As he modded the Royal Scepter, it dawned on Ace that he had become accustomed to working in cloth — weaving and cutting and shaping it to another Dollamancer's specifications. And though he never stopped resenting that, at least the actual work of each turn gave him the satisfied feeling of fulfilling his Duty. Only this sudden shift — to freely working in accessories, using his feel for action, his mind, his strength — made him aware that he had actually gotten used to something he hated.

Likewise, there was nothing to like about the stiff shaking of the Tower of Jenga, the swaying and vibrating with each blast of dwagon breath. But there was real satisfaction in explaining his items to King Slately. Finally, his Ruler could see some of the possibilities of Dollamancy in action!

So Ace had tuned out the siege attack. And only when something changed did he realize he had stopped minding it. Another blast hit them from below, but this time the tower did not shake.

It crunched, almost softly.

The floor dropped a few inches, enough to make everyone stumble. When they regained their footing, the city walls and horizon looked a little tilted. The archers murmured and tried to re-form their jostled formation.

King Slately, who'd hardly stumbled at all, was now standing with only one foot touching the tilting tower floor. The armor backplate was granting the King a sudden nimble dexterity. Some part of Ace's mind understood that, and was weirdly proud to see the item work so well so soon.

Another, more survival-oriented part of his mind was listening to the King's frantic voice, as His Highness turned and pointed his scepter.

"To mounts. To mounts!!" (Dollamancer and Hat Magician, the unspoken part of the order's intent.)

Ace glanced at his little bud Cubbins for the briefest moment. He was wide-eyed, scared. They turned in unison and bolted for their waiting Unipegataurs. The mounts were only a few steps away but suddenly those steps were uphill. And the floor was descending again, inch by inch.

Loping forward, the Dollamancer tackled his Uni by the waist and performed a twisting leap into the saddle. The saddle horn somehow caught him square below the sternum. He was blinded by the pain of it for a moment, struggling to catch a breath. There was a lot of noise. People were shouting "Your Majesty!" and "Highness!" and for some reason "Prince!" and "Ossomer!"

When he could, he looked up to make sure Cubbins had made it, too.

Cubbins' mount was riderless.

That was the first thing he saw. Then he saw Ossomer, in Jetstone livery. The King was staring at him. Huh. ...Huh?

Finally, he saw an archery unit atop the third empty Uni, the one the King had requested but would not need. Cubbins was helping the Archer into the saddle.

"What are you doing?!" Ace shouted. Cubbins shot him a glance he couldn't understand. The stones near the tower's edge began crumbling away. An archer fell over the lost edge, shouting. The floor lurched and fell a little more.

Of course! Cubbins was grabbing one more unit for the stack, one more they could save, one more they could use in combat. Brave, though risky. Why hadn't Ace thought of that himself? His little friend was running toward his own mount now. There was time, the floor hadn't caved yet. He could still get up...

Then Cubbins grabbed another archer by the arm. He began helping her into the saddle.

"NO!" shouted Ace. "Cubbins, what in the...Titan's tinkle hole are you doing?!" The other archer took the reins, looking equally bewildered.

Cubbins turned and looked Ace squarely in the eye. A flight of orlies burst from the tower interior crying, "Fol! Fol!" A frantic white wing caught Ace across the side of the face. He just shook his head and stared at the little Hat Magician.

Cubbins said nothing, but swallowed hard. Sadly, he saluted Ace. A cry went up from the ranks of archers as the tower cracked like the snap of a jaw, and the floor fell away for good.

Ace was airborne. And the sky was ablaze with light.

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

Monica's face scrunched up. "Rachel, you remember when we said weren't going to talk about him any more? Didn't you agree to that?"

"Well, it's worth thinking about," said Rachel. "Right? I mean, he's the ehn- He's the opposing force now."

Phoebe, who was usually quiet when Rachel and Monica squabbled, said softly, "It's okay. I can't say 'enemy,' either."

By order of the Chief Warlord, the Decrypted Archons were scattered around Spacerock's airspace in small stacks, as far apart as possible. The three of them now huddled together over a rampart populated by several stacks of Jetstone archers, giving upskirts on the outskirts to spoil the enemy's aim. If volleys started, their only orders were to stay alive as long as possible. That meant Foolamancy, Shockmancy, or anything else, and pantyshots were about the only shots they could fire right now.

"Yeah, because he's not the enemy," Monica said irritably. "Mistress has an Arkentool, Charlie has an Arkentool, Lord Stanley has an Arkentool, and there's one other. And they'll all come together some turn. So we're all on the same side. That's the way the Titans see it. You want to see it another way? That's you being crazy." She folded her arms.

"Charlie sees it another way," said Rachel.

"Okay, well he's wrong."

Rachel and Phoebe stared at Monica for a very long moment.

Before the Battle for Gobwin Knob, the infallibility of Charlie's wisdom had been the rock upon which all their truths about the world were built. Each of them might be sent off to fight in some battle or spy on some situation they barely understood, but the fact that Charlie knew everything made it okay.

Knowing better than Charlie was a new and uncomfortable feeling.

Rachel cleared her throat. "I know he's wrong. But while he's wrong...he's the opponent. He put us in this situation." She looked down, indicating the approximately five dozen archers directly below their shoes.

"You don't know that," said Phoebe, her voice a distant but defiant whisper.

Rachel shot a look at Phoebe. "Oh please," she snapped. "You're in even more denial than her. The Arkendish's feel was all over that Turnamancy spell."

"I guess." Phoebe looked away, at the enemy tower. It was quivering slightly with the blast of breath from an unseen purple dwagon. Warlord Ossomer hovered near the veranda. Was he parleying with the enemy King again? It looked that way. "It's just like, so different now."

Monica put her hand on Phoebe's arm. "I know, honey."

"Mistress admits she's not great with battle tactics. But there's nobody better than Charlie," said Rachel. "We should be trying to think of what he'd do in our situation. Or what he might do next."

"Mistress says Lord Hamster's better," said Monica, but the doubt in her voice was clear. Rachel just looked at her. "What? He did the dwagon-harvesting thing, that was good." Rachel continued to stare, until Monica looked away, saying, "Okay what could he do? It's not even Charlescomm's turn..."

"It's the Coalition's turn," said Rachel. "And he wants them to win. Their King is going down with that tower, and they have no heir. So the side will just end. He could loan them the money to promote an heir right now."

