"Might I ask what you’re doing?"

Petro looked up at the voice behind him, surprised that someone had managed to sneak up on him. Turning, he faced the bespectacled stranger stood there. Remembering the earl’s admonishment to extend the visitors’ every courtesy, he forced a smile. "I am checking the town’s defences, Rupert Giles."

"Please," the man glanced at the town’s wall and then back at him, "call me Giles."

"Is it usual for the men of your world to be referred to by their family name?" Petro asked.

"No, not at all," the stranger chuckled. "My charges," a look of fondness flickered over the man’s lined face, "christened me that a decade ago. I’ve grown accustomed to it. These days, I sometimes forget what my first name is. Although that might have more to do with my advancing years." The man chuckled again before sobering. "Perhaps I could offer you some advice on the defences?"

Petro stared at the dimensional traveller. "You are a general in your land?"

"A general?" The man’s brow furrowed in thought. "I suppose I am of a sort. But my expertise comes mostly from history."

"Begging your pardon, Giles," Petro chose his words carefully, "but I need soldiers not scholars."

The foreigner chuckled. "The history of my world is replete with warfare and sieges. I’ve studied them extensively, perhaps I could offer some suggestions from our history."

"Then I would be a fool not to take advantage of your knowledge," Petro looked around. "Perhaps we could tour the defences and you could give me your thoughts?"

"A splendid idea."

"Your companions are mighty heroes are they not?" Petro queried as they started through the town’s narrow streets. "’Tis passing strange all these female warriors."

The scholar by his side chuckled. "It would be wise to keep your opinion to yourself. Should Faith or Kennedy hear you say that, they’d geld you. Between them my Slayers have saved our world multiple times and slain many demons in the past three years."

"And the men of your party?" Petro pressed. "Angel, Groosaluug, and Robin have the look of warriors, but the one-eyed one and the boy do not."

"Xander," pride flickered in his companion’s eyes, "has saved or helped save the world more times than any of my Slayers. Moreover, one could not hope for a more steadfast friend. Connor," the man shrugged, "I have only Faith’s reports on him, but she is reliable, well except for her expense reports, and she believes he is a formidable fighter. And our records indicate he has been involved in victories over a number of notable demons."

Petro shook his head. "This talk of demons makes one’s head spin. I am sure you have many interesting stories. After we’ve finished our inspection perhaps we can find an inn to drink a few ales and swap tales one warrior to another?"

"That sounds like a marvellous way to spend a few hours," Giles declared.

* * *

"I can’t do it."

Zauber shook her head as the levitating book crashed into the wooden desk under it. Such power, it was a crying shame it was marred by such impatience. "You can," she soothed. "You have to-."

"I can’t!" the girl’s face flushed the colour of her strawberry hair. "I won’t work!"

"Child," Zauber tutted as she leaned back in her rocking chair, stretching the cramped muscles in her lower back, "you have the power, it pulsates in the air around you. Magna merely works differently in this dimension."

"But it’s not fair!" the witch squealed. "Magic is usually so easy for me!"

Ah, Zauber hid a smile as inspiration struck. Now she understood what the crux of the problem was. The child was obviously used to effortlessly achieving anything she set her mind to. "The spell to return you and your companions is a powerful one." She paused, the admission she was about to make a bitter one. "Even in my youth, I did not have the power to complete such a spell but you do. Indeed, the emperor aside, you are probably the only person in this world who can. Your friends are relying on you to get them home. I am sure you would not want to let them down?"

"No," the younger witch sucked in her cheeks and sighed. "Let’s try it again."

"Very well." Again Zauber had to hide a smile, this time at the determination shining in the child’s eyes. Undisciplined and impatient she may be, but by the pantheon she had spirit and loyalty. "Focus your energy on the book-."

"Oh sorry!"

Her eyes widened when the book burst into flames. Yes there was power, it was just a question of focussing it.

* * *

"You said back at the town that you knew Kraft when you were in the Keenest Blade?"

"Aye," Bellator glanced at the captivating brunette riding beside him with a practiced ease. She was a beauty to stir any man’s blood, and yet he found himself feeling an almost father’s pride in her. There was something of the injured nightingale about her, making him want to protect her. Not that, he chuckled inwardly, the warrior princess would ever allow him to.

Realising the lass in question was staring impatiently at him, he nodded. "Aye, him and Bellum both. Both were grand warriors and master tacticians to boot. But Kraft was a man of honour, while Bellum," Bellator spat on the ground, "was a sadistic brute. After we traced the massacre of a village back to him we attempted to have him arrested and handed over to the authorities. But he killed the quartet sent to apprehend him and disappeared, re-appearing a few years ago as the chief of the Hordes." Bellator sighed. "Bellum has the looks of an ape, but they mask an incisive mind."

"Sounds like my pops," Faith’s husband put in. "Well, ‘cept the brains’ part. Will this Kraft work with us?"

Ah, that was the burr in the saddle and no mistake. The Keenest Blade were a mercenary unit, undisputedly the finest in the world. But as famous as they were for their countless victories, they were almost as famous for fighting under their own leaders rather than the direct control of their employees. Independence ran strong in the blood of The Keenest Blade. "Kraft’s a cagey devil, he’ll want to be free as much as any of us, but it’ll rankle with him, having to work with others," he replied.

"But he’ll work with?" Xander pressed.

"Aye," he nodded. "If we can find ‘em."

Hours later and they were pulling up outside a two-storied tavern in a small, oval-shaped village fivee days’ ride from the Parhea-Urad border. The sounds of raucous carousing drifted out of the inn, making the hairs on the back of Bellator’s neck prickle in pre-cognitive alarm. "Maye be we should ride on," he suggested. "Get a few more leagues nearer the border and sleep in the forest."

"Screw that," Faith shot him a disgusted look as she dropped from her horse. "I’m dirty, tired, and hungry. No way am I sleeping in the cold."

