t was the last full moon of the Season of the Colossus. This year, the most significant thing about it was that Isabeau would be staying home while her friends and peers were off celebrating in the Fool’s Glade. She stood in her darkened room staring through the glass doors that led out onto her balcony. The moon was just rolling above the horizon in a veil of amber haze. Overhead the sky was clear and stars glistened icily upon the steely sky. She decided to turn in early, not liking to admit that she was miserable. After all, why should her entire family have to pay the penalty for Tristan’s foolish behavior? Even after the White Mantle had dismissed their watchers, her father was still spooked. She was not allowed to leave the house and she had no clue what had upset him so much.

Sighing, she pulled back the coverlet on her bed and pinched out the solitary candle that flickered on her nightstand beside a pile of books. Her eyes burned from reading. It was about all that was left for her to do and it kept her from thinking about all the fun she would be missing that night. She drew down the coverlet and a soft rattling on the glass door startled her. She whirled around to see a large black bird perched on the balcony railing. An irrepressible grin rose to her lips and she hastily opened the doors and stepped outside. The raven croaked quizzically as she gazed down over the stonework balustrade.

“Maggie?” she whispered as loudly as she dared.

“You coming or not?” demanded a smoky feminine voice from the deep shadows below her.

“I can’t. My parents would kill me if Tristan didn’t do it first.”

“Oh come on, it’s just one night and there’s loads of people going this year. The White Mantle will give us wide berth. Don’t be a wimp.”

“Mags, stop it.”

The raven made a flat quork sound and ruffled its throat feathers as if exasperated.

“And I’m not afraid of your ugly bird.”

“Aw, don’t insult Master Grimme,” Magret complained, “How long will it take you to get dressed?”

“I’m not coming.”

“Oh well, more delicious men for me, then. I was willing to share, too.”

“Dining on men? Are you an ettin this year?” Isabeau teased.

“There’s only one way to find out. Go get dressed.”

Magret was possibly the most stubborn woman she knew outside of herself. It did not help that she needed the company of a friend and some lightness. Wintersday had been miserable having to hide their worship of the Five Gods from the White Mantle. There had been no decorations, no carols or observing the family traditions of feasting and exchanging gifts. Isabeau moved as quickly as she could in the dimness of her bedroom, riffling through the gowns in her wardrobe, hunting down a matching pair of patent leather boots and a corset that accentuated her natural curves. She smoothed it over a deep blue taffeta gown and draped a gauzy Canthan shawl around her shoulders. Its tiny mother of pearl crescents shimmered like crests on a midnight sea. And of course there was the all important mask. She fetched her owl-faced one. It made her look ridiculous, but that was half the fun. Isabeau took a fur wrap along for warmth and stepped once more onto the balcony. Magret had finally emerged from the deep shadows of a clump of laurel.

“I’ll meet you at the servant’s entrance,” she whispered over the balcony.

“Aye, me hardy, get your landlubber rump down here or it’s the cat for ye!”

“Your pirate talk is sad, Mag.”

“Well, my guild practices mild piracy, so it’s not entirely inaccurate.”

“Mild?” Isabeau nearly shouted, horrified that her friend had fallen in with a bad crowd.

“Shhhhh,” Mag hissed, “And yeah, mild. We only rob the White Mantle.”

Isabeau chuckled and moved as quickly as she dared through the quiet household. Her parents had retired early and Tristan would be reading himself to sleep given that he no longer had access to spirits. No one disturbed her and she saw only Conrad and Josef playing cards in the servant’s parlor on her way out. She slipped past them unnoticed, beaming in the darkness as Magret rushed up to embrace her.

“I’ve missed you,” Mag said as the two of them set off at a trot, “What’s this I hear about Tris being in trouble and running off to Elona.”

“Apparently Elona is in his bedroom,” Isabeau said as the two of them hurried off across the lawn. They ducked into the shadows of a hedge when her father’s dogs began baying, “Ugh, they’ll find me gone in a minute. I should go back.”

“No!” Magret protested, her sadness palpable to Isabeau, “We may not get to do this again and we both need this. Come on, live dangerously for a change.”

