Part One: Hard Lessons

The guards snapped to rigid, menacing attention when the courier rounded the corner. The boy... almost a man, but not quite there yet... strolled hurriedly down the hall toward them. In one hand he held a tightly-bound scroll whose wax seal bore the official imprint of the Tower Guard. His other hand clutched a unrolled sheet of dingy, tattered parchment, which he held up to show the guards.

"Uhhh.... Official Courier," the boy said. His voice quivered slightly... and he spoke with a reluctance that, under different circumstances, would have been suspicious. But, given the boy's age and his destination, a certain amount of fear was normal. Even expected.

"Pass," said the guard on the boy's left. The heavily armed and armored man stepped to the side to let the boy through the doorway behind him. The boy glanced up at him, and then shot a nervous look at the other guard. Neither man said anything further.

The courier passed between them and walked slowly down a short, torch-lit hallway that ended at another door. It was huge... six-inch thick ironwood, reinforced with iron rods and banded with steel. The enchantments it bore made the boy's nose-hair itch when he got close to it.

The boy stood before the massive door. He stayed just out of arm's reach, as if he expected the mighty construct of metal and wood to reach out and grab him. When it failed to do so after a reasonable pause, he took a step forward... extended his hand... made a fist... then lowered his arm back to his side.

He waited.... doing another 'reach out and grab' test just to be sure.

Without warning, a rectangular window in the door slid open, and a pair of brown eyes peered out at him.

"What are you doing out there?" said a stern, female voice.

The boy held up his pass... and then the scroll.

"M-m-message?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Ummm...." the boy looked down at his shoes.

The woman sighed, and the tiny window slammed closed. Then the door swung open. It was constructed so that it opened out into the hallway even though the hinges were on the inside. The boy supposed that was to make it more resistant to being bashed in from the outside, although it was almost inconceivable that anything that could make it THIS far into the East Tower and still have the strength to bash down a door.

The room beyond was... not a dungeon... not a treasury... but an office. The woman who had opened the door stood back and let the courier enter. She was a matronly, middle aged woman who's hair had nearly completed its transformation to gray from whatever color it had been before. She reminded the boy of his grandmother, only not nearly as fat. Her desk sat across from the door, where she could greet anyone that entered.... or transfix them with the crossbow she had hidden under her chair.

"Message?" she said, holding out her hand.

"It's for... him."

"Ohhhh. You'd better go give it to him, then." She pointed to another doorway. The door was open.

"Message for me?" The voice from inside sounded like a large boulder rolling down a steep, rocky mountain. "Bring it in."

"Go on," said the woman.

"But...."

"IS THERE A MESSAGE FOR ME OR NOT!?" shouted the man in the other room.

"Y-Yes, sir!" The young courier scurried into the office and skidded to a halt just inside the door. His eyes traveled across the carpet to the huge desk that dominated the room. It was a huge monster of a desk... obviously designed by the same man who'd created the massive door to the Captain's offices. The wood and metal construct looked like something a barbarian horde would use to break down castle gates. The wall behind it was adorned with weapons.... clubs, maces, morning-stars. All bashing-weapons. All polished and kept in pristine condition by the man who's massive chair sat before them.

Captain Hieronymous Physt wasn't a large man. In fact, he was considerably smaller than the hulking, ham-fisted 'heroes' that seemed so common in Montfort. But what he lacked in height, he more than made up for in attitude and intensity. He was the kind of man that seemed twice as large as he really was. Larger than life. His 5'11" frame was broad of shoulder and packed with muscles that only hinted at their presence from behind the layers of his perfectly-tailored uniform. Only the occasional bulge of his arm or shoulder when he moved revealed the raw power that lay beneath. But his strength did not come from well-hidden muscle. It came from within, and it was born of the fact that the man was a walking contradiction. He was both young and old. Younger in age than many of his peers, but older in experience than some who would call themselves his superior. He was quick with his fists, and even quicker with his mind... yet always slow and cautious with his words. He was a man who could be involved and detached in the same instant, because he knew that it took heart AND brain to be victorious in all but the most trivial of life's affairs. And nothing was trivial. His eyes... those twin brown orbs that had stared into the face of more enemies than many of his subordinates could count... could convey cold calculation one second, and flaming rage the next. Sometimes both at once. To those who met him, he was an icon... an icon of physical readiness mated with cold, military precision. A man hardened by battle and years of experience, yet not jaded by it. He was a man of war, but also a man who believed that violence and open conflict were not always the way. Not always.

Of course, the courier knew little of this. All he saw as the Captain's physical presence. He saw a man who sat like a thing carved out of stone. Huge, rough hands curled into fists that rested on his desk like two anvils. His thick, dark lips curled downward in a seemingly eternal scowl... framed by a mustache and goatee of short, perfectly trimmed hair. The chocolate-brown skin of his bald head gleamed in the light like a mirror... any brighter and it would have blinded the boy. His eyes stared down at the courier with an intensity to which the boy... and most men... were unaccustomed. When he saw those eyes, the courier forgot all about his message. It was all he could do to keep from running out of the room in a panic. In fact, his constant squirming was indeed carrying him in the general direction of the door.

"WELL!" Captain Physt boomed. "WHAT IS IT!?!"

The boy's hand shot out. The official scroll jerked back and forth in the air, animated by the boy's nervous quaking.

"What do you expect... me to climb over this desk and take it from you?" The courier was two yards away from the desk, holding out his message as if it would fly out of his grasp and land in the captain's hand of its own free will. The boy took a few reluctant steps forward and held the scroll out before the captain.

Physt looked at it, but made no move to take it. The scroll slowly sank down toward the desk as the strength drained out of the boy's arm. The instant before the scroll touched the polished surface of the wood-

SNATCH!

Hieronymous Physt's large hand yanked the message out of the boy's loose grip.

"You're excused," he said.

"Huh?"

"GET OUT! NOW!"

The boy squealed like a wounded pig and bolted from the room. He ran past the secretary's desk without even bothering to pick up the coins she had set out for him. He streaked down the hall, where the guards just looked at him and shook their heads.

Meanwhile, the captain and his secretary were enjoying a good, raucous laugh. They quickly calmed themselves down... but then the captain burst out laughing again.

"Hirem Physt!" Henrietta said between chuckles. She leaned into the captain's office. "How DARE you keep scaring that poor child!"

"I can't help it, Henrietta," said Captain Physt. His 'permanent' scowl was now a toothy grin. "The boy... the boy just ASKS for it!"

"ONE day he'll get tired of your games!"

Physt's smile twitched slightly as his voice took a slightly more serious tone.

"One day," he said. "The boy will have enough of being frightened by people bigger and louder than he is. Then he'll be a man... more of a man than some of the people we have out patrolling the streets of Montfort right now."

"Oh, so scaring children is a public service now?"

"Yes. That and a great deal of fun!"

"Well..." said Henrietta. "I seem to remember a certain timid young boy who took quite a while to learn that lesson."

"I had reason to be timid."

"You had reason NOT to be, too. What's the message?"

Captain Physt glanced down at the scroll. He'd almost forgotten about it.

No. No, he hadn't forgotten. He just didn't want to open it.

"I already know what it says," he sighed. "But lets take a look at how they turned me down THIS time..."

Captain Physt broke the seal and unrolled the letter. His brown eyes ran back and forth over the page:

"Captain Hieronymous Physt.... blah, blah, blah... have reviewed your request... blah, blah... after due consideration of your needs and the available resources... etcetera, blah, blah..."

The captain sighed.

"...they can't even be original anymore," he said. He handed the scroll to his secretary. "File this with the others."

"No mage?" she said

"No. But they DID say that we should feel free to make liberal use of Azward to help fill in the 'gaps' in my resources."

"In other words: You already have a mage, don't ask for another one."

"Azward isn't a fighter! He's GOOD, yes, but he's an INVESTIGATIVE mage... of almost no use in a REAL situation! We need men out there in the streets!"

"Men?" said a voice that didn't belong to the captain or his secretary. Another person had entered the room. The dark-haired woman wore stylish pants and a light jacket... both loose-fitting, both black. She wore a sword on her right hip, and a large dagger on her left. The sword's full scabbard and the knife's sheath were both the color of midnight... as were her boots and gloves. The only splash of color in her otherwise monochrome ensemble was the bright purple scarf around her neck. It was tied loosely, with the ends tucked into her jacket. The woman herself was thin, but not frail or skinny. Her clothes didn't quite hide the curves of her petite breasts or shapely hips. Her skin was smooth and feminine, and her face... she had the kind of beauty that many men would kill for.

But all of this was ruined by her voice.

The woman spoke in a deep, husky, masculine whisper. The sound seemed poised on the verge of becoming a bestial roar or a thundering battle-cry at the slightest provocation.

"You know what I meant, lieutenant," said Captain Physt.

"Hello, Monica," said Henrietta.

Monica Drew returned the greeting with a smile and a silent nod. She stepped into the captain's office, moving with all the smooth grace of a dancer. She started to speak, but then she noticed the scroll that Henrietta was holding.

"No mage?" she whispered.

"Afraid not," said the captain. "Every third person in this town can spit blue fireballs or fry a man in his boots by looking at him cross-eyed... but the Tower Guard has a mage-shortage. I just don't understand."

"Most of the mages are on the wrong side of the law," said Monica... still speaking in whispers.

"Oh, that can't be true," said Henrietta.

"It is," Monica replied. "Power corrupts."

"THAT kind of talk brought this town no end of trouble," Henrietta said sternly. "Magic doesn't make a person bad."

"Doesn't make them good, either. But I'll tell you what...," the tone of Monica's whisper lowered... transforming into something just this side of sinister. "...you let me sing your grandchildren a lullaby, and I'll consider your point of view."

"Lieutenant," Captain Physt cautioned.

"Sorry," Monica said. She smiled apologetically at Henrietta. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," the secretary replied. "Don't mention it. But it does give me a new appreciation for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes. What an amazingly strong and agile woman you must be... to go on patrol night after night carrying that mighty CHIP you have perched on your shoulder."

With that, Henrietta left the room and returned to her desk.

"I deserved that," said Monica.

"Yes," said Captain Physt. "You did."

"You left word that you wanted to see me before patrol?"

"Yes. I wanted to make sure you didn't leave without your new recruits."

Monica raised an eyebrow and gave the captain a wary look.

"Recruits?"

"Six just came in today. No mages... I'm sure you'll be happy about that."

"And how many am I getting?"

"Six."

"What?"

"Six recruits. They're all going on Darkwatch with you."

"ME!? But... but we've only got-"

"You're three soldiers short on Darkwatch. Plus, I've given Cedris, Simon, and Richard the night off. They'll report bright and early tomorrow morning... for Daywatch."

"But those are three of my best fighters!"

"Exactly. And I'm replacing them with SIX men, whom you can train to be their equals."

"Me? Why not give them to Dash? He always gets the new recruits-"

"Because he always gets the new recruits."

"There's a reason for that, sir," Monica said darkly. "Darkwatch isn't for amateurs."

"Are you saying that Daywatch is? Are you calling Sir Dascle an amateur?"

"No, sir. But the challenges are different, and I can't-"

"Don't sell yourself short, Lieutenant. You're a great fighter, and a good leader-"

"Dash is much better at training than I am-"

"And that's exactly why you're getting all six recruits. Split them up in your squads however you see fit... but I do expect at least TWO of them to stay in your direct command."

"But- You could have at least told me before now!"

"I am the commanding officer, am I not? Consider yourself privileged that I AM telling you now."

"Sir... you know... you know how things get on Darkwatch. Its dangerous. Its MORE than dangerous."

"They'll be fine. And so will you. This matter is not open to discussion."

Monica gave an exaggerated sigh. She looked Captain Physt straight in the eye... and began to pout.

"You know it won't work," he said. "Don't waste your time."

Monica sighed again... this time for real.

"Yes, sir," she whispered. "Where are my new recruits, sir? Did they even bother to show up?"

"They're with Touch. He's running them through the usual drill."

"Will they still be able to move when its time to patrol?"

