"It's not that I doubt your honesty, Madam. I simply find it difficult to believe the Lord Church would ever advocate such activities, let alone fund them. It's just too damaging to its name." Don handed the shaking secretary another mug of his home-brewed spirit. "The church breeds good people."

"Most of the denizens of the church are good people, but the reins here are being held by the most powerful men on the continent. We might even be dealing with the committee of Moonfathers itself. Power can corrupt anybody -- wise people don't seek it. Church officials are only human beings, and most of them aren't very wise."

Don sighed. "What makes you think this violence is being directed by those on high?"

"Who else has the resources? That man back there -- the one I ran away from? Derwin Crescent -- about the least human person you'll ever hear about. He's an investigator, and he runs a team for the church law enforcement agency -- a kind of secret police, if you like. Something extremely significant is happening here, or they wouldn't have paid his extortionate fee. I have no idea why, but somebody high up in the government really wants your friend dispossessed and cast out."

"Monstrous. Simply disgusting." Don could feel the shock in his lungs, pressing. Leave it to people to corrupt a beautiful ethos. "But the Moons will never let it happen. They made sure you got away safely."

The woman leaned forward, clearly angry. "I got away because I saw them coming, and it didn't take a genius to work out what was about to happen. I got out before they even knew I existed. Freeman wouldn't come -- he believed, as you do. Now he's dead. Minister Freeman was a good man, true, but only as tough as his familiar environment. They'll have wrung the information they want out of him. You can believe whatever you like when you're alone and everything's peaceful, but right now this document needs protecting, and Derwin Crescent is almost certainly on his way here."

Don paused for a moment with his chin in one hand, feeling a deep line of consternation on his brow. The other hand clattered a march on the arm of his chair with idle precision -- something he caught himself doing when concentrating hard. Then his middle finger tapped and stopped. He looked up and drew breath, having come to a conclusion. "I think you have more faith than you profess, Madam -- it's what brought you to my door. If what you say is true, our top priority is getting that document into the hands of somebody neutral and above suspicion. The Moons bless our steps, but it's up to us to find the right path."

The secretary rolled her eyeballs. "Yes, okay. Whatever."

"Good. I'm glad we agree on that, at least. Now, who is the nearest nobleman, and is he an honourable and neutral character? More to the point, is he seen as one?"

The secretary nodded. "Lord Elm owns estates to the North West of here, bordering the town and forest. He's a high-flyer in his element -- high society -- so he has connections across the board. What's more, he's officially an honorary denizen of the Lord Church. His vassals like him too, if that's important."

Don nodded. "It is to me. And would he not also arbitrate in disagreements between workers on his lands, making him a judge of sorts?"

"Yes, of course. I hadn't thought of that. I've met the man several times. He seems a fair and kind person -- not all of them are."

"Perfect, then." Don clapped his hands together. "That's one part of the problem solved. Now all we need to decide is how to get the document to him at this time of night, and what to tell him about the situation."

The secretary put down her empty mug and looked at him, her hands once more steady. "It's best if I go." Her eyes were slightly wide, but she seemed determined. "I'm an official employee of the church and urgent business doesn't wait for dawn. Added to which, Derwin Crescent hasn't seen me, so I'll be safer on my own than any other way."

A heavy breath settled in Don's chest. He didn't like it, but her approach made sense. He nodded and they both stood. "If you need anything else from me, or to mention my name to Lord Elm, do not hesitate."

"Thank you for calming me down. I needed to get away -- to clear my thoughts. I'm not sure exactly what brought me here but I was letting my feet do the deciding. Somebody needed to warn you about what was happening, anyway. Whichever slant you put on it, you're a target. It might be an idea for you to get out of here, at least hide until it's safe."

Don smiled. "I have no fear for myself, lady. The Moons will protect me."

A sigh. "Why do you believe so deeply when so much evidence suggests you are wrong to?"