Isabeau sighed and nodded, rushing after the spry woman. Magret was currently dressed as an extremely risqué corsair with a silken half-mask. They ran through the family cemetery where the two of them had often slipped past the notice of the servants as adolescents. There was an old wrought iron gate that opened onto a dirt road and they scurried along it like children, giggling foolishly.

By now her father would have been informed of her disappearance. Tristan would tell him where she had gone. Hopefully, as with prior years, her father would just ignore the whole affair and save his annoyance for the following morning. She and Magret had made it this far and since she was already in trouble, she reasoned, she might as well enjoy herself. The two of them slowed and chattered about all that the year had brought them. Magret seemed genuinely alarmed by Tristan’s situation.

“If it were me, I’d pick up and move to Cantha. Confessor Scarpia is a wicked man. We’ve all heard rumors about the things he does.”

“Tristan never tells me these things. I know my father is scared and he’s not the kind of man who shows his fear.”

“He should be. According to the rumors I’ve heard, Scarpia thinks nothing of putting entire villages to the torch. He is starting to go after the old noble families now. You know what happened to House Gyrelle?”

“No, as I said, my father and my brother think I’m too stupid or weak to hear bad news.”

“Ah, you know that’s not true. Besides, they’re just trying to shield you from further grief. Gretta told me what happened. I’m sorry.”

Isabeau sighed and shook her head, indicating she did not wish to discuss it. She had cried all the tears she cared to for the loss of her unborn child. It did not help matters that the child’s father had abandoned her on top of that. The fact was, she was still grieving but so few around her knew of the sordid affair that she felt isolated, even ashamed of what had happened. She wandered what old Gretta had told Magret, annoyed on some level that her nanny had shared such things. Yet Magret was a dear old friend. Perhaps it was a gift, after all.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it, I’m sorry,” Magret murmured as the two of them walked in the darkness.

“It’s alright. I just hope you haven’t come because you feel sorry for me.”

“Of course not, but so what if I did? Isn’t it the job of a friend to prop you up when you’re down? You’d do the same for me.”

“Of course.”

“And who knows, maybe the man Lyssa intended for you will be at the Glade tonight.”

Isabeau shrugged. At this point, celibacy did not seem such a bad option. Even when she had been carrying on with Apollyon, she had never been as lusty as Magret. The woman never seemed to be put off by the sometimes asinine behavior of her suitors. Although given how Magret behaved toward them at times, perhaps it was not undeserved. Magret embodied chaos and tended to leave wreckage in her path.

“And at least a half-dozen for you.”

Magret laughed heartily.

“Your buggy only needs one pony, but I need a team for my coach.”

“Mag!” Isabeau laughed, blushing to the roots of her scalp.

“You laughed,” Magret chuckled, her teeth gleaming in the dimness with her characteristic cheeky smile, “And here we are, newly arrived at the stables.”

Already music glistened upon the cool evening air. Fiddle and pipes and raucous singing emanated from the forest ahead of them. Lantern-light twinkled through the screen of thick foliage until they entered the periphery of a circle of trees festooned with colorful ribbons from which dangled a myriad of tiny glass lanterns. Conjured lights floated near the center, pearlescent orbs reminiscent of the moon to light the earthen dance floor. Her heart quickened and tears of joy brimmed her eyes. How she needed this.

As the two of them drifted at the edge of the circle, she saw guild colors. A show of force had not been necessary in prior years and her stomach knotted at the sight of weapons and watchful gazes. It was almost sacrilege at such a joyous event.

“What has caused this?” Isabeau asked her friend, annoyed that she was in the dark about events in her own country.

“I”ll tell you later. Let’s just have fun,” Magret said, nudging her toward a circle of laughing people and a brightly clad Risian priest. The man was performing flips while singing a ribald song, much to the delight of his audience. Nearly everyone was dressed up, and as was customary, disguised by fanciful masks.

“Look at the legs on that one,” Magret chuckled, gesturing toward a young man in a form fitting doublet and hose just a few paces from them.

“You should go dance with him,” Isabeau teased, “I recognize his braying laugh.”

“Asterius,” Magret moaned, almost loud enough for the man to hear, “The peacock mask should have given him away. Who do you suppose that stag is?”

“Lord Sigeric. His family crest is on his cloak brooch. Rampant lion sinister.”

“Cheater,” Magret complained, “Oh well, saved me from another bore. Hullo, who’s that?”