"Touch gave me his word he'd take it easy on them. This time. If you hurry, you might be able to catch some of the fun. But Azward wants to see you first."

"Azward," Monica repeated the name with noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "This night's getting better by the minute."

"And that's exactly what he wishes to see you about." This time, Captain Physt was whispering. "Tonight."

"What about tonight?"

"Remember that... 'special operation' we had planned?"

"That? We're doing that tonight!? With new recruits-"

"You will make sure the new folks are occupied elsewhere... out of harm's way... while we take care of business."

A quick smile came to Monica's lips.

"Well, tonight won't be a total waste, then," she whispered.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant."

Monica saluted the captain, and he returned the formality. She spun on her heels and marched out of his office.

"Have a nice night," Henrietta called as Monica passed by the secretary's desk.

"Oh, I will," Monica replied.

---

The East Tower was among the most heavily fortified and well-protected structures the city. Of course, that also meant that its corridors were about as colorful and appealing as a crypt. Sometimes the dreariness of the place was a perfect match for Lieutenant Monica Drew's mood. Other times, like tonight, it just irritated her. A lot.

Two burly guards saluted her as she passed between them. The salute she gave in return was half-hearted at best. Today hadn't been a good day so far, but hopefully it would get better. First, however, she had to get through her meeting with Azward.

She didn't have any real problem with Azward. She'd known him only for the few months he'd been stationed at East Tower, during which he had neither said nor done anything to earn her dislike of him. But he was a mage, and, except for certain rare exceptions, that was enough. It wasn't a personal dislike, however. No, for Monica, it was just a matter of principle. And just as Azward hadn't done anything to earn her scorn, neither had he done anything to get himself promoted to the 'rare exception' category. Maybe that would change soon.

But only if he put some damned lights in his study.

Monica paused outside the mage's office/laboratory and squinted at the inky blackness that awaited her. Azward's study was located deep in the heart of the tower, where the only light came from magic, torches, or lamps. Azward had obviously forgotten that fact, and, since Monica was one of the only three people in Montfort who COULDN'T see in the dark, her efforts to see into his office yielded only frustration. She couldn't even tell if he was in there.

"Azward." she said, still speaking in low whisper.

"Hmmm?" came a timid reply from the darkness. "Who's there? Oh, its you! Come in!"

"I would... but it'd be a shame if I tripped over something in the dark and accidentally blew the tower into next week."

"OH, you need light! ...so sorry..." Monica listened to the sounds from the room: a wooden stool dragging briefly across the floor. Shuffling footsteps. The rustling of cloth. And then Azward's voice: "Solarim Illumitat Noninflamitrix!"

The ceiling of Azward's study began to glow, emitting a strong, steady light that illuminated everything in the room with a minimum of shadows and dark spots. The mage was standing by his desk with his back to the door, his nimble fingers were tying a strip of cloth around his face to cover his eyes.

"Come, come," he waved her in. The mage was a strange looking man... strange, even for Montfort. He was barely 5 feet tall, with the palest, most sickly-looking skin Monica had seen since the Great Plague. Monica had seen corpses with more color. His round head was completely devoid of hair... no eyelashes, no eyebrows... and mottled with so many blotches and age-spots that he almost resembled a cheetah. Azward's arms and legs were unhealthily thin, even for a man of such small size. They looked like they'd be more at home on some kind of giant insect than a man. But Azward's most striking feature was the very thing that he was covering... his eyes. Monica had seen them only once before, when he'd first arrived. The large, multi-faceted orbs startled even her. The mage wasn't ashamed or self-conscious about them, but he still kept them covered when others were around. It generally made conversation with him much easier.

He finished tying the cloth around his eyes and turned around.

"Better?" he said.

"Hmmmm?"

Azward pointed to the ceiling.

"The spell. You like?"

"It's adequate," said Monica. It was actually quite good... it provided more than enough light to see without being distractingly bright. It was almost like sunlight. In fact, if Monica didn't know better, she's swear she was standing outside at high noon.

"Oh, I forgot. You don't like magic. Should I keep a torch around for you instead?"

"I have no problem with magic," she whispered. "Its MAGES that I don't like."

"Ah, so you DO have an appreciation for the art!"

"I didn't say that-" Monica began, but Azward kept right on talking.

"Did you know that there are over 6000 ways to transform magical energy into light? The spell I used is a Solar Plane... its actually artificially-produced sunlight! Indistinguishable from the real thing! Now, there is a rare derivative spell that produces artificial moonlight, but I can't really see the practical applications of-"

"Azward."

"Oh. I'm boring you, aren't I."

"Yes, you are."

"So sorry."

"You should find yourself an apprentice," said Monica. "Then the two of you can talk magic to your heart's content."

"I had an apprentice once," Azward began. He was clearly on the verge of a long and meaningless ramble, but he stopped himself before he could bore Monica further. But Monica actually wanted to hear the story. She knew very little about Azward's past, and judging from his face, the mention of an apprentice seemed to touch a rare nostalgic nerve in the mage.

"What happened to him?" she said.

"Ahh, well... he was a bit too eager. Wanted to learn too much too soon. Always wanting to learn new things instead of perfecting what he already knew."

"Get himself blown up?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. I guess I wasn't teaching fast enough for him, so he left to find someone more his speed. That was years ago. He's been somewhat of a wanderer ever since."

"He'd better be careful. If he wanders too close to the East Tower, Captain Physt will draft him."

"Funny you should mention that..."

"He's in the guard?"

"No, but he was in Montfort not too long ago. Left on some fool expedition... something about finding an ancient city. Sheer nonsense if you ask me, but that's the type of thing he was always doing... rushing off halfway across the globe just to be the first to learn some new spell."

"Sounds like a dangerous man," said Monica.

"Not really," Azward replied. Then he thought for a moment. "Well... perhaps."

"And you taught him," Monica said accusingly. "Another dangerous mage on the loose. Thank you, Azward."

"I was but one teacher of many. And you have the wrong idea... even at his worst, he was no villain. Just a man cursed with a bit too much curiosity.... nothing like the fiend that-"

Monica raised her hand... a warning that Azward was about to trespass on an area that he was better off avoiding.

"Apologies." Azward bowed slightly.

"The captain said you wanted to see me." Monica steered the conversation back into more formal waters.

"Ah!"

Azward shuffled over to his desk, where he produced three small, draw-string pouches... each about the size of a coin-purse.

"For tonight," he said as he handed the pouches to Monica.

"Enough for everyone?"

"Of course! We wouldn't want any unfortunate... uhhhh...." Azward's words became more tentative, as if he were not sure how to finish the sentence without offending his guest.

"No, we wouldn't," Monica finished for him. "Will they work?"

"Naturally. As long as the exposure is limited to a few seconds."

"How few?"

"Ten at the most."

Monica weighed Azward's words against his body language and facial expression. There was no doubt or hesitation in either... the mage fully believed that his magic was up to the task. At least HE was confident.

"What about the other?" said Monica.

"Yes... you'll need this-" Azward gave her a medallion... a two-inch diameter disk hanging on a chain. Both disk and chain were of a dull, silver-colored metal. The disk was adorned with carvings on both sides... strange symbols that Monica didn't recognize. She slipped the item in her pants pocket.

"Uhhh..." Azward appeared suddenly upset. He turned away sharply and started sputtering like a nervous schoolboy. "I....Ummm... Lieutenant...uhhh... Ms. Drew..."

"What?"

"The enchantment in the...uhhh... medal is quite concentrated, and... well,... what I mean is...your pants are very...uhh... Not that I was looking...but...ummmm..."

The mage's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. It was the most color she'd ever seen in him.

"What's wrong?" said the Lieutenant.

Azward pointed nervously at the pocket where Monica had stashed the medallion. Monica looked down at her pants. They appeared normal, but then, she didn't have eyes like Azward... Eyes that perceived magical energy the way that a normal person could see light. With an enchanted item in her pocket, the thin cloth of her pants was probably completely transparent to him. Her underclothes would have been plainly visible... had she been wearing any.

Monica snatched the medallion from her pants and placed it in the outer pocket of her jacket.

"Better?" she asked.

Azward relaxed; his cheeks began returning to their normal, sickly pallor.

"I hope the view wasn't THAT bad," she whispered. This one was a sultry whisper, not her usual gruff one. She followed it with a wink.

Azward blushed again, this time more deeply than the first. Monica chuckled silently, finding the whole situation quite amusing.

"I'll see you tonight, Azward," she said on her way out. She'd barely gone around the corner when the light in Azward's study went out, plunging the room into total darkness once again.

---

The new recruits were battling in the courtyard just inside the rear gate... well away from the prying eyes of pedestrians and casual visitors. Their practice filled the evening air with the sounds of swordplay. Battle cries, the ring of metal on metal, and the occasional grunt of pain marked the playground of Lieutenant Touch, the East Tower's Training Officer. Lieutenant Touch was putting the six new recruits through a scaled-down version of his usual lesson. After a brief endurance drill, he initiated a miniature tournament... pairing them off at random and pitting them against each other in fights that lasted for either five minutes, or until one man disarmed the other. Touch walked calmly among the pairs of combatants, stopping to observe each bout for a few seconds before moving on to the next. Lieutenant Drew stood off to one side and watched the display, then marched out onto the field. Touch saw her and gave a shout, prematurely ending the current round of fights.

"Rest," he ordered. The recruits milled around aimlessly for a moment... until they noticed Drew. Then they jumped to attention. Monica gave the men a quick glance, then motioned toward Touch.

Touch... who's real name was something unpronounceable that ended in 't-che'... wore his usual non-uniform. No shirt. No boots. No weapons. The only thing separating him from total nakedness was the black silk pants that were the sum total of his wardrobe. Touch's tanned skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat. He was a thin, lithe man... slightly shorter than average... with no bulging muscles or rippling biceps that were the stock and trade of most warriors. He was a man that LOOKED weak, but nothing could be further from the truth. Touch's body was rock hard, and so well defined that his physique seemed chiseled out of flesh-colored stone. His hair was perfectly straight, and perfectly black. He kept it cut to just below his ears. His skin was a peculiar shade of yellowish-brown, but the brownness was only due to his tendency to walk around in the sun with no shirt. His bare feet padded soundlessly in the dirt as he joined Lieutenant Drew. When he stood before her, he clasped both his hands together just below his chin and gave a deep bow.

Drew returned the gesture so precisely that it may as well have been a mirror image.

"How bad are they?" she asked. Touch smiled so widely that his almond-shaped eyes twinkled.

"Where you see lack of skill," he replied. "I see raw enthusiasm... a precious commodity that, with care and time, can be molded to form the noblest of warriors."

"On the streets of Montfort, 'raw enthusiasm' can lead to a very quick and embarrassing death. What do these boys have?"

"If you mean swordsmanship..." Touch shrugged. Drew couldn't help but watch the way the way his muscles moved. Tight, yet smooth at and fluid. The man was a work of art, no doubt about it. "They are better than most newcomers. Able and willing to learn."

"Will they last the week?"

"That depends on their leader. I hear that is to be you, this time."

"Yes." Monica eyed the row of new recruits. "I see I haven't missed the fun," she said.

"As usual, your arrival is quite timely."

"Good. Don't let me interrupt."

Monica bowed deeply, as did Touch.

"But remember," she added. "They have to be on the streets in an hour."

"Do not worry," said Touch. The Training Officer walked back onto the field and stood before his students. "You and you-" He pointed out two of the recruits. "Come forward."

The pair of swordsmen took two steps forward.

"Your names?"

"Nerris, SIR!"

"Wolfe, SIR!"

They shouted with comical enthusiasm.

"The two of you have proven to be the most able swordsmen of the group. Your skill is without match among your fellow students... except, perhaps, for one another."

The men glanced at each other. Nerris, the younger and taller of the pair, smiled at Wolfe. Wolfe's face remained expressionless.

"Therefore, I have chosen you to assist me with this demonstration."

Without waiting for an order, the two men squared off against each other and drew their swords. They waited for Touch's signal to begin the match that would decide who was the best swordsman in the class.

