Father Lambert gazed absently through the long, narrow window in his office,
deep in thought. Things were becoming far too complicated as of late.
Heretics on the loose...and one of them Darovan's Legacy, at that. At least,
that was what the Manakyr cult in Atlantea had believed. If that were
true...

The old priest cursed silently. The most dangerous threat to the Church
since the defeat of the Manakyr was running free, the Dragoons--supposedly
the best of the best, the elite soldiers of the world--were proving to be
outrageously incompetent...and what of Siegvin? The enigmatic, disturbing
'bounty hunter' had failed to deliver in all but one respect. At the rate
things were spiralling out of control, Lambert wouldn't be surprised if
...*they* started causing trouble again...

A distressing thought crossed the priest's mind, and he walked over to his
desk. Fishing around in a drawer for a moment, he eventually retrieved an
ornate brass medallion. Idly polishing it with his sleeve, he studied the
surface intently. The centerpiece of the round medallion was an oddly shaped
piece of amber, edges smoothed by the work of a skilled jeweler. An ancient
rune, from a language so old that few even within the Church would recognize
it, was embedded in the amber. Lambert knew the meaning of the rune all too
well: 'infinity'.

Surrounding the amber, spaced evenly along the outer ring of the brass
medallion, twelve tiny points of sapphire glittered in the light from the
window. Lambert's brow furrowed in contemplation briefly before he carefully
grasped two rounded indentations along the sides of the medallion, raising
it above his head with both hands.

The amber shard in the center began emitting a dull glow, and eleven of the
tiny blue crystals surrounding it began to glow, forming a brilliant ring of
cerulean fire.

One crystal, however, failed to glow; in fact, it actually seemed to have
become darker. Lambert raised an eyebrow. "Now, this is interesting," he
mused. "Could it be that one of those misbegotten things has left this
world?"

Secreting the medallion away once more, the High Priest straightened and
left his office purposefully, stopping long enough to round up a few guards
as he left the church grounds. *It's about time I pay my 'respects' to an
old 'friend',* he thought, chuckling inwardly.


=============================================
           FINAL FANTASY LEGACY
      Knights of the Round

       Chapter 12: Mystery and Lore

        Created by Brian Stricklin
   This chapter by The Eternal Lost Lurker
=============================================


Morning found Davin, Marcine, Mika, and Syeira in one of the private study
rooms at the great library. When Piette finally arrived, burdened with
numerous books, scrolls, and sheafs of notes, another round of introductions
was made for the benefit of the two who had not been present before.

"So, what have you got for us, Piette?" Davin asked.

"Well...for starters, there's something I found that you might be interested
in," the young blonde man said. "I was reading a book of old legends,
and..." He hunted through the stack of books on the table, before selecting
a heavily bound one. Opening it to a page he'd marked, he set it in the
center of the table, and tapped the woodcut illustration dominating the
page. "This look familiar?"

Davin studied the image, and gasped. "Those swords..."

"They're exactly like the one you carry, and those other two you mentioned,"
Piette said. As everyone gathered around to look at the image, he continued,
"In fact, if I'm right, they may well be the exact same ones."

"But...those are ancient," Mika remarked, looking at the picture, which
showed a hideous figure with six arms, each weilding a curved sword.

"They are," Piette said. Pushing up his glasses, he assumed a lecturing
tone. "The legend tells of Ashura, a terrible demon unleashed from Hell at
some point in time before the fall of the Manakyr Empire. Ashura was so
hideous and repulsive that nobody could ever be certain whether it was male
or female. It had six arms, and carried with it six sharp, strong swords
that could cut through almost anything.

"The demon Ashura wreaked destruction upon the land, carving a bloody trail
from the coast, to the plains, to the mountains, to the wastelands. Many men
set forth to battle the demon, and all perished. No weapon seemed to harm
it, nor any magic.

"For many months, Ashura terrorized the lands, and even the Three Gods were
in awe of the demon's power. But then one day, a shadowy warrior on a white
horse appeared and attacked Ashura. The demon struck back, but found it
could not kill this new opponent easily.

"For days, the battle raged on. Ashura was strong and deadly, but the
warrior was unyielding and swift. The demon began to tire, and finally, the
mysterious warrior landed a killing stroke, piercing Ashura's body right
through its evil heart. The force of the blow was so strong that it
shattered the warrior's weapon, so he took the six swords of Ashura as
trophies."

"Wow," Mika said, suitably impressed.

"This warrior," Marcine began. "Was it Gilgamesh?"

Piette blinked. "How do you know of that name?"