Concerned about the possibility of trouble, his soldier’s instinct was seldom wrong, Bellator opened his mouth to protest. "Don’t bother," Xander chuckled, "my wife’s half-mule. And she likes her comforts."

"Very well," Bellator forced his forebodings aside. "Let us stable our horses first though."

Bellator’s heart sank as they entered the stone-floored inn. In all ways but one it was a typical tavern – farm labourers and craftsmen patrons sat dotted around tables, flickering heath, and bar stocked with an assortment of cheap liquor. But in one corner sat a table of half a dozen grey robed figures, cowls shadowing their faces. "Truth-Givers," he muttered before raising his voice. "Perhaps it would be wise to leave."

"Hell no, we’re here now." Hips seductively swinging, the sultry beauty stalked over to the bar. After a shake of his head, he started after the brunette, her husband at his side.

They’d been at the bar scant seconds when one of the Truth-Givers rose and strutted over. "You," he rasped at Faith. "We have need of company. Come."

Faith didn’t look away from her glass. "No."

"Good sir," Bellator forced a merry note into his voice, "it was my daughter’s wedding last night. Let me buy you a -."

"Silence," the Truth-Giver’s eyes didn’t shift from the curvy beauty. "You are honoured, girl. You have been chosen to serve your god’s messengers."

"Not my god," the Slayer stiffened imperceptibly. "And you might wanna take your hand off my ass."

The Truth-Giver seemed to glower from within his cowl. "You dare to blaspheme? You have no idea the pain your words invite!"

The supernatural warrior threw her head back, raven tresses dancing. "You want pain?" Bellator winced when the Slayer’s elbow cannoned into the priest’s face. The room’s expectant hush was shattered by the sound of cracking bone as the priest flew backwards, his cowl falling open to reveal blood pouring down his face. "Happy now?" the Slayer turned back to the bar.

A shocked half-second passed. And then chairs were flung back, scraping against the stone floor as the other Truth-Givers rose. "Men never learn." The Slayer shook her head as she turned towards the advancing quintet, a dangerous gleam in her brown orbs. "You boys wanna piece of this? Come and get some."

Bellator stepped forward, hand dropping to his sword hilt. "Don’t." He turned when Xander grabbed his shoulder, surprised at the amused glint in the man’s solitary eye. "Class is now in session. Faith doesn’t like being interrupted when she’s teaching."

Bellator turned back in time to see the Slayer leap into the air and take two men out with a spin-kick to the face. Blood showered the walls as the two men crashed to the ground.

The moment she landed, Faith was accosted by another two priests charging her from left and right. Blocking a left on her forearm, she grabbed the other priest around the throat and flung him into his companion. The remaining priests began to back away, but the Slayer was remorseless. "No ya don’t." Bellator winced as a kick to the groin lifted the priest off his feet, sending him sailing into a table behind, the unfortunate furniture splintering under the impact. Plates of food and half-drunk beer mugs spilt over the downed man as he lay in the table’s ruins.

Bellator’s eyes widened as two of the priests stumbled to their feet behind the Slayer. His mouth opened in a warning shout.

Before he could utter a syllable, the brunette’s left elbow swung upwards and back, the point smashing into one of the priests’ faces. The impact of the blow cracked around the tavern and the man was lifted off the floor and flung into the bar counter. The other attempted to bring his guard up. "Ahhhhhhhh!" the man screamed as the Slayer stamped her heel against his outer knee, splintering bone. The man fell backwards, taking out another table. A step to her right, and one unfortunate priest who’d just managed to make his feet caught a heel-kick to the chest, propelling him through the nearest window.

The priest who’d first harassed the curvy brunette had dragged himself up by the table he’d landed beside. "Word to the wise." The Slayer stalked over to the man, grabbing and twisting his left wrist when he snatched up a glass and attempted to drive it into her face. The man screamed wordlessly as bone broke and the glass fell from his shattered hand. The Slayer moved her grip to two handfuls of the priest’s robe. "No," the enraged beauty slammed her forehead into the whimpering man’s face. "Means," her knee collided with his over-stuffed mid-section." No." The woman threw the man from her, wrapping him around one of the ceiling beams.

"I think class is over."

"Indeed." Bellator nodded at Xander’s comment. He stared around the devastated bar, furniture and groaning bodies strewn everywhere. The captivating brunette stood in the centre of the floor, every patrons’ fearful eyes fixed on her.

"Back home we went on a date once. Faith likes grunge music," Bellator stared at the younger man. The dimensional leaper shrugged. "Never mind, I don’t understand it myself. Anyway, this band she liked were playing a gig at a local bar. So she dragged me down." Xander shook his head. "I really hate her taste in music. The bar was a real dump and this biker gang thought Faith shouldn’t be allowed to say no. Two minutes later and seven of them were out cold, and the other three wished they were. Faith’s a passionate believer in a woman’s right to chose." Xander looked towards the raven-haired beauty. "Honey, I think maybe we aren’t welcome anymore. Let’s make like a tree and leave."

"Gaaaaaa! Noooo! Ahhhhh!"

Finally the screaming fell silent. A second later and woodshed door swung open, Anatole Theron striding out, a smug expression on the ‘Prey-Sniffer’ leader’s face. "Well?" Vistro demanded, eyes expectant.

He waited more or less impatiently as the recently recruited Parhean diligently cleaned his knife before replying. "He cursed, then he screamed, then he talked, then he screamed so more." The Parhean chuckled. "Then he died."

"But what did he say?" Vistro seethed.