Phoebe looked at Monica, who frowned. "Charlie doesn't make bad bets. Even with an heir, we'd still wipe out Jetstone eventually. And Charlie doesn't get paid back? Shhyuh. That's a Rule 17 violation."

"'Don't bet on the lame runner, unless you know you can shoot the healthy one.'," quoted Phoebe. She sounded wistful.

"Yeah," said Monica. "When you know a side's going to fall, you don't give them anything. You take what they have left."

Rachel nodded. "Corollary to 17, 'Betting on the healthy runner and shooting the lame one is the better bet.'"

"Maybe he's not ready for Jetstone to fall, though," said Phoebe. "You know? If they go now, all their cities'll go barbarian. But if they retreat, he can milk them dry."

Monica put her hands on her hips and looked at the tower, thoughtfully. "Yeah. That's possible."

Rachel shook her head. "No. I think he thought that spell would work. I don't think he thought Jetstone was going to fall."

Monica suddenly raised her head. "You think maybe he still can shoot the healthy runner?"

There was worried silence, as they looked at one another. "You guys?" whispered Phoebe, "That's us."

Another distant boom rumbled from the direction of the tower, and Rachel stared angrily at its cracking facade. "Could that thing take any longer to fall?"

"I know, right?"

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

Playfully, it tickled Lady Sylvia's nose with the breeze of a Jetstone arrow, traveling past her eyes. Fwiff! Hi there. Tee hee!

And not flying downward like the arrows before, but sideways. Someone nearby was trying for her. Someone wanted her dust to float upon the breeze.

She looked up and spotted a Level 8 female warlord with a stack of a dozen knights, lurking in a passageway within the garrison walls. She grinned, as much to share the joke with Fate as to greet her opposite. Someone looked very disappointed.

The knights charged her stack at once. But their muscular legs were not faster than Sylvia's fingers, which she brought to her mouth and licked. Hampered a bit by a smile she couldn't quite let go of, she managed to rip a shrill whistle to the stack of red and green dwagons positioned along the wall, off to her right rear flank. Engage. Burn 'em up.

The vantage from the servants' corridor hadn't given Artemis the complete tactical picture, she now saw. As her stack emerged, charging, her heart leapt at the number of decrypted dwagons actually positioned along this side of the Atrium. The redhead had not been quite so careless about her flanks as it appeared.

Only one stack was near enough to force an engagement before they could reach the purples, though: three reds and three greens, with a Heavy Hobgobwin Knight. Restricted to the ground by lack of move, the dwagons gallumphed forward like walruses. Their tiny arms lifted their bodies up just enough for their powerful legs to vault them forward, but it made for a surprisingly swift method of locomotion. In only a few graceless lunges, they crashed into Artemis' stack. Roar! We're here. Whatcha gonna do about it?

"Greens!" she shouted, without breaking stride. She drew an arrow from her quiver and juked to the right to screen behind Canidae.

A warlord who rises to Artemis' level will tend to develop a reliable combat instinct, and hers was exceptionally sharp. This decision was instant, but had there been time to break it down consciously, her reasoning would have gone something like this:

Consider your options, Warlady.

So 2 being the only option, the question is order of engagement. We could probably eliminate the combo effect by taking out all of one color or the other before we take hits in retaliation. The reds can do more damage, but my stack is tough. We can probably all withstand one round of un-boosted fire. But if we hit the reds and leave the greens, the gas breath might get lucky and croak one of us instantly, maybe me. We stand a much better chance of wiping out the greens, anyway. So, Knights vs. greens, and screen for my bow. Give order. Go.

If anything, she underestimated her powerful Knights. In fours, they cut into the greens with ferocious swipes and cuts. The first one burst before Artemis could nock her arrow. It was like nothing she had ever witnessed. The decrypted dwagon's flesh went ashen for the merest moment, then the gas inside it blew up in a ball of green, outlined by black dust. The cloud floated straight up and away, while the dust slid away from it and fell off like like a discarded skin.

She had a bead on one of the other two greens, but held her arm cocked. Perhaps she could save a shot?

Surely enough, both dwagons went up in similar clouds of green and black, as her eager Knights scored brilliant slash and stab hits. She had never seen them fight quite like this. Titans, had any of them missed?

The reds were rearing and sniffing to prepare a breath attack. Artemis took aim at one, and placed a shot through its nostril. The arrow disappeared entirely into the dwagon's head. Its eyes became Os, then Xs, then boom. There was her crit, disband it!

Before that red had fully exploded into a dusty fireball, the other two opened a storm of flame down upon the Jetstone attackers. Artemis felt the searing heat, and shielded her face with her arm, but she was screened from any actual damage. Her Knights accounted for more than the maximum number of targets for two reds, but had she not felled the third, she would have been scorched. The fire bloomed before her, engulfing her brave units. Their screams were muffled by the roar of flame, but they seemed more defiant than agonized.

Into the still-smoking wounded charged the Hobgobwin Heavy Knight, a unit she had never seen and rarely heard of. Even unled, something like that was a formidable threat. While Artemis' eyes were still clearing from the fire, the Hobgobwin singled out the two most heavily wounded, Proplan and Iams, and croaked them both with a swift double-stroke of its broadsword. Now they were eleven.

No orders were needed now. Artemis withdrew another arrow as her burned and scarred Knights tore into the remaining three enemy units at will. If their luck continued, she dared hope they might win the engagement without taking more damage.

Then suddenly Innova fell, by enemy arrow to the chest. Now they were ten. Artemis glanced at his body, lying on the paving stones among the boots of his comrades. It looked to be an expert shot, by a very skilled or perhaps well-led (or just lucky) archer. She looked around, but could spot no-one.

Well, two could play at the sport of popinjay. Archery worked independently of engagement, after all. She readied the arrow and returned to her original objective. It might be unusual to pick a target outside the stack one was engaged against, but she could take a shot at any target within range.

If she got another crit, they might all yet live to see another turn.

The redhead's attention seemed divided. It looked as if she didn't want to look away from the skirmish, but also would not tolerate a delay on the next siege volley. Artemis kept an eye to her, waited until she was glancing away to give an order, then quickly struck a clout archer's pose. It wouldn't be her most careful shot, but it did feel very good as she loosed it high. Maybe...

CRIMP

Wood splinters tumbled.

An incoming arrow, aimed at Artemis (and certain to hit her), had collided with her own arrow in midair.