Touch cleared his throat loudly to get their attention. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said. "You- here. You-there." The Lieutenant pointed Nerris and Wolfe to spots on his left and right, respectively. The men went to their places and waited. Their confusion was evident... they were standing too far apart to spar with each other...

"Attack me," Touch said calmly. Instead of battle-cries, Touch received two identical looks of doubt and befuddlement.

"E-excuse me... sir?" said Wolfe. Wolfe had a deep, deep voice didn't fit his comical reluctance at all. It made Drew smile.

"Attack me," Touch repeated.

Wolfe looked at Nerris. Nerris looked at Wolfe. They both looked at Touch. Touch had his eyes closed. Nobody moved.

"Uhhh... sir?" said Wolfe. "You're an officer, sir."

Touch sighed and opened his eyes.

"Do you see an insignia of rank or office anywhere on my person?" Touch turned around in a circle so they could see him from all sides. "For all either of you know, I could be an intruder. So, for the purposes of this demonstration, let us pretend that I AM an intruder. Subdue me."

Touch stood still and clasped both hands behind his back.

"Okay," Wolfe said reluctantly. While Nerris stood in place and watched, Wolfe walked toward Touch and made a few tentative jabbing motions with his sword-

-Thunk!-

Touch's foot barely moved, and Wolfe's sword was laying in the dirt. Wolfe was rubbing his suddenly-sore fingers, trying to figure out what had just happened.

"...wha-?"

"I said ATTACK me!" Touch shouted. "THAT was NOT an attack!" Drew knew that Touch wasn't really loosing his temper, but he could certainly put on a convincing show of it. "Pick up your sword and try again!"

With Touch's attention focused on Wolfe, Nerris made a silent charge... a sneak attack on the distracted Lieutenant.

Drew saw it coming, but she decided not to warn him. She'd let Nerris find out the hard way... like she did.

Without taking his eyes off of Wolfe, Touch sidestepped the charge, then twisted sharply at the waist and rabbit-punched Nerris in the kidney as he rushed past.

"OOOOOOF!" Nerris stumbled a few steps, nearly tripping over his own sword as he dropped it. He stayed on his feet, however... doubled over in pain and clutching his side as if his gut were about to explode... but still on his feet.

"There!" Touch said to Wolfe. "Attack me like HE tried to do, only BETTER! Now both of you... pick up your swords and get back to your places."

Wolfe and Nerris took up their weapons and went back to their positions on either side of Touch.

"Now... attack me."

The two fighters immediately rushed Touch. Nerris bellowed a fierce war cry as swung his blade... a distraction to draw Touch's attention from Wolfe, who lunged silently, thrusting his sword toward the lieutenant's chest.

Touch hopped backward, then reversed direction and ducked in between the two men, who nearly collided with each other in their attempt to follow the nimble lieutenant's.

"I asked you to attack me," Touch said as the men circled him. "Please do so before I lose patience with both of you."

Again, the swordsmen moved in for a dual attack. Again, Touch evaded their blades with casual ease.

"You are starting to bore me," he said.

Nerris's gaze narrowed, and he glanced tellingly at Wolfe. The men had been holding back. They knew it... Touch knew it... and even Monica knew it. But that was about to change.

"HA!" Nerris shouted. He and Wolfe moved in once more, but this time the attacks were real. Monica studied their styles as they attempted to assault their superior officer. Nerris was what Drew called a quickster... he rushed in for short rounds of rapid-fire attacks, and then backed off to study their effectiveness. Wolfe was the opposite. When he moved in, he stayed in.... attempting to mow his target down with a relentless wave of strong, yet well-executed attacks. Nerris used his own speed and accuracy to his advantage. Wolfe did the same with strength and endurance. When working as a team, such a combination would have been quite effective.

But none of meant a thing when fighting Touch.

The lithe lieutenant ducked, dodged, and sometimes literally danced away from their best attacks as if they were both rank amateurs holding a sword for the first time. Nerris and Wolfe had quickly worked up a sweat, but Touch wasn't even breathing hard. Even worse, both of the lieutenant's hands were still clasped firmly behind his back. He was embarrassing them, and they didn't like it. They began to get annoyed... and then angry. But instead of growing sloppy, their attacks became quicker and more determined as they funneled their anger into the fight. They began to work together... signaling each other with furtive glances, grunts, and finger movements to coordinate their attacks. When they struck, their swords moved like two weapons controlled by the same man. Fast and furious.

Monica liked what she saw. These two had potential.

Touch liked it, too. This was exactly how he wanted them. Now it was time to begin.

He backed away from the fighters, and, as they turned to attack, he slipped back in between them as he had done several times before. But this time he wasn't trying to confuse or avoid them... in the blink of an eye, the game had been changed from 'keep-away' to 'combat.' His hands moved like darting birds, much too fast for either fighter to react. His fist drove into Wolfe's side like a hammer. A ridge-hand strike did likewise for Nerris' stomach. Both swordsman yelped in pain and jumped back. Touch hastened Wolfe's retreat with a front-snap kick that must have certainly loosened a few teeth. Nerris was already on the attack. Not learning his lesson from the earlier attempt, he was once again trying to rush Touch from behind. Touch rebuffed him with a spinning back-kick, driving his naked heel into the swordsman's solar-plexus. The tossed Nerris back several feet.... landed on his butt, eyes already glazed over with pain.

Wolfe narrowly avoided a similar fate. His rushing slash was met with a spinning side-kick to the face. The swordsman jerked his head back as he swung his sword in a downward arc across Touch's chest. Touch spun away from the blade and then launched into what Drew called a 'windmill'.... a relentless series of spinning kicks that came so fast and so hard that they were almost impossible to counter. Touch's feet zipped past Wolfe's startled face five... six... seven times before the swordsman even knew what was going on. Instinctively, he backed away from the spinning madman, but Touch followed him, driving him back even further. The lieutenant was too close for Wolfe to make effective use of his sword, so he kept moving back... and Touch kept spinning and kicking until he was literally chasing Wolfe across the courtyard.

And then he stopped.

Drew knew exactly what was going through Wolfe's mind at that instant. It was the same thing that went through HER mind when Touch had done it to HER:

Huh? What happened? Where'd the kicks go?

He was stunned and disoriented for an instant, and that was all it took. Touch dove into him with the thing Wolfe least expected... a round of hard, fast punches to the chest and abdomen. By the time Wolfe felt the first blow, Touch was pulling his fist back from his sixth. All the pain hit Wolfe at once:

"!!!!!"

Wolfe's mouth hung open and his eyes rolled back up into his head. He stood on one foot, sputtering and convulsing like a marionette with tangled strings. Finally, he collapsed.

Touch didn't pause to admire his handiwork. He immediately lunged to one side to avoid, Nerris' silent charge. The man had recovered his sword and his senses, and was now genuinely angry. Touch ducked under the slashing blade and spun around to Nerris's unguarded side. Nerris realized his mistake about the same time as Touch's spinning back-fist grazed his skull-

WHACK!

It was only a glancing blow, but a glancing blow from Touch was comparable to having an anvil dropped on one's head from a great height. Nerris blacked out for an instant... long enough for Touch to-

-do nothing.

Touch backed away, assumed a loose fighting stance, and waited. Nerris shook the dizziness away and locked eyes with his instructor. He glared at Touch. His fist tightened around the hilt of his weapon. Then he attacked.

"HA!" he shouted as he lunged forward... then reared back... then charged once more. His blade danced in complex arcs.... Slashes and thrusts and jabs and feints. Nerris fought like a champion fencer. Unfortunately, he was fighting empty air. Touch avoided the sword with ease each time it sought his flesh. He let Nerris back him up a few steps, then he disarmed him with simple maneuver. He twisted to one side and stepped in close as Nerris's arm thrust the blade forward. He grabbed the swordsman's wrist with one hand, then twisted it while yanking the man towards him. Nerris lurched forward... and his face ran right into Touch's extended elbow-

CRACK!

The gentle jab got Nerris' attention, but the backfist that followed it was STILL too fast for him to see-

WHACK!

Nerris stumbled backward, barely conscious. But Touch wasn't through with him. The lieutenant spun around behind him and kicked the swordsman back the other direction... and then repeated the maneuver... and then sent Nerris staggering to one side with a spinning axe-kick. Touch's fast kicks sent Nerris bouncing from one direction to another like a toy... literally UNABLE to fall until Touch allowed it.

"YAAAAAAAAA!!!" Wolfe screamed in rage as he charged, bearing down on Touch like an angry elephant.

Monica shook her head. Wolfe should have stayed down.

Touch took off running, straight toward the charging swordsman.... but with a quick hop, Touch propelled himself into the air, flipping Wolfe's head and landing behind him. Touch's hands came down like the blades of a guillotine, striking Wolfe's shoulders on either side of his angry, red neck.

Instantly, both of Wolfe's arms went numb.

Touch then pummelled the swordsman with a rapid sequence of punches... each landing just below the previous one, striking in a straight line down Wolfe's spine. One punch for every...single... vertebra.... in his back.

Wolfe collapsed like a straw house in a tornado.

FWWUMP!

"Uhhhhhnnnngh..." Nerris groaned as he tried to rise. He was on his hands and knees, looking expectantly at Touch. Monica knew what that look meant. He was hoping... no, praying... that the fight was over.

It wasn't.

Touch addressed the remaining students

"Your fellow soldiers have suffered defeat," he said. "As Guardsmen, you are honor-bound to rescue and assist them."

The four remaining recruits looked sheepishly at Touch.

"Well?" said the lieutenant.

The recruits exchanged glances with each other, and with Nerris... who was still on his hands and knees. Wolfe was unconscious... face down and drooling in the dirt.

"I will make it easy for you," said Touch. He planted his feet firmly in the dirt and folded his arms across his chest. "All you must to do rescue your fellow guardsmen, is to move me from this spot. Surely the four of you... four ARMED MEN... can accomplish that."

Don't fall for it... don't fall for it... don't fall for it... Monica thought to herself.

They fell for it.

The men drew their weapons and-

"Wait!" Touch shouted. "Surely you intend to formulate a PLAN before you throw yourselves into battle, do you not?"

"Plan?" one of the recruits said.

Touch nodded.

The men formed a huddle and whispered among themselves for several seconds. Then they lined up shoulder to shoulder in front of Touch. They crouched down low and prepared to charge

...oh, no... Monica thought. This NEVER works.

Each of the men locked eyes with Lieutenant Touch, as if attempting to move him with the force of their gaze alone. Touch was unmoved and unimpressed. He simply stood and waited.

On an unspoken signal, the recruits all charged. They held their swords before them as they bore down on the lieutenant... tearing through the space between them and their target like rushing, unstoppable wall of muscle and steel.

For a second, it almost looked as though they would succeed.

It must have certainly seemed that way to THEM, because they gave a glorious roar of victory even before they struck.

But then reality hit them. Literally.

Touch moved so fast that the man was almost a blur. Each hand snatched a sword by blade and yanked the weapons from their owners, while one foot delivered two quick kicks to a third recruit's crotch. His other foot remained planted on the ground. Touch tossed the purloined weapons away and, in the same motion, grabbed the fourth recruit by the wrist and spun him around. His fist touched the man two... three times. Three hard punches to vital nerve clusters in the neck and shoulder. With the soldier's arm sufficiently numb, Touch clamped his hand over the man's fingers so that the soldier wouldn't drop his sword. Then he turned the man himself into a weapon.

"HEEEY!" the soldier shouted. His eyes widened in disbelief as Touch's iron hands manipulated his limp arm like some kind of puppet. The sounds of swordplay once again filled the courtyard. Using the captured solider as a human sword AND a human shield, Touch sparred playfully with one the recruits who had already retrieved their weapon. Touch fended off a few amateurish attacks, then thrust his captive into his opponent. The two recruits barely avoided impaling each other as they collided. By now, the OTHER two recruits were rushing him. They had their swords, and they meant business.

Touch could have easily danced around them, but that would have meant abandoning his 'spot' and losing to his students. And if it was one thing that all newcomers to the East Tower learned on their first day, is was that Touch Did Not Lose.

