Genesis of Timelord


				Prologue


	The windows were shuttered to keep out the rain, but so
ferocious was the storm that droplets of water were forced
through the cracks, forming puddles on the floor.  The darkness
outside was lit periodically by vivid flashes of lightning,
accompanied almost instantly by crashing thunder.  It had been
raining continually for three days, but this night the storm had
broken, pummelling the house with almost insane fury.
	Inside was a bustle of activity, centered not on the storm
but a woman groaning with the strain of childbirth.  Midwives
shuffled to and fro preparing for the delivery of the child,
while in the back of the room sat a single figure, draped in a
seer's mystical robes.  He sat motionless, content to observe the
activity around him.
	For a moment the labour pains eased, and the woman looked
over to the seer.
	"I'm sorry that this storm has delayed your departure," she
panted.  "Observing the birth of my child is a poor second to the
Seer's Council."
	"Think nothing of it," came the kindly reply.  "It may well
be that I was intended all along to be delayed here, for the
birth of an heir is a mystical time, and I may be able to discern
much of the child's future in the event."
	"You are most kind," the woman smiled.  A servant entered,
and the woman looked at her quickly.
	"Any news?" she asked.
	"Nay, lady Bravya," the servant replied, "but the storm is
most fierce.  Perhaps your husband took shelter along the way."
	"He must be here!" Bravya exclaimed, "for the birth of.."
	She clenched her teeth as the contractions began again.
	The senior midwife hurried over, then signaled to the
others.  The room became a place of frantic activity, Bravya
panting and grimacing in pain as the time of birth came closer. 
She screamed once; twice; three times.  Then the midwife was
holding something in her arms, something that began to cry
weakly.
	"You have a son!" she cried, and her shout was accompanied
by a massive bolt of lightning that lit up the night like day.
	"A son," Bravya repeated weakly, "we have a son."
	"Aye," said a deep voice from the door.
	Heads turned quickly; in the doorway stood an imposing
figure, over six feet tall, with piercing blue eyes.  He was
soaked, dripping water on the floor as he approached the bed.
	"Oh, my love," Bravya murmured, "did you see?"
	"I saw," he smiled, "I arrived just in time to see the
moment of birth." He looked at his newborn child.  "You have done
very, very well."
	The seer rose and approached the bed.  Gazing at the infant,
he murmured under his breath, reciting the ritualistic formulae
with which he was able to see, although unclearly, into the
future.
	"What do you see?" asked Bravya worriedly.
	"Much that is clouded," he replied.  "I see journeys, much
traveling, and bloodshed.  His will be a difficult path, but one
that he is well suited for traveling."
	He looked at the couple.
	"You said earlier that your husband had to be here for this
birth," he addressed the Bravya.  "Why such urgency?"
	"It was foretold upon my joining with Hoelt that my husband
must witness the birth of our first child," she replied, "else
some doom befall our family."
	"Not that I really believe in that sort of thing," Hoelt
added lightheartedly.  "I am a plain man, and such warnings have
never come true in my experience."
	"Do not make light of such things," warned the seer, "for
though you may not believe in them, such predictions have a knack
for coming true, in the end."
	"Whatever you say," he agreed.  He looked again at his son.
	"He will need a name, for use until his time of Calling."
	"Well, my lord," said Bravya mischievously, "since you
arrived just in time, we shall call him Timelord, as he will one
day be lord of all your affairs."
	"Timelord, indeed!" he laughed.  "Very well then, it shall
be so."
	The senior midwife moved over.
	"It is time for the lady to rest," she said.  "You can see
her in the morning."
	The room emptied slowly, with Hoelt the last to leave.  As
he left the room, he decided that even though he did not believe
the prediction at their wedding, he would not tell his wife that
he had arrive seconds after the delivery of their son.

			****************
 
	The years past as Timelord grew up in his father's house. 
Hoelt was a moderately prosperous fur dealer, and so was often
away from home for extended periods buying and selling.  When at
home he was a doting parent, full of love and laughs. 
	Bravya ran the home, commanding their few servants, and
spending most of her time caring for her son.  Although having a
nanny to care for Timelord when she was busy, Bravya spent as
much time as possible with him, raising him in the best was she
knew. 
	So the years went by.  Timelord grew from a small baby
into a healthy toddler, then to a tall young boy.  At five he was
tall and fit, his curly brown hair cut at shoulder length.
	One night in Timelord's seventh year Hoelt returned home in
a state of great excitement.  He breezed into the sitting room,
caught Bravya by the waist and twirled her round and round the
room, laughing all the while.  He planted an exuberant kiss on
her lips, then danced over to the fireplace. 
	"I have done it!" he cried joyously. 
	"Done what?" asked Bravya breathlessly. 
	Hoelt moved over to his wife. 
	"Do you remember that great trade caravan expedition planned
all those months ago," he said more seriously, "designed to
foster trade and relations between ourselves and the other
lands?" 
	Bravya nodded. 
	"It's going ahead!"  Hoelt could no longer contain his
excitement.  He strode around the room, his eyes shining. 
	"After all this time, the greatest expedition ever to set
out from this land is about to commence.  Traders from
everywhere, as well as diplomats, will all gather together and
set out to meet the rest of the world.  Through all the great
duchies, the principalities, the great cities - all will be
visited!" 
	He turned again to his wife. 
	"And we'll be with them," he whispered. 
	"That's wonderful!" cried Bravya.  Then she frowned.  "But
what about our son?  He's nearly at the age of calling..." 
	"It's all been taken care of," he interrupted.  "There will
be other children coming too, and teachers have been provided to
care for their education.  Priests too, so if our journey isn't
over by the time he is nine, then he can still go through the
ceremony.  This is the opportunity of a lifetime!" 
	"Oh, Hoelt!" she said, embracing him warmly, "When do we
start?" 
 
	The next month was a time of frantic activity all over the
land.  Although not every trader could possibly make the journey,
everyone knew that if it were a success it could result in great
riches for the land.  The best the people had to offer was
provided; livestock, grains, farm animals and produce, precious  
metals and stones, everything was gathered in readiness.  Also
prepared were the political delegations who would be there not
only to ensure that trade deals went smoothly, but also to
strengthen and in some cases make diplomatic ties with the
governments they encountered. 
	In total the expedition numbered two hundred men, women and
children.  There were farmers, blacksmiths, stone masons,
bakers, butchers, teachers, priests, servants and guards, a wide
cross section of the entire land.  They set out one fine summer's morning, 
cheered on their way by those who waited for their eventual return and the 
great profits it would reap. 
	Hoelt was one of the leaders of the trade caravans, part of
a council of people responsible for the organisation of the
various produce caravans.  They kept the herds in order, settled
minor disputes, and planned how to keep everyone fed and happy. 
	The leader of the expedition was Count Astoph of Myle, who
as both head of the caravan and chairman of the diplomats was the
most powerful man among them.  It was he who made the main
decisions, set the goals for the journey, and who ultimately
ratified all judgments made by the council.  
	The plan was simple, yet wide in scope.  The caravan would
wind its way firstly through the nearby duchies, spending
relatively little time in their friendly neighbour's lands.  They
would then spiral outward through increasingly distant lands,
finishing in Generica, the largest mainland trading city, and a
place of great prosperity.  At each capital city or palace, a
delegation would meet with the leaders in trade and government
from that land, in an effort to seal trade routes and diplomatic
ties.  Once their travels were complete, the caravan would return
home, bearing news of their epic journey. 
	The first stop was the duchy of Valiast in the Great Heath,
where the duke, Gallan Valiast, would join the caravan with his
youngest son and a small body of his personal guard.  As a close
friend of Astoph, Gallan wished to join the caravan to lend his
skills at diplomacy and visit the other earls and barons of 
the lands. 
	They reached the duke's house in the late afternoon.  While
the rest of the caravan made camp, Count Astoph went up to the
house to meet his friend. 
	The two men shook hands. 
	"Astoph, my old friend," said Gallan warmly, "it has been
too long.  How are you and your wife?" 
	"They're fine," replied Astoph.  "And what of you?  I hear
your youngest son is growing well.  What is he now?  six?" 
	"Seven a week ago," Gallan said, "and just as excited as I
am to join this momentous expedition."  He turned and gave a
brief order to a waiting servant. 
	"Stay for dinner," he offered, "we will be ready to leave at
first light, along with a detachment of my own personal guard,
just in case we run into some trouble." 
	"Gladly," accepted Astoph, and the two moved into the manor.

	The caravan moved out at dawn, the wagons, horses and
livestock stringing out for some considerable distance.  Count
Valiast's personal guard rode up and down the flanks, chatting
casually to the people, and keeping an eye out for trouble. 
	The captain of the guard, Captain Skerg, rode at the head of
the column, his brightly plumed helmet gleaming in the sun. 
Inclined to slight portliness, he constantly talked of his past
exploits in various armed services, pausing only to give orders
to his subordinates.  Those who rode with him soon grew tired of 
his constant talk, but decided to humour him. 
	With so many families making the journey, there were a fair
number of children in the caravan.  Although their time was
pretty much their own, teachers had been provided for them to
see to their education.  So at specific times during the day
classes would be held, ranging from letter-learning and counting
for the young to apprenticeship and scholastic services for the
older. 
	Timelord was in a class of eight other six and seven year
olds, among them Valiast's son Rollik.  By nature a quiet boy,
Timelord usually sat quietly and listened, seeming not to crave
the attention of the others in the class.  He was by no means
slow - in fact he was brighter than all the other children except
for Rollik. 
	Rollik was in many ways the antithesis of Timelord, being
outgoing, talkative, and ready to take the lead at the nearest
opportunity.  Although high-born, he readily mixed with the
others in the class, and the teachers were genuinely fond of him. 
Timelord liked him as well, though he usually didn't say very
much to him during the classes. 
	That changed about two weeks into the expedition.  It was
early evening, and Timelord was returning to his family's
caravan after watching some of the guard train.  He often did
this when the caravan had halted for the night, thinking it would
be very fine to one day serve in such a force. 
	He was passing a darkened part of the camp when he heard
voices coming out of the darkness. 
	"Hey, rich boy," whispered someone nastily, "who's gonna
help you now?" 
	"Yeah, teacher's pet," came a second, nasally voice, "we's
gonna teach you a lesson!" 
	Muffled laughter filled the air. 
	"Unhand me!" Timelord could easily identify Rollik's voice. 
He crept towards the sounds, making no noise.  A natural cleft in
a rock face formed a kind of dead-end alley, and it was from here
that the voices came.  Timelord sidled up to the entrance and
looked in. 
	Four boys, all two to three years older than Rollik and
Timelord, had Rollik trapped in the cleft.  Timelord thought he
recognised two of them - a pair that had a reputation as
troublemakers and bullies.  Knowing that Rollik had no chance
against them on his own, Timelord decided to lend a hand.  As
quietly as he could, he made his way towards the group, staying
close to one wall to avoid being seen. 
	The boys were pushing Rollik around, obviously building up
to something more violent.  Rollik was trying to talk his way out
and occasionally attempting to force his way past them, but to
no avail. 
	Then, out of the corner of his eye, Rollik saw Timelord
approaching.  Immediately he began to sniffle and sob, changing
rapidly from a belligerent youngster into a snivelling, pitiful
baby. 
	"Go away!" he said between shuddering breaths.  "I want my
daddy!' he cried, then crouched on the ground, hands over his
head, bawling loudly. 
	"Crybaby," sneered the closest boy, standing over him,
"crybaby, crybaby!" 
	The others took up the chant. 
	"Crybaby, crybaby, crybaby, cry...." 
	The mocking chant broke off suddenly when Timelord, with the
most ferocious shout he could muster, leapt onto the back of the
closest boy, bringing the two of them crashing to the ground. 
	The one who had been standing over Rollik's sobbing form
turned his head to see what was happening, but he too fell to the ground,
grimacing in pain as Rollik, with a seemingly miraculous
recovery, punched him in a very tender spot. 
	Timelord leapt up quickly and motioned to Rollik. 
	"Let's get out of here!" he shouted. 
	Together they turned to run out of the trap, but were
blocked by the other two boys.  Behind them, they could hear the
two they had downed approaching.   Desperately they stood back to
back, knowing they were bound to lose this fight. 
	There was a flare of torchlight at the mouth of the cleft,
and an armed figure appeared. 
	"What's going on?" he shouted. 
	The boys took one look, and panicked. 
	"The guard!" one of them shouted, and they ran for the exit. 
Three of them got away, but one, the boy Rollik had punched, was
caught by the guard as he attempted to flee. 
	Rollik and Timelord walked slowly out of the rocks, relieved
that they had been spared what would have been a violent fate. 
	Rollik turned to Timelord. 
	"My idea worked, didn't it?" he said with a smile. 
	"Idea?" queried Timelord, puzzled as to what he meant. 
	"You know, to pretend that I was scared of them so you could
creep up on them easier," Rollik explained. 
	"I guess it did," said Timelord, thinking it over as they
emerged into the light. 
 