Too furious to be amazed at the sheer Luckamancy of it, she mentally traced the arc of the enemy arrow and spotted the source, at last. (To her left, one of the red dwagons exploded. Artemis barely noticed.) There, behind the redhead and stacked with her, hunkered behind the tail of a purple, was a dismounted Gobwin Knob warlord with a bow.

She glanced back to her fighters. The Hobgobwin and the other dwagon had taken massive damage, but were still fighting. Fire came down again, and then they were nine. The Hobgobwin, nearly hacked to bits, still swung. They were eight...

But winning the engagement from that point was almost an afterthought. The Hobgobwin went down in a brier bush of bright steel, and Eukanuba leveled with a swipe that dusted the dwagon.

Artemis wasted no further time. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and used it to stab the air in the direction of the redhead's stack. "Go!" she tried to shout. But she swallowed instead. The order was clear enough, anyway.

Her Knights, several of them badly wounded and charred, still covered the twenty-five paces of ground as if launched from Artemis' bow. They lost another on the way. That daemon of a warlord dropped Merrick with a crit to the throat, just as Beneful engaged the first purple.

They were seven. But now she had the redhead's full attention, and the initiative as well! Despite having just ordered her mount to inhale for a blast at the tower, the enemy Warlord turned her dwagons to the melee. The archer Warlord was somewhere out of sight. Artemis readied her arrow, allowing her Knights to choose how they would screen her shot. And how they would meet the Titans.

The first purple blew to dust with a horrible deep sound that she felt in her kneecaps. She had her shot, but the redhead was staring at her with smiling eyes, absent of any fear. Those eyes said, "I know something you don't know."

Suddenly, Artemis looked around in a panic, and lost the shot. Where was the archer Warlord? Where was he? The purples tore into her Knights now. Clawing, biting off limbs. Two of them grabbed Max and ripped him in half. Acana fell as well.

A tail moved. And there behind it, crouched to the ground, the warlord with the bow was taking aim on her. But...somehow...there was an arrow in the air between them?

The enemy Warlord jerked, loosing a wild shot. He fell to his back, a white-feathered arrow in his shoulder, and lay still.

She didn't understand who could have shot that arrow. In her mind, she traced its flight backwards. Someone behind her? No...that wasn't right. She looked down.

Her bow was empty. She had shot it herself.

Oh.

Lips together, she silently drew another arrow, as her last five Knights rushed to spend their lives to allow her to use it.

Sylvia understood what the blond Warlord was thinking, what she was trying. As funny as this game was in many ways, inside her there was a former Royal who had been there. She wasn't completely without sympathy for her opposing number. They were sisters, in a way. Or would be. She looked forward to serving beside this one soon.

But Princess Cupcake there had still cost her a stack of dwagons and a precious purple. They couldn't keep trading high-value units like this. when Captain Archer was hit, she knew it was time to end the game.

She glanced back down at him, looking at his points. Archer was doing something very smart, playing at being incapacitated. If Fate decided to let this woman cut Sylvia's thread, Archer could pop up and take her, then get back to business.

Unlikely though! Not after the dwagonfall. Not today, not today. Her grin returned.

She pointed two unmounted purples at the Jetstone Warlord, but a wounded Jetstone Knight moved to meet each of them. Knights were already occupying the other two mounted ones, and a Valkyrie-class Knight with a horned helm was fighting Sylvia's own mount. Soloing a dwagon, they would all go down quickly, but the blond would get a close-range shot.

She was taking aim now, in fact.

Sylvia raised an eyebrow, looking down the shaft to meet her enemy's eye. Maybe today?

She kicked her mount. "Breathe!"

A sonic blast wave hit the stone at the Valkyrie's feet, churning up the ground and completely blowing the enemy unit to pieces. At the same moment, the Jetstone warlord loosed her arrow.

Silently and slowly, in the deafened moment of the blast, the Warlady's arrow struck the flying helmet of her fallen comrade in mid-air, and deflected away.

The helm clattered to the broken ground.

The Jetstone warlord lowered her bow.

Sylvia blinked.

They looked at one another, unmoving, as one by one the other fighters fell to sword and claw and jaw.

The silence that followed was so complete that Sylvia could not be sure her hearing had returned. Then the Jetstone woman clearly asked, "Why?"

Behind her, Sylvia heard the twang of a bowstring.

"Is it Glorious, Titans?" asked the Warlord, breaking her focus on Sylvia and looking into the infinite distance. Her voice was like wind blowing through a ruin. "Is there Glory in just walking to the slaughterhouse after all?"

From a position flat on his back, Captain Archer had just launched an arrow high overhead, flying nearly straight up. As it fell to back to Erf, its intended target looked up to the heavens with questions only the Titans could answer.

Then the arrow sent her off to ask them.

Sylvia looked around the Atrium, wondering why she no longer felt like laughing. The other two riders said nothing. Captain Archer arose, and stood beside her. An arrowhead was still lodged in his shoulder, but he had broken off the shaft.

"I could have done that blindfolded," he said. "That shot was meant to find her."

Sylvia nodded. "Fate is fate."

"We've got some stray flame," he said, indicating a spot where the fallen reds' breath had ignited part of the Garrison ornamentation.

Sylvia looked at the fire wistfully.

"Barely a candle," she said. "Take some pinks. Go blow it out."

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

And in these moments, Countess Artemis and her Knights moved through the carpeted hallways.

Four steps per boom, then hold. Twelve steps' progress per volley.

Her stack would not be able to move freely for long. There were enemy soldiers in these halls (soldiers who had arisen this morning in Jetstone colors). But the Countess needed a vantage for her longbow, somewhere far enough away from the siege dwagons that she could take a distanced shot at whoever was leading them. Ideally, that would be the Croakamancer with the Arkenpliers, but her Knights had said she had not been spotted during Prince Tramennis' ill-fated charge. There had been action in the Portal Room, and it was speculated that she had already escaped to the Magic Kingdom.

Well, so be it. Artemis would simply shoot out the leadership of the purples, whoever that was. If the Croakamancer had fled, then at least she could lend no bonus to these Decrypted units. And it was that much less likely that Artemis and her Knights might arise in new colors themselves.

All she needed was a crit, and she could feel she had one in her.

Her stack progressed at last to a small servants' corridor looking in on the Atrium, with a remarkably clear view to the red-headed Warlady's flank. Artemis peeked at her counterpart. She rode the most powerful purple, directing sonic blow after blow upon the tower.

