Original

Not far from Shiloh, still in desert sands and rock, the military command leaders secretly gathered to conference about battle strategy to end the war.

Yew Rue flattened himself against a dark rock wall. Shiloh’s darkness always crept in like a thief.

Yew Rue was anxious about seeing the legendary Somer Krest, the Wise Old Man. Most believed and hoped Krest had the knowledge and power to end Lamia’s reign of terror in Shiloh, the Golden City. Yew Rue watched a small band of shadows approaching the Cave of Four. This was a sacred gathering place.

In Shiloh, Yew was always cautious and observant. He delayed entering the single entrance chamber. Ambush could be waiting. Treachery seemed second nature in this grieving climate.

The small crag room was crowded by even the few people present. Zingara was there, Somer Krest’s splendid daughter. In the desert, Yew Rue had fortuitously learned Zingara was Krest’s kin. He always thought Zingara was more than Krest’s daughter, the way she clung on him, doted, and cooed. She was a seductive 17-year-old. He ached with yearning for her affections.

Under an overhang, Yew recognized the muscular stature of Somer dressed in desert SCARAB uniform and insignia. It was reported he was the only living person having conversed with the legendary 500-year-old Phoenix fire bird. Some claimed this is where Somer’s wisdom originated. Others assumed his wisdom was just the natural consequence of living a hard life for too long.

Drifting to past times, Yew Rue reminisced his first meeting with the wise old man, Somer Krest. It had been a memorable occasion.

The wise old man, at that time, dressed in archaic unrefined apparel, carried a long carved-wood walking stick. Even the air about him uttered, “Shaman”. Yew Rue had stared at the bird symbols on the stick. At the wooden pole’s apex, there was carved the transcendent Phoenix fire bird.

“You like my bird symbols, eh?” said the wise one.

“Birds have always fascinated me; especially when I was younger,” said Yew Rue.

“I sense that,” said The Wise Old Man, “Here’s a special gift for you.”

Reaching into a shoulder bag, the old man withdrew a shining red feather.

“It’s from the Phoenix. It’s a flight feather. Very rare.”

“Rare indeed. I thought the Phoenix just a mythological creature. Thank you.”

“No. For you and me, he’s very real and necessary for our progress. Study the flights of the Phoenix. You’ll learn many secrets.”

“Sir, I’m plagued by a question. May I ask it?”

“I suppose there’s no harm in asking. Proceed.”

“Do I have a purpose in life? Like a mission or quest?” asked Yew Rue.

The Wise Old Man remembered when he had asked that same question of the Phoenix years before. It made him scrutinize this young man a little closer.

“The answer’s yes. But what it is may not be the same tomorrow as it is today.”

“What is it today then?”

“Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”

“It’s dark.”

“Then look into the darkness.”

“It’s still too dark.”

“Then light a fire in your mind.”

“I see I’m in a cave. There are primitive paintings on the wall. It’s the story of the power-seeking crippled Shaman and his near fatal hunt of the mighty bison. The cave art is homage to the beast.”

“Very good. Who does the horned wild bull represent?” asked the Wise Old Man.

“My dead father. His tragic legacy is kept alive by the wounded shaman’s painting. The shaman now represents me. The cave represents the womb or a safe haven, a place of rejuvenation. The beast was worshipped as a god by the shaman. I don’t know what that means.”

“Did you ever worship your father?”

“Yes, as a child and young boy, I thought he knew everything and could do anything. He wanted me to think he was wise, but he was really an impostor and a fake. He taught me many lies.”

“Sounds like you need to purge the old bird. He’s still a hindrance for you. I doubt you’ll know your mission until you get rid of that poison and quit living in the cave.”

“How do I do that?”

“Use your creativity. Think like a true shaman. Make an effigy and destroy it.”

Yew Rue picked up a dry, bleached stick and a small, round stone.

“This wood is my Father,” he said breaking the stick into splinters, “his poison is no longer in my veins.”

He threw the stick down and ground it into the sand with his heel as if extinguishing a fire.

“This stone is from my Mother’s cave. I toss it far from me. I no longer require her suffocating guard.”

He spit on the stone and cast it.

“How do you feel now?” asked Yew Rue.

“I thought I’d feel relief but instead I feel sorrow. Why?”

“Murdering one’s parents usually does that to people.”

That had been their first interview. Many more followed. The Wise Old Man delighted in Yew Rue’s natural gifts in spite of his secret perception about Yew Rue’s cravings.

Yew smiled when Krest recognized him by the doorway. They approached and solidly embraced. Those present admired their great respect for each other’s talents and knowledge.

“How are the rocks you sleep on?” asked Krest jokingly.

“Not as hard as the one you pillow your lumpy skull on,” retorted Yew.

Somer permitted this joviality with Yew, but with most others, he was a serious Shaman, the medicine man. Because both men knew these were warring times, their camaraderie was made more precious when death breathed at the portal.

“It’s been a hard year and still more storming and killings going on,” said Yew. “What’s the battle plan for tonight. Do we raid the Dragoness’ stores for supplies again?”

“No, Yew. Much more serious, but let me address the group. You’ll hear soon enough.”

Krest moved toward the center of the group. He preferred giving instruction from the center, never on some stand or pushed to the end of a room like a preacher or professor. Krest taught, standing like the warrior leader he was. Yew made a note in his mind he would teach that way someday.

Youthful Zingara’s combat garb and masculine like body movements had fooled more than one person, but not Yew. When he met her in the desert, her femininity was not disguised in the least.

Youthful Zingara pretended ignoring Yew Rue’s glances across the rock room. She seems sand rough now, he thought, remembering her desert tenderness.

“Your attention, please. Darken the room,” said the commanding voice of Somer Krest, “I want to inhibit discovery. Give me your full attention. No gawking at charming people.”

Yew blushed realizing his affection was so apparent. Zingara glared at him in mock insult. His feelings towards her were always so confused.

“Sorry, Yew. Be sharp. Put your mind on your work.”

There were some predictable chuckles about “attraction distraction”.

“Our mission tonight is most serious. We must stay here in this cave and do nothing,” stated Krest.

He paused a moment for this absurd idea to settle. It was not the expected plan.

“We’re the last out of the big city. By morning, Shiloh’s few inhabitants will be destroyed by the she-dragoness. We may be the only godly people alive in the city. Naturally there is a plan,” assured Krest, “After this night, Lamia’s powers will wane. No more human blood to live off. Unless she catches a few of us, she’ll be weak and desperate.”

