It was, by almost anyone's definition, a beautiful afternoon.  The
sun shone brightly, the animals frolicking in the forest did so in a way
that was almost photogenic, and the birds sang musically.

	The party of four people on horseback was too busy arguing to
notice.

	"Let me make sure," Darrow said, "that I understand your 'plan',
to dignify it with that term, which I am not at all sure it deserves.
I wish to do this, you realize, only so that I may attempt to point out
its stupidity to you before I leave, and -not- because I have any more
interest in joining this farce of a quest than I did the last one.

	The three of you intend to ride calmly into the next town, with no
Guild representative, no paperwork, and no prophesied hero.  You plan to
openly announce your intentions, equip yourselves, and ride out again,
trusting to luck to keep you one step ahead of the Guild, the minions, 
which I assume number in the thousands, of this Damane maniac, and for 
all I know, King Laurence's entire army.  You do recall, I hope, that he 
will be slightly annoyed at you for running off like this?"

	"It iz a gut plan, Darrow.  Vorthy uf ze finest leaders uf my
clan."

	"We're all going to die, aren't we?"

	"Probably, my friend.  But ve vill die like true heroes, vit our
teeth in our enemies throats, tasting his blood, rendink, tearink..."

	Hans trailed off, his eyes agleam with ancient battles and 
glories. Julian felt it best to say something else, before either Darrow
ran off or Hans began quoting, at length, from 'Gustav and Frea', the
blank verse epic of some twelve thousand lines (at last count) that
every member of the barbarian heroing sub-community seemed to know by
heart.

	"We are not going to die.  Somebody has to save the world.  We
want your help, Darrow.  We probably even need it, but we'll go on with
or without you."

	Darrow nodded sharply.

	"Well, then.  I wish you the best of luck."  He reined in his
horse and muttered to himself.  "You're going to need it."

	As the other three rode off, Arica remarked, in a voice pitched
to carry, "Its a shame.  I know Alan will be disappointed."  From behind
them came the sounds of galloping.  She grinned tightly to herself, but
it left her face before she swivelled in her saddle to see Darrow 
spurring his horse to catch up with them.

	"You're going to see Alan?"

	She nodded assent.  Julian spoke without looking.

	"We aren't total idiots, Darrow.  Alan retired after Brandomere.
We got word through the Guild that he was working for them now in some 
capacity.  That's why we're going to Scymel rather than Calends, where
we would have a bigger city to work in, with all the options that
implies."

	"I suggested goink to Tarbis, but no, novun listens to Hans..."

	Arica turned her attention to the man who towered over her on the
right.  "Hans, dear, I explained this.  I know that Tarbis is the center 
of civilization."

	"Yes!"

	"And I know we could equip ourselves with anything our hearts
desire."

	Hans nodded ethusiastically.  "Yes!"

	"And I realize that you'd like to make a trip home."

	Hans sniffed and rubbed at his eyes with a ham-sized hand.

	"Hans misses hiz mudder."

	"But Hans, I want you to understand something.  Look at me.
Tarbis is three thousand miles away!"

	"Ve could steal a boat!"

	"It's five hundred miles from Tarbis to the nearest coast, Hans,
and that one is frozen solid," Julian said.

	"Ve could steal an airship!"

	"The last airship crashed three hundred and twenty-seven years
ago, Hans," Darrow said.

	"Vut about ze vun uzed by Cadwiller Olden?"

	"You mean the one that crashed in a flaming heap in the desert
after being assaulted by a flight of dragons?" asked Arica.

	"Or by ze great barbarian heroine Lennith?"

	"That one broke into three pieces and sank to the bottom of the
ocean, didn't it, love?" Julian asked.

	"Vell, I still vish to go to Tarbis.  If not now, zen later, heh?"

	"Fine.  We'll go to Tarbis after we deal with Damane.  Or before,
if we come across a mysteriously intact airship."

	"Scymel, then?" Darrow asked halfheartedly.

	"Scymel," Julian agreed.

	"Alright, I'm coming.  But only until we see Alan.  Maybe he can
talk you out of this."

*					*					*

	The city of Scymel does not have a major branch of the Hero's
Guild.  While it had produced several minor heroes, they usually came
from the ranks of the pirates who preyed upon the city's shipping, and
were in turn preyed upon by passing heroes.