The redhead was a Level 6, so a crit was not unlikely. But she was reckless at best and foolish at worst. She had done nothing to protect herself from this angle (or her other flank, for that matter). A shot from here, Titans willing, might save the Kingdom. For they would rush to the King's aid in the confusion, and retrieve His Highness as the Prince had attempted.

Should she miss (admittedly likely) then they would have to rush in and engage that stack. Her orders she gave with hand signals backed by the clarity of her leadership.

I will shoot on the third volley

upon a crit, withdraw

upon a hit or miss, engage the warlord's stack and croak purples

once engaged, screen me for another shot

so long as any of you live, keep screening for my bow

Her Knights looked to her with the gleam of absolute faith, and nodded their understanding. She drew an arrow, nocked it firm.

The red-headed Warlord paused, and looked up. With a businesslike point, she ordered another volley. Two dwagons inhaled.

BOOM

The next pair of purples in the stack inhaled. The Warlord had not moved. Artemis drew back her bowstring.

BOOM

The second volley seemed to do an unusually serious amount of damage to the tower. Portions of the stonework slumped and flaked away.

But Artemis was not distracted. She could feel the range, the distance to her target in her shoulders and her arms. This would be the shot. The third pair of dwagons inhaled.

Sitting upon his brother's carpet, Ossomer had been watching the tower top shake. He thought it odd to see men thrown about and shaken to their knees just a few feet away, though he could feel none of it.

His father, after a moment's initial panic, had taken to standing with his feet apart, hands on hips, looking to the horizon. Twice had the King stumbled, but he had yet to fall.

Ace was doing something with the Royal Scepter, with the Hat Magician close by. Pierce and the Dittomancer were arguing about something, and had once run into the main tower and returned.

Suddenly, a particularly violent blast shivered up the tower. A section of railing and part of the floor of the veranda crumbled away and fell.

In the unreality of the moment, Ossomer's only thought was for the fate of the odd-shaped stone tile he had been dwelling upon moments ago. Looking down, he could swear he spotted it in the falling debris.

He raised his head to the tower top's edge. Yes, it was gone.

The loss of it was...actually something to him. He looked again, unable to believe the stone wasn't there. Was that right?

It had been where it belonged, and now it wasn't. Was that fair?

He looked up at his father, who seemed oblivious to the shouts and rumbles and cracks around him. The stone tile was lost. The tower would crumble and fall.

A tear spilled over his eyelid, completely shocking him. Where did that come from? And where... And where would it fall? Did the Titans really know such things?

Inside him, the Tower Ossomer began to crumble as well.

...BOOM

Headshot. Artemis released, and felt the arrow arc as true as any she had ever loosed upon enemy or game. Her bow fell to her side as she watched it with a rising smile of joy. This arrow would do the Titans' work.

Only now, in the context of the arrow's flight, did she pay heed to the debris that was falling around her target's stack. Glass, masonry and splinters of wooden beams were striking the ground in front of, and even among the enemy dwagons.

The arrow could only be seen as a tiny sliver from here, as it homed true upon her counterpart's red pate. But Artemis' eyes were keen as a superb owl's, and though it took her a moment to understand what she had seen, she did clearly see it happen.

Not two yards from its target, the arrow had struck a falling stone tile and deflected slightly. The redheaded warlord had seen it pass before her eyes.

And then the enemy commander turned her head, locked equally-sharp eyes with Artemis, and grinned.

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

She paced restlessly among them, her boots thunking on stone and her hair a golden pennant flowing behind. Her Knights were deployed to the streets beside the Garrison. Squinting in that direction, she could barely make them out from here. She felt feeble and naked. Almost more than to see Stanley's witch burn, Artemis wanted this battle to end so that she could rejoin her fighters. Her friends.

By the Queen of Faq's Turnamancy gambit, the battle certainly appeared to be won, but she had her doubts. The bombing seemed a bad omen. She watched the skies, as always, and worried. Whatever the circumstances, enemy action down from above was never good.

"Wisdom in the tower," she whispered. It was a plea to the Titans.

Ordered immediately to stand at court, the Level 1 Countess of Firestone rode out with six soldiers and a Knight. Before they camped at turn's end, she had felled a hamhawk from a treetop and a spread eagle from the clear sky. The eagle was so high that she had nocked and loosed the shot before her units could even see it. This was her first (and worst) day of hunting. Her first day alive. On their four-turn journey to Spacerock, their packed provisions went untouched.

When the enemy dwagons began to fall, the archers cheered loudly. Artemis did not. This development was not expected within protocol. It seemed dangerously unusual.

Regardless, she jumped to her Duty. The enemy's profile for flyers had just radically changed. Quickly, methodically, she walked among her stacks and issue new target priorities: Archons by leadership, then Foolamancy, then the rest. She reserved for herself and her elites the warlord shaped as Prince Ossomer, as well as any other flying surprises. The dwagonfall itself could be Foolamancy, after all...

One thousand eight hundred and fifteen turns ago, the Countess Artemis leveled for the first time. In Jetstone's long (and ultimately successful) campaign against the Ad Council, she was serving as adjutant to Prince Forthewin. It was a prestigious position for a Level 1, but the Prince claimed she had a "spark" that he could see. And besides, he had need of her bow.

And later that night, bathed in the glory of victory, she also gave him her spark.

In short order, the Countess' fears were borne out. The Garrison had been ordered evacuated. Infantry streamed out the archway and filled up Mainway. She stood and fretted and looked down upon the streets as less-capable warlords than she tried to assemble them all into something resembling sensible military organization.

"No...break them up," she muttered, far out of anyone's hearing below. "Don't worry about whose they are right now, restack the 1s and move them to side streets! Hurry!"

As this was happening, she was informed that Stanley's Croakamancer had survived. Decryption had left the enemy very strong, right there in the heart of the capital. The King was to evacuate, and might well change the capital to the City of Jetstone, despite the heir-to-pop here in Spacerock.

For the dozenth time she squinted up at the tower top, and down to the archway.

"Who is leading this mess, exactly? What is the plan?"

She hated mass battles.

Four hundred seventy-six turns ago, the Level 7 Countess of Firestone formally hosted the new heir to the throne of Jetstone, Prince Ansom. He was Level 2.

She nodded. "Six hundred forty turns, Your Highness. And to manage a city is to sleep. May I show you a trick?"

When they dragged the last Prince of Jetstone out to the shaded walk beside Mainway, the Countess' internal bowstring had already snapped. The moment she saw the Prince assembling her Knights for a charge into the tower, she broke ranks and ran for the Garrison.