Isabeau laughed at the throaty purr of lasciviousness emanating from her friend. Magret was a commoner, a farm girl who had used her raw mesmeric talents to beguile the boys in her small village. When they had met at Nolani, Magret spoke of her exploits with a mixture of pride and annoyance. A guild had taken her in after she had been chased away by her people and it seemed she was content with the life of an itinerate brigand. She followed her friend’s gaze to the edge of the encampment. Three young men stood together watching the proceedings with a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.

“You’re a sucker for redheads, I’ll go for the two blondes,” Magret cackled.

Isabeau laughed, gratified when the young man with the butterfly mask and russet hair look an interest in her and invited her to dance. He was a few years younger than her and painfully shy. Nevertheless, it was heaven. A sense of joy and freedom awakened where it had been so long denied. Partners were plentiful and between sets she wandered through the lines of banquet tables and exchanged coins for wine and slices of festival bread. Magret abandoned her at some point, although Isabeau assumed her friend was tousling at the shrine of Lyssa at the shadowed end of the glade.

She did not lament for Magret’s company for she was content to dance until her feet were weary. How she had missed this and how alive and joyful it made her feel. All seemed right with the world as she found her way at last to the edge of the circle and sat down on a blanket with some strangers to rest and listen to the music. It was nearing midnight and the moon was high in the sky set like a pearl in a rainbow ring. There were now toasts being offered to the various nobles an guilds who hosted the event, whose largess had provided for the blankets and pillows she now rested upon and whose wine made her feel pleasantly giddy and sleepy.

“Would you like some more wine?” slurred a small, decidedly inebriated voice, “I think I’m full.”

Isabeau smiled down on the strange little woman. Her disguise, if it were such, looked like a small monk complete with pale tattoos over her bald pate. The black half-mask she wore was much too large for her and clung at a lopsided angle that made her look even more comical.

“No thanks, I think I’ve had enough.”

“Me too!” announced the monk, “Let’s drink to that!”

A narrow figure with silvery braids and a flash of brightly patterned fabric snatched the wine jug away before the monk could imbibe.

“Liang Meng, I think you’ve had enough to drink.”

“Yes I have!” giggled the woman.

Isabeau chuckled as the elderly woman flashed an apologetic smile and sat back down on the blanket with the others. It was only then she noticed they all wore guild colors and must have come to serve as guardians at the event. They chatted quietly among themselves, placid and companionable despite the fact that they wore different cloaks. Isabeau had been brought up believing that guilds were comprised of brigands and sell-swords and could only be trusted while coin was plentiful.

She glanced around absently for Magret, wondering what guild she belonged to these days and if any of its members were them. It was only then she noticed the still figure standing behind her with a plain ash wood staff in one hand and feet evenly placed in an attitude of relaxed watchfulness. He had an interesting disguise, although what it was meant to depict was beyond her, perhaps the face of the unknowable. There was a metallic gleam beneath the deep shadow of his draped hood.

“Greetings,” she offered, “I do not believe we have met.”

“He’s on duty,” Liang Meng said, “He doesn’t talk on duty.”

“I see,” Isabeau replied, feeling awkward. Perhaps the stories she had heard about guilds were true after all. Now she felt unsettled by the silent figure, wondering if he was watching her and why he had chosen that place to lurk. She was certain he had not been there before. Then again, she was a little tipsy and this spot had been occupied by this guild prior to her arrival.

“What guild do you serve?”

“Oh, I’m the guild leader of the Hand of Tasos!” the woman announced proudly, “I only had four members counting me, but then my main officer, Mog, went into the north and Mab is a child so he can’t really work on my behalf. And well… there’s Peng Ren, but his Master made him leave and join the Order of the Crystal Palm. Ouch! Why’d you go and do that for?”

Isabeau was startled by the still figure’s sudden movement. He gave the little woman a firm warning tap on her shoulder with the butt of his staff.

“Ah, I think he’s mad at me for saying too much,” the woman chuckled, “I guess it’s supposed to be a secret. Your aim is awfully good for someone who can’t see, Pen.”

He lifted a black gloved hand and made a gesture across this throat suggesting that the monk be quiet.

“I’m Isabeau de Minuit,” she said to him, offering her name in exchange for his, “Very pleased to meet you, Peng Ren.”

