[Fitch Willam]

"We're in position."

Fitch Willam received the report from his lieutenant with a nod then turned back to observe his victim again. The man's camp was situated in a small clearing at the top of one of the many rolling hills that overlooked the town of Rallingford. At the present, the man, apparently a monk of some sort, was seated in a lotus position facing the rising sun, hands resting lightly on his knees. He had been seated that way for the past half-hour, meditating quietly.

He was of average height, very slim - Fitch guessed about 25 years of age. He was dressed in loose-fitting gray trousers and a simple beige shirt that hung to just past his waist. His feet were bare, ankle high black shoes sitting off to one side. The man's head was also bare; the head completely shaved save for a small square section near the nape of his neck. The hair from this spot was a dark brown and had been formed into a braid that hung all the way down the man's back. His face was all angles, even his eyes angled up. The man's head, hands and feet were very tan, indicating that he spent a great deal of time outside, though Fitch doubted he had traveled too far. He had no visible weapons and his other possessions seemed limited to a bedroll and a small knapsack, but Fitch knew that such impoverished appearances were often intentional to discourage just the sort of thing that he and his small band of cutthroats intended. Indeed, Fitch had seen the monk place a very expensive-looking carved jade box into that knapsack just before the man began his meditations. Where there was one treasure there was often more.

Fitch went over the plan once more in his mind. He and his lieutenant, Groyce, were on this side of the hill. Harper and Abrans were on the other. Krauss was positioned between the two groups. There were no attackers on the fourth side of the hill, as it would have been difficult to position someone in the direction the man was facing without alerting him to their presence.

The plan was simple. When the signal was given, Krauss would rise up from his concealment and take the man down with a well-placed shot from his crossbow. Should that fail - and Fitch doubted that very much given Krauss' expertise with the deadly missile weapon - Fitch, Groyce, Harper and Abrans would overwhelm the man in armed combat.

"With the man unarmed, this should be a walk in the park," Fitch thought.

He nodded to Groyce to give the signal. Groyce gave a subtle whistle that sounded like a chickadee.

Krauss popped up from his cover. He swung up his crossbow, sighted and fired in one smooth action.

There was a blurred motion and their quarry was standing on his feet, crossbow bolt clutched in his right hand. Fitch's mouth hit the ground. How in the seven hells...?

He had no more time to think about it as his band rushed the unarmed monk. Harper reached him first, slashing across with his broadsword. The man ducked the attack and came up, placing a side kick square into Harper's abdomen. Harper was thrown back, clutching his stomach and gasping as his lungs gave up their supply of air.

Abrans' twin short swords struck out at the monk as he finished the maneuver, one slashing low at the man's legs, the other stabbing straight across. The monk leapt gracefully over the slashing attack, placing him directly in the path of the thrust, but Abrans' sword was deflected by the captured quarrel as the man swept it across the sword's path. As the monk's feet touched the ground he spun into a roundhouse kick that caught Abrans full on the side of the head and sent him tumbling to the side. The monk tossed the now broken quarrel to the ground and settled into a practiced fighting stance as Fitch and Groyce reached him from the other side.

Groyce came at him quickly with a wicked serrated dagger. He slashed and thrust repeatedly, but the monk simply slapped aside the attacks as if they were of no consequence. Fitch circled around behind and added his own attacks with his rapier. The monk took it in stride, deflecting the blows from each of them with a minimum of effort, his hands in exactly the right place, sometimes, it seemed, before the attacks were even launched. If they could just hold him off until Abrans and Harper came back in, they would have him.

Fitch feinted then stabbed in low as Groyce slashed down from above. The monk's hand caught Groyce's wrist in a lock hold as he twisted away from Fitch's lunge. The twist turned into a spinning heel kick that caught an approaching Abrans full on the jaw. An audible crack was heard and Abrans hit the ground, unconscious.

The spinning movement had wrenched Groyce's wrist into a painful position. He was forced to drop his dagger. The monk released Groyce and plucked the knife out of the air just as Fitch noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye.

Krauss pulled the trigger of his reloaded crossbow. His aim was true, but his target was no longer there. It seemed to Fitch that the monk was there one instant, and in the next he was five feet to the right. There was no blur of movement; he just simply transferred to a different space.

The bolt slammed into Groyce, tearing a fist size hole through the man's neck. He went down in a heap, eyes registering in shock that he was dead. The monk drew back his arm and unfurled it toward Krauss, a smooth motion like the cracking of a whip. Groyce's dagger hurtled through the air and embedded itself into Krauss' chest. The crossbow tumbled from the archer's numbing fingers and he crumpled to the earth.