The time that it took her to descend the walls and shoulder her way through the crowd was only a bit less than the time it took for the Chief Warlord to incapacitate himself and wound several of her fighters.

She saluted Tramennis' inert form and shouted, "Your Highness?"

"He's good'n out," said Nutro, her staunch gladiator. "He'll croak on the next turn."

"What were you doing?" Artemis demanded.

"Up to rescue the King," said Purina, her beefy valkyrie. "Purple dwagons hit us. Hittin' the tower now, Warlady."

The nearby booms and cracks of sonic siege attacks would have been enough to convey this last information.

Her trick was an epic feat...of sheer disaster. Prince Ansom's eye healed on the start of the next turn, of course. But the damage was done.

Then he rode away stiffly, and she never saw him again.

The Countess looked to the sky once more. She had a vision, so clear, of the tower falling. King Slately would fall with it, and it would be the last thing in this life she would see. When he hit the ground, they would all go to face the Titans.

Not at all the way she would choose.

"Knights, to me!" shouted Artemis. "Canidae! Alpo! Eukanuba! Stack for stealth! Whatever warlord is leading that siege, that is our target!"

When Ansom was lost at Gobwin Knob, along with a substantial fraction of Jetstone infantry, and Gobwin Knob emerged as an existential threat to the Kingdom... then, and only then, was Artemis freed to hunt. Slately could afford to punish her no longer.

Glancing up once more, she thought of Prince Ossomer. She had been part of his campaign against Haggar; her Knights were the key factor at the Battle for Toughskin. Prince Sammy actually had to withdraw from the city on his turn, or be overrun.

At Court she was still despised, but Ossomer knew. Had known.

She'd had her action. She even leveled once more, to 8. She had done her Duty. But glory? That seemed ever yet to come. Her eyes narrowed.

Glory.

If not this turn, when?

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

No, not "Zogby." What was it?

He frowned.

Things weren't good lately. Wasn't just the battle. Hamster was doing something about that, he could tell. What, exactly? He couldn't say.

The sandwich turned a little sideways in his stomach. He burped.

That was just it. He didn't know. Not anything about anything, anymore. Things weren't good, was all. He was in charge, but...out of touch.

Out of touch. Yeah, that was it, wasn't it? That was the trouble. He couldn't connect with his people. Like, say, Zappa there.

"Hey twoll," he said, craning his neck around. The twoll stopped bending down over a cask of currant jam and slowly came to something resembling attention.

"Lud?"

"State your name, level, and duties," said Stanley. Ha, an order! That was a whole lot better than saying "What's your name, I forgot." Maybe he should've ordered the Foolamancer to say his name, that one time.

"Zhopa, Level 1, Henchman assigned to larder," said the twoll, his face utterly blank.

Zhopa, right. Zhopa, Zhopa, Zhopa.

"So...what's new, Zhopa?" said Stanley. He forced a bit of a smile.

Zhopa turned his head and stared, as if he had been asked, "What is the square root of history?"

The twoll opened his mouth as if to speak, but then his jaw took a sudden left turn and his meaty lips came slowly back together. He glanced away to the corner of the room, then looked down at the floor in what appeared to be intense concentration.

He shuffled his feet slightly.

Somewhere, a pigeon cooed.

Stanley looked at him, his weak smile fading away as long moments passed.

Zhopa nodded at his feet, as if his boots had whispered the correct answer. He looked up and met his Overlord's eyes.

"Nothing," he said, with a fair degree of self-assurance. "Nothing is new, Lud."

Stanley blinked.

"Haha, right!" he said, plastering the winning smile back on. "Wow, yeah. Seems like nothing has happened around here in ages! 'Mean this day has just been crawling, m'I right?"

The twoll waited long enough to be sure that Stanley wanted some kind of response, then gave a grunt and a curt nod of agreement.

"Yeah," said Stanley, nodding amiably. "Yeah." He pointed to the twoll. "Zhopa."

Zhopa stood there, breathing.

"So I mean, what's on your mind? Everything okay down here in the larder? You like it here?"

Zhopa turned his head and for a moment looked longingly at the doorway, which led to a parapet overlooking the city and was the nearest exit from the larder area. Then he sighed, nodded silently, and shrugged his huge shoulders.

"Aw, now, what was that?" said Stanley, determined now to get some kind of response from the big heavy. "Something else you'd rather be doing around here? C'mon, speak up."

Zhopa shook his head very slightly. "Any duty, Lud. Is all Duty."

"Oh really," said Stanley. "You think so?"

Zhopa nodded again.

Stanley had an idea that made him grin suddenly.

"I betcha not! I bet I could assign you something-- Wait. Hold on." Stanley put up his hand.

That.

...was weird. The twoll's bonus went down.

Why? Because...his Chief Warlord had moved out of the city.

Off-turn? Was he captured?

"Hamster?" said Stanley aloud. He gave a panicked glance out the doorway for enemy flyers.

But uh-uh, he could tell. Hamster was now in the Magic Kingdom.

That's right, he could go there. He just wasn't allowed; they said they'd croak him or something if he ever went back, right?

So why'd he go back? That was pretty stupid. He was supposed to be upstairs running the battle.

"Maggie," Stanley said to the air. It was a form of order only a Thinkamancer could follow. "Maggie!"

A thinkagram formed.

"Yes, Tool?" She was down in the Portal Room now. Hm.

"Um, why is our Chief Warlord in the Magic Kingdom?" he demanded.

"Because he intends to join the Battle for Spacerock, Lord," said Maggie tensely. "By breaching the enemy portal."

"Whaaa? You don't do that. They don't let you." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the twoll gratefully go back to his puttering.

"I'm aware of convention in this matter, Lord," said Maggie. She looked worried, too. "If you'd please allow me a moment..."

"So, what he's going to run into an enemy city one-stacked?" This made no sense. Absolutely none at all. "Am I gonna lose two Chief Warlords in one day?"

Maggie bristled. "Not if I have anything to say in the matter, Lord!" she snapped. "Please. My juice is quite low, and I was monitoring his situation when you interrupted. And something was going awry. May I go?"

Stanley's eyes flashed at the backtalk. He was about ready to tear her head off. Every once in a while he needed to put a little healthy respect and fear back in her.

But there was something weird about her expression and tone of voice. She already was plenty frightened, just not of him. What was going on?

