Only three figures made the swim to the huge swift river's bank. First Shackles caught onto a fallen sapling, pulled himself up, his grey gi soaking with his weight in water, and poised on its slender trunk. He walked its length, and visually scanned the woods before turning to his comrades.

Slade arose next from the river. The water beaded on his black body suit and shook off as he stepped carefully along the muddy bank, treading on plants to avoid sinking his black tabe boots into the heavy adherent mud. His eyes, one looking out from a red vertical scar, showed no hint of the self-discipline that his body displayed. Only raw hatred showed there, hatred for the enemy, Modrin, who had sunk their ship killing two thirds of their party.

Scrye climbed from the current last. By the time she clambered to the dry ground, her clothing looked to be a suit of mud. She heaved for breath for several moments before she was able to speak.

"When did Strider and the Sacrosanct go down?"

"Shortly after Smasha and Sir Smyte sank in their plate mail."

"Scythe and Slick didn't drown. The giant piranhas got them. Trying to talk to fish was a waste of valuable time. It's difficult enough to stay afloat with several pounds of cowhide strapped to you. That's why I always travel light. Speed is safety."

"Modrin must pay for that cowardly attack," Slade pronounced.

"Strategically, it was a sound plan. It dealt great harm to us with little risk to his mercenaries. His honor or lack thereof is irrelevant. After all, this is war."

Slade shot back, "This is war. Hell is hatred, and war is hell."

"All is lost," Scrye moaned, "We have no front-line fighters, no healers, no one skilled in jungle survival."

"The glass is half full, not half empty," Shackles responded, "We monks are jacks of all trades, though masters of none. We can cure our own ills, find information, resist damage, and harm near and far opponents as long as we can conserve our willpower to maintain our meditative presence of mind. Fighters, knights, and rangers are only as good as their weapons and armor, after all. We shall survive on our wits. This tragedy has brought us back to basics; we must walk without crutches now. It is said greatness comes from within, not from without."

"'Conserve our willpower,' bah!" Slade opposed, "If you're not living on the edge, you're not living. Talent unused is wasted."

"I've got to get out of these wet things before I chafe," Scrye failed to gain any optimism, "You'd best do the same before you start hiking."

"A curse and a blessing are two sides of the same coin," Shackles replied and pulled the collar open from his neck, revealing that reptilian scales covered his skin from the neck down, "Wet clothes are no matter to me anymore."

With some searching, the three found hardwood limbs to use as quarter staves. Then, although they were ill equipped to survive in the wild, they could at least deal some damage. After all, the weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it.

Soon afterward, the three were on their way toward Modrin's stronghold, lacking a clear trail, and checking their bearings often.

"How will we find it without Strider or Slick to find a trail to the keep?" Scrye questioned, "Even Sacrosanct could pray for guidance, but we have no such abilities."

"Every problem is an opportunity for excellence. We will have to rely on our own competency. Remember that Modrin reportedly hides in a ruined fort. What do we know of an ancient fort on this island?" Shackles answered.

Slade thought back to his early training where he was taught that mental discipline could be measured by the ability to concentrate. He returned to a time of his past. "The island of Carromo was held for a hundred years. Its fortress on the western peninsula commands a view of the entire horizon but where the view is blocked by the forest," Slade's old history teacher chanted in monotone, then shouted, "Do not sleep in my class Mr. Slade! He who forgets history is doomed to repeat it!" Slade snapped back to the present. "We must follow the setting sun and stay under cover of the trees," he announced.

After an hour of travel, a woman's scream rang through the woods, "Rape!"

"It's a trick," Scrye mumbled, "I always trust my instincts."

Shackles turned to see the distressed young lady leaping from the woods into his arms. Her fear was real. Her lone pursuer could be heard closing in through the brambles. Scrye grabbed one of her hands and inspected it for kill daggers, finding it harmless and shaking with fright. She wrapped her other arm around Shackles' neck to cling for dear life. Suddenly Shackles twitched up a blocking arm. Her other hand indeed held a poisoned needle.

"It was too believable to be true," Shackles spoke.

She dove back toward the concealing bushes when a small streak of flame shot into the clearing from another direction. It flowered into a bouquet of pain as the air itself alighted and extinguished just as suddenly. Slade dove for cover and escaped the worst of the blast, but he had to roll out the flames from his clothing before anything else.

