Prelude: The Massacre at Cairn Bathe


They hadn't stood a chance. Not a sliver. Not when their assailants attacked under cover of night. Not when their assailants had slain the watchmen before they could sound the reveille. Not when half the village was ablaze by the time the garrison had woken. The townsfolk could only plead in tears of blood and sweat to the Saint to make it right, that this was not how it was supposed to be.

At the barracks, the common soldiers gathered, flanked by the eight sworn knights of Caelin sent by Lundgren to reinforce their position. For a place proudly called by the new Marquess Caelin a "fortress," in truth they were little more than a glorified stone circle fencing in a town on a hill. Were Cairn Bathe not situated near the banks of two rivers, it would've brought little more attention than any other little pastoral settlement.

The skies burned as they had never had since the Scouring. The first of the militiamen had already begun their defence. The clamor of war echoed steel and stone. As the lone trumpeter present sounded his horn with as much fury as he could muster, the leader of the Caelin knights' detachment briefed both his men and their allies the militia.

"This is why we were sent," he said, hand at his sword, sword on his hip. Even inside the barracks, the radiating heat was strong enough to bring thick beads of sweat to his cheeks. "Sent to defend this place, in the name of Caelin, against those who would stamp on our freedoms. And now they come. We've little time, lads! Shall we fight?!"

"AYE!" cried the other seven in unison. Their captain, Sir Valance, was young, but in his eyes burned the ire of a veteran.

"Shall we win?!"

"AYE!"

"Then fight, damn you! Don't look behind you! Swords up! Shields up! For what we believe!"

"AYE!"

One by one, they drew their swords from their scabbards and charged forward, the captain first. The conflagration raging around them glinted off the silver edge of his sword. Smoke settled thick and black and choking over the battlefield. The fog of war; Lycia had not seen anything of this scale for centuries.

Captain Valance stumbled forward and almost tripped on a corpse. He looked down. Neck sliced open. Arm bent backwards at the elbow. Skull crushed in, blood and hair. One arm had been extended, as though reaching out to something or someone in the distance.

Around him, Valance could hear the screams of men choking and wailing in agony, but he turned side to side and saw no one, blanketed by the smoke and ash. Beside himself, he knelt down by the corpse and took the dead man's arm by the wrist. His hand had been mutilated; ring finger severed, like by a cleaver or a hatchet. His palms were painted brown.

"Who...would do..."

Valance let the hand fall limp and sprang to his feet. The sound of iron boots struck the earth before him.

"Who?"

From the center of the smoke emerged a man clad all in red. Every piece of his armor had been painted the color of fresh blood; his helm, obscuring his face and his eyes; the breastplate clanging as he strode; his boots. Red, all red. What red remained in Valance's face left him. All he heard was the labored, smoky breaths of the knight all in red, and his footfalls as he approached. He was about to lift his greatsword and separate Sir Valance's head from his shoulders before the captain's senses finally took hold.

"No!"

At the last moment, Valance deflected the crimson knight's slash with the flat of his sword, and took a step back. Thoughts trampled his mind in fragments.

Footing...stay strong...never yield!

The crimson knight took his swings, sweeping his blade across his body, bringing it down like a bludgeon, across and through, trying with bullish fervor to land a blow, but every attempt Valance either turned aside with a glance of his sword, or merely slid away. He'd fought in armor like the crimson's before—every agonizing second spent evading the knight's silvered sword, the more the weight of his armor and the choking soot would wear on him.

Forward...aside...patience...endure...by God...endure...

Lord Lundgren had taught him enough. Now the marquess of Caelin and his sworn sovereign, once his instructor in close combat, Lundgren had taught Valance to read his opponent and learn from them within instants. Weakness. The one thing all human beings share. Every combatant had a vulnerability, and every battle was a race to exploit the proverbial clink in the armor. There was no one who could stand alone and not show a vulnerability, especially once fatigue sets in. He'd taken those lessons years ago, with other young squires whom he hadn't seen for years yet, and still he could hear Lord Lundgren's harsh voice as though he were there. When the knight in red showed his weakness, Valance would find it, and strike.

The two fighters encircled one another, moving slowly and meticulously, not sparing any glances beside them. Valance moved his sword subtly, shifting his stance in increments, scrying in steel to see through the crimson knight's defenses. For his part, the knight seemed content to bide his time, greatsword so low to the ground it almost scraped the stones buried beneath the dirt.

Lord Lundgren had warned them of this, Valance thought. For some reason, in that moment, he found it funny. Lord Lundgren had told them of the devil armored all in red, the knight come from parts unknown to champion the rebel's cause. He'd almost laughed; it was something out of a storybook, yet somehow here they stood. He almost laughed. But he smiled.

It might have been that flickering smile that set the crimson knight off. He darted forward, bringing his blade sweeping horizontally. An inch further and the damningly sharp silver edge would have cut Valance's chin.

It swung harmlessly by. Instantly, Valance lunged ahead, thrusting his sword at the plating between the crimson knight's armpits. Two quick thrusts and his blade pierced the armor. The knight grunted in pain, and his counterattack was too slow to catch Valance. They began to circle again, but now the crimson knight favored his right arm and his grip loosened slightly on his sword.

I will not fear!

Valance watched carefully, continuing to look for a gap in his plate to thrust his blade through. His chance came sooner than he had expected. The crimson knight lunged forward, bringing his sword crashing down. Valance dodged again, and when the knight made to draw his sword up again, Valance took his chance, striking the ribs of his armor like a gong, once, twice, thrice, and on the third strike the knight's knees buckled. Off-balance, his next blow was easily parried, and Valance sent his sword crashing down on his skull, silver-steel colliding with red iron. The crimson knight yelped and staggered, hands grasping on to either side of his rattling helm, shaking.

Valance hesitated only for a moment. Afraid. His enemy was afraid. The knight's blood-red helmet and plates of armor could not conceal it. Beneath the mask was a human being. And he was afraid. For only a second the thought of his foe's humanity paralyzed Valance. Now...kill him NOW! Do it, kill him, kill him!

It was going to be over. One straight thrust through the grille of the crimson knight's helm and drive the point through his skull. He raised his sword. He could have sworn he'd thrust his blade through the iron bars and made an end of it. But something went wrong. Pain. Surging, searing pain coursed through the back of Valance's head. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, the sharpest, most numbing, crippling pain he'd ever felt in his life. And a crack. A sickening crack.

Kill—no...what's, why am I, why, what—

He fell to his hands and knees. The world spun and swayed maddeningly, like a ship at sea, every breath lurching his mind more and more to either side. He shook violently and vomited on the firm earth under him.

Why—what happ—no, make it stop! Pain, God...please! Why—

Someone was talking behind him, a man. Talking, and laughing.

"Shame. Can't e'en fight a knightling alone, inn't? No time f'r fear, here, lad. Get up."

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. Valance still didn't know what had hit him. Someone—something—from behind. Blood flowed down his back, into his hair, and fell in thick droplets on the ground. A hot, dry sweat came over him, bile still dripping from the corners of his mouth. It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

"Finish it. Put 'im out of his suffering."

Valance looked up and saw three blurred images of the knight in crimson before him. He wanted to scream, or beg, or plead, or trade anything for one more day, one more hour, one more second of life. Still, his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His arms wouldn't cooperate. Even his eyes betrayed him, rolling back to the darkness behind his head, blinding him to the end of his own life. A blade came down on his neck and cut cleanly.