He tightly clamped his lips shut and took in an angry breath through flared nostrils.

"Okay, I'm coming right down there, Maggie! And you're gonna tell me what he thinks he's doing!"

"Yes, Lo--"

"Break!" he commanded. Felt good to hang up on her.

Yeah. He'd been way too out of touch. He put his hands on his hips, and looked up at the twoll, who froze in mid stride, holding an enormous long loaf of bread.

"Zhopa," he scowled.

"Lud?"

"So. As I was saying before she interrupted us...you are hereby promoted to Lackey, in service to Overlord Stanley the Tool. Me."

Stanley smirked, sure that this would finally get a reaction out of the twoll.

The two stood in silence. Zhopa showed nothing, almost as if he hadn't heard. After a while, he cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Lud?"

Stanley's expression fell. He sighed. "Come on," he said glumly. He shuffled past Zhopa's legs and through the doorway, "I gotta go to the Portal Room to chew out Maggie." Swinging the Arkenhammer at his side, the Overlord left the room.

The newly-promoted twoll followed shortly after. But Stanley did not see Zhopa first pause a moment to look up at the ceiling, then grab the loaf of bread with both hands, and smash it over his own face.

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

In the empty side room, he sat holding his crown in his lap, pauper-like, while time ticked away and his units perished in the dungeons below. He saw their lights in his mind, being extinguished in twos and threes. No-one was leveling. It was clearly an awful rout.

The King could not guess why the enemy had chosen that avenue of attack instead of the tower, but it did at least buy him a few vital moments. And in that small bit of extra time, his dear friend Don would give him the means to pass the side to his last son.

After that, he would order Tramennis to fly to Jetstone, and make his stand here against Stanley's army.

He felt a tinge of fear at the thought, but much more powerfully, a stirring in his blood. It would happen. His destiny was before him now, and for the first time this day he knew with certainty what he must do.

He stared down at the crown, waiting for it to rumble, so that he could conjure the borrowed gem.

He stared into the velvet interior.

He stared.

When the call came, Don was apologetic to the point of nearly weeping. But Slately had no time for it. He knew that his friend had tried. And if there had really been a mass refusal by Transylvito's commanders, then the trying had cost Don King a great measure at home.

He couldn't spare a thought for it, nor many words beyond "goodbye." The King of Jetstone ended the call and stood up. He would simply need another plan. A better plan. What, exactly? What...?

What, what, what?

"Gah!" he shouted, and kicked the table. The wheels in his mind were locked and would not turn.

He hurried to the door, placing the cursed, empty crown upon his cursed, empty head.

Upon the veranda of the tower top, his Casters were gathered, still engaged in some kind of argument.

Although they fell to silence at his approach, Slately had overheard the Dollamancer's last statement. Lord Hardware had said, "This is a better plan."

"What is a better plan?" Slately demanded.

Ace swallowed, and bowed. "Highness, it's..." He looked pained, struggling with something within. "...nothing. We should get you into the city now. Prince Tramennis has sent several frantic messages."

The King stared at the man, narrow-eyed. He truly disliked this Caster, this...joke or punishment of the Titans. Once he had been careless with the life of someone he loved, and so the Titans gave him this jar-headed jackass to "replace" her. He barely tolerated the man at the best of times. But now?

"Dollamancer," he said, between clenched teeth, "Each second costs the life of a Jetstone unit. Lie to me again, and the next will be your own. What is a better plan?"

Ace glanced frantically at the stone-faced Chief Healomancer, who gave him a "well, go on" shrug. The Hat Magician took a step closer to the Dollamancer, looking up at him, while the Dittomancer blinked twice, and scowled.

"I think—" The words came out chalky and he cleared his throat. "I think you should leave the city by air, Your Majesty..."

Slately straightened, and glanced around the sky. He was not a strong tactician, but he knew certain doom when he looked upon it, and all those Archons were still in his airspace. And Ossomer, to grant them leadership.

"How would I manage that?" asked Slately.

"You wouldn't," said Pierce. "You'd be the target of choice. Whatever we did, we wouldn't stand a chance."

"There is a chance!" shouted Ace, pounding his fist into his palm. "And it's at least worth considering, Pierce!" He turned to Slately, "Highness, this is what I'm thinking. We work on our own target of choice."

"Yeah, he wants to hit your son first," interrupted Pierce, "But I'm saying, even supposing that works, we're still outnumbered up there. We just don't have the flyers for a fight like that."

Slately's eyes darted between the two men, who were arguing with one another more than they were addressing him. The Dollamancer pointed at the Dittomancer.

"Lloyd could double the Unipegs if he flew with the max stack!"

The Dittomancer nodded, looking agitated. "Yeah, that's true. That is true."

"Yeah and what are we going to do for leadership, come on," said Pierce. He stared at Ace for a long moment, but Ace had no immediate answer. "And without decent leadership, you're really so eager to fly against Ossomer? I think you're about fourteen crates full of mixed nuts." Pierce took a sip of his healing elixir, from a glass which always seemed half-full.

Ace leaned forward toward Slately. "Highness, we have options. We have juice, and a few arrows, and I've got some other surprises. If we can take their leadership out of the equation, then return to the tower and pick off some or most of the Archons, then I think you can fly—pshew—right out of the city without a scratch."

Slately had the strangest, dissociated feeling, listening to the argument. His hearing felt cottony, and his teeth tingled. His heart pounded in his chest, but his face was slack, a slab of cold clay.

He wanted to fight.

More than anything, he wanted to engage the enemy and do them harm. Personally. He stared off to the edge of the veranda where the Ossomer puppet lingered, and locked eyes with it. Yes. Starting with that one. Only his other enemy son would have provided a better starting target for him to swing his scepter. Well, or that witch at the center of it all. Or Stanley...

"What surprises?" said the King to the Dollamancer. His eyes never left the railing, though Ossomer turned his head away.

"Equipment," said Ace eagerly. "Accessories, to make our units tougher in a fight. Like I've been telling you all along, Highness. Dollamancy is for action!"

Slately nodded. "I think I know that now."

"And knowing is half the battle," said Ace.

"Ay yi yi," said the Dittomancer, under his breath.

"I will consider your plan," said Slately. His beard bristled as his jaw jutted out sternly.

Pierce stepped toward the King. "Your Majesty, I would really advise against it."

"Consider it!" snapped Slately, sending the Healomancer back on his heels. "What do you have to make me tougher?" he said to the Dollamancer.