His fellow bounty-hunter started at his curt tone. "Most of the twelve left the rebel stronghold a Ten-Day ago. The one called Angel has taken Connor and Illyria to the north under the guidance of Diokete Xulon, to the Highlands. Bellator Proelium," Vistro started at the mention of one of the legends of his youth, eyes dropping to his left hand, wincing at the missing finger Bellator had cost him twenty years ago, "has taken Faith and Xander to Urad to search for the Keenest Blade. Wood and Groosaluug have headed south in Shem with Jabari Aren." A shocked mutter ran through the sixty warriors behind him at the mention of the legend. Brave men quaked and cowered when Jabari strode past. " And the rest of the twelve bar Rupert and Willow are heading towards Ishanti, seeking out Ka’Tra Swiftsword."

"Jabri Aren, Bellator Proelium, Diokete Xulon, Ka’ Tra Swiftsword. These twelve have the unsettling habit of drawing formidable allies to their side," Vistro mused.

"Aye," Tod Nacht agreed. "And how do you plan to deal with these rebels?"

"Wood and the Groosaluug are the least of our concerns," Vistro judged. "As they’re together, we’ll leave them until last. Tla’ Ra, you’re going home. Take your men and go after the group heading into Ishanti. Tod, take yours and Antaloe’s men and go after Angel’s group. I’m going after Bellator." He glanced at his hand again before looking towards the watching mercenaries. "Remember you have the authority to use any resources you need to get the twelve."

* * *

"You’re saying she deserted?"

"Aye, mi’lord, she ordered us to ride into battle against the Clear-Bloods, when we refused, she rode off anyway."

"Impudence," Andros muttered, his blood beginning to boil. Xulon had dared desert him? A message had to be sent. He looked around. "Have word passed to everyone, all my gangs, even those who dare oppose me. Five thousand sovereigns to the man who brings her to me! Ten thousand if she’s still alive!"

"I would be very interested in collecting that reward."

Andros’ eyes shot across the shadowy tavern. The speaker was a tall, curvy woman with curved lips, flashing green eyes, and pony-tailed blonde hair. A woman of her beauty dressed in a black brigandine and a man’s leather breeches with a rapier fastened around her tiny waist should look ridiculous, and yet she didn’t. "And who might you be?"

"Invidia Kultus, formerly of the Clear-Bloods," the blonde smiled. "However that career is behind me, and my fellows and I would be very interested in a more profitable one."

* * *

Decorus Mors glanced around as he entered the darkened room, skin crawling. There was something wrong with the situation. As Leader of The Shadow Fang, and  former prized assassin, he felt it. His hand edged towards his knife sheathed on his waist. "Has our relation fallen so far, dearheart?"

* * *

Azarel strode up and down his throne room, eyes spitting flames at his cowering audience. "Two Ten-Days! Two Ten-Days and not one of the targets I set you has been captured or killed! I am far from happy!"

"Oh great one-."

"Did I give you leave to speak!" A single look set Veritas Callidus convulsing on the paving stones, spittle spewing out of her mouth and face purpling as she struggled to breathe. Azarel’s pleasure only increased when none of ‘The Dread Supremacy’ as his inner circle were known moved to aid the violently thrashing woman. United, they might be a threat to him, alone they were useful but hardly a danger, and so he kept them divided, plotting against one another.

A click of his fingers ended the curse. Turning to the others, he scowled. "Well, Malus?"

"T…the Hordsemen are scouring the empire, blanketing the nations for any sign."

"Um," Azarel pursed his lips together before turning to the head of The Purge. "Areox Lex?"

Areox stiffened at his impatient tone. "I’ve engaged the empire’s four major bounty hunting groups to track down the twelve."

"I have very specific orders regarding the capture of certain members of the twelve," Azarel warned. "Should they fail to be obeyed, both the bounty hunters and you will incur my wrath." Azarel directed his gazer towards The Shadow Fang’s leader. "And you Decorus, what have you done?"

"I’ve ascertained that the one called Rupert Giles is ensconced in the rebel stronghold. While the rebel leaders are all under heavy guard, he is largely left alone, offering his advice and studying our culture and history. And so I’ve sent Piccata Torta to kill him."

Azarel nodded approvingly. Finally one of his commanders was thinking, showing a little initiative. "And Dotos, what of the witch? What of her power?" Dotos paled at his impatiently clicking tongue. "Speak!"

"She has considerable power," the witch took a faltering breath. "Perhaps as much as you, your greatness."

It took an effort, but Azarel managed to reign in his temper and pride. "And what do you plan to do about this formidable force?"

"I…I’ve sent Ladrans Kuru to deal with her," Dotos replied, her eyes nervous.

After a second Azarel nodded. "This is," for a second he considered his next words, "sufficient, barely. But I would strongly advise you all not to rest on your laurels. Now, get out."

Only when the last of his followers had hurried out of the throne room did Azarel allow himself a wintry smile. The Hordsemen, the Purifiers, the bounty-hunters, assassins, and his beasts, all searching for the twelve. Against such numbers it was just a matter of time before they were run to ground.

* * *

Crucia Sequi chuckled as he strode around his darkened torture chamber, head bowed in thought. It was empty for the moment, but soon he would have some member of the unwashed to educate in the glory that was Azarel.

All around were the instruments his master had given him – the whipping posts, pliers, branding irons, hammers, thumbscrews, the rack, toe-screws, and so on, to illuminate his glory. And illuminate he had, blazing a blinding light with the examples he’d made. The tongues he’d gouged from rabble-rousing prophets. The limbs he’d torn from fiery rebel leaders. The minds and wills he’d broken of once incisive nobles and mages.

Yes, his smile widened, his quarters were some floors higher and very luxurious. But this, he reached down to caress a blood-flecked whip’s ivory handle, this was his true home.

Sequi looked up as the door crashed open and a pale-faced acolyte hurried in. "Blessed Father, a group of Truth-Givers in southern Parhea were attacked by rebels!"

"Blasphemers!" Sequi was at once both out-raged and elated by the news. These miscreants would have to be punished. "What information do you have on these infidels?"

"Information received indicates the attacker was one of the Twelve-."

"Oh splendid!" Sequi cackled. "Better and better. Which one?"

