Chapter 5: Exile
All is lost.
For reasons unknown, the senior military commanders of Elbion turn their backs on the kingdom and pledge their allegiance to the Falahim cult. Tens of thousands of soldiers follow their lords into heresy, discarding the golden lion banners for those of the crimson eye. Loyalists are persecuted everywhere. Children are herded into concentration camps to be indoctrinated into the new creed. Clergymen of Light are arrested and summarily executed after flimsy trials. Zealous peasants roam the countryside, torching and killing anyone who defies the new regime.
The Falahim are victorious. The Kingdom of Elbion has fallen.
Reeling from the news of treachery, Princess Leona of Elbion and her small band of followers flee towards the southern borders. They hope to cross into the counties of Reikmar, beyond the insidious reaches of the cult.
There is no more hope for victory, only survival…
There were hundreds of them; dozens on horseback, the rest trudging on foot. The rebels marched down the road in a loose formation, eyes on a lookout for unwelcome intruders.
Each of them was armed to the teeth, having retained his armor and weapons from previous service as a Soldier of Elbion. All wore some form of insignia proclaiming their newest allegiance to the Falahim cult. The most common were dull, unpainted metal badges crudely shaped into an unblinking eye. Some Dragoons wore full-length tabards depicting the same monstrous symbol, its crimson color glinting under the afternoon sun.
A long, snaking line of prisoners stretched in between the rebels, all manacled and chained by their ankles, wrists, and necks. Most were peasant villagers who had unwisely refused to embrace the change and held onto the superstitious beliefs of the old order. Others were burghers, priests, and defeated soldiers who had fought for the doomed monarchy. Covered in dirt, sweat, and blood, the prisoners miserably shuffled forward into the unknown fate. Women wept bitterly, for their children had been forcibly taken away from them by red-robed cultists. A few who cried out for divine intervention were dragged out of line and beaten into silence by their captors. When a prisoner simply collapsed from exhaustion, the Soldiers simply stabbed him with spears and left the corpse on the roadside as fodder for wild animals.
Lying flat on the crest of the ridge above, Julien, a young Hunter from Wiltshire, watched the column with narrowed eyes. Even from the distance, the aura of defeat and misery surrounding the prisoners was palpable. He tightened his grip around his self-bow, fighting an urge to loosen an arrow into rebel ranks.
"Bastards," the Hunter growled. "Monsters!"
"Not so loud, damn you!"
Martin de Massey, a gangly young Dragoon, hissed towards his companion. He quickly glanced back at the column to see if anyone had noticed.
"They could've seen or heard us, you know," he muttered nervously, though he doubted it. A thick shrub concealed their prone position, and as per Julien's advice, Martin had even dulled his armor with dirt and soot as to prevent his armor from glinting in the sunlight.
"Those prisoners down there might as well be my friends and family," Julien muttered. "The rebels will raze Wiltshire to the ground soon, kill anyone who fights back, take the rest away in chains…!"
"If they can ever find that blasted village in the first place," Martin snorted. "Even if they do, your villagers can just slip away into the forest, can't they? The rebels will lose their minds trying to hunt them down in there."
A sudden outburst stole the pair's attention. Down the ridge, a tonsured and scarred Falahim preacher in a crimson robe came into view, energetically cavorting through the line of prisoners. He was proselytizing in a loud, sonorous voice, zealously proclaiming the virtues of the Prophet's message and his visions. The cultist would occasionally stop to grasp a nearby prisoner by the shoulders, and maniacally spew out an incomprehensible stream of prayer into a terrified face. The rebel troops in his vicinity were crying tears of joy, the preacher's words having inexplicably moved them.
Martin recoiled from the obscene view in disgust.
"No matter how many times I hear it, that babble makes me sick to my stomach," Martin shuddered, and then his eyes widened. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Julien had risen into a half-crouch, with an arrow notched and drawn back to his ears. The Hunter was aiming straight at the raving cultist, his face drawn in a furious snarl. His cheeks were wet with angry tears.
"Put that away, you fool!" Martin hurriedly tugged at Julien. "Do you want to give us away? Do you want to give the rest of us away?!"
Julien trembled, and Martin feared that the Hunter would loosen the arrow. He was sure he would make the kill, too, deadly as his aim was. But to his relief, Julien slowly lowered his bow and returned the arrow to his quiver.
"That monster is going to be at Wiltshire," Julien moaned as he crouched down again. His face had paled and his body shook badly. "He's going to cram that filth into my friends and family until we all become…like them!"
"Let's hope to Light that won't happen, shall we?" Martin said breathlessly, his eyes still fixed on the rebel column. Fortunately, no one seemed to have spotted their little drama.
"Sometimes, I wish…I could be back home," Julien said dejectedly. "I should be there, defending my folks from those bastards! Instead I feel like…I had abandoned them."
Martin paused, awkwardly fishing for words. Truth be told, he had no idea why the boy was being so glum. After all, wouldn't he have suffered like those prisoners if the princess hadn't plucked him from his squalid village? Why couldn't this peasant follow his own example and show some gratitude?! Social etiquette had obviously not been a big part of his upbringing.
Still…it seemed a polite thing to at least feign some sympathy for the boy in his moment of misery. Besides, they just could not risk another emotional outburst here and now.
"Well…it's all a moot point, isn't it?" Martin said carefully. "You've sworn an oath to our lady like the rest of us, haven't you?"
Julien hesitated, then slowly nodded.
"I mean, it's not like you're going to break your words and run back home, like some faithless cowards would do." The dragoon pressed. "Besides, think of it this way: the quicker we get across the border, the sooner we can return with an army to crush these scum!"
Julien said nothing, but eventually sighed in resignation. Martin grinned, inwardly patting himself on the back for having found the right words.
"We should be heading back," Julien said after a moment, his voice somber. "His highness will be expecting us by now. We should let her know there's no clear path ahead. We'll need to make a detour a mile down."
"Best idea I've heard all day, chum," Martin replied cheerfully.
As one, the two loyalists of Elbion carefully crept back into the forest.
Princess Leona and her men had left Nantine almost two weeks ago, before the break of dawn. Though they had cleared the fortress of its rebel garrison, they had been determined to put as much distance between them and any rebel activity. Falahim could catch up with their quarry in days should their trek be discovered. Neither could they seek another fortified sanctuary in the kingdom. With the royal army compromised to its core, no fortress or town could be trusted to be still loyal. No person could be trusted anymore.
So Leona and her men went to ground, carefully avoiding main roads and population centers. They made frequent detours, which added days to their journey. Forests proved to be a boon, as the thick woodlands of Elbion concealed their passage from prying eyes. Generations of Elbine monarchs had decreed that tracts of forests be maintained to harvest timber for manufacturing weapons and siege engines, and Leona found herself benefitting from her ancestors' penchant for warmongering. She still took extra caution, sending out her men to scout ahead for cultist activities and rarely setting fires for cooking. They avoided traveling while the sun was high, only moving on at dawn or at dusk. When they did stop they rarely did for long, eager as they were to reach the border. Filth and dirt stained their clothes within days, and Martin grimly joked that all Falahim should do to find them is simply close their eyes and take a long whiff.
As the entourage carefully made their way south, it had steadily become more difficult to avoid the growing signs of cult activity. Icons and insignias of the crimson eye were ubiquitous in villages they spied from distance, as were gangs of cult preachers sent out by the new regime. The main roads were routinely patrolled by rebel Soldiers and scouts. Though they have been sparse enough for the princess and her men to slip through, Leona knew that the watch will be strengthened as the cult tightened its grip on the kingdom. There had been close calls when they had to hide from occasional band of roving Militiamen making forays into the forest. Perhaps they had been looking for the wayward royal fugitive. Father Paul, however, suggested that the Falahim may have been looking for local loyalists who had taken refuge in the forest.
"They may be heretics, but they are not fools," the Cleric said. "Everyone in the kingdom knows to escape into the forest if one was to avoid the law."
"Thank Light we have someone who knows the forests better than anyone," Leona said. Julien had smiled at that.
In truth, Leona had hoped to find more loyalists on their way, perhaps an entire community untouched by the insurrection. But even when they had, all they had found were convoys of despairing prisoners, herded towards horrible captivity by unforgiving rebels. More than once, they had come across entire villages burned to the ground, ravens and wild dogs gnawing at the bodies of slain townsfolk.
The sight of misery had infuriated Leona to no end. She so desperately wanted to stop skulking in the shadows, put the rebels to the sword and free her people from bondage. But what could she do with so little power? It took all she had just to stay alive and hidden each day. She was a fugitive in her own kingdom, an exile without a home or alliances. The help she sought may be found somewhere else someday, but at the moment, Leona knew her chances were pathetic.
"We are alive," Alyce said one night as they drifted off to sleep in a deep forest. "We fight when we can, we move when we can, and so we stay alive. I am thankful for that. We should all be."
So the loyalists headed south, day after day, clinging to a forlorn hope that may never come to be.
Martin scowled as he felt the last drops of alcohol trickle from his flask into his mouth. He had filled two flasks to the brim with fresh beer in Nantine, but it had run out surprisingly fast during his travel. He had not felt its need more acutely in his life. They had replenished their rations in Nantine from rebel supply, and their packs had been well-stocked with dried meat and hardtack. When needed, they had foraged in the forest for wild game and berries to supplement their diet. But everyone ate sparingly, for no one was sure how long the journey would last. With the added strain of traveling quickly in odd hours, the Princess and her men lost weight. Martin could feel his clothes hang loose, and he was always hungry.
Despite his military service, Martin seldom went without the luxuries he usually took for granted, like soft sheets, good food, or women to warm his bed every now and then. It had been a shock to him, then, to travel like a common soldier, like a desperate fugitive. His beer had been his sole source of comfort through this trek, though he took care not to be drunk out of his wits as he usually did. Just enough to take the rough edge off, he constantly reminded himself.
Now, even that last luxury was denied to him. With a forlorn groan, Martin tucked away his empty flask in his saddlebag. It was already looking to be a long, hard day.
"Should you be drinking that, Sir Martin?" A gentle voice said.
Startled, Martin turned to find the child-like face of Sister Isolde staring into his own. Though her brown hair was matted and skin roughened by travel, her wide amber eyes were still alert and attentive. So far, she had borne the rigors of travel with quiet dignity.
"What's it to you, Sister?" Martin replied brusquely, suddenly embarrassed. He could feel his face burning from more than just liquor.
Isolde smiled serenely, and Martin instantly regretted his rude response. There was no judgment in her face, just genuine curiosity.
"I'm sorry," Martin mumbled. "I didn't mean to be so…. It's just that I am—I am—"
"Under a lot of stress," Isolde finished. Martin stared for a moment, then sighed.
