A/N: I’m a huge fan of the likes of Robert E. Howard, Steve Erickson, David Gemmell, and James Barclay. So this is my attempt at combining the brawny heroes, dazzling sword-fights, wicked sorcerers, and evil monsters of those sort of worlds with the Jossverse….

Magoi Phasis shuffled into his quarters, the rough hem of his ankle-length robe chafing against his legs. Once he had worn far more luxurious garments and, he glanced around his modestly furnished room, had lived in far superior surroundings. And he still could if he’d been willing to pay the price. After all, others had. But no, he shook his head, he’d never bend his knee to that godless traitor.

Magoi Phasis closed and locked the creaking door, lit the lamp hanging from the low ceiling, and pulled a lump of yellow chalk from his pocket. Ignoring his bones’ warning groans, he dropped onto all four and painstakingly drew a pentagram around his desk. That accomplished, he rose and cast his eyes down.

For a long second he stared at the arcane symbol, heart stuck firmly in his throat. He’d etched this symbol many times before, in good times and bad. But this time he was going on a trip from which there was no return. Only two who lived could do what he was about to do, and only one had the power to do it and live, and the one wasn’t him.

A final lick of the lips and he stepped over the chalk outline.

His ears roared with the sounds of a thousand dimensions and tens of hundreds of images flashed before his eyes. It took a long moment to find and focus the dimension he needed, one he’d watched and revelled in the exploits of its champions many times.

Champions he needed to save his world.

Taking a seat, he began to mutter the arcane words that would fuel the last spell he’d ever cast. Soon magic was tugging at his body, ripping at his life-essence.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Magoi placed a note he’d written earlier in the evening on top of a small notebook detailing the champions he was summonsing. His allies would not be happy with him. They’d advised him against this course of action, saying they didn’t want to lose him, but to his thinking some things were more important than mere life.

Freedom, honour, and justice came to mind.

Picking up a pencil, he began to scratch a face. It was the face of a handsome man, a man that any woman’s eye would be drawn to. Its owner was a noble man who fought against the demon within him, using its dread power to defend the innocents of his world. Once his illustration was complete, he wrote the man’s name beneath, first in his own lyrical language, and then in the drawing’s clumsier tongue.

After carefully, reverently, placing the finished drawing aside, he started on the next piece of paper. This time he drew a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Her face was strong, fearless, but at the same time warm and compassionate. In his land she would be the princess of a thousand minstrels’ tales, but in hers she was a redeemed warrior with the heart of a lioness.

"AGGGH!" An agonising wave crashed over him, red hot pokers jabbing him all over, as he finished the coal-eyed beauty’s picture. Heart pounding, he leaned forward, head resting on the desk, body shaking helplessly.

After a seeming eternity the worst of the pain passed. His breath coming in wheezes, he reached a clammy hand for the next piece of paper. The next picture he drew was of a scholar like himself, but with a hint of steel in his eyes. Magoi couldn’t help but wonder what massacres might have been averted, tragedies avoided, if he’d shared this learned’s resolve.

Sighing slightly at what might, should have, been, he placed the finished pictures neatly in a pile. Now the three principals were completed he could draw as many of their companions as possible befo-. He doubled up, almost toppling from his seat as pain roared through him.

His vision blurred. Desperation gripped him, twisting his heart as he tried to blink his eyes clear. He had to see, without his eyes he couldn’t draw.

"Thanks be," he mumbled as his eyes cleared and focussed. Taking the next blank sheet he quickly drew a red-haired pretty. Her innocent looks masked her immense magical powers, capabilities far exceeding his own. In truth her abilities frightened him, perhaps only she had the power to directly challenge his land’s tyrant. But she herself fought an inner darkness as bleak as the one that now ruled over them.

The next face he drew was seemingly of another beautiful woman. But that wasn’t the complete truth, far from it in fact. Once this woman had been a loyal friend to the first man she’d drawn before dying tragically and being possessed by a beast that had once ruled her home planet and dozens like it as a god. Now, she was less than she had once been, but still formidable and influenced by the ‘shell’ fought on the side of good.

"GAAAA!" He dropped his pencil as his body shuddered involuntarily. He grimaced as he noticed his burnt left hand. From the red-hot pain, he guessed his body was covered with such injuries.

Gamely forcing the hurt aside, he started his next drawing, this time of the red-head’s partner. The lucky person was surprising not a man, but a striking woman. In his land such people were either shunned as deviants or exiled from their homes. But he cared little for such things, preferring to judge a person by their character and deeds. Yes, the girl was an arrogant wench with an unseemly swagger, but for all of that she was a mighty warrior who steadfastly believed in honour and justice. The next two females his shaking hand outlined were another red-head and a black-skinned beauty, both renowned warriors and sisters of the sword if not the blood.

Next he started on an etching of the partner of the first woman he’d drawn. This fortunate fellow was an one-eyed man with the face of a jester. From what Magoi had seen of the youth he knew that the young man’s good-natured looks hid a hero’s soul.

Magoi looked down at his crotch, realising he’d wet himself, his body’s control slipping away from him. His being focussed on the task in front of him, he was unable to feel embarrassment and instead continued with his drawings. His next picture was of a young man, the son of the first man he’d drawn. The boy was slight but despite his lack of years and size, he too was a mighty fighter.

He moaned deep in his throat as salt-filled sweat began to roll into his burns. He felt the salty taste of blood in his mouth as a result of biting down on his bottom lip. He closed his eyes for a second, tears forming. It wouldn’t be long now.

Gathering himself, he started on the next drawing. This illustration was of a lantern-jawed, powerfully-built man. He’d travelled between dimensions in the past, but perhaps this plane would remind him more of his home. Next he drew a black-skinned man, a former lover of the first woman he’d drawn and an experienced fighter.

Upon finishing the picture he found himself caught in a cleft of indecision. Who should he draw next? An officer used to leading many troops? Or a female whose exploits surpassed any of those he’d drawn but had a selfish heart and an arrogance to force herself into leadership roles beyond her capabilities and above those better suited for it?

A pain shot through his left arm. Bile rose in his throat, making it nigh on impossible for him to breathe. Realising he had no time for any more pictures he pulled a heart shaped jar out of his robe and crashed it down on the completed illustrations. The container shattered, a milky-grey liquid spilling out over the jar’s shards and the papers, filling the room with a sickly, pungent stench. Magoi looked down at his drawings through teary eyes. "Please," he whispered, voice hoarse and ragged with pain, "save my people." He toppled from his chair, eyes closed in acceptance of death.