“Why such cruel damage to our people?” questioned Zingara.

A quick hush gripped the group. Everyone assumed Zingara privy to Somer Krest’s thoughts and plans.

Krest cringed at her question. He regretted not sharing that information before with his daughter. He hesitated. He marked the shrill nighthawk cry in the outer darkness. A night sentry gallantly died to save all inside.

“Extinguish all lights. Battle silence. Arms ready,” Krest breathed the orders rehearsed a thousand time. They crouched by the walls and prostrated themselves on the floor. They were an elite force trained since childhood for destruction.

One person was not near the wall or floor. Yew Rue dangled spread out in the huge circular iron light suspended from the cave ceiling. Below he could make out the shapely form of Zingara.

In the dim, he smiled admiring her squirming silently for belly comfort on the rock. At least, if I am here for hours I’ll have a nice view.

Waiting ready yielded no sound from the outside. Tension and anxiety were mounting, yet they continued waiting inside until secure. After some time, silently Yew dropped from the ceiling like a cat and flattened himself next to Zingara. She was feigning sleep. She quickly drew a sharp blade to Yew Rue’s exposed throat. Pressed on top of him, she yanked Yew’s dark hair back towards his broad shoulders.

“Planning to assassinate my sleeping father?” she growled.

“You know me better, Zin. I’ve been thinking of your desert offer. Remember? To unite with you.”

“Mocking me like this is despicable,” she whispered, “You make light of sacred joinings.”

“No. I just wish things were different.”

She rolled off him and lay close beside him, defenses eased.

“What do you mean?” she whispered, her eyes searching his face for truth.

“I wish I had accepted you.”

“You say this now because this is probably our last night alive. You want an offering before you die.”

“Don’t you desire the same?”

She paused before speaking, glaring at Yew Rue.

“No. You humiliated me in the desert. I’d rather toss my bones away to sandmaggots than be humiliated by you again.”

“Rejection is too weak of a word to equal my fear. I’m afraid of the strong power you have over me. I was afraid you’d manipulate me and twist me. See. I’m addicted to your charms,” said Yew.

In the dark, unseen, Zingara touched Yew’s face. Her small hand felt cool stroking his flushed skin. In the sandy desert, she thought him proud and arrogant. He was never passionless or as distant as she supposed. And tonight he reacted as if hungered by deprivation or starvation. She now glimpsed a fear closer to reverence or awe for her and her ability to fog his mind and cloud his reason.

Zin’s mind drifted back to the day they first met. She relaxed into a powerful sleep as Yew caressed her and a vivid dream of recollection came back to her mind. A shocking dream to be repeated over and over. Again and again.

I can’t see my feet in this smoky haze,” Zingara thought looking down at her white shoes. She was in a military dress white uniform with dark jacket. Even though she was young, many dangling medals and decorations added a flash of color.

Zingara stepped forward on familiar yet strange soil. She knew this was a dream country, but restricted somehow.

The horizon faded to oblivion; milky haze against pale sky touching white ground. She squinted to focus for any shape in the bright illusion.

“For being The Dark Dream place, it certainly is bleached,” she muttered.

A few steps more revealed a worn pebble path. The crunching of small white stones was loud crashing boulders to her anxiety-sensitive ears. A dozen careful paces more and the fog cleared a little.

“This location joins many paths, . . . a nexus,” she mentally noted, “why do I fear this foreseeable crossroads?”

The air seemed mild, sweet, and alien. The illumination was bright but not harsh. Except for lack of coloration and sound, it wasn’t unpleasant. The spot was private, sheltered by surrounding low mounds. A central low stone bench appeared the designated place to sit and wait. Zingara made another mental note: pinkish tint; a certain oddity. The bench probably was looted from the Castle Palace of Shiloh. Perhaps for a guest?

“That’d be me, a guest. I haven’t a clue where I am or why I’m here,” she whispered out loud.

“Ah, but you do. The note,” said a male voice nearby.

She whirled.

Gloriously perched nearby relaxed a lean charmer. A slight breeze twirled the ends of his enchanted hair around sensuous skin. His dark locks danced to a floating hissing wind aria. He wrote in white sand with his toe. Zingara quickly leaned forward reading his sand message. It read: YEW RUE.

“You’re name I assume is Yew Rue?” said Zingara, “And you already know, I’m Zingara. You sent the note?”

He flopped back on his propped elbows and smiled with closed eyes.

“I take that as an obvious yes,” she said, making fast mental notes on the man’s unusual body language. He deliberately contrived to arouse her.

“A trap?” she wondered.

“Zingara is your name, meaning gypsy girl,” he said rolling over and on bare hands and knees crawling slowly toward Zingara. His dark eyes kept constant contact on hers.

“He’s studying me for weakness to his seductions,” thought Zingara. The pang of physical yearning for his affection taunted her.

“You writhe like a venomous snake, dream man. Why? Do you intend to devour me?”

He frowned.

“I’m hurt. I only desire sharing pleasures with you,” he pouted.

Curling at her feet the sand man of pleasure stared up in feigned submission begging merciful release.

“Dear Yew Rue, you’re as tempting as any man I’ve met, but it’s not enough. I know you intend ensnaring and enslaving me with your charms. I’ll suffer not knowing your nightly delights but I must abstain. Your price is too high,” said Zingara.

“I have no price. I am priceless, a gem and you toss my sensuous offering aside as if debris. I am forever offended,” he replied.

He slowly unfolded to his full-length, “But I can change and be tranquil, too, if you like. I can mellow.”

Zingara sat a moment contemplating Yew Rue’s youthful skin and hair and his obvious military training.

“Yew Rue,” she murmured, “I’ll miss your warm touch always. But I must move on soon. I must say Good-bye.”

Yew Rue tested again.

“I’m tired,” he said putting his arm on her shoulder and resting his head against it, “but I’ve enough energy for you if you like.”

Zingara eyed him suspiciously. He vaguely reminded her of a smooth predator.

The man laughed.

“Am I not different now?”

“Yes. I think I like you. When you aren’t as powerful, I feel more secure.”

“Ah, my power dwindles but my passion is still strong. Spend time with me and I’ll share passion with you. Are you interested?” he offered with little hint of fear.

“Let’s spend time together and then we’ll decide,” said Zingara.

“A good answer. I like you. Time is what reveals the heart,” he replied grinning.