	The city's typical contact with a hero or party thereof would go 
something like this.
	
The hero(es) arrive, buy everything in sight, collect the life stories
of everyone in sight (most residents of Scymel have grown used to having
the same hero ask them the same questions over and over and over...),
stay at the worse of the two inns, fight any guards stupid enough to
get in their way, and steal, blackmail their way into ownership/control
of, or otherwise acquire a ship to leave in and a captain to run it.

	They seem to prefer pirates.

	Needless to say, the common people and merchants of Scymel find
most heroes terribly entertaining.  Not to mention enrichening.	

	The people who run the city do not.  In the interest of keeping
things from getting out of hand, they petitioned for a branch of the
Guild of Heroes to be opened in Scymel.  The Guild bureaucrats were
unwilling to open a full office. They counterproposed a checkpoint,
manned by a minor functionary or two who could make sure that passing
adventurers were properly licensed, properly respectful of local laws,
and in extreme circumstances, accompanied by Guild observers.

	Neither group is happy with the current arrangement.  Most of this
is due to the local representative.

*					*					*

	"I just want to know," Julian was saying, "Why it is that every
time I go on a quest, I start being assaulted?  I grew up in a village
in the middle of nowhere, and I'd never even -seen- a broblin until
Brandomere's army showed up.  Now it seems I can't even travel between
towns without being attacked five or six times a day, like clockwork!"

	"Julian, love, it really hasn't been that serious at all."

	"Yet," Darrow muttered darkly.

	Arica shot him a dirty look before continuing.  "All we've seen so
far is a few wandering goblin bands.  The brown ones are the smallest
anyway, and these didn't look terribly organized."

	"Ja, Arica is right.  Ze enemies vere much vorse on ze last qvest.
Do you remember ze three headed abominabable znow monster?  Vhat a
fight..."

	Arica was rapidly readjusting to having these two around, and
continued doggedly on.  "The upshot, in any case, is that this Damane
bastard hasn't got everything organized yet.  And I like that a whole
lot better than the alternative."

	"If he hasn't gotten organized yet, Arica," Darrow asked, "Why
were the broblins chanting 'Da-Mane, Da-Mane' as they attacked us?  I
think I'd rather have the monsters working for him than be attacked by
random subhuman war parties that -aren't- working for him."

	"If they are organized," Julian mused, "We'd better start thinking
about finding the leaders.  We've got an uphill battle ahead of us as it
is, and we need to start finding out about Damane."  He grinned
suddenly.  Damn, but it felt good to be back on the road!  The three
months of house arrest had begun to wear on him.  It was good to have a
goal again.

	"Come on, you three!  Scymel is only a few hours away.  Let's pick
up the pace!"  He spurred his horse onward, and the other three followed.

*					*					*

	Six hours later, as the sun was setting, three bedraggled
travellers led two horses, one bearing a fourth person, into the city of
Scymel.  The road they took let past the docks.  None of them paid much
attention to the surroundings, realizing, on a subconscious level, at
least, that docks were docks.  To an extent, this is true; there were
piles of things on ships to be unloaded, piles of things on piers to be
loaded, piles of things that looked as though they had been there longer
than the docks, and a large number of half-naked muscular men to move
all of this around.  A few of them shouted friendly greetings at Hans,
or gave wolfwhistles in Arica's direction, but they were ignored.

	A pity.  If one of the party had taken a moment to look around,
they might have seen a man in a hooded black cloak following them.

*					*					*

	Reid Wellter's family had owned the Crown Inn for seven
generations.  In all that time, the basic principles laid down by his
great^5 grandfather hadn't changed.  "The rich will always want
someplace to stay with all of the comforts of home," he'd declared.
"Getting their business means giving them anything they want, and
keeping the rabble out.  Charge everything the market will bear; most of
them are too stupid to buy anything cheap."

	The group of four currently entering his sparkling clean foyer did
-not- look rich.  The tall one was wearing only a loincloth and sandals,
and he was bleeding from several cuts.  The small one in slightly shabby
black looked like a disreputable shopkeeper, and -he- was dripping -mud-
on the floor.  The other two...the other two looked slightly more
promising.  The man was wearing what looked to have once been a fairly
elegant tunic and hose set, although his boots appeared to have been
taken off of the bottom of a river.  The woman in his arms was the most
alarming of the four.  She appeared to be only vaguely conscious, and
her robes, presumably once white, were so filthy that their color was
almost impossible to make out.