Scrye ducked too late, the magical flame had been diminished by her mystic protection, but she still gasped for air and reeled from the pain. A massive barbarian arose from the bushes to take bloody advantage of the disorder.

Shackles rolled from the explosion before the heat had reached its climax, and he leaped into the greens, which apparently shielded a wizard from view. He could only hope that they had not had the time, skill, or forethought to set a snare. In the thicket, Shackles found the magician already drawing more mana into a glowing ball in his hands.

"Don't get strung out by the way I look; don't judge a book by its cover…" chanted the mage. Without hesitation, Shackles kicked his heel through the wizard's sternum. The mage slumped to the ground and clasped both hands on a wooden staff that lay there. Electricity danced down its length as he raised it with weak and shaking hands. Shackles dodged the slow thrusts of the staff, knowing that its softest touch could be deadly. When Shackles saw an opening, he vaulted over a low swing to the legs and landed a single-finger punch to the mage's second vertebrae, ending the fight.

"You killed Scrye! You die now!" Slade's voice erupted from back in the clearing.

Shackles reprimanded himself as he plowed through the bushes, "A rope of many strings is stronger than each single string. Never split up the group."

The barbarian controlled his trusty shield leaving no openings for attack. Slade, with blood in his vision, jumped over Scrye's corpse, spun, and planted a boot into the edge of the shield. A sickening muffled pop sounded as the barbarian's shoulder loosened from its socket.

Shackles snatched up Scrye's charred staff and charged to assist.

Just then Slade felt a blade at his right kidney. He twitched reflexively, causing the point to miss his vital organs. The backstabbing young lady behind him was visibly displeased with his failure to die.

As Shackles approached, the barbarian inexplicably backed away, leaving the lady rogue as the primary threat. Shackles parried her rusty short sword, which seemed only to be sharpened at the tip. Slade caught her wrist and twisted in a practiced motion, slamming her flat on her back. She never gained a chance to recover, for one of the men engaged her weapon whenever the other one struck, both of them still glancing back at the unoccupied warrior. When she collapsed unconscious, they turned their full attention to the warrior who had noisily restored his shoulder to proper order. Combat rage overcame any hint of sanity in his manner.

"He fights like a monk," Shackles warned, "retreating to renew himself."

"I'm poisoned!" Slade interrupted. He had had time to feel the unrest in his body. There must have been snake venom on the thief's sword tip.

"Resist," Shackles hoped.

"I can."

"Good."

"In time."

"No now!"

"Fine!" Slade knelt down into a stable seated posture.

"I'm too old for this," Shackles muttered as he advanced alone on the fevered barbarian to buy time for his comrade.

"I'm too young for this," Slade murmured and centered his inner eye on the task of regulating his heartbeat and his nerves against the poison's influence. When he was certain of his success, he saw that Shackle's delay had not gone well. The barbarian limped slightly, but managed to chop Shackles' arm with a single stroke. Shackles collapsed lifeless to the ground, and the warrior stomped on his body.

Slade focused the chilling hatred in his heart and channeled it into a magical ability for which he had paid dearly. He released the cold death wish of his spirit forward, and a blue bolt sprang from his open palms, striking the barbarian with arctic force. Frost enshrouded the warrior's body for a moment, then the coat of ice shattered as he collapsed to the ground.

Slade's staff ensured that the attackers would never harm anyone again.

Shackles' disheveled body looked peaceful. His fingers were curled in a meditative gesture. Slade recognized the significant hand posture.

Then Slade collected Shackles' body and two staves and proceeded to their destination. There was neither time nor need for proper burials for the others.

Slade reached the fortress when Shackles stirred.

"Get ready to rumble," Slade whispered coolly, "for Modrin is within those walls, and only a single guard is posted at the gate".

Shackles coughed hoarsely, then centered himself for some seconds. "I am ready," he finally replied, "Do you prefer a quiet or a dramatic entrance? Remember the lesson of the tortoise and the hare."

"In which the hare started boldly but failed to conserve his strength; whereas the tortoise won because he was not recognized as a threat?" Slade queried.

"After which both were thrown into a stew pot and eaten by someone bigger than both of them. Discretion is the better part of valor, and a battle avoided cannot be lost."

"Leaving Modrin alive would be a battle lost. It might cost me another seven friends."