She felt a faint tingle of warmth as he sought for her mentally and turned his head to nod politely in her direction. It was not harsh or forceful as some mesmers could be in their seeking, but gentle as a summer breeze. To the uninitiated it would have passed unnoticed but to her heightened senses it was like being kissed very lightly on the hand in greeting. It also meant he acknowledged her as a fellow mesmer, a gesture that was booth respectful yet unsettling.

“I’m Liang Meng, but most people call me Sister Lemony!” the woman announced now that names were being freely exchanged, “If you’re looking for a guild, my door is open… well really it’s not my door, but Master Bei lets me use it. Ow, Pen! Stop that! If you can’t play nice, I’ll take that stick away!”

“I think he’s worried you’re saying too much to a perfect stranger,” Isabeau said, recalling that in the old days guilds tended to be competitive and predatory with larger ones frequently destroying smaller ones.

“Your intentions are pure, but I do not trust all ears that listen.”

The hair of her nape stood on end. Tristan was the only other person who could speak so easily into her mind and she had known him since she was a baby. A strong bond of kinship could allow such talk between her kind, but it took an extraordinary gift to do so between strangers. She wondered what else he had gleaned without her knowledge and her first instinct was to strengthen her mental defenses.

“Peng Ren told me to tell you he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to do that,” Liang Meng said, “I think he likes you, he’s flustered and he says your spirit is so pretty and he forgot himself. I told him you’re pretty on the outside, too, but it’s nice to know you’re beautiful inside. I don’t know why he thinks blood and guts look pretty, though.”

Liang Meng ducked aside as the staff nudged toward her again and an exasperated sigh emerged from the shadows of his hood.

Isabeau laughed, unable to contain herself.

“Missed!” announced the woman.

“Run!”

This time his mental energy was like a bucket of cold water. Her laughter died abruptly in her throat and an instant later screams pierced the joyous calm. Terror rippled through the crowd amid the snarl of weapons drawn from scabbards followed by shouts and the clash of steel. People rushed past her in their finery in fear for their lives.

“Uh oh, this looks bad,” murmured Liang Meng, “You’d better leave.”

Finally she caught a glimpse of what was coming. The northern end of the grove was a solid wall of pale armor and the distinctive insignia of the White Mantle. She recognized the badges of the Confessor’s elite, they even had a pair of gonfalons born aloft by heralds with the eye of Janthir emblazoned upon them to announce the presence of their holy leader. They swept toward the rapidly assembling forces of the guardian guilds with malice gleaming in their eyes.

Fear was abruptly replaced with rage. How dare they come here like this? Who did they think they were destroying her beloved traditions and defaming her gods? She was a champion of Lyssa and this place on this chill night was as holy as one of her temples. They defiled it with their arrival and their murderous intent.

“We are here to protect. Now you must flee!”

This time Peng Ren’s presence in her mind was anything but gentle. She shuddered at the rage behind his sending and the raw desperation thinly concealed beneath it. In exposing his anger she also tasted the bitterness of suffering and fear. Surely he knew such communication was a double-edged blade?

Then her gut knotted with horror when she realized Magret had gone to the shrine at the northern end of the circle, that the White Mantle had already overrun that part of the grove. Oh gods, no. Isabeau took flight as metal clashed on the shield wall of the defending guilds and battle was joined. The air reeked with the metallic taint of blood and her heart pounded in her ears as she called out for her friend, praying Magret had fled and gone to safety behind the line. Screams and flashes of magic tore the night asunder. Elemental fire poured down from the heavens and the smell of roasting flesh mingled with the odor of burning pine resin. Flames licked through the tree tops and the ground trembled as she joined the fleeing crowd and ran down the hill toward the forest’s edge and the road to Lion’s Arch.

The terror of the crowd mingled with her own as she stopped and looked back, frantically searching and calling for her friend in the rushing torrent of the mob. A new peal of fear surged up the hill and she saw the tide of fleeing celebrants retreat in chaos from a line of White Mantle that awaited them at the forest’s edge, blocking the way back to civilization and safety.