Zingara froze as if hearing a familiar voice. “Time is what reveals the heart” a quotation the Wise Old Man always said. Zingara made the connection at last. Her teacher taught this man also.

“I’d feel more comfortable if you weren’t so exposed.”

“I feel fine. You feel I’m vulnerable, eh? But if it helps, you take off your jacket. Then we’ll both be more vulnerable.”

Zingara noticed her skin as she removed her jacket. It seemed older, battle-scarred and spotted. She forgot how much time had passed. She was young but had fought many battles already. Yew Rue seemed entirely younger and uninhibited.

“Yew Rue, why do you try to seduce me?”

“My friends call me Yew. I suppose I thought if I could control you, I was powerful and potent. I’ve discovered otherwise.”

“What do you mean- otherwise?”

“The Wise Old Man, he says, “The wise person realizes power is in giving, not in taking. Capture something and it’ll fight always to be free. Give freedom and it’ll probably choose to stay.”

“True. I sense a trap in your desperation.”

“When a man depends on virility, he is most desperate of all. His potency will betray him and disappear. Loneliness will be his only companion,” Yew Rue replied.

“Look!” Zingara said pointing to the white sand at their feet. Leaning over she pulled a flat, small boomerang curved object from the powdery grit.

“A Best Stone!” she exclaimed, examining the handsome dark purple garnet and gray granite stone. Two veins of brilliant gold united in the smooth polished purplish rock. The best Stone was an important power symbol. Very costly and rare.

Dusting the powdery sand off, Zin offered the precious gem to Yew Rue.

He clenched a fist around the hard solitary piece in his palm.

He said very softly, “A good sign. Thank you, Zin. The sign of a new start in a contest of joining. Blessed union.”

“BENXUS,” she spoke.

Silent and unchanging, he turned, searching the mystery of her pondering eyes.

“How is it you know a military code word- BENXUS?” he asked warily, “BENXUS is war language for mission completion or joining of forces.” He already knew how she knew. What interested him more was why she wanted to know it and use it.

“Yes. Of course, I know. You talk in your sleep,” she giggled. She’d dodge, rather than disclose who taught her any military lingo, for her teacher was the Military Leader of the SCARAB Armed Society and also, The Wise Old Man, her father.

“Absurd. We’ve never slept together,” he retorted.

“When you’re asleep, I’m always there,” she replied.

He sensed this probably was cosmic truth.

“You know, you should talk to my father. He usually knows the answer to questions about the future and such.”

“I believe I’ve met him before,” he said lying in a calculated way.

“I would imagine so. He certainly knows of you,” she pretended.

“You’re a great help. What do I do now to win your affections?”

“You must hold me close and kiss me without arousing my fears or your own physical desires,” said Zin.

“And what’s that supposed to prove? Sounds primitive.”

Zingara smiled at Yew Rue’s scowling displeasure.

“It tests your balance of spirit and nature,” said Zingara.

“And what if I fail this test?”

“It’s not a “Yes or No, Black or White” test but rather reveals your degree of preparation and discipline. Mind control yields mastery over addictive longings and distractions.”

“Are you saying my longing for closeness to a woman, you in particular, is addictive and distracting?”

“The answer to that is obvious. What good is a Purpose if you can’t focus your energies and are fatigued constantly?”

“You’re right. It’s undeniable I crave you. It is as if you are connected to me, a BENXUS of my best qualities. I think I’m afraid of losing this test of balance.”

“You’ve nothing to lose except the pleasure of the test,” said Zingara.

“Are you enticing me now?” Yew Rue asked.

“No and yes. I just think we’ll both enjoy moments of closeness.”

Yew Rue held Zingara close. The sensation of her skin against his caused him to frantically search for will power. He pulled Zingara closer. She felt no inhibitions now. She looked up warmly into his eyes and then closed her eyes waiting. In those moments of togetherness Yew Rue thought, “Being intimate with this darling is more pleasant than I’d anticipated. Curse her! Will she join me in my secret plans?”

He bent forward and kissed her. Affection filled his heart. Thumping drums pounded in his ears. Yet, he almost instantly became afraid of losing her. Fighting the feelings, he focused on his desire to have her. Then her robust passion seized him. He struggled not to seek coupling with her. It seemed an endless kiss, but in reality it was only moments.

“You want me don’t you?” gasped Zingara.

He turned away and nodded his head.

“Then take me. I submit myself to you.”

“No,” he said, “Such affections will destroy my plans. To taste your sweetness is the most potent intoxication. My mind will never be content if we braid our bodies together. All my future plans are at risk.”

She pouted. A suspicious deception was imagined in her pretty but smart head, the purple and gray Best Stone was planted conveniently on this arranged spot by Yew to soften her delicate sentiments. Could this be possible? A clever cosmic forgery to shape destiny’s smile when in Yew’s arms? He needed her for something, a crucial and personal plot perhaps. She smelled a promised betrayal. A grudge or lust or greed was driving this young man mad.

“Then you no longer find me attractive?” she asked, pretending no difference in affection.

“If only you could discern the fascination I have for you.”

“I believe you but I need reassurances. How can I know your desire is genuine?”

“Will you swear to keep a secret from all others?” he imposed.

She looked down, she suspected this moment was coming.

“Is it military in nature? If so, regretfully, I already am committed,” she stated, pointing to the medallions on her dark jacket.

“Very well. If you won’t share my military secret, I really can’t promise to keep back our secret tryst in the desert tonight from your father’s all hearing ears,” said Yew Rue slyly.

“But we didn’t do anything but kiss,” she replied.

“Would he believe that is all that transpired between us?”

“Are you blackmailing me to obtain my favors?”

“Yes. Most men would use extortion to obtain you. You’re very beautiful. I want you for my wife and Queen,” he said the revealing word as if offering royal offices were a hobby.

“Queen?!”

“The Wise Old Man would say, “The future branches out into many possibilities. Many are good. Some are bad.”

“Yew, I can’t. You know that. I can’t go along with any mutiny deposing my Father.”

“Choose the life path of least resistance. Otherwise you will burn out before your purpose is realized. Focus. Simplify. As you eliminate the dead wood, out of the ashes of the past will rise new life, like the Phoenix. A good symbol of your purpose. All these are The Wise Old Man very words.”

“Thank you, Yew, you flatter me and my father.”

Yew Rue placed the magic gray and purple Best Stone back in Zingara’s hand.

“A part of me belongs to you now, Zingara. When you crave me, I’ll nurture you. I will sustain your painful love addiction.”