	The experiences of that night made the two close friends. 
They were inseparable, whether it be during classes, playing in
the sun, or even just traveling along.  They made elaborate
boyhood plans, each promising the other undying friendship. 
	Their parents looked upon their friendship favourably,
although like all boys they could be very trying.  Their frequent
escapades, although just harmless boyhood fun, would often leave
the adults around them wondering what they could possibly do to
protect themselves. 
	Their most common trick was to "acquire", as Timelord put
it, various foodstuffs from the kitchens and store wagons.  Their
usual method was for Rollik to brazenly go up to those on kitchen
duty and ask them all sorts of boyish questions, like "what goes
in there?', or "is that for the guards?", or "is this really
hot?"  While the adults were occupied with answering his
questions and trying to keep him out of trouble, Timelord would
quietly sneak in, take what he was after, and sneak out again. 
After a while those who were regularly in the kitchens realised
what they were up to, but it was a rare occasion that Timelord 
or Rollik were caught. 
	As the weeks and months past, the caravan would its way
slowly through the land. 
	One week before Timelord's ninth birthday, the caravan made
camp near the Bottleneck Pass, and the Council met for some
serious discussion.  Gallan was the first to speak. 
	"My friends," he began, "this has indeed been a momentous
journey, one that I am sure will be of great benefit to your land
when you return.  I feel privileged to have been part of it. 
	"Now, however, it is time for us to part company for a
while, as I have some business in the Barony of Stifer that
cannot wait.  Yet I will be with you not only in spirit but in
reputation, as I now instruct my personal guard to remain with
the caravan until its return, providing protection for the
miscreants that lurk along the remainder of your route." 
	This caused some consternation amongst the assembled
leaders.  Astoph rose. 
	"You shall indeed be missed," he said gravely, "but we thank
you for the continued protection for the rest of our journey. 
Your companionship and wisdom has been invaluable, and we look
forward to our reunion in Verland." 
	The next morning Rollik and his family departed, accompanied
by a half-dozen guards.  Timelord stood forlornly at his mother's
side, sad that his friend had to go, but he knew that they would
meet again in Verland. 
	The passage past the mountains down to the sea was long, hot
and dusty, as that region had been gripped by drought for some
time.  Although the caravan had plenty of stored water, it was
still an uncomfortable time. 
	Finally they reached the coast.  Astoph decided to halt the
caravan for a few days to give the people and animals some time
to recover from the journey. 
	Timelord's excitement grew as he could smell the scent of
the ocean in the air getting stronger and stronger.  Finally it
appeared before them, a glittering blue mass of water, stretching
as far as the eye could see. 
	The next couple of days were sheer bliss for the boy as he
played in the sea (under the watchful eyes of his mother), built
sand castles and collected shells.  He was quite disappointed
when, a few days later, he was told they were due to leave the
next afternoon. 
	The combination of disappointment at leaving the sea and
excitement at the prospect of seeing Rollik again soon meant that
Timelord slept only fitfully.  Not long before dawn he gave up
on getting any more sleep.  He rose, dressed, and went out to
look at the ocean one last time. 
	The morning was cool. but pleasant.  As he walked along the
beach he thought of the last few months, and wondered what sights
he would see in Generica. 
	Not long after dawn he turned to head back to the camp.  As
he approached, he noticed some distance away on the landward
side of the camp what appeared to be strange glittering lights
hovering just over the horizon.  Curious, he stopped  for a
moment to watch.  The early dawn light made them appear surreal
as they  floated towards the camp. 
	As the sun rose higher the strange sight became clear.  The
lights resolved into bright spears and swords, the sun gleaming
from their tips.  Men on horseback and afoot charged towards
them, faint cries now reaching the camp.  Closer and closer they
came, and Timelord stood as if frozen to the spot. 
	Suddenly the guards caught sight of them.  Orders were
frantically shouted, with men rushing about everywhere.  Within a
few minutes the whole camp was roused, and Timelord, the sudden
activity breaking through his shock, rushed back to his family's
tent. 
	Captain Skerg appeared, hurriedly jamming his plumed helmet
on his head.  He took one look at the approaching raiders and
turned a pasty white, his knees trembling.  The incoming force
numbered around two hundred, far outnumbering the guards that
protected the caravan.  But the guards were trained fighters,
battle-hardened and ready; at least, that's what Captain Skerg
always said. 
	The men in the camp hurriedly grabbed weapons, either
conventional or makeship. There was no time to form a plan of
battle, for the enemy was upon them. 
	They appeared to have been drawn from all the lands, and
their lack of uniforms spoke more loudly than words that they
were mercenaries.  They fell upon the hapless traders, hacking
their way through flesh and bone in an orgy of destruction. 
	Hoelt took a firmer grip on the old long sword, thankful
that he had at least some instruction on how to use it.  He
swung desperately now,  defending himself and his family grimly
against the attackers, and waited until the guards mounted some
sort of counter attack. 
	A sudden disturbance behind him made him turn, and to his
shock he saw Captain Skerg and two lieutenants saddled and
preparing to flee.  He ran towards them. 
	"What to you think you are doing?" he screamed at Skerg.  To
his left he saw Bravya and Timelord peering out of their tent,
the fear evident on their faces. 
	"I'm saving my skin," shouted Skerg in reply, "which is more
than I can say for you!  I always said this was madness!  It was
doomed from the start!" 
	"But you swore to defend us!" Hoelt couldn't believe what he
was hearing. 
	"I'll not throw my life away for nothing!"  Skerg looked
around, sweat pouring off him.  "How you die is up to you.  Me,
I'm out of here!" 
	With that he wheeled his horse, and with his lieutenants
following, galloped madly up the beach. 
	Hoelt ran back to his family. 
	"You have to get out of here," he told them hurriedly,
"Skerg has deserted us." 
	"But, but," stammered Bravya, "he promised to.." 
	"I know," interrupted Hoelt, "but he's gone all the same. 
Come on." 
	They ran from the tent, Hoelt leading them away from the
main fighting.  Most of the guards had remained behind, but
without proper leadership and badly outnumbered, it was only a
matter of time before they were all killed.   
	Their destination was the horse pens, and Hoelt hoped to get
his wife and son on a horse and out of the fighting.  But as they
rounded a series of wagons ahead of them they saw two mounted
raiders, who charged, swords swinging. 
	"Get out of here!" shouted Hoelt as he stepped forward to
meet the attack. 
	Bravya and Timelord staggered back as the two bore down on
Hoelt.  He swung at the first, cutting him out of the saddle.  He
tried to avoid the blow from the second, but the attacker's
sword caught him across his back, sending him to the ground. 
	"Hoelt!" screamed Bravya.  She scrambled towards her fallen
husband, who was forcing himself to his knees.  Using his sword
as a lever he staggered to his feet, waving his wife away as the
raider turned to attack again.  Hoelt advanced again, trying to
put some space between himself and his wife.  Weakly raising  his
sword he tried to defend himself, but to no avail.  The raider's
sword crashed through his defenses, severing his head from his
shoulders.  Quickly shifting his weight the raider leaned down,
caught Bravya around the waist with his left arm, and was gone. 
	Timelord wandered aimlessly for a time, tears blurring his
vision.  What was happening?  Where had his mother gone?  There
were no answers, just the sounds of battle, the sounds of men
and women dying. 
	After a while he took shelter under the wheels of one of the
caravans, huddled there hoping to avoid discovery.  He could not
be sure how long he stayed there, whether it was a few minutes or
a few hours.  All he knew was that all of a sudden there was
quiet, the only sounds being that made by horses moving slowly, 
and that of the waves crashing on the shore. 
	Timelord peered out of his hiding place.  Seeing none of the
raiders he ventured out, stepping around carefully. 
	The camp had been completely wrecked.  Bodies lay
everywhere, and the air was full of  the stench of death.  Ahead
of him he heard the sounds of voices - men laughing and children
crying.  Cautiously he moved towards the sound.   
	Hiding behind a barrel he stared at the source of the
sounds.  The children from the expedition had been rounded up and
tied together, and were being guarded by a dozen or more burly
men wearing strange trousers and wielding swords and whips.  They
were talking and laughing amongst themselves in a language
Timelord didn't understand. 
	Suddenly a large hand grabbed him by the back of his neck
and lifted him high in the air.  His captor shouted something to
those guarding the children, and Timelord found himself carried
towards them.   
	He kicked and squirmed, but couldn't break free.  His captor
laughed at his efforts, then tied him up with the rest of the
children. 
	A heavily bearded man with a curious rolling stride
approached. 
	"It that them all?" he growled to the nearest bandit. 
	"Aye, Captain Mearv," he replied, "we just nabbed the last
one." 
	Captain Mearv grunted. 
	"Bring 'em on board," he ordered, "and I'll flay yer hide if
you damage any of 'em." 
	The whips cracked, bringing the children to their feet. 
They were then marched at a brisk pace along the beach until they
came to a series of longboats.  They were bundled in, and those
old enough were ordered to row. 
	Timelord, not needed to man one of the oars, sat near
the prow of the boat.  He could see their destination, a
large, ugly looking ship anchored off shore.  He had never seen
any ship before in his life, but he had heard tales of this sort,
and knew they were heading for a slaver. 
	Bundled on board, Timelord and the others were forced into
the hold of the ship. It was dank, dark, and rats scurried
freely.  Everyone was scared, and many were crying. 
	Timelord, too, was scared, but he didn't cry.  He wasn't yet
nine, so couldn't really grasp the enormity of what had happened
to him.  But two things were very clear in his mind.  Firstly, he
would survive, no matter what they did to him. 
	Second, he would have his revenge on Captain Skerg. 
 
