It was nearly noon. The morning patrols were just returning to Westlake Castle when Valentia finally awoke. She sat up abruptly, deterred from snoozing by the sunlight shining into the room and the coarseness of her bed sheet. Her appearance was noble and fair, though the effect was worn by the disorder of her chestnut hair and the ragged sleeping clothes she was dressed in. She glanced around the room: first, at the door, which was ajar; and second, at the empty bed on the other side of the room which belonged to her compeer, Gail. She realized she had slept late and assumed that he had gone to have his morning meal. She dressed in a simple, olive-green tunic went to do the same.
Her assumption was correct. She found Gail eating in the mess hall of the castle. The hall was middling in size, and at this time of day, noon, it was full of knights returning from the morning patrols of the city and others—like Gail—preparing for the afternoon patrols. The hall was quieter than one would expect.
It was easy to spot who had just returned from patrol and who had just woken up by their apparel. Those who had been out that morning were still armored, though they didn't wear their gauntlets or helms. The people who had been in bed minutes prior, who were to go on the afternoon patrols, were wearing simple clothing, and most were quieter than the others.
Valentia fetched her food and sat across from Gail at his table.
Gail was a rugged looking blond-haired man of about thirty years, though, despite his actual age or rugged appearance, looked younger than twenty. The other occupants of the table were fellow Wardens. Some were quite young, a few were old, but they were all tired and not-so-merry. Valentia knew most by name, but she sparsely knew their character—save for Gail, her closest friend.
Valentia began eating. The meager meal was comprised of a portion of dark bread, and a sort of meat soup that had a dark, brownish red color, jestingly called "rust soup" by many Ashfelders. The meal was topped off with a small cup of wine, Westlake's specialty. This sort of meal was characteristic of Knight mess halls.
"So," Gail spoke, "I'm sure you haven't heard yet."
"Hm?" she replied, unable to speak due to having a spoonful of the soup in her mouth.
"The Iron Legion's finally got what they want," He ate a morsel of bread. "the Albus Legion is being taken under its command." He sighed. "I just hope they won't pillage our ranks and disband us like they did with the lesser legions. I'd rather not wear green and yellow."
"They probably will," said Valentia, having swallowed the aforementioned spoon of soup, "especially since we don't share their beliefs. And the land we control would be invaluable to them. I can't think of why the warlord would agree to let the Iron Legion take over, though." She ate the last few spoonfuls of her soup and began eating the bread.
"Fear," he replied. "The Iron Legion is a force to be reckoned with. They'd all rather serve a new leader than die in a siege." Gail finished his meal and stood up. "Now hurry, we should have been out on patrol half an hour ago. You're not the only one who overslept." He left the hall. Valentia quickly finished her bread and swigged her wine, then went off to her room to put on her armor.
It was a standard armor, easily recognizable as the armor of a Warden of the Albus Legion, as it had the Albus Star, the symbol of the Albus Legion, painted in a bold yellow on the standards. The small bronze escutcheon strapped onto her chest held the image of a simple star. Not the Albus Star, mind you, this star was merely a small symbol awarded to her in her youth for showing great promise as a Warden. It's funny that she was now stationed here, at Westlake, despite the potential she'd shown.
Her helmet was the same as most Warden helmets: an unpainted Loran helm. It had five small breaths on either side of the visor, unlike the cruciform breaths of the Iron Legion Wardens. The only thing special about it was a mistake made by the smith: the un-ordinary tightness of the visor's pivots, which made it difficult to raise.
She put on her belt and scabbard and drew her sword to quickly examine it. It was a simple and strong sword when it was first made. The guard was firm, grip tightly wrapped with leather, pommel strongly peened. The blade had a certain luster to it that wasn't seen in the swords of her peers. Valentia took good care of her things. Over the years, she had also decorated it. The guard was covered with a variety of precious stones, all no larger than a pebble, varying in color from bright shades of red and green to black—the blacker ones being pieces of obsidian, which were much easier to find than the other stones. It even had a few crystals embedded into the base of the blade. It was an ugly thing to most people, a truth that Valentia was ignorant of. Even so, she adored it and its decorations. It was her Caliburn.
She donned her cape. It was pure white with the Albus Star painted again in a bold yellow. Wardens were instructed to wear their capes belted down at the waste, as it was sure to be a hazard in the chaos of battle, but Valentia always wore hers over her belt, allowing it to flow behind her, unconstrained. She thought it looked more regal.
Gail came into the room, having been delayed by some unknown action, and put on his armor as well. His was basic as well. It had no extra decoration, except the Albus Star on the cape and standards, just like Valentia's. His sword was normal and clean, though it had a small amount of rust at the base of the blade. His helmet was a simple open-faced barbute.
They headed to the castle gate.
