Dissention

From M-Webster's Online Dictionary:
Main Entry: dis·sen·sion
Variant(s): also dis·sen·tion /di-'sen(t)-sh&n/
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Latin dissension-, dissensio, from dissentire
Date: 14th century
: DISAGREEMENT; especially : partisan and contentious quarreling
synonym see DISCORD

"Well Danag," the woman snarled. "Thou said we wert summoned. Why is he not here?"

"Patience, Elynor," Danag replied, trying to sound calm. "We await the Guardian's convenience, not thine own."

"I..." Elynor was interrupted by a chill wind, before the mirror turned blue. Blue, that is, except for a red bulge that was growing out of it. The bulge receded then another grew from a different spot on the mirror. This one also receded, but the third, more general bulge extended into a face that featured often in the dreams and nightmares of all present.

"Those otherworlders thou hast supplied us, Lord," said Danag. "Hath succeeded. Mine fleets hath completely isolated the mainland from the islands."

"Boats, hah!" said Elynor. "The mainland was isolated when mine own people secured the eight moonstones. And with the Minoc and Vesper mines in our sole possession, I do predict a scarcity of iron soon."

"What tiresome bickering," said Klog. "What both of thee fail to realize is that it is the hearts of the people that shall win us this war. British was a fool to try to disband the Fellowship so abruptly. Even now there are riots in the streets of Britain, and cries of 'Tyrant!' The Triad of Inner Strength was a foundation for the lives of many. Men will fight for their beliefs."

"The suspicious death of Patterson didst not help the king's case," Danag agreed reluctantly.

"YOU HAVE ALL DONE WELL. THIS PLEASES ME GREATLY, AS I HAVE COME TO A MOMENTOUS DECISION."

"I HAVE DEVISED A MOST CUNNING METHOD TO DISPOSE OF THE AVATAR WHEN HE ESCAPES FROM PAGAN."

Then Elynor burst out laughing. The shock broken, Klog, and then even Danag, began to chuckle.

"I THOUGHT YOU WOULD LIKE IT. BUT WE MUST MAKE PREPARATIONS. FIRST WE MUST CLEAR OUT THE ISLANDS OF SPEKTRAN TO SERVE AS OUR BRITANNIA."

"NAH. INTELLIGENCE ISN'T ONE OF THE EIGHT VIRTUES. THEN I NEED ELYNOR TO GET ME SOME PEOPLE TO PLAY THE PARTS OF LORD BRITISH AND THE COMPANIONS."

"That could be difficult," said Elynor. "I can handle the others, more or less, but I have nobody that could impersonate the part of Gwenno, alas."

"NO MATTER. JUST USE ANY OLD CHIT. HE WON'T NOTICE, HE'LL BE TOO BUSY TRYING TO SAVE THE WORLD. OH, AND WE'LL NEED A REALLY DEFORMED GARGOYLE WITH LIP SYNCING SKILLS TO PLAY ME, OF COURSE. THEN WE'LL NEED A SPY, SOMEONE TO KEEP US INFORMED OF THE AVATAR'S PROGRESS. DANAG?"

"COULD YOU FIND US SOMEONE WITH A BIT OF WIT AND NO TASTE FROM ONE OF YOUR BROTHELS IN BUCCANEER'S DEN? THE TYPE OF WOMAN I HAVE NEED OF WILL DO ANYTHING OR ANYBODY FOR THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF GOLD."

"I know exactly the lady you need, Master," Danag smiled. "In fact, may I humbly request the honor of some small part to play in thy brilliant scheme?"

"WHAT? OH SURE. GET A DISGUISE, MAYBE AN EYEPATCH OR SOMETHING. WE'LL TELL THE AVATAR THAT YOU'RE BLACKTHORN."