The recruits' timing was off, and one of them arrived a split-second ahead of the other. Touch ducked under the man's clumsy slash and pummelled the poor man's lower chest with a rain of punches. The air exploded from the recruit's lungs in short, pitiful barks that made it seem as if Touch were beating the very words out of his mouth. Then Touch delivered a spinning back-fist to the second man's extended forearm. Touch's knuckles sent shockwaves of pain racing up and down the poor soldier's arm. He dropped his sword.

"Now pay attention," Touch told the stunned soldier. The lieutenant's's hands danced up and down the man's chest... his fingers were like sharpened steel rods jabbing painfully into nearly every soft space on the man's upper torso: Neck. Throat. Solar Plexus. Even the spaces between his ribs. The flurry of motion came and went so fast that it was impossible to follow. But the effect was devastating. The recruit's nervous system went into uncontrollable spasms that could very well have been fatal if Touch had used just a bit more pressure. A spinning back-kick propelled the quaking soldier right into the path of the other charging recruits. Three of them went down in an embarrassing heap while the fourth continued to charge. A single front-snap kick made the pile a foursome.

The fight was over. Those that COULD get up.... didn't.

The lieutenant's crouched down so that he was closer to his battered students. He balanced on the balls of his feet and waited for them to gather their senses. It took a few seconds.

"Believe it or not," Touch said, "You all fought well. You fought with spirit. You fought to the limits of whatever skill you possessed. You did your best..."

Touch paused dramatically

"...but had this been real, your best would have gotten you all killed. Some of you may now think me a cruel taskmaster, but, there is a purpose for the beating you have all received. In fact, there are TWO. The first is to introduce you to the fighting arts with which you will all become very familiar in the coming weeks. Captain Physt has declared that no one in the East Tower will ever be helpless simply because they are without a weapon. The Captain is a wise man; and my purpose here it to implement that wisdom. For the next three months, every hour that you do not spend patrolling or sleeping, will be spend here with me-"

A collective groan rose from the recruits.

"I have no doubt that the lessons I give you will save your lives one day. But only if you heed the SECOND reason for this demonstration. Are you all listening?" Touch looked at the recruits he'd fought earlier. Nerris was awake and sitting quietly in the dirt. Wolfe was awake as well... but in too much pain to move. He grunted to indicate his attention. When Touch spoke again, his voice had an edge that was not present before... an air grave seriousness and concern. The unexpected change seized the recruits' attention and held it like a vice. Even Lieutenant Drew listened, though she had heard the words many times before.

"Listen to me," Touch continued. "I want you to think of yourselves. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Your childhood and your families. Your enemies. Everything about you that makes you who you are... that makes you different from the person beside you. Different than everyone else in this Tower. I want you to keep those thoughts close to your heart and remember them as you walk these streets. Remember them, so that you will know what you are destroying when you take another man's life. Remember them, so that you will not take any life lightly. You will realize that an evil man... is still a man. A man who is vile and corrupt beyond all hope of redemption... is still a man. You do what you must to fulfil your duty to this city, but you must not strike that fatal blow without realizing... without FULLY understanding... exactly what it is you are doing."

The recruits lowered their eyes and nodded their heads in agreement.

"But-" said Touch. He paused a moment to clear his throat. "Just as you do not kill without cause and contemplation... you should also remember that your OWN life has worth... and it should not be thrown away without equal cause... equal contemplation. I do not speak of cowardice now, but of wisdom. Wisdom that you have seen and felt today at my hands. Wisdom that should have noted that I am the smallest man in this courtyard. And that I fight with no weapons or armor. Yet, I defeated the best of you with ease. And then, I prevailed against superior numbers without receiving so much as a single wound. This should serve as a warning to you. There are men out there who have turned their back on enlightenment, and now walk a path that is paved with murder and violence. These men..."

Touch paused once more. The emotion was thick in his voice. The men hung on his words.

"These men are better fighters than you will ever be. They are masters of weapons that you have never seen. Among their number are some who could defeat me almost as easily as I have beaten you today. They are traders in darkness and death... men who would knowingly strike you down... willingly destroy your precious gift of life... because you are an obstacle to their goal. Or simply because they CAN. So, I implore you all... no, I beg you to please... PLEASE be mindful of yourselves and your battles. Never fight an unfamiliar opponent alone. Never be too proud to withdraw and summon assistance... but never assume that superior numbers or weapons give you the advantage. They do not. Remember the lesson that one, un-armed man has given you this day."

His speech finished, Touch stood up, clasped his hands before him, and bowed deeply to his students. Half of them stood up. They and Touch helped the other half to their feet... except for Wolfe, who refused to move.

"Did I miss the show?" said a man walking up behind Lieutenant Drew. He was of average height, with broad shoulders and blond hair that was cut almost level with his scalp. The ruggedness of his build, sharpness of his walk, and the multitude of weapons hanging from his belt would have marked him as a man of serious demeanor. But the wide smile on his lips refuted that. He was Sergeant Wilk... the biggest prankster in the East Tower.

"Afraid so," Monica replied in her usual whisper.

"Hell, they're still moving around!" said the Sergeant. "What gives!? These guys made of IRON or something?"

"Touch took it easy on them."

"Huh?! I got the hell beat outta me on MY first day, so why do THEY get the-"

"So they'll still be functional on their first shift," said Monica.

"Yeah, well..." said Wilk. "A good night's sleep, some strong painkillers and a double-tankard of Inebrediee Gold will have 'em right as rain by morning. Or as right as they CAN be after a session with Touch."

"That's the problem.... they don't have until morning."

"Eh?"

"They aren't going to Daywatch. Physt wants them on Darkwatch with us."

"Huh? HA! AHA-HA-HA! OOOhhh, that's a good one! Almost had me for a second! New recruits on Darkwatch... HAA!"

"It's not a joke, Sergeant."

All the humor drained right out of Wilk's face... a sight that was humorous in itself.

"No..." he said.

Monica nodded.

"But we don't-"

"Physt took Cedris, Simon, and Richard and put them on Daywatch."

"Our BEST fighters!?!"?

"So now we've got three NEW vacancies on top of the ones we already had... and those are our new soldiers. Starting tonight."

"But Sir Dascle and Touch always train the new recruits! Darkwatch is no place for amateurs!"

"Then I suggest we get these soldiers trained and disciplined quickly... before they get someone killed. I'll be counting on you and Forester to do your part."

"Greeeat. That's just unbelievable. You know, sometimes I really LOVE this job. This ain't one of them times."

"You could always quit," said Monica.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen. How are we doing this?"

"We'll split them up evenly between the three squads. I'm taking those two-" Monica pointed to Nerris and Wolfe. "You and Forester can fight over the rest."

"Fight, hell," said Wilk. "I'm here first, so I get first pick. I want the big guy there, and-"

"Not so quick there!" said Sergeant Forester, who stormed up to Monica and Wilk as if he were intending to knock them both over. Forester was shorter and broader than Wilk, with brown hair and a rough, pock-marked face framed by a scraggly mustache and goatee. Forester was a gruff, unkempt man with a voice that always seemed one step away from a growl. He and Wilk treated each other like mortal enemies... constantly trading insults and challenging each other to fights.... but, in truth, they were best friends. A fact that neither man would ever admit.

"I don't know what's going on," Forester grumbled. "But it sure as hell looks like I'm bein' cheated!"

"Nobody's cheatin' ya, ya paranoid bastard!" Wilk retorted.

"Good. Then who are these fellas here you was pointin' at?"

"New recruits," said Monica. She explained the situation to Forester, who took it without complaint or comment. The man enjoyed a good challenge... probably a bit more than was healthy.

"Fine," he said with a nod. "I'll be taking that big fella there and-"

"Ah-Ah-Ahhh..." Wilk stepped in front of him. "The REAL men go on MY squad."

"Then what are YOU doin' on your squad?"

"Funny. I got first pick... I was here first. YOU take that little skinny fella there-"

"ONLY if you take my little skinny BOOT up your-"

Lieutenant Drew left the two sergeants to argue it out while she gathered her new recruits. All six men snapped to attention... or as close to attention as they could get... when she approached.

"Nerris. Wolfe. You're with me. The rest of you will be with one of those two men over there-"

Forester and Wilk were yelling at each other... pointing and beating their chests like baboons. Wilk had turned a very nice shade of red.

"Ummm..." said one recruit. "They... they aren't going to b-beat us, are they, ma'am?"

"Only if you screw up. Which you will."

"Ma'am?" said another man. It was the 'little skinny fella' that the sergeants were still fighting about. His voice and demeanor pretty much matched his size, but other than Nerris and Wolfe, he showed the most skill with a sword. "Ma'am? Permission to speak freely, ma'am?"

"What is it?" the Lieutenant whispered.

"Ma'am... you don't know me, but, I just wanted to say that its a real honor and privilege to finally meet you."

"Meet me?"

"I saw you a long time ago... back in New Venyce-"

Oh, no. Another one of THOSE...

Lieutenant Drew looked away, and her lips tightened into a frown. She started shaking her head, as if unconsciously ordering the man to stop talking. But she didn't say a word. She'd learned that it was best just to let them go on.

"The concert was at the amphitheater in the Gardens... remember that one? Oh, how silly... there must have been so many that you can't possibly remember them all."

"...the flowers," Monica sighed. "The stage was decorated with pink and yellow flowers. I remember."

"Yes! That's it! I was there, and it was the most amazing thing I've seen! When you sang... your voice... it was like listening to a piece of heaven! Your voice and those words went straight to the heart of everyone in that garden. I've never heard anything so beautiful in all my life. Grown men wept just from hearing your voice! When you left the stage, there wasn't a single dry eye in the audience... mine included. I hear that even ole Gabrial Brinks shed a tear or two."

"...a standing ovation..." Lieutenant Drew's whispering voice dripped with sadness.

"RIGHT! We stood there clapping for almost ten minutes! No one.. NO ONE... had ever heard anything like it before or since! The critics gave you reviews-"

"They said the audience had died and gone to paradise," said Monica.

"Yes! That's exactly what they said! Not that you needed critics to tell you how you sang. You came back the next year, but I missed that show. I was a hundred miles away, but I STILL tried to make it back to hear you sing. A lot of people did! People came from five or six cities away! Well... I never thought that I'd actually get to MEET you in person... let alone WORK with you. I mean... its like-"

"I'm not the person you think I am," said Monica.

"Eh? But... you ARE Monica Drew, aren't you, ma'am? I mean-"

"If I was her, would I be here in Montfort working for the Tower Guard?"

"Well... I... I DID think it was kind of strange. But you said you remembered the concert, so I assumed-"

"I don't sing anymore," said Monica. "That part of my life is over. The person who sang those songs is gone."

The recruit stood there, blinking at her like she'd just told him his family was dead.

"Wha... but... I don't understand."

"There's nothing TO understand. I just don't do it anymore."

"But... why? Why? Your voice was so-"

"It's gone," Monica said finally.

"Gone?"

"Yes." Monica carefully unwrapped the purple scarf around her neck and showed the man what was underneath it. The soldier saw the angry thing on her throat... the red, bulging, fist-sized lump that sat where her voice-box SHOULD have been... and he backed away, gasping in horror. Monica swallowed once, and the lump convulsed like a clenching fist. The veins and arteries that crisscrossed its gnarled surface pulsed wickedly.

"Gone," she whispered. "Stolen." She re-tied the scarf. "If you enjoyed my voice, then I hope you have a very good memory... because that's the only way you'll ever hear it again."

The soldier hesitated... trying to think of something to say. Finally, he gave up and silently excused himself.

"Lieutenant DREW!" Wilk called. He and Forester were jogging toward her. They were both excited about something.

"Sergeant?"

"We just got a runner from Daywatch," Wilk continued. "Sir Dascle's group has encountered some hostiles. A band of thieves. Dascle has 'em trapped in the old Garret Mansion."

"Trapped?" said Monica. "That doesn't sound like Dascle's style. Why didn't he just take 'em down?"

"Well," Forester said with a smile. "There's about fourteen of 'em. And they've got a hostage."

"Oh."

"AND a mage."

Now, Monica smiled. It was a sly, sinister smile.