Westlake Castle's main gate gave way to an excellent view of the city of Westlake. The castle was raised above the rest of the city on a small hill, so from it one could see the entirety of the city and most of the lake it sat by. The lake, also called Westlake, was quite large. It was the kind of place that couldn't be found in Valkenheim or the Myre. A beautiful lake surrounded by lively forests, only interrupted by the city and a handful of small farming villages.
The city was large only by the standards of Ashfeld. It wasn't as militaristic as Harrowgate. Nor was it anywhere near the elegance of Koto. It was a simple and lively city whose major export was wheat and wine, making it important enough to protect. The walls were built as strong as The Shard's, and the Albus Legion, the legion that ruled over the land surrounding the lake, had given it a special policing force; the Wardens of Westlake, as they were often called. It was a small order of Wardens with only a few dozen actual Wardens within its ranks. The rest were lowly Knights who had little combat training.
Visible from the hilltop castle were wheat fields, city markets, patrolling bands of Knights, and an ever-growing vineyard just outside the city walls. On either side of the castle gate stood two large Warden statues. It's interesting that, unlike most other civilizations, the Knights of Ashfeld rarely built statues to depict a specific person. They would rather honor the thousands of warriors who protected their lives and lands. This was one of the few respectable sentiments among the people of Ashfeld.
To describe these statues, they depicted unspecific Wardens, each in a noble pose, holding their swords relaxed in front of them with the points held into the ground. This may seem like an insignificant detail, but this pose was meant to convey a specific message about the Wardens: they were strong and fearless protectors; thus, they held their swords relaxed in said noble position, where they could, at any moment, quickly raise their swords to the defense of the weak. This was an idealistic view, however, and it's only natural that this wasn't the true nature of most Wardens. They are only human, after all.
Leaving the castle, Valentia and Gail set off down the hill and into the city. Walking along the streets of Westlake was different from viewing it from atop the hill. The main roads were paved with stone bricks, while the narrower allies between buildings were paved with rough dirt that became muddy when it rained. The streets were not overcrowded, yet they were quite noisy and pungent. Shouts of arguing peasants, calls from vendors advertising their meager goods, rare bursts of laughter, and many other sources all contributed to the wild racket. A constant foul odor hung over the city: its source unclear. In these aspects, the city streets were comparable to a battlefield.
While patrolling these tumultuous streets, Valentia and Gail came upon a tired woman speaking to a man outside of a run-down building. The woman looked to be in her sixties, with a desperate and saddened expression on her face. The man was well-built and looked to be about forty years old, with a long, ashy beard.
"They took near everything," the woman said miserably, "I have very little food or money left." She sunk down, falling onto the bench behind her, and sat sadly with her head in her hands.
"It's a sad thing." the bearded man said while bending down and resting his hand on her shoulder. "You can stay with me for a while. Don't worry, you won't be a burden," he smiled. The woman looked up at him.
"Thank you-"
"Excuse me," Gail interrupted, "is there a crime to report?" The woman looked up at the two Wardens, and her expression turned to fear.
"No, there isn't," the bearded man said defensively while glaring at the two Wardens.
"Clearly there's been something!" Valentia said, annoyed, "clearly this woman has been robbed!" Her voice was slightly muffled by her closed helmet, but she was still audible.
"It's no concern of yours!" the man replied harshly. "We have no want or need for your help, Wardens." He glared at the two of them.
"Sir, please," said Gail, "it's our duty to-"
"Since when do you Wardens perform your duties? Or are stealing, lying, and cheating your duties, Wardens of Westlake? Now begone." He helped the woman stand up and the two briskly walked away. Valentia gritted her teeth and squeezed the pommel of her sword in anger. "You really think all Wardens act with such abuse?" she thought, "you deserve it when you act like that, such insolence." Gail was unaware of such thoughts in Valentia. She watched the two commoners as they left, until they turned a corner and disappeared. The two Wardens went on with their patrol, and Valentia tried to forget what had happened.
Later that evening, after returning to the castle, Valentia and Gail were sparring in the courtyard to pass the time. Their practice weapons were very simple wooden swords. They were the same length as a longsword, but little effort was put to make them look like one. It had a simple metal bar acting as a guard and the pommel was just a dense stone. They were practical for training but broke easily.
To begin, they stood ten feet from each other and performed a simple salute, placing the blade of the sword onto their chest, crossing their heart, then drawing it down toward the ground. This salute was originally used as a quiet threat at the beginning of a duel, but over time became a courteous gesture done at the start of a friendly bout.
They began to fence. Both adopted the same guard position: sword on one side of the body, pommel to their hip, and the tip of the blade pointed in the direction of the opponent's head. In the Wardens' art of the longsword, this position is called Artus.