"It's...a long story. For another time," Davin said.

Piette shrugged. "Well...in any case, no, it was not Gilgamesh. At that
time, the band of legendary heroes led by Gilgamesh were in parts unknown,
supposedly doing the bidding of Daravon, depending on whose version of
history you believe."

"So...who was this warrior?" Davin asked.

"Nobody knows," Piette said. "His name is stricken from all the legends.
I've tried to find anything about him..." He closed the book, and took out
an old, faded scroll. "I did, however, learn that he later fell out of favor
with the Three Gods, and was cast down."

"Cast down?" Marcine echoed. "Then...he was...a Sleeper?"

Piette nodded. "That's what I gather. According to the legend, the warrior
who slew Ashura later committed an act of outright defiance against the
Three Gods, who, in their anger, struck him blind and banished him from the
realm in which the Sleepers dwell. He disappeared, leaving behind five of
the six swords of Ashura, and was never seen again."

Davin blinked. "What happened to the swords after that?"

"They were lost to the mists of time," Piette said, gesturing expansively.
"But if I'm right, then we at least know where three of them are."

"Mine, and the other two belonging to my family," Davin said, nodding.

"Maybe we know where a fourth one is as well," Syeira chimed in.

Davin blinked, then smacked his fist into his open palm. "That's right.
That...Siegvin. I'll bet his sword is one of Ashura's swords too."

"Siegvin? Who's he?" Piette asked.

"Well, that'll take some explaining..." And Davin proceeded to regale Piette
with the group's adventures to date.


******


A number of people walking about near the entrance to the Church at Tienne
were suddenly startled by the appearance of a large predatory bird with blue
plumage and a sharp, nasty-looking beak. The bird zeroed in on the guard
station at the entrance, and with a mighty sweep of its wings, landed.

The two guards on duty blinked, and eyed the creature warily. "What in
the--?"

The bird dropped a glass cylinder with a piece of parchment inside, cawed
twice, then flew away again.

After a moment of confusion, one of the guards carefully picked up the
cylinder, and extracted the parchment. Unrolling it, he gave it a quick
glance. He then blinked, and read it again, more carefully.

"Well? What's it say?" his companion prompted.

"I can't make much sense of it," the guard admitted, shaking his head. "I
think it has something to do with the heretic, though."

"Hmm." The other guard rubbed his chin. "Better take it to the commander,
then."



******


Kyle sat on his bed, mind wandering, absently rolling the small sphere
around in his hand, as he had found himself doing often lately. "Such a
small thing," he mused. "Yet it allows such a large sin..."

A cough startled him, causing him to jump. He quickly hid the artifact from
sight, and turned to face the door. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Cheney."

The former Red Monk gave the Dragoon captain a respectful nod. "A message
just arrived at the front gates," he said without preamble. "I caught wind
of it making its way up the chain of command, and thought it might be best
to deliver it to you personally." He held out a piece of parchment, which
Kyle took, frowning at the breach of protocol. He glanced down at the note,
and began to read.


      Comrades in justice and upholders of the Holy laws,
      As quite some time has passed since I have seen any
      sign of the presence of the Holy Guard whilst trailing
      the heretics, I believe it to be my duty as a sworn
      upholder of the Citizens' Justice to convey unto thee
      mine observations in the pursuit of these most vile
      and sinful brigands.
      Whilst I was briefly and unfortunately detained from
      mine pursuit of the fugitives, I have caught wind of
      them once more within the city of Yahl Russa. As
      this seems to have been their destination for the
      past several days, it is in my humble yet astute
      opinion that they shall remain here for quite
      some time. Although I am assuredly more than
      capable of defeating and capturing these heretics
      myself, it is nevertheless only fitting that thou
      shouldst send a regiment of Holy Guardsmen to Yahl
      Russa, as these brigands have proven to be a wily
      and cunning lot, and couldst escape before I canst
      smite them low as the primate offal they most
      assuredly are.
      Heed my advice well, and may the dictates of the
      Three Gods persevere,

                                     Beastmaster Stine


Kyle reread the letter twice, blinking. Finally, he slowly looked up and met
Cheney's gaze. "This...Stine. Is he capable and competent?"

Cheney grimaced in a way that said he was trying to choose his words
diplomatically. "Stine, from what I hear, is...rather touched in the head.
Still, he is known for being reliable and mostly accurate."

Kyle rubbed his chin in thought. "Gather six men. Tell them to be ready to
leave for Yahl Russa in two hours."

Cheney frowned. "Isn't that rather irregular? We've had little time to rest,
and have no orders from the High Commander..."