"Yeah, under a lot of stress. I mean it's been a rough journey so far. Don't you think so, Sister?"
Isolde paused, as if deep in thought.
"When I was in Nantine," she said at length. "I've often volunteered at the field hospice with Brother Bertrand. We took care of Soldiers who had been injured in their service to the kingdom. A number of them would come in every month with their backs torn and bloodied. They had been lashed for drinking on the march."
Martin stared at the Acolyte, bemused.
"Are you trying to have me flogged?"
"Heavens, no," Isolde smiled. "I think it is a barbaric practice to lash a soldier. There are plenty of gentler ways to motivate a man."
"We need to discipline the men in war," Martin said, though all too aware of his own hypocrisy. "Without lashes, how else will soldiers learn to behave themselves?"
"You don't always need brutality to help men become soldiers," Isolde said. "A good leader learns to motivate his men, inspire them, appeal to their better natures. A love for their kingdom, future for their families, even a service to the Light, perhaps? Something to convince the men that their suffering is for something greater."
"But instead, they are routinely beaten, whipped, and humiliated," the Acolyte sighed. "So they drink, to numb themselves. All because their service hurts them like none other."
"But men learn to tolerate pain," Martin grumbled. "Men get tougher, stronger, become accustomed to routines. I certainly did."
"I'm not talking about pain of the body," Isolde smiled. "Time and rest can take away bodily suffering. But what of their souls? How can they deal with the shame they feel, or their conscience threatened by the atrocities they are forced to commit in the name of greater good?"
Martin stared. "You're losing me, Sister."
"I believe men who drink are drinking to hide a pain inside them. It's the only way they know how."
"So what you're telling me, if I'm reading you correctly," Martin said slowly, "is that I have some…angst that needs looked after?!"
"Do you?" Isolde asked.
"Far from it," Martin snorted. "You won't find anyone more uncomplicated than I. I know exactly who I am, and so does everyone else. I fight for the king and appreciate finer things in life from time to time. Just like any other soldier. I'm not a romantic philosopher in a vision quest, Sister."
"It's my duty to attend to the souls of those around me, Sir Martin," Isolde said. "I only want to help you."
"Help?!" Martin exclaimed, suddenly indignant. "I don't need any help! If anybody needs help, it's you, Sister. What, are you trying to play a confessor, just so you can forget what those monsters did to you in Nantine? How they defiled your virtue and robbed you of your purity? Aren't you the one trying to hiding your pain here?"
Martin saw Isolde visibly flinch at his words, but didn't regret his words.
Isolde closed her eyes, and sadness flickered across her face before it was calm once more.
"I pray daily to the Light for what had happened there, Sir Martin," Isolde said quietly. "It hurt me deeply. I pray for the salvation of my soul, and of others who were with me. Even my captors. But I have no intention of forgetting all that. My suffering was the will of the Light, so that I may persevere and grow stronger in my trials."
"It was the wickedness of men who brought your suffering, Sister," Martin sneered. "Light had nothing to do with it."
"Light has everything to do with it, Sir Martin," Isolde replied gently. "Even when it leads to seemingly horrible things. What matters is that we continue to live and act according to what the Light had shown us. To me, Light deemed that I suffer, so that I may speak to those who are suffering. I had no intention of offending you, Sir Martin. I merely sensed something in you, so I only sought to reach it."
Martin dumbly stared at the Acolyte, then shook his head.
"I'm going to scout the road ahead," he said, and kicked his spurs. "I suggest you get some rest, Sister. We all need alert minds if we want to steer clear of the rebel pickets."
"Come and speak to me when you are ready to confront your pain, Sir Martin," Isolde called out to Martin's retreating back. "I will be waiting."
In the distance, Martin could not help but wince.
Days passed. The dense forests of central Elbion gradually gave way to rolling hills of the southern marches. Leona and her men could no longer seek refuge under the boughs as often, but the southern provinces of the kingdom were more sparsely populated. What few signs of habitation they had seen were thin smokes curling from isolated hamlets and poachers' cabins.
Their horses trotted slowly on dirt roads, stepping over rough rocks and patches of wild ferns.
"The border can't be far off now," Father Paul announced happily one afternoon. "No more than a few days, I'd reckon."
"Plenty can happen in a few days," Alyce said. "We'd better keep our eyes open. Don't want those buggers figuring out we'd gone to."
"So how will we know where the border is?" Julien wondered. "How do we know we're not crossing it now?"
"I'd imagine we'd see some armed men," the Guardswoman replied. "Border guards, customs patrols…."
"Pray to Light, we don't!" Leona exclaimed. "The last thing we need is another mob of rebels barring our way to safety!"
"If our maps are accurate," Father Paul said, unrolling a parchment from inside his pack. "We should be heading towards a region that shouldn't be as heavily guarded. The border citadels of Sein-Marmont and Villanueve are far off to our west, and I doubt the rebels will stray far from those holds."
"The problem is," the Cleric sighed. "The terrain here will be rougher than we're used to. Steeper, rockier, and colder. There are no paved highways in these parts on which an army can travel quickly. Probably explains why smugglers like to frequent this route, seeing how there's no one to stop them!"
"We will run into some Reikmarne guards though," Alyce said. "I hope they prove a tad more hospitable than the rebels!"
Behind her, Martin snorted in derision. "And how do we know they're not Falahim, eh? Then we'll just be escaping the clutches of one rebel into another's!"
An uncomfortable silence settled on the entourage as everyone pondered the possibility.
"That's just a risk we'll have to take," Sabine rasped. The Dragoon had been rather standoffish throughout the journey, speaking when only necessary and spending most of her time brooding alone. "If they oppose us, we fight, and go someplace else. Simple as that."
"If the heresy had spread into the counties we'd already have heard about it," Father Paul said. "The Falahim preachers aren't exactly humble about their achievements."
"Let's just hope you are right, Father," Leona muttered. "I hope to find the help we need across the borders. I grow tired of running from the cult."
"Trust in the Light, milady," Father Paul smiled. "and it shall provide."
Julien, who had been riding ahead of the column, suddenly stiffened, and brought his horse to an abrupt halt. Standing up in his stirrups, the youth cocked his head urgently. The Princess and her men likewise halted in their treks.
"What is it?" Alyce called out, her hand automatically reaching for her glaive. "Falahim?"
"Quiet!" Julien exclaimed, and knotted his eyebrows in concentration. A heartbeat later, he swirled around, his eyes wide.
"Wing beats!" the Hunter cried out. "I hear wing beats!"
Leona could not hear anything, but she knew better than to question Julien's keen hearing honed from living in the deep woods.
"Everyone, scatter!" Leona hissed. "To the trees! Conceal yourself as best as you can!"
The entourage spurred their mounts to the ridge to either sides of the road. The trees were short and barely leaved, though there were plenty of tall reeds and thicker shrubs at hand. The men quickly dismounted and led the horses into the thickets. The animals nickered and whinnied at their masters' sudden urgency, but gentle stroking and reassuring whispers soon quieted them.
For a moment, the Princess and her men dared not breathe. Leona, lying flat amongst some tall reeds, could see some of her men on the opposing side of the road. Julien, as expected from an expert outdoorsman, had cleverly tucked himself inside a fern bush. Sabine had likewise laid flat in a gap underneath a large, fallen log, her steely eyes watching the sky above. Martin had not managed to do better than curling up among a clutch of boulders, and was frantically throwing clumps of fallen leaves and dirt on himself for concealment. Leona could not see the rest of her retinue, but trusted that they were somewhere to her left and right.
Then she heard it.
It was faint at first, but grew exponentially louder. It was indeed a wing beat, though much heavier and ponderous than that of any bird. Despite strangeness of it, Leona was fortunately familiar with the sound and knew what to expect. Her eyes roamed across the sky until she had found what she was looking for.
From the western horizon came a white streak that materialized in proximity as a horse with large, feathery wings. Despite the tremendous altitude, Leona thought she could make out a dim silhouette of a rider mounted in between its wings. Though it defied belief that such a strange creature could ever take to air, the winged horse glided through the sky as gracefully as any bird.
"A pegasus…!" Leona whispered. She had an occasion to ride one once when she was a young teenager. The Kingdom of Elbion maintained its own cadre of Pegagus Knights, and the gallant women occasionally put on dazzling shows of aerial maneuvers for the king's pleasure. The pegasi were strange, otherworldly creatures that somehow seemed more intelligent than their common equine cousins. Her experience riding one, however, had not been entirely pleasant. Though she had been secured to her saddle with tight leather straps while accompanied by expert handers flying alongside, Leona had found the experience terrifying. She was not the one to shy away from outdoor activity, but staring down at the distant ground where men looked like mere ants made her dizzy and short of breath. She had not ridden another pegasus since then, though she had developed a great deal of respect for the brave women who did.
The lone Pegasus Knight slowed right above where the entourage had taken refuge, and began circling the area as if looking for something. Leona held her breath, though it probably made little difference to anyone looking down from high altitude. She prayed that whoever riding on the pegasus did not possess keen sight. Across the road, Julien gave her a questioning glance from his hidden position. He gently lifted up his bow up and Leona, knowing his intent, vigorously shook her head. The Hunter nodded at once, lowered his weapon, and tucked himself even deeper into the bush.
Minutes went by, though it felt like hours. Eventually, the Pegasus Knight stopped lingering, and evidently having found nothing of interest, flew to the east past the tall hills. It took another few minutes before Leona and her men dared to venture away from their concealment onto the road. There appeared to be no sign of a second flyer.
"So that's a pegasus," Julien muttered in an awestruck voice, staring at the direction where the rider had gone. "I've never seen one before. It's…quite bigger than I had imagined!"
"Rumor has it that Reikmarne counts retain those riders by the hundreds," Alyce growled as she spat on the ground. "And I'm inclined to believe it. I've fought my fair share of those beasts, killed a few even. But for each one we kill, five more savage women swoop in to seek revenge. Flying banshees, the lot of them!"
"Where in hell did she come from?!" Martin exclaimed as he shook out leaves and dirt from his hair. "I thought this place was supposed to be deserted!"
"It came from the west," Sabine muttered tensely. "Which means it's likely to have come from one of the border-citadels. It may have been making a long-range patrol along the borders."
"Or it could've been a messenger of a sort," Alyce mumbled. "Rather than military personnel."
"You think she may have seen us?!" Leona asked anxiously.
"I'd be surprised if she didn't," Martin snorted. "With what piss-poor hiding spots we had!"
Sabine merely shrugged. "Can't say. She may have, she may have not. But if she had…she didn't fly immediately back to the citadels to alert its garrison. If so, we may have earned some respite."
