempted murder
of a Watch Officer."

     "Arrest?" Yvette asked, raising her head.

     "Well," Thunder temporized as he began to walk around the room, "It
is an 'unofficial' sort of arrest.  Apparently Winder stole something a
few weeks back, something that belongs to Lieutenant Grace.  The Officer
in question is willing to work things out with us, through avenues other
than the usual judicial procedure."

     Yvette looked at the gang leader, hiding the surprise she felt at
finding him so articulate.  While she had never spoken to the man before,
she had expected him to be cut from the same mold as his followers.

     "What does Grace want, Thunder?" she asked.

     "Grace is willing to exchange your brother for the Talisman, Yvette,"
Thunder replied flatly, putting all the cards out on the table.  "If we
don't get the Talisman to him by tomorrow evening at the latest, the man
will begin returning Winder to us one piece at a time."

     Yvette closed her eyes again.  What was a silver Talisman against
her brother's life?  "Where does Grace want to make the exchange?" she
asked the leader of the Barons.

     "I have not worked out any deals, yet." Thunder replied.  "I wanted
to make sure you were willing to go along with us before I put together a
meeting."

     "It's my brother's life we're talking about, Thunder." Yvette pointed
bitingly.  "Where did you get the idea that your streetrats were the only
ones with any notion of loyalty?"

     Thunder drew back, dark eyes flashing. Then he smiled. "Point taken,
Yvette.  I'll set something up with Grace as soon as possible. If you will
return here in two hours time, I will let you know what I have managed to
find out."

     Yvette got to her feet and moved towards the door.  Before she left,
she turned and locked her gaze on Thunder's own.  "Thank you, Thunder."
she said simply.

     Snake moved up to Thunder's elbow as the woman departed. "That was a
hell of a lot easier than we expected," stated the street punk who stood
closest to the leader of the Barons.

   "That's one hell of a woman, Snake," Thunder said in a thoughtful voice.
"She's a hell of a woman."

     Snake wondered why the gang leader looked so troubled as he said that.




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





     The door to Falchion's office had barely close behind him when he
heard the voice.

     "Hello, Falchion."

     The sharp-featured man with hair the color of straw whirled, his
turn only half-completed when he was gripped in a vice of paralyzation.
The Crime Lord let out one sharp expletive, then clamped down on his
fear.  He strained with every fiber of his being to free himself and
failed. Once he had determined that it was impossible, he relaxed and
stared at the man sharing the office with him.

     "I thought we were quits," he said, just barely avoiding turning
it into a snarl.

     "So did I, little man," Malfaedor agreed, slowly pacing the floor
in front of the helpless Crime Lord.  "So did I.  But your name keeps
coming up in connection with a certain little item."

     "Not that fu-, not the Talisman again?" Falchion inquired, trying
to shake his head and discovering that it was impossible.

     "That's right, Falchion."  Malfaedor beamed at the paralyzed man
like a teacher smiling at a particularly bright pupil.  "The Talisman.
The one you couldn't find."

     "I found it for you once -" Falchion's words were suddenly choked
off.  His face began to turn red and his body began to tremble almost
imperceptably. Cords stood out on his neck as his teeth began to grind
against one another.

    "That is what it feels like when I paralyze every muscle in your
body save one," Malfaedor said in a comradely fashion, continuing to
pace the floor.  "It is amazing how much we take for granted, is it
not?  The muscle that works your lungs, driving air in and out, who
thinks about it?  Except for when it ceases to function correctly, eh?
Then suddenly it becomes the ONLY thing that you can think about."

     Falchion fought to breath, to suck in even one lungful of air.  It
was impossible.  His vision began to darken, the colors of the room
becoming fainter and fainter until they had vanished into a gray haze.
The blood began to pound within his skull, a slow, heavy drumbeat that
threatened to drown out every thought.  His vision began to narrow, as
if he were looking down a long, narrow tunnel.  Within seconds, all he
could see was Malfaedor's silhouette, pacing before him.

