Draven hitched the buckler higher on his arm as the bandit train crawled forward at a leisurely pace.  It had been days since their last haul, and he wondered if any of the men would see more than a pittance of the silks and huge chests of coins.  Much of what they stole seemed to end up in the pockets of the sly Seguris.  He was the leader of this motley crew, who ruled over the band with an iron fist encased in an enchanted gauntlet that made him impossible to kill.  
      He spat, swearing at the heat of the miserable desert kingdoms, but gods were there riches here.  The thief slapped at a buzzing fly, snorting as he drew himself up in the saddle.  Drenched in sweat, he wondered if even a single breeze ever disturbed this god-forsaken land.  Some days, being a bandit didn't seem worth it, although the Title conveyed more respect than cutpurse did.  Still, These bandits were a desperate lot.  Most of them were murderers and cutthroats without a single moral among them.  
      Eventually, they came into a canyon, which lead through a narrow defile.  Though he was used to the cramped quarters of the larger cities, he couldn't escape the feeling that the walls were steadily closing in upon them.  The canyon fell away to a series of rolling dunes that in turn fell into a more temperate zone of intermittent grasslands broken by sparse thickets of trees.
      According to their chief they rode for a monastery cleverly hidden where a number of priceless relics resided.  Soon they came to the place the chieftain described.  It was a squat building three or four stories tall with men in drab robes milling about.  Surrounding the grounds of the monastery was a low stone barricade barely the height of a man's waist.  Draven breathed a sigh of relief as Seguris reined up and called for the bandits to dismount.  
      The young thief stretched his legs as he ran his hands through a rakish shock of deep brown hair that flowed half way down his back.  Dark eyes flecked with gold stared at the monastery, wondering what fool would hide anything of value in such a building.  Three men could probably storm the structure, gutting every man inside in an hour or more.  Many espoused similar sentiments, but Seguris reminded them that the best place to hide riches was in the least likely place.  Draven had to agree.
      As Seguris and his lieutenants strode forward, a
rotund man in a hassock greeted them, his face open and
cherubic.  The bandit-chieftain favored him with a smile
while the monk apologized that none other than his order
could pass the gate.  Seguris never even blinked as his
blood colored gauntlet struck out, slashing the man's
jugular.  Draven felt his stomach heave as the men around
him laughed.
      The following hours were unpleasant indeed for the
monks in their cloisters.  Bandits streamed through the
monastery slaughtering men wherever they stood.  They
herded the survivors into a small room deep in the
basement.  Draven wandered the deserted halls listening to
the unruly caterwauls of his comrades.  He refused to
participate in the bloodbath.  The tall lean thief wasn't
in favor of killing when there was no profit in it.  They
could loot the halls as easy with fifty monks as fifteen
locked in the cellars.  In either case, a revolt of arms
was unlikely.  Some called him cowardly, but never to his
face.
      Despite his size, he was quick as a cat and strong as
an ox.  If he was a bit odd, they thought little of it; he
had other uses and did not stay their hands.  Draven knew
better.  Though he wouldn't kill in such a manner, he also
refused to risk his neck for someone he didn't know from
the creator.  He wondered if that made him any better than
his brethren.  Not that it mattered; life was too short
without speeding its end prematurely.
      Seguris called all the men together to display the
hoard of artifacts found in the sub cellars.  Even Draven
had to gasp at the immense pile of gold, silver, swords,
shields, plates and items of all description.  Sourly he
thought that it would make the chieftain and his
lieutenants tremendously wealthy.  He didn't entertain any
illusions that the other men would gain much from the haul,
least of all him, newest to the war-band.  Sickened, he
spat on the floor as men roared their approval.  
      "Seguris!  Seguris!"  They chanted.  Disgusted by
their blind, stupid loyalty, he construed a plot to
appropriate a few of those items for himself.  He'd
languish in the pits of hell before he'd let Seguris keep
all that loot.  Smiling, the longhaired rogue took up the
chant of Seguris.
      Later, he lounged on a simple cot.  A single candle
guttered on a table of plain pine.  The men had each taken
rooms for themselves formerly belonging to the monks.  They
were austere, but more than comfortable after so much time
in the saddle.