* * *

Petro Pyrgos scowled as he stormed through the forest town, people giving him a wide berth, his ill-temper increasing by the second. "Magio Phasis, where are you?" he growled.

Once Magio Phasis hadn’t been the sort to miss appointments or meetings. No, he’d been the very soul of punctuality. But then once the esteemed scholar had been the king’s First Advisor, a man respected and revered throughout the realm.

And once, Perto, felt a bitter taste in his mouth, he’d been the leader of the king’s bodyguard, the Honour Watch. Now they were both rebels, fighting a seemingly impossible war against the tyrant who’d butchered their friends and cast aside all they’d believed in. "The wheel turns and we have to turn with it," he muttered, the time-worn mantra sounding tired and unconvincing even as he said it. In seconds he’d arrived at the white-washed, thatch-roofed cottage that was his colleague’s home. Raising a fist, he smashed it into the rough-timbered door. "Magio! Wake up, you lazy ass!"

After six knocks and accompanying bellows there was still no answer. His face now creased with worry, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The door creaked and shuddered in protest but gamely held. Teeth gritted, he shouldered the door again, forcing it open on his fourth attempt. "Yes!"

His exultation died on his lips at the sight of the corpse lying on the study. Hurrying over to the body, he crouched down and searched vainly for a pulse. "Damn fool," he grunted, watery eyes giving lie to his harsh words.

* * *

Azarel shot upright in his four-postered bed. His satin sheets fell off him as he stared around his vast bed chamber, sweat dripping off his forehead. The room was illuminated by the bronze brazier hanging from its mosaic covered ceiling. Normally the sight of the sumptuous luxury that was the imperial bedroom adorned as it was by the finest furniture and decorated by his empire’s most esteemed artisans filled him with pride. Tonight though an entirely different emotion took centre-place.

After what he’d just seen, glee at his conquests was the last thing on his mind. Thoughts racing, he stood. "Veritas Callidus!" he bellowed telepathically. "Attend me!"

In less than a minute the room’s oaken double doors swung open, his adjunct hurrying in. A tall, statuesque beauty with mid-back length golden hair, her radiance marred by the coldness of her grey eyes. Her full mouth also hinted at her true nature, a natural sneer corrupting its sensuality. "Sire," the blonde bowed her head and dropped to one knee. "You called?"

"Yes." He nodded. "Magoi Phasis is dead."

"Good," the woman commented uncertainly. "He has been a thorn in your side for too long, sire."

"Yes," he impatiently agreed. "Except he sacrificed himself to cast a spell dragging twelve champions through the planes to our dimension." He looked across the room to the finely-varnished desk at the far end, quickly casting a spell. "I’ve placed their images on the sheets on the desk. Have those copied and passed out to my troops. There’s a thousand gold sovereigns on each of their heads." He ignored his right-hand woman’s raised eyebrow at the vast reward he’d posted. These people were dangerous. "The men I want dead. The women," he paused, forehead furrowed in thought. "The red-head pixie-faced one and blue-haired wench I want dead too." He shuddered inwardly at the power he’d sensed in those two, many would die before they died, but at least their threat to him would be ended. "The other four wenches," he smirked, they had power too, but not so much as to challenge him, "I want those pretties for myself."

Faith pulled away from her kiss with a throaty laugh, kneeling upright on the perspiring man beneath her. "That’s it baby," Faith cooed, her bouncing boobs partially supported by her hubby’s hands as he thrust up to meet her down-swinging body. "Give it to me -."

* * *

"Now," Angel said with the patience that only someone who had lived for almost three hundred years could muster. "Do you want to explain what you were doing in O’Malley’s?"

His son smiled back at him, an unabashedly innocent look in his child’s eyes. "Sure. I was worried there was going to be a vampire attack on the strip joint."

"Oh." Angel leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk at the San Diego offices of Angel & Son Investigations, and his blood racing with excitement. This was different. "You had a tip?"

"Well," Connor shuffled from foot to foot, "no. But I felt protecting the girls should be a define priority."

"I agree," nodded Groo, a gullible look on his face that only the truly learning-challenged could match. "Such beauty is to be prized and defended."

"Yeah," Angel half-heartedly agreed, his eyes fixed on Connor. His head was definitely starting to throb. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was how his own father had felt when dealing with him. He shuddered inwardly as he considered the possible amount of Liam in his son. Please god no. "And Groo, why did you take him?"

His son’s mouth opened in another doubtlessly implausible explanation. "A strip-joint? What is this strip-joint?" demanded the fourth member of his team. "Attend me, half-breed!"

The pounding in Angel’s head increased as he turned towards the persistent questioner. Reminding himself that Illyria was all he had left of Fred and that she had dragged him half-dead out of the Black Thorn mess, he forced a polite smile. "Well," he began. "It’s like thi-."

* * *

"Duck!" Hearing her best friend’s panicked shout, Vi dropped into the splits. The moment she hit the ground she was moving, her right leg swinging backwards to sweep her would-be attacker’s legs from under him. Springing to her feet, she met the demon leap back upright with a stake to the vampire’s chest and a brilliant smile. "You los-."

* * *

Kennedy looked left and right, avidly taking in Rio’s many sights, its flashing colours and garishly dressed natives. Her ears pounded with the ever-present thump of the city’s drums. Even in the new day’s early morning, the denim wife-beater she was wearing over her black Gold Gym’s vest was soaked in sweat.

Rio. No city she’d ever seen compared with it. New York, New Orleans, London, Paris, Rome, and Montreal all paled beside it.

Kennedy smirked as she realised her girl-friend was examining her with the same enthusiasm she’d been regarding the metropolis. "See something you like?" she purred through pouty lips.

Willow laughed at her playful attempt at seduction. "Enough so I can’t wait to get you back to our hotel."

Kennedy’s smirk widened at the red-head’s declaration. This was what she loved the most about her flame-haired partner, the hidden wild side that only she knew about. "What do you suggest?" she dared.

"This." Mischief danced in Willow’s emerald eyes as she grabbed Kennedy by the hand and dragged her across the busy road, towards the darkened alleyway.