	The next year was a nightmare.  The slaver went from port to
port, always buying or selling slaves where he could.  The eldest
children went first, bought to work in fields or as personal
slaves for whoever wanted to pay for their youth. Those
Timelord's age were generally overlooked, considered no good to
work in fields until they were older. 
	The cramped and dingy conditions took their toll on those
imprisoned.  The rats carried a multitude of diseases, which were
compounded by the damp and the poor food.  Half of the seven and
eight year olds died, and the others all became thin and weak. 
	Somehow Timelord survived.  When he was ten the slaver
docked at a land on the far side of the world, a country known
only in legends and tales in Generica.  As was the usual routine,
the slaves in the hold were brought on deck, then paraded on the
dock for the waiting buyers. 
	The dock was quite large, and it was evident that the slave
trade was popular there, as many buyers were waiting.  They were
a strange looking people to Timelord's eyes, being shorter in
stature than most and with curious almond-shaped eyes.  They
were, however, a very fit and hardy looking people. 
	Captain Mearv moved towards the group of buyers, bowing to
them from the waist.  A brief conversation ensued, then he turned
back to his crew. 
	"Line 'em up," he shouted, "all of them.  Bring the young
ones to the front." 
	Timelord found himself pushed towards the front, and he
looked around in wonder. 
	The robes of those who had come to buy slaves were all very
fine to his eyes, rather than the shabby clothing evident at
other ports.  
	A sharp slap across the head reminded him to keep his eyes
to himself. 
	The buyers went up and down the lines, inspecting each boy
closely.  They seemed generally disappointed by the condition of
the children, although Timelord couldn't understand their
language.  He had come through the voyage better than most,
despite losing a fair amount of weight. 
	In the end the choices were made.  Those selected were
unchained and handed over, money changing hands.  Timelord had
resigned himself to another long sea voyage when one of the
buyers pointed to him. 
	The chain around his ankle was removed, and for the first
time in more than twelve months he was free of its weight.  He
was pushed towards the one who had bought him, then placed in the
back of a horse-drawn cart with several other boys.  The back of
the cart was surrounded by a wooden cage, and once the door was
secured the driver stepped up onto the front of the cart.  He
shook the reins and the horse obediently started forward, heading
along a dirt road inland. 
	The boys spoke little during their journey, each caught up
in their own private fears.  They had no idea what lay ahead of
them, and didn't know whether they were being lead to their
deaths, or worse. 
	After traveling for around an hour the cart came to a halt
at a set of gates guarded by two imposing figures dressed in
ornate armor.  After a brief word the driver shook the reins
again and they passed through. 
	Their journey ended in front of a large single storey house
a few hundred yards from the gate.  The boys were let out and
told to stand before the door to the house, with two more armed
guards nearby. 
	The door opened and the Master of Slaves stepped out.  He
was advanced in years, but he moved as though he were still a
young man.  He cast a stern eye over the group. 
	"I am Myashi," he said in a strange accent, but in the
language they understood. 
	"You are now the property of the master of this land, whose
name you are not worthy to hear!  If you serve faithfully, you
will be rewarded, but if you do not, your reward will be death!"
	He gestured to the man who had taken them from the dock. 
	"Roshi will take you to where you will be working.  You will
speak only when required, otherwise you will be punished.  Go!" 
	With that he turned and re-entered the house. 
	Timelord was taken further into the estate where a small
shack stood in the middle of an expanse of garden.  Roshi got
off the cart and knocked on the door.  It opened to reveal an
elderly man, dressed in old grass and mud stained clothes. 
	The two bowed to each other, and held a brief conversation. 
Roshi then beckoned to Timelord, who hesitantly joined the two
men. 
	"This is your master," said Roshi.  "you will obey him at
all times!  Any disobedience will be reported and dealt with
accordingly!" 
	With that he turned, remounted the cart, and rode off. 
	Timelord looked up at the strange, old man, tears welling in
his eyes.  the man smiled in sympathy, the crouched down in front
of Timelord, bringing their heads to the same level. 
	"You scared?" the man said gently, his voice heavily
accented.  Timelord nodded dumbly. 
	"Not worry," the man replied, "Kurasha will be good to you. 
I feed, teach you, you work hard, and no worries, hmm?" 
	Timelord nodded again, and Kurasha rose.  He placed a gentle
hand on Timelord's shoulder, then pointed to the shack. 
	"We go in, eat," he said.  "Sound good?" 
	"Thank you," Timelord whispered softly. 
	They moved towards the shack, but Kurasha stopped him at the
entrance. 
	"Shoes," he said, pointing at Timelord's feet.  "Off." 
	At first Timelord was somewhat confused, as the man's accent
made him difficult to understand.  When he realised what Kurasha
wanted he bent and carefully untied the rotting thongs that held
his shoes in place. 
	His feet were battered and torn from long exposure to the
bilge water and filth of the slaver.  Kurasha took one look at
the sores and shook his head sadly.  Muttering to himself in his
own tongue he picked up Timelord and carried him into the shack. 
He placed him on a table in the kitchen area and told him to
stay.  Strange smells wafted through the air and Timelord sniffed
deeply, glad to be free of the cloying odour of unwashed bodies
and brine. 
	Kurasha returned shortly, carrying a steaming bowl as well
as various jars and implements.  He placed them beside Timelord,
then carefully examined his feet. 
	"Not good," he murmured.  He looked up at Timelord, who was
wincing slightly. 
	"Hurt a little," Kurasha explained, "but not for long.  Make
them better." 
	The salves and ointments did sting, but Timelord gritted his
teeth and endured it.  When he had finished Kurasha gently
wrapped his feet in linen cloths soaked in aromatic oils, then he
smiled. 
	"Better now?" he asked.  Timelord nodded. 
	"Good." Satisfied his young charge was comfortable he
bustled about the kitchen preparing some dinner.  When it was
just about ready he picked up Timelord and carried him into an
adjoining room. 
	In the center of the room was a low table, surrounded by
cushions.  Used to tables and chairs, Timelord was somewhat
confused at the eating arrangements, but said nothing.  Kurasha
sat him on one of the cushions and went back into the kitchen. 
	He emerged carrying a large tray that he set on the middle
of the table.  He muttered a quick prayer, then knelt on a
cushion.  The tray contained a large bowl of rice, some slices of
meat that looked to Timelord like raw fish, and some fresh
fruits.  Conspicuously absent, however, were knives and forks; 
instead two sets of long, thing sticks sat beside two empty
bowls. 
	Kurasha quickly filled one bowl with rice and handed it to
Timelord.  He then filled his own bowl and began to eat happily.
	Somewhat uncertain on how to use the strange utensils,
Timelord picked up the pair of sticks and tried to emulate
Kurasha's effortless style.  However, all he managed to do was
spill most of it back into the bowl, gaining only about one o 
two grains at a time.   
	Kurasha looked on and smiled to himself.  How like his own
grandson this one was!  It hardly seemed like yesterday, yet it
was twelve months since little Susha had been taken by the dark
fever and went to be with his honourable ancestors.  It was as
if his spirit had returned to him in the form of this strange,
round-eyed boy.   
	So thinking, he rounded the table to show Timelord how to
use the chopsticks. 
 