"It was the one called Faith, accompanied by her lover."

Sequi thought his smile would crack his face in two. "Alert our agents, such sacrilege cannot go unpunished."

The acolyte blinked. "Blessed Father, the emperor-."

"Is a benevolent and understanding god. He will acknowledge this insult gives us the right. I want Faith and her mate as one, torturing couples together is such a delicious delight. Seeing the one they love destroyed breaks a person in a way no instrument of torture can ever hope to match. But anyone with them is of no interest. Now go," he shooed the fresh-faced youth away. "Post the orders through the seer web."

"Yes, Blessed Father," the boy nodded before bolting.

Sequi smiled beatifically. Already he was making plans just what to do with the two infidels. Once he’d finished the young man’s eye would make a captivating pendant. And the girl, he chuckled, once he’d heard her screams, what to do with her? She had the most beautiful skin he’d ever seen.

It would make the most magnificent wall-hanging.

Xulon watched her group’s leader with interest. He was a tall powerful man with a grace and agility that would have been extraordinary in a man half his size. She’d know many men in her lifetime, but none with his presence or looks.

Still, Xulon mused, he was a strange one. Most warriors she knew were loud, pugnacious even, but he was unusually quiet, either if he didn’t need to boast or as if carrying a great weight. Yes, he was definitely intriguing. His companions were equally strange, a skinny youth with the older man’s poise, and an imperious blue-haired woman.

Strange companions for an unusual mission that her brother and her quartet of remaining people were accompanying them on. The highlanders were a fierce people for a rugged land who even now guarded their independence as best they could. They were a people who little liked outlanders.

"We’ll camp here," declared Angel.

Xulon looked around. They were up against a small incline with a watery pool two hundred paces to their left, and a small copse behind them. All in all, a perfect hidey hole. "Xulon, if you don’t mind, could you and your people help me set up the camp, only my son and Illyria don’t know much about-."

"Actually I’ve got memories of vacations in the Rockies and the Carolinas when I was a kid," the skinny youth.

"Oh, okay," their leader looked uncomfortable. "In that case, how about you start setting up a fire?"

Later that night Xulon joined as he sat guard, crouched on the edge of their camp’s perimeter. "You seemed surprised by your son’s experiences?"

Despite her stealthy approach from behind, the man didn’t start at her voice. "We’ve been separated until recently. It’s complicated."

"Oh." Somewhat stymied by the man’s abrupt reply, she walked around and sat down facing him. "You realise the highlanders are a stubborn people who will take some persuading to join us. How do you intend to get their help?"

The man’s answering smile was wintry. "I intend to make them an offer they can’t refuse."

* * *

Mate Dane sidestepped a sword-thrust before slamming a back-hand home. His rival’s face disintegrated into a bloody mess under his hammer blow, his adversary falling soundlessly away.

Another came at him with a downwards sword swing that he caught on his buckler before shoving his war-hammer into the Hordesman’s leg. Bone shattered and the man screamed before toppling backwards.

Pain blazed through his left side as another Hordesman slashed across his ribs. Ignoring his hurt, Mate crashed an elbow into his opponent’s face before twisting at the waist and smashing his war-hammer into the man’s head. And then it was all over, bodies of dead and dying Highlanders interspersed with Hordesmen.

"We beat them," growled one of his subordinates.

"Aye," Mate nodded brusquely.

"Chief Dane, you’re wounded," cried one of the healers scurrying up from behind the lines. "Let me dress your-."

"No time for that!" he snapped. "They’ve founded our hiding place, when their force doesn’t return, more will be sent. Order camp to be mobilised."

* * *

Wood kept his eyes fixed on the two men before him.

The smaller came in fast, sliding under the larger one’s decapitating axe-swing with a devastating grace. The smaller figure’s sword came up only to be parried on the giant’s mammoth broadsword. The dwarfed warrior leaned back at the waist, allowing the giant’s retaliatory broadsword thrust to impale the air above.

The shorter figure darted backwards, but the towering fighter charged relentlessly on. The smaller figure somersaulted backwards, feet kicking out to crash into the on-coming warrior’s broad chest.

The mammoth warrior fell to one knee, axe swinging up to parry a cleaving swing while simultaneously thrusting his sword at his rival. The shorter man kicked at the giant’s sword-arm, point of his boot crashing into the other man’s wrist.

The giant’s sword dropped from his hand. A scowl on his face, the giant lunged to his feet, axe swinging at his adversary’s head. The smaller warrior’s sword came up parrying the attack inches from his neck. The man’s free hand smashed into the giant’s jaw, knocking him back a step.

Now it was the shorter warrior who was on the attack, lunging forward with his blade leading the charge. The axeman slapped away the sword attack but was helpless to avoid a pair of blurring left hooks to the jaw. The man dropped like a felled ox. The big man started up again the moment he hit the ground only to be stopped by the point of his opponent’s blade at his throat. "Do you yield?"

For a moment the giant glared up at his conqueror. And then he let out a bellowing laugh. "Never before have I fought such an opponent!" Jabari looked towards Wood. "Do you have the mettle to challenge on the Groosaluug?"

"I’ll pass," Wood raised a hand in supplication. "A wise man knows when he is over-matched."

"But how are you to improve if you do not train with those better than you?" Groosaluug asked before beckoning him forward.

Wood groaned before rising. "Why did I have to get stuck with Kull the Conqueror and Conan the Barbarian?"

* * *

"How many did we lose?" the man standing behind him stiffened at his glacial tone, a tone far too cold for their tropical surroundings. "How many, Kasam?"

"Eighty-seven warriors dead, another thirty won’t fight again. Nearly a hundred women and children gone."

Akuii Anwar closed his eyes, gaze fixed on the sprawling camp beneath the cliff ledge he was stood upon. The encampment housed 50,000 but that was but a tenth the size of their capital and not even a fiftieth the size of their national population. There were other camps dotted throughout their jungle lands, but he doubted that much more than two thirds of their population lived, and most of them were enslaved.

