Voden was not a big city.  Yet, it wasn't a tiny village, either.  Voden
sat at a nexus of trade routes that ran between Achal to the south and Yahl
Russa to the north, and branched out to the farming communities scattered
around the countryside.  As a result, it had grown to support a number of
well-off merchants, along with several inns and taverns.  There was even a
small public library in evidence, the pride of the town council.  The
afternoon sun didn't quite cut through the northern chill or melt the snow
blanketing the ground, but a number of people were going about their business
in the streets.  Most were traders or farmers leaving or entering the city,
along with a few townsfolk on various errands.
    All of them stopped and stared at the man entering the city.
    The hulking brute stopped, looked around, rubbed at his head, glared at
the dried blood that flaked off onto his fingers, and then took a deep breath
of the Russan air.
    "Finally, Stine hath returned to Voden."
    "Mommy, that man has no clothes on!"

=====


                             FINAL FANTASY LEGACY
                             Knights of the Round

                   An ImproFanfic Started by Brian Stricklin

                          Chapter Eight: First Knight


=====

    "So this is Voden," Marcine said, looking around.  "I like it."
    "Yeah," Davin replied.  "It's a nice town.  Not too big, not too small."
    Mika sniffed.  "No, I think it's too small."
    "Quiet, kid," Syeira muttered.  "You couldn't last a week in the forest
without my help, would you?"
    "Of course I could!" Mika proclaimed.  "But why would I want to?"  Marcine
giggled.
    "Freedom, of course," Syeira said.  "From responsibility.  And from having
to rely on other people."
    "But..."  Mika blinked.
    "Now, now," Davin said, smiling.  "Some people like cities, and some
don't.  Nothing wrong with that."
    "Whatever," Syeira said.  Her eyes darted back and forth as she walked
along.  "If we're going to be stopping here, I have some things to take care
of.  I'll find you all later."  She slipped off down a street.
    "What--wait, Syeira?"  Davin turned in surprise to follow the thief, but
she had already disappeared down an alley.
    "Oh, let her go, big brother," Mika said, tugging on Davin's arm.  "If she
wants to be like that, it's her problem."
    "Yes, weren't you trying to find your friend, Davin?" Marcine said.
    "...Yes," Davin said, turning back and frowning.  "But I think before
that, we need to rest up somewhere."  He looked around the street.  "Actually,
there should be an inn right about--"
    "Hiiii Davin!" a group of girls at a second floor window called, giggling.
    Marcine blinked.  Mika frowned.  "Big brother!"
    "Ah, eheh."  Davin rubbed the back of his head.

=====

    Five men in hooded cloaks lounged around a warehouse.  Syeira passed them
by, intent on her own business.  A minute or two after she had passed, the men
drew together to speak.
    "That looked like the one that was sighted with them at Achal."
    "I agree, she fit the description."
    "Not bad looking, either."
    "Shut up."
    "Hey, I was just--"
    "I said shut up."
    Silence.
    "Good.  Now...she's here, so they're around somewhere too.  You all know
what to do."  There were murmurs.  "Right, then get to it.  Here in one hour."
    They separated, and walked off individually through the town.