"Time is of the essence," Kyle said. "We must find, capture, and bring back
the heretic before the trail goes cold again." *And before this...Stine
idiot screws everything up. Dammit...why is a Beastmaster trailing her
anyway?*


******


"So did you find anything about magic?" Davin asked.

Piette nodded, leafing through his notes. "I actually had more information
at home than I thought I did," he answered. "In particular, something very
interesting I found in one of the older books..." Looking up, he glanced at
each of the other four in turn, pausing for effect. At their looks of
anticipation, he continued, "It seems that the very magic the Church decries
as an obscenity to the Three Gods...actually comes *from* the Gods
themselves."

Marcine gasped. "But...it can't be!"

"Makes sense to me," Syeira commented. "Best way to hoard power for yourself
is to forbid others to use it."

"Except that the Church doesn't use magic either," Davin pointed out.

"Or maybe they do," Piette commented. As everyone turned to look at him
curiously, he coughed. "I found a passage in the Book of Rites..."

"The Sacred book?" Marcine looked horrified. "The book that only High
Priests of the Church are allowed to even *see*?"

Piette had the grace to look sheepish. "I did mention that I've come pretty
close to being a heretic myself," he said.

"Anyway, you were saying?" Davin prompted, hoping to get the conversation
back on track.

"Right." Piette cleared his throat. "I copied a passage out of the Book of
Rites that I found particularly interesting once, when I was researching the
Sinners' Wall." He withdrew a yellowed bit of parchment from his pile of
notes. "I compared it to some of the records of magic from the Manakyr war,
and, well...there seem to be some strong similarities."

Davin quirked an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well, allow me to quote..." Piette adjusted his glasses, and began speaking
in the clear, sonorous tones of a grand lecturer.


     Enemy of man and God,
     for sins to atone,
     by Heaven's holy light,
     living flesh turn to stone...


Almost as one, Marcine and Syeira snapped their heads up, startled. A silent
communication passed between them, and both womens' eyes widened. Davin and
Mika, for their parts, glanced at the girls in confusion.


      Until the end of time,
      Encas'd ye shall remain,
      Living within, dead without,
      Ne'er to see, hear, speak,
      nor move again...


Marcine and Syeira shouted a warning, trying to get Piette to stop, but it
was too late. His voice had begun to take on an ethereal tone as he spoke
the final word: "Petrify."

The young scholar looked startled as a burst of light issued from his hand.
Syeira and Marcine could only stare in mute horror, and Mika in confusion,
as the light struck Davin full in the chest...

And within seconds, before he even had a chance to realize what was going
on, Davin turned to stone.


******

In one of the few areas of Russa where useful natural resources existed, the
tiny village of Chyrn thrived. Home to earthy mineral miners and hardy
blacksmiths, Chyrn contributed much-needed supplies of refined minerals and
skillfully crafted tools to the trade economy of Russa. It has been said
that in the cold northern reaches, and even in the glorious city of Yahl
Russa, only a Chyrn hammer is a real man's hammer.

On this overcast, blustery day, many of the burly miners silently wished for
their manly hammers as they, along with the other passersby on the roughly
cobbled main thoroughfare, gave wide berth to the horse galloping furiously
through the village. It was not, however, the horse which was commanding
such widespread fear and uncertainty.

It was the dark figure seated astride the steed.

The mare's thundering hoofbeats echoed the distant rumbles of the coming
storm as it tore across the cobbles. The dark, flowing robes of the rider
whipped about in the wind, strands of hair occasionally straying from the
confines of the cloak's hood. The rider seemed unconcerned with the wind,
however. In fact, the cloaked figure seemed to be devoid of any expression
whatsoever...other than the pair of silver eyes which gleamed dully in the
dim light of afternoon. Lightning flashed on the horizon, briefly
illuminating the smooth, dark mask which covered the rider's face, save for
the silver ovals where the eyes should be, and the twin trails of silver
detailing, like tear tracks.

In one large stone building, a large, powerfully built man with dull blonde
hair and a full beard looked up from the pickaxe he was repairing, and
tensed. Setting aside his smithing hammer and removing his leather apron,
the craftsman selected a different hammer from the rack on the wall, hefted
it experimentally, and strode purposefully out into the street.

Thunder crashed, and lightning tore the heavens. The masked rider suddenly
jerked the reins hard, and the horse skidded to a stop. Leaping from the
animal's back with eerie grace, the dark figure glared at the blacksmith,
the silver eyes of his mask seeming to glow.