"How do we know it wasn't a loyalist?!" Julien asked. "Maybe a lucky soldier who have escaped the cultists and wandering to find us?"
"How many loyalists do you know who can figure out where we are?" Sabine snapped. "If the rebels can't find us, then you can be sure no loyalist can find us, either. At any rate, we can't risk initiating contact. Not here. Not until we've safely crossed the border."
Leona slowly nodded in agreement, his stomach tightening with worry. Of course the Falahim would try to trek them by air. How could they not use that most effective way known to try and hunt down their fugitive? Her thoughts lingered on the prospect of Pegasus Knights operating under the cult's influence, and the knot in her stomach tightened ever further.
"No fire tonight," Leona said as she remounted her horse. "And we should take turns taking the watch while we sleep."
The entourage made camp on the clearing at the base of a large, wooded hill that evening. The trees covering the slopes provided cool shade as well as means of escaping detection should another pegasus draw close. Leona and her men ate from their dwindling dry rations, unwilling to light cooking fire. With their horses safely hitched to the branches, the men settled into a quiet but uneasy rest. No one disturbed them through the night, though, and soon the camp was filled with gentle snores and regular breathing of sleeping men. As per Leona's instruction, however, one person remained awake and posted on the nearby ridge to be on an alert for any intruders. The rotation took place every hour, whereupon each lookout staggered back into camp to wake his substitute. Though heavy sleep had taken hold on everyone, the men took up their watch without protest.
Carefully feeling her way under the dawn starlight, Leona made her way to the ridge to take up her second shift of the night. Despite the protests of her men, the princess had stubbornly refused to exempt herself from the watch. In spite of her royal status, she was determined to share every burden borne by her warriors. The thought of their impending crossing kept her wide awake at any rate.
The bulky silhouette on the ridge stirred as Leona drew near.
"Milady?" Alyce's gruff voice said, surprised. "You've come early!"
"I did, Alyce," Leona replied. "I believe it's my turn to keep watch. And time for you to head back to camp."
"But…my shift has not yet ended," the Guardswoman said, staring up into the starry sky. "The Lion's Claws are barely visible. I was going to wait for them to reach the zenith before I woke you."
Like every sensibly informed citizen in the kingdom, Alyce had been watching the movements of the constellations to track the passage of time. The sky was clear tonight, and countless specks of light filled the void above.
"Then I believe you deserve to sleep a little longer. You've more than earned it."
Alyce grunted. "Wouldn't feel right not to pull my own weight."
"Then we shall watch the Lion's Claws climb the heavens together."
For a time, the princess and her bodyguard lost themselves in the starry tableau, dazzled by the wonders of the cosmos. All lay quiet around them, except for crickets chirping in the distance and brambles rustling in the occasional breeze.
"Alyce," Leona said, breaking the silence. "Do you think we can take back our home someday?"
"You've led us through this mess so far, milady," Alyce replied. "I can't imagine you doing any less."
"Sometimes, I think about the odds against us, and I feel…overwhelmed. The heresy has taken root in these lands. The people have lost faith in their lords and the church. And now, even the kingdom's defenders have turned against us…! How can I fight against all that? Where can I even begin to fix all this?"
"That…is a hard question, milady," Alyce said after hesitation. "I am a daughter of a whore, and a soldier, not a learned general. I don't know if I can say anything that'll satisfy you."
"But we are not in a royal court, Alyce, or in a university," Leona responded. "So I ask you. I only want to know what you think."
"Some might say we shouldn't even have survived the kingdom's fall," Alyce replied slowly. "And yet, here we are. So who's to say we won't find a way to restore Elbion to its former glory? Anything can happen in this world, I'd say."
Leona nodded in silence, but Alyce saw that the Princess was still troubled.
"Permission to speak frankly?" the Guardswoman suddenly asked.
"Granted."
"When I first met you, milady, I admit I didn't think much of you," the Guardswoman said. "You looked…frail. Clueless. Afraid. I had expected to babysit a spoiled child who would do nothing but get in my way."
Leona chuckled at her admission.
"But I was wrong," Alyce continued. "You didn't run away from the horrors we've encountered. Instead, you chose to face them head on. I saw you fight our enemies with bravery and fury befitting the daughter of a warrior. You took to battle every bit as well as King Phillippe did in his prime!"
Leona's smile faltered at that, as she recalled the memories of her father and what she had learned about him in the past weeks.
"Like father, like daughter, is it?" Leona sighed softly. "I don't know if that is a good thing."
"How do you mean, milady?"
"My father," Leona said firmly, "for all his strength, was a cruel man. He did not care for his people, nor for his own family. It was his excess that turned our kingdom to this dark path. I may have inherited his temper and courage…but what if there was more? Who's to say I won't turn into a tyrant like him later, only to exact greater cruelties on our people?"
"But you're not your father!" Alyce exclaimed. "Far from him! Every time you've fought you've done so to protect our kingdom and its people. You never fought for gold, or so that some puffed-up historians can write your name in their books! King Phillippe would never have done what you did, and that makes you different from him. Or any king who have come before him!"
"Everything I used to have is gone," Leona muttered. "All that's left…are my empty title and a nation of fellow countrymen suffering under an unjust yoke. I would risk everything to free them from that cruel fate. Everything."
"Sir Gerard believed you were worth laying down his life for, milady," Alyce said. "That's why he sent me to protect you! 'Don't you let her out of your sight, Alyce!' he told me. 'Don't you dare let anything happen to her, you hear?' And I reckon I'll do my best to keep that promise, 'till you become our rightful queen. We all need you, milady, if we are to reclaim our home or have any sort of future worth having…"
"So what must I do?" Leona whispered.
"Lead us." Alyce exclaimed. "Fight with us. Inspire us with everything you have! Bring that fiery wrath to your enemies, so that they learn to fear you! But don't forget your love and…and passion for the little folks. That alone makes you who you are, more than your sword arm or ancestry."
"And that, milady, is my answer," she pressed on, inspired. "Keep that hope alive, and grow into a great queen that I know you are! In time, people will learn of you, yearn for you, and call for you. With their support, we can surely retake Elbion. I trust you will know when that day comes."
The Princess chuckled. "I think you missed your true calling, Alyce. You should've been a preacher, not a warrior."
"I only say what is true. I always have."
Leona turned to stare and Alyce, and the Guardswoman's heart leapt to see her eyes burning with passion.
"When that day comes," Leona said, her voice stronger. "Can I trust you to be by my side?"
"To my last day," Alyce grinned.
"And should I come to forget whom I am fighting for…can I trust you to help me back onto the righteous path?"
"You may trust on it, milady."
The Princess's hand found Alyce's own in the dark, and in unspoken silence, the two young women reaffirmed a bond of loyalty to each other that transcended the circumstances of their births.
Far above their heads, the Lion's Claws were shining brightly in the night sky.
Julien was flying.
He was sitting in a soft saddle with his waist strapped to his seat. A pegasus heaved beneath him as the beast beat its wings up against the air. Wind blew past his face as Julien looked upon miles of grassy plains and forests racing past below him. Instinctively, he knew he was flying back to Wiltshire. He was going to rescue his village and take away everyone with him into the unreachable heavens above. He was going to be a savior. A hero.
The pegasus suddenly surged upwards and plunged into a bank of luminous clouds. Julien cringed, but relaxed as the he felt the softness press in all around him. He reached out and grasped at a handful of cloud, as he had dreamed of doing as a child. It was softer than the supplest wool, and yet more slippery than running water. Julien brought the cloud to his mouth, wanting to taste its sublimity, but it melted in his hands faster than he could blink. He laughed, giddy with the thrill of doing the impossible.
Then the pegasus cleared the clouds, and Julien found himself basking under the glorious golden sun. White nimbuses stretched on as far as he could see. Smoky wisps sparkled gold as they caught the sunlight from above. The sky was of the clearest blue, like a mid-afternoon day after a heavy rain. He was in heaven, and Julien cried out in joy as he soared.
Julien impulsively gazed up into the blinding sun, shielding his eyes as he did so. But the rays of light were no longer sunshine, but lustrous golden locks flowing free in the wind, gently caressing his cheeks. The sun had turned into the angelic face of Princess Leona; her skin clear as an untouched lake, her lips curved into a knowing smile, her passionate blue eyes staring back deep into his own. Julien gaped into that magnificent vision, his wonder changing into painful yearning. His Liege. His Lady. A girl he could love more than anything, but only because he somehow knew she was far beyond his reach.
Julien reached out to touch a strand of Leona's golden hair, only to stumble. He reached down to steady his mount, only to find that the pegasus had disappeared. He was no longer sitting on a saddle, and his legs hung limp in an empty air. Terror swept across his heart for a fraction of a second before he began to fall. Julien tried to scream as he plunged down into the thick clouds below. He could see them darken, rumbling with thunder and lightning of a coming storm. He managed to twist his body around, wanting to see Princess Leona's beauteous face one last time. But the sun was no longer his Princess, but a gigantic crimson eye. Its fiery pupil stared at him, unblinking, filling his mind with a mad kaleidoscope of horrors and atrocities.
As he plunged into the bank of raging thunderclouds, Julien finally opened his mouth to scream.
…And woke up.
The Hunter found himself crouched on firm ground, his body intact and unbroken by the fall. He could still feel the reassuring weight of his bow and quiver draped across his back. Julien began to panic before remembering where he really was. He had taken the last watch of the long night, taking over from sullen Martin whose grumbling could be heard all the way back to the camp. Julien had been determined to finish his watch until the sun rose in the horizon, but sleep had evidently caught him unawares. He felt sheepish, and hoped that no one had caught him dozing off in his post. If his blissful dream hadn't turned into a sudden nightmare, the Hunter mused, maybe he would've felt slightly less guilty about it.
Light warmed his cheek, and Julien saw that the sun had already half-risen from the horizon. The rest of the royal entourage would've woken up by now and packing up to depart once more. He would make his way back to join them, and perhaps grab a quick bite from the dry rations in his pack. Julien stretched, yawned, and rose to his feet.
And two stone's throw away in front of him, on a high ridge, stood a horseman.
For a brief moment, Julien froze as his mind struggled to process what he was seeing. The man on top of a brown steed was armed and equipped in the manner of a Dragoon, much like Martin or Sabine. But what finally shook Julien out of his shock was the sight of a burnished badge of a crimson eye pinned to the horseman's lapel. Their eyes met. The horseman looked just as surprised as Julien by the encounter.