      As he cleaned his nails with a thin-bladed dagger, his
mind dancing with dreams of gold.  All his life he coveted
the possessions that others took for granted.  Finally, he
was within a hand's breadth of something other than a cheap
tin-cup and a dagger filched from a dead man's hand.
      Rising, he bound his hair in a tight braid.  The
notched long sword he'd stolen from a camp guard he left
propped in the corner.  This was work for stealth, not for
swordplay.  He armed himself with dozens of short bladed
throwing darts, as deadly as an arrow in the right hands.  
Finally, he strapped a worn leather pouch of thieves' tools
to his belt, probably the only item he'd ever earned rather
than stolen.
      Moments later, he was creeping along the dimly lit
corridors.  He let his mind go as he moved past endless
walls of bare gray stone, becoming one with the creeping
shadows.  As he drifted, light as a feather, a man who was
well already into his cups stumbled by him.  Draven smelled
the short, round lush long before he actually saw him.  The
taller man pressed himself to the wall, the bare stone
sending chills along his spine.  
      Finally, he arrived at the narrow cell where Seguris
had the loot stashed behind a large iron bound door.  
Outside were two wary sentries with orders to defend the
door with their lives and if Draven knew his leader,
neither of the sentries would have a key to the room.  
Seguris trusted no one, and with good reason.
      Draven peered from shadows to observe the sentinels.  
The older thieves were veterans and accomplished swordsmen.  
There would be no duping these two, they'd either skewer
him or throw up a warning any man could hear.  Cursing, he
drew a pair of slender, iron spikes.  He thrust himself
from his hiding place to face the guards.  Barely a second
lapsed before his arms snapped out with deadly precision.  
The men shuddered, gurgling blood as their hands clutched
at their throats.  Twitching like rag dolls, they went to
the floor, dying without a sound.  
      Draven listened carefully; ready for the clamor of
boots on stone, but the only sound was his own breathing.  
A smile crept across his lips at how easily he had
dispatched the guards.  Compared to Draven, these men were
but rank amateurs, bullies and cut throats.  Casting a
sidelong glimpse down the deserted corridor, he fished
several picks from his thief's pouch and bent before the
lock on the door.  It was a fine one, and sound despite
years of neglect, but after a few moments it gave up its
secrets to him.
      The door screamed on its hinges sending Draven into a
cold sweat.  He crouched there not moving, but no alarm
rang out and he got to his feet shaking like a leaf in a
cool autumn wind.  Retrieving a torch from the outside wall
and he mounted it in a wall sconce.  Draven felt the breath
leave him as he regarded that stack of gold and jewels, his
for the taking, or at least as much of it as he could carry
and still make his escape.
      The guttering light of the torch cast the gold and
silver in stark relief to the bare walls.  A broad smile
spread across his face almost at a loss for what to take
and what to leave.  He picked up several coins and dropped
them to string a garish necklace of silver runes about his
neck.  The silver brought a luxurious cool to his skin as
his dark eyes lit upon a lustrous silver armlet, perched on
the pile, like a king amidst a pile of barons.  He licked
his lips.  Nearly as long as Draven's forearm, it was
flanged at the top to lock without showing the slightest
seam along its face.  Lavish scrollwork elaborately
depicted three fat hearts linked with fetters and pierced
by a blade.  Surely, this had belonged to a great king.  It
alone would command a fine price.  Nearly salivating, he
picked it up, running his scarred fingers over the metal as
fine and unmarred as when it was first cast from the forge.  
Breath caught in the young thief's throat and he couldn't
resist the urge to lock the guard around his wrist.  
      Exultation lit his thin lips as he heard the snap-
click of the armlet as he fastened it.  At first, it seemed
too small, but almost by magic, the flange stretched to
accommodate his wrist.  Draven's smile soon faded as he
felt a curious warmth where the metal touched his skin.  
His breath came in quick gasps and wonderment turned to
fear.  The bracelet must be enchanted and every thief in
the world knew the keep their distance from magical items
no matter their luster.