The monk settled back into a fighting stance, his braid coiling around him like a snake.

"Why do you attack me?" he asked simply. "I have done you no harm."

Fitch was torn. This man clearly outclassed him, even without a weapon. He knew that he had no hope of defeating him on his own. And yet Fitch's own sense of loyalty to his band demanded that the monk pay for killing Groyce and Krauss. For all he knew, Abrans was dead, too. He then saw Harper get to his feet behind the man, having recovered his wind. He crept up silently on the monk from behind. If Fitch could keep the guy talking then maybe they would have a chance.

"You have something I want. I intend to take it from your dead body."

Harper was only twenty-five feet away.

"You did not ask. Whatever I have that interests you I would share freely. There is no need for bloodshed."

Twenty feet.

"Yeah right. When you're gone I'll take that jade box and whatever else it is you've got in that sack of yours."

Fifteen.

"It is yours."

Ten.

"I know."

Fitch charged the monk just as Harper attacked him from behind. The man turned as he finally heard Harper's approach. He shouldn't have been able to avoid the blow - there was simply not enough time between when the monk noticed the attack and when it should have struck for him to move away - and yet he did.

The monk spun to the side, Harper's sword missing him by no more than a hairs' breadth. Fitch was forced to halt his charge to avoid hitting his now off-balance comrade.

The monk twirled away, his braid spinning in a graceful arc across his path. He stood simply, hands at his sides.

"I give you one more chance," he said plainly. "Take your unconscious friend there and leave peacefully. Even now I hold nothing against you. Attack me again, however, and I will be forced to destroy you."

There was no menace in the monk's words, but Fitch felt the threat they implied. He swallowed hard. He didn't want to die today.

Harper, apparently, had other thoughts.

"For Groyce and Krauss!" he cried, and launched himself at the monk.

Fitch watched in awe as the monk became a blur of movement. He struck Harper six times in the space of two seconds. A spinning kick knocked Harper's blade out wide, then the monk stepped in and delivered five lightning punches. Two struck Harper in the solar plexus, two on either side of his neck. The last strike sent the heel of the monk's hand up into Harper's nose, shattering his face and sending shards of bone into the man's brain. The force of the blow lifted Harper two feet off the ground and sent him flying backward where his lifeless body thudded on top of Groyce. The monk turned and regarded Fitch with a questioning expression.

Fitch dropped his rapier and took a step back.

"I want no part of that," he said hastily. "Just let me take my man and I'll leave."

The monk nodded.

Fitch moved quickly over to Abrans, keeping one eye on the monk. Abrans' jawbone had shattered, but he had lost no blood and his breathing was steady. He was going to make it.

Fitch left Abrans' swords on the ground where they had fallen and hoisted his friend's body up onto his shoulders. He then left as quickly as he could without giving clearing a backward glance.

Maybe his Mother had been right. Maybe it was time to take up farming.

[Quonos]

The monk named Quonos watched as the bandits left the clearing. He then surveyed the results of his defense. He sighed.

"Why must men insist on violence to get what they want? This is something that I will never understand, no matter how much time I am away from the temple."

Quonos retrieved a charcoal stick from his pack and traced a sigil on the forehead of each of his dead attackers.

"Your journey through time has ended," he said. "May your stay in the next dimension of life be more fruitful."

Having performed his order's last rites, Quonos silently buried each of the fallen outlaws, using their weapons as headstones. He then gathered together his belongings and moved on.

{The Dagger's Edge - Rallingford}

[Gregor Braun]

"So there we were, [hic] minding our own business when this guy appears out of nowhere and attacks us. I tell you, I've never seen anybody move so fast in my entire life. Well now, I'm no slouch with a blade, [hic], but this fellow dodged both me and Groyce as if we were standing still...."

Braun listened to the man at the bar with a studied expression on his face. He knew the man, a thief named Fitch Willam who headed a small band of outlaws. Fitch had been in the Dagger's Edge for almost an hour now. He had entered just after 2 o'clock, sullen and somber. His constant companion, Alvin Groyce, wasn't with him. That was Braun's first indication that something out of the ordinary had occurred. His second was Willam's rapid fall into drunkenness, something the man normally avoided scrupulously. Braun had sent his lieutenant, Dent, to ask some probing questions. It took a few more drinks, but Fitch soon opened up and started the story Braun was now listening to.

"I could see, outta the corner of my eye, that Grauss had got a bead on him. He fired, but the bloke was no longer there. It was like he just popped from one place to another...."