=====

    Kyle collected the last sheaf of papers into his hands, then tapped them
on the desk to align the sheets neatly.  He then slipped them into a folder,
closed but not yet sealed with wax.  The folder went on the top of a pile of
similar folders.
    Kyle briefly toyed with the idea of alphabetizing the papers, then shook
his head and sighed.
    He looked out the window, at the Atlantean marketplace.  It was silent.
As he watched, a woman staggered into view.  Midway across the square she
tripped, and lay on the ground for several long moments, before pushing to her
feet and continuing out of the Dragoon's field of vision.
    Kyle glanced around the room, trying to quell the feelings of uneasiness
welling up inside him.  Everything had been taken care of; everything put into
neat order and catalogued for shipment to Tienne, as evidence.  And yet...this
was a heretic's room, the room of a magician, like--the room of someone who
had admitted to opposing the Church and working to resurrect the Manakyr
Empire.  Kyle couldn't quite shake the feeling that no amount of sorting,
tagging or even scrubbing would bring this building back to the true glory
(glory?) of the Church.
    Kyle stared out the window, rolling the Guardian Egg in his hand.  Since
the death of the magician, the town hadn't been the same.  He'd sent his men
out to try and get rooms at an inn, but based on their report, all the
townsfolk had locked themselves in their homes.  The few that ventured out
were apparently dazed and incoherent.
    "If any proof was needed that magic was evil," Kyle growled to himself,
"this is it."
    The Dragoon sat like that for a few moments more, before a chill started
at the base of his spine.  He looked down and saw the orange Egg in his hand.
He didn't remember taking it out of its pocket.
    But it had a strange beauty.  And it was almost like he could hear--
    "Captain."
    Kyle thrust the Egg back in its pocket and spun, drawing his sword.  He
registered Cheney staring back at him, and began to relax, then tensed himself
again.  After a long moment, slowly lowered the sword and sank back into his
chair.
    "Cheney," he said finally.  "What news?"
    Cheney studied his superior.  "No news yet," he replied.  "Martin is still
not back yet.  I simply wondered about your thoughts on...our current
situation."
    Kyle frowned up at the older man.  "We have no orders covering this," he
snapped.  "We have no way of contacting Tienne, until Rhyl gets there.  We
can't spare any more men to try and contact anywhere else.  We have some
supplies in this old church, but not many.  And we can't stay at an inn or
even, in my view, leave this building without full armament, because the whole
town has gone insane from the spell that bastard magician cast on them."
    Cheney looked at Kyle for a moment, then lowered himself into another
chair.  "So what you're saying, is that at this point we need to work
together."
    Kyle grimaced.  "Well...I didn't say that.  But you have a point."
    Cheney nodded.  There was silence.  "I'm not your enemy," Cheney said.
    Kyle ran his hand through his hair.  "Fine.  Great.  I'd just rather not
think about it right now."
    "When are you going to think about it?" Cheney asked.  "During a fight,
when you're supposed to be covering my back?  Or Martin's?"  Kyle stared at
him.  "Better ask now and get it over with."
    Kyle looked at the former Dragoon, feeling the sting of his words.  "All
right," he said finally.  "What was that you did?  Magic?"
    "You should know better than that."
    "But it looked like magic," Kyle countered.
    Cheney sighed.  "Yes, but it was different.  The Red Monks were concerned
with developing the full potential of the human body."  His voice took on a
subtle lecturing tone.  "All humans have energy of the body and spirit, which
they can use in times of stress, or more often if they have the right
training."  He looked closely at Kyle.  "I believe you found that out
yourself.  These energies are not, however, magical in nature."
    Kyle flushed, then his eyes blazed.  "What are you talking about?" he
demanded.  "You healed that Dragoon, without potions or bandages.  That looked
like *magic* to me.  That was why the Church disbanded your order, wasn't it?"
    There was a pause.  "Yes," Cheney said.  "That was one reason.  But we had
no magicians who could destroy a city, or return from death again and again.
What you saw me do was basically the limit of my powers."  His eyes seemed to
turn inward.  "And I was one of the best..."
    "So that's it?" Kyle snorted.  "That's your whole defense?"
    "Yes!" Cheney snapped.  Kyle blinked at the vehemence in his voice.
"That's it.  That's who the Red Monks were."  His eyes drilled into the young
Dragoon's.  "And even if any of that mattered, I'm no longer a Monk.  I'm not
even a Dragoon any more.  I'm simply an old man."  He folded his arms.  "You
have nothing to fear from me."
    The last remark hit something inside Kyle, and he stood, glaring.  "Fear?
Why would I--"
    "Sir!" Martin clattered into the room and saluted hastily.
    "Yes, what is it?" Kyle said, turning his glare on Martin.
    The other Dragoon gulped.  "Returning from the, reconaissance mission,
sir."
    "And?"
    "More of the same.  No one was willing to talk to us.  We pounded on doors
and things, but they didn't even tell us to go away."  His eyes roamed around
the room.  "We found some fruit and things, at a street shop.  They were just
sitting there rotting, so we took some.  We can hold out a bit longer, sir."
    "Well, that at least, is good news."  Kyle turned back to the window, to
stare at the marketplace.  "And the garrison?"
    "No change, sir."
    "That Captain Ulcer, or whatever his name was?"  Kyle rubbed his chin.
    "No trace of him.  We took the liberty of appropriating the radio
equipment."
    Kyle paused, then nodded.  "Good work."  It was a good decision, even if
Martin sounded nervous about it.  "Going to set it up here?"
    "Already have the other men on it, sir.  We tried it on site, but there
wasn't any answer from Tienne."  Kyle nodded, and studied the square.  After a
few moments, he heard the other Dragoon shifting his weight nervously.  "Was
there...anything else we should do, sir?"
    Kyle grit his teeth.  It was obvious he wasn't the only one being affected
by their situation.  He kept his voice deliberate as he spoke.  "Keep the
soldiers on alert.  Post watches.  Fortify this building.  Gather supplies and
keep things organized.  Train if you have nothing else to do.  I think that
about covers it."  He turned to look Martin in the eyes again.
    Martin saluted.  "Sir!"  He turned and left the room.
    Cheney looked at Kyle for a moment, then stood.  "I'll go help them, if
there's nothing else."
    "No...not at the moment."  Kyle waved his hand negligently, and turned to
stare around the room as Cheney left.  He felt himself reaching to his pocket
again, and quashed the urge with an angry thought.