	They finished crossing the foyer (without even looking at the
tapestries, Reid noted archly to himself) and arrived at the desk.

	Without preamble, the smallest man spoke, "We need a healer.  We
also need rooms, food, ale, and someone to deliver a message to Alan at
the Guild of Heroes."

	Reid sighed.  He hated to turn people away.  Really, they should
have known better than to come to the Crown in the first place.  "I'm
sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we're full."

	The man carrying the woman spoke.  His voice was soft, but full
of implied menace.  "Your stables are empty except for our horses.
There are no carriages or coaches around the back.  I think you are
lying to us.  Hans?"

	The taller man stirred himself.  "You haff a choice, small one.
You may haff zis."  He tossed a bulging pouch on the desk, and Reid
heard the clink of money inside.  "Or you may haff zis."  He held up his
other arm, in which he had a longsword, which looked like a toy in his
giant hand.  "It iz your choice."

	Reid Wellter was not a brave man.  "Rooms are at the top of the
stairs, help yourself, pick any one, the staff healer will be there in
five minutes, I'll have someone send some food up immediately, and if
you give me your names, I'll go tell Lord Alan myself!"  His eyes were
very wide, and sweat shone nervously on his forehead.  Madmen!  Rich
madmen in his inn!

	The man holding the woman paused for long enough that Reid began
to get even more nervous.  Finally he spoke.  "Julian.  Tell him it's
Julian."

*					*					*

	Alan sat in the darkness.  His aide held a candle and a note.

	"Response, sir?"

	"Have the innkeeper tell them to come in the morning."

	"Yes, sir."

*					*					*

	Julian stood by his wife's bed.  The healer was bent over her, one
hand on Arica's forehead, one on her stomach.  Hans was at the table,
quaffing and eating heartily.  Darrow sat next to him, sipping at a cup
of ale.

	The healer stood from her task.  "Your wife will be fine, sir.
She'll sleep through the night, and her wounds will be healed when she
awakens."

	Julian bowed.  "Thank you, madam."

	"No trouble.  It'll be on your bill."

	After she left, Julian slumped bonelessly into a chair.  Darrow
handed him a cup and he drank gratefully.  When he'd finished it, Darrow
refilled it without asking.  Julian turned to Hans.  "What was the count
again?"

	Hans paused in his ingestion of everything foodlike.  "Vorty-seven
broblins, zix bugbearz und an undine."  He shuddered.  "I vould like to
not fight undervater again.  I mean, it vaz a gut fight, but I am liking
to breathe vhen I fight."

	There was a knocking without.

	Without getting up, Julian turned his chair in the general
direction of the door.

	"Enter," he said.

	It opened, revealing Reid Wellter.  "M'Lord Alan says that he will
see you in the morning, sir...I tried to impress upon his aide that it
was urgent, but I couldn't speak to him myself..."

	Julian waved him off.  "Fine, fine.  I'm too tired to talk to him
right now anyway."

	The innkeeper was gone before he finished his sentence.

	"Hans?"

	"Ja, Julian?"

	"Take that away.  I can't sleep with you eating, okay?"

	"Zure ting.  Come, Darrow, perhaps there iz a bar nearby.  I haff
a new dagger from vun of ze bugbearz."

	Darrow protested, but helped Hans move the food.  Julian undressed
and crawled into bed next to his sleeping wife.  He curled up next to
her and was asleep almost instantly.  His last thought was 'It's only
going to get harder from here'.

*					*					*

	The next morning came, as morning always does.  Julian awoke to
Arica tossing and turning.  She sat bolt upright in bed with a gasp.

	"Julian!"

	"You're alright, light of my life.  We got you to Scymel and had a
healer fix you up.  The rest of us were just tired."

	"Oh, -Gods-, Julian, I almost got Hans killed!"

	Julian snickered.  "You jest, darling.  He's indestructable."  He
stood up, planted a kiss on her forehead, and began dressing.