     "Don't speak unless I ask you a question, Falchion.  Your life now
depends on how closely you follow my commands.  Do you understand that?"

     The Crime Lord attempted to nod his head, but was unable to.  The
Archmage must have been able to sense the attempt, because suddenly the
numbing paralyzation slackened somewhat and Falchion could once again
control his breathing.  With a great whoop, the straw-haired man sucked
in a great breath of air.

     "I must say, Falchion," Malfaedor said in a thoughtful tone.  "It
didn't make sense to me at first.  How could the most clever thief in
Generica botch a simple transfer like that?  How could the Lord of one
of the most powerful Crime Factions in the city not find the thing once
he realized it was gone?"

     Falchion attempted to speak, but ceased when the Necromancer held
up one gnarled hand abruptly.

     "Those were rhetorical questions, Falchion.  What I am trying to
communicate to you is that I was puzzled before, but willing to take
you at your word.  But that was prior to discovering that your men have
had possession of the Talisman for the entire time.  Then it began to
make sense."

     "What are you talking about?" Falchion croaked, wondering instantly
if he had made a mistake by asking a question of his own.

     Malfaedor did not immediately cut off his air again.  "I am talking
about the Threadpenney Barons, Falchion. Do you deny that they belong to
you?"

     "Of course not." Falchion wheezed.  "Everybody but the fucking Watch
knows that.  What does that have to do with the Talisman?"

     Malfaedor moved in closer then, leaning down so that he could look
into the Crime Lord's eyes.  "Two days ago, a group of the Barons tried
to terminate one of my underlings.  Your friend, Lieutenant Grace."

    The Archmage smiled at Falchion through his beard. "Not a bad tactical
decision on your part, since Grace has decided to wipe out your little
organization once this affair is over."

     Falchion said nothing, his thoughts racing wildly.  He HAD sent men
to kill the corrupt Lieutenant, but there was no point in confirming it.
At the same time, it could be hazardous to deny it.  If the Necromancer
knew differently for certain, lying could get him killed.

     "Unfortunately for you, they botched the job miserably.  They did
not even manage to knick him, the fools."  Malfaedor smiled that sinister
smile once again.  "You really ought to handle these things yourself,
Falchion."

     The Archmage resumed his pacing. "Even worse for you, Grace had an
unusual attack of clear thinking.  He left one of them alive.  Under my
questioning, the young man has proven to be a veritable well-spring of
information.  I have learned, among other things, that it was one of the
Threadpenney Barons who stole the Talisman in the first place.  I have
also learned that it was in the Baron's possesssion the entire time you
claimed to be hunting for it."

     "You may find this hard to believe, Malfaedor," Falchion stated with
care, "but I do not know every little thing that goes on in the Low City.
The Threadpenney Barons are merely a wild field in which I can cultivate
promising young men for my organization.  If one of those streetrats stole
the Talisman, it was without my knowledge."

     Malfaedor did not reply for a moment. "What you say is possible, but
not probable.  Normally, I would just kill you for the inconvenience you
and yours have caused me.  By the way; I have taken steps to circumvent
any kind of interference from the Mage's Guild, should you be thinking of
threatening me with that nonsense again."

     Falchion tensed, struggling once again against the grip of paralyzation.
Malfaedor watched him struggle for a minute, a faint smile playing about his
lips.  Then he leaned in close and whispered in Falchion's ear.  "However -
fortunately for you - I have need for your services once again."

     "What is it this time?" Falchion grated out, his eyes alight with cold
fire.

     "You are in no position to refuse me, no matter what it is," Malfaedor
pointed out,  "but I will tell you.  You and your men are going to assist
my right hand man, Lieutenant Grace, in retrieving the Talisman."

     The Archmage lifted his hand up before the Crime Lord's face.  For
a brief instant, pure white energy seemed to writhe snakelike around that
clawed extremity. Slowly, Malfaedor closed his hand into a fist, and then
the light was extinguished.