And then the alleyway disappeared.

* * *

"And furthermore-."

Giles allowed Whyndham-Pryce’s rantings to go over his head, something he’d developed quite a talent for over the last few years. In the four years since his ascension to the Council head he’d come to the firm decision that the organisation’s quarterly meetings were worse than any possible hell. Even as he entertained himself with thoughts of what tortures he could inflict on Wesley’s father, he cast a bored look around the vast boardroom and its suited occupants.

He chuckled inwardly when his gaze fell on Wood. The fellow Sunnydale survivor was one of only two true allies in the board and acknowledged his look with a theatrical roll of the eyes. "Well, what do you have to say to that, Rupert?"

Oh bugger. Giles realised in his mental wanderings, he’d fail to take even the slightest note of what the old geezer had been prattling on about. His mouth opened to stammer out some bland, non-specific comments.

* * *

"Good!" The first thing Faith realised was that they weren’t in their hotel room any more. The second was they were surrounded by some friendly and some unfamiliar faces. The third was that she was naked. "SHIT!" she shrieked as she leapt off her man. "What the fuck is goin’ on?"

"I’ve been transported to heaven," Connor responded with a dreamy look.

"Why was it," asked a powerfully-built stranger, "that we paid many dollars to watch those other girls disrobe when we could see this vision of perfection for free?"

"You got me there, Groo," Connor replied, his eyes fixed on her. "And tight with a buck too."

"Wow, you must be really cold!" Willow commented.

"What?" Faith’s confusion cleared as she followed the witch’s ardent gaze to her chest. "Damn it!" Cheeks flaming, Faith hurriedly covered her erect nipples with her left arm before rushing over to Kennedy. "Give me your wife-beater now!" she ordered. Whoever was responsible for this humiliation was gonna pay in pain.

"No way," Kennedy backed away, head shaking. "I’m not spoiling this view for anything!"

Faith forced a shit-eating smile. "And how are ya gonna see the goodies when your eyeballs are dangling from my ears?"

Kennedy pouted. "Gee, good to see those psychotic tendencies of yours are well under control. Fine," the other Slayer shrugged off the denim shirt and passed it over, "spoil everyone’s fun."

"Thanks," Faith grunted before snatching the grudgingly proffered item of clothing and put it on. She grimaced as she realised the hastily buttoned shirt only covered her to the waist, leaving her legs and ass still bare. "Crap," she groused, "ain’t long enough."

"Looks about the right length to me," Kennedy commented.

"Just perfect," agreed Willow.

Faith glanced over her shoulder, directing boiling eyes at the two unrepentantly leering lesbians. Her mouth opened in a sulphurous curse. "How about some clothes for me?"

Faith’s head snapped towards the blushing man still led on the ground, his hands firmly positioned over his crotch. "Oh good lord, yes," Giles agreed, his gaze firmly averted from Xander and straight to her. Which was probably just a coincidence. "Angel, please give him your coat."

"My coat!" Angel exclaimed, his voice reaching an unmanly pitch. The vampire’s anguished eyes trailed over his knee-length coat. "It’s my favourite coat."

"You almost certainly have at least six exactly the same in your cupboard at home." Faith snorted at Giles’ perceptive comment. Tweed-Guy wasn’t wrong. "And it’s either that or naked Xander."

Angel greyed. In a half-second his jacket was off and flung at the naked man. "Keep or burn it!" Angel proclaimed. "I really don’t want it back after you’ve worn it," the demon shuddered before looking towards Giles. "Where are we?"

Faith spoke before the middle-aged Englishman had chance. "Well, we ain’t on earth." Faith shook her head at the confused looks her companions shot her. Damn, they were all ‘tards. "Sun." She pointed into the cloudless sky. "Vampire." She pointed at Angel. "Not dust."

"Yes." Giles peered disapprovingly at her. Which was a change from the looks she had been getting. "Thank you for the paint by numbers explanation, Faith."

Faith smiled winningly. "You know me, G. Always willing to help."

"Quite," Giles shook his head.

Faith strode over to her man as he finished putting Angel’s coat on and winked. "Think all the other guys are jealous, hon?" Her grin widened at Xander’s reddening face.

"But where exactly are we?" Willow pressed. "And why are we here? And how do we get home?"

"All pressing questions." Giles pursed his lips momentarily before continuing. "I’d suggest we can only begin to find answers by questioning some of the locals. To that end, I think it’s prudent to find the nearest village."

"Yeah," Faith agreed with a nod. "And get my boytoy and me some clothes," she added.

Giles shot her a by now all-too familiar teasing look. "I have to say that is hardly a priority."

"I’m with Watcher-Chief on this one."

Faith shot Kennedy a smouldering glare for her interruption before turning back to the Englishman. "Says you," she complained. "Not only am I getting ogled by a bunch of pervs, my ass is getting cold too!"

"But very pleasing to ogle," replied the smirking Watcher.

Faith’s mouth opened and shut several times but no sound came out. There really was no answer to that.

Although her face was its customary expressionless mask, Veritas’ heart thumped in rhythm with the click of her high heels on the corridor’s stone pavings. The passageways’ bleakness failed to be alleviated by the flickering bronze braziers set in the wall every twenty paces.

Not that she was worried about the starkness of her surroundings; she’d grown used to them years ago. She was far more concerned about the look in Azarel’s eyes. In any other person that look would have been considered fear, but that was ridiculous, Emperor Azarel didn’t feel fear, he thrust it onto others. Whoever these interlopers were they had to be formidable.

Eventually she came to a tall grey door. Opening it, she entered and hurried across an open courtyard, the night’s cold air biting at her less than appropriate attire of dark blue linen tunic and matching breeches. Upon reaching a door at the far end, she pounded on it impatiently.

"Hold your bleedin’ horses!" a gruff voice bellowed a response. "Give a man time to get some clobber on!" A slow minute later and the door swung open. A tall, bearded man with bushy brown eyebrows, thick beard, and matching shoulder-length hair stared down truculently at her. "Damn you, Veritas!" the thickly-built man rumbled, one hand scratching at his distended belly. "Whatever it was, couldn’t it wait to the morn? It’s the middle of the damn night!"

"I don’t know," she stared evenly at the aging warrior, used to and unimpressed by his histrionics. "Maybe we should consult the emperor?"