"A time is going to come when we’ll have to move," Kasam continued. "And then we’ll have to consider leaving the infirm behind."

"No!" Akuii snapped. "We’ve left too many of our people behind. Everybody comes or we all stay!"

"As you say my lord." Kasam heard but ignored the disapproval in his advisor’s voice. Obedience was all that was required. "And there is another matter." The older man paused. "The Viewers report that they see Jabari returning."

Akuii smiled finally. "That is good news. Then my brother’s killer is dead."

"No."

Akuii scowled and spun to face his advisor. "And yet he returns? With his oath unfulfilled? Kill him!"

The advisor blanched. "But he returns with powerful allies-."

"Kill them too!" he thundered.

* * *

"Ach, a pretty little thing who doesn’t know what she’s-."

Kennedy shot Tachy Marcello a disgusted look before looking towards Torvas. "Does he ever shut up?"

The weather-beaten man chuckled before shooting his head. "Not when he’s around a pretty lady."

"That’s what I figured," Kennedy made a scene of turning away from the supposedly dashing cavalry officer to the grizzled but infinitely more likable infantry soldier. "So these Ishanti, what are they like?"

"The Ishanti is a vast nation, made up of competing cities called Houses. Before the war, every House is ruled by a family of nobles and before the conquest, they vied constantly for commerce, land, and political influence. If not for their constant feuding, they could have been the world’s dominant power."

"And what about this resistance leader?" she asked.

"The stories say Ka’Tra Swiftsword is the finest swordsman in the generation, but whatever the truth he has untied what remains of the Ishanti nobility in a spirited resistance to the empire." The infantryman paused. "He’s a ruthless bastard though. Anyone who opposes either the rebellion itself or anyone who opposes his leadership disappears."

"Oh great," Kennedy scowled. And this was the person they were supposed to recruit?

* * *

Ka’Tra motioned calmly to the two Ishanti stood at the opposite side of the alley. At the far end he’d stationed another trio. All they had to do was wait and a Purifier patrol would pass by, right into their ambush.

Ka’Tra stiffened as the sound of marching boots floated to him on the cold night. Forcing himself to relax, he eased his sword free of its sheath, its oiled scabbard ensuring the weapon slid soundlessly out. A moment of two later and eight Purifiers strode into the alley, marching two by two.

The moment the last of the patrol entered the alley, Ka’Tra blurred into action. Leaping forward, his arm muscles flexed up in a reverse cut to take the hand of the nearest Purifier, gore gushing out to splatter the nearest wall.

Even as the man fell, Ka’Tra glided onto the next, the battle’s beginning clamour filling his ears. Ka’Tra dropped into a crouch, allowing his wide-eyed opponent’s sword impale the air just to the left of his ear. Upon rising, he skipped away from an attempted disembowelling before jamming a hastily drawn dirk into his rival’s neck.

A shocked look on his face, the Purifier fell against the wall before sliding down to the cobbles, a smear making his passing. Looking to his left, Ka’Tra saw another Purifier charging him and turned nimbly to face the man. His adversary’s eyes widened when he parried the Purifier’s blade down before sliding his short sword between his rival’s ribs and twisting. The Purifier grunted, his weapon clattering to the ground as he likewise fell to his knees.

Seeing another Purifier charging him, this time from the right, he danced away. The moment his slower-reacting foe committed himself to a lunge, Ka Tra grabbed a hold of the swordsman’s wrist and twisted.

His rival’s scream was cut-off by the palm Ka’Tra smashed into his throat and knee he rammed into his groin. The gurgling man slumped to his knees, easy prey to Ka’Tra’s decapitating slash utilising the man’s own hastily scooped up sword.

And then it was over. The blood-drenched alley was littered with eight Hordesmen corpses, and, Ka’Tra scowled, two of his men. Four of them for every one of his. But if it was double that, they’d still lose through sheer weight of numbers.

Faith glided effortlessly through her kata, juggling her twin blades with deadly ease. The moment she’d finished, she spun to face her observer. "See anything ya like?"

The beauty’s cocksure grin had Bellator chuckling. "You are formidable, even in my youth I could not do half the things you do, and yet you say you’re not your world’s foremost warrior?"

"There’s some better than me." Faith shrugged, an uncomfortable look on her sultry features. "Angel, maybe. Illyria for sure." The Slayer grimaced. "One other."

"Not a friend?" he queried.

"’Bout as far as ya can get away from bein’ a friend and not be an actual enemy," Faith shook her head, raven tresses swishing in the air. "What about this Kraft dude, he ain’t got no issues with ya has he?"

"Not any longer," he evaded. Faith raised an eyebrow and stared hard at him. "We were both amongst the candidates to be the next leader of The Keenest Blade, but I left before the issue came up." Bellator momentarily paused, lost in time’s strong tides. "He might be concerned I’m coming back to challenge his leadership."

Faith winked at him. "Looks like you’re lucky I’m here to watch your back."

"Indeed," Bellator nodded at the waist. "Now shall we go and wake your lover."

Faith sighed. "He’s still asleep?" The Slayer beauty shook her head and sighed. "Wait, that was snoring and not a herd of elephants I heard?"

Bellator failed but failed to hide his smile. "I’m afraid so, my dear."

"Damn, and G wonders why I don’t hear him sometimes, sleepin’ next to that din."

* * *

"The tracks lead to the east, towards Urad."

Vistro Tokamak nodded at his tracker’s report. He looked over his shoulder, towards the dozen or so men behind him. They were a cold-eyed, battle-scarred lot with not a virtue between them. Finally, he returned his gaze to the tracker. "How far ahead are they?"

"Less then half a day," the tracker replied. "If we push it, we’ll probably reach them by tomorrow night."

"Excellent. Remember," he warned. "The men are to die, but not the girl. She’s to be unharmed."