Many of the passersby on the street suddenly felt the need to be elsewhere.
The blacksmith, however, did not so much as flinch at the gaze, instead
returning it with his own steely glare. "So. You still live."

"As do you," the masked figure replied. "Loathesome as that notion may be."

"Interesting mask," the blacksmith said, approaching the dark man. "Am I to
assume that you wear it to hide the shame of your existence?"

"Assume what you will. I hold no interest in your opinions, nor those of
your accursed brethren."

Tapping his hammer against his free hand thoughtfully, the large blonde man
commented, "Even in the old days, you were not one to spend much time in
this realm. Curiosity drives me to wonder what has brought you out from
beneath your rock."

The masked man gave a sinister chuckle. "Curiosity can be fatal, old
friend." The latter words were said with an audible sneer, as though being
uttered as a curse. Tone becoming grave, he continued, "My business here is
not with you. My business is with the foolish child who has begun the
Awakening."

This seemed to take the blacksmith aback.  "It has begun?"

A throaty laugh echoed from behind the black mask. "You do not sense it? You
have not felt the Calls? Oh...but I forget. You are not one of us. Not
without your shepherd and the rest of the flock."

The blone man scowled. "You seem to have forgotten that you were cast down.
You have no place in the court of the Three Gods."

"Oh, but I do," the dark figure said, a dangerously amused tone in his
voice. "Indeed, my role in the events to come shall be very important."

The blacksmith narrowed his eyes, which flashed with anger and reflected
lightning. "I think not. You shall only leave this place over my corpse."

Siegvin calmly drew his sword. "I look forward to it."


******


"Oh...oh my," Piette said, staring numbly at the stone statue which, moments
ago, was his friend and former scholastic colleague. The paper containing
the spell dropped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor.

"Big...big brother?" Mika asked, eyes wide as she stared at the petrified
Davin.

Marcine sank to her knees. "Davin...no..." she whispered. "By the Three
Gods, no..."

Syeira looked around at everyone in the room, and her brow creased in
frustration. She stepped over to Piette, grabbed him by the collar, and
shook him. "Change him back. Now."

"I--I--I don't know how!" Piette stammered. "I didn't even know that was a
spell! I've never even tried to CAST a spell!"

"Well, you sure picked a hell of a good one to start with," the thief
snapped. Dropping the shellshocked scholar, who sank bonelessly to the
ground, she walked over to Marcine. "Hey...hey now. Snap out of it."

"Davin...he's...it's just like the Wall..."

A sharp crack resounded, instantly snapping everyone out of their respective
dazes. Marcine rubbed her cheek, and looked fearfully up at Syeira, tears
threatening to flood from her eyes.

"Look, Marcine Cavanaugh," Syeira said archly. "Now is NOT the time to lose
it, do you hear me? Out of this whole sorry lot, right now you're the one
who knows the most about magic. Even book-boy over there doesn't quite have
the grasp of it you have."

"But...but I..."

"But *my* butt. Come on, girl, *think*," the thief said. "There's gotta be a
way to undo this, right? Right?"

Marcine attempted to compose herself. "I...I'm not entirely certain, but..."

"There's a potion," Piette said quietly from the floor. Everyone turned to
look at him. "I read...that there's a potion which can turn living stone to
flesh. The Church once kept small quantities of it prepared when a sinner
was condemned...in case evidence was found that they were falsely accused."

Mika blinked. "A potion?"

"The ingredients are fairly obscure, but..."

Mika pounced on him. "I need a list. Hurry."

Piette blinked, then nodded slowly. "Right...I'll see if I can find the
list." Within moments, the scholar and the young chemist had raced off to
begin researching a cure, leaving Syeira and Marcine alone, with Davin.

"Should we...move him?" Marcine wondered.

Syeira shook her head. "Not unless we want to answer some really dangerous
questions." An uncomfortable silence ensued. "Umm..sorry. You know, for
slapping you like that."

Marcine smiled weakly. "It...it's okay. I needed it...I think." She mumbled
a quiet  Cure spell, and the angry red mark on her cheek vanished. Then,
realizing what she'd just done, she blinked, and glanced sadly at Davin's
solid form. "Magic...why does it always seem to cause more harm than good?"


******


The residents of Chyrn had long since fled to their homes, locking the doors
tightly and pulling the shutters to their windows--and it had nothing to do
with the coming storm.

Inarticulate cries of rage and soft grunts punctuated the clashing of hammer
against sword as the muscular blacksmith squared off against the enigma in
dark, flowing robes. Showers of sparks rained down around the combatants,
and lightning crackled--none of which was coming from the ominously dark
sky.