The man snorted and spat on the ground between them. "Aye," he nodded. "Azarel’s not prone to nightmares. What’s this about?"

Veritas passed the soldier the pictures Azarel had pulled out of his mind. "The emperor wants these people hunted down immediately. All bar the top four are to be slain. Those he wants for himself."

"Aye," Malus Bellum, Warlord of the Howling Hordes, tugged thoughtfully on his beard and chuckled. "Azarel’s got an eye, no doubt for that."

"Quite," Veritas agreed with a sniff. The last thing she wanted to be doing was standing out in the middle of a freezing night discussing her lord’s taste in wenches. "The emperor said immediately," she pressed.

"Aye," Malus’ jowly face sobered. "I’ll send out messages this very night," the army commander promised. "Who else will you be taking to, Areox Lex and Decorus Mors?"

Veritas hid a grimace at the mention of the respective leaders of the Imperial secret police, The Purge, and Azarel’s elite cadre of assassins, the Shadow Fang. She doubted there were two people she disliked more than the sadistic butcher and the imperious killer. "Yes," she nodded. "And to Dotos Hex too."

"The Magic Tamers as well?" Malus raised a bushy eyebrow. "By the abyss, Azarel is taking this seriously isn’t he?"

"Yes," Veritas nodded, her own expressionless mask once again hiding her own reservations. "And therefore so should you."

Malus nodded curtly. "I’ll bear that in mind."

* * *

Petro Pyrgos crouched over Magoi Phasis’ corpse, his eyes flitting between the twisted corpse and the dog-eared journal in his hands. "I came as soon as I heard."

Petro rose and turned at the deep voice behind him. The speaker was a tall, thin man with a weathered face and sharp grey eyes that matched his immaculately combed hair. The man was only dressed in a simple linen tunic and woollen breeches, his feet rudely sandaled but he carried an air of command and stately bearing for all of that.

A shorter but far more powerfully built man stood beside the statesman, his upper torso straining to burst out of his leather hauberk. Once this man had doubtless been a handsome, square-jawed hero fit for any balladeer’s tale. Now though a black patch obscured his left eye while the remaining emerald orb glinted with bitterness. A jagged scar ran across the man’s lantern jaw, pulling his bottom lip permanently down, while another twisted wound ran down from his left eye to his neck.

"Earl Fortis," he bowed at his waist at the first man, the leader of their rebellion before glancing at the disfigured warrior. "Probus," he greeted Fortis’ bodyguard and the former leader of the Vowed Knights.

"Petro," the noble nodded at him before stepping around him. The lines on the aristocrat’s face deepened as he stared down at the corpse. "It’s true then," the rebel leader croaked. "I had hoped-," Fortis shook his head before turning to him. "I see from the damage it wasn’t an assassin?"

Petro swallowed inwardly at the tight note in his leader’s voice. "No sir," he shook his head. "It seems that the mage cast the Dimension-Summonsing spell."

The noble’s eyes shadowed. "Damn fool!" Fortis growled. "I told him it was too much of a bloody risk! And now the damn fool’s-," the noble shook his head. "To the void with him!"

Petro didn’t dare comment on his lord’s rage although he understood it. The rebels had other mages in their ranks, but not one of them approached Phasis’ power. His death was a potential hammer blow to the revolt.

Deciding to attempt administering a balm to his leader’s anger, he offered the book he’d been reading to the noble. "This is an account of the people that were brought here by the spell. If even half of what Phasis recorded is true, they are mighty heroes."

"Uh." His words were rewarded with an unenthusiastic grunt. The noble’s long fingers wrapped themselves around the journal. "Both of you," the earl’s penetrating gaze swung from him to Probus and back again. "Get out."

"Yes sir," Petro inclined his head before following Probus in marching out of the cottage.

* * *

Fortis let out a rattling sigh as the door crashed shut behind the departing warriors. "Damn you, Magi," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the corpse at his feet. He imagined the two soldiers thought his reaction was fuelled by anger at the mage’s fatal actions. That was part of it, but at the moment his mind was filled with the memories of the children he and Magoi, ‘Magi’, had once been. "How many must I lose?" he muttered, chest tightening.

He forced his gaze away from the corpse and to the drawings of the summonsed lying innocently on the desk. "I just hope it was worth it, old friend," he muttered.

* * *

"Is she awake?" Mate Dane asked as he ducked his head into the low cavern, grateful to be in from the unceasing downpour, his drenched fur cloak sticking to him.

"Yes, Chief Dane," whispered the jowly woman who served as nurse to his most valued asset. "She’s awake."

"Praise be," his mumble echoed through the tight, dank passageway. Eyes squinting in the darkness. He trudged the now-familiar route through the tunnels leading to his goal.

Eventually he came to a small cavern, barely illuminated via what little sunlight stole in through a crack in its low roof. But then the person who called the cave home couldn’t bear the light, not any more. Dane nodded at the two burly men hovering in the shadows to the back of the chamber, their hands resting on the shafts of the battle-axes shoved in their belts. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he noted that the men wore differing clan kilts. Two rival clansmen, sharing an honoured duty would have been unheard of before their conquering. Azarel bringing them together, who’d have thought it?

Except for the Snapping Otter clan, his mood dipped, no one would ever work with them again.

He turned his attention to the trembling figure sat huddled on the ground. The person was female, but you’d never have guessed that if you didn’t know her personally. The woman’s skeletal frame was clothed in a muddy-brown smock that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Her filthy blonde hair obscured her face and hung down past her waist. Dane’s breath caught, chest constricting as he remembered the proud, almost regal, woman the quivering crone had once been. "Greetings, Condrad."

"Greetings, warrior," the woman didn’t look up from her inspection of the pock-marked ground.

Dane sighed. Condrad Orth had once been his people’s most powerful bonecaster, their strongest mage, in several centuries. As leader of The Watching Circle she’d called the fourteen clans’ mages together when the Howling Hordes had invaded.

Azarel and his cadre of magic-users had torn through the Circles’ defences. The attack had left Condrad a torn wreck, in constant agony and no longer capable of controlling magic. But she was perhaps fortunate. Dozens of her fellow bonecasters had died instantly, others had been driven insane, some had been mutated into monsters, and a number had aged 40 – 50 years in a single day. Such was the wrath of the emperor to those who opposed him.