      He fumbled at the catches trying to get it off before
whatever spell took effect but to no avail.  There were no
long any catches or stays on the underside of the armlet.  
When he looked, all he saw was a single seamless piece of
metal.  Fire raced up his limb, and he sank to his knees,
cradling his head.  He stuffed his fist into his mouth to
overcome the desire to scream.  Draven rocked back and
forth on the cool stone as fire flowed over his body.  
Bright silver metal flowed over his hand until it formed an
unbroken gauntlet.  Just above his wrist, sprang a gleaming
blade thirty inches in length.  The lanky thief shook,
perspiring and he wondered if he was dying.
      After an eternity, the pain abated, the blade emitting
amber light that enveloped his entire body, lighting the
room like a ten score candles.  He felt weightless.  He
clutched at the stone with his free hand.  His body relaxed
a little as his fingers found granite rather than empty
air.  A desire struck him to race to the sub cellars, free
the monks from their bondage, and then slay his fellow
bandits.  Draven clapped a hand to his mouth in stark
terror.  He wondered if madness were overtaking him.  
Again, an almost savage need to avenge the men and women
wronged by the cutthroats seized him.  He tried to pull the
horrible thing from his arm but there was no separating his
flesh from the glittering silvery metal.
      "Heart Master lives!"
      There was no sound in the chamber other than Draven's
sobbing, but the words reverberated in his mind like
thunder.  The rogue fought his senses, struggling to a
sitting position while he continued to pull and jerk at the
ensorcelled glove.  He wanted to scream but the need for
silence stayed him.  He could only imagine how long Seguris
would torture him if he found him here in such a state.
      "Courage Draven!  You must not let the fear of such
men swerve you from the course of justice!"  The voice came
again in his mind as he gasped, his eyes darting wildly.  
He launched himself to his feet and ran headlong from the
room.  As he ran, the voice in his mind droned on.
      "No knight of valor ever cowered like this, Draven!  
Are you a man or mouse?  You are!  I see now, you are no
warrior, but a cowering thief!  Gods and demons!  I have
bound myself to a low cutpurse!"
      "Of course I'm not a knight!"  He muttered to himself,
his voice barely a whisper.  "And I am not going insane!"  
The last sentence he chanted as if it were a mantra.
      "No, you are not insane, touched by the gods or
possessed by demons.  I am Heart Master, an enchanted sword
of valor.  Centuries ago, I was a knight.  When I died, my
spirit was bound to this blade so that I might serve in
death as in life.  Usually, I am bound to a knight, or
other valorous adventurer.  I sensed those qualities in
you."
      "I doubt that."  Draven interjected, as he ran into
the depths of the monastery.
      "I do not lie, thief!  I believe that is your
specialty."  
      Draven lashed out at the wall hoping to break the
infernal sword.  Chunks of stone flew but neither glove nor
blade was marred in the least.  In his mind, he thought he
could hear the sword laughing.  He snarled as he felt the
desire to free the monks and avenge their fallen brethren.  
He fought the feelings down, though it took nearly his
entire will.
      "Do not be absurd thief!  I am impossible to destroy
by any mundane means.  The oversight is mine but it is one
that we both must live with."
      "Why?"  Draven snarled through clenched teeth.  
      "Silly man, the only way we can part is when you die
or your arm is severed.  Until then the binding is
permanent.  I do not relish being stuck with you any more
than you wish to be "cursed" with a blade of valor, but
know you, any knight would consider me a blessing."
      Draven pitched to the floor, his heart heaving in his
chest.  The intelligence in the sword battered at him as he
crossed his arms over his breast.  He wondered if any god
would spare him from his fate if he asked, but Draven was
not good with prayer.  He writhed in the heavy dust,
drawing dank air into his lungs.  
      "Kill the evil ones, and all will be made right."  The
voice came to him again and he shuddered, on the verge of
weeping.  He denied the blade, rocking back and forth to
fight the compulsion to rise and seek vengeance.  He didn't
even notice the dust that coated him from head to toe or
the cobwebs clinging in his hair.  