And you will join me, he thought, I need you to help mastermind this overthrow.

Sand memories washed through Zingara’s uneasy night dream. She felt Yew Rue’s hard Best Stone in her hand. She was mistaken. It was a dream. Or resembled a dream. Maybe she was drugged. Would she ever be sure of the truth? Daily she waited silently watching for hidden indicators of where she and her boy-hero stood.

At last, the long night of vigilance in the grotto was over. Somer Krest smiled at his daughter’s and Yew Rue’s unusual sleeping arrangements. Rue was flat on his back, arms extended with a dagger clutched in each fist.

Zin lay with her face and shoulders on his chest, arms extended to either side of him so as not to wound him with her dagger and fighting sword. In spite of the awkward weapons, the two seemed warm and content. Somer Krest shook them with a booted foot.

“Hey! Love kittens! We survived the night. We are safe enough to take care of our needs, or did you two do that already in the dark?”

“Father, I’m appalled,” she fumed.

Yew smiled at her mock purity. “I tell you true, Krest. I haven’t bonded with your daughter. But, I will when I have your blessing.”

Krest smiled. He knew his intelligent daughter had captured this prize male warrior, Yew Rue, but not because of the usual female blunders of immodesty. Yew had a paranoid disdain for being toyed with. He wanted control and never to be controlled.

“I give you my blessing now. Here give me your hands.”

Krest was medicine man, shaman, and wise man. Not doing as he requested could be a challenge for a death duel.

“No, Krest, my friend. You know my love for this woman you have trained. Do not make trite our bonding, but seal us together. Give me a quest first.”

Krest frowned. He had anticipated the need for a symbolic rite of passage. But he had not anticipated the timing. These were perilous days. Any quest would be a dangerous one. He looked in his daughter’s eyes. She was his prize, too. Zin had chosen according to her wishes. And he sensed her joy that her father had taught her the method of choosing.

So Yew wanted pain and isolation: an initiatory ordeal. He’d give Yew the same assignment he was forced to give him anyway. But maybe, Yew knew this fact also and was being politically dramatic and using showmanship.

“There is only one quest worthy of Yew Rue. You must free a princess imprisoned by the Dragoness Lamia.”

A hush revealed the serious nature of the quest.

“How can he deliver this maid?” asked Zingara with wrinkled brow.

“Simple. Kill Lamia first,” said Krest.

“I’ll be a widow before I’m even a bride. This isn’t right. Father, are you sending Yew to his death? Are you jealous you’ll lose my affections?”

“I love you, Zin. And it is true, I envy any man who attracts you. But I’m not the first man feeling such for his precious daughter. There is more to my request than foolery.”

Krest paused and stroked his beard as if wondering how much story to tell.

“Zin, I would not waste a good husband unless I had reason. But we must break away from here and set camp closer to the Dragoness’ castle. Come on, let’s travel.”

Everyone hurried making preparation for battle camp. A cold breakfast and warm drink were the mornings only pleasantries.

Krest sat outside in the warm sun, gnats flitting about. From the castle, an annoying noisy buzz of some distant machinery sounding like a huge insect never sleeping but groaning on and on. Those were the blood machines harvesting city corpses.

Krest pulled a hoarded piece of dried date out of his war pouch and concealed it in his mouth to rehydrate. He rolled it from side to side as he stared up at their objective, the looming stone castle of Shiloh. This was now the refuge of Lamia, the Dragoness. He heard the sandwalk of a trained fighter near. It was Yew Rue.

“May I?”

“The sand is soft and wide. Please, your company is welcome. I’ve some things to tell you in private anyway.”

“It’s about the quest isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

“There are some things you neglected mentioning about this trapped princess I need to rescue. Why don’t you tell me now?”

Krest smiled at Yew Rue. From the corner of one eye, he watched a large black dog meander in the dusty street. He secretly wondered if Yew would betray him someday. He was intelligent and charismatic. He would make a formidable adversary.

“You know there are times I feel I’ve taught you too much. You are a perceptive cuss. Yes, I deleted some things in the cave for obvious reason which you’ll soon understand.”

“Is this going to take a long time? We’ll be missed soon and others need our direction.”

“No, I think I can be pretty quick about it. The Princess’ name is Ungula. She has recently had a spell cast on her disguising her as a hideous old cripple. The only way to free her and break the spell is to first destroy Lamia.”

“Why all this bother over an ugly old woman? Lamia destroyed many girls who were perfect and young. Why does she hold this luckless woman like a valued hostage of war?”

Krest chewed the now gooey fig stick in his mouth. He used the delay to think how to say his next words. The Great One was toiling for select words.

“Ungula is no ordinary woman. She is the twin sister of Zingara. And she is an anchoress.”

It was Yew’s turn to stall for words. Too many questions came to Yew at once.

“Does Zin know she has a sister?”

“No, she thinks she’s an only child.”

A chill raced down Yew’s back, too many unplanned elements spell bad fates.

“Why haven’t you told her?”

“I was afraid she’d be killed getting her sister out. Then I’d have no daughters, no children.”

“Who is their mother?”

“Curse me for this. Their mother is Lamia, my sister.”

Krest leaned forward drawing letters in the sand with his index finger. The sand letters spelled popular military slang meaning: illegal joining. He quickly rubbed it to oblivion. The black dog sat in the hot street watching with innocent curiosity, tongue hanging out.

“I’m beginning to understand why you haven’t talked much about these things ’til now. Must be difficult.”

The battle-fatigued Krest drew a deep breath, cinched up his knees, and shocked Yew by stifling a muffled sob in his battle cloth. Krest’s emotion ended quickly. He had finally told someone. Someone he could trust.

Yew began to comprehend. He was chosen to finish old family business. It smelled of a secret mission or assassination not a quest. And it stunk.

“Check behind that short dune. I think I heard sandwhisper,” said Krest as he batted at the small gnats buzzing to drink from his moist eyes.

Soon Yew returned.

“Some sandwalking wardog left a squat is all,” said Yew, “Obviously, not paying attention to us. Pretty sure.”

“OK. Let’s move on,” said Krest stiffly as he rose to his feet. Yew was glad Krest hadn’t asked any more questions. Yew lied again to Krest. The “squatting wardog” was a future bride who wore a size 5 women’s combat boot. Zingara probably overheard everything. When the timing was right, the woman would make a move to join the war party for sure. The best thing for now was letting her think she was undetected.