Julien frantically pulled his bow from his shoulders, but the rebel had already snatched at his reins and galloped back down the ridge. Cursing, Julien darted after the fleeing horseman, his fingers fumbling for an arrow. The Dragoon had been standing uphill from him, and loose gravel rolled and slipped under every step Julien took. But panic and fury drove the Hunter and he gained the height within moments. He knew that his aim was good enough to shoot down the horseman even at this range, no matter how fast he was. The no one would then alert the rebels of the princess's whereabouts, and they would make haste to the border in peace. By the time he cleared the ridge, Julien already had an arrow notched and drawn, ready to let loose.
But what he saw beyond turned his anger into a gut-churning dread.
"Oh, Light," Julien whispered, his knees growing weak. "Not good. Not good at all!"
The Hunter loosened his arrow but did not wait to see if it had hit a mark. He had already begun to run down the ridge towards the princess's camp as fast as his legs could allow. His comrades needed to be warned; they were in trouble, and from what he had seen, it was going to take a desperate fight to escape it.
Leona was just beginning to tuck away her saddlebag when Julien stumbled into the camp. Even before he opened his mouth, the look on his face told her all she needed to know.
"Rebels! They're coming! They'll be on us within moments!" Julien cried out.
Frenzied movement overtook the men as they scrambled for their weapons at once. Sabine, as the most experienced warrior in the entourage, had recommended the day before that all should sleep with most of their gear at hand. Leona had fortunately heeded her advice, and so there was little panic that would have normally crippled an ambushed army.
"How many?!" Sabine asked urgently as she strapped her sword belt. "Were there horsemen? Infantry?"
"Um…only a handful of horsemen," Julien stammered as he struggled to remember what he had seen. "They were riding ahead of a crowd of men on foot. I saw plenty of Soldiers, mixed in with unarmored Militiamen with clubs and axes."
"How many!?" Sabine demanded again.
"T-thirty men, I think. That's all I saw!"
Leona's eyes widened. There were enough men to overwhelm her men by numbers alone.
"By heavens!" Martin cursed as he secured the straps of the saddle on his horse. "How in hell did those rebels catch us?! And how did they know we were here?!"
"Looks like that Pegasus Knight may have seen us, after all," Alyce snorted. "I'll bet she's the one who put those bastards on our tail!"
"It's my fault, milady," Julien blubbered. "I had dozed off on my watch. If I hadn't, I could've—"
"It's not your fault, Julien," Leona said calmly. "No one could've known such a sizeable force was nearby, especially in a remote place like this! It's too late to place blames, anyway. Do you think we can outrun them?"
Julien hesitated, then solemnly shook his head.
"A fight it is then. Good! It's about damn time," Alyce growled, testing the sharpness of her glaive with her finger. "How should we do this, milady?"
"Well…"
Leona opened her mouth, only to realize how out of depth she was. She was ready to fight to her last breath if needs be, but with just moments to spare, she had no idea how to set up her forces nor how to counter her enemies. Military strategies and planning had not been a part of her curriculum, and she felt a keen regret for that gap in her knowledge. Her men stared at her, looking at her to come up with a plan that she didn't have. Leona licked her lips and swallowed hard.
"Well, I…um…"
"If I may, milady?"
Sabine, fully armed and armored, stepped forward. Leona felt a wave of relief wash over her.
"Please, by all means, Captain."
Sabine turned on her heels to face her comrades, her eyes stern under the brow of her burgonet.
"We cannot take them here out on the open. The enemy outnumber us, and even if we could match their numbers, the Dragoons will run us down in minutes. So…our only hope here is to take advantage of the terrain."
Sabine nudged her head to her side, and all turned to look at the tall hill rising above the campsite.
"We will have to fight defensively from up that slope, and lure our enemies into coming at us uphill. We will form a line beneath the trees, and make a steady retreat towards the top as more rebels press against us. Those men will struggle on an uneven terrain, so we can exhaust them as we make use of our gradient. The foliage will also provide us with cover. Julien. Sister Isolde. Place yourselves in the front and send everything you have down the hill as soon as they come in range. But do not, I repeat, do not stay in the same place. Fall back a little further after each shot, each spell."
The Hunter and the Acolyte nodded.
"Now that's a plan I can get behind," Martin muttered, smiling.
"But that won't be enough," Sabine said, casting a stern glance at him. "We need to prevent the rebels from bringing their full numbers to bear, while making use of what mobility we possess. And that's where we come in, Martin." At the mention of his name, the Dragoon stiffened.
"You and I will engage their flanks on horseback as they climb, and draw some rebels away from the main assault."
Martin gaped in disbelief. "Are you mad?! Just the two of us charging into that mob? That's suicide!"
"Who said anything about charging in?" Sabine scoffed. "I've brought along a sheaf of javelins from Nantine. You can have half. We're performing the caracole maneuvers. That'll rile them enough to split their forces."
"Ugh, I hate the caracole!" Martin grumbled. "I never got high marks on javelins."
"Once we dispatch what enemies we manage to draw on ourselves, we follow the rebels up the hill and take them in the rear," Sabine continued. "I realize this plan may put quite a strain on you, Alyce, not to mention on your majesty…"
"I'll hold them all at bay single-handedly until all hell freezes over, if it needs be," Alyce smirked and thumped her gloved fist onto her breastplate.
"I will be with you every step, my child," Father Paul solemnly intoned. "My staff will not rest until this battle is over. The Light will smile on our just cause this day."
"I, too, will fight gladly," Leona said determinedly. "But…do you think this will work?"
"Nothing is certain in war, milady," Sabine replied. "I've planned this as best as I could, given what we have at hand. Whether we'll see this through…will depend on how hard we fight."
"Very well then," Leona said. Gripping the necklace of the sun emblem around her neck, the Princess offered up a quick prayer to the Light. She would not fail this day. She would not fail her men, and she will not die here to fail her people suffering under the yoke of the cult.
The wind was already bringing the scent of horseflesh, and the sounds of marching footsteps and clinking weapons.
"Everyone to their positions!" Leona called as she drew out her rapier. "Do your duty, and we shall prevail. We will teach these rebels to fear us yet!"
Leona watched tensely as the rebels trudged into the abandoned campsite. Trees and bushes concealed her position, as well as that of Alyce crouching next to her. They were positioned on a steep incline partway up the hill, which afforded them a decent view of their enemies. Father Paul stayed a few paces further behind, while Sister Isolde and Julien fanned out to either side. There was no sign of Martin and Sabine, but Leona trusted the Dragoons to be at the right place, hidden by the bend around the hill.
A handful of rebel Dragoons appeared first, as Julien had reported, only four horses carrying armed riders. The rest of the column followed, a mix of brigandine-clad Soldiers armed with spears and ill-equipped Militiamen obviously press-ganged from nearby villages. A few Hunters lurked at the flanks, their bows held at the ready. Leona thought she had spied a few men outfitted differently, but they stayed in the rear and had not come forth into view. All in all, Leona figured they were facing just over thirty rebels. She found small comfort in that there was no sign of imminent reinforcements.
A Dragoon riding at the head of the posse—obviously placed in charge—barked out a curt command, and a few men dispersed to rummage through the abandoned baggage. Leona and her men had been forced to leave all non-essential items behind, with so little time they had, and had only managed to tie their mounts to the trees off the road. The provisions and what scant funds they had at hand will be missed. But then again, they would have little need for anything else should the rebels prevail.
Leona had half-hoped that the rebels would move on, convinced by the abandoned campsite that their quarry had escaped their clutches. But the telltale signs of their presence were still too fresh. She saw one of the Hunters crouch down to examine some footsteps and trampled grass. In scant moments, he had summoned the Dragoon commander to his side to relay his findings, gesturing towards the hill. The commander nodded emphatically, turned, and ordered his men to form up in a group to advance. As the rebel posse drew closer to the hill, he nudged his mount forth and cleared his throat.
"Leona of Sossone!" the Dragoon barked. "I am Lieutenant Pritchard, of the Mounted Gendarmerie of the Holy Falahim Republic! By the authority invested in me by the Revolutionary Council, I hereby place you and your cohorts under arrest!"
The Holy Falahim Republic. The rebels spoke as if the kingdom no longer existed. Leona bristled and tightened her grip on her rapier.
"We know you are up there!" Pritchard continued. "You are outnumbered and surrounded! Any attempts to resist are futile. I order to you lay down your arms and surrender peacefully. Comply, and there will be no violence. Fight, and we will flush you out from that hill by force! Make your choice!"
Without turning, Leona held up her hand.
"Julien," she spat, "You know what to do. Give them our response."
With a twang of a bowstring, an arrow whistled past Pritchard's head, missing the lieutenant by a finger's width and sending his horse rearing in panic. The shot instead struck and fell one of the militiamen in the ranks, who sank with a throaty groan. The rebels reacted instantly, soldiers raising their shields and those without scattering from their positions.
"You've spat on our offer of mercy!" Lieutenant Pritchard raged, his face reddening with anger as he fought to calm his steed. "And you shall pay for it! First platoon, forward! Flush them out of those trees! Take the fugitive, give no quarters to the rest!"
About one third of the assembled rebel infantry immediately plunged into the overgrowth at the base of the hill. Leona noted that the Militiamen had been forced take the lead, presumably to screen the tougher Soldiers behind. Two Hunters trailed the detachment, ready to provide cover for the advance.
Leona and her men had been wise to take a refuge up the hill. The foliage hindered the rebels' progress and gaps soon began to show in between their ranks. The hardy terrain hardly favored Leona and her men, either. But unlike the Soldiers they had no need to maintain a tight formation to fight well, and thus could move about the battlefield more fluidly on one's own initiative. The loyalists under her command knew that individually, they trained and fought harder than the rabble facing them.
"A dozen paces uphill, milady?" Alyce suggested next to her. "We'll make those bastards tire themselves climbing up after us. We can pick them apart once their order breaks down."
"Good idea," Leona said. "Father Paul, come with us. Julien and Sister Isolde, harass the enemy as you fall back to us. Make sure you draw them forward!"
The Hunter and the Acolyte nodded, and slipped among the trees. Though hints of Isolde's white robes peeked through the dense foliage, Julien's green-and brown jerkin was nigh invisible to untrained eyes.
A dozen rebels trampled up the woods, weaving through thick bushes and low-hanging branches that snatched at their clothes. Protruding roots hidden by tall grasses caused a few to stumble, building up their frustrations. Apart from Hunters conscripted from rural villages, very few among rebel ranks had any experience negotiating this type of terrain, much less fight in it. For Soldiers used to fighting in neatly organized battles in open battlefields, the environment could not be any worse. To complicate the matters, the ground quickly turned into an upward incline, taxing those burdened with heavy shields and spears. So vexing had their advance become, that many had unconsciously lowered their guard against the hidden enemy.