"You?" Ace seemed taken aback by the question, but only for a moment. "Um, lots of stuff, Your Highness. And I can make things special for you. Kings should have special accessories. Are you really serious?"

"I am serious about leading a battle," said Slately, drawing himself up. "Somehow. It may not be the battle you propose, but in any event I want to be as prepared as I can be. What can you do?"

Ace stroked his chin, contemplating the King's potential as a combatant. "Start with your weapon, I guess. May I?"

Slately put the Royal Scepter of Jetstone in the hands of a non-Royal caster without a moment's hesitation. It was a mark of his seriousness of purpose. But he did cringe as Ace began to take it apart.

Slately looked around at the other three casters. "The reason I would consider this plan," he said sternly, pointing out at the sky, "is that there is a bounty upon each of those enemy flying units. It is, at the moment, the only possible means of raising the funds I would need to promote Prince Tramennis to heir. He does not know that I plan to do so, but I consider it vital for the preservation of the realm."

Cubbins and Lloyd looked at one another and nodded. They both seemed relieved to know that the King had the bigger picture in mind, which was just what he was meant to think about.

But Pierce looked more annoyed than ever. "Your Highness, the Prince is right. Nothing's more important to preserving the realm than keeping you alive. And he is the Chief Warlord, so it's his call. Let's just go down and join him, and you can decide from there."

"Hang on, almost got it..." said Ace, fiddling.

"Healomancer," said Slately. But his voice softened. This was a loyal Caster with his side's interests at heart, after all. As, he supposed, was the Dollamancer. "Pierce. I may do just that. But first let me see what—"

The entire tower shook with a massive, crunching boom.

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

He could recall ridiculing his brother for using this conveyance, rather than a Unipegataur. It was awkward, and it looked unseemly. More to the point, a magic item would not fight or take an arrow or a blast for you, the way a proper mount would. Ansom claimed the versatility and range of the thing made up for that, but Ossomer disagreed. And just at the moment, he would have given much to have been mounted atop a living unit.

Because for that lack, he could now also blame the doltish thing for placing him up here. Here above the battle he floated uselessly, left out of Lord Hamster's purported genius plan. Out of the way of history. Hanging limply in space.

What exactly did it mean, that he had come to this place? It was not the first time he tried to make sense of the question.

The Titans had a plan, and that plan was expressed in the balance of power. Royal sides had held their supremacy since the dawn of Erfworld, but now the Titans had something different in mind.

Surely, that was well and good. It must be. In battle, he had fallen as a Royal and been re-popped in the service of the Titans' Tools. As a Royal, he had been an obstacle to the Titans' will. The Titans had un-gently shoved him aside.

So was that it, then? Was that his entire Erfly significance? A barrier removed?

Ossomer glanced down at the forces of Gobwin Knob, his side. The Lady Sylvia was stacking dwagons for...siege? It certainly seemed that way, with the purples bunched directly below his feet. Odd choice, using siege from the inside.

But his eyes traced upwards along the length of Jenga Tower, and he realized just how effective that tactic might prove. Father was still deployed there, as far as he could tell. The casters certainly were, standing around behind the ranks of arrow-spent archers, who looked bored and apprehensive.

At that very moment in the warlord's musings, King Slately did emerge from the tower interior. He stepped to the rear of the archer formations and began addressing his casters.

Ossomer's mouth opened a bit. It suddenly occurred to him that he was about to witness his father's demise. The tower could take a good pounding, but it would fall to that many purples. Father would fall with it.

And...Jetstone would fall with him.

Such a thought to think upon, in the sunshine of the late morning.

He peered over the city. Thousands of infantry, many of them troops he had led to victory against Haggar, were massing in the streets to counterattack the garrison. Beyond them, the pristine turrets and parapets of the outer walls stood impotent, irrelevant to the city's defense. Beyond that, orchards, green hills and the River Phoenix.

This view was so terribly familiar to him. The stone floor of this tower top had borne his boots more times than he could number. Inches now separated him from that enemy ground. He could see a slightly crooked tile he remembered in the stonework. It had irritated him, he recalled. A misfit in the otherwise perfectly ordered masonry.

Inches away, yes, but as unreachable as the stars. The tower top was impenetrable as a hex boundary until his side claimed the city. Enemy ground. Why was he lingering here?

"...is a chance! ... at least ... considering, Pierce!"

Ossomer raised his head. Lord Ace Hardware, the Dollamancer, was speaking animatedly to the group. Good man, that Ace. He looked away, so as not to draw their attention, and strained to overhear the conversation.

"...have the flyers...(something)," said the Pierce, the Healomancer.

"...could double the Unipegs if he flew (something)...!" said Ace.

"Yeah, that's true," nodded Lloyd, the Dittomancer. "...true."

"(something) leadership, come on," said Pierce. "...eager to fly against Ossomer? I think (something) nuts."

Ossomer's eyes widened, then sharply narrowed. They were talking about entering the airspace, attacking him.

...What?

Jetstone didn't have the flyers for that. With twenty-seven Archons under his Level 9 leadership, it was such a preposterous and remote possibility that he hadn't given it any tactical consideration at all. Nor, did he believe, had his Chief Warlord. Lord Parson had ordered the Archons to split into stacks of two and three, each with one unit with Leadership and at least one with Foolamancy, and to scatter around the airspace. That way, the casters and archers in the tower would have a longer and more expensive time shooting them down.

And that's if it should even come to that. It wasn't meant to; the flyers' main defense was in being irrelevant to the ground battle. Ossomer believed all of these tactical assumptions to be perfectly sound, and hadn't given them a second thought.

He glanced briefly over at the group, and for a terrible moment he locked eyes with his father. The King was staring upon him with an expression Ossomer had never seen on him. King Slately looked grim, which certainly he often did, but now in those eyes was the light of the hunter, a predator. His father was sizing him up as prey. He looked sharply away.

...What?

It was ludicrous! Slately had never croaked anything outside of a summary execution. Ossomer could fell him with a...a kick to the knee.

So why, then, did that look chill him so? The King closed with his Dollamancer, and spoke too low to overhear.

Ossomer looked around, in a rising panic. He was not currently stacked with anyone. Should they launch a bum's rush at him with all of their forces, they very well could croak or capture him, and return to the tower. With Luck, they would survive without taking too much damage from the Archons.

Titans. If he allowed that to happen, it would be the second time today.