Valentia thrusted forward at Gail's chest, but he beat it away timely and retaliated with a cut. Valentia recovered quickly and parried, then riposted with a cut of her own. The attack hit Gail strongly on the shoulder. They were both wearing gambesons and the practice swords had very little force, so the blows did not hurt.
"Good!" he exclaimed, "your reactions are improving." Gail adopted a low guard: the pommel on his hip with the sword pointed down and to the side. This guard was called Dens. Valentia took the same position as before. "Although," Gail continued, "you struck harder than usual. I suppose you're still angry about what happened earlier." He launched forward with a thrust to her chest. Valentia beat his sword downward and attempted a thrust, but Gail swiftly brought his sword up, thwarting her attack. She promptly withdrew. These were swift exchanges.
"No it's not that," she lied. "I just… know you can handle a few bruises." She attempted to snipe his hand with the tip of her blade, but Gail drew his arms back quickly.
She knew that Gail always tried to please the common people. He always imitated the kindness and compassion demonstrated by legendary Wardens of the past. But, as Valentia saw it, those people didn't deserve his respect. She remembered the man from earlier and what he said. The frustration and anger she felt before came back to her.
She lunged forward with a vicious thrust. Gail responded by retreating and raising his sword in defense, then retaliated fiercely with a thrust of his own. Valentia threw her sword up, making a strong parry that completely stopped Gail's attack, then charged into him with the strong of her shoulder, wrapped her sword around the back of his neck, grabbed the blade with her left hand, and strongly forced him to the ground with a powerful motion in which the guard of her sword pushed down against his neck. Once on the ground, she brought her sword up in a halfsword grip, ready to bring down a powerful stab. That's where she stopped, of course, since she had clearly won the fight.
"Gods," Gail said in exhaustion, "I haven't seen you fight that fiercely in ages." Valentia helped him stand up. "Let's stop for today. I'm a bit too bruised to keep going," he finished. She nodded in agreement.
Valentia had just finished preparing to go to bed when she sat down at the small table in her room. Gail wasn't there; he was out doing some unknown business with the castle blacksmith.
Valentia had in her hands an old manuscript. It was bound with brown leather, and the only decoration was the Albus Star embossed on the cover. It wasn't a large book, only about three or four-hundred pages.
She pulled back the cover and viewed the first page.
The Warden Code of Loyalty, Honor, and Valor
These words were written in Latin, of course. This was the heading to a page full of tightly-written text; so close were the individual words that it was hard to tell where one word ended and another started. The outer edges of the page were decorated with a hand-drawn border of thorny vines in red ink.
This manuscript was transcribed by Valentia herself in her youth. This written code was studied heavily by every Warden-in-training, as the code was vital to a Warden's teachings and expected way of life. Equally important was a Warden's ability to read and write. After all, how could an honorable guardian have honor if they were illiterate?
To help teach these two things, the code and literacy, every Warden-in-training, long before they were honored as a Warden, wrote their own copy of the code by hand.
Valentia flipped through the pages, remembering the long, painful days she spent writing with a cramped hand. She had spent months learning to read, then to write, then to write in a scholarly hand. Those long, boring days were far behind her now. She flipped back to the first section and read some of the main articles of the code.
17. A Warden holds no grudge…
23. A Warden mustn't neglect their things…
31. A Warden does not lust nor love…
57. A Warden holds his head highly…
Valentia sighed and closed the book. Besides Gail, not a single Warden she knew followed these articles, yet they all wrote them the same. This code was said to have been made nearly a thousand years ago. So long ago, in fact, that it was before women fought as warriors. "No one could live up to this," she thought, "it's so old, it's too long, and it was first written by some idealistic lord with no prudent thought." Valentia put the manuscript away in a trunk at the end of her bed, and tiredly went to sleep.
The following day, Valentia and Gail were patrolling the city again. They were in the outer part of the city, an area that was tamer and quieter. Here, patrolling was easier, more relaxing.
But not too relaxing. As the two were trotting past a popular tavern, an unintelligible shout and a loud thud came from within, followed by muffled speech. The two Wardens immediately burst through the door to find out what was happening.
The scene was shocking. A man, who looked to be in his fifties, was on his back and groaning from pain next to a toppled chair. Valentia saw under him what she thought was a pool of blood, but she realized it was merely a spilled mug of wine. Standing tall in front of him was a Warden, fully armored but without his helmet, shouting furiously at the poor man with his right hand grasping the handle of his sheathed sword, ready to draw.
The tavern was sparsely filled, with less than a dozen patrons. It was well lit by a few strong lanterns, but, ironically, the light made the room look worse by revealing how filthy it was.
Noticing Valentia and Gail at the door, the Warden fell silent and set his stern gaze upon them.