"NO, NO, NO. I HAVEN'T TOLD YOU THE BEST PART YET. WHAT WE'RE GOING TO DO IS SET UP A TRAIL OF CLUES THAT LEADS THE AVATAR TO BELIEVE THAT HE MUST SACRIFICE HIMSELF TO SAVE BRITANNIA. IN THE FINAL SHOWDOWN BETWEEN HIM AND ME (OR SO HE THINKS) HE'LL CHANT SOME GIBBERISH THAT HE THINKS WILL ERECT A SHIELD, ISOLATING THE TWO OF US FROM THE REST OF BRITANNIA. THEN HE'LL CONFIDENTLY CAST THE ARMAGEDDON SPELL, THINKING IT THE ONLY WAY TO DEFEAT ME. THE IRONY BEING THE SHIELDING RITUAL IS A FARCE, AND THE AVATAR WILL END UP DESTROYING BRINTANNIA. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA... HEY, WHY AREN'T YOU LAUGHING?"

The hilarity continued for quite some time, before it was interrupted by one of the Guardian's wizards.

"Lord Guardian. High Priests." The wizard made a deep obeiscance, then three curt bows (closer to nods, actually). "I bring news from Pagan."

"Yes, master. It would seem that the Avatar misjudged a jump to one of thy cunning sinking platforms, and, well, ended up feeding the Lurker."

"THEN ALL MY PLANS FOR REVENGE ARE RUINED! BUGGER! DAMN YOU AVATAR, DAMNNNNNNN YOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!"

"Is it true, then?" asked Miranda, working mother and Prime Minister of Britannia. "Can there be any doubt?"

Nystul, longtime court magician to Lord British shook his head. "None at all. The divination was quite clear."

No doubt, indeed. No question, at all. Their greatest hero, the realm's greatest hope, had perished. Not even the puissant arts of Lord British, enhanced as they were when seated on his throne and wielding his artifacts of office could retrieve Britannia's most famous paragon.

Miranda looked to the faces of all assembled in the council. British looked positively poleaxed; it was indeed a wonder how he had managed to keep his throne for centuries while being so utterly useless in times of crisis. Nystul was not much better, falling into his usual worried, fussy expression. Sir Geoffrey, Captain of the Guard, was trying to make a brave show of it with a somber mask, but Miranda doubted seriously if he would be of any use for a while. His long retirement from adventuring had certainly dulled his edge. The choked sobbing from Julia the tinker demonstrated what use –she- would be.

It seemed the only two others on the council who had not succumbed to despair were the warrior woman Syria and the Gargoyle envoy Wislem. It was not much to work with.

"So..." breaking the silence was awkward, but necessary. "May the Avatar know peace. But ourselves, we do hath little time for mourning. The realm is in open revolt, and we are all but besieged in this castle. How shalt this be righted?"

"Righted?" Julia hissed. "How canst thou speak so? Our last, best hope hath fallen to a watery doom."

"Julia's right," said Geoffrey. "With the Avatar gone, we may as well surrender. What else can be done?"

Miranda counted off on her fingers; Geoffrey and others at the table were a bit slow.

Lord British interrupted, "Enough. Thou hast made thy point. But... this is most irregular. Britannia hast never been saved from danger by its own government."

"Well," said Nystul. "Uh, well. Uh. It just won't. Look here, guards, paladins, kings, and mages cannot be expected to save the world for us. That's what heroes are for."

"In case thou hast forgotten," Miranda pointed out, "thine 'hero' just slipped off an absurd trap and is now feeding the fishes of Pagan. 'Tis the purpose of this Council to decide on a new course of action. There is only one thing we can do."

"Yes," said Nystul. "We must summon another hero. 'Tis a slim hope, but the only plausible way."

"Well advised, old friend," British agreed. "Much better than the absurd notion that we try to solve our own troubles. To the throne room!"

Miranda shook her head in disgust, and with a howl of frustration, began to bang her head against the council table.

Syria stretched in her chair. "This 'civilization' hath not just made us soft, it hath made us stupid as well. How many of those blathering idiots would I need to kill for us to seize the throne ourselves?"

Miranda thought. "Luckily, British never did hath much of an idea of what went on outside these castle walls. When will Sentri return?"

Margaritas were not intended to be drunk like shots. Nor were they intended to be drunk out of pint sized beer mugs. Especially not multiple pint sized beer mugs.

Luckily for the local citizens, Jhykron saw fit not to drive to the party. Unluckily for Jhykron, it was a long walk home.

It was a cold, clammy night. To make things worse, it looked like it was going to rain.