Braun listened to the end of the tale and then sent another man out to verify that Abrans was indeed at the Doc's place with a broken jaw. The man returned a short time later with confirmation. None of the rest of Willam's band had been seen in town.

Braun began to wonder if Fitch's story was true. The part about the unexpected attack, of course, was a glaring lie. Braun had no doubt that Fitch and his group had tried to rob the monk and been made to pay. But the part about the monk catching arrows with his bare hands and moving with lightning reflexes.... Braun had heard stories of such martial prowess in the past. He doubted that Fitch could have come up with something this creative on his own. That meant that the unlikely was most likely fact: the monk was real.

Braun smiled. His own mercenary crew - the Iron Gauntlet - had gotten lazy as of late. Perhaps this monk would provide a much-needed wake up call. The Iron Gauntlet were much more skilled than Willam and his band, more than a match for a single man. But, if the man was good enough, he'd give them a good workout before he died.

Braun signaled to Dent to bring the staggering Fitch to his table. He ordered coffee from the bartender and set about sobering Fitch up enough to reveal to him the location of the failed robbery.

[Krelosh]

Leaving his friends in the midst of an important quest was one of the hardest things Krelosh Darkmoon had to endure next to losing his brother Dalyuni during his time in the resistance movement against Proctor John and his Church of the Holy Redeemer. The one he would miss the most was the mysterios healer Tarrah. He could no longer stand to be in competiton to win her affections despite the promise he had made to accompany her to her journey's end.

That was many month's ago and it was time to move on with his life. Hefting his traveling pack over his shoulder - Krelosh left the the small mining community of Delfayne and followed a seldom used trail that wound its way through a sparse forest. After walking for a few hours - the forest became dense and seemed to close in on him - but it did litte to slow his sure-footed pace.

He came across a wide brook just before the sun began to set and took the opportunity to re-fill his waterskin. Crouching down - he splashed some water on his face to refresh himself. Standing back up - the Drow continued on - following the brook - which started to shrink into a small stream.

Shortly after nightfall - he caught the familiar smell of a cooking fire that he estimated to be about a half-mile away from his current position. He decided to head towards it and see if he might be welcomed to join in some dinner with whoever had set up camp there.

[Quonos]

The monk set up camp that night near a small stream about ten miles to the north of Rallingford. He hadn't walked far that day, instead taking time to enjoy the order and beauty of nature.

Quonos had avoided Rallingford. He suspected that his attackers from earlier in the day had probably been based in the small town and he wished to avoid any possible entanglements with the locals.

The monk started a small fire, for warmth rather than for cooking - his order were strict vegetarians. He sat by the fire in a relaxed lotus position, pulled an apple and some somewhat stale trail bread from his pack, and sat back to enjoy the chill, but pleasant evening.

[Krelosh]

The Drow moved with a noiseless step that was natural to him - one that most would consider to be stealthy. After several moments of picking his way through dense foliage - the cooking fire that his enhanced senses had detected came into view with a single person sitting before it.

Looking about intently - Krelosh saw no others nor did he hear anyone. Slowly - he emerged from his concealment behind an ancient oak - hands resting lightly upon the hilts of his long swords. He had no intention of attacking - but was prepared to defend himself should such need arise. In a non-threatening manner he spoke. "Would you welcome the company of a stranger?"

[Quonos]

The monk was surprised at the sudden appearance of the stranger at his campfire, but he didn't show it. Instead he took a moment to study the man who stood before him.

Quonos had seen pictures of Drow in books back in the Temple, but he had never met one. His Order's histories spoke of the dark elves and their skill with weapons of death. The comfortable way in which this one's hands rested on his twin blades, coupled with the easy, relaxed, yet wary nature of his stance certainly supported that supposition. The histories also warned that the Drow were a vicious, bloodthirsty people - violent and quick to anger. Several historians had recommended killing them on sight.

Quonos was never a man to judge a being based on his outward appearance, however. He had left the Temple to experience the world personally, in order to draw his own conclusions and thus enrich his Order's collective knowledge upon his return. This man before him, dark elf though he may be, had approached the monk's campsite in a non-threatening way asking the simple pleasure of another's company. Quonos could see no reason to refuse to refuse him this simple courtesy.

"Please," he said, indicating the ground near the fire, "Be seated. My fare is meager, but I willingly share."

Quonos tossed the stranger his uneaten apple and reached calmly into his sack to retrieve another.