"Aye, she’s quite the prize," laughed one of his men. "She’ll keep us entertained on the way back."

"She’s not for our entertainment," he reminded his men. "The emperor has first claim to her. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the emperor. Now, come on."

* * *

Wood gasped as he stared down onto a sea of green. For as far as he could see there was nothing but thick trees, steam rising up from the sweltering jungle.

"Is it not glorious?" rumbled Jabari. Wood glanced at the giant Shem. "My homeland is beautiful is it not?" The Shem sighed. "But don’t let its beauty fool you, there are many dangers within its borders. Spike Cats, Horned Fire-Breathers, Six-Claws, Three-Step Snakes, Spitting Thorn-Plants, Pitfall Suckers, The Venomed Tentacles, and swamplands too. It is a land filled with hazards," the shem’s chest puffed out even further, "a land where only the fittest can survive and prosper!"

"It sounds like a challenge worthy of a warrior does it not Robin?" enthused Groo, sapphire eyes gleaming.

"Can hardly wait," murmured Wood before wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Sometimes he wondered if Groo wasn’t ‘challenged’.

* * *

Kasam Morati strode into the general’s tent. "Have you heard Alem’s orders?"

Alem looked up at his entry. "I have," replied the last of the emir’s warlords. The general was a typical Shem male, thick-slabbed muscle and towering height combined with an implacable will to survive. Alem’s hair was greying in places, but his brown eyes still burnt with life’s fire.

"And what do you intend to do about it?" Kasam demanded, the horror of just what his ruler had demanded still haunting him.

"I," the warlord paused, broad shoulders briefly slumping, "intend to do my duty."

"You can’t!" he hissed. "Jabari’s this nation’s champion! He’s one of our best chances for freedom!"

"He!" The warlord’s voice cracked like a whip. After a long, drawn-out breath, the general continued, his tone more under control. "He has failed to complete his Emir-ordered duties, it is the Emir’s right to order this-."

"But the sense," Kasam interrupted, "surely it would-."

"It is not our place to question the Emir!" Alem’s snap was followed by a softer tone. "Look my old friend, I understand your reservations. But the Emir has spoken, and that is that."

Kasam’s mouth opened and shut, then he sighed wearily, sensing the argument was moot in the mind of his friend. Obedience of the Emir was so engrained in the Shem tribes, that even after their civilisation’s fall his word went unquestioned amongst the rebels. "Who are you sending?"

The warlord stared at him for a long second before replying. "Duka Jelani, and Belay

and Dume Gamba."

Kasam sighed. Jabari Aren was the Shem nation’s finest warrior, but the three warriors

that Alem had just named weren’t far behind him in notoriety and skills. "Do you have-."

"No questions!" his friend snapped, eyes hardening. "They’ve already left, as our emir

has demanded. No more discussion!"

* * *

Kultus looked around, eyes narrowing as she observed the camp her and her companions

had surrounded. There was something wrong, something she couldn’t put her finger on.

Reassuring herself that she had the camp out-numbered four to one, she raised her hand

to signal an attack.

* * *

"We’re surrounded."

Xulon gasped as Angel glided into position behind her, the inter-dimensional

traveller supposedly asleep while her and her brother took the first half of the night’s

guard. "I haven’t seen or heard anything," she hissed as her eyes vainly searched the

surrounding darkness. "And neither I or my brother have fallen asleep."

"Nevertheless they’re there," Angel retorted. "You stay here, I’ll awaken your men."

"What about yours?" hissed Xulon. "And what about those watching us?"

Angel chuckled. "My people are already awake. As for our friends, don’t worry. They

won’t see me." Xulon opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a syllable

the mysterious man had melted back into the darkness leaving her to wonder just how

he managed that.

Even as she pondered the mystery, the surrounding woods erupted into life. Xulon gasped as Angel exploded to his feet, charging to meet a trio of bulky-shouldered

thugs brandishing axes. The man was a blur as he ducked and stepped inside an axe

swing of the bandit to his right while simultaneously kicking the middle bandit full in the

face, teeth spraying everywhere. Even as the bandit fell away, his face a bloody mask,

Angel cupped the nearest thug’s head in his hands and twisted, the crack of his neck snapping echoing throughout the night.

The remaining thug attempted a back-handed axe swing. Xulon gasped again when

Angel snatched a hold of the axe’s shaft and tore it out of his grip, flinging the axe blade-

first into a near-by tree before butting the man full in his face, his opponent’s nose

shattering under the impact. The injured bandit staggered backwards, blood flooding

down his face and chest, Angel putting him down with a flawlessly executed spin-kick.

Another thug charged the warrior from behind, sword thrusting at the man’s kidneys.

Angel twisted away from the attack. The sword sliced across the man’s lower back even

as he spun into a heel kick that connected with the side of the bandit’s head, knocking

him to the ground. Xulon shuddered as she saw the man’s eyes momentarily flicker

golden as he leapt into a drop kick into the chest. Across from Angel, she could see

Illyria and Connor tearing through the bandits, beating them with an inhuman ease.

She had a far bigger question to ask now. Just what were her companions?

* * *

"Greetings sage Rupert, may I come in?"

Giles stared uncertainly at the noble stood framed in the doorway, his bodyguard lurking

behind, not quite sure how the rules regarding vampires worked here. Of course, if Angel

didn’t combust in the sunlight, he could be reasonably sure that the invitation rule was

probably waived. Still, he slid a hand inside his jacket as he nodded.

"Thank you," Earl Fortis strode into the small apartment the resistance had loaned him,

and sat opposite.

After a silence, Giles spoke, asking the question that tortured his every moment. "Have you heard any reports about my companions?"

"I’m afraid not." The noble half-smiled. "They’re rather more than just your colleagues aren’t they?"