The street was mostly empty at this time, with the occasional motorist breaking both the silent monotony and the speed limit. Off to the side was a small park.

This was a minor godsend. Parks tended to have trees. Jhykron was in real need of a tree at this point. He staggered off toward something that what remained of his blurred vision told him had the approximately correct shape to be a tree.

One well nourished tree later, Jhykron began making his way back to the road. This was proving difficult to one who had gotten his directions befuddled, and couldn't walk straight in any case.

Cursing, Jhykron nearly tripped over a stone in the grass. It might have been a hallucination, but it almost seemed to him like a bright blue light flashed in front of his face while he was stumbling.

Odd, that there would be such a perfectly shaped stone sitting in the grass in this park. Even odder, it was not the only such stone, but was in fact one of several that were arranged in a perfect circle. These facts Jhykron failed to notice.

But the wagon was impossible not to notice. It was an old, brightly painted gypsy wagon, of a type that would be seen only at a Renaissance fair in this day and age.

The interior of the wagon was crowded, various vials and curios sitting upon shelves to the side. A small round table dominated the middle of the wagon floor, a dark haired, smooth faced gypsy woman seated behind it.

"At last, thou hast come to fulfill thy destiny," she spoke, in a loud whisper. "Sit before me now, and I shall pour the light of virtue in the shadows of thy future."

"Geez, and I thought –I- was in... intoshicated," Jhykron stuttered. But between the spinning of his head and the incense-filled atmosphere, he decided it would be best to comply, and pulled a wooden chest up next to the table and clumsily took his seat.

"Behold the virtues of the Avatar," the gypsy announced, as she drew forth a deck of odd looking cards.

"Hey lady, gambling'sh illegal in this shtate. Or are you one of thoshe tribal exshepshions?"

She drew forth two of the cards and placed them face up, at opposite ends of the table. The card on the left depicted an open book, that on the right a wooden cane. The latter card caught Jhykron's interest.

"Wooo! Gold foil collector'sh edition! Shigned by Dennish Loubet, too. Thish one musht be worth shomething!"

If the Gypsy woman heard any of this, she gave no indication. Speaking as if possessed by a higher power, she began.

"Thy lord doth mistakenly believe he slew a dragon. Thou hast proof thy lance felled the beast. When asked, dost thou A) Honestly claim the kill; or B) Humbly permit thy lord his belief?"

Jhykron looked up, confused. The gypsy woman was obviously waiting for an answer to that rubbish. Finally, he shook his head and replied, "I pick the gold foil card. That one."

Noting his selection, she flipped that card over into the start on a new pile, while removing the other from the table. With this done, she placed two new cards on the table, the first depicting a balance scale, the second a golden chalice. Both cards were of plain stock, and neither were autographed.

"Thou hast sworn to do thy lord's bidding in all things. He covets a piece of land and order's it's owner removed. Dost thou A) serve Justice, refusing to act, thus being disgraced; or B) Honor thine oath and evict the landowner?"

"A local bully pushes for a fight. Dost thou A) Valiantly trounce the rogue; or B) Decline, knowing in thy spirit no lasting good will come of it?"

"I'm gonna go with the trounshing thing, at leasht if it meansh going with the cool shword card."

"Thee and thy friends have been ordered to retreat. In defiance of thy orders, dost thou A) Stop in compassion to aid a wounded comrade; or B) Sacrifice thyself to slow the pursuing enemy so others might escape?"

"Can I pick C) none of the above? No? Guesh I'll do the compashon thingy, then. Right, that'sh all the cardsh, what do I win?"

The gypsy woman picked up the pile of cards that Jhykron had selected, and dealt the bottom two in the same positions on the table as the previous card sets. Before Jhykron were the valuable wooden cane card, and the golden chalice card.

"Though thou art but a peasant shepherd, thou art discovered to be the sole descendant of a noble family long thought extinct. Dost thou A) Honorably take up the arms of thy ancestors; or B) Humbly resume thy life of simplicity and peace?"

"Thou dost manage to disarm thy mortal enemy in duel. He is at thy mercy. Dost thou A) Show compassion by permitting him to yield; or B) Slay him, as expected of a valiant duelist?"