Dane swallowed his pity. He knew full well that even in her wretched condition Condrad would not appreciate it. "You sent word that you wanted to speak to me?"

"Aye," Condrad looked up, giving him a glimpse of the intelligence burning in her eyes and her yellow, rotting teeth. "Last night there was a disturbance in the magic stream. A mighty force for good has been drawn into our dimension. A force capable of facing Azarel."

"Aye?" Dane’s blood quickened at the prediction but was careful not to get drawn in. The past few years had been too full of setbacks to easily allow hope to prosper. "An army capable of standing against the emperor?"

"Nay," the bonecaster’s body contorted, her face tightening as pain shot through her. The bonecaster didn’t speak for almost a minute, the cavern echoing to her breathless pants. "Sorry chief," Condrad apologised, "someti-."

"No apologies needed," Dane rumbled. "I know the sacrifices you have made for us. Please, continue when you’re able."

"Thank you." The haggard woman nodded gratefully. "The force isn’t an army. I doubt even Azarel himself could manage to drag an army through the dimensions." He winced as Condrad descended into a fit of coughs, blood dribbling down her chin. The witch wiped her face clean before continuing with a shake of her head. "No, I sensed that around twelve warriors came through before the spell failed."

"Twelve?" Mate snorted. "Azarel will barely notice when he squashes them underfoot."

"Fool man!" Condrad scolded. "These people cannot be judged by numbers alone, these are heroes born!"

"Aye," Mate was less than convinced. "Well if we ever needed heroes it is now."

* * *

"Are you going to The Sheathed Sword after our shift is over?"

"Yeah, I’ve got an eye on that new serving wench."

"Yeah," the first man chuckled, "she’s a lusty one isn’t she?"

Ka’ Tra’s knuckles whitened as he watched the two night watchmen saunter past, oblivious to him watching in the shadows. It would be so easy for him to glide out of the darkness and cut their throats. He’d done it countless times since his homeland had been conquered, but he had other business tonight.

He waited until the two sentries had moved on before stalking soundlessly out of the shadows and heading in the opposite direction. His eyes moved constantly, missing nothing as he searched every nook and cranny for anyone foolish enough to attempt an ambush on the foremost Ishanti Blade-Lord of his generation. His nose wrinkled at the stench of the refuse littering the once orderly streets. How far his people had fallen in so short a time.

Finally he reached his destination, a nondescript house in what once had been one of the city’s merchant districts. When he knocked on the house’s door he was careful to knock in a precise rhythm, three fast, two slow, and one fast, knowing full well that any deviation would result in the springing of numerous traps.

He’d barely finished the code when a peephole swung open. "Password!" demanded a pair of suspicious green eyes.

"The crescent moon rises in the east," he replied.

The peephole slammed shut. A half-second later and Ka’ Tra heard the sounds of bolts being pulled back and chains being rattled loose. The door creaked half-open. "Enter."

Ka’ Tra slid through the slight gap and into a comfortable-looking hall, its walls an inoffensive orange. "I’m here for the seer."

"Upstairs," the short man finished locking the door before nodding towards the threadbare carpeted stairs.

Ka ‘Tra strode up the stairs, his feet so light that the steps forewent their usual protesting creak. After a cursory nod at the two Blade-Warriors posted on the narrow landing, he ducked through the door opposite.

The room was sparsely-furnished, with only a bed, chair, and desk of the most basic quality. But then it was a lot more than many Ishanti had these days.

"Seer," Ka ’Tra nodded at the man sat in the chair. The seer was a short, scrawny man almost entirely bald save for a few last stubborn wisps. His green eyes were rheumy and his entire personality lacked any force whatsoever. And yet the fates had made him the most powerful remaining Ishanti mage, those stronger than having already been culled. "You have news."

"Yes," even the man’s voice, like his personality, was muted. Ka ‘Tra had to strain to hear him. "Last night a great force for good arrived in this dimension."

"Yes?" Ka ‘Tra crouched before the old man, blood quickening. "And where did this force arrive?"

The seer hesitated before replying. "In Parhea."

Ka ‘Tra’s heart dropped. Not one of the client nations or even the Free Trade Alliance but the very imperial seat itself. "Dead before they know it," he pronounced the likely sentence.

To a big city girl like Faith the village beneath them seemed especially small. There were perhaps thirty thatched-roof cottages in addition to another half a dozen buildings. A timbered wall encircled the tiny hamlet but Faith reckoned that it wouldn’t be much of a deterrent to a determined attacker.

Faith shivered and looked up at the darkening sky. It would be night soon and then she’d be even colder than she was now. Getting more clothes was becoming an even greater priority. Faith looked from her inspection of the village and to the Watcher crouched to her left. "Jesus, G," she complained. "Haven’t you seen enough of my butt already? What are we waiting for? Let’s get down there already!"

The Englishman shot her an amused look from his position behind an oak tree. "It’s not as simple as that," Giles replied. "We don’t know if they’re friendly or unfriendly. Or even if they’re human. We’re visitors in a strange land. We have to tread carefully."

Caution, caution, Faith’s eyes rolled. She couldn’t help but wonder how a hellcat like her ended up with such a bunch of safety-firsts. "Someone’s coming," Angel muttered.

Faith looked over her shoulder and through the thick bush behind. "Shit," Faith muttered as her eyes centred on the slight figure skipping down the dirt track heading to the village, "cat’s got worst fashion sense than you, X."

The newcomer wore a green beret that tried and failed to restrain the mop of white hair springing from under it. The man’s face was unlined, his emerald eyes shone with a youthful vigour, and his full mouth was parted in a smile that Faith just knew would make many women weak at the knees. The man’s gaily-coloured jacket was a patchwork effort made up of half a dozen colours haphazardly sown together as were his baggy britches.

"Ah, that is a turn for the better."

Faith glanced towards G, confused by the Englishman’s rapt expression. "You like his clothes?" Xander incredulously whispered.

"Oh yes," Giles sniffed. "And you have so much room to criticise. No," the Watcher shook his head. "The man’s a minstrel!"

"Oh?" Angel looked towards the middle-aged man. "And how do you know that?"

"First of all, his dress sense. He’s far more gaudily clothed than one would expect for a rural peasant. He’s a showman. Second," the Englishman paused, "there’s a flute out of the top of the knapsack over his right shoulder."

