\--==Official Submission==-- FROM: First Sergeant Alexander Rahl RE: The Lady''s Hand: The End of an Epic It took Alexander, a fighting man in peak physical condition, over four hours to reach the top of the Pinnacle. He looked down over the battlements and through the fog to the bustle of Tablenhelm and its thirty thousand odd inhabitants, all a blur from the height. He removed the five tomes from his person and reverently laid them out in front of him on the stone. All was ready. All was in place. Now was the time to end his life here. “Alexander?” Her voice reached him through the intense winds that blew across the top of the Pinnacle, but it was soft, nearly forlorn. The Lady's Hand turned to the stairwell in time to see her emerge, her gossamer robe billowing in the wind. He took a long moment to admire her, her hair, her lips, her breasts and her thighs as she stood naked against the backdrop of the island sunset; and for a moment, he almost cast away his plan. He finally met her eyes. Kishara, The Lady of Night, Terror of the Uncounted Lands, was crying. Alexander balanced on a precarious ledge then, on one side lay compassion for his lover and a life of power, glory, and song. On the other side lay redemption from his shame: empty and cold but proving to himself and the world that the will of Alexander Rahl was unshakable. When the moment passed he felt nothing but cold. He had made his decision. She saw it as well; as if the Lady, his mistress for nearly two decades, could feel the warrior's heart beating in his chest go still. “Please...” She beseeched, holding out her hand to him. Alexander rose slowly and responded with a featureless gaze. He raised his hand to his ear, activating the tiny crystal within, and spoke one word: “Now.” Far below, three men of the House of Turon's ever-loyal deathwatch, now completely in the thrall of the Ringwielder of Spirit, sprang into action from where they were concealed. The first, standing in the middle of a warehouse full of barrels of the black powder, tossed a torch into a pile of the stuff that he had spilled onto the floor. The second, positioned next to the mighty CS-722 Waygate, shattered the magical seal that kept the immense powers of the gate contained. And the third stepped out of a hastily constructed, shabbily built Waygate into an underground archaeological dig, his two companions blinking at him in surprise, and opened the lid on a small silver box he was carrying. The Lady's Pinnacle shook with the force of the explosion of the warehouse deep within its foundation. The Great Circle of Waygates, the most magnificent magical achievement since the dawn of man, was washed away by the reality-twisting force of the CS-722 gate's destruction. The town of Northwood shook ever-so-slightly as a small network of underground tunnels and their dozen or so loyal but secretive occupants, were destroyed absolutely by the magical firebomb. Kishara fell to her knees, her flowing black hair being whipped around by the updrafts created by the explosions. “Alexander, PLEASE!” She screeched, “NOOOO!!!” Alexander kneeled down before the five tomes and opened the first. Within it's pages were the names - hundreds per page, of the men, women, and children who had been sacrificed by the Priests - sacrificed by the Stranglers - to build the tally of a million souls to free their mistress. He laid his hand on the cover of the first book, and the Ring of Earth on his finger sprang to life. “I am Alexander Rahl,” he shouted, “Ringwielder of Earth, General of the Trembling Firmament. I release you!” The tome crumbled to dust before his eyes. He laid his hand on the cover of the next book, and the Ring of Fire on his finger sprang to life. “I am Alexander Rahl, Ringwielder of Fire, General of the Fiery Blade. I release you!” The tome crumbled to dust before his eyes. “...Ringwielder of Water, General of the Ocean's Deep...” “...Ringwielder of Air, General of the Stormbound Night...” He took a moment to gaze at the final book before him, easily the thickest of them all, containing over half of the names used to free Kishara from her chains. He looked back at her to make sure she wasn't trying anything, but she slumped on the ground, sobbing violently. She had been defeated, not by cunning, not by might, but by the only man since the dawn of time that she couldn't bring herself to destroy. Alexander opened the last tome and flipped through its pages idly until he found names that he recognized: ”˜Kironius Mengst' ”˜Delayne Muerdetta' ”˜Adulphus Turon' ”˜Myca Vodyanoy' He slammed the book shut, and pressed his hand to it, the Ring of Spirit flaring to life. “I am Alexander Rahl,” he said quietly, almost reverently, “Ringwielder of Spirit, General of The Sackcloth Rose.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I release you.” And the tome crumbled to dust before his eyes, the last of the Great Tally destroyed; the last of the million souls freed. Kishara, whose terrifying beauty had haunted men since before time, now naked and weeping, took one long, last look at her lover, laid her head down on her arm, closed her eyes... ...and died. The earth shook and the skies darkened, the soldiers and commoners of Tablenhelm all looked to the Pinnacle in fear. Alexander stood slowly, never tossing a glance at the woman's body behind him. He raised his left hand and its five rings above his head as far as he could reach. “It ends. Now.” As one, the rings lit up, creating a multi-hued starburst at the top of the Pinnacle that sent the people of Tablenhelm running for cover. A wall of black fire exploded from Alexander, stretching outward from the pinnacle in a deadly wave that destroyed everything in its path. He could hear the screams from far below, and he smile grimly. Another wave shot out from his body, expanding ever outward to destroy every thing that lived on the island of Tablenhelm. When the power and noise had subsided, he opened his eyes and saw the five rings had released all of their power, and only ash remained. He placed his hand before his lips and blew the ash into the wind. \--====-- It took Alexander several hours to climb down the endless stairs to the