The final selection came down to the valuable gold foil collector's cane card, signed by Dennis Loubet, and the mint condition picture of a shiny sword.

"Although a simple fisherman, thou art also a skillful swordsman. Thy lord dost seek to assemble a peacetime guard. Dost thou A) Answer the call, so that all may witness thy Valor; or B) Humbly decline the offer to join thy lord's largely ceremonial knighthood."

"The path of the Avatar lies beneath thy feat, worthy one. Go forth among the people, who shall receive the in joy!"

"Look," Sentri explained. "All that thou needst do is get into Klog's offices in Trinsic and find a copy of the Fellowship's map to the Serpent Pillars."

"We canst not chance it," Sentri explained. "I do have a certain amount of notoriety as a former companion of the Avatar, not to mention my time as Lord of Serpent's Hold. And Klog actually once knew young Squire Spark here. Thou, on the other hand, wert once a well-known figure in the Fellowship. Thou knowest thy way around their halls."

"Much hath changed in the three years since that time. I want nothing more to do with the Fellowship, and I see little reason to risk mine own skin for –thy- sake. I remember my time in the castle with thou people with little fondness."

It was early morning, and the Salty Dog common room was nearly empty. The proprietress, Polly, emerged from the kitchens to deliver breakfast to the three conversants, before settling herself at a table across the room to converse with Thurston the miller, her newly married husband.

It was rarely spoken of, that banal curse the Guardian had cast upon the Companions of the Avatar, and highly inconvenient. To be utterly psychologically incapable of feeding oneself, to the point of actually being able to starve within sight of a banquet feast, was indeed an unenviable fate. Fortunately, while the sight of Feridwyn spooning gruel into the waiting mouths of Sentri and Spark might have incited some raised eyebrows from their hostess, no remark was made of it.

"Thank thee," said Spark, who had sprouted into a gangly adolescent in the years since the Avatar's departure.

"Don't mention it," Feridwyn looked uncomfortable. "Honestly, I am sorry I may be of no more help to thee. The Fellowship rules these lands now, and I wouldst do nothing to put Brita and Garritt at risk, thou understand."

"Yes, we understand," Sentri sighed. "If only Lord British had the foresight to copy that chart before handing it over to the Avatar..."

"Wert there not any other such maps?" Feridwyn asked. "Surely someone else must have a copy."

"I know of no one but the Lady Gwenno, and she departed to Serpent Isle before even the Avatar," Sentri replied. "And the copy she made was given to Lord British, who handed it over to Iolo after the destruction of the Black Gate."

"Wait!" Spark exclaimed. "Thou hast made me remember something. When Lord British sent the Avatar off, he decided to use the chart that was captured with Batlin's belongings. Methinks they did not bring Iolo's copy of the map with them."

"Interesting," Sentri mused. "But then, who wouldst know where the old bat left the other map?"

Sentri began to ask who might know, but then stopped short, realizing just whom exactly Spark meant.

"Don't bother arguing. I am entrusted by the crown itself with this, and I shalt have thee arrested if thou dost not cooperate."

"Certainly," Feridwyn agreed darkly. "After all, we canst hardly leave the two of thee without a spoon-feeder, now can we?"

"What readst thou now?" Reklaw asked, panting from the effort of chasing down another would-be stray.

Jhykron looked up. "More history," he replied. "This is a collection of essays about the Third Age of Darkness on Britannia."

"My grandma did tell me stories of this when I was a lad. T'was when the Avatar saved the land from the daemon spawn Exodus, no?"

"That's the common understanding," Jhykron concurred. "However, at least one author herein claims that the credit given to the Avatar was a later addition to the tale, and that Exodus was really foiled by a Bobbit barbarian and a trio of eunuch Fuzzies."

"A species that existed on Britannia back then," Jhykron explained. "They might be the ancestors of the Emps of the Great Forest."

"I won't then," said Reklaw. "Sounds like a bunch of rubbish, begging thy pardon, sir."

"Hmmmm, what?" Jhykron looked up again. He had briefly been distracted watching the water bearer, Constance, walking back and forth from the well at the center of the town (an activity deemed distracting by every male in the village over ten with a pulse). With the occupation force from Buccaneer's Den stationed on the north end of the island, she and many other young women of the village were not seen outdoors often.