      Torchlight appeared at one end of the passage.  
Draven's blood froze in his veins, whoever it was would
know him for a traitor with this blasted blade on his hand.  
Ever so slowly, the ring of light bobbed forward, cold
sweat flowing in a river down the thief's back.  He willed
himself to get up and run but he was rooted in place.
      "Hail!  Who goes there?  I know thee for your light.  
Speak or I'll put a bolt through thee," called a deep
baritone that Draven recognized as a fat old man who had
been a brigand longer than Draven had been alive.  As
Draven recalled, the man had a history of raping young
boys.  The blade somehow ripped him to his feet, glowing
like a tiny sun.  His feet moved toward the torchlight
against his volition, or perhaps by the sword's.  A low
grunt from him broke the silence, and he heard the cock of
the old man's crossbow.
      "Come no closer.  Wait!  You're that new lad, and with
a purloined blade in your fist.  Drop it now, or I'll drop
you."
      Draven tried to frame a sly retort but all that came
from his mouth was a strangled grunt.  The brigand's bulk
swayed in the cramped corridor, his finger itching at the
trigger.  Draven's own body lurched even as he tried to
marshal his will power.  The ensorcelled blade rose until
the point was nearly even with the bigger man's chest.
      Draven's heart leapt into his throat as the brigand's
pudgy finger squeezed the crossbow's trigger.  A silly
smile lit the big man's face as the bolt raced toward the
thief.  The strange blade leapt like a flash of lightning
to cleave the missile down the middle.  All color drained
from the surly thief's face as he looked at the two
sundered pieces of the once deadly shaft.  The other thief
dropped the crossbow and fishing a curved dagger from the
broad blue sash below his enormous belly.  Draven's terror-
stricken eyes looked on as Heart-Master parried the strokes
of the more experienced fighter like those of a child.  
Then, faster than his eyes could follow, the gleaming blade
eviscerated the heavier man, as if he were a hog.
      Sinking to his knees, the cutpurse emptied his stomach
on the dusty floor, until he felt as if his guts would come
up his throat.  At his right hand, the sword fluttered as
if it would fly down the hall dragging him along with it.  
He cursed the sword, begging the gods to free him.  His arm
jerked, once, twice, and he was on his feet once more, the
blade thrust out like the arm of a compass.  Before he knew
it, he was running to catch up with the out-of-control
sword.  
      There was little question as to their destination.  It
was the cell where monks were under guard.  Draven also
knew what the arcane weapon had in mind.  Moments ago, the
thought was as alien as falling on his knife but perhaps it
wouldn't hurt to save a few old men from Seguris.  The
brown-haired thief also wondered at the feeling of blissful
satisfaction that came from seeing that old child molester
with his guts laid open.  
      A recessed door of stout oak came into view, framed by
guttering torchlight.  Amazingly, there were no jailors in
sight.  As he approached, the rogue never even noticed that
the sword no longer directed his body.  A smirk lit his
face, as his arm rose and smote the lock that sealed the
massive door.  In the back of his mind dwelled the desire
that the enchanted blade would break too, but as luck had
it, the lock fell away in a shower of broken metal while
the sword was unscathed.  Swinging the door inward, he
sensed smugness from the blade that was nearly gut
wrenching.
      Nine monks rose from crude benches to stare in
undisguised fright at the tall man standing over them with
a blood stained blade.  They cowered into the corners
except for one grizzled old piece of leather.  He only
looked him up and down without bothering to rise.  His
expression was neutral as he appraised first Draven and
then the sword and then back to Draven again.  The lanky
thief was affronted that the old man didn't fear him as
well.
      "It seems we are saved by a sword of renown if not by
its bearer," he said, his gnarled old hands resting on legs
that were like gnarled tree branches.  As the brown haired
thief looked on, the man took his measure and found him
wanting.
      Squaring his shoulders, he drove the tip of the blade
a full inch into the stone at his feet, flinching at the
shock that shot up his arms and down his back.  The other
monks went as pale as bleached bone, but the old man didn't
twitch.  "Mark it, I guide my arm and no other.  No Other!  