The first casualty was claimed when an arrow shot from the trees ahead fell one of the Militiamen stumbling through a briar bush. The man gurgled horribly as he collapsed, his body borne aloft by stiff thorny branches. A warning cry went up as Soldiers hurriedly raised their shields. The Hunters trailing at their flanks quickly lifted their bows and loosened a couple shots towards where the arrow had come from.
By then, Julien was already moving, quietly treading along the left flank to a new position.
No sooner had the Soldiers raised their shields when a bolt of brilliant light forked from a different direction to strike at one of their own. The luckless Soldier barely had a time to scream as his shield burst into splinters along with most of his upper torso. Hunters responded with yet more shots, but there was still no sign of the enemy. A couple of the Militiamen, dismayed by the sorcerous attack, turned to retreat. Only when the Soldiers behind them brandished their weapons threateningly did the men reluctantly change their direction once more.
The corporal leading the detachment, despite his new allegiance to the cult, responded to the attack by falling back on his training in the king's army.
"Spread out and advance in double time! Flush them out before they set another ambush!" the Soldier yelled, waving his men onwards up the slope.
Inspired as it was, his orders ended up weakening the advance rather than strengthening it. Not only were the rebels widening the gaps in between them—stretching the platoon thin across a broad front—but the lighter-armed Militiamen soon found themselves having outpaced the Soldiers weighed down by heavier equipment. Divided, the rebels had become vulnerable.
Naturally, this was what Alyce had been counting on.
A pair of Militiamen stopped in their ascent to catch their breath while the Soldiers caught up to them. Their long-handled cudgels rested limply against the ground, as they had realized the hill was more akin to a small mountain and that their weapons served equally well as walking sticks. The men had just turned to look down the slope for signs of their comrades, when Alyce suddenly burst forth from a nearby bush with all the ferocity of a rabid bear.
The Guard Corps of old Elbion trained their members with hard discipline and punishing physical regimen, and the ascent up the hill had been a joke to Alyce. She had waited patiently in her hiding spot for the scattered Militiamen to reach her, and channeled her anger into a decisive assault when they did.
The first Militiamen had barely turned to face her when Alyce's glaive slammed down into his face with a bone-sundering force. The rebel fell soundlessly with his body gutted from crown to groin. His companion screamed, his eyes wide with panic and his cudgel held out in futile defiance. Alyce struck the man across his head with enough force to pulverize his jaw and twist his neck bone well out of its natural alignment.
A third man, drawn by the dead man's screams, stumbled through the woods and froze at the sight of Alyce, her face and breastplate already soaked with blood. The Militiaman lunged at her with the ferocity of a cornered man and the skills of an untrained peasant. Alyce let his rusty knife skid across her breastplate with hardly a scratch, then stuck the shaft of her polearm between his legs and tripped him. The Militiaman tumbled, and smacked face-first into a tree trunk. Alyce simply stabbed the poor man in his back, and the rebel gave a strange nasal cry through his broken nose as he died.
The first of the Soldiers finally came into Alyce's view. While the deaths of a few Militiamen had been unfortunate, the sighting of their elusive quarry had finally galvanized the surviving rebels. With the praise of the Prophet on their lips, the Soldiers surge up the slope towards the lone Guardswoman. Alyce made no attempt to hide, but hefted her glaive in preparation to meet the enemy.
The two Hunters followed in the Soldiers' wake. They had intended to shoot down the Guardswoman from afar, but the enthusiastic charge of their comrades blocked their line of sight. Though denied their aim, the Hunters kept their bows drawn to their ears, their eyes squinting attentively down the lengths of their arrow for any sign of the unseen bowman or the dreaded magic-wielder.
So attentive were the Hunters that they failed to spot a second enemy emerging from the thickets behind them.
Leona had remained hidden behind the trees even as the rebel Soldiers climbed past her position. She would have been easily discovered had the Soldiers been more cautious in their ascent. But the sight of Alyce mowing down the Militiamen in the open had lured the rebels onward, so the Princess found herself undetected behind the enemy advance. With the Soldiers concentrating on reaching Alyce, Leona pounced on the Hunters who had lingered back.
She cut down the first man with a well-placed thrust between the ribs. The shock of the unexpected pain sent the Hunter into convulsion. He lost the grip on his arrow as his back seized up, and it flew uselessly into the leafy bough above. Leona gripped the man's shoulder, yanked her sword back, and sliced it across the throat for good measure. The dying Hunter hacked blood, and Leona's cheek was sprayed with a fine mist of vitae.
The second Hunter recovered from the ambush faster than Leona had expected. He whirled around and loosened his arrow her direction. Leona just had enough time to yank the dead Hunter in front of her, and felt the impact of the arrow thudding into the corpse. She let the body drop and leapt forward before the Hunter could draw his bow again. The rebel had apparently realized his disadvantage, and so discarded his bow to draw a sharp dirk from his belt.
"You dare raise your hand against your liege lord?" Leona snarled.
"You're no princess of mine," the Hunter spat. He was only a teenager, not much younger than Leona, his sallow face prematurely hardened and creased by harsh living. "Nor was your father my king!"
The two combatants circled slowly, eyeing each other for openings and weaknesses. A dirk was a poor match against a honed rapier, but the Hunter showed no fear.
The young man moved first, and leapt forward with his blade aimed at Leona's throat. Leona riposted with an upward stroke, but the Hunter nimbly swayed to her right so the blade only ripped a gash in his leather tunic. He darted in again before Leona recovered. Leona hissed in pain as the dirk bit into her sword arm, cutting a shallow gash and staining her blouse with fresh blood. Her rapier dropped by a fraction, and the Hunter seized Leona's wrist and pinned her injured arm and her sword against her body. With his free hand, he brought down his dirk onto her exposed throat.
Leona twisted and caught the falling blow by the wrist with her free hand. The Princess and the Hunter began to tussle back and forth ferociously as they sought to overwhelm each other. Sweat broke out on Leona's forehead as she desperately strained to hold the knife at bay. She tried to free her injured arm from the enemy's iron grasp, so that she may bring her rapier to bear. The struggle only worsened the throbbing pain from bleeding gash, and Leona bit her lips to drown out the discomfort. Inches from her face, the Hunter seethed as he doubled his efforts to tear out Leona's throat open. The Princess was no slouch when it came to feats of strength, but her lean physique could not hope to match one toughened in the unforgiving wild. Inch by inch, the dirk was brought closer and closer towards her.
"My sister and my mother starved to death because of the tyrant," the young man snarled. "Now, I will have my revenge!"
The Hunter could've kept up his strength until he broke through Leona's dwindling stamina. But as though wanting to assert his superiority, the Hunter tossed his head back and savagely butted her in the face. Stars erupted in Leona's face as she fell back. Her tongue tasted the metallic tang of blood flowing freely from her nose. She rolled over once and landed hard on her back, barely managing to keep her grip on her rapier. By the time she shook her vision clear of the blinding flashes, the Hunter stood over her, knife glinting ominously in his grasp.
"Not so pretty now, are you, you little bitch!" he cried triumphantly.
Desperation lent Leona strength. She gathered her booted foot and kicked out, catching the Hunter squarely in his groin. The youth doubled over in agony, his dirk slipping out of his hand. Leona surged to her feet with her rapier already drawing back for a lunge. Letting out a maddened war cry that would have cowed a hundred men, she plunged her blade straight in between the Hunter's collarbone and neck deep down into his torso, until the hilt touched his shoulder.
Leona looked about the battlefield, her chest heaving with exhaustion, her face covered with the blood of her slain enemies and her own. Two Soldiers who had been scrambling back down the slope to assist the beleaguered Hunters had stopped in their tracks, paralyzed with fear by the sight of the glowering war-maiden. An arrow whistled down from somewhere above, perforating through one's neck while a ray of Lightning burned the other into cinders.
Perhaps those men had seen a monster. A glimpse of a future tyrant. Neither was what she wanted to be. Leona wanted to be a monarch her people truly deserved, beloved and respected by all. But she needed to reclaim her home first; and to fight enemies who knew no mercy, she sometimes needed to be a monster and a butcher in turn. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make.
Above her, she saw a knot of rebel Soldiers were engaging Alyce in a furious melee. Leona invoked the names of her warmongering forefathers under her breath as she charged up to join the melee. A lot more rebels were about to die.
Around the base of the hill, Sabine straightened in her saddle when she saw the first group of rebels start their climb. "It's time," she hissed as she kicked at her spurs. "We ride now."
"Ready when you are," Martin replied wearily as he nudged his mount after her. "Let's just hope those bastards aren't."
"Do you have all your wits about you?" Sabine asked.
"I haven't had a drink in four days, thank you very much," Martin sniffed indignantly. "If anything, I fight better after I have had one!"
"You're going to need a clear head if you want to pull off this maneuver. You'll end up toppling your horse if you're not careful."
"I said I'll be fine!" Martin snapped, as their horses broke into a gallop.
The caracole maneuver, named after the famed cavalry commander Marquis de Caracole, was devised a hundred years ago during Elbion's expeditionary wars against the Bosphorian Empire. His heavy Knights constantly outmaneuvered by lightly-armed nomadic horsemen, Caracole had instead armed his fastest riders with javelins to act as fast skirmishers. The hit-and-run tactics that had evolved from his decision played vital roles in Elbion's military campaigns henceforth, and earned Caracole a place in the kingdom's military history. A hundred years later, the caracole maneuver was performed again by the two Dragoons against the numerically superior enemy.
Martin and Sabine sprung from around the hill towards the gathered rebels, the tall grass masking their approach until the last moment. The rebels looked up in surprise to see two horsemen bearing down on them, each of them holding a javelin aloft. Such has been the ferocity and speed of their attack that no one had reacted until it was too late. Sabine waited until her horse was no longer than a stone's throw away from the rebel ranks, then snatched at her reins and dug her spurs into the horse's flank. The mount was not hers to begin with, but a replacement she had obtained from Nantine's stables. Sabine had not been sure if the horse would respond well to her cues. To her relief, the horse did not panic or rear, but began to veer to the left and turn away from the gathered men. At the crest of her turn, with her flank drawn parallel to the rebels, Sabine threw her javelin with skill honed by years of practice.
Her aim proved true, and the javelin plunged deep into the sternum of a Soldier. To her right, Martin executed the maneuver albeit with less finesse. His aim had been too high, and the Dragoon cursed the javelin sailed harmlessly above the rebel ranks. By the time posse reacted to the incursion, Sabine and Martin were already galloping out of harm's way, readying for a second pass. A few arrows sped after them, but they had been hastily shot and missed their target.
"Are they following us?" Sabine shouted.
"I hope so!" Martin yelled back, craning his around as far as he could. "I don't fancy doing that again! I don't need another reminder of how much I suck at javelins!"
"No need to hit anything! Harass them, rile them up however you can!"