	Half an hour later, they had collected Darrow.  Arica had just
opened her mouth to ask where Hans was when the barbarian came
staggering in.

	He was walking at a thirty degree cant, and had difficulty
negotiating the door.  Julian noticed, much to his dismay, that Hans had
managed to acquire yet another night watchman's helmet.  He had a mostly
empty bottle in one hand, and he was swaying gently.

	"-hic!"

	"Hans...you idiot, we have a meeting to get to!" Julian shouted.
Darrow began swearing under his breath and rummaging through his
satchel.

	"-hic!  Please, Julian, not zo loud.  I am thinkink that maybe ze
third bottle vaz a -hic! bad idea..."

	Darrow held up a small bottle in triumph.  "Found it.  Julian, go
get a bucket of water, will you.  This is going to be unpleasant.
Mainly for him, but I'm not going to watch, and you two probably
shouldn't either."

	As her husband left, Arica eyed the bottle speculatively.  "What
does that do, anyway."

	Darrow smiled the most purely evil smile she'd seen since, well,
since the -last- time she'd adventured with him.  "It's the only potion
I've perfected on my own.  This  is the best hangover cure in the
world."

	When Hans heard this, he swiveled so as to look near Darrow.
"Darrow, mine friend!  Give it to me, please!"

	"You really want it?" Darrow asked, his smile not dropping a
millimeter.

	"Ja, please!"

	"O-kay!"

	With one swift step, Darrow closed with Hans.  He reached up and
poured the contents down the barbarians throat.  He then turned to
Arica.  "Either cover your ears or plug your nose.  I'd suggest your
ears."

	Arica did as he suggested.  For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then, they happened very quickly.  Hans stood bolt upright, and the
bottle dropped out of his hands.  Then he began to scream.  Not his
normal war cry, whose warbling ululations sent such fear into his
enemies.  A scream that started near the top of Arica's own alto
register and climbed from there.  At the same time, sweat began pouring
off of his body.  Soon he was standing in a puddle.  Arica was glad she
had covered her ears, but when the smell of 150 proof barbarian sweat
reached her, she wished fervently for a third hand.

	After perhaps ten seconds, it was over.  Julian came rushing back
into the room, bucket in hand, to find his wife with her hands on her
ears, trying to press her nose into her robe.  Hans stood like a statue
in the middle of the room.  The stench was incredible.

	Darrow finally stopped smiling and turned to Julian.  "He's in
shock.  Just throw that on him and we can get out of this place.  It
begins to disagree with me somehow."

	Splash!  "Gah!  Darrow!"

	"You asked for it, you lunk."

	"Guys!  Appointment with Alan, remember?" Julian said, trying to
head off an argument.  It was far too early to listen to these two.

*					*					*

	The local office of the Hero's Guild was only a few minutes from
the Crown.  They were met at the door by an earnest young man named
Josef with a vague attempt at a beard.

	"Right this way, sirs and madam.  Master Alan is expecting you."
Without waiting for a response, he started down the hallway.

	"Kind of odd that Alan didn't just come see us last night, isn't
it?" said Darrow.

	"Hey," Julian responded with a grin, "He's a working man now.  He
can't keep our sort of hours."

	"More likely," Arica grumbled, "There's a Guild regulation against
it."

	"Right through here, sirs and madam."

	"Thanks, kid," said Darrow.

*					*					*

	Alan was one of the many wandering adventurers that Julian and
Arica had temporarily travelled with in their quest to defeat
Brandomere.  A tall, slim man who dressed in unrelieved gray, his
constant brooding had etched deep lines into his face.  He wielded a
pair of ancient magical weapons he called arquebusses.  His lethality
with these horrific projectile weapons had enabled the three of them to
defeat an army at Bracton Pass.

	Julian respected him.  Arica worried about him.  Darrow thought
that he was the only other sane hero he'd ever encountered.  Hans had
heard of him, and compared him favorably to the greatest of the heroes
of story.

	Alan was a gifted fighter and tactician.

	Alan was a scholar of the ancient civilizations that dotted the
land.

*					*					*

	Alan was a mess.

	He was bald.  His head was covered in scar tissue.  His eyes were
milky white, and did not track as the party entered the room.