ground floor, and hours more to claw through the wreckage of the smithies to the outside air. At one point he came across young Salmnow, burned and broken, with a scream of sheer terror twisting his lifeless face. “Sorry kid. Get some rest.” was Salmnow's only eulogy. He emerged from the tower and strode across the fields of bodies without breaking stride. The smell of burnt flesh would have overwhelmed anyone who stopped to gaze at the carnage, and Alexander didn't much care; he had other things on his mind. An hour later he reached the shoreline and still did not break stride until the water forced him to begin swimming. Shortly after, he came across the two columns reaching out of the water - the last Waygate, and swam through. \--====-- Somewhere, in the middle of the Britannian oceans, Old Floggar jumped up and down with glee. His nets had suddenly caught what must be a whole school of fish, and he pulled the nets in eagerly awaiting his prize and the small fortune he would earn at market. But instead of fish, a man sprung out of the water, dagger in hand. The dagger pierced his larynx before he could cry out and went on to sever his brain-stem before he could react. Alexander leaped fluidly into the boat, lowering the corpse to the deck. He quickly and efficiently used his dagger to crack the man's chest cavity with a loud crunch, and hauled him over the side, letting the corpse fill with water and sink to the bottom of the ocean. Without pause, he moved to the rigging, taking a glance at the stars to get is bearing, and got the small fishing sloop on its way towards the mainland. He took a moment to look at the stars, for he had seen none for nearly half of his lifetime, and when he looked back, there was a spirit perched on the bow of the boat looking at him. “You came back,” Kironius Mengst said quietly. “And you,” replied Alexander harshly, “certainly wasted no time getting all the way out here to state the obvious.” Mengst took a long look at the man before him, trying to find the boy that was there when last they had been together. He saw the black flecks in Alexander's eyes, swirling around like some sort of fluid. “Teravandriel Tahl-Mearis, Lord Spirit, even after millennia of serving the Lady, never showed physical signs of her taint.” “Are you my conscience now?” Alexander growled. “You appear to need one.” “Listen-,” said Alexander, formulating a harsh protest, but when he blinked, the spirit was gone. The boat continued on silently through the night. \--====-- Alexander's senses were assaulted by the reek of herbs and rot and piss as he entered his father's bedchambers, dragging the corpse of the pageboy on duty behind him and dropping the child unceremoniously on the floor. The Old Man, now terrifyingly old, lay in his bed, weak and shriveled, his eyes white with cataracts. Alexander lurched into the shadows by the door, wrapping his arm around the neck of the purple-cloaked assassin who hid there and rolling over the man's back, snapping his neck. He straightened his tunic and walked to his father's bedside, trying to keep his eyes averted from the wreck that lay before him. “You're back,” came the raspy voice from the husk that was once Debinani Rahl. “How long were you there?” “Over fifteen years,” Alexander replied quietly, darkly. “If...I wish I could see you...to see the man you've become... maybe see some of your mother there...” “You don't want to see me, and I don't look at all like my mother.” The Old Man offered a weak, toothless grin. “I'm proud of you son.... I felt her die.” “Don't be proud. You sent me to Her,” Alexander said, his voice rising in intensity but not volume, “I rotted in her prisons, I felt the Strangler's tortures for a year. A year!” He cut himself off, grinding his teeth together in rage. His father had fallen asleep. Asleep! Alexander drew his dagger from its sheath and held it inches from the man's neck. “You weak-willed sot...you disgust me,” he growled, and moved to slit his father's throat. “Ehrm...It's not supposed to be like this...” mumbled his father in his sleep, “A bed's no place for a warrior to die....” Alexander stayed his hand and looked at his father for several minutes, trying to decide if this was some wiley ploy to save his own life; but he was forced to conclude that the man was truly asleep. “No,” said Alexander quietly, remembering his many battles and slowly sheathing his dagger, “No it's not. I'll give you one more chance, father. One and only one. Use it.” Alexander laid his hand over his father's wrinkled and leathery face and closed his eyes, feeling out the taint that had been aggravated by Ehrlich's foul concoctions. Once he had a mental picture of every last bit of Kishara's presence in his soul, he drew it, all of it, into himself. The black flecks in his eyes multiplied, swirling and dancing across his vision until everything was black. It cleared slowly, and when his vision had returned fully he saw that his father already looked years younger. “I will not let her steal your life away, as you allowed her to steal mine,” he said quietly. The iron doors of the headquarters of The Black Rose Society flew open, and Alexander Rahl strode out into the world, quickly fading into the pre-dawn fog of the north woods. Finis And thus ended another age of man. A war that began with the rise of Kishara and the forging of her Five Rings before history itself, ended with a single act of a single man who refused to live with shame. History will not remember Alexander Rahl, Slayer of Kishara; it will remember the Chosen One who fell and betrayed the world. History will remember Her. Water Sleeps, after all. The future is always murky, like the pre-dawn fog of the north woods. One can never tell what will happen next, for time, with it's endless twists and turns and its veil of fate, is incomprehensible. The soldiers of The Black Rose Society do not remember a lot of their history, but for five thousand years they have lived and died because of it. What they'll do now, now that the Great Tally has been destroyed, is anybody's guess. But one thing is certain: History rarely lets her Champions rest. Thus Ends the Chronicles of The Five Rings