"I was just saying, sir," Reklaw repeated, "that t'would be unseemly for followers of the path of the Avatar like ourselves to spread such rot."

Now it was Jhykron's turn to look confused. "'Followers of the Path of the Avatar?' Pull the other one, too, while you're at it."

"But we art," Reklaw protested. "Stalwart shepherds, us, quiet practicers of the Virtue of Humility."

"Reklaw, you are a simple man," said Jhykron. "And I mean that in the most derogatory sense of the word you can imagine. So tell me, just what's so great about humility, anyway?"

"And that's just what the nobility want you to think," Jhykron explained. "What better way to keep the peasants in line than preach about tromping through dung every day as if it were some sort of 'Virtue'. If they think it's so great, how come you never see –them- doing it?"

"Probably never did anything humble in his or her life," on a roll, Jhykron was not about to surrender the initiative in this argument. "In all those stories your grandma told you, can you name even one instance of humility being shown be the Avatar? Did he or she ever accept anything less than being a great hero, winning the adoration of all the people?"

"Guess not," Jhykron answered himself after a while, figuring that the witless, open-mouthed expression on Reklaw's face wasn't going away any time soon. "Anyway, get moving, the sheep are starting to wander again."

This new distraction gave Jhykron ample time to finish reading the chapter he was on, before deciding that he had done enough "work" for the night, and motioning his apprentice to corral the sheep back into their pen. When this was finished, he stood up and began the walk back to the tavern.

Near one of the farms on the outskirts of the village, Jhykron stopped, and pulled from his pocket a small card. The edges were frayed, the sheen from the gold foil dulled, and the artist's signature nearly illegible, but the picture of the shepherd's crook was still there, mockingly. Cursing, Jhykron tore the card into confetti, and let the night wind blow it away.

"A week is about a year too long to be a shepherd," Jhykron replied. "It's time to try a new career path."

With that, Jhykron sprinted over to the farmer's tool shed, and returned carrying a rusty plowshare. Swearing at the effort, he braced one end under his foot and attempted to straighten it.

"Don't look like much of a sword," Reklaw pointed out. "Never saw a sword so bent."

"If thou sayest so..." Reklaw replied, then noticed the tip of the "sword" at his throat. "A fine weapon, I meant to say."

"She can find herself another sucker," said Jhykron. "Where the hell does she go in the evening anyway?"

"When doth that fool plan on coming?" Henry of New Magincia, out of work peddler turned conspirator, asked for what must have been the dozenth time.

"We must be patient," the other man replied. "Remember, he is risking more than any of us in this venture."

"He –was-," Anton agreed. "And I –was- apprentice to the great sage Alagner. And thou –wert- a simple village peddler. We cannot afford to pick and choose our friends with such lofty expectations of their character."

"When thou dost find us a hero, tell me. Mayhaps then we shall have no more need of a scoundrel, but until then he is all we do have."

Katrina the shepherdess, least famous companion of the Avatar, started at the word "hero". Up until then, she had been staring out a window, lost in thought, and disregarding the bickering of her fellow conspirators.

-A hero indeed-. With communication from the mainland cut off by the blockading pirate fleet, it was near impossible to discern what the remaining forces of virtue intended, but in this case it was plainly obvious that they had arrived at the same conclusion Anton had mockingly suggested.

What could British be thinking? Now was not the time to be making new Avatars, and this new stranger, Jhykron, was utterly hopeless. Far to cynical to believe in the Virtues, far too pragmatic to follow them, and far too lazy to live by them- it was almost as if the Guardian himself had hand picked Britannia's new would-be savior just to mock them. If Katrina had her way, the man would never be anything more than a second rate shepherd. Sure, it was cruel and he'd hate it, but at least that way he wouldn't cause any damage.

And what of the real Avatar? Surely the king could not have already given up on him or her (this is one detail nobody, not even the Avatar's former lovers, could ever keep straight). After all, although the true paragon of the eight virtues could be a real trial (How many weeks can a person spend baking bread in Britain before getting on with the quest? Humility is a wonderful thing, but there really is a time and a place for it. ), at least he or she always came through for Britannia.