     "This time there had better not be any mistakes, my friend," Malfaedor
rumbled softly, his stale breath washing across Falchion's cheek.  "Because
I am quite through being civilized."





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




     When Yvette pushed open the door to the quarters she and Winder shared,
she was surprised to see Tadmaster within.

     "Oh, hello Tad," she said, smiling inwardly just a bit as the young
Mage jerked upright in surprise.

     Tad spun around, his face red.  "Oh, uh . . . hi Yvette."

     "What are you doing here," the dark-haired young woman inquired.  "And
what have you done with Jake Shade?"  Yvette's question was meant only half
in jest.

     "Nothing!" Tad said quickly, then blushed again.  "Er . . . what I meant
to say is, he's not here.  He has moved into the Dragon's Inn so that you and
Winder will have time to yourselves once he comes back."

     "That's not why he left, Tad," Yvette told the young Mage sadly.

     "Well of course it is . . . ." Tad began, trailing off when he saw her
face.  The Mage sighed and looked at his feet.  "I'm sorry Yvette.  Whatever
it is between you, I wish I could help you.  Jake is a proud and lonely man,
and he is set in his ways.  He cannot bend from whatever path he has chosen
for himself.  As much as he might want to."

     "What are you saying, Tad?  That I should just forget everything that
has happened?  Forget how I feel, forget how I know he feels?  When I see
him on the street, should I just nod my head like he is just some old friend
who has drifted out of touch?  Should I smile at him when see him, so he does
not suspect that all my days are gray ones, and my nights empty and cold?"

     Yvette's words were soft, her voice throbbing with a hurt that was
almost visible.  Tad resisted an powerful urge to take her in his own arms
and try to sooth her heartbreak.  Mentally he cursed his outlander friend
for his blatant idiocy in throwing away something he himself would kill for.

     "Look, Yve.  Jake sent me here to get his stuff.  To tell you the truth,
I think he was afraid to see you again." Tad shuffled his feet as he wrestled
with his conscience.  "I think I'll tell him that they wouldn't let inside the
place today, and that he'll have to come get them himself.  That way you'll be
sure to see him at least once more."

     "Do you think he'll come?" Yvette asked him, her eyes searching his face.

     Tad could not answer her.  Yvette nodded and looked away, biting her lip.

     "Look, Yvette," Tad said finally.  "Just because he will not bend does
not mean that you have to be equally inflexible.  Maybe you should go see him,
before it becomes too late."

     Yvette made a sound, a half-sob that once more almost caused Tad to
take her in his arms.  "It's already too late, Tad." she whispered in a
bleak voice.  "It's just that neither one of us has realized it yet."

     "I don't understand, Yvette," Tad said, spreading his hands.

     "It's not important, I guess," she said quietly.  "Do you have the
Talisman, Tad?  Jake said he was going to give it to you.  I need it back
right away."

     "It's with Jake," Tad told her.  "I think it would be better if you
went to him and asked for it back."

     "Okay, Tad," Yvette agreed.  "I guess I'll give it one last shot."




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



     Yvette stepped up to the bar in the Dragon's Inn, feeling somehow
timid.  The eyes of many of the male patrons were upon her, she could
almost feel their gazes crawling over her body like invisible spiders.
Then the bartender walked over to her, sleeves rolled above his beefy
forearms, his broad, honest face split by a smile.  Instantly she felt
at ease.

     "Hullo there, lass.  What is it that you might be needing?"

     Her nervousness forgotten, Yvette smiled back at the amiable man.
"I am looking for a man who calls himself Jake Shade.  I have reason to
believe that he might be staying here."

     For some reason, the bartender's smile faded a bit.  He nodded his
head.  "He's in room thirteen up above," he said, indicating the stairs.

     "Thank you, sir," Yvette replied as she headed in that direction.

     The door to room thirteen was not locked and it opened beneath her
hand.  Jake was within, pacing the floor, his eyes cast down at the rug.
He looked up when she stepped into the room, obviously startled to see
her so soon after he had departed the Fastness.  He moved over to the
bed and sat down on its edge, his eyes avoiding hers.