The morning sun was bright and all seemed cheery. The stray black dog had adopted the unit and trotted along begging for morsels. Another stray joined the combat pack, Eye, a wounded Forward Scout. A dangerous job. The battle crew seemed happy to have him along. He looked tough, distant, and deadly; … and grieving. Eye paused to nod at several Jezebels who were traveling along by his company. One smiled at him and said, “Hey, Honey how come so sad? Come spend some time and you’ll feel better.”

“Sorry,” he replied, “Your offer will not cheer me. Besides, I’m taken.”

He faked a smile hoping it was all still true and Arrow was still alive. The floozies frowned at a man in love. It was bad for their business.

“Why are we going to Shiloh?” Yew Rue asked for self-amusement.

The military caravan gazed at Rue with a knowing look as if he had missed something obvious or been in the heat too long.

“We go there because it is the city where we make war,” he said, answering his own question.

“I’ve heard the city’s a mess,” said a marching voice.

“And I’ve heard it’s very exciting and adventurous,” said Zingara, “a beautiful palace of luxury.”

“Both are true, ” said the Wise Old Man, “It’s a mysterious place. Many undiscovered things await us there.”

“Ha. You forget I was trapped in the City of Despair. It smells bad,” said Yew Rue mockingly.

“You’ve gone daft,” said Zingara with a laugh, “I’ll dance for you and revive you with love.”

“Conserve power to where a Dragoness is concerned, my daughter,” said the wise old Man, “You’d best focus on bewitching your hero to slay the insensitive beast.”

“You think me weak and only capable of seduction,” said Zingara, “Just wait.”

“To destroy the Dragoness, you must stare your worst nightmare in the face without the shield of unconsciousness. You must become aware. Once your fear is understood, it can be destroyed piece-by-piece,” said the Wise Old Man, “Imagine, now in your mind, the beast is in front of you. Gaze into her glassy snake eyes. Feel the fear consume you as you recognize the monster is in you boiling and rising to the surface of your unconscious mind. You are now fully aware of what terrifies you. See it. What is it?”

Yew Rue imagined the beast, peering into the slit of gleaming eye like staring through a flickering flame. Yew Rue whispered a chanting recitation. Induced into a trance by Krest mystic words, he stared into the blinding desert sky.

“I feel a suffocating sensation. I fear having no life of my own. Always captive to some controlling external hand shaping my life. I am helpless and bound, manipulated by outer forces; willing to grovel as an insect for an ounce of freedom. Life is a glass bottle with limited space. Grains of sand slowly fill the bottle until I gasp for breath. I am a slave imprisoned by the shortness of life and time.”

The traveling party was silent. They avoided Yew for hours as if he was possessed by demons and had gone mad. In truth, it was the madness possessing him vocalized.

Later as the military caravan halted near the castle walls, a lot of talk was going on about tactical command: who was to do what by when.

“OK. I’m obviously going in the castle as I’ve been assigned a solitary quest,” said Yew.

“That’s understood. But, you’ve been acting peculiar. You are not going in alone. I know the castle floor plan so I lead you in and give you cover,” said Krest.

No one else really challenged to lead the assault. They knew Yew and Krest were the best. Waiting for battle results just meant someone wasn’t standing in the way. The silence was broken by Zingara, of course.

“I’m going in.”

“What? Why you?” her father replied.

She hesitated.

“It’s a family matter. You are my father and Yew is my future mate,” she smiled, proud of her quick response.

Mate?, thought Yew, sure boiled down to its carnal simplicity. The implications sounded like a rank or chore.

“Your leadership serves better here among the others,” said Krest scowling.

“We are to free a royal woman prisoner. It’ll be best if she’s tended to by a female officer.” Now this was better logic for male ears. She knew Yew and her father felt there was something mystic about women, something magical they could not control.

Yew rolled his eyes at Krest.

“No. You may not go,” commanded Krest.

“Then I invoke my right as a royal princess,” stated Zingara.

“How presumptuous. What makes you think you can feign any such claim?” said her father. He pursed his lips wondering if she had possibly divined the truth.

She smiled.

“You’re right. How could I, a desert gypsy, have any royal blood?”

Here it comes, thought Yew, she’s going to give the old guy both blades.

But that was all she said. She didn’t mention her sisterhood to the royal hostage. She didn’t even frown.

She’s planning something for sure, thought Yew. He watched the stray black dog wondering if its life was an easier one.

“Father, what victim profile does the Dragoness Lamia prefer?”

“Child! You know a virgin succumbs first and a pregnant woman always falls second. You fatigue me with games. Why do you say this?”

“I am not a child. I offer to go as dragoness bait.”

“You! A virgin?” Yew quizzed.

Indignant silence was her stinging reply. The only other alternative type of bait was obvious.

Krest turned to Yew. He was frozen, his mouth hanging open.

“From Yew’s appearance, we can assume he is not the father of your surprise child. How did this blessed mystery occur?”

“I met a man in the desert. One not of our clan. An outsider not of the dunes. He is the father.”

“That’s why your trickery and attempted seductions in the desert. You were searching for a proper father for the inner bastard you carry,” moaned Yew defeated.

Zingara appeared pained at Yew’s accusations yet made no defense and said nothing.

“Perplexing! Did this man have a name?” asked Krest.

“He called himself Morgan, the Sea Dweller. He was very strong,”

Eye standing guard close enough to hear all, made mental note: Morgan, the Sea Dweller. It was a name he heard Arrow say before back in the death cave.

A tiny droplet of ruby spilled down the victim’s neck. Coursing from the bite wound, it pooled near the shoulder cup where her throat joined her bare body. Dipping a middle finger in the miniature pool, Morgan slid the sticky moistness across her white shoulder drawing a red smudge. He closed his eyes. Her skin was smooth and flawless. He sensed the exciting arousal the vampire encountered sucking life’s blood from her jugular. With eyes still shut, Morgan skimmed his finger back to the two marks under her left jaw.

A sudden dampness surrounded Morgan and he slowly opened his eyes and nodded toward the vapor’s source.

“She was beautiful. Don’t you think, Morgan?” whispered a throaty hidden female in the murky shadow.

“Beautiful and stupid like most unfruitful girls who get close to you,” breathed Morgan venomous. His face was solemn yet his finger still circled on the dead youth’s smooth shoulder, “She was your usual sickness, a ‘virgin’ snack.”

“Now, now, Morgan. You sound so bitter. You need me to survive as much as I needed her,” said the sensuous voice, “Why don’t you get on with it and do your dirty work?”