Martin laughed.
"Ha! Now that's something I actually do quite well…!"
He plucked another javelin from his saddle and turned around for another run.
Lieutenant Pritchard swore as two horsemen rode away from his men again without even a scratch. He had just spent the last few minutes in growing alarm as the fugitives slaughtered his vanguard on the hillside. The panicked screams of his men had not even died away when the loyalists struck back, as if mocking his effort. This was supposed to have been a simple task; no more than a roundup of few demoralized criminals. Instead, he found himself short of nearly a dozen men even before he set eyes on his foes.
"Form ranks! Shield Wall to the right!" Pritchard yelled. "I want shields to the front! Hunters, move up! Shoot those horses down! Shoot them down before they come at us again!"
No one moved. Not even a single person lifted his weapon. His men either looked away or fixed him with a hostile glare.
"What the hell are you waiting for, you maggots!?" he hollered. "I just gave you an order!"
Someone began to laugh hysterically. Pritchard stiffened.
From the middle of the ranks, a Falahim cultist in embroidered crimson robes shuffled forward. His snake-like head was shaved smooth, its left half tattooed to the scalp with intricate calligraphy. Thick eyeglasses framed his yellow, cat-like eyes. His hunched shoulders shook as he continued to laugh.
"What is it now?" Pritchard said warily.
The cultist steadied himself as he choked back his laughter. "You…messed up!"
"I did not!" Pritchard growled. "I will soon have the fugitives cornered. I have the situation fully under control—"
"Really? At what point did you have this…situation under control?" the cultist drawled. "When you ignored my advice to attack them before sunrise? Or was it when you lost your head and decided to split up your forces? Just what aspect of this mission do you have under control…Lieutenant? You are losing your men while the fugitives are running circles around us!"
"That's enough from you!" Pritchard snapped. "You have no right to criticize me! This is a military matter, not cult business. I'm in command here, I make the decisions!"
"Oh, but I beg to differ!" All humor quickly drained out from the cultist. "You see, I am the eyes and ears of the Prophet. It is my duty to safeguard the faiths of our men from heresies…and from incompetent leaders. You on the other hand…is a fool who should've never received your commission if not for politicking and bribery. And I cannot let you waste anymore lives while our quarry slips away from our fingers. Effective immediately, I am taking over command of our group. You are clearly no longer fit to lead these men."
"You can't—"
"Oh, but I did! Besides, your men don't seem to have any trouble with the new arrangement, especially after your last pathetic performance. If you still protest, you may take it up with them personally."
The rebels closed ranks tightly around the cultist, reverentially grasping their cult markings. Pritchard looked in vain for sympathetic faces.
"But I'm the officer of the Republic—"
"And the Prophet is the Republic," the cultist smoothly interjected. "He now wills that you relinquish command for the greater good. Will you obey, or will you defy him?"
"I…will obey," Pritchard replied bitterly, knowing he had no choices.
"Excellent!" the cultist grinned. "Now then…if there is any justice, I should have you executed for incompetence. But I won't do that… The last time I checked, you are one of the few on horseback and…we can't catch up to those interlopers on foot."
"So I'm supposed to hand over all the credit to you while I chase down stragglers?"
"Keep them off our backs while I personally see this whole business to the finish…and perhaps I may put in a kind word to the council. Earn yourself a little redemption, eh? Or a little reprieve from your impending punishment?"
Pritchard bristled, but knew better than to carry the argument any further.
"Dragoons, to me!" he roared as he spurred his mount after the retreating enemy. "We must catch them before they get away!"
As four Dragoons galloped into the distance, the cultist turned towards the remaining men of the faith, and lifted his hands, its fingers sheathed in long nail guards of silver and bronze.
"My children," the cultist crooned. "Shall we take a stroll?"
The first Soldier to reach her fell back with his helmet crushed into his skull. Alyce caught the next back on her return swing and kicked away a thrusting spear of another aimed towards her thigh.
A corporal, his pockmarked face fuming as he raved at his dying men, rushed her with his spear held overhead. Something heavy whistled by Alyce's head, and the corporal was tumbling down the slope before he could close in, his front teeth shattered by a thrown rock.
Alyce turned and stared at Father Paul with a raised eyebrow. The Cleric smiled faintly as he stooped to find another projectile.
"I used to chase away sparrows from my father's fields as a child. It seems I have lost none of my aim after all these years."
"I thought clergymen weren't supposed to engage in a combat, Father," Alyce laughed as she held back more Soldiers. "Have you come to your senses and decided to swap your staff for a weapon?"
"The Light allows its servants to fight to protect their faith and flock, as long as we do not shed blood." Father Paul replied. His tall frame heaved as he hurled another piece of rock at the rebel ranks. "As far as I can see, concussions won't cause our guests to bleed…much."
Held in check by Alyce's fearsome skills, the Soldiers found themselves in a dire position when Leona came up from behind them with bared blade. All the while, Julien and Sister Isolde steadily picked off the rebels one by one. There was very little the Soldiers could do then, and soon the last of them were little more than lifeless bodies littering the slope.
"We're holding them off!" Alyce crowed as Leona joined them. "Those bastards can't handle fighting in a place like this. Perhaps we can beat them off for good?"
"Not without exacting their pound of flesh, I fear," Father Paul said as he came forward. "Let me take a look at your nose, milady. By Light, you've taken quite a beating!"
"It's not too bad," Leona squeaked through her rapidly swelling nose. She swiped her arm across her lip, scraping away flakes of drying blood that had flowed down from her nose.
"I don't think any of the bones are broken," Father Paul said as he gingerly prodded the bridge of Leona's bloody nose. "Thank Light for that! A crooked nose is hardly a look befitting a future queen!" He quickly held up his staff and bathed Leona in warm light, clearing away the swell in seconds.
"I rather think it would've suited her majesty, if I may be so bold," Alyce jested. "Folks appreciate lords who aren't afraid to earn battle scars."
Leona had just begun to reply when the world exploded around her.
An immense force smashed into a copse of trees about the princess' retinue, reducing the foliage into a storm of splinters and mulched fiber. The shockwave pitched Leona to the ground before she could brace herself. She tumbled over head twice before landing roughly on her back. Her head bounced against a protruding rock and raised a bruised lump behind her ear. Her ears rang; her vision became a blur. The sky above seemed to spin uncontrollably on itself. She lay on the ground, stunned, momentarily robbed of all senses.
A helmeted head appeared above her. Leona blinked, trying to clear her vision. A voice echoed seemingly from far away, pleading, urgent. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders, raising her up from the ground, patting her down for injuries. Leona clenched her eyes shut and shook her head vigorously. Slowly, her world settled and a measure of calm returned to her. She opened her eyes again and saw Alyce.
"Milady, are you alright!?"
Leona swallowed and nodded shakily. Her rapier lay discarded on the ground nearby, knocked out her grip in the concussion, and the Princess stooped down to recover her weapon.
"What happened?" she croaked.
Alyce turned her gaze down the slope, her expression grim. "Trouble."
A fresh wave of rebel fighters was swarming up through the woods in greater numbers. This time, soldiers came on without any regard for order, each man scaling and scrabbling up the hillside as they screamed obscenities. A few remaining Hunters prowled at the flanks, and trees whistled as they took ranging shots towards Leona and her men. But those were but the least of their worries.
Amidst the amassed Soldiers marched a trio of robed cultists. They did not appear any different from renegade zealots and preachers Leona had seen during her flight south. These cultists certainly carried themselves with same chilling dignity, conveying confident faith in the twisted creed they espoused. Each of the men, however, carried an open tome of cracked black leather and bronze bindings in their hands. As one, the cultists droned a sibilant chant while their fingers hovered above the tomes, writhing along with the rhythm. The vellum pages turned by themselves, seemingly imbued with life of their own.
"Cabalists!" Sister Isolde gasped. "Wielders of dark magic!"
The Cabalist advancing on the right raised his hand high as his chanting reached a crescendo. A stream of sickly, dark energy flowed from within the pages of his tome and coalesced into a misshapen lump on his open palm. He lashed out and hurled the mass of dark magic onwards. A chilling moan echoed in the air like a last gasp of a dying man. The sorcerous lump rapidly grew in mass as it hurtled through the forest, swelling to a size of a grown man's head. Any bushes and trees caught in its path withered and died. Leona and her men reeled as the projectile landed scant feet from them in an explosion of dirt and rock. The lump burst into smaller globules of crackling energy as if it were liquid, peppering the surroundings with steaming craters. The sorcerous blasts carved barren furrows through the foliage that left the rebel soldiers with clear paths upward.
"Milady, we can't withstand an attack like that! Any minute now and they'll blow us into pieces!" Alyce exclaimed, her face paling.
"We can't fall back!" Leona shouted. "Give them ground and they'll herd us to the peak too quickly! We'll be cornered!"
Any further argument ended as the rebel Soldiers reached them. Yelling pledges to their new republic, the turncoats lunged uphill with their spears held low. Alyce and Leona found themselves fighting for their lives, blades staining red once more.
"We must fall back, milady!" Alyce shouted as she unbalanced a Soldier with a thrust to his face. Stepping forward, she knocked away his spear aside and decapitated him with a single thrust to his throat. The man behind received a swift kick to his sternum, toppling back down the slippery slope. "There are just too many of them!"
"We must hold on a little longer!" Leona responded, even as a lucky spear thrust cut open a shallow wound on her temple. Blood began to drip down her left eyelids, blinding her vision. "Martin and Sabine will come back for us! They need more time!" Leona stepped away from her fight to quickly swipe the blood off her face. The sleeve of her grubby blouse came away wet and bloody.
Another glob of dark magic slammed home, this time in between Alyce and Leona. A thick cloud of dust engulfed the whole slope, prompting Leona to turn away and shield her face. The blast disintegrated a handful of rebel Soldiers unlucky to be within vicinity. Droplets of blood and flecks of ripped flesh choked the air and Leona gagged and coughed in the vile concoction. Then she heard a familiar voice, screaming out in agony.
"Alyce!"
As the dust cloud settled Leona found her bodyguard slumped on the ground, her body bent over in pain. One of the ricocheting globules had caught Alyce on her lower abdomen. The dark magic had melted a jagged hole through her steel breastplate. The metal around the hole in her ruined armor was corroding rapidly, while the flesh underneath was charred black and sizzling with acrid smoke. Despite her pain, she refused to let go of her glaive.
"Oh, Light," Leona gasped. "Father Paul! We need you here, quickly!"
A lone rebel Soldier charged up the slope, baying for blood as he angled his spear towards Alyce's fallen form. Before Leona could react, a fork of Lightning punched him off his feet and rammed his body against a tree. Sister Isolde scurried towards them, closely followed by Father Paul.