	"Forgive me if I don't stand," he said.  He gestured vaguely, and
Julian noted to his horror that Alan's arms ended at the elbow.  "Have
a seat, all of you."

	They sat.  Wordless glances were exchanged.

	"You're wondering what happened, I'm sure.  Fair enough.  I'll
give you my story and then you can tell me what the hell you want
here."  He tilted his head back, a gesture remaining from the days when
his viewpoint switch would have meant something.

	"You sent me back here.  You dispersed us all in case you failed.
I was born here, long enough ago that they don't remember me from
before."  He shook his head.  "After you won, the remainder of
Brandomere's armies were in chaos.  Mopping up was easy here, and from
what I heard, everywhere else, too.  About a week after you killed him
and got sucked into that ivory tower deal of yours, my scouts reported a
legion marching on Scymel.  It must have been the only intact one on the
continent.  I waited long enough to save myself the trouble of a long
walk, then I went out to fight them.  There were only a hundred or so of
them, and with those," he nodded in the direction of his shattered
arquebusses, gleaming in their velvet display cases.  "With those, I
figured I could handle them easily."  He shook his head again and waved
his right stump aimlessly.  "It was one of those things.  One of those
random, one in a million circumstances you think will never happen.  Not
to you."  His voice grew distant, and his sightless eyes stared beyond
the little group in front of him.  "It was easy.  I killed most of them
without breaking a sweat, and the rest were breaking and running.  Best
I can reconstruct, one of them fired a crossbow just as I pulled the
trigger.  I saw him drop, and then I woke up in the healer's room here.
They tell me I'm lucky to be alive.  Most artifacts take cities with
them when they go.  Losing both arms to the elbow and being blinded is
lucky, I suppose."

	He rubbed his stumps together with horrible briskness.  "Now then.
Julian Kestrel, Arica Llewellyn.  Hans von Gotrek.  Darrow whose last
name I won't use on account of I don't dodge potions as well as I used
to.  I'm assuming you're on a quest.  I heard about Tyler.  Should I
assume you're taking that on?"

	Julian blinked in surprise.  "You're good."

	"I have to be.  This is all I have left, kid.  I can't adventure
anymore, and I can't stand the paperwork here.  I find, however, that I
can manage to dissuade the occasional would-be hero, and if I can scare
them off, they aren't cut out for the business anyway.  You four won't
scare, so the best I can do is try to help.  What do you need?"

	Arica spoke up this time.  "Supplies, horses, and any information
the Guild has on Rothschild Damane."

	Alan grimaced.  "The first two are easy.  We've got a storeroom
you can loot to your heart's content, and I can buy you some horses.
Information is a problem.  The extent of what we know about Damane is
this.  He was a member of a druidic circle.  He was expelled for using
forbidden magics.  He's in the north, raising an army to conquer the
world.  Tyler was prophecied to stop him.  The druids say it's futile to
try now.  Idiots."

	"Alright," Julian said.  "We'd better be going.  We're here
without Guild permission, and don't want to cause you any trouble.
Thank you for your help, Alan."

	Arica stood and bent over the desk.  "Thank you, Alan.  Gods be
with you."  She kissed his scarred forehead.

	"Josef will show you the storeroom.  Shake a leg, will you?  I
don't know how long this Damane idiot is going to be content to wait."

	After brief goodbyes, the party trooped out again.  Darrow, in the
rear, lingered a moment.  "I wish you were coming with us."

	"Me too, kid.  Keep your head on straight, alright?  One of you
ought to."

	When the door shut behind Darrow, Alan pillowed his head on the
ruins of his arms.

	"Gods help them all."

*					*					*

	"No doubt about it, General.  According to our informant, Kestral
and Llewellyn are in Scymel, and they and their friends are already
causing trouble."

	General Vatsh scowled, causing his single eyebrow to contract even
further.  "The Third Legion is only a few miles from Scymel.  Have they
got a mage?"

	"Yessir."

	"Good.  Get a message to them.  Kestral and Llewellyn are top
priority until further notice.  I want them to move out immediately."

	"Yessir."

	"And send a messenger to King Laurence, as well."

	"Yessir."

	"Dismissed."