“You vampire slut. You always enjoy taunting me but you are powerless. All I need is a lock of hair from your poor dead girl,” Morgan replied angrily, “Then I’m safe from you and your curse. If you were extinct, this all would be unnecessary.”

“Hah. You are a curse, Morgan. You are beyond morbid. When I enticed this lovely creature, she was alive. Afterwards, you visit her discarded corpse and consume a trophy from her dead body,” laughed the dark voiced she-creature, “You are even more demented.”

“It’s not cannibalism to dine on a dead woman’s hair, Lamia,” said Morgan tersely to his adversary.

“Listen to your voice, Morgan, eating deceased women’s hair? It’s repulsive. Much worse than cold blood,” the silky voice said, “Sickening. Foul. Do your work, Living Filth.”

Morgan placed a round wooden stake with squared-off sharp tip directly over the dead girl’s expired heart.

“Wait, Morgan, listen closely. Her heart is still alive. It is beating in her bosom,” said the womanly utterance. A young jeweled finger pointed from the darkness at the wood point’s soft target.

“You lie, Trickster,” shouted Morgan.

Morgan’s heavy hammer came smashing down. The stake splintered penetrating the girl’s ribcage and plunged through her throbbing heart. The girl’s eyes and mouth flew open simultaneously. A death shriek permeated the air. She fell back into silent nonexistence.

“I told you she was still alive,” the seductive voice smirked.

Morgan wiped a bloody hand across his beaded forehead. “She was the living dead and you know it. Now leave me or you’re next,” Morgan threatened.

“You won’t scratch me, Morgan. Besides I’ll watch the intimate fashion with which you style her hair before I depart.”

“You sinister cesspool. It is you, Lamia, compelling me to perform this ill ritual to protect myself from your poisonous bite. Someday, I shall destroy you.”

Morgan grasped the girl’s hair with a quick twist around his wrist and unceremoniously chopped it off.

“Morgan, you have no finesse with matters concerning the dead. Your methods are crude and vulgar. Look at the poor thing. A bloody stake in her breast and her mane butchered. You are crass.”

“Go to Hell!” Morgan barked striding off.

“You mean, ‘Until dinner.‘ don’t you?” The Vampiress mocked with a laugh.

Morgan’s footfall echoed and faded away.

Once safely in his concealed palace room, Morgan removed the dead virgin’s hair from his sweaty shirt pocket. He pulled a few dark strands aside. Rolling it around his finger he formed a small loop. Selecting a short thin ribbon, he tied the grisly souvenir into a locket. Opening the lid to an old black leather box, he deposited the little memorial into a tossed sea of wispy wreaths gathered over centuries.

“I’ll defend your memory,” he said stiffly and ritualistically.

The ringlet of hair honored a face, a body, a time, a place, and a feeling. The feeling was sick sadness and grief. Grief for wasted young lives destroyed sustaining one insatiable she-monster: the Dragoness Lamia.

This deceased girl reminded him disturbingly of a green youth named Anchor, an unforgettable special child, he had dragged off all those years ago. He sensed her deep eyes burning into him still. He shuddered. Morgan washed the remainder of the hair. Placing the soft fluff in a dissolving solution, he swished the tepid potion and gulped it. He cringed as his stomach gradually settled. He would continue to fight the destructive Lamia one more day. Yet in Morgan’s night dreams, he tossed restlessly knowing both he and she were devourers dancing to destruction and nothing could stop the morbid music. Save attractive Anchor, his half-sister.

This Morgan, the Sea Dweller, did he take you by force?”

“I’d really rather not talk of unpleasantness especially as I prepare mentally for battle,” said Zin.

Surely this is trickery again, thought Yew, this enigmatic Morgan is a phantom. Yew scratched his head and wished this were a dream he could wake up from. But he knew it wasn’t for he had met with Morgan, man-to-man, before also.

“Yew. Consult with me,” ordered the angry Krest. They stepped quickly to a private place and lowered their voices.

“What do you think she is up to?” asked Krest.

“I’m not sure. But she is very determined to go. From what I know about her, we might as well give in,” said Yew.

“Do you think she’s really pregnant? You’ve been closer to Zin than any. Any morning signs, or abnormality?”

Yew thought for a moment.

“Her hands seemed very cool to touch last night.”

“Think, man. Women’s hands always feel cool when men feel hot. Don’t you have any evidence pro or con?”

“I’m sorry. I never even thought of the notion of Zin being with child. I don’t want to believe it but part of me says I’d better. I’ve heard of this Morgan man.”

“Well. She’s right, you know, from a military standpoint, if she is pregnant, she’s a tactical advantage. Do we want to use her as a decoy or diversion? We had no contingency plan for this opportunity,” said Krest in a matter of fact fashion.

Yew was dumbfounded and shaken.

“First, we’re to join, then have a child, now sacrifice both to a bloodsucking vampiress. I’m confused.”

“Yew. Get a hold on your emotions. We have to make a military decision now.”

“OK. If Zin comes with us, I can protect her or we can at least all die together.”

“I’m going to relieve you of your rank and quest if you can’t deliver a straight answer.”

“Yes, sir. She’s part of the inside squad and goes along,” Yew blurted while squeezing one eye shut. He had a tremendous stress headache. Zingara’s presence wasn’t in Yew’s attack scheme nor was Morgan sleeping with his woman. Nor Ungula, the hostage, being Zingara’s twin to top things off. The situation was becoming an intolerable nightmare. Yew Rue’s dream was in jeopardy.

Driver had been sick since the second week of the Third Month. His lungs were the main culprits. The Doctors used strong antibiotics to kill off bacteria plus a steroid bronchial mist to subdue bronchial spasms. These depressed his autoimmune system and resulted in an unpleasant infection. After all this, he was still suffering with bronchial spasms. An inner ear infection from coughing made him dizzy at times. The bronchial spasms caused him to see black swirling spots. He was so sick of being sick.

As if intensifying his doom, Driver went cold turkey off Aino, an addictive barbiturate. Physical withdrawal symptoms included shakes, insomnia, and irritability. He was hooked pretty bad but hoped going straight would alleviate his wheezing.

Driver was a biotechnician. Because of his drug habit, he missed a lot of work. He’d arrive to work late. He was almost always tired. He’d head home sleepy. Sometimes he was more tired than hungry and slept through dinner in a heavy deep slumber. He forgot things a lot at the lab and appeared disorganized. He couldn’t concentrate very well. He had increasing anxiety about his job. Where would he work if he lost it? This is why he quit the complexity of biotech and joined the Military; he couldn’t stand his job anymore.