"The way is not a hall leading to a door, but a road leading forever to the horizon. The king's navy stands ready to rain fiery justice upon this island once he knows his daughter is safe. Her rescue is the stroke that will kill Modrin."

Slade conceded, "If I overextend my thrust to the wrong target, it leaves me vulnerable and off-balance."

"Never lose your temper. If your head comes away from your neck, it's over."

"Then this situation requires a unique blend of brilliant psychology and extreme violence," Slade reflected, "If Slick were here, we would know how many troops awaited us in there."

"And if Smasha were here, she would barge in without waiting, while Sacrosanct told us it was a bad idea. And if my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a wagon," Shackles retorted.

"You're saying complaining does no good."

"Aye. And as a last resort: When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout."

The two men approached the lone guard.

The guard marched to one side of the gate, did an about-face, and received painful blows to both arms before he was able to parry. His black and blue attacker did not forgive incompetence. Turning fully defensive with his swords, he shouted, "To arms!" to alert those inside.

His alarm was partially drowned out by a wall of noise that hit him like a thunderclap. It was as if an invisible man stood behind him and suddenly shouted in his ear. It could not possibly have come from the harmless grey clad man standing twenty feet away, leaning on a staff. The guard stumbled and fell badly, bewildered and bruised. In no time the attackers were inside the gateway, and the guard sensed his employment was at an end.

The mercenaries inside the fort had been smoking and talking before the alarm was raised. They had barely readied their weapons when the dynamic duo burst in. The two were not the strongest of fighters, but they were nimble and struck quickly.

Modrin was in the process of making his rope-bound young hostage an offer she could not refuse when the combat broke out. He watched his hired guards give a poor initial showing.

"Morons!" he cried, "I've got morons on my payroll! Get into formation you dolts!"

The mercenaries took many hits before they managed to group into the formation they had drilled. The fighters surrounded the two invaders who backed up to the gateway to improve their defense. The magician mercenaries charged electricity through their swords, but the invaders showed no damage from the shocks, no more than a firewalker would take from hot coals.

First Slade took the lead, embodying one of Musashi's concepts: When facing many attackers, strike the fastest one first, then the second fastest, always before the opponent would have struck. Shackles emptied the few remaining small knives from his bandoleer and launched them past Slade. Then Shackles took the front line as Slade used his shuriken. Shackles' staff followed the thrown stars, striking the warriors while they tried to evade the shuriken.

The standstill battle persisted until Shackles made an opening by feigning a punch at one guard and striking his neighbor. They both flinched back, and Shackles and Slade were through the opening in a wink.

Both of the mages pulled back and incanted quietly.

Modrin clutched his hostage with a sword to her heart. "Drop your weapons and surrender," he commanded, "There's a shortage of perfect breasts in the world. 'Twould be a pity to damage hers."

The staves dropped from the monks' hands, and the smiling mages snatched them away when they had hardly touched the ground.

"It took you long enough." It was unclear to whom Modrin was speaking.

The mercenaries surrounded the two disarmed assailants, awaiting the command to strike, and the mages joined also, not wanting to miss the death stroke.

"Say 'Goodbye' to all this," Modrin gloated wickedly at his victory, "and 'Hello' to oblivion."

Shackles was entirely weaponless. Six bloodthirsty, scarcely injured swordsmen surrounded him, and the princess was in the hands of an armed homicidal miscreant. He had never been in a worse 'opportunity for excellence.'

"Are you pondering what I'm pondering, Slade?"

"Which one do you want?" Slade smiled.

"All of them. Get the girl."

With the ease only a practiced gymnast can obtain, Slade leaped over the head of a startled mage, flipping in the air. With Xena-like finesse, Shackles dropped to a tightly wound bundle on the floor, then swung a leg around in a full circle, kicking the mercenaries' legs out from under them. Slade landed in front of Modrin, seized the villain's knee with his feet, and hauled him to the ground, too astonished to use the sword.

"He could have slit my throat!" the princess wailed at Slade as he stood.

"That's what healing potions are for." He slung her over his shoulder.

The two monks and their abductee were out of the gate before anyone else had regained their footing.

"Must you throw me around like a gunny sack?"

"Unless you too are capable of leaving no footprints. The race is not always to the swiftest," Shackles replied; then to Slade, "Are you certain this is the right princess?"

"Birth mark on her left thigh."

"It's supposed to be on the right. I remember the king's description of her precisely."

"That IS my right thigh."

"Oh, right."