*					*					*

	The storeroom was everything Alan had said.  Being experienced
travellers, it was the work of perhaps twenty minutes to find weapons,
food, clothing, and the odd miscellaneous item and pack them all neatly.
Josef slipped out and returned with a note:

The Hero's Guild will
redeem this for the
costs of four horses
and their tack.

Alan (his mark)

	"The hostler, sirs and madam, is half a mile east down the main
road.  You can't miss it."

	"Thanks, Josef.  We'll find our own way out," Darrow said, idly
testing the point of his rapier.  He bowed extravagently.  "Let's go get
ourselves killed, shall we?"

	Arica grinned and whispered in her husband's ear.  "He's coming
along.  I knew he would."  Out loud she said merely, "Lets!"

*					*					*

	"Oh, Julian, isn't she beautiful!" Arica said, running her hand
along the back of a gray mare.

	"I suppose so, my dear."

	"Oh, Julian, relax and stop looking around so much.  We'll be out
of town in a few hours."

	"I know, I know, I just hate waiting around while Hans and Darrow
pick out the damned horses.  Having nothing to do drives me nuts."

	A loud crash sounded outside.  Quickly followed by another.  And
another.  They rushed out of the stable, where they found Hans, Darrow
and the hostler staring down the hill at the harbor.

	"Pirates!  With cannons!" shouted the hostler.

	"Pirates!" shouted Julian.

	"Fight them?" asked Hans.

	"I'd really rather just leave town," said Darrow, "But I can see
that none of you are going to listen to reason on this subject, as on so
many others.  What the heck," he added, as the four around him began to
glare.

	"Charge!" shouted Hans.  As he began to run, the hostler yelled at
him.

	"Wait!"  He pointed at half a dozen saddled horses tied up outside
the stable.  "Take those!"

	The party saddled up and began a mad dash for the harbor.

*					*					*

	"Gods!  They're destroying the place!  Julian, what are we going
to do?"

	"I don't know, dear heart, but we have to stop them somehow!"

	When they reached the harbor, Hans began methodically eyeing the
water and testing the wind.

	"No gut," he shouted casually, as cannonballs continued to crash
into the city from the pair of ships.  "Vind is wrong for zailz.  Ve
must row.  Dat vun, I am thinkink."  He pointed to a small dinghy with
two sets of oars and several inches of water in the bottom.

	"Why that one?" Darrow shouted.  "Why not-"  He broke off as the
cannon fire suddenly stopped.  He opened his mouth to continue at a
lower volume, but stopped again with an odd expression on his face.

	"What is it?" Arica asked.

	"Listen," he hissed.

	All four of them joined in the silence that had engulfed the
harbor.  Except for the wind.  And the waves.  And the sound that had
caused Darrow concern.  Horses.  Lots of them.  Getting closer.  Julian
turned, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, to see rank upon rank of
mounted soldiers approaching from the west.

	"There must be a hundred of them," he said, dully.

	Hans jumped into the dinghy, which creaked alarmingly, but failed
to sink.  "Ve go now, come on!"

	Darrow followed suit immediately, if more carefully, as did Arica.
Julian stared for a second longer, then joined them.

	"You were right, Darrow," he said, as he and Hans started rowing.

	"Julian Kestrel!  Arica Llewellyn!" boomed a voice from the shore.
"You are under arrest for treason against King Laurence!"

	"Come back to-urk!"

	"Urk?" Hans grunted as he strained at the oars.  "Vhere is Urk?"

	"Hans?  Julian?  Row faster."

	"Going as fast as I can, love," Julian panted.

	"Mewly just knocked the captain off of his horse."

	Julian didn't reply.  He was saving his breath for rowing.
Faster.

	The cannons started to fire again.  They had adjusted their aim,
and were splitting their shots between the soldiers on the shore and the
tiny boat approaching them.

	Hans began to sing.  o/~"Oh Tanenbaum, I lost you to 
Hildegarde!"o/~

FIN

Author's Note:

Do not taunt happy fun chapter.

Thanks to W4 for the extension.  Thanks to Freedom Colberg for 
assistance.

I have a list of odds and ends that didn't get used in this.  Anyone
interested/short of ideas can contact me at:

mcculley@mad.scientist.com
or
dugan@freeze.com

Comments of any sort can be sent to the same place.

Respectfully submitted,
Jason McCulley
6/24/01