All of Driver’s chaos was more than a burden; it was a precursor to death. Driver’s friends weren’t startled any more when he’d say, “I look forward to Death, the day I’ll be released from bodily burdens and fly free.” Death for Driver was a release, a portal, an altered state. He was eager to walk through it. A fog frequently came over his mind as he struggle with life. A heavy tiredness weighing him down. This was another reason he joined the Military: not only did he hate his job but he couldn’t stand life anymore either.

In the midst of all this turmoil, Driver was shell-shocked, battle-fatigued before he even went to war. His reality was distorted. His anchor was up in stormy waters. He felt sometimes as if he was mad; swept away in the backwash. Silently drowning. No one seeing to throw him a lifeline or a life preserver, alone tossing in a sea of despair. “No comfort. No pleasure. This isn’t life. I am a zombie, the living dead. I want to die but can’t,” he thought to himself. So he joined the SCARAB rebel force, hoping to die.

One day, Driver went to his usual seaside diner located in Certan for a buffet lunch. He had been transferred by SCARAB to Certan in hopes the fair weather would improve his health. There was an unusual blonde girl in the diner that day. She was very interesting to Driver. She appeared sophisticated and wise. “Could we talk?” he thought silently.

Before long she was done eating but stayed, sitting on a bar stool. “She noticed my glance,” he thought.

Driver was too timid to approach her. Fearful, he turned his back to her while eating his lunch.

She suddenly appeared to his left. Her face disturbingly close. Driver blushed while staring away.

“If you won’t come sit by me, may I sit by you?” she peered right through him. His school-boyish fumbling for words and vulnerability amused her. They talked profusely. She was a very discerning person.

The restaurant habitually closed after lunch until the evening meal. They began silently walking down the ocean front surrounded by sounds of the huge sea drowning their thoughts.

Arriving at her quirky tent shelter, she invited Driver inside but he wouldn’t go. “Maybe later we can meet again,” he said.

Happy with the possibility she smiled, “Good-bye, ’til later then.”

Back at the military base, Driver arranged files in his drab office. An attractive redhead in battle fatigues entered through the front door.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Hi, I’m Arrow. I forgot my gloves and stopped back to pick them up,” she replied.

At the back-door, a knocking was heard. There stood the blonde girl from the restaurant. A leashed large black dog accompanied her. It wasn’t her dog. She was keeping the dog for someone else.

“May I come in?” she asked.

The room seemed to laugh as the eyes of the redhead and the blonde’s met.

The blonde’s first visit appeared too customary and intimate as if occurring regularly.

An unplanned visit? She turning up at leisure, yet all appearances to the contrary.

“Who is she?” asked Arrow feigning suspicion, winking secretly at the blonde.

“I met her at a restaurant this afternoon,” Driver replied shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t know her name. Is that a problem?”

The girl’s name wasn’t important until now.

“If now is a bad time, I’ll come back,” said the pretty blonde smiling.

“I was just leaving,” said Arrow gesturing a mock salute to the mysterious blonde.

The blonde tied up the big black dog on the back step. The blonde stayed. Two females in Driver’s office. He felt a headache throbbing at the front of his pained skull. He didn’t realize the blonde civilian, Anchor, and the military redhead, Arrow, were old friends and traveling companions.

When the War started, the small village called Certan by the Sea, offered respite for the SCARAB militia. Anchor and Arrow had gone underground in the crowd. Both were too comely to go unnoticed by the single soldiers. In particular, Driver was very interested in the two, especially since the day of the “accidental” meeting of all three in his office. He had some station now as a soldier in the intelligence section.

Driver had joined the Old Order of CieLoq, a respected sect of ancient philosophers of the 4th millennia, who advocated the doctrines that virtue is the only good, that the essence of virtue is self-control, and that surrender to any external influence is beneath the dignity of man. Driver believed these two traveling beauties were assigned to test his soul strength and it seemed he was failing.

One night at a farewell party, Driver bestowed gifts on the two trusted enchantress’. Arrow and Anchor were at their finest. To the first, the dusky redheaded one, Arrow, he gave several expensive gifts. The surrounding crowd in the makeshift headquarters appeared pleased, but wondered if Driver would spurn Anchor. The younger, fairer second maid waited in anticipation. Her eyes sparkled. She perceived the direction of her admirer’s heart. He turned to his assistant and said, “Where is the Legacy?”

The assistant handed a large, thick book to Driver. He smiled knowingly. Circling to the astonished girl, Anchor, he placed the precious book in her hands. Personal, handmade, cherished: a gift beyond riches. The offering’s depth was appreciated with a quiet gasp of surprise. Neither she, nor the group, expected such an unrestrained declaration. The worn soul book contained the soldier’s thoughts, feelings, and dreams, a CieLoq custom. All envied her being loved so openly, yet intimately. She warmly basked in the intense experience of being loved. All admired the soldier’s ideals. From that day, he wore a holopix around his throat of his inspiring Anchor. From that day, he worried of death robbing him of a future near his beloved Anchor. From that day, he became afraid.

Night was drawing nigh. The high castle walls of Shiloh were drenched with the purplish-red of sundown. Twilight marked major activity for both factions.

All SCARAB forces were under the command of Somer Krest, the Wise Old Man. The SCARAB forces dressed in desert camouflage were resting from their days journey and preparing their battle weapons. The highest power weapon was the Sand Canon, also known as an Eraser. The machine sucked up sand through the back and blasted it out the front dissolving anything within 250 paces. This was good and bad. Some times things or people were erased on the other side of a wall or building accidentally.

For hand-to-hand combat, SCARAB forces had few projectile weapons. They just didn’t have resources to buy black market commodities. They invented a formidable close-combat hand-held weapon which quickly extended an internal collapsible telescoping rod with a steelplast poison dart affixed at the end. It was called an X3. But the troops called the X3 a Skull Crusher because it had the spring action force to penetrate multiple bones. The poison dart was good for four shots and then required redipping. It never seemed a problem as most warriors used it without the poison.