"So he’s a minstrel," Rona put in as the oblivious man pranced past their position. "Big whup. How does that help us?"

"Oh dear," Giles let out one of his long-suffering sighs. "Angel, tell me you at least know?"

After a furrowed moment the vampire spoke. "In medieval Europe, minstrels were story-tellers, entertainers. They travelled from town to town, spreading news. If anyone would know what was going on it would be a minstrel. He’d be perfect to fill in the blanks."

"Man’s like an undead Discovery Channel," Xander scoffed.

"Thank you," Giles nodded at Angel. "The only question is how to -."

Tiring of the conversation, Faith rose. "Leave it to me," she replied before starting through the undergrowth.

If ya wanted something doing, best to do it yourself.

* * *

Osus Fabula whistled as he bounded down the dirt track, eyes fixed on the small village ahead. He’d lay his head on a soft pillow tonight, not like the last three nights using his knapsack to rest his head on.

But then he shouldn’t complain. His calling meant that he got to travel, always seeking a new experience, a new adventure. And he didn’t suffer the same boringly repetitive trudge of the farmer or the labourer. No, his was a life of wine, women, and song.

"Help me."

Osus turned at the hauntingly husky voice behind him, eyes widening at the bewitching sight that greeted him.

A doe-eyed beauty was knelt on the path, chestnut locks hanging down to her shoulders. Her blue short-sleeved tunic clung to her body, emphasising her sensual curves. Osus’ eyes widened still further as he realised the young woman was unclothed from the waist down, long, smooth legs enticingly bare.

"Such brazenness," Osus muttered, eyes fixed avidly on the full-bodied lovely. Osus smiled roguishly, confident that his practiced charm would ensure he would soon have a soft body to warm the night. Squaring his shoulders, he strutted over to the knelt girl. "Now lass," he soothed. "I’m sure there’s naught that I can’t help you with. Tell me what you need?"

He was stuck by the luminousness of the beauty’s pool-like eyes when she looked up at him. By heck, but she was a sight to savour. The brunette’s cupid-shaped lips parted in a smirk. "Go to sleep." His mouth opened in a bemused question. Before he could speak the girl had surged to her feet, her fist upercutting into his jaw.

* * *

"Easy as falling off a log," Faith gloated as she caught the unconscious man as he plummeted to the ground.

"Bloody hell, Faith," she looked up to see Giles leading the others down the hill they’d been hiding on. "Subtlety is not your friend is it?"

"You wanted a minstrel," Faith eased the knocked out bard to the ground before opening his knapsack and starting to go through it. "I got ya a minstrel."

"Pilfering, Faith? Are there no depths you won’t sink to?"

"I dated you Nottingham, of course not." Faith responded to the sneer in her ex’s voice. "Gotcha!" she bounded upright, rainbow pants in hand and started to put them on.

"Oh, Faith, I really don’t think they’re you," Kennedy commented.

Faith glanced over and winked at the younger Slayer. "Real obvious, Ken."

"She has a point, though."

"Ah, baby," Faith looked over her shoulder and blew her husband a kiss. "Don’t you see enough of me, naked?" she cooed with a flutter of her eyelashes.

"Not even close," Xander replied.

"I think I’m going to hurl," Angel said.

"Me too," grunted Wood.

"Yes, very amusing," Giles’ tone was filled with its familiar exasperation. "Now let’s get him," the Watcher looked towards the knocked out balladeer, "off the road before he awakens or someone passes by." Giles looked towards her. "We wouldn’t want to bruise Faith’s knuckles from over-exertion."

* * *

Osus’ eyes fluttered uncertainly open. His vision cleared to reveal a dozen or so people stood around him. His mouth opened in a terrified scream.

A handsome man had a hand over his mouth before he had chance to utter a syllable. "Don’t be alarmed," the tall stranger cautioned. "We’re not going to hurt you. All we want is some information." Osus’ eyes swivelled towards the chestnut-haired lovely who’d knocked him out and was even now wearing his spare trousers. The man shrugged as he released his grip over Osus’ mouth. "And your pants."

"I look better in them anyhow," drawled the curvy beauty.

"You looked better without them," commented the youngest man.

"And without my top," added the second brunette with a nod. "It’s really not you."

The pants-stealer glared at both her admirers, mouth opening. A distinguished-looking man spoke before the brunette beauty had chance, his cultured tones revealing his scholarly background. "As my companion explained we’re strangers in your land and would appreciate some assistance finding our feet."

"Um," Osus stared down, bemused by the query, "they’re on the end of your legs."

"Sorry, it’s a saying from where we come from." The scholar coloured at his companions’ sniggers. "Oh do belt up, it wasn’t that funny. I meant where are we?"

Osus stared at the man. What remote land had these people come from not to have heard of The Unchained Empire? Finally he spoke. "You are in Parhea."

"And who rules this land?" queried a tall, shaven-head black.

Osus sighed at the question. This was the tragedy of their land, their world, a tale that pained him to tell. But it seemed he had little option. "For generations we were ruled by the Manregents, a benevolent and wise family. But ten years ago, High King Olvan, Queen Duclis, and Olvan’s younger brother, Prince Primus, were all murdered by agents working for the king’s youngest brother, Azarel."

"There’s a name to make you go all fuzzy inside," commented an one-eyed man.

Use to far more raucous interruptions, Osus continued unabated. "That same night, ‘The Reign Of Fang’ as it became known, Azarel’s agents attacked the great and the good of the empire. Marshal Timo, our foremost general, Sapi Noblis, the head of the Vowed Knights, the three Border Barons, and most of the royal court were butchered. Petro Pyrgos, the head of the king’s bodyguard, Magoi Phasis, the king’s First Advisor, and Earl Fortis Andres, head of the nobles’ council all escaped and now lead what resistance there is."

Osus grimaced, heart tightening as he continued. "Parhea is a very different country to what it once was. The Purge is everywhere -."

"The Purge?" asked the handsome man who’d muffled his initial attempt at screaming.

"The imperial secret police," he explained. "They ruthlessly hunt down anyone who dares opposes Azarel, executing all dissidents. Where once the sighting of a Parhean soldier would fill a peasant with a sense of security, now they inflame fear. But worse are the Cursed-."

"The Cursed?" asked One-Eye.

