Rhychard Bartlett fell against the coarse stucco of the church column, the rough texture ripping into his back through his shirt as he oozed to the ground. Smoke floated through the morning air, carrying with it the scent of sulfur leftover from the burst of demonic power Vargas used against him, red flames of energy that exploded from the demon's fingers. Rhychard suddenly wished he had kept his duster on as the pain screamed in his mind and explosions of white dots burst behind his eyes like fireworks. He barely managed to maintain his grip on the Guardian Sword with the attack. The blade pulsed a violent blue as heat emanated from the bronze weapon. He could feel the power from the sword, but faintly, the voices of past Warriors a low murmur in his head, instead of their consistent howl. His arm hung limp at his side, blood trickling down as his chest suffered from three long claw marks that left his flesh layered open, revealing torn muscle and tissue beneath. His chest heaved with the deep pant of exertion. With gritted teeth against the pain, he attempted to control his erratic breathing. And his anger. This should not be happening.

“What's the matter, Warrior? Did my little scratch hurt?" the demon cackled, his voice like breaking glass. “Not as safe as you thought you were, eh?" The demon laughed some more, pleased with his ambush.

Rhychard glared at the creature, the demon's arms waving in every direction as his eight-foot frame continued to prance around the parking lot. Vargas attempted to look human, a weakness of his, which Rhychard never understood. The demon wore a black shirt, which covered his long arms and slender chest, and black pants that seemed like something from a fantasy novel. Vargas couldn't stuff his talons into his shoes any more than a bird could, and the curved nails of his claws scraped across the asphalt parking lot. His bluish-gray hair flowed about his head as he twirled, like sheers in a summer breeze. The demon's skin was a dusty gray, and his blood-red eyes almost sparkled with the glee he displayed as his long, clawed fingers twirled circles in the morning air. A happy demon. Oh, joy.

The Warrior of the Way held his sliced-up arm against his chest, willing the blood flow to slow down. The pain was not as intense, however, as the knowledge of where the demon attacked him. Vargas was in a church parking lot. How could that be? The church was Rhychard's sanctuary, his safe place. Those who supposedly knew better told him that sacred ground was anathema to creatures of the Void. More lies. More contradictions.

“Surprised to see me, Rhychard? I knew you would be." Vargas stood on the white-marked asphalt, hands on his hips. “Imagine that, lied to by the supposed good guys. Ah, well, as long as their motives were good, right?"

Rhychard wanted to scream, not just because of the pain, but because he felt like the Seelie had lied to him. This was not his war. The faerie world drafted Rhychard against his will, and he protested it with a simmering hatred. He wanted to kill Vargas. Hell, he wanted to kill the whole lot of them, good and evil, Seelie as well as Unseelie, for screwing up his life.

He heard a little pop along with a jingle of bells, and then Tryna's tiny hands were on his arm examining the wound. He felt a warmth flow through him that eased his pain but knew that was all she could do. Kree would have to do the rest. Still, it was enough for the moment. Rhychard relaxed a little as he felt the pain subside to a dull ache. “My little angel," he said with a deep breath. He tried to straighten himself against the column but didn't have the strength.

“I am not an angel. I wish you would cease calling me that," she said in her childlike voice. Her burgundy dress flowed about her as if a breeze pulled at the fabric, but the early morning air was still. “And if you make another crack about my size, I will tell Kree not to come."

Rhychard knew she meant it, too, and with the gashes across the right side of his body, he was in desperate need of Kree's help at the moment. Of course, Tryna was only half right. True, she was not an angel, but rather an ellyll of the Land Under, the realm of faeries. The part she was wrong about, however, was her size. Tryna stood two-and-a-half feet tall, the top of her head not even reaching Rhychard's waist, who himself was five inches past six feet. The fact she had the same proportions as a thin three-year-old, but the agility and skill of a seasoned veteran, was hard for Rhychard to come to terms with at first. She was also gifted with the magic of the faerie world, the ability to ease pain being part of it, for which at the moment he was quite glad. Tryna was an excellent nurse, even if her bedside manner left something to be desired. Still, Rhychard knew he never made a good patient.

“Did you need help, Warrior?" Vargas taunted. “The ellyll is such a tiny thing to help such a big, tough Warrior of the Way. I bet that mangy mutt will be along any minute now as well." The demon searched the vicinity, his gray neck turning this way and that as he scanned his surroundings.

As if summoned by the insult, Kree padded into view from behind the demon. The massive coshey, an elven hound of the Land Under, kept his onyx eyes on Vargas as he jogged to a spot between Rhychard and the demon. Then the elven hound just sat on his back haunches, waiting. Cosheys chose a Warrior to serve, becoming their conscience as well as their healer and constant companion. Kree chose Rhychard, and at first, he wasn't sure what to do with the massive magical mutt. His neighbors weren't sure, either. The furry elven canine had the body of a wolf, yet the size and mobility of a large lion. His back topped at just over four and a half feet off the ground with his head coming to just below Rhychard's shoulders. His paws were about the size of a bear's, and his furry coat glistened silver. When people questioned Rhychard about him, the Warrior just said Kree was a Newfoundland breed, raised to hunt bears. Most still steered clear, and the coshey came in handy when solicitors knocked on the door. One glance and people just backed away, leaving Rhychard alone, deciding that whatever they were pitching was suddenly not so important.

“And so he appears," Vargas said as he gave a mocking bow.

:You trespass, Vargas. You do not belong here.: The others heard Kree's mindspeech, the communication of the cosheys. He could speak to several people at once or to just one person of his choosing, faerie or human. He could also communicate from great distances to those with which he had a strong connection. When he had first spoken to Rhychard, it had almost put the Warrior into a permanent shock. Rhychard didn't like someone in his head. His thoughts were his, and he didn't like sharing them.

Vargas placed a withered finger to his temple, pretending to be deep in thought, his body bent almost in half, with one leg stretched out in front of him, toes pointed outward. He resembled a court jester more than a demon. “And yet, I am here." He then pointed a long, clawed finger at the church. “And soon, my dear Warrior of the Way, I will be in there." The demon laughed as he vanished from sight, popping out as Tryna had popped in, the odor of sulfur in the air.

Kree sneezed. :He makes my nose itch.:

Rhychard closed his eyes and rested his head back on the column, the stucco digging into his scalp. “He makes my head ache."

Kree stood, turned in one fluid movement, and then padded over to where Tryna sat with Rhychard. :How fares the Warrior, Little One?: Kree sent to the others.

“He needs you," the ellyll answered. “Vargas came too close this time."

“Hey, how come he gets to use the word 'little'?" Rhychard complained.

“He doesn't use it as an adjective." Tryna sat back on her heels as Kree moved closer.