Do you hear?  No other!  Freedom and vengeance come to you.  
Make nothing else of it," he shouted.  
      "Hold, Heart-Master," the old man spoke, to the blade
rather than its wielder.  "The bandit leader bore the Fist
of Hell.  Ware, for as you are a power of heaven, it is
thrust from hell."  The ancient fixed him with eyes like
glass and the young thief snorted, though he felt a tremor
in the blade that made his arm shake.  With a heart like
lead, he turned and stalked out of the cell, unmindful that
they did not follow.  They had their freedom, what they did
with it wasn't his concern.
      He strode with head up, and back straight, the sword
pointing ahead of him.  Stealth was no longer a
consideration.  Tension settled between his shoulders, and
he knew life would never be the same.  With his luck, the
damned blade would always be a magnet for trouble.  
      He came upon a pair of men with unsheathed blades.  
They must have discovered his foray into the treasure room.  
Quickly, the tall thief appraised them.  One was tall, and
stringy with dark hair, Draven couldn't remember his name.  
The other was Kel a tall, rangy fighter who had been with
them but a few months.  He was as odd in the band as
Draven; he fought when necessary, but he would not kill any
man in cold blood whatever the reason.  His word had stayed
more than a few blades this evening.
      As for Draven, he didn't falter a single step as he
dove toward Kel, raining a flurry of blows at him.  
Whirling with a speed that was astonishing, he parried
double strokes from both men, then let Heart-Master dance
across the other bandit's throat.  Draven turned back to
Kel just in time to avoid a lightning thrust.  He let the
sword work its magic until Kel's blade was skittering
across the floor.  Heart-Master throbbed with blood lust.  
Barely, he stayed his hand, shaking like a leaf in a
windstorm.  Apparently, forgiveness was not high in the
days of renown.  
      "One chance, westerner, join me.  Turn from the path
of carnage.  Men as you are not cut out for it."  Draven's
voice shook almost as much as his hand.  Uncertainty shaded
the big man's features but he nodded his great mass of
blond hair regardless.
      "If it's to be my head on the stone otherwise, you
leave me little choice, but I've had my fill of warring on
the weak.  There's no honor in it."  Kel's eyes glinted,
sending a shiver along the rogue's spine.  Draven could
never figure out how this man had turned out as a brigand.  
He was straight as an arrow, and honorable in his own way.  
He should be a guard or soldier rather than running with
this rabble.
      "Aye, then let's be at it, but make no mistake,
Seguris is mine."
      Draven and Kel proceeded through the monastery,
dispatching bandits with almost careless ease.  The young
warrior had lightning reflexes and a skill with the sword
that Draven could never have dreamt of before Heart Master.  
He felt envy welling up in the sword, wishful to be on
Kel's arm instead of his own.
      Draven wished that it were as well.  The two would
make a perfect fit.  Time stretched into an eternity as the
unlikely pair worked their way upwards coming upon their
former comrades in groups of three or four at a time.  To
the tawny thief it was more like a slaughter than any real
combat.  Between Kel's skill and Heart Master's magic, the
bandits fell like wheat before a farmer's scythe.
      Kel grew more careless with each battle they won until
he was like a berserker rushing at his victims before
Draven even had a chance to lift his arm.  That suited him
just fine.  The smaller his role in the slaughter the
happier he was.  Killing men, even bandits that were his
comrades just hours ago made Draven sick at his stomach.
      Heart Master had grown quiet since the monk's cryptic
warning.  Although he didn't relish facing death by
Seguris's damned gauntlet, it was a blessing to be spared
from Heart Master's sermonizing.  Much more of that, and he
would be willing to hack his arm off.
      One thing he did sense from the blade however, was
fear.  It thrummed with it.  Whatever magic the "Fist of
Hell" possessed, it must be formidable indeed.  With any
luck, destroy the sword without actually killing him, but
he had no illusions.  Seguris would strangle him like a
chicken for stealing from him and then mutinying.  The
chance of him surviving Seguris and the sword were slight
indeed.