"I find to be an effective leader, one has to care about those he commands," Giles smiled wryly. "But Willow and Xander are like my own children. I also have a certain fondness for Faith, Kennedy, Vi, and Rona. Angel and his group, I don’t particularly know, but they’re more than competent at what they do, and eminently trustworthy. "

"It’s a task all of its own, isn’t it?" Giles raised an eyebrow at the noble’s oblique question. The earl chuckled. "Being a leader, being forced to sit by and wait while others fight your battles for you.

"Oh yes." A wave of pain crashed over him as he remembered the early days with Buffy, worrying about her, but being helpless to do anything to aid her. The teams that everyone worked in today for made things somewhat safer, but he still worried. "It is difficult."

Difficult beyond measure.

The earl chuckled at his evident distress. "Then perhaps," the noble produced a bottle of wine from under his cape, "you’d had best bolster your spirits then by reminding yourself just how accomplished your friends are. Petro told me you and your companions have had considerable adventures. I’d be honoured to hear them."

Giles forced a smile as the earl poured two glasses of wine. "And I’d be honoured to share them."

* * *

"Oh such high walls, such strong guards," Piccata Torta giggled as he stared on the shadow-shrouded rebel stronghold. "They’ll avail you little though Rupert Giles." He giggled again, excitement pumping through his veins at the thought of another kill. "The question is will you quietly cross into death’s embrace. Or will you sob and plead?" In the end though, it wouldn’t matter, the inter-dimensional traveller would still be dead.

"Damn," Faith whispered as she looked around. The town just ahead looked derelict, the walls surrounding it having fallen in several places, and the buildings inside in a similar state of disrepair. Worse still was the dull air that seemed to surround the town. She looked towards their guide for guidance. "What the hell happened here?"

"The Urads are hardy people, a race that bend but don’t break," Bellator spat on the ground. "At least they didn’t. Azarel bombarded their cities for seasons. First, the Shadow Fang, sneaking in at night to slay the country’s political, business, and military leaders as they slept. Then came Wanax’s beasts, his monsters pillaging the nation’s forests, decimating the smaller villages, destroying their crops and polluting their rivers. Next was the Howling Hordes, laying siege to towns and cities just like the one ahead. Still the Urads clung on, forcing the Hordes to fight for every inch. Then, the emperor himself entered the fray, decimating walls with a single glance and burning cities to the ground with a gesture. Now the Purge and Magic-Tamers work almost without impediment, the practically entire nation cowed."

"Jesus," Faith shivered at the image laid out by Bellator’s grim recital, "this Azarel bastard is hardcore." Things could be pretty bad in their world, but this was a terrifying insight into just how much worse things could be.

"Indeed," Bellator nodded.

"That’s why we’re here," Xander commented from the other side of Bellator, "to stop him."

"Yeah," Faith snorted sceptically. "Good luck with that." Faith glanced towards their guide. "You said the Keenest Blade still operate here, how in the hell do they manage that?"

"Probably not as easily as they’d like," Bellator replied with a sour smile. "They assassinate Azarel-appointed officials, disrupt tax collections, ambush Purge patrols, and snatch mages before the Magic-Tamers get to them."

"They must be continually mobile to do all that," commented Xander. "How are we supposed to find them?"

"You wouldn’t." Bellator smiled as he looked towards the city. "That’s why you need me."

Faith shivered again as they entered the city, its dark dreariness and pervading depressing air combining to press down on her chest, crushing her. A dank mist shrouded the city in an unforgiving darkness. Torches flared in the city’s murky streets as the city held their nightly, riotous carnival, uninhibited by the laws and social conventions that restrained any society with rules or values; all those had been swept away in the carnage. Along the crooked, unpaved streets with their heaps of stinking refuse and sloppy puddles drunken revellers staggered, oblivious of the glinting daggers awaiting them in the shadows. Shrill laughter of whores, accompanied by the sound of frenzied couplings, echoed through the winding streets. Lurid torchlight flickered through dirty and broken windows and flung-open doors, and out of these doors the smell of bitter wine and stale, sweaty bodies and the sound of raucously obscene songs and rough laughter rushed out like a hammer blow to the head.

Kinda reminded her of a weekend she spent in the Bronx back in her pre-Slayer days.

Suddenly Bellator pulled up his horse and looked toward her and Xander. "This way," he growled before starting down an alley, Faith’s eyes furrowing as she noted a strange diagram scratched on the wall’s left corner. The road turned into a T-junction, their guide doggedly leading them left down an alley so narrow that they had to go one at a time, and then left up a wider hill road before finally coming to a stop outside an alehouse on the left.

"That diagram back at the alley," Faith leapt off her horse before continuing. "That was a message wasn’t it?"

"Most astute," Bellator praised, a wry smile tugging at his weathered face. "The Keenest Blade always had a code, a way of communicating when we’re cut off and behind enemy lines."

"I thought you said Malus Bellum used to be a member?" Xander queried. "Couldn’t he have taught it to outsiders?"

"Ha!" Bellator chuckled. "You kids don’t miss much do you?" The old soldier’s expression sobered. "When Bellum turned traitor, all the codes were changed."

"And what did that code say?" Faith queried.

"It said that any one seeking information on The Keenest Blade should follow the road to the left until they reached the first inn, then ask there." Bellator glanced up at the inn. "And here we are."

"Yeah," Faith glared up at the looming three-storey building. Like the rest of the city it had seen better days, soot clung to it like a second skin, obscuring the letters on the sign that hung over the dirty double doors, while the sound of forced revelry and slightly over-cooked food floated through its cracked windows.

"Remember the story," Bellator prompted as they headed towards the stables at the back of the inn.

"You’re an older Keenest Blade member sponsoring your son and daughter for membership," Xander replied, voice taut with tension. "We remember."

* * *

Sweat leaked down Wood’s face, the dank, sultry air making it difficult for him to breathe. Wood glared at his two companions, noting they weren’t suffering under the same restrictions he was.