 
	Timelord's feet healed quickly, and within a few days he was
able to begin working with Kurasha in the gardens.  Kurasha was
responsible for the gardens surrounding his feudal lord's manor,
and tended to them daily.  The two became a familiar sight, the
small round-eyed boy beside the old gardener, and they talk
softly as they moved about the gardens.  Kurasha taught him how
to care for the various plants, their properties and place in
nature as a whole.  At night, when back in the shack, he would
teach Timelord the language of the island, and to show proper
respect for his lord and their deities.  Although initially  
unsure about the new gods Kurasha prayed to, Timelord soon
accepted them as he had the gods his family had respected at
home. 
	By the time he was twelve, Timelord was fluent in the
language of the island and well versed in the care and sculpting
of the various plants and trees in the gardens.  He was also
strong and agile, having learnt some basic rolls and throws of a
self defense practiced on the island from some of the other
servants and slaves.  He would practice often, and Kurasha would
often note to himself or out loud at how proficient Timelord was
becoming. 
	Kurasha, whose hair had grayed slightly over the years but was
still as active as ever, smiled one day as Timelord bounded
inside the shack for lunch. 
	"You are late," he said in mock anger.  Timelord bowed
deeply and flamboyantly. 
	"Oh, master," he said with smile, "I am but as worthless as
the dirt.  Can you forgive me?" 
	Kurasha laughed. 
	"Sit and eat," he said, "I have important news." 
	"Oh?" queried Timelord as he knelt down.  He bowed twice
over his food, then picked up his bowl. 
	"Yes," replied Kurasha, repeating the gesture.  "This
evening we must go up to the manor and prepare the gardens in
the central courtyard, for our lord is preparing a big feast for
his supporters." 
	"We?" asked Timelord, his excitement growing.  He had never
been allowed within fifty yards of the manor, let alone inside. 
	"We," repeated Kurasha with a nod.  "Usually I would have
taken Sahi with me, but he is still in his three days of mourning
for his brother, so I shall take you instead." 
	"I am honoured," said Timelord reverently, and bowed towards
the alcove dedicated to the master of the estate.  Kurasha
continued to speak as they ate. 
	"There are only certain areas into which we may go," he
instructed firmly.  "Any deviation into sacred or noble ground
may be punishable by death.  I will show you where we can and can
not go, so there should not be any problems there." 
	Timelord nodded his understanding. 
	"It will take most of the night and probably part of
tomorrow morning to complete the preparations," Kurasha
continued.  "Flowers must be arranged, garden beds weeded,
bushes reshaped, and trees inspected for any disease or
imperfections.  Everything must be perfect." 
	Again Timelord nodded, his eyes glowing with excitement. 
Kurasha noted it and smiled. 
	"I, too, was excited the first time I was taken to the
manor," he said, "although I was younger than you, being a free
islander."  He then became more serious.   
	"Remember what I have instructed you on courtesy and honour
towards the high born!" he warned.  "So far you have met only a
few minor lords, but tonight you may meet many of the High Lord's
council or allies.  On no account speak unless ordered to!  You
are a slave, so you must prostrate yourself before them if they 
pass you by.  Otherwise," Kurasha added more lightly, "you may
find yourself falling to pieces in more ways than one!" 
	"I shall remember," said Timelord, "and I shall also
remember who it was who taught me such courtesies, if I should
meet anyone even mildly important!" 
	"That is good", said Kurasha.  "Now, eat.  We have much work
to do." 
	They left for the manor a few hours before dusk.  They carried
with them the tools they would need, all piled into a barrow pushed
by Kurasha.  As they neared their destination, Timelord drank in
every detail, wondering at the beauty before him.
	The manor stood in the center of the estate, and dwarfed any
building Timelord had seen on the isle.   It was surrounded by a
huge wall, twenty feet high and eight foot thick.  The top was
further fortified, giving protection to the soldiers that
paraded up and down , day and night.  The main gates were  
constructed of solid oak, reinforced with steel bands, and were
guarded constantly by soldiers both on the surrounding wall and
on the ground in front of them. 
	Timelord could barely contain his excitement as they
approached the gates.  For the first time he would actually see
inside, to see how the all powerful High Lord lived. 
	Kurasha approached the guards in front of the gates.  He
bowed and spoke to them, showing a document he produced from
inside his shirt.  The guard examined the note and nodded to
Kurasha, who then beckoned to Timelord.  The two then passed
through the gates that were opened at a shouted command from the
guard. 
	Timelord tried not to gawk at the surroundings as he passed
into the central courtyard.  Inside the walls were clusters of
well-maintained buildings, all with ornately carved railings and
overhangs.  They were arranged spaciously around a central
courtyard area, and it was to this that Kurasha led him. 
	"This is the High Lord's palace grounds," Kurasha whispered. 
"In here are the finest gardens on the whole island.  I have
tended them many times, and will show you where you will be
working tonight." 
	Timelord nodded, his mouth dry in anticipation.  They
approached a second set of gates, again guarded, but the men on
duty wore a different type of uniform to those outside.  Their
winged helmets were golden, and inlaid with precious stones. 
Their armor was burnished, and their katanas drawn. 
	Again Kurasha produced his letter, and they were passed into
the inner courtyard.  Kurasha lead Timelord to a garden expanse
near the north wall. 
	"Here you will work tonight," he said.  "There is too much
to do for me to remain with you, but I know you have the skill
to tend to the gardens properly.  Remember my teachings, little
Timelord!" he finished with a smile.  He left a bag of tools, and
moved off into the twilight. 
	Timelord looked around the garden.  There were stands of
cherry trees, rows of low shrubs, as well as a profuse rose bed. 
There was certainly plenty to keep him occupied this night! 
	Not too long after he had begun inspecting the cherry trees
for disease or defect a servant appeared and began to light the
lanterns the surrounded the garden.  The added light was a great
help, as Timelord was having some difficulty seeing the trees
clearly.   
	An hour or so later and Timelord was down on his hands and
knees in the rose bed.  Although the flowers were closed, he
could still easily smell their pungent fragrance. 
	He frowned as he came across a small cluster of weeds.  He
was about to pull them out with his bare hands when he realised
exactly what sort of weed it was. 
	Although similar in appearance to the common nettleball, the
Viperweed was unrelated, and much more nasty.  The weed was a
pleasant green colour, quite succulent-looking, and was about
five inches in diameter.  Each of its many stalks ended in a
small ball of tissue, about the size of a marble, which had 
small woody spikes protruding from its surface.  Anybody unwary
enough to come into contact with the weed, either accidently or 
by confusing it with nettleball would soon regret it.  The spikes
were razor sharp, easily penetrating skin or light cloth.  The
weed would then eject from the spikes, which were actually
hollow, a liquid that caused intense pain and discomfort, often
to the point of being incapacitated if stung sufficiently.  Hence
the name Viperweed. 
	Drawing from his belt a pair of very heavy leather gloves,
Timelord began to cautiously dig the weed from the garden,
placing it into a leather bag.  He then methodically searched the
rest of the rose bed, finding a few other infestations of the
dreaded weed. 
	After working so intensely, Timelord sat back on his heels
to stretch his back and neck.  As he did so he noticed a door
being opened on the far side of the garden and a figure step out.
	He was a tall man, his imposing form silhouetted by the
light from the door.  His robes were of the finest silk, with the
red on black colouring of the High Lord.  His hair was drawn into
an intricate top-knot, indicating a high rank, and a gold and
jewel encrusted katana and wakizashi were sheathed at his side. 
	Timelord dropped to the ground as the figure stepped
forward.  Although he had been taught exactly how to behave in
front of the lords of the manor, he reasoned that the best way to
avoid any possible insult to their honour was to simply
disappear.  So he wormed his way as far into the garden bed as he
could, being careful not to make any sound. 
	Looking up he could see the lord walking leisurely around
the perimeter of the garden, taking in the cool night air. 
Timelord watched from his vantage point, hoping that he wouldn't
be noticed. 
	A shadow moving along the top of the garden wall drew his
attention.  The only reason he saw it was that from position on
the ground the shadow blotted out some of the stars as it moved. 
It moved in absolute silence, and Timelord thought that he had
been seeing things until it stopped and drew a long, silvery
object silently from beneath its robes. 
	As the armed assassin crouched atop the wall, Timelord
realised that its target was the lord who so calmly walked below.
	For the last six years Timelord had been brought to revere
the High Lord above all else, and to obey the High Lord's
commands and those of the other lords implicitly.  Now, seeing
someone attempting to kill one of the men he had sworn undying
loyalty to, he realised that he had to do something. 
	For an instant he actually contemplated doing nothing,
remembering he had been brought to the island as a slave.  But
Kurasha's love and teaching prevailed. 
	With his gloved right had he slowly reached for the bag
containing the Viperweed he had just pulled from the garden. 
Reaching in, he carefully stripped the spiked orbs from one of
the plants, and bundled them loosely in his right hand. 
	He didn't have time to see how many he had taken, nor how
many had caught in the heavy leather of the glove, for the lord
was only ten feet from the assassin.  Timelord leapt to his
feet, drew back his arm and threw the orbs at the shadowy figure,
at the same time shouting, 
	"My lord, look out!" 
	The lord turned quickly to the sound of Timelord's voice,
the hand flashing to the hilt of his katana.  He was about to
draw his sword when a shout of pain reached his ears from above
him.  Looking up, he saw the shadowy figure clutching at his
face, then stumble and fall to the ground in front of him, still
holding his weapon.  Smoothly the lord drew his katana, knocked
aside a weak attempt by the assassin to bring his weapon to bear,
and plunged his blade through the figure's heart. 
	It was all over in a matter of seconds.  The lord turned
again towards Timelord. 
	"You," he commanded, "come over here." 
	Timelord swallowed dryly, fear almost rooting him to the
spot.  He crawled out of the garden, and made his way to the lord
on his hands and knees.  Once he was a few feet from him, he
prostrated himself fully on the ground. 
	"Rise," said the lord sternly.  Timelord got to his knees,
keeping his eyes cast downward. 
	The lord stood over him, his bloody sword still in his
hands. 
	"Who are you?" he demanded. 
	Timelord swallowed. 
	"I am Timelord, my lord," he whispered, "slave to Kurasha
and servant of the High Lord." 
	"It was you who called out?" 
	Timelord nodded, not daring to speak. 
	"You have done me a great service," the lord said
approvingly, "and it shall be rewarded." 
	Timelord bowed to the earth, grateful that his life had been
spared. 
	Suddenly there can the sounds of running feet, and voices
raised in fear and worry.  A group of four well dressed lords ran
into the garden, accompanied by several guards with drawn swords. 
	The lord shouted to them that he was fine, that the danger
was over; and they slowed their mad advance. 
	The first newcomer was an elderly lord.  He bowed low and
said, 
	"High Lord, we are glad to see that you are unharmed." 
	Timelord shook when he realised to whom he had been talking. 
The High Lord! 
	Almost unconsciously he tried to sink further into the earth
to escape from the High Lord's presence. 
	"I am fine, Aashi," replied the High Lord, "thanks to this
slave."   
	He turned to the body of the assassin.   The face was mostly
covered by a black mask, but a small area of bare flesh was
exposed.  It was into this area that some of the Viperweed pods
had struck. 
	"Have this vermin removed," the High Lord commanded, "and
see if you can discern who sent him.  As for you," he said to
Timelord, "I have promised you a reward, and I do not break my
word.  We shall speak of this later." 
	Timelord was still too scared to speak, but inside he felt
a stirring of elation and pride in having been of service to the
High Lord.  He heard various orders being made as to extra guards
and disposal of the body, and the High Lord moving away. 
	"Rise, boy," said a voice suddenly.  Timelord looked up to
see Aashi standing near him.   
	Aashi beckoned to him, and Timelord followed the lord
towards the manor. 
	"A service such as yours shows much honour," he said as they
walked.  "Tonight you dine with the High Lord.  But first," he
added with a bit of humour, "a bath!" 
 
	That night Timelord dined with the High Lord and his family. 
He would remember little of that meal in the years to come, just
images of fine food, wines, and silver.  The most overwhelming
memory would be that of the honour he felt sitting next to the
High Lord at the table, and in later years that would be tainted
by the truth and his own guilt. 
	But that night he was feeling honoured and scared,
priveliged and out of place, a man and a boy; at the time, that
was enough. 
 
	As the meal drew to a close, The High Lord spoke to
Timelord. 
	"Now we shall speak of your reward," he said.  "Your dealing
with the assassin showed valor and courage fitting of the finest
warriors.  So I am offering you the chance to join my Grey
Regiment, the body of warriors who guard and defend the manor and
my land.  The fact you are not of this island does not matter -
what I say is law.  What do you say?" 
	For a minute Timelord was speechless.  Back in his homeland
he had dreamed of one day becoming a warrior, and here he was
being offered a place in the most feared and revered body of
soldiers on the army!  Bowing low to the  High Lord, he made his
reply. 
	"My Lord," he said reverently, "I accept." 
 
	That night when back in his private quarters, the High Lord
was told the name of the assassin.  As the guard who brought him
the news bowed and left, the High Lord wondered whether or not he
had made a grave mistake. 
	"No matter," he muttered to himself, "time shall prove me
right or wrong." 
 