"See to her!" Leona shouted as she fought off more Soldiers who have reached her. The rebels have seen Alyce fall, and emboldened, redoubled their efforts to overwhelm the loyalists. Spearheads snaked towards Leona's arms and legs, slicing through her breeches and shirt. Rough hands reached out to grab her and pin her to the ground, perhaps to take her prisoner. Leona flicked her blade left and right without pause, slicing open palms and batting away spears. She couldn't hold them back for long; without Alyce's heavier armor and weapon, rebels had little to fear from her.
An arrow punched into a Soldier's forehead and dropped him like a puppet with cut strings. A bolt of light followed, sweeping off another two men from their feet and scattering the rest. Leona, to her relief, found herself with a moment of reprieve.
"How is she!?" she asked, looking back. Father Paul had managed unbuckled Alyce's breastplate and laid her wound bare. His staff hovered above her abdomen, its shedding light slowly undoing the sizzling scar.
"I need to move her," the Cleric said urgently. "Wounds like this is difficult, even with what powers I can bring forth. I need—I need to lay her someplace flat, someplace I can concentrate undisturbed. Otherwise her injuries will claim her."
Alyce groaned through her teeth, her face twitching with each jolt of pain. Looking at her, Leona knew they had but one option.
"Fall back," she ordered. "Father Paul, see if you can bring Alyce to the top. Do what you can for her. The rest of you, go with him, and guard him with your lives. And I…I'll try and hold the rebels back here for long as I can."
Three sets of wide eyes stared back.
"You can't be serious!" Julien blurted out. "You've seen what those Cabalists can do! We can't leave you here to fend them off by yourself!"
"That was not a request," Leona snapped, harsher than she had intended. "There are still more Soldiers out there who can rip you apart close up. You think you can loosen enough arrows before that happens?!"
"Better to try than handing yourself over to them on a platter. If those cultists get to you, then there will be no more Elbion." Julien stared back defiantly.
"But—"
"Let us hold them for you. We'll bleed them for every step they take! Look after Alyce, and wait for us at the peak, milady."
"He's right," Isolde chimed in. "I may not wield a weapon but…I can try and deal with the Cabalists. The power I serve is an anathema to their dark arts. Perhaps it's better that I fight here in your stead, than fall back?"
"I can't retreat while others put themselves in danger…" Leona muttered.
"No, but with respect, milady, it is happening whether you like it or not," Julien replied.
Leona grimly stared at her men. She was running out of time, and there was little point swaying her men.
"Father Paul, we'll carry Alyce between the two of us. We make for the top," she said. "Julien, Sister Isolde…watch yourselves. I'll be expecting you soon."
"For Elbion, milady," Isolde whispered.
"Aye, for Elbion."
Leona sheathed her blade and hoisted up Alyce's semi-conscious body with Father Paul. They draped each of her arms around their shoulders and began to climb. Alyce's bulky armor and glaive made the job more difficult, and the progress was slow.
Behind her, Leona could hear the enemy baying for blood as they resumed the attack.
Four rebel Dragoons galloped across the meadow around the hill, chasing after the two horsemen ahead of them. They could see their quarry fleeing through the tall grasses and sparse trees, perhaps seeking refuge in the distant woods. The loyalists have kept their distance so far and refused to give battle, but their mounts were clearly slowing from exhaustion. Lieutenant Pritchard drew out his sword as he kicked at his spurs.
"Halt and face the judgment of the Republic!" he hollered. "Flee, and be forever damned as cowards!"
Sabine twisted around in her saddle to assess her pursuers. Four horsemen, two armed with long spears and the rest with long swords. She was certain that the rebels weren't match for her individually, but it was a different matter altogether when fighting outnumbered. Beside her, Martin stood in his stirrups, twisted around, hurled a javelin. The projectile fell well short of the closing Dragoons.
"Darn it, darn it all!" Martin cursed as he plucked up another javelin.
"You're holding it too tight!" Sabine shouted.
"What?!"
"Loosen your grip! Let the javelin slip off your fingers before you swing your arm back down!"
Martin frowned, and tugged his reins to slow pace. He squinted his eyes, waited for the Dragoons to come closer, and hurled the javelin again.
His grip was still too tight. Sabine knew it even before the javelin left his hand. Martin had clearly been aiming for the rebel Lieutenant leading the charge, but the javelin missed him by a hand's width. To Sabine's mild surprise, however, the javelin instead managed to bury itself in the chest of a Dragoon's horse riding behind him. The horse screamed as it died, and its lifeless bulk plowed headlong into the ground as its forelegs gave away. Its rider yelled out in surprise before he was pitched forward by the momentum. His heavy spear snagged in the dirt and snapped in half, along with several of the Dragoon's bones. The rebel stirred feebly the ground, rapidly losing consciousness.
"I had meant to do that!" Martin preened with a smug grin plastered on his face. "I always knew I was a fast learner!"
"Good for you," Sabine deadpanned. "But we'll have to do more. If we ride any further, we won't be able to make it back in time to reinforce the others."
She pulled hard on her reins and brought her horse to a stop.
"We're going to face them here, right now. Martin, I need you to take out that rebel Dragoon with the spear. You'll have to charge him."
"What?! Why me?" Martin exclaimed, his exhilaration suddenly evaporating.
"You're the one with the heavy spear," Sabine pointed out. "Between us, you've got the only weapon that can match that Dragoon's reach. Either that, or you'll going to have to take on the other two by yourself. What's it going to be?"
Martin sighed as he eyed the three rebels galloping towards them. "Well, if you put it that way…"
The Dragoon plucked his heavy spear from his saddle and tucked it securely under his arm. He took a long breath to steady his nerve.
"Just try not to tense up," Sabine advised, drawing her longsword from the scabbard. "I've seen you practice with a lance. You're…actually a pretty decent jouster. At least in my opinion. You can handle this."
Martin's face broke into a relieved smile.
"Thank you," he breathed, before kicking his spurs. "Hiyahh!"
Martin's steed broke into a charge, bearing its rider closer towards the rebels. Sensing his intention, the opposing horseman with a spear pulled ahead to meet the challenge. The two Dragoons hurtled headlong towards each other at full speed, the wicked point of their spears aimed at each other's hearts.
Sabine, galloping closely behind, shook her head with disapproval. Truth be told, Martin de Massey was an average jouster at best, and that was on his good days. In her opinion, the man was a lazy bum who cared too much about the perks that came with his position. The poor sod was blessed with an incredible luck, though, which had bailed him out of tight spots more than once. But Sabine saw that Martin's lucky streak was about to come to an end. He was sitting too straight in his saddle. And he was still gripping his spear too tight. The way he was, his opponent was going to skewer Martin. The rebels knew it. Sabine knew it. And from the terrified scream ripping from his throat, Martin knew it, too.
Sabine knew she was a perfectionist, sometime excessively so. She had grown accustomed to finding faults in everyone ever since she entered the King's service—including her own—and it always had been near-impossible to satisfy her own high standards. It had brought her victories as often as she made enemies. But just because she deplored Martin's substandard skills didn't mean she was going to sit idly by and let him die. There were more important matters at stake.
So instead, Sabine snatched up a javelin with her free hand and hurled it. She winced in distaste, sensing her aim had been slightly off. But it was enough to do the job required. The javelin sailed through the air ahead of Martin, and glanced off against the helmet of his opponent. The blow had only put a minor dent on the rebel's helmet instead of piercing it, as Sabine expected. But the impact alone was enough daze him and break his concentration from the duel.
Martin was clever enough to take advantage of the distraction.
Before the rebel Dragoon could regain his wits, his opponent was upon him. As their horses passed each other, Martin's spear caught him squarely in his chest. The shock of the charge forced the spear point through the metal breastplate and snatched the rider bodily from the saddle. Martin's terrified scream turned into an exhilarating whoop of victory as the Dragoon rode his momentum forward. He lowered his spear and let the lifeless corpse of his defeated opponent slide down the shaft onto the ground.
Lieutenant Pritchard and his single surviving crony descended on Sabine, their swords drawn. She could sense doubt creeping into the rebel officer's fervor, though not enough to dissuade from the fight at hand. Her longsword met the lieutenant's own with a jarring clang. Sabine let her blade slide off as Pritchard rode past her, and swung it up again in a heartbeat to parry a blow from the second Dragoon. She wheeled her mount around and met Pritchard's second blow. Blades collided and strained against each other as two Dragoons sought to overpower one another. Their mounts thrashed beneath them, chomping and lashing out their hooves to unbalance the struggling riders.
Pritchard swung the rim of his small shield towards Sabine's helmet, hoping to stun her. Sabine took one hand off her grip on the sword and batted the shield away before the blow connected. From the corner of her eye, she spied the second Dragoon wheel around to the right, intending to catch her vulnerable flank while she was preoccupied.
Sabine let her instinct take over, and lunged bodily at her opponent. Her hand grasped the rim of Pritchard's breastplate and pushed with all of her weight behind. They tumbled noisily from the saddles as one jumbled mess. Pritchard flailed in surprise as he slammed into the ground with Sabine on top of him.
The rebel Lieutenant opened his mouth to say something, only Sabine didn't give him the chance. She reversed the grip on her sword and plunged it straight down his exposed throat.
Pritchard struggled to reach for his fallen sword even as he died, as if unwilling to give up without completing his mission. Sabine did not care. She was already moving, bracing to face the charge from the last surviving Dragoon.
The lone rebel hesitated before her, however, as if unsure of his chances. Sabine knew he could easily ride her down while she was unhorsed. But the fool could not make his mind up in time, which proved to be his downfall. Whooping at the top of his lungs, Martin charged the rebel from behind and lanced him through with his spear before he could ride clear.
"Three out of four!" Martin exclaimed ecstatically, flush with his victory. "A tally worthy of a great horseman such as I! Thanks for taking care of that lieutenant, by the way. It would've been selfish of me to hog all the glory!"
"Sure, sure. A fine job." Sabine brushed him aside as she remounted her horse. "But we don't have time to tarry! We must ride to her majesty. I pray that we are not too late!"
Julien gritted his teeth as he loosened another arrow. His shoulder burned and ached from tugging his bowstring without rest. His quiver felt light, and not every shot he made had found its mark. There was no way to replenish his supply. With the rebels so close, he could not afford to recover the arrows from the dead rebels. Between the Sister and himself, they had managed to wound or kill a handful more men. But there were still more than a dozen traitors moving towards them. If it hadn't been for the Cabalists behind them, most men would've given up the fight.
A glob of Flux rammed into the tree he was sheltering behind and obliterated the top of its trunk. Julien ducked as splinters and leaves rained all around him.