"The creatures of the Great Betrayer." Osus spat out the name of the Ascendant who’d murdered his fellow higher beings. "Goblins, Trolls, Ogres, and Gargoyles. Foul beasts that prey on humans, elves, dwarves, and griffins alike. Once we hunted and harried them, now they are allowed to flourish, even serving in the army."

"Ogres, elves, dwarves?" the curvy pants-stealer shook her head. "This shit sounds like The Lord Of The Rings."

"I’m surprised you’ve read the book," sniffed the educated man.

The beauty’s coal-black orbs widened. "They wrote a book about the film?"

"They wrote a -," the greying man shook his head before turning back to him, an exasperated look on his face. "I bloody give up. Please, continue sir bard?"

"Once Emperor Azarel had tightened his grip on Parhea, he began invading our neighbours. The Highlands fell eight years ago, betrayed by one of their own chieftains. The Ishanti Houses, Hybora, and the other lands all fell in quick order. Azarel’s deviousness, sorcery, and the strength and ferocity of the Howling Hordes carried all before him. The only place that remains free is The Unified Trade Alliance, and they only remain so because an ocean separates us, and Azarel has yet to finish his fleet."

A long silence followed his words. "But there is a resistance?" The handsome man asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "The Shem Battle-Master, Jabari Aren has sworn a Blood-Oath against Azarel for killing his Emir. He’s twice failed to kill him, but on both occasions has escaped with his life. The Keenest Blade, the world’s most renowned mercenary company, a force that a thousand stories have been written about, harry the Howling Hordes. Those who survived ‘The Reign Of Fang’ attempt to resist Azarel here, in the imperial heart."

"You seem remarkably well informed to a simple bard," commented the scholar.

Osus smiled and nodded. "I was an apprentice bard at the royal court, my position gained through being the third son of a minor lord. My blood makes me an outlaw. I find it somehow comforting to know what is going on."

"Why did you ask about the resistance?" the brunette who’d entrapped him asked, her eyes fixed on the good-looking man.

"Because they need help," the man replied.

"This isn’t our fight," objected the second brunette.

"No, Kennedy," One-Eye shook his head. "Deadboy’s right for once. It’s the white-hats against the black-hats. It’s always our fight."

"Okay then," Faith shook her head. She skipped dimensions, trouble still followed her. Faith chuckled reluctantly. She wouldn’t have it any other way. "We’re kicking the bad guys’ asses, I’m down with that. Problem is, how in the hell do we find the rebs?"

"They’re already looking for us," Willow said.

Faith looked towards Red. "Say what?"

"Who do you think brought us here?"

"Of course." Angel nodded. "It makes perfect sense, Will-," her mentor paused, brow creased in thought. "Willow, magic this powerful will draw the attention of every mage worth his salt, right?"

"Yes," Willow stopped in mid-nod, mouth opening in dismay. "Oh."

"Oh, what?" Kennedy asked a micro-second before she could.

"If I’m correct Angel is surmising that Azarel will already be aware we’re here," Giles interjected.

"So we’re massively out-numbered, in a strange land, and we don’t even have the advantage of surprise? Oh man, life really, really sucks!" Xander complained.

Faith shook her head. That was bad, but had more immediate worries. "We should get to the nearest town, get some clothes so we can blend in. 'Sides," she shifted uncomfortably, scratching at her butt. "These pants feel like they’ve got lice."

"I do not!" protested the bard.

"Take them off," Kennedy suggested.

"And how do you suggest we pay for these clothes?" asked Giles, the Englishman looked perplexed. "We have neither any local currency nor any idea where the nearest decent-sized town is. We can’t go down into the village now; a group of our number and dressed in this manner will only draw notice of possibly imperial eyes."

Faith grimaced. G had a point. "Perhaps," their kidnap victim raised a tentative hand, "I can help with both problems? In exchange for being allowed to join your intrepid company?"

"We tend to live dangerously," Angel warned.

"Not ‘arf," Faith’s ears picked up Giles’ muttering before the Watcher raised his voice. "Why would you want to join us?"

"I tire of reciting the tales of heroes I’ve never met!" The balladeer’s eyes gleamed with excitement. "I want to experience the adventures!"

"Guy’s challenged," Faith grunted.

"Very well," Giles stared at the minstrel. "I suspect having a guide will be useful. How do you suggest we proceed?"

"Three miles west of here lies a trade road between Maldor and Rittum," the minstrel explained. "If we wait there, some merchant will pass by for you to rob."

"I’m not real comfortable with that," objected Willow, her face troubled. Faith shook her head, this was where morals got ya.

"No, no, no." Faith snorted when Osus bowed at the waist. "These days it is a crime to use sanctioned trade routes unless licensed by the empire. Any one who travels the approved trade routes is approved by a confidante of the emperor himself or a member of the Imperium."

"Oh," Willow nodded. "I guess that’s okay."

"Glad we all agree. What about getting some -," Faith grimaced as her stomach growled, "food. I’m starved."

Angel looked up into the clear blue sky. "I smell a herd of goats near-by."

"So?" Xander’s eye widened and filled with realisation. "Goats? We’re gonna have to eat goat!"

Faith smirked, her own reservations dissipating about their upcoming meal at Xander’s reaction. "What did you expect?" she needled. "Twinkies?"

"Would be nice," Xander muttered.

* * *

Giles looked left and right. The spot they’d picked was just about perfect for an ambush. The track ran through a shallow valley, ensuring that the merchant convoy could be boxed in. "Just perfect," he muttered.

"Could I run the trap?"

Giles glanced at the vampire, hesitating. As much as he disdained the demon’s presence, the Irish vampire was the most experienced warrior by some margin. "Of course," he nodded.

"Thank you," the demon looked around. "Rona, could you take up a position to the north of the valley a thousand metres away. If you see a caravan coming, rush back and tell me. I’ll be a hundred metres from the north mouth. Vi," the vampire looked towards the strawberry-haired Slayer. "I want you a thousand metres from the South. If you see anything run back and tell Illyria who’ll be a hundred metres from the mouth." The undead Irishman looked towards Faith. "You and Kennedy go and lie on the far side of the valley and come down when the caravan arrives. If the caravan enters from the north, Illyria will confront it. From the south, I will."

"Sure, Fang," Faith winked at the lesbian Slayer. "Married woman here, ya keep your hands to yourself, get me?"

"But how will we pass the time?" Kennedy joked.