The two combatants leapt apart, a brief respite in the battle. "You've lost
your edge," the masked warrior said.

"And you haven't," the blacksmith said, gasping for breath. "I suppose
you've been doing a lot of battling over the years."

"While you've been using that marvelous hammer of yours for pounding nails."
Siegvin's sword turned jet black, and he made a wide, sweeping cut in the
air. "Death Wave."

His opponent cursed, and hurled his hammer directly into the path of the
crackling wave of black energy, nullifying it with a loud pop and a shower
of sparks. Lightning crackled from the hammer as it returned to its owner's
hand.

"So," Siegvin said, amused. "You're not completely rusty after all."

"We'll see who's rusty," the blonde man said. Raising his hammer high above
his head, he began a chant, his voice booming like thunder from on high.
"Wrath of the heavens, nature's force of destruction, unleash your fury to
my command! THUNDERSTRIKE!"

The sky roared, and a massive bolt of lightning streaked down from the
heavens, headed for the blacksmith's hammer...and yet, as though by the
sheer force of his will, the thunderbolt diverted its course, slamming into
the masked warrior. The ground shook as a clap of thunder echoed from the
impact, and a cloud of dust obscured the area momentarily.

When the dust cleared, Siegvin rose from his knees, using his sword to hold
his balance. After a moment, he stood easily, holding his sword in a
one-handed grip above his head, point facing his opponent. And he chuckled.
"Not bad. Now it's my turn." The sword began to glow and flare with mystical
energy. "GUNGIR SWORD!" Siegvin roared as he hurled the blade like a javelin.
His stunned opponent could only stare in shock as the glowing missile of
death bore down upon him, entering his body through the chest, and exiting
through the back.

The blacksmith fell to the ground, twitching. He glared up one last time,
defiantly, at his killer. "Bastard," he spat. "I will be avenged."

"I think not," Siegvin said. His sword reappeared in his hand, and he
swiftly beheaded his fallen opponent. The body crackled for a moment, as
though charged with static electricity, before slowly dissolving into ash.

"Tsk," Siegvin mocked, as he bent to retrieve a small bit of amber from amid
the remains of the 'blacksmith'. Secreting it away in a fold of his cloak,
and sheathing his sword, Siegvin strode off, mounted his horse, and rode out
of Chyrn.

Moments later, the heavens opened, freezing rain and biting wind scattering
the ashes of the fallen warrior.


******


Father Lambert nodded absently to the guards as they knelt before him,
parting to allow his passage into the sacred hall. He instructed his own
personal guards to remain at the entrance, heading off any protests by
informing them that only high officials of the Church were allowed to enter
the hall freely.

To their credit, none of the guards argued the order. After all...who other
than a High Priest would willingly enter the Hall of Petrification, that
ominous and forboding place in which the enemies of the Church were
imprisoned in stone for all eternity to be added to the Wall of Fools?

Stepping behind the petrification altar where punishment for the most
heinous of offenders and heretics was meted out, Lambert reached into the
folds of his robe, and withdrew a small Tri-Fan talisman. Unlike other
representations of the Tri-Fan, this talisman was cast in semiprecious
jasper,
coral, and amber.

Lambert pressed the talisman into a matching recess on the altar, and the
sound of stone grating on stone filled the hall. Appropriating and lighting
a torch from within the passage which had opened, the priest descended a
dank, ancient stone stairway.

At the base of the stairs, Lambert came face-to-face with a helmet that
could only have belonged to a giant, half-buried in the rough stone floor
and caked with rust that spoke of centuries of neglect. "Well, old boy,"
Lambert said in a jovial yet mocking tone, "Did you feel it? Did you feel
one of your own fading from this world?" He patted the aging brow of the
helmet condescendingly, then absently brushed away the flakes of rust on his
robe. "And how long until the next gives up the ghost? And the next?" The
priest chuckled. "Just think...when your friends are all gone from this
world, you too will fade away...and there will be nothing left to stop us
from crushing the misbegotten remnants of the Manakyr once and for all..."
Allowing himself a last, sinister chuckle, Lambert made his way back up the
stairs. "Sleep well, ancient pile of rubbish!" he tossed back over his
shoulder as he emerged into the hall above.

Only a weak, flickering glimmer of red in the darkness answered him.



******

AUTHOR'S NOTES:
No notes. It's the last minute, today was a lot more hectic than I had ever
thought possible, I'm stoned on decongestants, and my painkillers gave out
an hour ago.

I didn't think I was going to get this done. I just hope it isn't too
terrible...