"Did Dascle say he needed any help?" she said.

"No, Ma'am," said Wilk. "Says he has it covered. Doesn't need any help."

"Well..." Monica adjusted her scarf, brushing her fingers lightly over the scarred bulge in her throat. "He's gonna get some anyway."

---

Part Two: Villains

Seven horses thundered down the Montfort streets at a furious pace. Lieutenant Drew pushed her mount as fast as it could go, racing through busy thoroughfares as if daring pedestrians or bystanders to get in her way. The rest of her squad followed close behind her, not wanting to risk her wrath if she turned around to find them lagging. Houses and shops melted away as the Tower Guard sped through the city toward their destination.

The crowd was the first sign that they were getting close. A huge mob clogged the street, with more people arriving every minute. The sun had almost set... these people should have been at home or tending to their stores. Whatever was going on, it was a spectacle. But they were still a good distance away from the mansion.

The crowd parted when they heard the horses, and that's when Monica saw the barricades: Two passenger wagons were parked across the road. Monica slowed her horse... but didn't stop. Ahead of her, soldiers saw her squad approaching, recognized them, and quickly pulled one of the wagons aside.

The lieutenant's squad resumed their previous speed and thundered through the opening. They were a little more than block away from the end of the street... Monica could see the Garret mansion looming ahead of them, and she could see grand mess that Sir Dascle was in the process of making.

Monica signaled her squad to halt while she studied the scene from a distance.

Wagons, over-turned carts, and huge bales of hay littered the street in front of the large, two-story house. Eight armed men crouched behind the various items, using them as cover and concealment from whoever was inside the mansion. Some of the men had crossbows. Most had only swords. But all wore the uniform of the Tower Guard.

Things were obviously not going well. One of the hay-bales was on fire, and one of the wagons had an enormous man-sized hole burnt right through it. Fortunately, no one had been hiding behind it when the fireball hit. Everything else had at least one arrow protruding from it.

Snipers. And a mage.

Sir Dascle's people were dug in and waiting... for WHAT, Drew had no idea. She needed to find out, but just walking down the street and asking would be suicide. She turned her horse around and went back to the wagons blocking the street. The squad dismounted and secured their animals while Drew conferred with the guardsmen tending the barricade.

"What's going on?" she whispered as they exchanged salutes.

"We chased 'em across town and into the mansion, ma'am," said Yelth, one of the guardsman. He was a round-faced young man that had come in with the batch of recruits just before the last one. Not nearly experienced enough to take part in an armed siege, which was why Dascle had him guarding the street. The man beside him was Crof... a bit older and uglier, but equally inexperienced. "Now they say they ain't coming out until we withdraw and leave 'em a clear path to the river."

"I heard there was a hostage."

"Yes, ma'am. A woman. Daughter of one of the families they robbed... they just picked her up and carried her away along with the loot. They say they're gonna kill her if we move on the building."

"Do we even know if she's still alive?"

The two guardsmen glanced at each other and shrugged.

"Where's Sir Dascle?" said Monica. "I need to get to him."

"He's out there somewhere, ma'am," said Crof. "I think he and Des was behind the big wagon."

"The big wagon that has a hole burnt in the middle of it?"

The men shrugged again.

"Are these buildings clear?" she asked. She was referring to the stores surrounding them.

"Yes, ma'am," said Yelth. "We cleared 'em ourselves. All empty and locked up tight."

"Good." She turned to her squad and made a series of hand-signals. Everyone returned to their horses and began gathering their equipment. They donned thick belts that hung low with knives, hooks, pouches, and various other mysterious and unidentifiable items. They threw dark-grey capes over their shoulders and fastened them at the throat with tiny black clasps. The capes were hooded, but the hoods stayed down for the time being. Someone produced a small jar of an oily black substance, which the men smeared over their faces to render their skin invisible in the darkness. They changed their weapons... discarding their heavy swords and replacing them with lighter implements like daggers, shuriken, and miniature throwing-axes. They did all this silently, without so much as a grunt or a whisper. Moments later, the members of Darkwatch stood ready. They still wore the uniform of the Tower Guard, but they now looked more like a squad of assassins than a group of warriors. At least MOST of them did.

"Uhhh..." said Nerris. He looked around at the others. Of them all, only Wolfe and Lieutenant Drew were easily recognizable. "What just happened?"

"As far as you're concerned, nothing," whispered Monica. "We're going in. The two of you will stay here and control that crowd. Once things get started, they'll probably want to rush the barricades for a good look. You'll keep that from happening."

"Yes, ma'am."

With more gestures, Monica sent two of her guardsmen to opposite sides of the street. They had their longbows with them, as well as arrows, long coils of rope, grappling hooks, and backpacks bulging with other items. When they reached the shops, Paro and Corgan tossed their hooks up to the roof and began to climb. They moved quickly and silently, pulling themselves up the ropes with such ease that, for a moment, it seemed like gravity was working FOR them instead of against. They reached their respective rooftops at the same time. They paused for a moment to scan the surroundings from their new vantage point, then used hand-signals to report back to Monica that the way was clear. They had two more rooftops to cross before they reached the end of the street. From there, there was nothing but the wide open space that Monica and the others needed to cross to reach Dascle. That space was a deathtrap without proper cover. Corgan and Pero would provide just what they needed. Both archers held up four fingers. The lieutenant nodded, and produced a small pocketwatch from a pouch on her belt.

It would be four minutes before Corgan and Pero were in place. Monica and the two remaining guardsmen had exactly that much time to get into position. Monica studied her timepiece. She held up her hand, fingers extended, and dropped one finger for each second that ticked past.

four...three...two...one...

At 'one,' Monica clenched her fist, and the archers raced toward their destinations. Monica and the others darted down a nearby alley and lost themselves in the shadows. Unfortunately, all of the alleys on this stretch of road were blind; high brick walls and imposing fences prevented passage to the streets beyond. They couldn't use side or back streets to get into place, unless they felt like knocking down a brick wall or two. The only way for them to get where they needed to be was to take to the rooftops with the archers, or walk down the street in plain view.

Or perhaps not.

Monica ran one gloved hand down the wooden door to her right. Side entrance.

She tapped her finger on the door. Instantly, one of the guardsmen knelt in front of it and began picking the lock. Four seconds later-

-click-

...followed by an ominous-

Hmmmmmmmmm....

The space around the door frame flashed an angry red as the protective wards sprang to life.

"Breaker," Monica whispered.

The guard produced a metal disk about one inch thick and as wide as a man's outstretched hand. Both sides bore deep engravings of arcane symbols. It was a WardBreaker. Powerful. Dangerous. Expensive. And illegal for anyone other than law enforcement to possess. It was to protective wards what a battering ram was to a cheap door. The guardsman slammed the disk against the door; his fingers danced across the symbols.

"Knock, knock," the guardsman said with a smile.

The disk made a deep, almost-silent *THUMP* that sent tiny shockwaves through the door, the walls, and the floor. The red fire around the door winked out instantly. The city would no doubt have to reimburse the storekeeper for the destruction of his expensive magic, but that wasn't Monica's concern at the moment.

"Clear," said the guard.

The guardsman stormed into the empty shop. Their eyes darted from shadow to shadow as the moved quickly to the opposite wall. There was no door there, but there WAS a window leading out into the alley on the other side of the store.

The window was boarded up.

Swords and muscle-power tore the thick planks free of the wall. They raised the window and climbed out into the alley.

Two more buildings to go.

The next door had no magic protecting it, but it DID have a huge, complex lock that took almost a minute to pick. The lock eventually yielded to the guard's nimble ministrations, and they were inside. Another window. More boards. Another alley... a door with an even nastier-looking lock AND wards sealing the perimeter.

"I just can't catch a break," Monica whispered. Time was wasting. They had less than a minute to get ready. The WardBreaker disposed of the magic, but the lock was a pick-proof monstrosity that must have come out of some insane locksmith's nightmare.

"To hell with it," Monica whispered. "Hack it down."

The guardsmen attacked the door with their swords. After three or four strong blows, the door gave way. It fell away from the frame and landed on top of a display case filled with something that looked fragile. Both the case and its contents were demolished. More property damage for the city to reimburse.

Monica pointed to the large glass window at the front of the store. The window looked out onto the street, but the very edge of Garret Mansion was just visible from the corner of the store. Monica could see two of the guardsmen crouching behind an overturned wagon. One of them was a massive man wearing a metal breastplate and chainmail. A long, golden ponytail hung down his armored back, and an enormous metal shield leaned against the wagon beside him.

Monica studied the lay of the land between their current position and Sir Dascle. She studied it WELL, because she wouldn't be able to see it in a minute.

"This door's got another one of those locks on it," said one of the guardsmen. The lock on the store's front door was bigger and more complex than the one in the alley.

"Forget it," Monica whispered. "We'll go through the window. Crossbows-"

They all backed away from the window. The two guardsmen each loaded their crossbows and waited. Monica watched the second-hand on her pocketwatch mark the final seconds. Her archers should be in place by now... this needed to be timed just right.

"On my mark," she whispered. With six seconds left, she held up her hand and counted down from five

-four...three...two...one!

Monica clenched her fist, and the guardsmen in the store fired. Their bolts shattered the store window and, before the glass shards had even hit the ground, arrows began to rain down from the roof. They weren't aimed at the guardsmen, or the mansion... but at the ground between the storefront and Sir Dascle's troops. As each arrow struck, small pouches of chemicals attached to the shafts burst open-

PAF!

-to release thick clouds of dark smoke. As more arrows flew, the smoke became thicker and darker.

PAF!
PAF!
PAF!
PAF!

Within seconds, visibility was almost zero.

Monica and the others leapt out of the store window and dashed through the cloud as the archers continued to lay down a wall of smoke all around them. When the smoke finally cleared, Monica was crouching safely behind Sir Dascle. The two guardsmen who'd come with here were likewise secured behind a hay-bale several yards away. The archers that had covered their arrival had withdrawn to the far side of the rooftops where they could safely observe the scene and await further orders.

Sir Dascle gave Monica a surprised look. Beside him, Sergeant Des was staring into some object that Monica couldn't see. He paused to salute her, then went back to whatever he was doing.

"Hello, boys," Monica whispered. "What's new?"

"Twas an entrance worthy of an army," Sir Dascle's smooth bass voice rolled off of his lips like water. "I didst think that we were attacked from behind... but e'en as I didst prepare for battle, the mists parted to reveal the lovely form of Lady Drew. Welcome to the field of battle, milady!"

Dascle smiled expectantly at Drew. She sighed and extended her hand, Dascle took it in his own armored palm and kissed it gently.

Monica hated that.

But then, Sir Dascle was a knight... an honest to gods knight... from some tiny kingdom where hand-kissing, chivalry, and archaic, convoluted speech was tantamount to law. But the knight had a heart of gold and more bravery than any ten men she'd ever known... so she cut him some slack. A little.

"Tis a pleasure to be in your company once again, Lady Drew, though I wouldst prefer surroundings less dire. What brings you hence?"

"What brings me? What do you think?"

"Most curious... didst my messenger become confused on the way to yon tower? Twas a statement of status he carried, not a summons for assistance."

"You know how the captain is."

"Ah. The captain didst dispatch thee to my side?"

"Of course. Well... he would have; I just saved him the trouble. So what's the situation here?"

"Villainous rouges didst barricade themselves in yonder manse. They seeketh not battle with the heroes of East Tower, and thus doth attempt to prevent our charge with cowardly magic and archery. But 'tis the safety of the innocent they keep with them that stills our weapons... not their works of fire and cowardice."

"Do we know the hostage is still alive?"

"Indeed," Sir Dascle said grimly. "They doth parade yon maiden before the windows to ensure their own safety."

"So what are we dealing with, here?"

"They be many in number," said Dascle. "Fourteen of them didst conduct cowardly raids on the homes of noble townsfolk. When confronted by the guard, the villains didst retreat toward the river. But I didst have the road already blocked, so they took refuge in yon manse."

"Weapons?"

"Swords and bows. They be not brave fighters... they strike and run quickly. One man wearest curious armor; I suspect that he and the mage art the leaders of this band of cowards."