      At first, he'd hoped the fear would be enough to deter
the sword from following through with its mad justice, but
no such luck.  Despite impassioned entreaties from Draven,
the sword wouldn't or couldn't turn away from the bandit's
evil.  If the rogue attempted to stop or change course the
blade lit up like the sun and dragged him like a child to
destiny or death, whichever came first.  For the thousandth
time, he cursed his bitter luck.
      As they rounded the next corner, they found six
brigands waiting for them with weapons drawn.  They
advanced silently, sparing no words for warning or threat.  
Kel was at them in a heartbeat slashing like a maniac with
his heavy broad sword while Draven felt himself dragged
headlong into the melee by the mad sword.  He parried,
trying to match the strokes of three men at once.  Only the
magic of the blade could have kept up with the whirlwind of
steel that sought his life.  Heart Master writhed like a
steel serpent, striking so swiftly that Draven could scare
follow it with his eyes.  
      As they emerged victorious, Kel tried to staunch a
wound in his thigh without much luck.  Draven bore dozens
of superficial cuts across his torso, his tunic a tattered
ruin.  Heart Master's offensive skills were amazing but it
took little care to protect its wielder.  The rogue swore
that was something he'd have to work on.
      "How's the leg?  Can you walk?"  He asked his comrade,
who was breathing hard and looking pale.
      "Aye, but I'll not be relying on much footwork in the
next fight," he said with forced humor.  Beneath his
bravado, Draven could tell the big westerner fought just to
stand.
      "Take heart, there can't be more than three or four
left besides the Black Chief."
      "Mayhaps, but he's worth at least a dozen men by
himself," Kel grunted, fighting his pain as if it were a
flesh and blood adversary.
      "Little choice big man, there's but one exit from this
accursed bolt hole, leave him to me though, I've a lot of
bootlicking to recompense with that wolf-faced dog."  
Draven patted his ally's shoulder and recoiled at how
clammy the westerner's skin was.
      "Cowards!  Traitors!  Sniveling Curs!"
Draven looked up just in time to see Seguris hurtling
toward them as if a boulder shot from a catapult.  Each
step he took sent cracks rippling through the old stone
floor.  Draven barely had time to bring up his sword arm in
an awkward parry when he crashed into them like an
avalanche.  The bandit knocked Draven and Kel to the ground
like children.  The rogue groaned feeling like a mountain
had just fallen on them.  They gained their feet on
trembling legs, Kel looking white as a ghost.
      Together they turned to face their foe who looked like
a god come to earth.  A broad belt with a garish gold and
platinum buckle twice the size of a man's fist supported
his black leather breeches, while a richly brocaded cloak
of scarlet silk blanketed his shoulders.  Ugly scars
bisected his bare chest, giving his torso a warped almost
demonic look.  Lean wolfish features twisted into a
sardonic leer.  A silver circlet set with dozens of
gemstones of varying hues crowned a great shock of black
ringlets.  The monstrous gauntlet ran from shoulder to
finger tips covering Seguris's entire right arm.  It was
the color of blood, pronged with countless glowing spikes.  
It gave the Black Chief's right side a grotesquely
monstrous appearance.
      In his mind, it sounded like the sword was whimpering, but he was damned if he'd let Seguris intimidate him any longer.  The sword had brought him his far, so it better damned well grow a backbone and finish the job.  If he was going to hell, he wouldn't go alone.
      "I see you are still carrying inferior weapons, cutpurse, or didn't you know that I killed Heart Master's last champion," the bandit teased, roaring laughter.
      "It'll do fine to slice your ugly head off those bony shoulders, dog!"  Draven drew himself up to his full height, leveling the blade at the Black Chief.  He just hoped he looked more menacing than he felt.  Beside him, Kel was pale as death, but the way he gripped his heavy sword said he still had plenty of fight left in him.
      Just then, he heard the faint whistle of a crossbow bolt.  Moving like quicksilver, he pivoted chopping the projectile out of the air.  Back the way Seguris had come; he spied the last of the bandits racing forward, swords drawn.  Draven and Kel met their charge with dancing blades, never giving an inch.