Valentia recognized the helmet-less Warden standing in the middle of the room. He was Marcus, a Warden whom she had worked with a month prior to stop a small riot in one of the city's markets. She also frequently saw him in the castle.
Marcus' appearance could easily be called handsome, with dark, rough hair and a bold chin. It seemed like his brow was always furrowed, and he was seldom seen to smile.
"What's going on?" Gail loudly asked the room.
"This man," said Marcus while pointing to the pitiful figure on the ground, "says I'm not welcome here. He demanded I leave." He scowled. "And all I wanted was a drink." His voice was low and scornful.
"Lies!" shouted the man, who was now kneeling, rather than laying on his back. Valentia could now clearly see his aged and battered face. "This Warden, who is supposed to protect us all, came into my tavern and demanded I give him ale, without paying. Ale! I can barely afford to stock my cabinets with wine and he wants me to give him ale, free of charge!" He let out a few painful coughs. His voice was quite hoarse. "Thrice I refused to give him the ale unless he paid, and after the third time, he attacked me!"
Marcus looked down at him angrily and violently kicked him in the back. The owner cried out in pain and fell forward, whimpering like a beaten dog. He chose not to rise again. Everyone in the tavern gasped in surprise. A mug of wine flew threw the air and struck Marcus in the head, speckling his armor with the wine that flew from it. He held his head with one hand where the cup had hit and looked angrily in the direction it came from.
"Who threw that!?" he yelled. "No one!?" He drew his sword and used it to point threateningly at the tavern's patrons. A man behind Marcus, who appeared to be drunk, stood up from his table and harshly shoved the irate Warden. Marcus stumbled and nearly tripped on a bar stool. Fuming, he turned around while fiercely swinging his sword arm. The pommel of the sword met the drunken man's face and sent him tumbling backwards. He crashed into his table and slumped to the floor, where he remained, unconscious.
"Sweltering ash! The man's as vicious as he looks!" someone shouted from across the room.
"Like all Wardens!" another cried. Everyone in the tavern began to shout angrily. Marcus, with an annoyed expression on his face, put away his sword and marched towards Valentia and Gail at the door. Gail opened his mouth to speak to the unfriendly Warden, but before he could say anything Marcus pushed him and Valentia aside and walked out of the tavern. The two of them pursued him.
The noise coming from the tavern had caused a very small crowd to gather outside. They heard loud thuds and a cry of pain, then shouting, and finally a Warden, looking angry, came marching out of the door and was followed by two others. The crowd quickly dispersed at the site of these Knights.
Hearing Valentia and Gail behind him, Marcus turned around, stopping in his tracks.
"Leave me be. That was not your business, you shouldn't have meddled in it," said he.
"Marcus," Valentia said, laboriously lifting her stiff visor, "I know they hate us, but maybe…" she didn't truly believe what she was about to say, "maybe you were too aggressive." Truthfully, she believed Marcus to be right. The tavern owner should have been more hospitable, she thought.
Marcus looked at her. He now recognized her, since he could see her face after her visor was raised, but he had no affection for her. He then looked at Gail, who had nothing to add to what Valentia said.
"I wouldn't care to see you two again," he said grimly, then he marched off. Valentia suddenly felt angry at him for such a remark. She prepared to shout an insult at him, but Gail, realizing this, placed a caring hand on her shoulder. She looked to him, and her anger weakened.
They both knew it would be a bad idea to return to the tavern—though Gail would have liked to help the two men Marcus hurt. So they went on back to the castle, as their shift was done, and it was time for the night patrols.
Some time before dusk, Valentia, again, sat at the small table in her room. On the table was her sword, a small round object wrapped in a white cloth, and a small demijohn half full of wine. Valentia herself was no longer wearing her armor, but she was still wearing the arming doublet.
Gail was off somewhere else in the castle. It was his wont to stay out during his free time and only return to the room an hour or two after midnight. He spent much of his time gathering news about the ongoing war against the Vikings and Samurai, which was out of personal interest more than anything else. Smaller fights were common in the war, but battles were months and sometimes years apart, and virtually no progress towards victory had been made by any of the three factions in decades. All three factions were split into smaller legions or clans that often hated each other as much as the whole faction hated the others. Despite the war's slow pace, Gail held a great interest in it, and eagerly supported the idea of a new military campaign into Valkenheim, which was a growing possibility, given the Iron Legion's recent expansion over the prior decade.
As Valentia sat at the table, she held her helmet in her hands. She examined it, making sure it had no dents or scratches, and moved the stiff visor up and down. It made a painful, low screeching sound as metal scraped on metal. She decided to get the pivots loosened the next day. She put the helmet on the table, took a sip of wine from the demijohn, and grabbed the wrapped-up object. She pulled away the cloth and set it neatly on the table, revealing a bold ruby. It was a gaudy thing, bulbous and the size of a coin. She admired it adoringly and took a swig from the demijohn.