     The two of them stayed silent, neither of them knowing what to say.
Jake opened his mouth once, then subsided.  Yvette made as to step near
to him, then stopped.  Finally the outlander cleared his throat.  "Yve,
whatever it was that I said that upset you so much . . . I apologize."

     "There's nothing wrong with admitting that you care for someone,
Jake," Yvette told him, hugging herself defensively.

     The two of them regarded each other for a moment, neither one of
them speaking.  Jake sighed and got to his feet, reaching into his belt
pouch as he did so.  "Tad brought me the Talisman back," he told her as
he walked over, the object dangling from his hand.

     "Please turn around," he requested.

     Yvette turned slowly and Jake walked up behind her.  He reached
over her shoulders and he looped the chain gently around her throat.
She felt his strong but gentle hands carefully lift her long hair away
from her neck.  The Talisman felt warm against her neck.

     She breathed in deeply, inhaling Jake's scent, the maleness of him.
The smell of leather; a trace of horses and other things that made her
heart beat more swiftly.  The hard muscles of his chest brushed against
her back lightly as he carefully closed the clasp on the necklace.

     As Jake moved to step away she turned, suddenly within his arms and
lifting her soft lips to his.  Then they were kissing and everything in
the world was right.  The room was filled with light and music and a
million wonderful possibilities.  Then Jake recoiled, stepping away as
his strong hands pushed her gently but inexorably away from him.

     "What's wrong?" she asked him, breathing hard.

     Jake continued to back away from her, each step he took stabbing a
new wound into her heart.  The outlander's hands were half-raised before
him, as if to embrace her or ward her off; it was impossible to tell.

     "What are you doing?" Shade demanded, his voice oddly strained.

     "It's called kissing," Yvette told him in exasperation.  "It's
what two people do when-"

     "I know what it is!" he shouted, eyes wild.  He controlled himself
with a visible effort and took a deep breath. "What I meant was: 'Why?'"

     "Because I want you," Yvette replied, fighting the tears that
suddenly threatened to spring to her eyes. "I've wanted you since the
day that I first laid eyes on you.  I want you more than anything that
I have ever wanted before.  And you want me, too.  I can feel it."

     "Yve, this is not what we need right now," Shade stated firmly.
Yvette could hear the part of his voice which was aimed at himself, to
convince his heart that it was true.  She knew better, in that all too
brief moment, she had felt his body reacting to her.

     "What is it, Jake?" she asked him plaintively.  "What is it that
keeps you apart from me?  I can feel you wanting me the way I want you,
but there is something that is always between us.  A wall that I cannot
see, but there all the same."

     "You are imagining things," Shade replied gloomily, wondering how
he was going to extricate himself from this situation.

     "Is it the thing with Grace?" Yvette asked sadly. "Is it because
you don't want a woman who has-"

     Jake stepped forward and pressed his fingers to Yvette's lips.
"How can you claim to love me," he asked, "if you don't know me any
better than that?"

     Yvette took his hand in both of hers, pressing it against her
cheek. "Then what is it?" she asked.  "Tell me now, before it might
become too late.

     Shade drew his hand back and bared his teeth in a feeble imitation
of a smile. "I should have told you before, I guess. Once this business
with the Talisman is over with, I plan to leave Generica."

     "I see," Yvette said calmly, turning her back and regarding her
reflection in the large mirror afixed to one wall across from the small
window.  Her eyes were somewhat red and her lower lip was trembling
slightly, but considering that her heart was breaking, she thought she
looked in control of herself.

     "It's not what you think, Yve," Shade told her in a halting voice.
"I would lo-, I would stay here with you if I could, but what would be
the point? My curse would expose you to too much danger. We could never
have any kind of life together."

     "Well, thank you for being honest with me," Yvette replied, still
not looking at him.

     Shade sighed in exasperation. "What do you want from me, Yve?  Do
you WANT me to lie to you?"