Wood shook his head as he looked around, mind boggling at the seemingly ceaseless green. As a New Yorker he could barely comprehend some much green.

Jabari’s hand snapped up, the giant Shem coming to a halt and dropping to a crouch. "What is it?" Wood started slightly, his own whisper sounding very loud in the jungle’s sudden darkness.

Jabari’s head snapped towards him, the Shem’s volcanic glare silencing him before turning back to the front. The Shem began to rise.

And leapt back when a huge machete swung through the undergrowth, missing his head by inches.

Xulon licked her lips, eyes fixed on the man leading them. They were deep in the Border-Lands, the wild area of land that had for centuries kept the Highlanders’ teeth from their throats until a far fouler monster had devoured both their lands. The barren lands’ winds whipped at them, but only he and the blue-haired one called Illyira seemed unfazed by it.

All around were the wastelands, warped caricatures of trees and hedges sitting on an ash-grey landscape, shadows permanently shifting as if some creature hid in them.

Perhaps even Ferals.

Xulon shuddered at the thought. She was still breathing so obviously she’d never met a Feral, and had no wish to do so, but she’d heard stories. It was said that centuries they’d be humans, simple villagers living in what was now the Border Lands. Then something, some suspected a spell, had occurred, warping the land and its inhabitants. Now what creatures remained were all predators, and the Ferals with their combination of numbers, human cunning, animal savagery, and inhuman strength were top of the food chain.

Ferals wore the skins of their kills and feasted indiscriminately on anyone or anything that entered the Border Lands. Many had tried to settle it, desperate for somewhere to live that was free of anyone’s rules, but until the Emperor had led his legions across, mercilessly killing any Feral that got in their way, none had managed to traverse the Border Lands.

Xulon shivered. Their group was too small, too small to make this journey safely. Even now she could feel the shadows closing in on her-.

Xulon shook her head, re-focusing on the handsome mystery riding beside her. Anxious for anything to take her mind off the Ferals, she confronted the enigma. "What are you?" she demanded. "The question’s been plaguing me since that night with the bounty hunters. You move too fast, it’s not possible-."

"It is if you’re me." The man turned to her, eyes steady. "Myself and my companions aren’t normal. Illyria is," the man smiled wryly, "or at least was, a member of a race of gods that once ruled my world but was banished eons ago. She returned through magic in a lesser form in the body of an old friend. I’m," the man’s eyes hardened to obsidian, "a demon, the worst of my kind until I was given a human soul. Now I fight-." Suddenly the man was leaping from his horse diving for the darkness.

Xulon gasped as a wiry shap leapt from the shadows to meet the ‘demon’, its face all wide eyes and slavering teeth, the air filling with its snarls and her nostrils with its stench.

The Ferals were here.

* * *

"We’re here."

Kennedy glanced up at the circular walled town before them. The town had a classical, Oriental like beauty, with more than few spires peeking out from behind its walls, piercing the swirling clouds up above. Inside was more of the same, flowing-lined almost delicate looking buildings interspersed with the grubby houses of the peasants.

The city that their escort led them into was filled with narrow, barely two abreast, and winding streets with plenty of spots ideal for ambush. "Perfect siege city," Kennedy muttered, eyes flitting left and right as he noted the citizens’ wary faces as they passed by. She also noticed the lack of happily-playing children, common to all the villages and towns they’d passed through, clearly House Flash-Dagger was a city bathed in fear.

"It was here the Hordes first hit," Kennedy glanced towards Torvas, the former infantry soldier’s face etched in grimness. "The Ishanti have a military that grew up fighting and killed four for every one they lost, but it mattered little, the Howling Hordes outnumbered them by twelve to one, the city fell within the Ten-Day, and they moved on to more major houses."

Kennedy grimaced as she heard feet scurrying to her left and looked into the shadows to see rats at the feet of an one-armed beggar. "Why are we here?" she whispered.

"’Tis the nearest House to the border," muttered Trachy, the normally carefree cavalry officer looking drawn. "We’ll try here for news of the resistance."

"Bar," Torvas grunted before ducking through an arched doorway.

The bar within was brightly illuminated, light coming from lanterns dangling from the roof, each one coloured differently so to cause a sort of medieval strobe lightning. The tables were at knee height, the patrons lounging on cushions sprawled across the floor, and served drinks by delicate-featured beauties clad in flowing, barely-there silks. "Keep your mind on the job, yo."

Kennedy tore her eyes away from one particularly alluring serving wench to glare at Rona. "Funny."

"I thought so," her grinning fellow-Slayer agreed.

"I’ll ask some -."

The door behind them swung open and a hatchet faced man strode in, half a dozen hard-faced men striding behind him. "Time for this month’s protection," the leader declared, his eyes zeroing in on her. "Foreign lasses? Hope you’re not moving in new talent without checking first. You know all girls have to be checked first."

Torvas smiled uneasily. "Gentle sir, we’re just visitors to your fine land, we don’t want any tro-."

"Well you’ve got some," the men’s leader snapped. "Grab them."

* * *

Giles sighed as he reached the darkened room that his fellow resistance fighters had so kindly given him. It was hardly luxurious, he mused as he lit its solitary candle. Just a simple bed in a quiet room at the back of an inn.

But it was probably a lot better than any of his charges with the exception of Willow would enjoy tonight. "Not even a roof over some of their heads I shouldn’t wonder," he muttered with a baleful glance at the low-beamed ceiling.

He was getting old, he shook his head. No that wasn’t it, all this worry was making him old.

"That’s what fathers do," he muttered, voice heavy with longing. His eyes narrowed as a shadow to his left seemed to shift. Normal eyes wouldn’t have caught it, but one accustomed to battling vampires and training Slayers couldn’t afford to have merely normal eyes. He reached with a studied casualness for the cosh he’d placed on the table beside the stick.

And then something lunged out of the shadows.

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