Instinctively she moved east, scattering with half of the others in an effort to avoid colliding with one of the White Mantle. Their approach and placement was impeccable, as if they had planned this assault well in advance and knew all the places that would best trap their victims. Her only hope was to break through the line while others were under attack. She cast off her pale mask and flipped her mother-of-pearl ornamented shawl inside out so that its shimmering would not betray her as she curled into the cover of dense underbrush and drew the dark fabric down over her head. People rushed past her and shouted in fear as they ran afoul of more waiting White Mantle. She winced at the sounds of metal crunching into raw flesh and bone while the distant sounds of magical battle hissed and blasted among the trees behind her.

A woman screamed only a few paces from her and she heard the cruel laughter of men. They were close and she lifted her head to see a pair of shadowy figures struggling with their lone victim. Her pleas for help and mercy went unregarded as the savages bore her to the ground. Fury burned inside of her and she snapped a hex, so swift and insidious her target did not even notice it was there until he reached out to strike the poor woman. He cried out in pain as their victim broke free. Isabeau no longer cared about him, knowing the hex would continue to punish his violence. It was the second man she focused upon as she feasted upon his energy, burning it away with a single fierce syllable with all the subtleness of a whip’s lash. He snarled an oath and reached for his sword while the second man rushed her and winced in pain as she dashed aside, narrowly avoiding being struck in the darkness. They could barely see her in the deep shadows of the midnight forest, but that did not stop Isabeau from striking them.

They did not seem to understand what they faced and a thrill of hatred and cruelty coursed through her. All the anger and resentment she had stored up over that long miserable winter she turned upon them, hapless pawns in Scarpia’s war. She lashed the approaching man with a burst of mental energies, overloading his senses and making him shriek in unexpected pain. The second man stopped advancing, realizing that the hex did not hurt him while he stood still. With a snarl, she tore the hex off of him and he dropped with a gasp of agony to the ground. The remaining assailant foolishly hesitated, glancing behind him to see what had befallen his comrade. He discounted his former victim, unaware that she had found a heavy branch on the forest floor and was about to bludgeon him with it. A moment later he lay sprawled motionless upon the ground.

“Thank you,” whispered the unknown woman before she turned to flee.

There were two fewer White Mantle, she thought darkly. Now she had to find Magret and get out of here. She slipped past the two corpses, keeping low to the ground and slipping behind the cover of scrub as she edged slowly around the core of the battle toward the far end of the grove where the shrine had been. Isabeau was trembling with adrenaline, forcing herself not to think about what she had just done. The terror of the people fleeing and dying around her pounded her delicate senses. She forced herself to be angry, tapping into that same wellspring of righteous indignation that had allowed her to kill. She might die that night, but she would take as many White Mantle as she could with her.

When she finally gazed upon the ruined shrine, it was like being kicked in the gut. The small statue of the goddess that had been borne there from the temple in Lion’s Arch stood decapitated in its grotto of evergreen boughs. The offering plates had been robbed of anything valuable and shattered on the ground at the goddess’ feet. Her worshippers had also been defiled and the ground was dark with their blood and gory with their hewn bodies. Her gorge rose and she looked away even as her vision blurred with tears.

The White Mantle had set up their base of operations there, cordoning off an area with banners bearing the Confessor’s emblem. She counted ten men in elaborate robes arrayed around an ornate litter that was currently resting on the ground. Amid the gold-trimmed cloth and richly carved woodwork there was an elaborate chair ringed by a stand of torches. Sitting upon that throne was a thick set figure, bald with faded tattoos. There was no gentleness in that hawkish face as his dark eyes prowled beneath heavy brows, suspicious and harsh.

Magret is dead. He killed her. He killed them all.

She had to escape and convince her family to leave. They had ties in Cantha and wealth enough to start over again. Her homeland was no longer safe, not when someone like Scarpia had risen so easily to power. He had convinced ordinary Krytans to slaughter people in a sacred place, an act that would have been unthinkable only a few years before. It was a matter of time before they slaughtered her kind in their homes.

She turned to flee, caring not which direction, only that she must avoid capture and find her way home. To her horror, one of the White Mantle was standing behind her, his lips quirked with amusement. There was a flicker of cruelty in the pale eyes that lurked behind his mask. Isabeau had not detected him and she realized that was by design. He had crept up on her, knowing she would turn to flee and hexing her the moment she tried to do just that. A heaviness fell over her, chaining her to the earth as she struggled to rush past him.