"The mage. What's he done so far?

"He spitteth fire and magic bolts from the windows. His aim doth suffer terribly... he striketh targets more by accident than intent."

"Sounds more like a frightened apprentice than a real mage." Monica's whisper bore a hint of disappointment. "So what's your plan? Wait them out?"

"Zounds, no! We doth wait only until the setting of the sun."

"And then?"

"Yon sewer-grate is the key to our plan." Dascle pointed to the ground several yards to their right. There was a manhole, half-covered with a large hay-bale. "A matching grate layeth not far from yon building. Soldiers already wait below for the sun's final rays. Under the cover of night's embrace, they shalt rise from their place and storm the building. Their assault shalt be too swift for the villains to lay harm to the fair maiden."

"Not a good plan, Dascle," Monica whispered. Without a doubt, Sir Dascle was a grandmaster of the art of battle, but his skill at stealth and 'indirect conflict,' left a lot to be desired. That was the domain of Monica Drew and Darkwatch. To the knight, anything that wasn't an outright fight was cowardice and, therefore, beneath him and his men. Even sending troops through the sewers to get closer to the mansion was a surprising move from Dascle. Monica was impressed, even though his plan was a bit flawed.

"We don't know the layout of that building. We don't know what they're up to in there. We don't-"

"Ahh, but Azward's trinket doth dispell your objections, milady."

"Trinket?"

"He gave it to us to test," said Des. The Sergeant was holding what looked like a hand-mirror trimmed in silver. But instead of a reflection, the mirror's surface held a confusing rats-nest of glowing green lines and tiny, flashing dots. At first the lines appeared to be an indecipherable mess... then she realized that she was looking at them upside down. When she moved around to see the lines as they were intended, their meaning became clear.

The image mapped out the interior of the building... every wall, every floor, every crawlspace. The mirror had the mansion's entire floor-plan laid out right in front of her.

"He calls it a Magic Detecting and Ranging unit," said Des. "Sees through walls, even those with low to mid- level concealment spells. These are the people right here." Des pointed to the flashing dots in the image. There were fifteen of them spread throughout the building. The image didn't show how big they were, what weapons they carried or what they were doing, but it did pinpoint their exact location down to the inch.

"This one's the hostage," Des indicated one dot in an upstairs bedroom. "They only let her out when they want to show her to us... then they take her right back. This guy here is the mage-" He pointed to a dot near the front wall, not far from the hostage. There were two other dots in the general area... "And those are two of the archers. They've got another one watching the rear of the house here. Everyone else is just wandering around."

Monica studied the movement of the dots.

"They're waiting for something," she said. "They're nervous. See that guy... he keeps pacing back and forth. So does this guy in the back. And what's this dot here?"

There was one flickering dot that remained motionless on the upper level. Its glow was much weaker than the others... so faint that Monica didn't even see it at first. It winked in and out of existence like a nervous ghost.

"I think that's an echo," said Des. "Azward said that large amounts of metal or magic in the walls might cause that."

"I don't think so," said Monica. "I don't like it."

"The downstairs doors are all guarded. But there's this one unguarded room in the back... no door, but its got a window near where the sewer-grate comes up. Its accessible, but only if the archers upstairs don't see you. That's our point of entry."

"How many men are you sending in?"

"Four," said Sir Dascle. "We shalt draw the villains' attention whilst-"

"Four is wrong," said Monica. "It's too many for a stealth entry, and not enough for a raid. There are fourteen people in there... your Daywatch fighters are good, but not that good."

"Never sayest that Sir Dascle be too proud to accept help from another. Especially one who knoweth more of such tactics than he. What doth the lady suggest?"

"One person can secure the girl and keep her safe during a frontal assault. Assuming that the assault is quick and decisive."

"Oh, it shalt be, milady. And who shalt this one person be?"

"Who do you think?" said Monica. She cast a quick glance toward the sky. The sun had almost set. "It'll be dark in a few minutes. Take this watch." She handed Dascle her pocketwatch. "Wait for my signal, then storm the building. If I haven't signaled in twenty minutes, move in."

"What about the hostage?" said Des.

"If I haven't secured her in twenty minutes, it means we're both dead. I'll try to take out the archers and the mage as well, but I can't promise anything, so be careful."

"What's your signal?" said Des.

"When it happens... you'll know." She tucked her long hair down into her cape and pulled the dark hood over her head "See you soon."

"But-"

Lieutenant Drew sprang from behind the overturned cart and landed in a forward-roll that ended just past the sewer manhole. Two arrows streaked down from the mansion and struck the ground where she'd just rolled through. Monica crouched behind the hay bale, risking one peak toward the manse. The archers couldn't see her. They knew where she'd gone, but they couldn't see what she was doing. Good.

With one solid yank, Monica snatched the manhole cover up and slipped into the sewer below.

---

Lieutenant Touch's quarters were deceptively simple... a reflection of the man who resided in them. Touch kept the room almost completely empty, as he believed that an excess of belongings tended to distract one from the path of enlightenment. Plus, an empty room was easier to keep clean. He hung no paintings or adornments on the walls. There was no window, and thus, no need for curtains. He had ordered the bed removed, and instead slept on a simple pad which lay on the bare floor. There were no tables or chairs... unless one counted the two old wooden crates that sat in the corner. There was a small fireplace in the room, but it didn't have a single speck of ash in it. When it got too cold in the room, Touch simply went elsewhere. The lieutenant stored his flew clothes in a neatly-folded pile on a shelf in the closet, alongside his one blanket. His dress uniform, which he had never worn, hung from a hook behind the closet door. The only 'decoration' that he had was a small ornate rug, on which he knelt for prayer and meditation.

Touch usually kept his door open, even when sleeping. He was not concerned with theft because he had very little to steal. Closed doors invited undo curiosity and speculation... things that were poison to the mutual trust and respect that was the life's blood of the Guard. Like all men, Touch had his secrets... but he did not announce them with veiled whispers and closed doors. He lived an open life. If his secrets were to be known, then so be it. It was more important that those around him felt comfortable... that they could approach him at any time, for any reason.

The last edge of the sun had just dipped below the horizon when Touch returned to his room.

He closed his door.

And then he locked it.

Touch knelt on the rug in the center of the room and began to meditate. He lowered his head and closed his eyes... and tried to achieve the perfect stillness of mind. The stillness was the beginning of the meditative journey that he took daily.... but this time, it did not come.

His thoughts were wild and unruly, refusing to be tamed by force of will. Touch let them go. He let his thoughts run free, and he watched where they lead. He studied their patterns, seeking out the source of their stubbornness. He already knew what it was. He had felt it earlier when he was with the students:

Fear.

Touch was afraid. It was not terror or panic... he seen and done too much to be subject to those demons. No, this was something worse.

Fear.

It was fear that had him sitting in a closed room, behind a locked door. But that was the illogic of fear... because he could not lock out the source of his dread. He couldn't seal himself away from it, because it was within him.

And it was growing.

Someone knocked on the door. Touch was on his feet in an instant. He unbolted the door and opened it.

"Captain," he whispered.

"I thought I'd find you here," said Captain Physt. "May I come in?"

"Of course." Touch stepped back and allowed the captain entry to his room.

"Your door was closed," said Physt. "Why?"

"My apologies-"

"It's your door, you can close it if you want. Its just not like you."

"I was..." Touch just shook his head and looked away.

"What's wrong?"

"I am having misgivings."

"About tonight."

"Yes. I don't think... perhaps..."

"You don't want to do it."

"No. No, I do not."

"So..." Physt paused to close Touch's door and re-apply the lock. "Should we talk about this as captain and lieutenant... or as two friends?"

"I will do what you ask of me," said Touch. "Not for the designs that you wear on your uniform, but for the good of innocents... and for the debt that we owe to each other. I merely think that perhaps we should delay and contemplate this further... perhaps another way will become apparent."

"Of course there are other ways, Touch. There always are. But we won't find a BETTER way by sitting on our asses and thinking... because while we're doing that-"

"I know," said Touch.

"You've read the reports, Touch. You know how long this has been going on. How many more lives is another week of 'contemplation' going to cost? You more than ANYONE should be pushing to get this thing done as soon as possible."

"But this... this I should not do. I am not ready."

"Touch, if everything goes as planned, you won't even have to DO anything. Nobody will. Azward's magic-"

"When has the world ever yielded itself to the plans of men or magic?" said Touch.

"Never. And I don't expect tonight to be an exception. But if there's anyone at this tower who can turn this thing back into our favor if it goes wrong.. it's you. Not Drew. Not Dascle. Not Azward. You."

"But there is the danger that you have not considered," said Touch.

"And what's that?"

Touch glanced at the closet. It was a quick and furtive, almost fearful motion.

"You know," said Physt. "I can count the times on one hand that you've ever left his tower. Everyone you know lives here in this building... and I doubt that anyone outside the Tower Guard even knows you exist. At first, I thought it was just some weird aspect your discipline. Then I figured that maybe you were punishing yourself in some way. Now... now I've finally figured it out. You're afraid, aren't you."

"Yes. Yes I am. Tonight-"

"I'm not talking about tonight, Touch... I mean in general. All the time. Every day. You're scared to death."

Touch sighed. He gathered his thoughts, trying to seek the best way to explain what he felt. Finally, he decided to just open his mouth and let his heart speak for itself.

"One does not travel as far down the path as I have... and then turn back on a whim," said Touch. "You must tear yourself away from the beast, and when you do part of you stays with it... and part of IT stays with YOU. You know what I was, Hieronymous... you know the path I have walked. You know that I have walked it farther than most."

"And if I thought there was the slightest CHANCE of you going back there again, I wouldn't let you set foot in this city... let alone serve in the Tower Guard."

"But that does not give us cause to tempt fate."

"Fate has no place in this," said Physt. "People think I have you train my soldiers because you're a master of the art. But that's not the reason. The reason you train them is because you have more control and restraint... more discipline... than anyone I've ever met. If you instill even a FRACTION of that in your students, then you've done more for them than all the combat training in the world. And yet, with all of that control, you're too afraid to walk out that gate."

"Freedom is a blessing," said Touch. "But I have abused mine. I was an abomination to all that I now hold most precious."

"'Was,' Touch. 'Was.' That's in the past now. You're a different man. You once told me that weapons shatter, and muscles grow old and weak, but no man can ever be deprived of his enlightenment. But that's exactly you're afraid of. Why?"

"You do not understand."

"Oh, I understand. I may not understand everything you've tried to teach me over the years, but I DO understand this..." Captain Physt stormed over to Touch's closet and yanked open the door. There was a large wooden chest sitting on the floor. "Fear must be faced."

Touch backed away from the chest as Physt dragged it out into the room.

"What are you doing?" said Touch. "Do not... do not open that."

"That is the very PURPOSE of fear, you said," Physt continued. "to be faced so that you can grow stronger." The chest had no lock. Instead, it had a latch with several small indentations. The captain pressed his fingers into the indentations and applied a precise amount of pressure with each finger... just as Touch had shown him long ago. The latch popped open.

"Please," said Touch. "I know what you are trying to do-"

"Remember when you told me that?"

"Yes, I do. But this will accomplish nothing-"

The captain threw the chest open.

"Will it? Then WHY do you even KEEP this stuff-" Physt reached into the chest and grabbed the black thing that lay there. He pulled it out. "-if not to be reminded of where you came from? To be reminded of who and what you were... so that you will never be that monster again."

Physt held the midnight-black cloak by the hood. The thick cloth hung from his fist like a shroud... dark and ominous. The very sight of it made Touch physically ill. His heart pounded in his chest, and his skin flushed painfully, as if he'd been poisoned. He felt the revulsion churning angrily in his gut. Touch turned his face away from the loathsome thing.

"No, no," said Physt. "Look at it. Take a good, long look, Touch. Face your fear... remember? Well, THIS is what you're afraid of. You're a member of the Tower Guard now, but you were part of something ELSE before, weren't you? You've got a dress uniform hanging in that closet, but what about THIS one!? Do you remember when THIS used to be your uniform!?"