She plucked her sword from the table and examined the pear-shaped pommel. Then, she held the ruby against the pommel, comparing the sizes. The ruby was perfect.
Suddenly, the door flew open and Gail came in, fully dressed in armor and holding his helmet at his side.
"Valentia," he said sternly, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted.
"Gail!" she said, pleased to see him. She proudly held up the ruby for him to see, "it just arrived today!" She didn't notice his uncharacteristic sternness.
She held up her sword as well and placed the ruby against the pommel. "I'm going to have it inlaid on my pommel tomorrow. It's going to look fantastic." She was like an excited child, completely forgetting the other events of the day.
"Valentia!" said Gail once more. She payed attention this time. "there's an emergency. Put on your armor and meet me at the stables. I'll explain there. And be sure to bring your sword." He then left the room in apparent hurry.
Valentia was surprised, but she now recognized how serious Gail was, so she did as he said. She wrapped the ruby back up with the cloth and gently placed it in the trunk at the end of her bed, then quickly put on her armor and, with her sword, hurried down to the castle stables.
There, she found Gail and three other Wardens. One of which was Marcus. This time he actually wore his helmet, which, like Gail's, was an open-faced barbute. He wore a scowl on his face, his earlier humor unchanged. The sight of Marcus brought the events of that day back into her mind. The other two Wardens Valentia faintly recognized, though she never properly met them. They both held their helmets; one was a basic Warden Loran helm with a small ornament of a hound at the top, and the other was an Elner great helm.
Gail sat atop a stallion, now wearing his helmet, and the other Wardens all stood by their own horses. Next to Gail was another horse meant for Valentia. They all mounted, and Gail shouted so that they all could hear.
"Half an hour ago, a group of peasants raided a weapons cache near the city wall and somehow managed to take everything inside. They're now heading north, around the lake, towards the village Philo. We don't know what they plan to do there. We're going to follow them by horse, so we should be able to stop them before they reach the village. They will be dangerous, but we must try to avoid conflict." He briefly glanced at Marcus. "These orders come straight from the warlord. Let's go!"
It was nearing dusk. Besides a few sparse, stringy clouds, the sky was clear. The weather was calm, without the faintest breeze blowing. The five Wardens galloped down the hill and into the city, slowing down while on the streets, then raced through the northern gate, toward Philo.
As they were following the road along the lake, another Warden on horseback who was waiting beside the path hailed them. The Warden wore an Arcturus great helm, which was characteristic of the Iron Legion. The green and yellow stripes painting across the face of his helm made it even clearer that this Warden was from that legion. The face of the helm had brass plating in the shape of a cross. Valentia, observing this detail, thought, "These Irons display their religion too boldly."
"Ho!" he hailed them, waving his arm as the group slowed to a stop before him. "Are you the ones sent to pursue that wild band of peasants?"
"We are," Gail replied, "why is it that you stop us?"
"I bring news! The peasants are indeed heading to Philo. They plan to attack the Albus Legion stables there and kill all of the Wardens' horses."
"What a terrible thing!" one of the other Wardens commented, "why kill the horses?"
"Without those horses," said Gail, "Wardens can't effectively patrol from village to village around the lake. It's both an attack and a protest."
"Indeed," the Iron Legion Warden replied, "but that's not all. To get to Philo quicker, the peasant are wading through the shallows of the lake, rather than following the road around it."
"How curious. Thank you for the news, friend," said Gail. He was fond of diplomacy with fellow Knights, so he respected this Warden, despite his Iron allegiance. "Do you plan to join us?"
"No, I have other business. Best of luck to you."
"And to you." He turned to the others, "let's hurry to them, then!"
They all spurred their horses and galloped down the road.
The shallows of Westlake were, predictably, a shallow area of the lake on its western side. The water generally rose up to one's knees, but at some times of the year the shallows were dry as the water level sank. It made sense for the un-mounted party of peasants to go through the shallows to reach Philo quicker, as the winding road would be a much longer path for a slow group.
A little way down the road, at a part where it came close to the lake's shore, the Wardens could see the large group of people out in the shallow water. The light was dim, as dusk was beginning, so the group of armed commoners out in the water looked like an actual war party. It had to be three, no, four scores of men. Their distant war-likes shouts reminded Valentia of Viking hordes during a castle raid.
"We'll have to dismount and pursue them through the water," said Gail, "the water is too deep for the horses to offer any advantage in a fight, although I do hope a fight won't happen."
"If one does," Marcus said grimly, "there's no way these peasants will be able to take a Warden." The Warden wearing the Elner helm nodded in agreement, and all five dismounted and waded into the water.