	Timelord's training began the next day.  He was woken early,
before the sun had risen.  After bathing, he was taken into a
large hall with a group of other trainee warriors.  There the
discipline commenced. 
	At first Timelord had been worried that Kurasha may not have
known where he was, but he was assured that his previous master
would be informed of his fate.  So encouraged, Timelord threw all
his efforts into his training. 
	There was much to learn.  The others in the group with
Timelord had all been training for some months so he had some
catching up to do.  As yet they had not been presented with their
practice swords, though the masters who trained them wore theirs
with pride.  
	Each morning began with an hour of meditation and
relaxation, preparing them for the day ahead.  Then stretching
and flexibility exercises, all designed to push their bodies to
the limit. 
	The rest of the morning would be taken up with learning
unarmed combat, a more attack oriented style than Timelord had
learnt from Kurasha.  Form was all-important; the masters that
instructed the initiates were free with their hands in delivering
blows to those who failed to meet their standards. 
	After lunch was more training, either in the training halls
or out in the fields.  Here the boys learnt woodcraft, horse
riding, and hunting.  They learnt how to stalk their prey, making
no noise as they moved through the forests and fields, and how to
make themselves blend into the surroundings. 
	Timelord progressed quickly, soon catching up to the more
experienced members in the class.  He found his body responded
well to the exercise, growing stronger and more supple as the
days and weeks passed. 
	A year after joining the regiment, Timelord and his class
were graduated to the next level of training.  The unarmed combat
training continued, as did the training out doors, but a new
genre of fighting was introduced; weapon training. 
	It was here that Timelord found he truly excelled.  Somehow
the weapons felt right in his hands, whether it be the staff,
tonfa, or nunchaka.  Quickly outstripping his classmates,
Timelord was taken to the advanced weapons training class.  He
was fourteen, a few years younger than the other members of the
advanced class. 
	Here Timelord learnt advanced weapons technique, as well as
sparring with the others in unarmed combat.  He quickly grew to
be the equal of many of the older trainees, and the masters
delighted in how quickly he was learning. 
	When he was fifteen, he graduated from the senior class, one
of the youngest ever to do so.  At the ceremony, he was presented
with his black training gi, and with the others, was awarded
with what would later be his weapon of choice - his katana. 
	For the next three years he learnt to master the sword.  His
training began with sword care, how to inspect his weapon, clean
and polish the blade.  He was taught respect for the sword, and
the correct way to store, wear and draw the blade. 
	Next came the sword katas.  They were always practiced
alone, never against another with a live blade.  He was taught
the sixteen basic cuts, how to move his feet and focus his inner
energy on each action.  Each cut was a synchronised movement of
sword and body, all designed for maximum effectiveness against an
opponent.  They were practiced over and over, until perfect
technique was gained. 
	To supplement the trainees speed and skill, strength
increasing exercises  were added to their regime.  Weights were
tied to their wrists, waist and legs, and they were made to
perform rigorous exercises, often to the point of collapse.  As
time went by, heavier and heavier weights were added, and always
continued the discipline and the training.
	Throughout his training Timelord was instructed in the honor
code of the warrior, the way of Bushido.  He was taught perfect
obedience to his masters, and often studied the stories and poems
of great warriors of the past.  
	Timelord relished in the exercise of his mind as much of
that of his body.  He would sit up late studying various works of
past heroes, absorbing all he could of their knowledge and
techniques.
	At eighteen, Timelord's training was complete.  All that
remained was his final testing and the initiation into the ranks
of the Grey Regiment.
	The final testing was held in an ancient grove of trees a
few miles from the manor.  Each of those who were to undergo the
final ritual had spent the a week in meditation and preparation. 
Then on the night of the trial, they were lead one by one to the
grove, wearing their black gi's with their katanas belted to
their waist.
	When it was Timelord's turn, he was lead through the fields
towards the grove.  His time of meditation had brought his mind
to a knife edge of readiness, and he knew he was ready to face
this testing.
	After passing through the grove he came to a large clearing,
surrounded by warriors of the Grey Regiment.  He was lead to the
center where a bonfire had been lit.  He was instructed to kneel
before the fire, and to wait.
	As he knelt there, Timelord let his senses roam around him. 
He could sense the gaze of the warriors present to witness the
trial, and he wondered what the next step would be.
	He didn't have to wait too long.  From his left the ranks of
the warriors opened, and Swordmaster Narikiro Yansabuthi entered
the clearing.  His swords were sheathed at his hip, and the
firelight glinted off the gold leaf and precious stones on their
hilts.
	Timelord remained motionless, staring towards the fire, yet
not really seeing it as he prepared himself for whatever lay
ahead.
	Narikiro spoke to the assembled warriors.
	"Brothers," he said in his deep, melodious voice, "here is
one who seeks entrance into our ranks.  He has passed through the
training and is deemed to be ready.  Do you accept the
eligibility of this man?"
	"Hie!" shouted the warriors in unison.
	"Do you accept this as a true test of his readiness?" said
Narikiro.
	"Hie!"
	"And will you accept him as brother should he pass?"
	"Hie!"
	"Then let it begin!"
	"Hie!  Hie!  Hie!"
	The shout rang out three times, then there was silence. 
Narikiro circled about the clearing, his eyes never leaving
Timelord, coming to a halt directly behind him.
	Timelord had remained motionless throughout, though the
ritual words had stirred him passionately.  He could feel
Narikiro behind him, but knew it was not yet time to move.  
	Time seemed strangely frozen to Timelord, as if for this
night the grove had been taken out of the world into some
timeless void of space.  In that void he floated, mind alert to
any minute change, body ready to move in an instant.
	Behind him, Narikiro in one blindingly fast movement, drew
his sword and swung it at Timelord's head.
	Timelord felt Narikiro's hand closing on the ornate hilt,
and at the same moment drew his own sword and brought it up and
around to protect himself.
	The two blades met in a clash of steel.  Instantly Timelord
rolled to his left and rose to his feet in one movement, sword
at the ready.  He faced Narikiro who was moving with slow, sure
steps towards Timelord, his sword held horizontally above his
head.  Timelord held his katana in the classic response, vertical
at his side, both hands on the hilt.
	Narikiro leapt forward suddenly and unleashed a series of
lightning blows.  Timelord defended, stepping backwards in the
face of the intense attack.  Their blades clashed and locked,
each striving to force the other off balance.
	Timelord suddenly slipped inside Narikiro, throwing him over
his shoulder.  He followed up quickly, but the Swordmaster
blocked him easily.  They moved apart again, giving away nothing
in their faces.
	Timelord circled around the bonfire, close to the circle of
warriors as he sought an opening in Narikiro's defenses.  He
could sense that Narikiro was holding back, testing Timelord's
skills to the limit, yet not unleashing his full destructive
power.
	Suddenly Narikiro rolled behind the fire, out of Timelord's
sight.  Before Timelord could readjust his position, with a shout
Narikiro leapt through the flames with a yoko-tobi-geri (flying
side kick), sword held high.  Timelord pivoted barely in time to
avoid the vicious kick, then had to hurriedly block Narikiro's
counterswing.  A swish of steel behind Timelord forced him to
turn and block an attack from one of the warriors in the circle,
then turn again as Narikiro unleashed three quick attacks to
Timelord's head, chest and legs.  He then backflipped twice to
give himself some breathing space.
	Narikiro looked at him and nodded.
	"Good," he said.  "You have passed the first three stages of
the Trial.  And now..."
	Timelord's weapon suddenly spun out of his hands and out of
the circle.
	"...for the fourth."

	Timelord had not seen the Priest of the Trial in the shadows
of the grove, but the Image of Force he projected certainly
reminded him.  Without the Priest there was no Trial; Timelord
had just discovered how integral a part he played.
	Narikiro advanced again, sword held in a reverse hand grip. 
Timelord backed away carefully, being alert for attacks from the
warriors around him.  Narikiro began to swing the sword in front
of him, slashing through the air to the left and the right as he
continued to move slowly towards Timelord.  He began to move more
quickly, increasing the rate of his slashing at the same time.
	Timelord realised that unless he did something soon he would
be in a fully fledged panicking run from Narikiro.  He quickly
formed a plan, knowing it would require split second timing, and
waited for the moment to strike.
	Timelord seemed to stumble, and as he fell, his hand reached out
and grasped a flaming brand from the bonfire.  He then lunged forward, 
thrusting the torch into Narikiro's face.
	Narikiro seemed startled by this sudden turn of events, and in 
that moment of hesitation, Timelord moved in, kicking Narikiro's sword
from his hands.  With a footsweep he had the Swordmaster down, with his
own wakizashi pressed to his throat.
	For a moment there was silence.  Then Narikiro smiled.
	"You have done well, Aspirant," he said, "but always remember.."
	A sudden shifting of his weight, and Timelord found himself
flying through the air, landing ungracefully several feet from Narikiro.
	"..never let your guard down," the Swordmaster finished.
	Timelord rose to his feet, and bowed to Narikiro, who returned the
gesture and turned to face the assembled warriors.
	"Thus have you witnessed this man pass the four stages of the
Testing," his voice rang out, "and I deem him ready to join our ranks.
What say Ye?"
	"HIE! HIE! HIE!"

			********************

	The swearing in ceremony was held three days later in the main
temple of the High Lord.  Timelord and the four others who had past the 
testing knelt near the alter at the front of the temple, wearing only
loincloths, with their katanas supported unsheathed on the palms of their
hands.
	Many nobles were gathered to witness the ceremony, and the High Lord
himself knelt in the front row of the gathering.  There was complete silence,
broken only by the priests' chanting as they purified themselves and the
initiates for the ceremony.
	The Priest of the Testing then turned to face the initiates.  His 
voice rose and fell in the formal cadences of the ages-old incantation as five
of the underpriests moved to stand in front of each of the kneeling warriors.
Each held a velvet cushion on which rested a single leather gauntlet.
	At a command from the Priest of the Testing, all five swords slowly
rose in the air, turning as they did so until their points were resting 
against the initiates hearts.  The underpriests then held out the cushions,
and Timelord joined the others in reaching out to take the offered glove.
	As Timelord slipped the gauntlet over his right hand, he could feel
the pride, the honour, the duty that membership to the Grey Regiment involved
wash over him from the assembled throng of people.  Once the glove was in
place, the sword that had been hovering in front of his chest flipped around,
the hilt dropping into his outstretched hand.  He and the others then turned
and laid their weapons before the High Lord, bowing low to the ground as they
offered them their fealty.
	The High Lord rose, then touched each of them once, lightly, on the
head.  A cheer rose from the assembled nobles, and Timelord stood with his
fellow members of the feared Grey Regiment.

	The barracks to which Timelord and the other new members were assigned
were built against the north wall of the compound, around one hundred yards
from the High Lord's main palace.  There were around fifty others in the same
barracks, with the more experienced warriors living closer to the High Lord.
	In total the Grey Regiment numbered around 150 men, taken from all
regions of the High Lord's domain.  A few, like Timelord, were freed slaves,
but most of the members were from warrior families loyal to the High Lord.
The island was around 300 miles across at its widest point, and was surrounded
by several smaller islets.  The land owned by the High Lord was one of the
largest settlements, and he controlled two of the four other major clans.
	The Grey Regiment was far from ceremonial, despite the power of the
High Lord.  Other feudal lords were in direct military opposition to the 
High Lord, and although they did not pose any immediate threat to his power,
he had long since learnt that strength and position relied heavily on one's
military might.
	And those of his allies.  As a result, detachments of the Grey 
Regiment were often sent to guard the caravans of loyal nobles as they
passed through areas renowned for treachery and ambush.  Thus it was that
three months after his initiation Timelord found himself part of a guard
detailed to protect a small caravan of Lord Tananauki as it returned to his
home fiefdom.
	Timelord was somewhat nervous as he rode next to one of the covered
wagons, for there had been reports of some bandits working near this stretch
of road.  He was alert for trouble, though, and as they neared the end of the
journey, he wondered if the reports had been false as nothing had troubled
them at all.
	He leant forward to pat his horse's neck when he heard the twang
of several bowstrings from his right.  Instinctively, he half-slid from
his saddle, dropping his body below the back of his horse to shield himself
from the arrows.  Several whistled through the space his body had occupied
moments before, burying themselves in the side of the wagon.
	Timelord dropped to the ground as war cries resounded from the 
nearby bushes.  His drew his katana and stepped free of his horse as the
first of the assailants burst from cover.
	It was easy to see by their unkempt condition that they were ronin
who had lost all vestiges of honour by turning bandits.  They charged forward,
and Timelord felt no pity for such dishonourable men.
	Several of the guards had been felled by arrows, and the remaining
eight rushed forward to meet the attack.
	Timelord easily parried the first few strokes from one bandit, then
felled him with three precise cuts across the chest and stomach.  He then
ducked under a wind swing, and ran that one through the chest.
	Several more guards were down, for as Timelord looked about he saw
that there were at least two dozen of the attackers.  Without pausing he
leapt into the fray, shouting the war cry of the Grey Regiment.  He swung
his katana with icy precision, sometimes using his opponents own blade to
guide his strokes.  He fought his way to the side of his companions, and so
the six of them faced off against the remaining eighteen.
	Six heroes were born that day; three lived to receive the accolades.
When the battle was over, those who survived had all been injured, but their
enemies lay slain at their feet.
	Timelord's arms were shaking with tension and exhaustion when the
battle was over and was lightly cut in half a dozen or so places, though not
seriously.  His remaining two companions were somewhat worse off, with Munasha
leaning against a wagon, his face white from blood loss.
	They tended their wounds as best they could, helped by Lord Tananauki's
servants.  The bandits they left where they fell as a reminder to others of the
penalty for such lawlessness, but their fallen comrades were placed reverently
into wagons to await proper burial.
	The final short leg of the journey was uneventful, and upon arriving
at Lord Tananauki's residence, Timelord and his fellow surviving warriors were
taken immediately to the temple for their wounds to be attended to.  When they
were again fit to travel, they returned to the High Lord's palace and the praise
of their fellows.
	As Timelord had been recovering in the temple he had time to contemplate
the battle.  Although he knew that it was his duty to kill in the line of duty,
and that the bandits had indeed deserved to die for their actions, he still 
felt uneasy.  The ease with which he had killed his foes surprised him somewhat,
despite the meticulous training, and he worried that he may become too 
accustomed to the slaughter.  As he sat meditating, he thought back on the
teachings of the greatest warrior the island had ever seen, recorded 
meticulously in his book "The Sword and the Ink".   That warrior had killed
over a thousand men in his lifetime, yet was the loving father of seven children
and an accomplished poet.  The teachings in that book, of balance and destiny,
calmed Timelord's mind.  He resolved never to be wielded by his own sword, but
to remember always the circle of life and death, and the place he held in each.
	Timelord's prowess in battle soon caught the eye of several of the
commanding officers of the Grey Regiment, and he soon found himself in the
barracks of the more experienced and skillful warriors.  There he was quite
regularly called upon, along with others in the group, to fight in the service
of the High Lord.  Sometimes they were just brief skirmishes, a quick 
exchange of blows and then a retreat by the attacking foe.  But often they
were full blooded battles, with victory to the Regiment only after the total
destruction of the others, and Timelord began to wonder why the High Lord 
should be under such constant attack.
	He asked one of the other that night, a man called Yasha who had been
with the Regiment for five years.  He listened to Timelord's question, then
shrugged.
	"All powerful men have enemies," he responded, "and the High Lord is
a very powerful man.  Besides, there is always fear and unrest in the country.
You have to expect these things."
	"But I thought that the High Lord had absolute rule of the countryside,"
said Timelord, "and that the commoners obeyed him from love of who he was, not
fear."
	"We do not question these things," said Yasha, looking intently into
Timelord's eyes, "we obey.  The High Lord's words are truth; to this we are
sworn."
	Timelord nodded, and Yasha laid a friendly hand on his shoulder before
they settled down on their sleeping pallets.  Yasha's reply hadn't entirely
satisfied his question, but he accepted it for now.
	It would not be long before he would question his motives again.