     Yvette turned and faced him.  "I would like you to stop lying to
yourself.  This doesn't have anything to do with your curse, and you
know it."

     Shade put his hands behind his back, where Yvette could not see
them knot into white-knuckled fists.  "Suppose you tell me what this IS
about, then."

     "What this is about is your fear, Jake.  Your fear of loving someone
and losing them again.  You are so afraid that someone you care for will
die, you walk around pushing everyone who cares about you away.  I've
seen the way you treat Tad.  You're testing him, trying to prove to your-
self that he's not made of stern enough stuff to stand by you.  And once
you've convinced yourself of it, you'll send him packing, just like you
plan to do to me."

     The outlander stared at the raven-haired woman in a manner that was
almost comical.  Never once had he suspected that this beautiful and yet
formidable woman had been subjecting him to this kind of scrutiny.

     "Your curse is just an excuse, Jake.  It's what you use to hide the
truth from yourself.  The mighty Jake Shade is afraid to love someone.
And I can't wait around for you to find your courage. I want you to make
a decision now."

    The outlander drew his hand back and stepped away from her. "This is
not the time for us to go into this," he stated forcefully.  "We need to
find out what is going on with your brother. He might be in some kind of
trouble."

     Yvette gave him a small smile.  "Winder will be back this evening,
Jake.  That's what Thunder wanted to speak to me about.  He was in a bit
of trouble, but it was easy enough to take care of that."

     Jake nodded his head.  "Well that's a relief."  Then he realized
that he had run out of topics to distract Yvette with.  He swallowed
against the lump in his throat, but she no longer seemed interested in
pressing the matter with him.

     "I have an errand I have to run, Jake," Yvette told him.  "I don't
know when I'll see you again."  She remained standing there for a moment,
as if waiting for him to say something.  After a moment she gave a small
nod and left the room.

     The outlander groaned quietly, cursing himself for his inability
to take a leap of faith.  Despair welled up within him, and he realized
that he was very close to losing the one person in the world that he
knew loved him.  That realization shook him to the core.

     Jake walked over to the window, putting one foot up on its ledge.
He scanned the street below until he saw Yvette exit the Dragon's Inn.
She looked up and spotted him at the window. Several emotions struggled
for control of the young woman's features.

     Jake could tell Yvette was obviously considering turning away
without even acknowledging his presence, and that knowledge stabbed
him like an icicle through the heart.  Then, after a moment that seemed
to drag on forever, a faint smile crossed her lips, a wistful and sad
expression.  She lifted her hand and gave him a small wave.

     A sigh escaped from Jake as the light of hope shone once more in
his heart.  He raised his hand to the glass and pressed it there, as
if reaching out to touch her.  The outlander tried to communicate a
thousand things to her with his eyes: his regret, his loneliness, his
desire to apologize to her.

     Some of what he was trying to express to her must have reached her,
because her smile widened and became softer.  She raised her hand to her
lips and blew him a kiss, gently.  Shade felt a lump rise in his throat.
He remained standing there until she had vanished down Dragon's Lane.

      Around the corner, four young men from the Fastness were waiting.
Yvette walked up to the one she recognized.

     "Is everything ready?"  Her voice shook slightly as she asked.

     "Grace is waiting for us with Winder at the exchange site," Snake
told her.

     The young woman took a deep breath.  "Let's get on with it, then."





*******************************************************************************
This story, chapter 10 of the Outlander Chronicles, is a copyright
1995 of Jeff A. Simon.  All rights reserved.  All characters belong
fully and completely to the author except where noted.  The reposting
or reprinting of this or any other Jake Shade story is strictly
prohibited without the expressed permission of the author.  This
story may be archived to Alt.Pub.Dragons-Inn and Games.FRP.Archives
and distributed by the keepers of those archives in response to
requests made for purposes of private enjoyment.  In this story, the
Archmage known as Urcohea is not a character originated by the author
and no rights of ownership have been expressed or implied.
*******************************************************************************