His uncle had once told Ian Blackthorn that to master the Dance of Blades one had to shut out all else but the blades, both his and that of his opponent. The intricate pattern of steel passed down from warrior to warrior among his mother's people demanded no less than total concentration even in the practice of the forms. In which case, Ian was failing on this overcast day; failing miserably. For the third time in as many minutes, Ashevathallion extended his sword arm past Ian's guard and delivered a stinging slap to Ian's upper shoulder.

"Sloppy, Iannon, sloppy!" The elf lowered his practice sword and regarded his nephew with narrowed eyes. "You are troubled. Perhaps we should continue this later, when you can devote more attention to the Dance.

"Thank you, Uncle. I apologize for my inattention." Ian bowed to Ashe and after his kinsman bowed in turn, he walked out the side door of the arena, stopping only to grab his tunic and sword belt on the way. It was turning cooler and he quickly pulled the tunic over his head, checking to be sure it didn't obstruct the daggers sheathed at his wrists. Then he set out into the gardens, taking the long path that wound down towards the pond and then to the rear garden gate. Something was wrong; he could not put a finger on it, but there was something, and he was worried.

There was Talor, for one thing. So far the former student of the great Merlin had proved elusive, but he was ranging closer to Camelot, and now there was that stretch of forest beyond the river where scouts had entered but not returned. Ian had been forced to divert a few of the elven trackers to the O'Donnell matter, but most of his best men were sitting on this side of the river, and chaffing at the bit to cross it. For now, they'd have to wait, and watch for any sign of Talor crossing to this side. Lord Blackhawke had sent Ian copies of the reports and maps tracking the child stealer's progress, each one marked with Hawke's notes and comments faithfully transcribed. The latest put the estimated arrival in two weeks.

Two weeks, and then children would begin to disappear.

Ian reached out with his Gift, briefly checking the wards he had placed about the hidden Blood Stone. It was still there, untouched. He wondered if he might distract Talor, taunting him how he'd lost the stone, or even by offering it in trade for some child's life. It grated to even consider bartering with what held a child's soul in exchange for another, but if it came to that, he would do it. And as horrible as it might sound, if he told this to anyone else but Skye, Talor was not what worried him the most.

It was Lord Blackhawke.

Ever since Tav, `Hawke's former squire, had asked him if their liegelord seemed somehow changed, Ian had begun to observe Blackhawke closely. Much to his discomfort, something DID seem wrong with Stephan Blackhawke. Ian could feel it, but restricted both by his own codes and by those of his lord, the half-elf was unable to confirm it. A Healer could not interfere unasked, and Blackhawke would never countenance Healing anyway. But there was something wrong. There were things anyone could see if they were knowledgeable enough: tightening of the mouth, a strain around the eyes, a hand put out to steady oneself as he rose. He worried for the man he both served and thought of as a friend. Perhaps he should speak to Xan about this.

He finally reached the rear garden gate and slipped the sword belt on so that Deathkiss rode in its sheath across his back. A sudden gust of wind stirred the trees and was cool enough to make him shiver as he slipped over the gate and into the forest.

The seasons were about to change, and Ian Blackthorn worried about what other changes the Autumn might bring to Camelot.

09/2000


Blood Stones II

"Don't fall in, Miles!"

The tavern erupted in loud hoots of laughter as the mercenary paused in the open doorway to stare back balefully at the roomful of mostly drunken men. "BAH! If I can't find the jacks in the dark I'll retire and sit by the fire like an old man!" He waved cheerfully, leered at the girl he'd "played" with earlier in the night and started once more out door. It hadn't closed all the way when it suddenly reverberated with a loud thud, and then, creaking, it swung back open.

Pinned to the door by a war arrow, Miles looked at the shaft through his chest and then died.

Some three hundred yards from the tavern door, Ian drew back the string of his longbow level with his ear and then released the arrow, sending it through the open doorway into the men milling about inside. By the time it dawned on the mercenaries that they were under attack, four more had followed. Six arrows in half a minute; there were Welsh archers in Skye's company who could fire up to 15 a minute, but six were enough to suit Ian's purposes for starters. If this was going to work, he had to move quickly. He set his bow aside for a few seconds as he took flint and steel and struck sparks to a pile of wood shavings. The mercenaries wouldn't stay inside all night.

He'd read the reports about this location as soon as Tav had sent them. He'd also heard how Blackhawke had eluded the Lizard Men by masking his scent with bear grease. Ian grinned to himself as he imagined Xan's reaction to THAT! He had decided to modify Hawke's strategy a bit. He'd gone hunting for badgers and, ironically enough, otters. He'd removed the musk glands from the kill and then made a foul smelling liquid from them (at a VERY far distance from Camelot.) He'd gotten six small clay bottles of the brew that he had fervently hoped would not break open while he carried them. His luck had held, and three of them had been used already, thrown at trees to break open after he'd passed them to mask his trail. He had been here in time for the full moon to rise and give him all the light a half-elf really needed to hunt at night, which was going to be quite unlucky for some of Zephyr's men.