"Don't be insulting." Sullivan the trickster, master of disguise, former Fellowship member, and one time imitator of the Avatar, removed his false eye patch and started rubbing blackening dye off his teeth. "Did anybody think to bring water? No?"

"Plenty," Sullivan replied. "I learned that I am never going out there again, for one. Thou wilt have to find another patsy."

"I knew it was a mistake to depend on this rodent!" Henry exclaimed. "Lost thy nerve, hast thou?"

Sullivan bit back a sarcastic retort, then just shrugged. "Yes I have. Mayhap thou shouldst ask Anton what it means to be captured by these people. I just came as close to it again as I ever want to, thank thee."

"What didn't?" Sullivan laughed bitterly. "The long and the short of it is I came face to face with our old friend Danag, and be damned if he didn't nearly recognize me."

"Oh, yes. Quite a little project Danag has going here. I must say, poor Lord British had better enjoy his last day on the throne tomorrow."

"Explain." Katrina somehow managed to put a whole paragraph worth of demand in that one word.

"Oh, it's quite simple. As thou knowest, Klog of Trinsic hath managed to arouse the people of Paws and Britain into open riot against the crown. Unfortunately for him, riot and demonstration is all he can accomplish, as the citizens have not the courage to openly challenge the Royal Guard. As long as Lord British sits strong in his castle, the power struggle between the crown and the Fellowship remains a stalemate.

"Danag, hath his own army of pirates, trolls, and mercenaries that could be landed in Britain to assault the castle. Fortunately, Klog hath refused to hear of this. As he hath quite correctly pointed out, a foreign army, especially an uncouth force of such ruffians, would quickly sway the people back into the crown's camp.

"So with an open assault out of the question, the Fellowship hath devised a more treacherous means of bringing down the royal fortress. Upon the third hour after nightfall tomorrow, a traitor in the Royal Guard will open the drawbridge and portcullis to Lord British's Castle. A large wagon, overflowing with lit powder kegs, will then be driven through the gate, right into the heart of the palace. In the confusion of the inevitable explosion, Klog's most fanatical followers will then break into the castle, starting fires and slitting throats. The king, even if he survives, will be seen by his townsmen, already on the verge of revolt, to suffer a devastating and humiliating defeat."

"Impossible," said Henry. "How do they expect a large wagon full of powder kegs to get all the way to the castle unnoticed?"

"Oh, the wagon will be empty until very shortly before the planned attack, so it should attract no particular notice. The powder kegs will be hauled by hand, through a nearby moongate, and into the wagon just before the castle gate is opened. They have been practicing the loading process for the last few days, and can accomplish it very rapidly now. The powder, of course, hath been mixed in Alagner's old laboratory for weeks now. Danag needst only bury his moonstone for them to succeed tomorrow."

"If necessary," Henry agreed. "This could be a disaster beyond reckoning. We must gather every able bodied farmer, shepherd, goatherd, swineherd, or other able bodied person in the village to stop them."

"Anyway, powder kegs need not be difficult to destroy. A little accidental fire..." Anton trailed off.

"Yes! We must gather the people to attack before they open that infernal moongate," Henry concluded.

"No," said Katrina. "Henry, my oldest friend, do you realize what will happen when we do this? The Fellowship will no longer ignore us here, not after this. We could be sacrificing our entire village in this attack. Someone must get through to the king and warn him. Therefore, we must attack –after- they open the moongate. We must try to get as many people as possible through."

"Fight thy way to the moongate?" Sullivan was incredulous. "Thou dost seriously intend to try to beat down trained soldiers with thy farming utensils!"

"Yes I do," Katrina said simply. "Anton, Henry, warn the people. Except for you-know-who, I will take care of him. Sullivan, thou hast been of great help to us. Do as thou wilt."

Without waiting for a reply, Katrina walked out. She moved hurriedly to her destination, looking back to make sure nobody had followed her.

Her heart almost stopped when she arrived at the tool shed, and saw the footprints disturbing the place. Someone had been here. She quickly looked around, but the only thing missing was the old rusty plowshare that had been hanging between two pegs by the door. Relieved, she picked up a shovel, and walked several counted paces out of the shed, to an unremarkable dirt patch in a field.