The water was indeed shallow, only rising to the mid of their shins. It was summer, so the water wasn't too cold, but to Valentia it was an unfamiliar sensation, and she wasn't used to the amount of energy it took to walk through. Her legs quickly grew tired, as if she had been walking for hours. She could tell it was the same for the other Wardens; however, they were still catching up with the large group ahead.
As they drew near, the peasants began to notice the small group of Knights, and one-by-one they stopped and turned to them. A gentle breeze began to blow.
"Let me be the speaker," said Gail to the others, and he signaled for them to stop. Valentia was glad to rest, but she could not relax with this mob of angry peasants before her.
Besides a gambeson here and there, none of the peasants wore any armor, but they all brandished arms of war: swords, halberds, spears, and other implements that were surprisingly frightening in the hands of these lowly people. If it wasn't for the torch bearers amongst them, their lean and angered faces would be left vague in the dim light of dusk. The breeze became stronger.
"Friends!" Gail said, addressing the mob, "why do you revolt like this?"
"As if you need to ask!" shouted one of the peasants.
"You can't overpower us now!" another cried feebly.
"There's only a few of them! They're brutish and foolish!" No single person amongst them was chosen to speak, so much of their shouts overlapped and they became unintelligible.
"Peace, friends!" cried Gail, "we cannot talk clearly if all of you shout at once!" He spoke diplomatically, but his calm words weren't received as he intended.
"You can't keep us quiet!"
" 'Friends' he calls us!"
"Death to you Wardens!" The peasants' hatred had grown more zealous.
Valentia began to feel angry. "Who are these peasants to wish me death?" she thought. "We are here only to protect you, and you revolt?" Her anger grew. "I've done nothing to hurt you. So what if some have taken things from you or acted disrespectfully. The Wardens devote their lives to you people, you owe them a measly reward! Why should they have to take it from you!" She felt nothing but contempt. "You should drop to your knees when a Warden comes before you, not shout and throw wine at them!" Fury and frustration swelled within her. "We are not your brawny slaves!" Under her helmet, her countenance was irate: her teeth gritting, brow furrowed, eyes flaming. She could not believe the audacity of these people. The clamor of the mob rose. With her off-hand, she grasped the scabbard at her hip. The wind grew fierce.
"Please, citizens," said Gail, "cease your aggression; we come with peaceful intent!" One of the torch-bearing peasants, a well-built man with an ashy beard, boldly stepped forward. Valentia felt a sudden shock, for the light of his torch allowed her to see that this was the same bearded man from the previous day. He didn't seem to recognize Gail or Valentia: not by Gail's surprisingly youthful face or voice, not by Valentia's armor or unique fashion in which she wore her cape. For all Wardens, the man overlooked and disregarded such details.
"Your intent often opposes your actions, wretched legionnaire." The bearded man said, pointing at Gail with an accusing finger. He spoke as if he was addressing all of Westlake's Wardens. "You are meant to protect but treat us like dogs. It's a shameful time when the weak become their protectors' pray." The unexpected emergence of this man, whom Valentia unreasonably despised, served to further swell the fury within her. The wind was howling.
"I," the bearded man continued, shouting over the noisy wind, "I was once one of you, a Warden of your Albus Legion. I wore The Star proudly on my standards, but I've now burned those ugly skirts. I left mine armor to rust at the bottom of this lake. There is no pride, no strength in my soul generated from my former allegiance. 'Warden of Westlake' is now a title of malevolence." His strong words managed to quiet the other peasants. He turned to the crowd behind him and dramatically threw out his arms. "You all know it as the truth!" From the crowd came a roar of affirmation. "Olympus knows it as well! That is why Ceres consoles us with good harvests, why Bellona fortifies us with determination, as if we were to battle, and why Jupiter protects us from ha- ARGH"
The wind stopped.
He looked down. Protruding from his chest was a long blade whose unique luster was dulled by the blood that now covered it. The crowd unanimously gasped in disbelief. Valentia had moved so swiftly and powerfully that the loud splashing of the water generated by her movements was unable to warn the bearded man.
"Traitors," she whispered to the man, "are swine." He gasped his last few breaths and grew limp as Valentia pushed him off of her blade. His body slumped and splashed into the water, and his light extinguished. The revelation of the bearded man's past status as a Warden had set off some primal switch within her. She now felt strong, almost giddy, having finally acted on her feelings.
Gail was speechless. When he saw her run to the man with her sword ready, he felt, at first, confusion, but then an un-spoken cry of "wait!" filled his mind as Valentia plunged her blade into the bearded man's back. He heard Valentia whisper, but did not know what she said. He had no action to take, nothing to say that could do any good. He felt utter despair.