The captain's words stung like razors across Touch's flesh. He remembered. He didn't want to, but he did. It was all so clear. He remembered how the cloak felt against his skin. He could feel its weight on him even now...weighing him down like the lid of a tomb. His muscles ached... his SOUL ached to be free of it. But he never would be. He would never be free of what he was...

"You wore it with pride," Physt continued. "A black death-cloak, with the hood always covering your face so that no one could even tell you were human. You were just a faceless black spectre. There was no blood in your veins... just greed and violence and your own twisted code of honor. You and the rest of your order... trained to be engines of destruction, loyal only to yourselves. Leaving fear and blood wherever you went-"

"That's enough," said Touch.

"No, it isn't. I want you to look at this thing. You need to see it again. It feels heavy... Are the weapons still in it? Do you need to see those, too?" Captain Physt felt around for the hidden pockets that he knew were there.

"No!"

"Maybe you do. Maybe you need to see them. Is the blood still on them? Can you remember how many lives you took with them?"

"Every one," Touch said painfully. His eyes remained fixed on the floor... he couldn't bring himself to look up.

"Do you remember the looks on their faces as they begged-"

"Please.."

"You made them beg, didn't you, Touch? You made them cry and scream for mercy before you-"

"STOP!" Touch's tear-filled eyes pleaded for the captain to stop this cruel assault upon his soul. "YES, This body did those things, but it wasn't ME! It wasn't ME, do you hear! IT wasn't ME!"

"It was you, Touch. This-" Physt shook the fearsome black cloak. Something inside it rattled. "THIS was you!"

"NO! I am not that man any longer! Please STOP this, I BEG of you!"

"No, YOU stop it!" Captain Physt threw the cloak back into the chest and kicked the chest closed. The sound made Touch jump. The silence that followed was deafening.

"I am sorry," said Touch. "I have disgraced myself-"

"You did that a long time ago," said Physt. "When you put on that cloak for the first time, you became a disgrace to the good, honest man that you are now. Now look at yourself and tell me that, somewhere deep down, you really want to go back to what you were before."

"No! NEVER! I would DIE before I take another life! You KNOW this!"

"Then what, exactly, are you afraid of, Touch?"

Touch couldn't answer. He couldn't answer, because that WAS the answer: nothing.

"All this time, you thought you were standing on the edge," said Physt. "But you backed away from that abyss years ago."

"It is still there," said Touch.

"Yes it is," the captain replied. "And it always will be. There's a place in your past that you don't want to go back to, Touch. I guess that makes you about the same as every other man in this world... myself included."

Touch nodded.

"You paid for what you were. Some might say you paid too much... others, not enough. But now its time to get on with life. And duty."

"A wise man... will always receive more wisdom than he gives. Thank you, old friend."

"Friend? I thought we were in 'Lieutenant' mode."

"Thank you, sir," Touch corrected.

"That always sounded funny coming from you."

Captain Physt opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

"Tonight," he said before he left. "You don't have to be willing... but be ready." Then he walked away.

Touch listened to the captain's footsteps until they were gone.... wondering just what it was that had brought the captain to his quarters in the first place.

---

The sewers.

Monica didn't like sewers, but she figured that anyone who DID was sick and possibly deranged. The very CONCEPT of a sewer was unsettling to anyone with an ounce or normalcy in their veins, and the fact that someone might enjoy being in one was almost as disturbing as the sewer itself. Not that there weren't such people in Montfort... she just didn't happen to be one of them.

Still, sewers had their uses. Other than the obvious, the sewers of any large city served as a catch-all for everything that people didn't want around. It was a graveyard of the lost and unwanted. 'Misplaced' evidence, dead bodies of murdered spouses, failed magical or alchemical experiments, runaway children, miscellaneous beasts of all types and temperaments.... no matter what it was or where it came from, it found its way into the sewers more often than not. Captain Physt considered Montfort's subterranean tunnels so important that he once proposed a dedicated 'sewer squad' to patrol them. Fortunately, Drew and Dascle managed to talk him out of that.

Yet, here she was anyway. At least this section of Montfort's bowels was reasonably clean. The city flushed the sewers with river water on a semi-regular basis... a massive and expensive undertaking that involved more magic than Monica cared to consider. But it kept things moving and prevented the various animal populations from building up to dangerous levels. This tunnel had been flushed earlier in the week. The foul-smelling sludge that normally coated the floor and walls was now only a thin, greenish brown film. It smelled the same, there just wasn't quite as much of it. The slime glistened in the light from her glow-stone as she traversed the short distance between Dascle's position and the next manhole.

The soldiers saw her light and gave a low, short whistle in her direction. Monica whistled back... her response was longer and of a different tone. The non-verbal password earned her the right to approach without being riddled with arrows.

Just as Dascle said, there were four men waiting in the sewer. They stood silently in the darkness; having extinguished their own glow-stones in order to better judge the fading light from above. Justin, Woodlake, Mortier, and Carter were Dascle's best fighters... short of Dascle himself. They saluted Monica as she joined them.

Mortier pointed to the manhole above them. The light that filtered down from it had almost dwindled to nothing. The sun had set. In a few minutes, it would be dark enough to make a move.

"You four go back to Dascle," Monica whispered. "Stay underground until the action starts."

Woodlake gave her a perplexed look.

"Ma'am?" he said. "I thought we were gonna charge the manse from here? At sunset?"

"Charge? No," Monica replied. "Infiltrate, Yes. I'll take it from here."

The men looked at each other as men often did when women gave them orders. They shrugged. They grunted. They chewed their lips until they finally convinced themselves that maybe they'd better do what she said.

Monica returned four very reluctant salutes and watched the men slowly trudge off in the direction she'd just come. They took no pains to hide their disappointment. The quartet of warriors was itching for a fight... which was exactly why Monica sent them away. They had no place in this. They were Daywatch... the best that Montfort had to offer. Strong, swift, and bold... with more swordsmanship in the tips of their fingers than most people had in their entire families. They were soldiers... trained BY the best to BE the best, because Dascle, Physt, and the citizens of Montfort would expect nothing less.

But that was Daywatch.

At night, things were different.

At night, the streets, rooftops, and sewers of Montfort became home to a different kind of vermin... villains who broke the law for more than just a thrill, a reputation, or a few silver coins. To them, violence was a way of life. Professional thieves. Hired assassins. Creeping horrors of every species imaginable. These were the things who's very existence demanded that someone... someone other than THEM.... must bleed or die, or worse. For them to continue to draw breath, the safety and sanctity of Montfort must be violated again and again. And they were very good at it. To them, soldiers were things to be avoided or killed... not feared. A soldier was just another target... a target that bore its riches in the form of expensive weapons and armor instead of gold or silver. At night, the enemies of Montfort became darker and bolder. At so, one the sun set, the East Tower met those who'd break the city's laws with a different, darker face. Not the face of a soldier. Not the face of a warrior. But the face of the one thing that night's predators DID fear: Themselves.

Shadows that moved like the wind and struck like giants. Creeping figures that could rain razor-sharp fury upon a man before he even knew they were there. An army that could be both everywhere and nowhere.... that could strike with a single fist, or a hundred daggers. This was what the predators feared. This... was Darkwatch.

Monica applied a fresh coat of black-oil to her face and turned her eyes skyward. There was nothing but darkness above her. Good. This had gone on long enough... the time had come to end it.
---

This was very odd.

The ghost watched the would-be kidnappers from her hiding place, and as they wandered through the manor... as they paced nervously from window to window, peering out at the crowd of armed soldiers waiting for them outside... it became that more and more obvious that something was not right.

Not that kidnapping were ever right. This was just wrong in a different way. The ghost had seen enough of this type of thing to know better. This shouldn't be happening. But since it WAS, then it shouldn't be happening like THIS. Unless there was something else going on.

And that was why she was here. Watching. Listening. Studying.

She moved from room to room, passing through the walls without a sound... traversing from one end of the manor to the other without revealing so much as a trace of her existence. Not a sound. Not a glimpse. It was almost as if she really WERE a ghost. But whereas a creature of ectoplasm would simply fade and reappear where it pleased, this flesh and blood ghost resorted to hidden crawlspaces and secret passages between the walls. The normal-seeming manor was actually a maze... but only to those who knew the secrets behind the oddly-shaped rooms and thicker-than-normal walls. Lara Maxwell knew those secrets. The men she was studying obviously didn't.

The girl had maneuvered herself into an incredibly narrow crawlspace that separated the mansion's two floors. From here she could go almost anywhere, but the space was so small that she literally had to pull herself along with her fingertips to move around. It was a tight fit even for HER limber joints. She brought her left eye even with a tiny spy-hole in the ceiling and looked up into the room above.

It was the study. There were no books, or course. The mansion had been quite empty when her mentor had purchased it. But the previous owners had left just enough furniture behind in the large, dusty chamber for it to serve as a war-room. Most of the important players were gathered here. The large, armor-clad mercenary named Garrerra was on the verge of wearing a groove in the floor. His metal boots thumped loudly on the thick carpet, and Lara could feel the vibrations from every step he took. His helmet was clasped tightly under his arm. Sweat had plastered his mop shaggy black hair to his scalp like a wet hat. His face bore many scars, but none of them were fresh.

"It's dark," he growled. He glanced at the windows for perhaps the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. The archers were still there, dutifully guarding the windows while at least having the sense not to stand directly in front of them. "We should go now."

"No," said the mage. Xeridan looked more like a priest than a mage. His dark purple garment was reminiscent of a monk's robe... except it that it was silk and had far too many pockets. Xeridan's light gray hair was every bit as unkempt as Garrerra's black locks. His eyes had a sly, manipulative look that Lara didn't like. It reminded her of herself. "We wait just a bit longer."

"The plan was to make a move at sunset," the mercenary grunted. "The sun has set."

"How very observant," Xeridan retorted. The mage reclined in the large padded chair and gazed up at the ceiling. "Rest assured, we will move very soon. Just not now."

"What are we waiting on, then!? The courtyard is alive with Tower Guard! We'll never make it to the river if-"

"Faith, brother," said the mage. It wasn't the first time that Lara had heard him address the mercenary as such, but she knew that they weren't related. They were too different. The other men she's spied upon called themselves 'brother' as well. Very strange. "We'll be free of this predicament within the hour."

"Hour, eh?" Garrerra glanced at the window yet again.

"Yes. Probably much sooner than that. Much, much sooner."

Lara's brow wrinkled in thought. Her earlier guess had been right: the men were waiting on something. Or, more specifically, the MAGE was waiting on something. Something who's timing he could not control directly. But she still had no clue as to what it could be. Lara thought back over what she'd learned so far. The band worked in small groups, hitting multiple targets at once. Homes. Businesses. Couriers. Each target was chosen to yield the maximum amount of loot with the minimum risk... and ONE of them happened to correspond with a location that Lara was watching for her own plans. The robberies went about as well as could be expected from armed thugs. They got their money, but they also got the attention of the Tower Guard. Lara didn't know where the hostage came from... she was with one of the groups when they rendezvoused near the old market square.

That was a mistake.

Not only was kidnapping a much more serious offense than simple thuggery, but stopping in a semi-public place to plan their next move was a error that even an imbecile would avoid. Unless, of course, they WANTED to get caught.

The Tower Guard fell upon them like storm of anvils, and only a surprise display of Xeridan's magic kept the criminals from being taken on the spot. Amid a storm of poorly-aimed fireballs and half-formed illusions, the thugs managed to slip away. Magic and archers kept the Guard at bay as the band of thieves ran for the river.

By now, Lara had given up trying to follow them. Curious though she was, leaping from rooftop to rooftop alongside a band of desperately fleeing criminals wasn't the way she'd planned on spending the afternoon. She retreated to the Garret mansion, content to learn the details from the morning paper like the rest of the city. Much to her surprise, the thugs were right behind her. They abandoned their charge for the river and took refuge inside the manor.

Logistically speaking, it was a very, very stupid thing to do.