“I have one!” the man shouted, and then, lowering his voice, he said to her, “Surrender and you might just survive.”

“So you can slaughter me like the others?” she cried. Slowed as she was, it was a small effort for him to grasp her arm. Rage boiled over at his touch and she lashed out at him, burning away his life energy. He opened his mouth to hex her again but she was ready this time and the brutal spike of energy she unleashed flung him back against a tree. By then, his helpers had arrived, bowling her to the ground before she could turn to face them. She flailed and kicked as two men grasped her. One of them twisted her arm behind her back and she cried out in pain.

“Caught yourself a live one, eh Cleon?” one of her assailants laughed as the White Mantle mesmer groaned back to his feet and loomed over her. The two heavy men had her pinned face down in the leaf litter.

“She caught me off guard,” the man muttered.

“Want us to kill her?”

Isabeau renewed her struggles, gasping in pain when her arm was jerked harshly upward.

“She looks familiar. Turn her over,” Cleon replied, and he knelt beside her head and gazed down into her face as she was manhandled onto her back, “What is your name?”

Fury boiled up inside of her and she spat up into his face.

“I wonder, are all scions of House de Minuit treasonous serpents?” asked the man quietly, “You’re the sister of Tristan. I expect his Grace would like to ask you some questions about your family’s involvement in the war.”

“I don’t know anything!” she snarled, screaming now when her arm was twisted so harshly she heard a pop in her shoulder joint.

“Muzzle her and put her in chains. We’ll loosen her tongue at the citadel.”

Isabeau made a final bid to escape, fear singing in her ears when she realized the peril in which she had placed herself and her family. Her assailants lost patience and the world exploded with color as they struck her, knocking her senseless. She went slack in their arms, her awareness gone for a time as they bound her and laid her along side their other captives. Her head echoed with pain and the taint of metal was in her mouth. Instinct made her struggle to regain her feet but it quickly became apparent that she was incapable of doing so.

There were people standing near her, she sensed their attention upon her and shuddered when a strange and unwanted hand stroked the sweaty strands of hair from her face.

“So lovely,” said a deep voice, “Sad to imagine evil wears such a beautiful mask.”

“Just so, Your Grace.”

“And she is Lord de Minuit’s daughter? You are sure of this?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I saw her standing beside her brother in the entry hall of her father’s house. Such a face is difficult to forget.”

Isabeau uttered a stifled cry when his immense hands rolled her onto her back. A cage of metal and leather clamped her jaws around a bitter wedge of steel. The chains locked around her wrists and ankles drew her knees up. Revulsion swarmed through her body as the horrible man touched her and she could do nothing to stop him. His eyes smoldered as he leered down at her and she felt the filthiness of his mind, the way he devoured her with his gaze. Tears flowed from her eyes and he wiped them away with a comfortless hand, his fingers trailing over her cheek and lifting her chin as if he were caressing a favored pet.

“Do not weep, my lovely, I will save your soul,” he whispered for her ears alone. His mean greedy eyes never left her face as he raised his voice to command his subordinate, “I will deal with her personally. Take her to the citadel and ensure that she is unharmed.”

“It shall be done, Your Grace.”

“I must depart. Burn the bodies of the dead. Any Chosen who are captured alive are to be prepared for the Bloodstone.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Her gratitude at being abandoned by him was short lived, replaced by an overwhelming sense of despair. She heard the muffled whimpers of her fellow prisoners, sharing in their misery as they awaited their fate. What would become of her? What had become of all the others who had danced and celebrated beneath the stars?

She heard the tramp of many feet as the Confessor and his entourage departed, leaving the others to finish his dirty work while he retreated to the fastness of the mysterious citadel. It seemed hours passed as the battle continued around them, the distant rumble of magic and cries of the dying fading. Soon the grinding rattle of a cart marked their departure. One by one the prisoners around her were picked up and placed shoulder to shoulder in the back of the ox cart along with the sacks of loot they had plundered from the shrine and the celebrants. The White Mantle moved quickly, their faces grim as they worked by the flickering light of the guttering torches. Helpless thought she was, she was not ignorant of the emotions roiling around her. They were afraid. The tide of battle had changed and now they were fleeing for their lives.