"At least take some pho-," Connor coloured when both Slayers and Xander glared at him. "Never mind. Forget I spoke."

Angel chuckled before looking towards Connor and Groo. "You two come down from this side."

"What about us?"

Angel looked towards Xander. "We haven’t got any weapons, Xander. I know Faith’s taught you to fight with or without weapons, but there’s limits to what an ordinary mortal can do against a trained, armed enemy. It’s safer to leave this one to the super-powered."

Eyes alight with outrage, Xander’s mouth opened. "He’s right, X," Faith said, a rare note of softness in the sultry Bostonian’s voice, "for me?" After a second the one-eyed man nodded sullenly. "Thanks, hon."

Angel turned towards him. "Anything to add, Giles?"

"Just one thing," Giles looked towards Osus. "Will there be any of these ‘Cursed’ accompanying the caravan?"

"No," the bard shook his head. "They’re too unstable to be trusted on long, possibly uneventful missions, there’s a fear they might turn on their human companions."

"Good," Angel nodded. "That simplifies things. Everyone get in position."

* * *

"Are you and Xander okay?"

Faith looked at her fellow Slayer with eyebrow raised. "For the last time you are not getting into my pants. Even these revolting ones."

Kennedy smirked. "Got tickets on yourself ain’t you? Gotta admit I liked the view, but no," the rich Slayer shook her head. "I worry about you and Xander." Faith looked at her fellow supernatural warrior through narrowed eyes. Kennedy shrugged. "Xander saved my life. And you, you’re my friend."

"Your friend?" Faith stared at Kennedy. Xand and Angel aside she’d never had any friends. As a kid all the other parents had forbidden their children to play with the daughter of the local junkie ho. When she’d started showing, guys had been interested all right, getting her on her back, while other girls had only been jealous. And do she’d hardened, getting used to being on her own, taking fleeting pleasure and attention where she could.

Finally she found her tongue and glanced across the valley. "Red might have a problem with us being friends."

"Willow doesn’t pick my friends for me," Kennedy tartly replied. "Besides maybe if you gave her a chance you could be friends too?"

"Yeah," Faith was less than convinced. Somehow she figured B’s spectre would sabotage that relationship before it begun. "How’s Red doing with the whole power loss thing?"

Kennedy’s face tightened. After the mass Calling, Red’s power had been seriously curtailed, some sort of backlash or draining. "Giles says she’s still the most powerful witch in the world, just not by a factor of ten anymore."

"Right," Faith nodded. "How’s she handling that?"

Kennedy shrugged. "Mixed bag. She doesn’t miss the responsibility, but sometimes she gets frustrated. Illyria used to be a lot more powerful too didn’t she?"

"Oh yeah," Faith nodded. "Way Fang tells it she could have taken all those ubers out on her own."

"So what happened?"

"According to Angel a human’s body ain’t built to take an Old One’s power so she started to break down, she would have exploded taking California and most of the west coast with her. So Wes," Faith’s breath caught as she remembered her Watcher.

They had both written one another off. Him thinking she was an irresponsible brat and her thinking he was an uptight incompetent. The hell of it was they’d both been right, but they’d changed, and she had hoped one day they could be friends. And now that was never gonna happen.

"You okay, Faith?"

She shook herself before shooting her fellow Slayer an apologetic glance. "Sorry, lost in the past," she explained. "Wes did some mojo that lessened her strength enough so the human body could hold it."

"Right." The two of them waited in companionable silence for almost an hour. Then Illyria rushed through the valley to where Angel was stood and then back. "They’re comin’."

"Looks like it," Faith agreed, her eyes fixed on the passageway below. In a few minutes they felt the thud of multiple hooves thumping on the ground. A couple of minutes later and the train entered the valley. "Shit."

The caravan was only made up of four small wagons but had a hell of a lot of guards, three foot soldiers marching at the front and back, and six flanking on either side. All wearing gleaming swords. Faith grimaced. "This could get interesting," Kennedy muttered.

Suddenly Angel dropped from a tree at the far exit to land beside the lead horse which he promptly left hooked in the jaw. The horse crumpled to the ground.

"That’s Angel," Faith shook her head as she rose and charged down the shallow slope. "Always the drama queen."

The soldiers noticed them when they were halfway down the hill, turning to stare slack-jawed at the curvy beauties charging them. Then military discipline asserted itself and the men started to draw their swords, blades hissing out of their scabbards.

Faith reached the first swordsman, a short, stocky man while his sword was only half-unsheathed. Her fist caught him full in the mouth, sending blood and teeth flying, and the soldier plummeting to the ground.

She leaned back at the waist, avoiding a downward slash from a dusky-skinned six footer with a weight-lifter’s build, before straightening as he tried to bring his sword back up and butting him in the face. Bone crunched under the impact of her attack but to his credit her opponent still managed a slash at her neck. Faith slid under the attack before grabbing the swordsman’s legs behind his knees and pulling. The man roared in shock before crashing to the grass.

Sensing an attacker sneaking up on from behind, Faith dropped forward onto her palms and hand sprung up, bringing her knees into her stomach in one smooth, rapid motion. Kicking out with all the strength she could muster, her heels crashed into her would-be attacker’s chest, her ears ringing to the sound of cracking bone.

Rising sinuously, she kicked the dusky-skinned man in the face as he struggled to his knees, knocking him out. Faith looked left and right. She smirked at what she saw. All the soldiers were out cold and none of her companions were injured.

"You can’t do this!" She turned to see a bemused-looking Illyria being harangued by a jowly, oil-haired merchant dress in a revolting purple robe. "The emperor won’t stand for this!"

"Oh boy," Faith muttered. "This can’t end well."

"You and your emperor are nothing to me," Illyria sneered before back-handing the merchant across the face. The blow lifted the merchant off his feet and sent him cart-wheeling into the air, landing in a heap some twenty metres away.

"Hey!" Faith looked up to see her man climbing out of the second wagon. "We’ve hit the jackpot! This wagon’s stuffed full of clothes!"

"Finally," Faith looked disdainfully at her pants. "No more looking like Coco the clown."

"We change and then we head for the nearest town," Giles announced.

"There’s a red dress here that’s just you, Faith," Angel commented from one of the wagon.

Faith rolled her eyes. So not funny. "Only if you try it first, Fang."

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