That thought should have been mortifying. But the moment it occurred to him, a soft calm infused his stomach and chest, and flowed like warm pipe smoke up his neck to fill his head. If he allowed that to happen.

Of course, he could not.

But if the Titans allowed that to happen, it surely would Signify something.

He looked up at Father, prepared to stare him down this time. But the King had huddled with his casters and had his back turned. Still, that look was Signamancy. In a way that crowns and robes and scepters and thrones had never quite graced him with, his father now looked like a King.

Being Royal did mean something, after all. It meant taking the mantle of responsibility for the power the Titans had granted you. Ossomer had stood up all his life, straight as a marble column, to bear the weight of that responsibility. He knew that stance when he saw it, and Father carried himself that way now.

And he, slinking in the saddle after betraying a parley, no longer did. He'd had no answer for Tramennis' outrage, because he felt it too. He was shamed.

Below, Lady Sylvia was stacking with the forward purples. He imagined she planned to tumble all units in a shower of rubble, without thought for the protocols of Royal capture and execution, for bestowing dignity and honor upon a fallen enemy king in their final moments. Let soldiers and Commanders and Kings all fall together into a pile.

Had the Titans no use for such distinctions, in the Age of Hamster? No, surely they must.

Surely the new mantle of Titanic power must be carried with even greater majesty. In some important way, the disciples of Lady Firebaugh and the Arkenpliers were failing their Duty, and would pay the price.

He looked around the sky, at the distant scattered pairs and triads, and issued them no new orders. Leaving his sword in its scabbard, he pulled the carpet to the very edge of enemy ground. The Titans' will would be done, whatever might happen.

He looked down, and the odd-shaped stone tile again caught his eye. But for once, it looked as if it were meant to be where it was.

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!

He'd just participated in a disturbing tactical action. Although, he also admittedly found it a spiritually uplifting one.

He had given his best to stop the Titans' work. He was proud of that. Proud of having come so very close to croaking his Mistress, having served well in a cause he could now see was lost. It was Duty, either way. If the Titans could see his score, he was sure that it all would count in his favor. What else could a Nobleman possibly have done?

But of course, to oppose the Titans with all of one's might was to run up and kick a boulder with all of one's might. And this boulder had been rolling downhill at Jetstone for quite some time. From this side of re-creation, he had to wonder how they'd ever believed they could fight and win.

Because to fight for the Titans with all his might had been distressingly easy. Given his leadership and the Mistress' bonus upon the Decrypted, they had overwhelmed stacks of Jetstone infantry and lower-level Warlords throughout the dungeon area. But more than that, the fallen enemy swelled their forces upon Decryption, leaping back into battle and setting upon their former comrades instantly. It was a tactical cascade, an avalanche, a wildfire...

Or no. He had simply become the boulder. To push with it instead of against it was exhilarating. It had even come with the reward of being able to croak Duke Lacrosse.

"Cor, she's amazing isn't she?"

That would be the same Lacrosse who was elbowing his rib at the moment, and apparently ogling an Instrument of Titanic Fate other than the Arkenpliers. The Mistress had adjusted her raiment, stripping away damaged parts and most non-essentials. "Tell ya! We lost the war mainly because we didn't have anything like that on our side."

"We haven't-- Jetstone hasn't lost the war yet, Lacrosse," Antium said dourly. "We should be up at the tower seeing to that, I feel."

This he spoke too loudly, as Mistress Wanda snapped her head in his direction. "Be still. We're awaiting leadership," she said. Antium took it for the order it was. In fact the entire room fell silent. But he had to wonder: "awaiting leadership" from where, when it was not their turn?

"The battle is won," said the Mistress.

The Foolamancer raised an eyebrow and peered around. "Is it? That was unexpectedly dull."

She flicked a scowl at him. "The battle, in its most important sense, is won. These..." Here she held up the Arkenpliers. Antium felt a little rush of joy at the gesture. "...will survive, and so shall you and I. If nothing else, we can step through the portal right now."

"Ah," said the Foolamancer, with a little smirk. "And would you? I'm trying to imagine your reception on the other side. I don't think anyone there would exactly bake you a cake, though they might send some kind of party after you."

The Mistress looked down and smiled, ever so slightly. "I am simply saying that the option exists. I may have...strayed from Fate's path. At the moment, I can't quite see how." She squinted, as if trying to picture her misstep.

"Look harder," said the Foolamancer, leaning on his cane. "Can you see something blonde, perhaps in a top hat?"

The Mistress' reaction startled Antium, as she whipped her Arkentool to the floor as fast as any sword strike he had ever seen, and knocked the tip of the Foolamancer's cane away. The other caster stumbled forward, then turned it into a little dance step, and spun around with a flourish. He put out his arms theatrically and bowed with crossed feet.

"Tada. You and I should have worked up a dance routine around such moves, Lady. We'd have croaked them at the Court of Faq."

The Mistress seemed vaguely amused at the idea, and raised the 'pliers again. "We couldn't have. I didn't have these, then."

"Nor did you need them, to croak them at the Court of Faq," he said pointedly. "You must have danced divinely that day."

"I must have," she agreed, her voice betraying nothing. "That is the only way I know how."

For Antium, the full impact of what the Mistress had said began to sink in. Would she truly choose to abandon the fight? The city? He knew Jetstone's forces here were massive, and their leadership was impressive even without mighty Ossomer. But surely this city was a prize worthy of a fight. He frowned. Giving his Second Life up to cover the Mistress' escape was nothing he feared, but the loss of the glory would be a great pity.

As if reading Antium's mind, the Foolamancer gestured to the portal. "If we did leave the field, we would lose quite a lot here."

Mistress Wanda turned and looked directly at Antium. "Nothing that could not be replaced," she said. "But it was an academic point. We will not leave this room to fight, because it could serve as our means of escape." She turned her gaze to the portal. "But I have no intention of returning to the Magic Kingdom."

She walked up to Antium and spoke directly to him. He came to attention, not making eye contact. Her closeness gave him an uncomfortable elation, a tingle in his stomach. He thought he heard Lacrosse take in a sharp breath as she leaned forward. "I know the enemy forces here are strong. I know that they may counterattack at any moment. In truth, I have very little idea how to win this city. But Lord Parson will be here soon."

Antium had never heard the name "Lord Parson," but the Foolamancer now looked thoughtfully at the portal.

The strange caster nodded distantly, reverently in that direction. "Hm. Enough said."

Rob's Other Comic Project: Duel In The Somme--Read it from the beginning!