	By the end of Timelord's first year in the Grey Regiment he had
progressed through the ranks until he was a member of the elite guard, the
most trusted and feared of the High Lord's personal guard.  As such he duties
included guarding the High Lord on his infrequent trips from the palace, 
performing ceremonial guard duty at the doors to the throne room, and protecting
visiting lords as they met with the High Lord.
	He found he had generally more time to devote to meditation and 
practice, although there were occasional small battles when protecting other
lords as they traveled to and fro.  Timelord honed his technique and mental
powers, often practicing his katas with soft music playing in the background.
	One day in late summer Timelord was sitting in his barracks reading
some books of ancient poetry when Captain Pyloasi called in to pay a visit.
Timelord looked up when he heard someone at the door, then grinned when he
saw who it was.
	"And what do you want, you old rogue?" Timelord asked his friend.
	"Hah," replied Pyloasi, "that's no way to talk to a superior officer!"
He sat on the bunk opposite Timelord.
	"Actually," he said more seriously, "I wondered if you'd like to join
me in a trip to the weaponsmith.  I'm picking up my new sword today."
	"New sword?" asked Timelord, his curiosity growing.
	"Aye," replied Pyloasi.  "It'll cost me a year's wages, but it's 
worth it."
	"Count me in!" said Timelord.  He rose, pulling on his leather
gauntlet, and the two left.

	It was market day in the town, so there was quite a large crowd
in the streets.  The two warriors had no problems making their way, though,
as the people moved out of the way to let them pass.
	Upon arriving at the swordsmiths they were shown into the main
lounge where they waited for a few minutes.  When the Master Swordsmith
arrived they rose and bowed, then sat again as the Swordsmith prepared
tea.
	"Your sword is ready, Pyloasi," said the Swordsmith as they sipped
their tea.  "It is sharpened and polished, and waiting for you to test its
edge."
	"I am honoured," replied Pyloasi, bowing, "and await your earliest
convenience."
	"Then let us drink tea and proceed," said Pyloasi.

	As they moved to the back rooms of the Swordsmith's workshop,
Timelord was wondering to himself how the sharpness of a sword was tested.
Still pondering, they came to a courtyard at the rear of the workshop.

	Several students of the Swordsmith were there, but Timelord's 
attention was drawn immediately to the five men hanging side by side from
their wrists on the center of the courtyard.  They were dressed in rags,
with numerous scars on their bodies, causing Timelord to assume they were
criminals of some sort.  As he examined them, Pyloasi tapped him on the
shoulder.
	"What do you think?" he asked proudly, holding a sheathed katana
up for Timelord's inspection.
	"Very nice," Timelord replied, noting the fine work on the hilt
and scabbard.
	"Of course," said Pyloasi as he belted the sword about his waist,
"and now it is time to test the edge."
	He walked forward until he stood a few feet in front of the hanging
men.  A cold realisation began to dawn upon Timelord, rooting him to the
spot.  Surely he couldn't be going to...
	Pyloasi drew the katana smoothly, brought it once about his head,
then slashed outwards in a vicious horizontal arc.
	The keen edge sheared its way through the captives, severing them
at the waist.  One moment they were alive and whole; the next, all five
had been hacked in half, their torsos still hanging by their wrists, but
dripping blood and intestines onto the ground.
	Pyloasi grunted in satisfaction, then turned to the Swordsmith.
	"A truly fine edge, Master Swordsmith.  I am in you debt."
	"Of course you are," he replied with a smile, "at least, until
you pay for it!"
	They laughed, then moved back inside, Pyloasi pausing only to
clean his sword before sheathing it.  Timelord followed, his mind blank
at the horror he had just witnessed.
	Pyloasi noticed his friend's white face, and threw a comaradly
arm about his shoulders.
	"What's up, my friend?" he asked, still smiling.
	"Those men, you just...I mean, they were.." he stammered.
	"Them?" Pyloasi looked confused.  "They were criminals, only fit
to die.  At least this way, their miserable lives were used for a good
purpose."
	"But what were their crimes?" Timelord asked, the colour slowly
returning to his face.
	"Who cares?"  Pyloasi was no longer smiling.  "That is the way
of the world.  We have the power, and the commoners know that.  We do
what we want, and what we want is right.  That is the way it has always
been.  Haven't you learnt that yet?"
	With that, he walked off.
	As they returned to their barracks, Timelord had recovered from
his shock to notice those around him.  Again they moved out of the way
of the two warriors, but this time Timelord looked more closely at their
faces.  None of the commoners looked at the two for more than a few 
seconds, but Timelord saw fear in every face; fear not out of respect,
but naked, raw fear of the nobles, the warriors, and the absolute power
of life and death that they held over those surrounding them.

	One week later came the orders for what would become Timelord's
last mission in the Grey Regiment.  News had been received that one of the
local villages were in armed revolt against the High Lord, undoubtably backed
by one of his rivals.  Their duty was to stamp out that rebellion.
	They left in the predawn darkness, so few saw them as they passed
through the town and out into the countryside.  The village was only about
an hour or so from the manor, so the company traveled lightly, ready for
combat at any moment.
	Timelord rode in silence, still contemplating the images from the
previous week.  After the initial horror had passed he found himself back in
his usual routine, but some of the enthusiasm, the feeling of pride and honour,
had left him, and as he rode he wondered at the change in his attitudes.
	The came to a halt a few hundred yards from the village.  Everything
was quiet; not activity in the nearby fields could be seen.  The unit captain,
Pyloasi, turned in his saddle to address the troops.
	"The rebellion here is to be crushed!" he said in a voice just loud
enough to reach all the men.  "No evidence of it must remain to be a slur
on the honour of the High Lord.  No prisoners!"
	He wheeled his horse and lead his division of the Grey Regiment into
battle at full gallop.
	Timelord rode in the van of the troops, ducking low over the back of 
his horse to lessen the chance of being felled by arrows.  Some shafts flew
overhead, and a few were not lucky enough to escape them, but the lead horses
crashed through the scant lines of bowmen as if they weren't there, trampling
them under their iron hooves.
	Timelord leapt of his horse and cut through the feeble defenses of the
two bowmen beside him, then raced into the village itself.  Screams could be
heard coming from all directions, but Timelord had heard the screams of the
dying before.  A peasant lunged at him with a pitchfork, but Timelord easily
ducked inside the blow and ran the man through.  He moved on, searching for
more heavily armed opposition, but found none.  Confused, he slowed his
advance and looked about him.
	The village was in flames.  People ran screaming into the streets,
women and children alike as the warriors moved methodically from hut to hut,
torching them.  The few men who chose to fight were slaughtered, their bodies
kicked away.  The stench of death and burning flesh filled the air, but
that was only the beginning of the horror.
	The warriors, driven by their years of training had encircled the
village in minutes and began to drive the villagers back towards the center,
ensuring no-one escaped.  They then began to systematically hack the villagers
to pieces.
	Timelord was frozen to the spot, the memories of more than a decade
ago flooding back to him; the glitter of sunlight on steel, whinnying of 
horses, the slaughter of the caravan and his parents.  He staggered back
drunkedly, trying to ignore the horror before his eyes.  He turned around
and found himself face to face with a young peasant woman, an expression of
total fear seeming frozen to her face.  Her eyes closed and she collapsed to
the ground, sliding limply off Timelord's blade.  He looked down at his hands,
unable to believe what he had just done, then collapsed to his knees beside
the slowly cooling body.

	Timelord found himself on his horse again with no memory of how he
got there.  He and the other troops were riding away from the village, 
leaving its smoldering ruins behind them.  The presence of the others
barely registered on him as he rode in a daze, an upon arrival back at the
manor hardly heard the captain give them leave for the rest of the day.
He wandered about briefly, his walking bringing him to the doors of the
temple.  He went in, automatically bowing to the effigy of the High Lord,
then entered one of the private mediation rooms.
	He sat there, legs crossed and eyes closed, with tears he could
no longer hold back streaming down his face.  The scene at the village had
been so much like that at the beach the day his family and all their friends
had been slaughtered, while he and the other children were taken and sold
as slaves, that he could scarcely believe he had been part of the village
attack.  He realised that he had been changed by the training, the feeling
of power he had as a member of the Grey Regiment, until he could barely
recognise himself.  Where was that small boy who had played with such
freedom and innocence with his friends, who had thought that the highest
honour in life would be to be able to wear the ceremonial uniform of a
King's Honour Guard, who had once looked with such wonder upon the wide
world beyond his own house?
	The answer was that that boy had died long ago, on a beach just
outside Generica, and all those ideals had died with him.
	As darkness fell outside, Timelord could feel the pain and agony
inside himself slowly dissipate, to be replaced by an iron resolve.  The
pain would never truly disappear, but slowly he regained control.  When
the sun had finally set he rose and left for the High Lord's residence.

	He had no clear plan as he walked through the manor.  He had intended
to simply admit he could no longer serve in the Grey Regiment, but had not
considered how the High Lord would react.  As he walked he realised that
the High Lord could well ask him to commit seppuku for failing his honour
bound duty, yet Timelord did not think he would.  After all, hadn't he
showed to him how kind and loving he was by giving him the opportunity to
serve in the first place?  Surely he would not be angry, but rather
understanding, realising what had prompted his need to resign.
	He walked through the palace halls unchallenged as he had on so many
occasions.  When he arrived at the doors to the High Lord's audience chamber
he noticed that it was not guarded, and Timelord frowned at that obvious
breach of both custom and safety.
	He was about to knock on the doors when he heard raised voices inside.
	"I don't give a damn about the villagers!" a muffled voice shouted,
one that Timelord instantly recognised as the High Lord's.
	"They *will* pay their tributes and taxes, or I'll flay their 
miserable hides until they do!  If they don't take the hint from today's
little exercise, then we will have to give them something more to consider."
	"I'm sure they will get the idea," said a second voice, and Timelord
started in surprise as he recognised Pyloasi's voice, "as we left them
plenty of examples of what will happen to others if they do not pay."
	"If they don't" said the High Lord in a cold voice, "then you will
go to another village, herd the women and children into the square, and
impale each and every one of them.  Make sure the men see it too, then
run them out into the fields.  You will then torch everything in site; houses,
fields, livestock, everything.  Understand?"
	"Yes, High Lord," replied Pyloasi in a satisfied tone.
	There was a few moments of silence during which the last of Timelord's
preconceptions and half-believed lies fell away from him.  Horror boiled up
in him as he realised what sort of monster he had pledged undying aliegance
to.  He was about to leave when the High Lord spoke again.
	"And what of Timelord?" he asked, and Timelord froze.
	"It was as I suspected, my Lord," replied Pyloasi.  "the village raid
confirmed the fact that he never was truly one of us.  He may have saved
your life, but now.." he left the sentence unfinished.
	"A pity," said the High Lord, "he has great skill.  But that does
not matter.  See to his disposal personally."
	"Of course, High Lord."