=====

    "You're sure you didn't want to stop there?" Davin asked.  "I mean, it was
a perfectly fine inn--"
    "No!" Marcine and Mika said simultaneously.  Then they glared at each
other.
    Davin looked back and forth between them, feeling like there was something
he wasn't quite understanding.  "Uh, right," he said.  "Well, there should be
an inn or two right up here, in Ivan's Square."
    The street opened up into a wide, circular plaza.  Paths had been cleared
in the snow, revealing gray cobblestones.  The clear area formed a wide circle
around a statue which stood in the middle of the square.  The statue depicted
a young man in the armor of a knight.  A magnificently detailed bird perched
on his upraised arm, and a wolf lay at his feet.
    "Wow!"  Marcine ran up to the base of the statue and gazed up at it.
"Davin, what's this?  Who's this statue of?"
    Davin walked up beside her, smiling.  "It's a statue of Ivan Tsarevich,
Knight of Russa."  He looked up at the statue.  "Considered a great hero,
especially by the people of this particular town."
    Marcine looked back at him.  "Why this town?"
    "To be honest, I'm not sure," Davin said.  "Maybe because he lived here.
I haven't heard enough of the stories to know for sure."
    Mika walked up to the statue and peered at it closely.  "There's no snow
on the statue," she said.  Her forehead crinkled.  "Why isn't there any snow
on it?"
    "Probably because the townspeople keep it clear of snow in his honor."
Davin replied.  Then, he grinned.  "Or maybe it's...MAGIC!"  He grabbed Mika
from behind and she shrieked, then giggled.
    Marcine looked up at them, startled, then relaxed.  She smiled at the two,
then turned her gaze back to the statue.  "Davin..."
    Davin stopped teasing Mika and looked at Marcine with a smile.  "Yes,
Marcine?"
    "What do the bird and the wolf mean?"  She gestured at the statue.
    "Oh, of course.  Well, as I recall, the wolf was a compaion of Ivan's, on
his journeys and quests."  Davin nodded at the beast crouching at the man's
feet.  "I don't know much about him, other than that he was rumored to be
skilled in magic and a great help to Ivan.  But the old stories are full of
monsters and heroes that had magical powers.  The Firebird, however, is a
different story."
    "The Firebird?" Mika asked, eyes wide.
    "Yes," Davin said, missing the tone in Mika's voice.  "As the story goes,
Ivan was a prince, whose father owned a tree which grew golden apples.  One
day the Firebird came to the garden, ate an apple, and flew off again.  Ivan's
father tried to prevent the bird from returning, but every day it stole
another apple.  Finally, Ivan was able to capture the bird.  When he did so,
it promised to stop stealing apples, and gave Ivan one of its feathers.  This
feather provided him with great powers, which he used in defense of the people
of Russa..."  Davin trailed off as he started to listen to what he was saying.
    "A bird of fire..." Mika said.
    "...With magic powers?" Marcine concluded.
    "Interesting story, isn't it?"
    The three spun to see a man in a hood facing them.  In his hand was a
sword, raised in their direction.
    "Funny that you seem to find the 'bird of fire' so intriguing," the man
continued.  "And that there are three of you who fit these descriptions we
have."  Two other hooded men nonchalantly joined the speaker, bringing weapons
to bear.
    Davin drew his sword with a metallic ringing sound.  A quick glance showed
two more behind them, making five in all.  Other than them, the plaza was
suddenly deserted.  Suspicious eyes peered out from windows and cracks in
doors.
    Davin motioned with his hand.  "None of the, you know what," he murmured.
"Don't want to expose you."  He frowned.  "How did they know about us so
quickly?"
    Marcine crept closer to Mika, and looked around fearfully.  "Davin..."
    "So, are you going to come quietly?" the leader said.  The fighter to his
right readied a pair of daggers, and the one on his left started spinning a
sickle on the end of a chain.
    "Big brother!" Mika hissed.
    "What?" Davin hissed back.
    "It doesn't matter what happens if they can't *see* it, right?"
    After a moment, Davin smiled.  "Good thinking, Mika."
    "I guess you're not surrendering," the lead assassin said.  "That's fine
with us."  The assassins advanced, with occasional chuckles.
    "So when should I do it?" Mika asked.
    Davin eyed the approaching assassins.  "How about now?"
    BOOMPF!
    Smoke billowed out from the three, obscuring most of the plaza.  Davin
shoved Mika and Marcine down, then dodged to the side.  A sword struck the
spot he'd been occupying when the smoke bomb went off.  He aimed a thrust a
ways back, and was rewarded with a cry of pain.  Another assassin hit the
ground next to him, probably a victim of one of Mika's tricks.  Davin stabbed
him just to be sure, then leaped away and leaned down to touch the ground.
    Spirits of winter reached up from the snow to embrace him.  The crisp,
cold air slipped into focus as he felt the wind and ice around him.
    "Lords of winter and water, lend to us your fury!  Blizzard!"  A whirling
cloud of snow sprang up around one of the assassins, eliciting a strangled
scream from him before he dropped to the ground.  The miniature snowstorm
expanded to fill half of the plaza, further obscuring the fight.  Davin heard
Marcine chanting, and smiled as he recognized the spell.  The snow spirits
whispered admiration as another of the assassins fell to the ground, body
riddled with cold.  Davin reached out with his perceptions, and the spirits
showed him the last assassin, all the way across the plaza and getting away--
    Then the assassin fell to ground.  Davin blinked, and then shook his head
as the spirits left him to his normal human senses.  After several long
moments, the snow and smoke dissipated, revealing a strange sight.  Six bodies
lay scattered around the plaza, dusted with a thin layer of grayish snow.
Davin felt a figurative chill in his chest, but then relaxed as Mika and
Marcine got to their feet, and started to brush off the snow.  Davin smiled,
and then looked toward the last assassin.
    "I can't leave you alone for one minute," Syeira said, stepping gingerly
over the assassin's body.
    Davin exhaled, not noticing the glow fading from his sword.