"Religions don't just spring up from nowhere; belief doesn't simply leap into existence. It must have started somewhere, with a kind of sign. Besides, my link with the Two Moons is far more personal than you, or anybody else in Reefen Harn, knows. Please don't question my judgement in this matter."

The look she gave him was a sombre expression, but also one of acquiescence. "In that case, good luck, and I hope we both survive to meet again." She turned to go, but dropped the all-important scroll.

Don bent to pick it up for her...

And survived as a result.

The shutters to his side splintered, something brushed his hair, and a cracking sound snapped from the far wall. A fast glance showed him a crossbow bolt splintered into the wood panelling on the opposite side of the room. At the same time, an almighty crash shuddered against the front door. He didn't waste time, grabbing the document and ramming it at the wide-eyed secretary.

"Go! Take the back door, now. RUN!" She didn't need telling twice. Her shaking hands snatched the scroll and she bolted through to the back room. Don turned and headed for the fireplace, ducking down, everything clear despite the sudden attack. Adrenalin surged into him, clarifying senses and heightening perceptions. A look over his shoulder revealed a huge man entering from the hallway, a makeshift club pulled from a tree clutched in one hand. Behind him was a lean figure with a thin black moustache, reloading a crossbow as he walked. Don stopped looking and lunged for his fireplace.

A 'snap!' sounded, and blood sprayed on the wall in front of him, a red-drenched bolt buried in the pine. Spattered blood burst from the impact in a blossom of gore. Agony rammed a spear of shock through this stomach and weakness flushed his veins. As he reached his destination, collapsed, and rummaged in the unused coals, Don heard voices behind him.

"Ha! Got the lucky turd that time. You finish him off, Lenny. I'll fetch that bitch before she gets too big a head start."

Don still wasn't looking, but he heard fast footsteps heading into his back room. A slow, heavy set moved in his direction, accompanied by the steady smack of branch against palm. He searched frantically until his hand closed around a leather-bound haft. The grip settled into his closing fist like the handshake of an old friend. Energy surged through Don's wrist, writhing into his veins like snakes -- simultaneously shocking and exhilarating. Coals shifted and dust puffed and something beneath them gyrated, adapting to its master's touch. Long-buried memories crackled in his mind like fireworks.

This was his weapon, bequeathed by tradition and ritual -- an ancient, personalised article of war he'd kept hidden in the cold fire for almost twenty years. There was a thud as a foot came down next to his head. He heard a brief intake of breath, the foot settled as the weight above it rocked, and just on the verge of hearing was the slight creak of braced chest muscles. This was quite definitely close enough.

Don twisted his upper half with all his might, turning his body. An axe-filled hand burst from the fire, spraying dead coal and dust in a cloud of determination. The giant was standing astride him, both hands brandishing the branch above his head, and he had time only for a brief look of surprise. Had Don's axe been a common weapon of metal and timber, stored over the years in a dusty grave, it might have caused a dangerous leg wound. The best he'd have hoped for would be to escape and leave his attacked with a rust infection. Instead, the metal blades glinted like liquid fire as they reflected the house torches. It sheared straight through the huge guy's left leg at the thigh, destroyed his groin, deflected from the inside of his pelvis, and buried its head fully in his lower intestines.

The attacker roared in surprise as his body flopped sideways, intestines bursting forth like an explosion of eels. He tottered momentarily, and then crashed into the wall. His disembodied leg fell across Don, heavier than it had any right to be. As the dying man slid to the floor, he screamed an ear piercing gurgle, breathed a huge gulp of air, and screamed again. His hands clasped at his spilled organs, groping in the mush of their destruction, grappling in desperation as he tried to squeeze them back in place. Another scream sheared through the air. He didn't seem about to stop.