	Timelord could feel the cold sweat of fear running down the side
of his face.  He swallowed, trying to force himself to think clearly, then
felt a hand grab his shoulder.
	"What are you.." a voice began to say, but got no further.  Timelord
swung about sharply, one hand breaking the stranger's grip, the other 
impacting the side of his head.  He crashed into the wall, and Timelord 
fled up the corridor and through the palace.
	Behind him he could hear the sounds of pursuit.  There was nothing
more he could do but run.

	Dawn found him in the grounds outside the palace, alive and
for the moment safe.  He had been running for most of the night and he
knew that he could not go much further. 
	The area of forest in which he found himself seemed familiar, and
Timelord soon realised that he was near the house of his first master,
Kurasha.  Hoping that he would be prepared to shelter him for a while
Timelord moved towards the clearing in which he knew the hut lay.
	Timelord broke out of the trees and looked with shock upon the
scene before him.
	The once neat gardens surrounding Kurasha's hut were overgrown
with weeds, barely recognisable.  The small pond with its ornamental
fountain was dry, the statue of the nymph that had served as the water
outlet smashed into pieces.
	Timelord stumbled forwards into the blackened ruins that had
been his home.  The fire that had swept through the building had obviously
done so many years before, as all that remained was a few blackened and
charred stubs that had once been the frame of the house.  The ground was
littered with a few pieces of debris too heavy for the winds and rain to
move, but nothing else remained of Kurasha and his house.
	Timelord walked carefully through the wreckage and wondered what
had happened to his old master and friend.  He moved over to what had
been Kurasha's room and began to search through the wreckage, trying to
find some evidence of what had happened.
	Finding nothing he moved onto the rest of the house, always on
the alert for sounds of the pursuit he knew could not be very far behind
him.  The rest of the house was as barren of clues as the rest, until
Timelord came to the area of the main living quarters where the High Lord's
effigy had once held pride of place.
	Searching through the rubble Timelord found a small iron ring 
attached to a section of the stone floor.  Wondering why he had not seen
it before, he pulled on the ring, and a section of the floor swung upwards.
	The dawn light was just strong enough to illuminate the small room
as Timelord dropped into it.  It was only five and a half feet high and
six feet square so he had to crouch to give himself enough room to take
in the room's contents.
	Ahead of him was a small niche in the wall containing a small
brazier in which sat a few sticks of incense.  On his right a curtain
covered what Timelord presumed to be another opening and on his left was
a small rosewood table.
	A piece of folded parchment, yellow with age, lay on the table.	
Timelord picked it up, carefully unfolded it, and began to read.

	Timelord,

	If you are now reading this, then it is sure that I have
	died.  I hope that my mission was successful, for I must
	succeed if we are to have a hope of peace in the future.

	Know then that I had no choice but to raise you in ignorance,
	else all that I and my allies have strived for be for
	naught.  Thus I taught you to honour the High Lord and
	all that he stood for, full well knowing the hypocrisy
	inherent in all that I said.  I taught you thus to save
	both our lives, for if the High Lord or his minions ever
	suspected either of us of harboring treasonous thoughts,
	then we would not live to see the next dawn.

	The High Lord is evil.  There is no other way of describing
	him and his actions on this island.  He is a ruthless killer,
	with no thought for anything other than his own pleasure
	and gain.  His subjugation of neighbouring landholders has
	been nothing short of barbaric, and the Grey Regiment, a
	body of his elite troops, are feared throughout as a group
	of sadistic murders, always at the High Lord's beck and call.

	Please understand that the deception was necessary.  The 
	reason for revealing now to you the truth is that after
	tonight, it will no longer matter.  I would have preferred
	to have taken Sahi, as he knew the truth, but I could not.
	This night, as you work in the gardens, with the grace of
	the gods, the High Lord dies.

	I must do this.  It is my sworn duty.  Should I not return,
	do not grieve, but instead escape from this place.  Go to
	the docks and wait for the chance to stow away aboard the
	merchantman that is there, and leave this isle of misery.
	Before leaving this crypt, take what you find behind the
	curtained alcove; one day they may aid you well.
	
	My thoughts are ever with you.

	Kurasha.

	Timelord crumpled the sheet in his hand as the tears poured down
his face.  He unstrapped the belt that held his swords across his back,
allowing them to fall to the ground.  The parchment crumbled into dust as
his hand closed around it, and all his dreams and aspirations, all his
misconceptions and desires turned to dust along with it.
	Timelord lost track of time for a while, so strong was his grief.
His mind shied away from the revelation contained in Kurasha's letter, for
he could not accept that his actions had lead to the death of Kurasha before
his very eyes all those years ago.  He realised that everything since that
time had been a lie, and he had believed it with all his heart.  Now there
was nothing left for him to believe in, nothing left at all.
	He rose slowly after a time and moved over to the curtained alcove.
Drawing back the rotting drapes he saw a pair of ornate swords, untouched by
the passing of the years.  The katana and wakizashi were a matched pair, the
jewels in the pommels glinting in the morning light.  The polished red oak
of the sheaths were smooth and cool to his touch as Timelord carefully reached
out and took them down.  As he held them in his outstretched hands he bowed
reverently to them, then gathered them close and left the chamber.
	As Timelord closed the trapdoor he noticed something else that had
somehow escaped the fire.  He reached out with his gauntletted right hand
and picked it out of the ashes.
	It was a small figurine, only about ten centimeters tall, clad in
the bright robes of the High Lord.  Timelord realised that it was the effigy
to the High Lord that he had bowed to each night for as long as he could
remember.
	Anger boiled through him.  With an almost animal-like cry of rage he
hurled the statue to the stone floor of the hut, smashing it into a thousand
pieces.
	Instantly a surge of electricity leapt from the shattered remains of
the statue, reaching out and enveloping Timelord's right hand.  Timelord 
screamed in agony but was unable to move as the arcane power surged through
him.  He could feel the power burning through his very soul, reaching out
to rend and destroy.
	A voice entered his mind, chill and lifeless, yet Timelord knew that
voice.
	"Thrice damned are thee," came the inhuman voice of the High Lord,
"thrice damned who doth question my power.  Death now is thy mistress, in
death only canst thou be freed.  Thou art mine!"
	"Nooooooooooooooo!" screamed Timelord, but all he could hear was peals
of evil laughter in his soul.
	A final blast of power flung Timelord backwards, and then it was over.
He forced himself to his knees, trying to flex his right hand.  It seemed to
be paralysed, and when he tried to remove his gauntlet, he found it was
fused to his hand.
	A sound in the trees made him look around.  He could see the partially
obscured forms of soldiers coming towards him, so staggering to his feet he
ran towards the docks, hoping for a boat out of his nightmares.

	The docks had been guarded, and now Timelord staggered through forest
again, the arrow in his thigh and sword cut across his ribs causing him to
nearly black out.  He knew he was leaving a trail anyone could follow but he
had no choice but to put as much space between him and his pursuers as possible.
	He fell heavily, then forced himself to get up and run again.  A
second time he found himself on the ground, but this time was forced to crawl,
having no strength left to get up.  He could hear his pursuers getting closer,
but everything seemed strangely abstract, as if it wasn't real.  He knew he
was fading quickly, but still he crawled onwards.
	His arms felt like lead.  It was a tremendous effort just to pick each
one up and crawl a few feet.  The sounds were getting closer.
	Then hands were upon him, and darkness descended.

	Timelord woke in a wood paneled room that was rocking slightly to and
fro.  He sat up carefully, wincing at the pain in his side and leg.  His 
wounds had been bandaged with white linen, and Timelord wondered who had
(apparently) rescued him.
	His unspoken question was answered a few moments later when the
door to the room opened and a figure stepped through.  The old man was dressed
in flowing light blue robes, and his white beard reached his chest.  He was
tall, having to duck to enter the room, but seemed unthreatening.
	"Well," he said eyeing Timelord, " I see that you have finally awoken.
Good.  It has been several days since I found you in the forests."  He moved
over to Timelord and began to examine his bandages.
	"I thank you," replied Timelord, somewhat confused, "I owe you my
life.  But where are we?"
	"The open sea," the man replied without looking up.  "I am taking you
home."
	"But, but how do you know where I lived?" stammered Timelord, "and
how..."
	"Calmly, calmly," he interrupted.  "You talked much in your delirium,
and made mention of many things.  Now, sleep.  You still have much strength
to regain."
	Timelord felt his eyes growing heavy.  Despite all the questions he
had, he fell quickly into a dreamless sleep.

	In a few days he was strong enough to leave his cabin.  He made his
way onto the deck still limping slightly and looked about.
	The boat was around forty feet in length, with a single mast bearing
full sail in the light breeze.  The cabin from which he emerged was part
of the only structure above the decks, which seemed large enough to hold
another cabin and the galley.  The rest of the deck was bare, with a single
hatch towards the prow leading presumably to the hold.
	The old man was standing near the prow, staring out to sea.  Timelord
made his way towards him, and he turned at the sound of his approach.
	He said something, but Timelord couldn't understand him.  The language
sounded vaguely familiar, and Timelord frowned as he tried to think where he
had heard it before.
	"You can't remember, can you?" said the old man, suddenly reverting
to the language of the island.  Timelord shook his head.
	"I just asked you how you were feeling this morning," the old man 
said, staring intently at him, "in Generican."
	Timelord looked at him in shock, unable to think.  The old man 
gripped him lightly by the shoulder and smiled sympathetically.
	"You time on that island and you indoctrination into the Grey 
Regiment has done much to erase from your mind your past life.  But they
could not completely bend you to their ways.  I will teach you again what
you used to know; you will find it easier as the barriers are removed."
	"Who are you?" Timelord asked confusedly.
	"You may call me Sage, " he responded.  "I will teach you many things,
including the ways of a true warrior, for I see in your future many trials
and battles, both of body and mind, once you regain the shores of your 
homeland."

	Timelord's rehabilitation began that day with the Sage teaching him
again the language of the Generican continent.  At first he found it difficult,
but slowly his proficiency returned.
	As the days turned to weeks and his physical strength returned,
Timelord started to retrain his body.  He began with the basic unarmed katas,
moving slowly as his wounds healed.  He meditated and stretched twice daily,
always under the watching eyes of the Sage.  He regained his balance and
centering by walking along the railings blindfolded or standing amongst the
rigging high above the deck.
	The Sage rigged a training mannequin in the center of the deck, and
Timelord practiced for long hours as he regained his stamina and timing.
	The sword katas were closely watched by the Sage who often interrupted
his student to point out defects in his style.  Sometimes he would play his
flute softly in the background as Timelord practiced, the melody floating
out to sea behind them.

	They met no other boats on the open sea, a fact that Timelord wondered
about.  He was also curious how the Sage handled the boat by himself, for he
never seemed to make any alterations to the rigging or handle the tiller.
	The Sage smiled when Timelord brought him his queries.
	"Timelord," he said, "we live in a world strong with magic.  It is
everywhere, my friend, and this ship is but a small part.  I merely command
her to take a certain course, and she takes care of the rest.  We have seen
many strange places, her and I, and she has never failed me." He laid an
affectionate hand on the railings.
	Timelord bowed to the Sage, his questions satisfied and his mind at
peace.