The world came back to him as the peasants' uproar returned and a torch was tossed at him vigorously. He dodged and backpedaled, moving behind all of the other wardens, distancing himself from the mob, and Valentia.
Valentia.
Of course, the plebeians attacked her first, but they were no match, and she made no hesitation. The first to approach her received a ghastly rising cut from her sword, which drew a red line diagonally across his chest. He fell to the ground. He was followed closely by another, similarly foolish rebel brandishing a small mace. He was brought down with a falling blow that cleaved through his shoulder and down to his heart. Valentia's sword was momentarily stuck, but no one else came to meet her. They were too afraid. She successfully dislodged the sword and, without pausing for even a moment, charged the cowering peasants.
She was like a demon. A swift cut there, and another here. Streaks of crimson were traced by her blade as it flew wickedly from one weak victim to another. She had lost her proper mind; her conscience gone feral.
The slaughter continued: the mob moved around Valentia, not to entrap her, but to get to the other Wardens—the fools. She was now at the center of a horde of angry and well-armed peasants, yet she did not receive a single blow.
The other Wardens were forced to fight, Gail being the most reluctant. With a nimble hand, he undid the buckle securing his scabbard and parried every attacker with a covered blade. He soon realized the need for retaliation, so he merely thwacked them as if he were wielding one of the sparring swords.
Marcus had no reservations for going offensive, but, unexpectedly, made efforts to wound the plebs as little as possible; he'd bash them aside with his shoulder and thud them with his pommel, he even kicked occasionally, and he used his blade only to thwart incoming blows.
The other two yet un-named Wardens of the group were swarmed and separated from each other. One, the one who wore the ornament of a hound, managed to break from the mob and ran away, back to the shore where his steed waited to rescue him—a coward. This left the other knight to be overwhelmed, and he received many harsh blows from blunt and bladed weapons. He eventually crumbled after receiving a furiously powerful blow right on top of his flat-headed helm. He let out a choked cry and fell down in the shallow water.
Valentia was still in the thick of it. Her attacks were vicious: she made no attempt at blunt force, as her opponents wore no armor, so she whirled her blade to a fro in a wickedly elegant manner, all the while voicing her rage with sharp shouts at every cut or thrust. Her legs felt even more tired now, but she hardly noticed, and continued her cruel slaughter. With the sun now past the horizon and twilight almost gone, she only saw brief glimpses of the faces of her victims. Nearly all of them were men of age, wild-eyed and scared beyond their wit. They had little to do but to fight the demonic Warden, an endeavor they had no chance at winning.
The other peasants who were attacking the other Wardens had no knowledge of this slaughter. They had sprung into action only because it seemed the fight had begun. They never saw Valentia kill the bearded man, as the front of the crowd was blocking their view. Because of this, they were bolder, more vicious. This is why they had been able to overpower the poor Warden who was now face down in the water. These same people were now assaulting Marcus and Gail. Marcus, who was adept in combat, had still managed to fight with only blunt force. He introduced headbutts into his offensive and began to rely more on his armor to protect him from blows. But he was losing. His stamina was waning. Every shove and kick, every movement of his sword grew more and more laborious. He was short of breath. His mind began to lose pace and he miss-maneuvered his blade, leaving a cut across the cheek of one of his attackers. This didn't shake him, but it drove his decision to try to escape, as he realized he couldn't win without killing. This truth was hard for him swallow, but he had a plan.
He pulled out of a pouch at his hip a small round object that had a flat, dark color. It was a Fiat Lux: a blinding grenade. He struck the top of the bomb across the rough surface of his standard, sparking the fuse, and counted: "one, two…" He hoped that the fuse wasn't botched while he readied his arm to toss it into the air, where it would explode and stun the dozen or-so plebs around him, allowing him to escape. But he was shoved by one man and harshly thwacked in the ribcage by another with some small, blunt object. He stumbled, causing the Fiat Lux to clumsily slip from his hands and land in the water, where its fuse extinguished. He lost focus, and someone grabbed him from behind and wrapped their arm around his neck, trapping him. Another grabbed his sword by the quillons and pulled it from his grasped. He let out a yell of frustration.
"Off of me!" he cried, attempting to throw away the person who had grabbed him. One of the peasants hit his leg with a mace and he shouted painfully. "Brutes! Ugly hounds! Let me go!" Marcus began to fear for his life as he squirmed and headbutted backwards, trying to break free from this unknown's iron grip.
Then, he noticed that the peasants were laughing and jeering. They struck him harshly with cudgels, and he realized they were mocking him like a criminal in the stocks. He wrenched his body, pulled at the man's arm, but he couldn't escape.
"Augh! You dogged peasants! Recreants!" He made a promise to himself that, when he escaped and got his sword back, he wouldn't hesitate to kill every one of them.