=====

    The blacksmith looked up as the hooded man entered his shop.  "Oh, uh,
good evening, sir," he stammered.
    "Yes, of course," the man said.  "Is it ready?"  He walked toward the
blacksmith, who shrank away from him almost involuntarily.
    "Yes, no problems, no problems at all," the smith said.  A bead of sweat
rolled down his face.  "Of course, there wasn't much material--"
    "There was enough."  The man held out his hand.
    "Of course, for what you ordered there was enough, no doubt."  The smith
fumbled with a package, handing it over to the man, who casually tore off the
wrapping.  "It's just, with more I could--"
    "I know.  You've explained your talents to me often enough."  The package
yielded a black mask, featureless except for two silver almond-shaped inserts
where eyes would be, and two trails leading down from them, much like the
paths of tears.  "Hmmm.  Yes, very good work."  The man turned his back, and
the smith saw him reach under his hood and remove a different metal mask,
putting the newer one in its place.  "And a perfect fit as well."
    "Very, uh, very good," the smith said.  "And, if you could give me the
other one--"
    The man spun suddenly.  The smith froze as the light reflected off the
silver eyes.  "I paid for it," he said.
    "...Yes, yes, of course," the smith babbled.  "I wouldn't want it for
free, of course, just if you didn't need--"
    "A spare is always good."  The man sounded almost amused.
    "Of...of course," the smith said, sagging.  "Of course..."
    "There's still life left in it yet."  The man held the mask up to the
light and examined it.
    The smith leaned forward.  "Wait, did you--"
    "Hm?  Yes, it got damaged, so I repaired it."  The man held the mask out
to the smith, who gazed at it.
    "Wonderful," he breathed.  "Not perfect, but your skill is improving
quickly..."
    "So glad you approve."  The man tossed a bag onto the smith's table, and
it made a clinking sound.  "For this one.  I'll be back."  He left the smith's
room, closing the door behind him.
    It was several minutes before the smith had the courage to pick up the
bag.

=====

    Father Lambert sat in a room of the Church, slowly working his way through
a bottle of wine.  The radio chattered in front of him.  He listened to it,
and thought of many things.  Again and again, his mind returned to the same
places, and wouldn't leave.
    Ghosts filled the room, clamoring for his attention...

=====


To be continued...


=====

Author's note:

You know, that turned out better than I thought it would.  Two notes about the
story itself...First, Ivan Tsarevich is an actual Russian hero/legend.
Second, the final sentence is a metaphor.  ...Or is it?

John Evans
jevans@datablast.net
Beware the Radish
1/28/00