The kindling finally caught and Ian grabbed a heavier arrow from the ground beside him. The yelling inside the tavern was louder and the mercenaries who had already been abed were now spilling out into the road running through the middle of the village. Ian let the flaming arrow fly and watched as it arced up into the night and hit a hay wagon. He sent two more fire arrows in its wake, then ran for a second position halfway around the edge of the field. Behind him, the small fire had caught the attention of his targets and the more sober and alert among them were racing towards it.

Before they were halfway there, Ian had reached the second cluster of arrows he'd left at his next point of attack and fired another six. He didn't take time to aim at specific targets, just sent arrows into the group and let them do the work. There were five spots around the edge of the field where he'd left ammunition, each group of arrows with different fletchings, the hope being the different feather patterns would convince Zephyr's men that at least five archers had penetrated their defences. He spent less than a minute at each spot, now letting the burning hay backlight the men who were too drunk or stupid to realize standing together in small angry groups made them easier to hit. He shook his head. Zephyr's men were too proud to throw themselves to the ground until they could see where the archers were firing from concealment. Ferret would have given the survivors a tongue lashing for such denseness.

It was only six minutes from the time of the first arrow until Ian had reached the far end of the field and the last group of six arrows. These were different. These were his own, each made of ash and stained black, each with the elven runes for the name Firnadan carved just above the fletching: gifts from the Dead Man. He sent the first five off into the night, then as he reached for the sixth, a nasty idea struck him. He used his spare bowstring to lash the smallest of the clay bottles of the stinkoil to the arrow, drew the bow as far back as he could, and released. He grinned as it landed in the midst of the flames and a cloud of smoke spread out among the men.

"Compliments of Firnadan! Tell Zephyr it will take more than a loud wind to frighten Camelot." He let a loud mocking whoop echo across the field, then whirled and melted back into the woods, one hand already holding one of the clay bottles ready for the Lizard Men.

Halfway back, one of the bottles broke against his leg.

Skye made him sleep outside until he found a way to dispel the odor.

11/2000


Blood Stones III

"Timmons?"
"Aye, m'lord?"
"What's the wager this time?"

On the edge of a small clearing a few miles north of Camelot, Ian Blackthorn grinned in the late afternoon sun at the veteran. Timmons hooted and spat in the grass.

"Wondered how long it was going to take for you to get around to asking. Should have bet on that!"

Ian chuckled as he stuck four arrows into the dirt next to his feet. "Out with it, Sergeant!"

Timmons busied himself stringing his longbow as he answered. "Well, as it `tis, I've two. The first is you'll hit everything you shoot at this night."

"You had a taker on that? Who would bet against me?" Ian asked in mock dismay.

"Recruit. Stinky, the one who spilled that wolverine musk all over himself in the barrack the other eve." Timmons grinned. "He ain't been wi' you long enough to know better than to make that bet."

Having spilled some of the stuff on himself recently, Ian felt a bit of sympathy for the luckless "Stinky". "What was the other wager?"

"Well- Hsst! Here they come!"

From the other side of the clearing a group of men burst into the middle of the clearing. Ian smiled grimly to himself. Fifty of Zephyr's mercenaries spread out warily as they made for the river just beyond the woods. Unfortunately for them, Ian and his men were concealed in those same woods, blocking their route. Ian reached down, picked up an arrow and nocked it before calling out: "You are surrounded! Throw down your weapons!"

"The HELL we will!" shouted back a large redhead near the front. A Dane, Ian decided, as he released the arrow and watched it take the merc in the throat. His second hit another man in the chest, the third in another 's back as he turned to flee. The fourth, he loosed at a warrior charging straight at where Ian stood with Timmons.

It sailed over the man's shoulder.

Ian dropped his bow and drew his longsword with all the speed that was his from his elven blood, but still he had to twist away as the mercenary's sword slashed across at his chest, leaving a cut tunic that Ian would not discover until later. But, it was testimony to how close a thing it might have been if Ian were not also wearing elven mail beneath it. He moved to the left, let the other man's momentum carry him a step past, and then drew his own sword in a wide arc across the body. The Dane seemed to fold in on himself and then crumpled to the ground. By that time Ian had already turned his attention to the rest of the fighting.