Several minutes of quick digging uncovered a long, narrow cabinet, buried lengthwise in the ground. With a small key, worn on a string around her neck, she unlocked the padlock and opened the cabinet. She reached in and grasped what was inside.

Katrina went home that night carrying what had long been the property of the hapless chicken farmer Mack of Britain, and was possibly the most powerful weapon remaining in Britannia.

"More looking and less talking, Doyl," a deeper voice replied. "Remember, worthiness proceeds reward, and all that."

"He didn't tell you? Old fool didst claim to hear his 'inner voice' when cutting firewood by the barn yesterday."

"He said it was singing. Some rot about how a horse is a horse and no one can talk to a horse, of course. Barmy, that one is."

Spark once again turned to the undergrowth and held two fingers up, then pointed to the cottage. He then held another finger up and shrugged. Turning he attempted to continue circling the building. Suddenly, a wild-eyed, unkempt, bearded man emerged from the surrounding trees, one arm looped around a bundle of cut wood, the other slinging a woodsman's axe over his shoulder. Seeing Spark, his eyes widened and he dropped his wood bundle.

Spark sneered, and tried to put on a fierce expression (fierce as can be expected from a gangly adolescent, anyway). He pulled his red-pomelled dagger from his belt and waved it at the man.

Grinning, the man took a wild swing at Spark's head. Spark countered with a horizontal swing of his knife, which shimmered briefly before extending its blade into that of a six foot Zweihander. This quickly cut through the handle of the axe, and was barely slowed by the astonished expression on poor Ekkot's face.

Spark replaced his dagger (now returned to normal length) in its sheath. He then turned, seeing exactly what he expected, namely Sentri cleaning his sword off on the tunic of one of the other fallen Fellowship ruffians. Feridwyn emerged from his own hiding spot, shaking his head.

Spark quickly searched the pockets of the three luckless bandits, and relieved them of any coins he could find.

"It never ceases to amaze me how thy vaunted virtue system allows for casually looting the corpses of people thou slayest," Feridwyn remarked.

"Yes, convenient, isn't it," Sentri remarked, then began walking towards the barn. "Come, let us get this over with."

The sole occupant of this barn, owned by the legendary Iolo the Bard, was a brown stallion (though he had once gone through a phase of being dyed white) by the name of Smith. Smith was looking a bit uncombed and undernourished, but well enough for all that.

Feridwyn's eyes widened as if he were trying to become an anime character. "Did that horse just..."

"Thou humans have such an amazing grasp of the obvious," Smith observed. Then his expression changed, as if he just remembered something. "Spark, Sentri, thou must warn the Avatar! When she gets to Serpent Isle, she must not, under any circumstances, step through the Wall of Lights. 'Tis vitally important."

"Uh, Smith," Spark swallowed. "We have dire news. The Avatar already went to Serpent Isle. The Guardian captured him and..."

"We do not know," Sentri said. "Which is why it is vitally important that thou dost help us, horse. We need to find the chart Gwenno did make for her husband, showing the location of the Serpent pillars."

"Yes," said Smith. "Those others were looking for the chart, too. But I did brilliantly keep it from them."

Sentri looked disgusted. "Listen, we haven't the time to listen to thee congratulating thyself. Tell us what we need to know, now, or I shall ask Miranda to write an edict calling for the immediate hanging of all horses in Britannia."

"Thou art assuming Lord British actually reads the papers he signs. Where is the chart?"

Smith quickly added, "But I did make sure to memorize it first. So I could draw it again whenever asked." Smith tried not to look proud of his foresight.

"Uh, Smith," Spark tried to think of a way of putting it diplomatically, "Thou art... a –horse-. Thou hath no hands with which to draw."

"Thou knowest," Sentri muttered. "The Gargoyles are really fond of horse chops, if I recall."

Feridwyn smiled wryly, remembering asking exactly the same question himself. "Thou shouldst know two things, Smith. First, it dost look as if Sentri is in for another bad week. And second, welcome to our little group. Thou hath just volunteered for a long sea voyage."

Dissention

by Jhykron