	A few months later seagulls were spotted in the skies ahead of the
ship.  Timelord, who had been fishing at the stern, turned at the sounds of 
their cries.
	The months at sea had changed him.  Well tanned and muscled again,
his skills had been honed until again he was as quick, if not quicker, than
when he was at peak condition on the island.  His skills had progressed even
further under the tutiallage of the Sage, who had taught him new techniques
and movements.
	The Sage moved towards Timelord, who stood and bowed.  The Sage moved
to him and placed his hands on his shoulders.
	"Timelord," he said, "we now approach the coastline of the Generican
continent.  In just over an hour you will be home once again.  But before I
go, I ask you this; is this hate you feel truly worthy of you?  Must you 
carry out the vengeance you feel you must?"
	Timelord bowed his head.  Not long after his training had begun again
he had told the Sage of the treachery of Skerg all those years ago, the 
betrayal that had lead to his families slaughter and Timelord's capture.
He had told the Sage of his desire for revenge, and now he looked up once
more to his friend and rescuer.
	"Sage, I must," he replied firmly.  "I must avenge my family's death,
even though it may seem totally pointless to you.  It is a bond, as tight a 
bond as that which seals this gauntlet to my hand."
	He raised his right hand to show the Sage.  It was still firmly 
encased in the gauntlet, for nothing they could devise would allow it to be
removed.
	The Sage nodded.
	"I can see your anger, and understand it," he said sympathetically.
"But time will tell how well it shall serve you.
	"Come," he said, drawing Timelord back towards the cabins, "it is time
for you to prepare to return home."
	An hour later saw Timelord standing at the prow of the ship.  He was
dressed in black, his leggings traced up the sides with silver embroidery.  His
upper body was protected by leather-wrapped chain mail that jingled only 
slightly and weighed no more than an ordinary leather vest.  Kurasha's swords
were strapped across his back, and a voluminous cloak covered his back.
	The boat sailed straight towards the coast, riding easily over the
breakers.  It road straight up to the beach, finally burying its prow in the
soft sand.
	A light step behind him made Timelord turn.  The Sage was walking 
towards him, holding a light pack in his hands.  He held it out to Timelord,
who took it.
	"That should see you through the next few weeks," said the Sage.  "It
is now a month before the Moonripening Festival in the Great Heath, so you
should make it in time for that.  Remember all that I have taught you; you were
always my best student."
	Timelord bowed deeply, then leapt over the side into the sand.  He
took a few steps up the beach, then turned in puzzlement - always his best
student?
	As he looked back, the boat was gliding backwards, seemingly against
the prevailing breeze.  As it moved away it seemed to grow misty and 
indistinct, as if it were just made of smoke.  Just before it disappeared, 
Timelord seemed to hear a voice from the ship cry,
	"In every desert, a flower grows to smile at the gods."

	Timelord smiled as tears of pain tinged with fell down his cheeks.  Had
the ghost of Kurasha granted him absolution at last?  
	He turned from the ocean, and moved towards an appointment with fate.

			******************************

	Kethnak thundered through the streets on his horse, the blue boxing
gloves behind him popping out of existence as he rode.  He passed a number
of revellers in the streets, some far gone in their celebratory drinks, but
never paused nor slowed.  His rescue of his brother Rollik from the hands of
those thugs had revealed the possibility of much more serious trouble, so
now he rose with all haste towards the main keep to raise the guards.
	He leapt from his steaming mount once he reached the guardhouse, and
called for the captain of the guard.  Before he arrived, a voice from the
darkness caused him to turn rapidly.
	"Excuse me sir," came the soft voice, "I seek directions to where I
may find a Captain Skerg."
	Kethnak uttered a quick light spell, and examined the stranger.  He
was dressed all in black, a large cloak obscuring details.  He seemed peaceful
though, so Kethnak replied.
	"He's at the guardhouse, with the commoner's ball," Kethnak replied
carefully.  "He should there for some time."
	"Many thanks," said the figure, who melted back into the shadows.
	"Wait," cried Kethnak, but there was no response.  He cast a perception
spell, designed to give the caster an idea of the subject's attitudes.  He
got a feeling of good, tinged with some other powerful emotions, but nothing
outright evil.  He shrugged, then turned back to the guardhouse as the
captain arrived.

			***************************

	The clear skies and full moon would have given plenty of light to the 
streets without the hundreds of colourful lights festooned everywhere, but
Timelord still passed undetected through the town.  He moved from shadow to
shadow, sometimes waiting in doorways, other times ducking down alleys.  He
had asked directions a few times on how to reach the guardhouse, though he
had made sure that those he questioned were drunk enough to not really register
his presence.
	He ducked out of the doorway in which he stood and made his way down
the street to the intersection.  Turning to his right he say his goal, the
walls of the guardhouse festooned with banners, streamers and lights.  The
doorway was unguarded so Timelord looked about, straightened, and strode in.
	The hallways were a riot of colours and costumes.  A corncob wished
him a merry Moonripening, while someone looking vaguely like a bunch of 
bananas tried to press a drink of some bright red substance into his hands.
Timelord politely shooed the person away, and made his way deeper into the
structure.
	There were more people here, though the costumes were of greater
quality.  Various outlandish creatures passed before his eyes, all singing
a variety of what Timelord supposed were local tunes, though he couldn't be
sure.
	He turned a corner and found himself in a deserted corridor.  Up ahead
were a pair of large double doors, and from inside he could hear sounds of
orchestrated music and much talking.  A pair of brightly dressed guards stood
at the doors, obviously enjoying the occasion, but just as obviously there to
deter any unwanted intruders.
	Timelord thought for a moment, then moved forward.

			*****************

	"Of course," said Skerg pompously, "I saw through their feeble ruse
immediately.  They couldn't fool me for a moment.  I was the only armed man
in the entire court, yet I attacked immediately.  Twas just I against fifty
of the toughest Ishandists you have ever seen, each one armed to the teeth
with the most hideous of weapons.  
	"Never had Generica seen a battle like it.  I waded through them like
a hot knife through butter.  I was a raging bull, indefatigable, undefeatable.
By the time the guards came in, and they were scant meters on the other side
of the doors, it was all over.  Not one of them was left standing, and there
was I, without a scratch.
	"Of course, I turned down the knighthood.  Very modest I am, as you
all know..."
	Those around Skerg were gradually tiring of his wild stories about
his exploits, although the vast quantities of Generican red they had been
consuming had serve to offset their boredom.  Skerg had changed little over
the years, growing a little fatter and a little more pompous.  The rout of
the caravan had set back his career somewhat, although the tales of how
valiantly he and his companions had fought had some people thinking he should
have been awarded for bravery.
	The peasant's ball was in full swing, with the band playing all the
favourite songs of the festival season and the guests well feed on the bounty
of the harvest.  Some of those a little less tipsy than their comrades were
wondering where Rollik and Kayem had disappeared to, though none seemed to
worried about the disappearance of Annak.
	The band finished their tune and the audience turned and applauded.
The Master of Ceremonies climbed upon the dais and motioned for silence.
	"My friends," he said when he had their attention, "another season 
had passed with a bountiful harvest.  We give thanks to the gods for so
blessing our land."
	Applause and cheering rose from the audience, and he again motioned
for silence.
	"Now my friends," he continued, "let up join hands an be silent for
a moment as we remember the past year, the joys and sorrows, and prepare for
another year, hoping for peace and tranquility."
	There was a rustling of brocade and silk as the guests moved to form
the traditional circle of peace.  The silence grew as they all took their
places.
	The quiet was suddenly broken by a commotion at the door.  A slither
of steel could be clearly heard, followed by a pair of heavy thuds.  Heads
turned as the doors opened.
	A figure all in black strode through.  Behind him lay the still forms
of the two guards, one with his sword laying nearby.  A number of the ladies
gasped in shock, and those nearby moved back as the stranger passed.
	He cast off his cloak, revealing an ornate pair of foreign swords
strapped to his back.  He strode ahead, moving towards the front of the 
hall.
	Someone lunged towards him.  With a move almost too quick to see the
would-be assailant found himself flying through the air to land with an
undignified thump on the other side of the room.  The stranger continued his
walk, straight for Skerg and his retinue.
	He stopped a few feet from Skerg.  The others melted out of the way,
feeling the power of the stare the stranger directed at the Captain.  Skerg
swallowed heavily, then spoke.
	"And what.." he cleared his throat and tried again.  "And what do
you want, miscreant?"  It came out better the second time.
	"You don't remember me, do you?" said the stranger softly.
	"I'm afraid you are mistaken," replied Skerg, his confidence slowly
returning.  "I am sure we have never met.  Now be off!"  The last was 
accompanied by a flit of Skerg's hand in the direction of the door.
	"It is you who are mistaken," the stranger said more loudly, ignoring
Skerg's direction.  "We have met.  About fifteen years ago, on a beach near
Generica was the last time I saw you.  The last time anyone from the caravan
ever saw you."
	He reached over his shoulder and drew his katana.  A few shrieks
came from the floor as those more timid left hurriedly.  He held the sword
loosely in his right, gauntletted hand.
	"The last time I saw you," the stranger continued, "you were running
like the craven beast you are.  You ran, leaving my family and the entire
caravan to be massacred, and us children sold into slavery.  Well, now I have
returned to seek vengeance and retribution for the dead."
	He swung the katana over his head, his muscles tensing to unleash the 
blow.
	"Before you die, Skerg," he grated through clenched teeth, "You will
know who killed you.  For my family, for all those children you doomed, I 
have returned.  Skerg, I am...."
	"Timelord!"
	The anguished shout from above made him turn.  Above, on the stairs,
was a young man, his face streaked with tears, the form of a young woman
slumped in his arms.  It had been fifteen years, but Timelord could never
forget that face, the face of a playmate he thought he would never see 
again.
	"Rollik?"  His arms fell to his sides as he looked up.  He took
a few steps towards his old friend then stopped.  "What, what are you..."
	Rollik's eyes suddenly widened as he saw something behind Timelord's
back.  He opened his mouth to shout, but Timelord was already moving.
	Despite his momentary distraction at seeing Rollik, he had felt the
slight movement behind him.  Despite not seeing what it was, he knew just
what was going on.
	He spun on his toes, his left hand simultaneously drawing his 
wakizashi.  As Skerg lunged at him with a dagger he brought the shortsword
around, the katana following in a vicious arc.
	Skerg didn't have time to scream as the wakizashi cut off his hand
holding the dagger before the razor sharp edge of the katana severed his
head and sent it bouncing across the floor.  Skerg's body remained upright
for a moment, then slumped to the ground.
	There was more noise at the door, the sound of armoured men
approaching.  Chaos reigned in the hall as guests tried firstly to run from
the grisly scene, then avoid the approaching soldiers.  Timelord turned to
the doors, his rage extinguished along with the life of Skerg, and waited.
	Gallan, the Duke of Valiast, was the first through the door, followed
by Kethnak and several guards.  Two centaurs towered behind them, and more
guards could be seen beyond.
	Timelord felt Rollik move next to him, but never took his eyes from
those assembled at the doors.  The Duke raised his hand, forestalling any action
by the guards, then motioned forward.
	He seemed to be about to say something, then stopped as he examined
Timelord more closely.  He opened his mouth, then closed it again when he
saw Rollik with Kayem in his arms.  He then rushed forwards to his son.
	Timelord took a step backwards, then laid his weapons on the ground.
Guards came forwards to seize him, and he went with them willingly, leaving
Rollik and his father to their grief.  There would be time enough for 
explanations later.  Now all of Valiast would grieve, as would one who came
as both stranger and friend.