Out of fifty men, only twenty were left standing. The rest lay scattered about the clearing, brought down by the men of the Black Watch who now were out in the open, bows drawn and aimed at their targets. One man threw down his sword. "We surrender. We give our parole that we'll leave the country and not bear arms against Camelot."

Ian shook his head. "We do not accept your parole."

"You have to! We're mercenaries! It's how it's done!"

"Is it? Is that what you call raiding the villages and stealing the children for Talor? How it's done?"

"We know about you, Blackthorn! You were one of us once!"

"No." He shook his head. "I was a mercenary, true. But I was never one like you."

He lifted his sword. The clearing sang with arrows.

**********

"You missed that last one deliberately!" Timmons squinted up at Ian before mounting his own horse.

"Did I? You're just mad because you have to pay up to someone named Stinky."

Timmons cursed some, then looked at the dead mercenaries in the grass. "What about them? I hear Blackhawke's put a bounty on their heads. That's a lot of money just lying there."

Ian sighed. "Any man who wishes to bring heads in for the bounty may do so. And then transfer out in the morning. My men fight for Camelot, not for reward bounties."

"Yes, sir! I'll tell them straight away, milord." He turned to relay the order with a grin.

He seemed happy again. Ian groaned to himself. "Timmons? You didn't!"
"Didn't what, milord?"
"You did! You wagered I'd frown on the head taking! That was the other bet!"
"Like I said, m'lord, Stinky ain't been wi' ya long enough to know better."

He rode off to collect his bet.

11/2000


Blood Stones IV

"Sire, may I speak with you?"

Ian looked up from his seat by the hearth and nodded. The Great Hall was quiet this night, and Ian had gratefully sunk into his chair after another day of running several patrols seeking Talor's mercenaries. He looked at the man and nodded "You may." By the grim look on the soldier's face, it was not going to be about anything pleasant.

He was right.

"Sire, couriers have been arriving for the past few hours. Our office is awash in reports from towns and villages. Officials throughout the realm are being killed and thereas affected ask for support."

Blackthorn frowned and sat up, now fully alert. "What sort of officials?"

"All ranks: sheriffs, magistrates, town leaders, even a few barons. At last count, twenty-two sheriffs have died."

Ian stood.

"Sire, there is more. We've noticed a pattern. The deaths spiral closer and closer to Camelot." The corporal stepped back slightly as Ian scowled and thought.

"Alright, Corporal. Draw up a list of the locations of the deaths. Tell Lt. Marcus I want men sent to take temporary command of the vacant positions, preferably older veterans below officer rank, corporals such as yourself. They are to restore order and ready the defences. In the cases of the dead barons, send junior officers of noble birth. Gods know we have enough younger sons of minor barons underfoot here. I want these men dispatched immediately."

The corporal nodded. "Should we send a patrol to Blackhawke Castle? We're wondering why all the salley port fires are burning. The whole castle is lit up."

That stopped Ian in his tracks. "They are?"

"Aye, burning like the midday sun."

"I came in from the main gate; Blackhawke Castle isn't visible from there." He paced a bit. "Yes. Send a patrol with details of what you told me and my orders. Find milord Hawke, or failing that, Lady Xan. Wait for a reply."

The corporal nodded, started for the door and then hesitated and looked back at Ian. "Sire…the reports we're getting back from the front show more resistance. The mercenaries are fighting back in earnest now." He hurried off.

Ian walked across to a shelf behind Chamberlain's desk and took down a map. He could have told the Corporal that last bit of news himself from what he'd seen on his patrols this day. Walking to a nearby table he unrolled the map and set candles at the corners to hold it spread out. The river was the key. He'd thought that for awhile now. There were very few places it could be forded, and most were at the midpoint of it's course across the kingdom. The current at the eastern and western ends made those points impassable. His finger stabbed at three closely spaced red marks, the location of the three quickest crossing points. There! He looked at the map a few minutes more, eyes scanning the areas to either side of the crossing points and then further south towards Camelot. He grabbed a quill and inkpot from Chamberlain's desk and made some notations on the parchment, then shouted for a guard. One came rushing in and saluted.

"Aye, m'lord?"

"Messages to all commanders. My compliments to them, and a request for them to meet me as soon as possible in the barracks office." The guard ran out as Ian turned back to the table and rolled up the map, mind racing.

In all the years he'd served Blackhawke, he'd never know his liege to command from the rear lines. He and Xan had wondered whether the Hawke was not as healthy as he tried to act, and this absence only made Ian wonder more. And now Hawke's castle appeared to be on high alert. Something was not right. As for the mercenaries, they had exhausted his patience. What he planned was not going to be easy to pull off, but if it worked correctly, the mercenary forces would be decimated.

He headed off for the meeting.

11/2000