Suddenly, someone pulled off his helmet, and a burst of laughter came from the crowd. He saw it thrown into the water in front of him, and he received a violent blow to the head with some blunt object. He became dazed, his head throbbing with pain. Then, one of the peasants came out of the crowd holding his sword. The peasant laughed and stood in front of Marcus, at a distance of about two paces, and held the sword up with its tip pointing at Marcus' chest. Suddenly an expression of fear came over Marcus' face.
For a brief moment, Marcus was freed from the man's tight grip, and he felt a sudden relief. But such relief was cut short as the same man placed his rough hands firmly on Marcus' back, and then pushed him vigorously. Marcus flew forward and was impaled on his own blade, square through his chest. He was impaled to the hilt. A wicked site. Marcus choked, the shock and pain in his expression was astounding.
He became limp, dead.
The one who held the sword threw it forward and it stabbed through the water and into the earth. The sword stood there, sticking out of Marcus' body as the corpse lay in the shallow water. It was like a brutal effigy, made to look even more wicked by the torchlight. The surrounding peasants had no empathy. Some laughed, others threw more insults, but Marcus was gone, and could not hear them.
Moments earlier, Gail had just un-done the buckle on his sword belt. He looked somewhat foolish wielding his sword with the scabbard still over the blade, but he did it out of consideration for the innocents whom he was forced to fight. He could still parry, and his attacks would barely hurt. He wouldn't dare draw their blood, for he was sworn to protect them, but all the same he had to defend himself.
He fought as best he could, as defensive as he could, but he couldn't focus. Valentia had sent his mind spinning. "Why? Why?" he wondered, "What did she whisper to him? What made her act so evil?" He held his defense, but he was close to breaking. He was continually forced back by his unlikely adversaries, and walking backwards only added to his stress.
"Off of me!" he heard a voice cry, from somewhere behind the smaller crowd of peasants that was currently attacking him. "Brutes! Ugly hounds! Let me go!" That was Marcus' voice, he realized. His mind was now racing. "Why, Valentia? Please, people, stop fighting! What is happening to Marcus? Am I going to trip while backpedaling like this? Here comes an attack!" He parried with little time to spare.
So much filled his mind. His reactions were slower. His head began to ache, and his vision seemed to blur. He missed a parry and was struck in the chest with a mace, causing him to stumble, trip, and fall on his back.
Valentia pulled her sword out of the throat of another victim. Another approached her from behind, but, thanks to his footsteps splashing in the water, Valentia heard him and turned around, parrying his attack and grabbing him by the neck. She lifted him a foot off the ground and stabbed the blood-soaked sword through his chest, then tossed his corpse aside while drawing her blade out of it. She breathed heavily, ready for the next man. But no one came.
Her breathing slowed as she noticed how quiet it was now. She looked around her. Dusk had passed, and now the full moon's dim light allowed her to faintly see around her. All of the torches were extinguished. Not a single man stood. Heaps of bodies lay around her. In the near distance, about twenty or thirty paces away, she could see a sword, standing up in the ground like a fence post, with a dark, motionless figure under it, impaled by it, laying in the water. She thought nothing of it.
She began to walk, towards the shore. She couldn't avoid stepping on the still corpses that lay, piled over each other, in the water. Her mind was blank, she just kept walking.
Then, she stopped, remembering something. She perked her head up.
"Gail?" she said, not very loudly. "Did you run back to town?" If he had, she knew, he wouldn't be able to answer her. She kept walking. The bodies in the water were now behind her, but she could see ahead of her another corpse. She stumbled towards it, exhausted, and tiring even more by walking through the thick water. The water did feel thicker than earlier, she noted.
When she reached the body, she saw the corpse of a Warden. Most of the pieces of his armor were stripped away, and he was covered in cuts and bruises. The body was bathed in blood. As Valentia looked to the face of this dead warrior, she saw the cut, bruised, and bloody face of Gail. His head was raised above the water, possibly laying on some rock. His blue eyes were wide open, staring blankly into the clear night's sky.
Valentia, seeing the bloodied face of her friend, began to breath rapidly. She suddenly felt suffocated in her helmet, and tried to lift her visor, but, finding it to be stuck, pulled off the entire helmet and threw it into the water. She dropped her sword and fell to her knees. Tears began to fill her eyes. Then she noticed the water.
It was red. A deep, unbroken red. If one did not know better, while standing in the shallows on that night, they would think the lake was entirely filled with blood.
"What…" she found it difficult to speak as her throat seemed to clench up, "what… have I done…?" She began to cry as she gazed upon the sorry corpse of her friend, while kneeling in the pool of blood that her maniacal rage had created. "No!" she screamed. She cursed the peasants, cursed herself, and sobbed.