It was her last chance to escape what awaited her at the cruel hands of her captors. Frantic, she kicked and flailed as one of the men stooped to gather her into his arms and carry her to her fate. She lashed out with her balled fists, the chain lending more weight to the blow as she caught him along side the jaw. He dropped her and staggered back, bawling in pain as she slid around on her back and struck him hard on the shins with her heels.

“Do not fear. I will lead them to you.”

She did not have time to contemplate the mysterious presence in her mind. A second man had arrived to subdue her, a cudgel clasped in a meaty fist as he swore at her and called her filthy names. She clenched her eyes against the approaching blow as a pair of red-fletched arrows blossomed upon his chest. She rolled away from his collapsing body. An instant before he struck the ground something ghastly emerged from his corpse. The horrible bone construct unfolded with a squelching hiss and swung its double tail languidly as if scenting the air for prey. Then, turning with unearthly grace upon its pair of long legs, it spat shards of bone at the still reeling figure of the man she had kicked. Suddenly there were more of them and he vanished under the tramp of their bony claws. The undead horde snapped and swayed slavishly under the command of the elderly Elonian necromancer in the bold batik print gown, turning as if to worship her as she emerged panting into the small clearing.

“Where is he?” the woman demanded, “I told you to keep an eye on him!”

“Peng Ren!” piped the little woman’s voice above the wave of carnage, a frantic seeking in her voice. The full might of the guardian guilds fell over the last bastion of the White Mantle’s forces. Outnumbered by both the undead and the enraged guild members, the White Mantle dropped what they were doing and fled into the darkness of the forest, abandoning the prisoners and their plunder. A horde of warriors and rangers chased after them joined by the mindless clatter of the undead.

Isabeau prepared to fight again as a shadow fell over her. Trembling with adrenalin and fear, she struggled around on her back to face her assailant with her chained feet only to see the mysterious figure of the man who had spoken into her mind. The heavy folds of his hood concealed his face in deep shadow but she imagined his expression would be one of relief and satisfaction. He said nothing, only planted the ash staff firmly on the ground beside him and waited. As if on cue, Liang Meng pounded to his side, no longer masked but wild-eyed with fear as she latched onto the silent man’s arm.

“Don’t run away like that! You could have been killed!” she nearly screamed at him, and then following the tilt of his hooded head, the woman gasped and knelt down beside Isabeau, “Those horrible men. Yes, alright, Pen, she’s safe. No more running away.”

The elderly necromancer arrived a moment later as what remained of her minion army circled watchfully around her. She glanced down at Isabeau and then at the other prisoners in the cart.

“I’ll find the keys,” she announced, her attitude suggesting that of the people gathering around them, she was least disturbed the carnage. The little woman knelt beside Isabeau and laid her hands gently upon her, her soothing touch bearing the blessings of Dwayna.

“Poor thing,” Liang Meng said sweetly, her attention turning to the ache in her shoulder which she mended with a softly chanted prayer, “I think your friend Magret will be very glad to see you. I’ll be sure to let her know you’re alright.”

Isabeau nodded, tears of gratitude streaming from her eyes as the necromancer handed the keys to the monk and the bindings were removed.

“Is she alright?”

“Oh yes. More of her guild mates showed up. Good thing, too.”

“Thank you, Peng Ren,” she said as he turned away to face the arrival of more people wearing the same pale cloak as him. She made note of the strange iridescent palm symbol emblazed upon it. She would be certain to tell her father of that guild’s good deeds.

“Think nothing of it. My friends will ensure you arrive home safely.”

“But you sought for me. That was very kind of you.”

“I felt your fear,” he replied, as if it was self-evident that he had no other choice but to come to her aid. Without further explanation he departed, flanked by a pair of petite assassins. One of the women sighed with exasperation as he took her proffered arm and allowed her to guide him away.

“Isabeau! Oh thank the gods! I searched all over for you!”

Magret rushed toward her, her costume askew and splattered with gore. There were seven others with her, her guild mates, no doubt, but she had little time to contemplate them as her friend knelt down to embrace her. An unexpected sob of relief and anguish rose from Isabeau’s throat.

“I’m so sorry,” Magret said, “I never meant to endanger you. I’ll get you home and apologize to your family. This is my fault.”

Isabeau nodded and clung to her friend, relieved that the ordeal was over. She had to warn her family. She had to get them out of here.