The Guard charged immediately. Xeridan's magic and the screams of a young hostage gave the soldiers pause. They retreated behind the wagons and carriages that the thieves had overturned in their mad dash for safety, and thus began the hour-long siege. The Tower Guard was no doubt merely waiting for sunset to make their inevitable move. Lara assumed the same of the criminals until just now, when Xeridan's words indicated otherwise. But if their plan wasn't to slip away in the darkness (a fool's move, given the number of Guardsmen surrounding the building), then what WAS it?

As hard as she tried, Lara still couldn't figure it out. In her expert opinion, this entire exercise was doomed before it began... and yet Xeridan was clearly unconcerned about their immanent arrest. In fact, if it was indeed HIS leadership that had put the group in this position, then it would almost seem that he had done so... intentionally?

The realization struck Lara like a bolt from the gods.

This entire operation was a ruse. The thieves were either the unknowing victims... or they were the bait.

And if they were the bait, then that meant that when the Tower Guard rushed the manor... as they inevitably would... then they would be rushing headlong into a trap.

---

Monica sprinted silently through the darkness, clutching her cape tightly around her as she ran. She didn't let the garment billow wildly behind her like some idiot in a children's story... it was a CAPE, not a curtain... it had to stay close to her so that its magic could do its job. The dark color helped her to blend in with the night, and a special enchantment in the cloth absorbed her body heat... thus rendering the more popular infra-vision spells and night-seeing abilities useless.

She was only in the open for a few seconds. If anyone happened to be looking at the space where she ran, all they would have seen was small, fleeting shadow. Maybe a bird or animal. Maybe a trick of the darkness. Maybe someone running toward the building... but probably not.

Monica reached the wall and, without pausing, quietly opened the window and slipped inside. The room beyond was dark and unoccupied, but nevertheless, her thin hand hovered above the hilt of her sword. She waited, crouching low to the floor just beside the window. Nothing moved in the room, but there were many old crates and empty boxes strewn around... offering far too many places for someone to hide.

She waited another second, then dashed across the room. She didn't run for the door, but instead she slipped past it and ducked behind a large crate just adjacent to it. Again she crouched and waited. Watching. Listening. One second... two...

Her eyes went to the gap between the door and the floor. The construction was good... there was only a tiny sliver of light shining through from the hallway outside. Not quite enough to see through. Monica searched the room for other exits, and saw that there were none. The door was the only way out, and she had no idea who was on the other side of it. Monica thought back to the schematic she'd seen in Azward's magic device. The room occupied the end of a short hallway that emptied out into a large den. There would surely be people in the den AND on the stairs beyond it.

Monica ventured forth from the shadows and pressed her ear to the door. She heard voices. Male. Five or more, engaged a heated conversation. Distracted... but with that many people, chances were that at least ONE of them was in a position to see the hallway. She couldn't risk opening the door for a visual inspection. Instead, she waited a few seconds longer... listened a bit more, using the men's voices to try to judge their locations. Then she heard footsteps... someone coming down the stairs. Perhaps several someones. Yes... three people... one of them wearing heavy armor. There must have been someone important among them judging from the way the conversation halted when the trio arrived.

"Anything?" said a man's voice. Probably one of the newcomers.

"Not a bloody thing," someone else replied. "But they're gettin' ready to storm this buildin,' I guarantee it. We'll never make it out of here alive."

A rumble of worried agreement murmured through the crowd... enabling Monica to amend her assessment of their numbers. There were at least ten men in the room.

That was almost all of them. All the thieves. They'd all been spread throughout the house before, but now they were gathered together in one room. Why? Something was going on.

"Yes we will," said the first man. "Xeridan says its time to move."

Xeridan. Monica didn't recognize the name, but she committed it to memory.

"'bout bloody time!" said the second man. Monica heard the sounds of weapons being drawn... of armor being adjusted and of heavy boots walking to and fro across the room. "What's the plan... sneak out the back and head toward the river?"

"River, yes," said the leader. "But we're going out the front."

"Are ye out of yer BLOOMIN MIND!" said a third man. He had a comical, high-pitched voice. Monica smiled when she heard it. "Have ye SEEN what's WAITIN' fer us out there!?!?"

"You think they ain't watching the back as well as the front? You think they haven't gotten the rear entrances covered... haven't got the streets covered? They EXPECT us to sneak out the back way, you IMBECILE! But we're gonna give them what they AIN'T expecting... a frontal assault. A hard drive, straight through the middle of 'em-"

"They'll EAT US ALIVE!"

"Not with Xeridan and the archers covering us from upstairs."

"What about the girl," said a fourth man. "We take her with us, we can convince the guard to back off."

"The girl's gonna stay here."

Monica winced. That was perhaps THE MOST STUPID plan she'd ever heard. If it wasn't, then it was definitely in the top ten. A frontal assault? Sir Dascle's men would pound them into the ground like tent-pegs! This was ludicrous!

"WHAT!?"

"How else are Xeridan and the archer's gonna get away?" said the leader. Monica noticed the rattling of armor that accompanied his words. "They need her as a bargaining chip."

"WE need her!"

"We should stick together," a fifth rogue suggested. "All go at once."

"Then how are Xeridan and the archers going to COVER us?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah."

This was very strange. For someone who was a 'leader' the armored man endured far too many questions about his decision... as ridiculous as it was. Perhaps he wasn't the leader after all. Perhaps it was this 'Xeridan' that he kept mentioning.

"What about the loot?"

"Yeah... Silvermass won't be happy if we came back empty handed."

Silvermass? Monica committed this new name to memory as well.

"He won't be happy if we got CAPTURED, either."

"We're not all gonna make it out of this alive, are we?" said the man with the high-pitched voice.

"Maybe not," said the armored man. "You know the guard. You know they won't hesitate.... and neither should we."

Nonsense. The Tower Guard didn't kill... unless the perpetrators forced their hand. If anyone died tonight, it would be the fault of THESE men, not the Guard.

"When do we move?"

"Fill your pockets with as much gold as you can carry and still fight. Then we move. Xeridan's ready when we are."

And so was Sir Dascle. He and Des were no doubt watching the entire assembly on Azward's mirror. They wouldn't be able hear the conversation, but Dascle was no fool. The second he saw this many people gathered together, he'd know that something was amiss. Still, Monica wished there was a way to warn him.

But there wasn't.

And she had other matters to tend to.

A battle was about to take place, and the hostage had to be secured before the first sword made its strike. Time to move.

Going through the den would be suicide, so Monica would have to find her own way upstairs. She backed away from the door and climbed on top of one of the empty crates. She looked up. Standard wood... nothing fancy. And, if her memory served her correctly, there was just an empty bedroom upstairs.

Monica drew her sword.

The Ghostblade slid free of its scabbard without a sound. The sabre's pale, translucent blade was almost invisible in the darkness... like an ethereal phantom hovering in the air beyond the solid hilt. The sword had no weight at all, and, as Monica made a few test slices with it, it whispered through the air with a faint, haunting sound. Monica twirled the blade briefly, gathering her thoughts and focusing them into a razor-sharp edge before driving the blade straight up into the ceiling.

The sword sank into the wood with no resistance whatsoever.

Monica paused for a moment to re-focus her mind. The brief pause was not an indulgence... it was a necessity. The Ghostblade responded to the will of its user, becoming whatever they willed it to be. If Monica wanted the sword to be sharper than a razor... it was.

And if she wanted it to cut through hardwood like a hot knife through warm butter... it did.

But maintaining it long enough to be useful took concentration. Monica's brow furrowed as she began sawing the blade back and forth through the wood, silently cutting a three-foot diameter plug out of the ceiling. She kept her cut shallow, slicing only with the very tip of the blade in case someone was watching the room upstairs. A transparent sword sticking up out of the floor would definitely draw unwanted attention.

The hole took only a few seconds to make. She sheathed her blade and slowly lowered the circular plug of wood to the floor. Then she looked up and saw...

...another ceiling?

She'd forgotten about the crawlspace. There was an empty layer between the first and second levels, and Monica had only cut through the bottom of it. That was fortunate, for if she'd cut through them both, then the top piece of wood would have fallen onto the bottom piece, giving away her location.

Monica silently cut through the top layer and removed THAT section of floor as well. Then she climbed up, pausing briefly to peer into the darkness between floors.

She got the distinct feeling that something was watching her. She didn't hear anything. She didn't see anything.

But there WAS something there.

Monica didn't like it. This type of oddity was grounds to cancel the entire mission... but she had already committed herself to rescuing that hostage. Monica pulled herself up into the room upstairs, leaving the crawlspace and its unseen occupant behind.

---

That been way, way too close.

Lara Maxwell lay on her stomach in the darkness, not six yards away from where Monica Drew had just sliced her way through to the second floor.

If Lara hadn't moved... if she'd stayed where she had been for a second longer... her dead body would be gushing blood all over the lieutenant's silk clothes. Lara hadn't seen or heard the lieutenant's come in, but she did hear the faint, almost imperceptible creaking of the floorboards when the woman stopped to listen at the door. Lara had made her way through the crawlspace to watch, and had moved away just in time to avoid being impaled by the woman's strange sword.

Too close.

And what was worse, the lieutenant had almost seen her.

The guardswoman looked RIGHT at her when she'd paused on her way to the second floor. Lara didn't know how the woman was aware of her presence... but she was. They looked into each others eyes like predator and prey. And if the lieutenant had decided to come in after her, there was very little that Lara could have done.

Lara fought the sense of unease that grew within her. She'd almost been caught. What did that mean? Maybe it meant that she wasn't a good as she THOUGHT she was. Maybe it meant she wasn't worthy of Dokan's legacy after all...

Maybe it meant she'd better get out of here before something ELSE happened....

---

Monica waited by the door and listened. Again, she referred back to what she'd seen in Azward's mirror. She was in a bedroom. There was a long hallway beyond, with other bedrooms off to either side, and a study at the end. The study was where the archers were. And the mage.

But the hostage had to come first.

Ordinarily Monica wouldn't have ventured so boldly out into the hall, but she knew that the band of thieves were all stuffing their pockets downstairs... abandoning their watchposts in pursuit of what little gold they could carry with them. The hall was empty, but the door to the study was open. She saw one man, standing by a window with his back to her. He had a crossbow. If he turned around and saw her, he could transfix her with a single shot from his weapon.

Or he could try.

Monica ignored him.

She crept silently down the hall, counting the doors as she went. One... two.... third door on the right.

The hostage.

Monica reached for the latch on the door... then pulled her hand back. The thieves had a mage, and he may have warded the door against unauthorized intrusion.

It would be best to open it from a distance.

Glancing once at the archer in the study, Monica backed away and drew the Ghostblade one more. She formed a picture in her mind... and then enchanted blade changed shape to match it, the translucent metal warped and flowed before her eyes, transforming from a sabre to a longsword. She quickly... and quietly... sliced a hole in the door around the latch, cutting the still-locked latch away from the wood. She sheathed the blade and, after another quick glance into the study, snuck into the room.

The girl wasn't quite as young at Monica as expecting. Perhaps fourteen. Maybe thirteen. She'd be a grown woman in some societies. She was lashed to a sturdy chair with thick rope. Her blonde hair was mussed and her expensive clothing was torn to shreds, but the skin beneath them didn't appear to have been so much as touched. The thieves had conveniently tied a rag around her mouth... which kept the girl from gasping in surprise when she saw her rescuer.

"Shhh...." Monica whispered. She knelt behind the chair and used her dagger to cut the rope free and the gag free.

As she did, she heard someone shouting in the study. It was a warning, but it wasn't for her...

---

"BACK AWAY!" Xeridan's magically-amplified voice boomed out over the besieged courtyard. "WE HAVE A HOSTAGE! IF YOU MAKE A MOVE TOWARD US... NOT ONLY WILL YOU BE INCINERATED, BUT THE LAST SOUND YOU HEAR WILL BE THE DYING SCREAMS OF AN INNOCENT WOMAN! BACK AWAY AND LET US PASS!"

To emphasize the point, Xeridan sent a huge ball of orange fire hurtling down into the enter of the courtyard. The roiling sphere of flame exploded in an earth-shaking thunderclap that sprayed tendrils of flame in all directions... and lit the courtyard up as bright as day.

Then, with their movements half-cl