      The bandits hacked at them furiously, but retreated before Draven and Kel could make much more than a token offense.  Kel swore, demanding they stand their ground, while Heart Master pulsed, hungry for blood.  A second too late Draven wondered if the bandits were the bait rather than the trap as a chunk of stone crashed into his back sending him to his knees.  Only cat-like reflexes let him roll backward to avoid the sweeping stroke from a bandit's scimitar.  
      He turned to face Seguris, eyes glowing like molten coals.  Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw Kel parrying frantically, against the writhing swords of the bandits.  Draven mouthed an apology before turning back to face the real threat.  Seguris's smoldering gaze transfixed him, his courage wilting under its scrutiny.
      "Damn you, sword, where's all your bluster of honor and courage now?"
      "What good is the power of a champion?  That glove holds the power of a dozen archdukes of hell.  I can't give you power like that and what's more my power comes from courage.  What power is there to draw from a milksop like you?  What honor is there from someone who stands aside while others are slaughtered?  You give me nothing to work with, coward!"
      "Why you revolting chunk of third rate steel, I may be a thief, but I am NO coward!  If I could get your champion arse out of that bracelet, I'd teach you to be afraid!"  Draven smashed the sword into the wall.  Passion rose from some nameless place inside him, bringing his blood to a boil.  All the while Seguris regarded him as nonchalant and impersonal as a hangman.  Worst of all was the biting truth of Heart Master's words.  How many times had he turned his back on a cry for help to collect a few coins?  Fury cast a red veil over his eyes at his own self-loathing and Seguris became the focal point for every evil deed that he'd allowed to pass unredeemed.
      Heart Master answered his desire for redemption by glowing with the unquenchable light of justice.  Blade and gauntlet turned liquid flowing over his skin encasing his torso in gleaming armor.  Spiked crosspieces sprang from either side of the blade.  Light radiated from his chest resolving into three skewered hearts over his breastbone.  Seguris ripped a three-foot section of the wall away and cast it at Draven, exulting in his god-like power.  The rogue leapt right into the path of the stone, blocking with the golden blade.  Granite exploded into powder, raining gray dust over the Black Chief in his kingly cloak.  Seguris bellowed, racing at the upstart.  The power of the glove transformed him, stretching muscle, bone and sinew until he was a disproportionate juggernaut twice the height and three times the width of a man.
      Draven crouched, steeling himself, but nothing could have prepared him for the raw thunderclap of fist and blade colliding.  The whole world seemed to quake with the anger of titans.  The young rogue felt like his arm went to mush.  Seguris struck again like the charge of an elephant and Draven's blade barely held against the raw elemental fury.  It was like trying to bat away rockslide one stone at a time.  Draven took to the offensive slashing blindly.  Mystical energy whirled around them in a maelstrom.  
      Seguris faltered under the quicksilver barrage of Heart Master and Draven pressed the attack with youthful enthusiasm.  He was a living storm of metal, ferociously seeking blood.  Too late, he realized the bandit's retreat was a ploy.  Seguris sunk low and struck upward at Draven with the Fist, driving the rogue into the stone ceiling.
      Draven crumpled back to the floor feeling like his bones were pulp in a wood press.  The older man looked smug as he aimed the toe of his boot at Draven's chin, but the young thief came up hooking it and using Seguris's own motion to topple him to the floor.  Seizing his advantage, he rolled over the Black Chief raking at him with Heart Master.  A wide gash opened up across the scarred torso.
      Seguris lashed out with the Fist but found only empty air.  Frustrated, the older man howled, his rage manifest in the reddish aura throbbing around him like a heartbeat.  The youthful rogue danced playfully out of his reach.  Seguris launched a pillar of fire at his young adversary but Heart Master whirled creating a shield that protected him from the licking flames. The old bandit rampaged after him.  
      Draven dodged for his life, evading Seguris while he tried to think of some way to kill his old employer.  Their struggle was as desperate as it was absurd.  Draven danced like a wisp on the wind slashing and thrusting but the magic of the Fist of Hell kept even mortal blows from killing Seguris.  The Black Chief charged after his betrayer, like a maddened bull but Draven's lithe agility kept him just out of reach.  As time wore on though, Draven felt exhaustion taking its toll on him while Seguris only seemed to get stronger as the seconds ticked by.