Legs slipping in a lake of gore, Don dragged himself desperately towards his fallen enemy. He was drenched in blood and thick loin matter, the smell clagging into his nose like a punch to the face. Dizziness yanked at his consciousness but he knew he couldn't stop. He needed to escape before the skinny man -- presumably Derwin Crescent -- returned. The big guy's screaming would draw his companion back if Don didn't act. He grasped the fallen branch club as he reached the keening man. Exhausted and groaning, he forced himself to one elbow, heaving the branch over his head. With every ounce of strength he could manage, he smashed it down on his enemy's agonised face. Spiky shoots punctured the cheeks and brow, then the branch core connected with a wet snark! The thick skull caved, bursting its contents in a thick mush, and Don averted his eyes as an eyeball rolled across the floor, his stomach heaving. The branch fell from nerveless fingers and he rolled to his back, away from the grisly mess.

Back against the sticky floor, he forced himself to breathe deeply for a while, avoiding the fast, shallow breaths his heart wanted him to make. Doing so caused intense pain in his side but he knew survival depended on slowing his system. Age-old training took over, allowing him to find the calm at the heart of his emotional storm. He tried to examine the wound, although with all the blood on him, ascertaining the extent of the damage was difficult.

The crossbow bolt went straight through him -- that much he already knew. The hole was slightly above the hip, on his right side. He'd seen injuries like this before and knew a man might live or die. It was not necessarily fatal, but with all this foreign blood in the wound, an infection was almost guaranteed. He was still breathing but it hurt if he went too deep. Old knowledge and terrible experience suggested his stomach may be affected, although not too badly -- if his stomach was punctured, he'd be screaming uncontrollably.

Resolving to probe details later, Don pulled off his shirt and tied it as hard as he could for a bandage. While he could still move, he could still get away. Where the lady was concerned, he could only hope she ran faster than Derwin Crescent. He pulled himself upright, bracing a hand on the mantelpiece. Sudden gut pain made him gasp sharply, and a red patch spread on his makeshift wound dressing. He'd torn something inside. He tried to take a step, but another pain occurred to him -- a pain far more frightening than the other. Subtle, this time. A slight stinging, just inside his hip and next to the wound. Such a gentle aggravation, but the results were disastrous.

Force slammed into his wound from within. Bile fountained up his throat, disgorging a spray of burning spew through his nostrils. His 'bandage' bubbled outward as it was jetted into from behind, and copious amounts of rich coloured blood ran down his leg like uncontrolled river rapids.

Depths-be-damned!

Don collapsed once more to the ground, weakness sweeping over him like a wave on the beach at high tide. He made an inarticulate noise and rolled his head from side to side, mouth lolled open. A thousand words queued up to emerge from his mouth -- regret, frustration, fear. None of them would issue, leaving him gagging impotently at the knowledge of impending death.

As darkness encroached, a crash sounded from the door and the secretary, nose and mouth stained red, was propelled off balance into the room. She slammed against the wall next to the window and flopped to the floor, a stuffing-less child's toy. Derwin Crescent strode into view, pushing a rolled scroll into his belt. He moved over to the woman, sniffed, and stamped with great deliberation on the centre of her back as she lay, helpless, on her stomach. Her mouth and eyes opened wide as the sharp crack sounded and her body spasmed inarticulately. She gyrated for a few moments, and then was still. The violence of the act tore through the veil of vagueness covering Don's consciousness. A sense of clarity pervaded him as he focused on the enemy. Though weak, he found himself able to move, and grasped feebly at the axe handle, sticking towards him at a half right angle. The movement caught Crescent's attention, and his eyes widened.

"Lenny!" The thin man's eyes burned as he took in the grotesque scene. Don grasped the axe hilt, wrenched it from the body and flung it at the enemy all in one desperate motion. The heavy weapon barely left his fingers before it clanked to the floor, nowhere near its intended target.

Derwin Crescent's nostrils flared and the spark of insanity danced in his eyes. There was no talking or boasting, no cry of triumph. Instead, he simply raised his crossbow, expression grim.