[Krelosh]

Without even looking - The Drow caught the apple in one hand before sitting down next to the fire across from the Monk. "I thank you for your hospitality - especially to a stranger like myself. Not many find they can trust one of my kind." Reaching towards his boot - he withdrew a dagger and began to slice of pieces of the fruit to eat. As he ate in silence - he studied Quonos intently. "You are a Monk - correct?" He paused to let the man answer.

[Quonos]

Quonos inclined his head in a slight bow.

[Krelosh]

"I am Krelosh Darkmoon. I am a Drow as you have already surmised." He smiled slightly before continuing. "Yes - most of my kind are renowned for their brutality and evil ways. However - some like myself are different and lead decent lives for the most part." He sliced off another piece of the apple and ate it. "You must be an honorable man as you did not attack me on sight. Might I know your name?"

[Quonos]

Quonos blinked.

"Why should I attack you? You approach me in peace and so I offer peace in return. It is common courtesy. I would do the same for anyone, the color of their skin or the reputation of their race notwithstanding. It shames me that many of my own race do not share this simple philosophy."

Quonos bowed more deeply. "You may have my name, Krelosh Darkmoon. I am Quonos, of the Order of the Continuum."

Quonos finished his apple and tossed the core into the fire. He then tore his trail bread in two and offered half to the Drow.

"You are the first of your kind I have ever met. I hope I may call you friend."

[Krelosh]

"Well met - Quonos." The Drow smiled slightly before his dark visage took on a more serious expression. "Your views are not shared by many. My race is despised by more than I care to count - especially among the surface Elves." He paused long enough to finish off the apple and discard the core then continued. "It has been this way for millennia and I doubt it will ever change�at least not in my lifetime."

He accepted the offered bread and began to munch on it. "You are more than welcome to call me friend as long as I too may do the same."

[Quonos]

"Welcome then, friend, to my humble camp."

[Gregor Braun and the Iron Gauntlet]

Braun and his men paused as Dent, who was acting tracker on this mission, held up his hand in a tight fist. They were silent as Dent moved out of sight, scouting ahead. Braun had successfully beat the location of the monk's camp out of Willam, and the eight men of the Iron Gauntlet had spent the day tracking the man. It had been tricky work. While it was clear that the man had made no effort to cover his trail, he moved with an almost supernatural softness of step that made following him difficult, even for Dent whom Braun considered the best tracker he'd ever known. It made Braun think the man might have elf blood, though Willam had sworn he was human.

Braun frowned at the thought of elves. He detested the despicable faerie creatures and their holier-than-thou attitude. He had accepted a job, once, collecting elf ears for a hatefully prejudiced Baron whose lands bordered on an elven wood. That job had been a particularly profitable one.

Braun's mouth slowly turned up at the corners. If this monk _did_ have elf blood, he'd be sure to take the ears for his _own_ collection.

Dent's return cut short the mercenary leader's musings. He motioned the group forward and they were moving again. They didn't go far. Dent led them to a small clearing, slightly off the monk's trail. Braun ordered a torch lit and his eyes quickly took in the scene.

A horse lay dead amongst a modest tumble of brush. Its right foreleg was twisted at an impossible angle and the sharp splinter of a branch from a fallen tree had pierced its neck. Flies still buzzed around the wound and the blood soaked grass. A short distance away, sprawled atop a bed of forest moss, lay the body of a woman. Her face was torn and scratched, her dusty blond hair disheveled. Her clothes - the simple homespuns of a peasant - were dirty and torn.

"Is she...."

"Alive," replied Dent. "And relatively unharmed. It's easy to see what happened. Fool girl was racing the horse through the forest, in the dark. The beast had been run ragged and could no longer keep up the pace. It stumbled there" - he pointed to a spot a few feet way - "and went down, over the top of that fallen log. The branch went through its neck, killing it instantly. The girl was thrown over here. Lucky for her she landed on the moss bed. Just knocked her out instead of killing her. Couldn't of happened more than five minutes ago."

The word 'girl' had thrown Braun for a moment. He took the torch and knelt beside her, rolling her over gently. Sure enough, it was not a woman whose scratched face he beheld, but that of a girl of about sixteen. Still, the rents in her clothing made it easy to see that she had already acquired most of the attributes of womanhood.

She was stunningly beautiful.

Braun's eyes shone with an evil light.

"Load her on the pack horse. When this mission is over, we'll have time for a little fun.

Two of the band complied with Braun's order as the mercenary leader extinguished the torch. Then Braun motioned Dent forward and the Iron Gauntlet continued its hunt.

(to be continued....)