      Seguris dogged after the agile thief like a juggernaut crashing through walls as if they were tissue.  Fueled by the demonic Fist of Hell, his body swelled to even greater dimensions.  His torso bulged grotesquely out of all proportion to his lower extremities.  Stones tumbled, shattering all around them in the Black Chief's fury.
      Draven dodged a chunk of rock and darted in to slash at Seguris's throat.  The old bandit ducked his head, and the vicious slash skittered away slicing off one of the glowing spikes from the massive gauntlet.  Seguris froze for a moment, and then shook with a sudden seizure.  White light enveloping him, he shuddered and sank down.  The younger man eyed him, suspecting another ruse, but Seguris reeled as if Draven had struck him a mortal blow.
      "Thief!  Don't be a dullard.  That must be the key!"
      "Key?"  Draven asked, between breaths unsure whether to press his attack or retreat again.
      "The key to defeating the Fist you fool.  It bestows invulnerability on its wearer but the spines must house the demons.  Rend them and the gauntlet's power will be broken."
      "I hope you're right, sword.  If it has any more tricks, I'm done for."
      "Faith young one, you've still many battles ahead of you, if you've the heart for it.  For now, just strike off those glowing spines."
      Seguris was back on his feet and crouched for another charge.  He rushed forward like earthquake of pure hatred.  The rogue slipped a smile and a wink, waited until the last possible moment and leapt over the charging titan.  He lashed out with the blade as he somersaulted overhead, striking off three more spines.
      Seguris roared, striking blindly, but Draven was already safely away.  The Fist crashed on bare stone, splintering it into thousands of fragments.  The cutpurse raced back at Seguris.  Heart Master was a steel serpent at
the end of his arm, licking out to cut away pieces of the Fist.  
      Then the rogue grew overconfident.  As he thrust at the larger man, Seguris lashed at the ground under Draven's feet and a shockwave rippled through the stone floor sending the wiry cutpurse reeling off his feet.
      In the space of a heartbeat Seguris was on him, raining blows down on him and it was all Draven could do to ward off the onslaught.  He was sure the battle was lost, as his arms grew weaker and weaker under the pummeling.
      To the surprise of both men, the point of a broad blade blossomed from the center of Seguris's chest.  Looking down at it as if offended, he whirled, turning his back on Draven to face Kel who mocked his former commander.  The westerner was pale from blood loss, his upper body covered in gore and naked to the waste.  His right leg was one long streak of red from thigh to ankle.  Brave to the end, he spat in the bandit's face.
      Seguris cocked the Fist like the arm of a ballista but before he could strike Draven was back on his feet, Heart Master whirling.  The ensorcelled blade clanged down on the gauntlet unerringly and bits of metal flew off in every direction.  One final blow crashed down on the Fist severing it into two halves, which fell off Seguris's arm with a clatter.  No longer protected by the enchantment of the Fist, Seguris sank to his knees dying from Kel's fatal sword thrust.  His mouth formed a circle of surprise before he toppled over and died.
      Draven looked down at his own arm to see blade and armor dissolving into the simple silver bracelet that had started this whole mess.  He could feel Heart Master exultant in its victory, but he was only sick at the blood and gore.  Even now, he could feel the spirit keening to avenge innocents wronged in some other place.  Kel staggered over and wrapped an arm about him.  He couldn't tell if it was out of friendship or an inability to stand on his own.
       "Will you live?"  Draven asked him.
       "Aye, I've survived worse," the westerner chuckled.  
"But, we've done a good thing here Draven, it was past time that Seguris was put down like the dog he was.  I hope this won't be the end of your good deeds though.  As for myself, I am done with banditry.  My heart calls for something a nobler.  What of you?  Will you return to murder and thievery?"
      "Nay, I have a feeling this is only the beginning of my good deeds."  At the end of his arm, Heart Master pulsed in assent.