Lamia’s forces were under the direction of General Thin Rattle. He wasn’t military trained actually. He had no officially earned military rank. He was actually from some unusual eastern university. His marriage to Lamia meant he automatically got the job of Military Dictator. A job he enjoyed. He needed something wicked to do to offset his boredom and anxiety. His real profession was so esoteric it had no worth in reality. Something like counting how many grains of sand were in the desert. His self-coined battle name was “Fang”. His people addressed him as General Fang but behind his back they called him the “Sweaty Bully”. His men were well paid and mostly mercenaries. It was the only way he could keep a semblance of military order. Intelligence reported Fang frequently hung deserters. Disloyalty was something the SCARAB had difficulty comprehending. It only confirmed Fang was a nut case.

Fang’s forces in their blood red uniforms were fortified in the highest and largest castle tower. It was constructed of solid rock covered with plastisteel. Virtually impenetrable. This gave them obvious advantage with their projectile missiles and free view of the battlefield. They could see the SCARAB still just outside the outer walls.

General Fang’s war challenge pierced the canvas canopy of the commando tent. Angled from descending high flight, three blood-covered arrows splattered stain in the hot sand on impact. Krest cursed the General’s reckless flamboyant displays; always shooting at unseen targets. “They aren’t my battle signal. We go when I call,” thought Krest.

He didn’t wait long his men were ready and willing.

“OK. Let’s get those Erasers hot. I want five holes to drive through. Get goin’,” barked Somer Krest. This is it, he thought to himself and felt a chill on his back.

The night sky turned black as they worked.

“They won’t fire until we’re through the wall. They don’t want to help us out any blasting a bigger hole,” said Somer Krest.

A distance from Krest and the scorching Erasers, Yew Rue examined an apparent piece of jewelry strapped to his wrist. It was a radio detonator. He had secretly made a deal to insure SCARAB forces won this part of the war. Soon General Fang would perish.

“We’re through the wall, c’mon,” hollered some men. As the men pour forward onto the battle field about eight crackling booms occurred simultaneously. Land mines!

Somer Krest scrambled out and saw among the fracas the gruesome scene of a young man who’d lost both hands and his sight. The wounded boy was struggling to get up on crimson stumps.

“Get down, son, and stay down,” ordered Krest.

“Who are you? What happen?” asked the bloody boy warrior.

“Somer Krest here. You’ve fallen on a mine. You lost both hands and your eyes,” Somer Krest minced no words.

“Am I going to die?”

“Do you want to?”

“I believe so, sir, I don’t think I’ve got much left.”

“You know who I am?” quizzed Krest.

“The Wise Old Man, sir!” sounded the young man.

“Then you listen to me. I am placing tourniquets on your arms. You will not die while you are under my protection. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Yes, sir!” came back the dazed voice. Physical shock was setting in.

“Son, you’ve a locket around your neck. Does it contain an H-pix of someone worth living for?”

“Yes, sir. Her name is Anchor, sir,” he replied.

“Anchor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name, son?” Krest asked.

“They call me Driver, sir.”

“Driver, it would mean a lot to me to see this H-pix of Anchor. Would you mind?

“Please, sir. Go ahead. She’s beautiful.”

“So I see. I’ve always wanted to see her before I died,” he spoke softly and prophetically. Somer stared at her enchanting face in the glow from a parachute flare.

“Listen, we must move you now. This area is getting too hot,” said Krest.

There was no reply.

The medics unceremoniously amputated Driver’s mutilated hands; a repulsive and hideous sight. He would never hold his two sweet loves again. He died the next hour.

Krest had removed the locket and Driver’s military war ID and put them both in a rugged chemplast packet and sealed it. On the outside he scribbled with his field pen: To Ungula. He placed it in his breast pocket and snapped it shut. He would remember this warrior along with all the others who would die tonight. He was haunted wondering how Anchor was faring tonight. Does she sense the turmoil being fought for her cause? Somer thought, Does she know she is inspiring her compatriots?

“Watch for the ray guns!” shouted Somer as he dashed into the uproar.

On top of the tower, the sadistic General Fang looked over the railing with night occulars and laughed giddily, “Ha! The fool’s! They walked right into those mines. Drat! This battle will be over in minutes. Idiot’s. Prepare the Ray Rifles. Cut them down … slowly.”

The General paced back and forth as if he were agitated. His face was a permanent scowl with jaw jutting out when he was angry. He seemed always to be angry. He heard a familiar but faint barking. He rushed to the rail searching. There through the occulars he saw a large black dog.

“What is my son’s black dog doing with those desert rats?” Deep inside he was screaming, “The Black Dog!” He knew he was betrayed. It was already too late to abort the mission. His miserable son, the weakling, always taking his glory. His ceaseless competitor! Even Lamia loved his rebel son more than her General Husband, he spat the venomous thoughts in his raging mind. It was too cursed late! Perspiration beaded his wrinkled brow as he waited the inevitable treachery. He didn’t wait long.

The tall tower was showering SCARAB forces with ray and missile weapons. It was a butchery. Yew Rue had finally had his fill. He slid the panel back on his wrist transmitter and pressed a small red square in the center. The entire bottom of the tower was prewired with explosives and erupted spewing molten lava. The tower toppled scattering bodies and armament in all directions. From here on, the battle was hand-to-hand. Fangs foolish men refused to surrender. No prisoners were taken, except Fang himself.

“I want Fang,” hollered Somer Krest.

Fang was promptly located and drug over to the moat. His head flopping back over the filthy waters.

“General Fang, I am ordered by the rightful heirs to the throne of the Golden City, to execute you on sight for all your murderous crimes,” pronounced Somer Krest, “Do you have any last words?”

“My own son betrayed me!” yelled the enraged Sweaty Bully.

“I’m sorry to hear you have family troubles,” muttered Krest as he popped an X3 Skull Crusher into the General’s mouth, “a few words of my own: You officially died when you married my sister, the witch. She joins you soon, depraved illness! May God have mercy on your tainted soul!”

An X3 Skull Crusher execution really is fairly painless to the casualty. The rod dart has a numbing agent which is also an extremely lethal poison. It’s painless and quick, but remarkably messy.

Krest depressed the activate switch but the X3 misfired. He tried again with the same results.

“I’ll listen to nature and reprieve your death sentence and banish you instead,” said Krest, “You men. Escort this puny rat back to his dreary hole. I never want to see him again.”

The Sweaty Bully never returned to his homeland. The desert buzzards picked his bones clean. Sadly, he was killed while escaping. Run down and crushed by a large sand vehicle. Another unfortunate war tragedy.

The outer Battle was miraculously won, although how the tower collapsed remained a mystery, never explained by Yew Rue. Always his special secret.