"We need more time," he murmured. He needed to stall the rebels here until the Princess reached the top.
"I'll try to draw some of them away from here," he yelled towards Sister Isolde. "See if you can head up the hill!"
Julien darted out from his cover into the open without waiting to hear the reply. He shot off one of his dwindling arrows, and dashed into the trees to the far left. He didn't bother concealing himself, hoping the rebels would catch sight of him.
Glancing back, Julien saw the lead Cabalist gesture towards him. Two Soldiers broke off to pursue him, accompanied by one of the Hunters. He had hoped more would follow. Still, even three men would be more than a challenge to fight off. Little by little, Julien drew his pursuers away from the battlefield until he could not see the rest.
Far on the right, Isolde did not fall back despite Julien's urging. Though rebel Soldiers kept healthy distance from her spells, the Cabalists had little qualms facing her. One of their number had closed on her position until they were but a stone's throw away from each other. Neither wanted to back down from the confrontation. The air between them crackled as magical power surged, waiting to be unleashed.
Contrary to popular belief, Isolde had learned much about dark magic during her years at the seminary. As an adherent to the Light, she had not been taught to wield it. But she was expected to understand its power, and the dangers that arose from reckless and uninformed practices. Uncontrolled dark magic, after all, always ended up controlling those who used it. Too many misguided men delved into dangerous lore only to lose everything, including their free will and sanity.
The Cabalist who faced her now had evidently neglected those vital lessons. The man virtually stank of untamed magical energy, its vile influence corrupting his body into skeletal thinness under his robes. Thick black veins crept up his arms and face like creeping vines. His sunken eyes had taken on an unhealthy glow of an addict. His hair had fallen out in clumps, leaving bald patches covered in sickly rashes. The Cabalist seemed to care not for his appearance, only twitching and giggling as he eyed his opponent with insatiable hunger.
It was Isolde's responsibility as an Acolyte to hunt down such degenerates who had given themselves wholly to darkness. She still felt pity and disgust in equal measure.
The Cabalist babbled an incantation under his breath, conjuring a glob of volatile shadow that hurtled towards her. Isolde countered it with a spell of her own, a lance of Lightning shattering the orb of Flux in midair. The cultist's spells were powerful, but hardly subtle. There was no finesse behind it, only clumps of raw, unrefined power put together by malicious will. Isolde closed her eyes in concentration as she gathered a fraction of the Light's blessings inside her. Runic formulae she had spent years mastering flowed effortlessly through her mind as her lips recited the holy verses almost on their own accord. In seconds, her keen mind calculated fine angles of charged sunlight and shaped the symmetrical pathways of its explosion. It was beautiful, elegant, and deadly.
With the last verse of her spell, Isolde opened her eyes and unleashed her Lightning. The Cabalist had conjured another Flux spell by then, and another dark mass even bigger than the first was already almost on her. It did not matter. The bolt of pure light pierced the Flux and blew it into smithereens, as if condemning the shoddiness its construction. Isolde saw the Cabalist's magic-addled eye widen at the luminous light coming for him. He tried in vain to cast another spell, frantically pawing through the grimy and tattered pages of his tome. Lightning engulfed his twisted form in a burst of luminance, burning every mote of dark magic suffusing him. The cultist slowly toppled backward, his body burned to crisp. White smoke trailed out from his mouth, held wide open in rictus mid-scream.
Isolde uttered a quick prayer of benediction under her breath. The cultist may be dead, but his soul would be sent into afterlife intact before darkness consumed it utterly.
The Acolyte had barely moved away when her body was suddenly seized by a fit of searing agony. Isolde screamed as she fell to the ground, her body convulsing with currents of fell energy. The blood in her veins were boiling. She felt as if daggers were stabbing into her very soul, flaying it layer by layer until her sense of self melted away. Flashing lights swamped her vision as her mind struggled to cope with the unexpected surge of trauma. Isolde dimly registered the unclean touch of dark magic rampaging through her; had she not been a practitioner of its antithesis, the attack would have been fatal.
Isolde found herself gasping on her back as the pain finally ebbed away. The attack had left her helplessly drained and barely clinging to consciousness. Her body ached every time she tried to move her limbs. As her vision cleared, she just managed craned her neck to see bulky silhouettes close in around her. A frightening face of a cultist was staring down at her from behind a thick eyeglass, his expression contorted with joyful cruelty. Isolde choked back a sob, silently chiding herself for being taken unawares while distracted by her duel.
"This one is still alive," the cultist chortled. "Bring her! I have some…delightful plans in store for her later!"
Isolde tried to be brave as two burly Soldiers dragged her to her feet and bound her hands together. But all her agonized mind could not help but despair.
After a lengthy chase, the Soldiers finally caught up to their quarry far from the battlefield.
Julien glared defiantly as the first of his pursuers clambered into view, and drew his bowstring closer to his ear. In theory, there was little a single Hunter could do against three armed and determined foes. But Julien was fast, and he knew his woodcraft very well. He had outplaced his pursuers early on, and that gave him just enough time to prepare a few surprises while they tracked him down.
The rebel Soldier seemed surprised to see his quarry standing his ground among the trees instead of fleeing further. He raised his shield in front of him and charged at the Hunter, certain the arrow would do no harm.
"I got you now—urgh!"
The Soldier cried out as he tripped and fell forward. In his haste to close distance, the man had not seen several loops protruding from the ground, improvised by knotting the heads of tall grass together. It was an old hunting trick Julien had learned from his father, designed to trip running animals as they ran. Julien loosened his bow then, and the arrow stabbed into a Soldier following behind before he could bring his shield up.
The fallen Soldier slowly picked himself up, and he glowered when he saw Julien smiling at his misfortune. He picked up his weapons and resumed his advance, though at a slower pace as he scanned the ground below him for more surprises.
"You'll pay for that, you brat!" the Soldier spat. "Your cute tricks won't work twice!"
With his eyes focused around his feet, the rebel failed to notice a thin cord stretched across his path at head level, partly hidden by low-hanging branches. The string snapped as his helmet snagged it. The Soldier looked up in alarm a second before a thick branch that had been bent out of the way slapped back into position and into his left thigh.
Julien had selected the branch well, for the supple limb swung back with a force of a swinging club. It certainly had lent momentum to a sharp skinning knife that he had tied to it. The rebel howled as the knife was driven into his leg. He dropped his spear and tried to tug the branch away, but an arrow pierced his throat before he could. The dying man flopped to the ground like dead fish.
Julien took a moment to dismantle his trap and retrieve his skinning knife. If his father could inspect the traps he set up himself, he would have doubtless approve of their craftsmanship.
"Two down, one to go," Julien whispered, and melted into the trees once more.
The Hunter paused in his track, as if sensing something awry. His head, shrouded in a baggy leather hood, swiveled left and right scanning for his quarry. He trod the ground softly, taking care not to step on branches or roll loose gravel. The short bow clutched in his hands was notched and its bowstring partly drawn, ready to loosen an arrow in an instant the enemy broke cover. In truth, the sparse trees and shrubs dotting this part of the hillside did not provide many places for a man to hide behind. This was a poor hunting ground, where a cornered animal with enough wits about it could spot a predator five stone's throw away. Julien certainly knew it. He was pretty sure this rebel filth knew it, too, if he was brought up learning his craft properly.
But Julien had spent all his youth in one of the thickest and darkest forests in Elbion, tutored from birth by an accomplished tracker and a canny game warden. His father knew tricks most poachers and fellow Hunters didn't, and Julien had benefitted immensely from that wisdom. In a place where a moment of inattention could cost you a dinner, a bounty, or even life, it was worth hanging on to every advice you could get. By his early teens, Julien had learned to set traps, erase his tracks, and melt away into the woods with nary a sound. But most importantly, he had learned to read his prey.
"Men, animals…in the end, they're all predictable," his father had told him once, during one of their countless forays into the dark woods. "What they know depends on what they see, and what they do see comes from what they already know."
"So…we should come at them without them seeing us?" Julien had asked, confused.
"Sure, if you can," his father had shrugged. "But all of us automatically expect our enemies to come at us unseen. So, we always look out for hidden foes and won't be so surprised when they show up. But…it takes a true Hunter to come at them in ways they don't expect. Do that, and no one will see you until you tap them on the shoulders."
Julien had not really known what that meant back then. It was only during the heat of battle, when the prey you stalked hunted you in return, that the idea made sense. This rebel for instance… Julien was pretty sure that if he made even a single movement, he would be dead with an arrow through his heart. After all, he was hidden not ten paces away from his quarry, and at this distance even a novice with a bow could draw bead on him. But he had noticed how the rebel kept fixating on thicker trees, as if he had expected Julien to be hiding behind one. It made sense, as the trees were the only things big enough around here to completely hide a man as he readied his bow. Had the rebel paid closer attention to his surroundings though, he would have seen Julien crouched behind a smaller bush, patiently waiting for him to draw closer.
The traitor expected his opponent to hide behind a tree, and so unwittingly blinded himself to everything else. His last mistake.
The Hunter drew closer to Julien's hiding spot, then paused as he stooped down to study something on the ground. Perhaps it was a track, or something that might look like a track. But at that instant, he momentarily lowered his bow and turned his gaze, and that was when Julien struck.
His toned legs launching him forward from behind the bushes, Julien sprang towards his prey like a wolf. There had been no time to notch his bow, but he had other skills to fall back on in a fight. The rebel had started to come around the moment he heard the rustle, but he was too slow. Julien carried the momentum and barged shoulder-first into his enemy, knocking him flat onto the ground. The rebel was no bigger than him, and Julien was glad of it. The short bow tumbled away from his hands, the half-drawn arrow tumbling harmlessly away. Even before the rebel regained his wits, Julien was standing above him with his bow drawn tight, the sharp tip of an arrow aimed squarely at the heart.
Julien had been readying himself for this moment patiently. He had wanted to curse at the rebel, damn him for betraying the kingdom and putting his kinfolk in danger before he put him out of his misery. It would've been an ugly business, but he would've taken satisfaction from it just the same. But what words he had planned to say fled his mind when he laid his eyes on his helpless foe properly for the first time.
The rebel's hood had been thrown back during the tussle, revealing not the face of a hard-bitten thug or a rabid fanatic, but that of a young girl, petite and slim. Her long brown hair was neatly tied back in a single braid, baring her tanned, lightly freckled cheeks and a slight overbite. She stared up at him with large brown eyes, filled with fear and frantic denial of her impending death. The girl would not have been hardly older than himself.
"Please," the girl whimpered, and gulped. Tears of fright ran down from her eyes. "I had no choice. They took my mother and brother. They told me they would let them go if I helped…!"
Julien's head spun. He locked his eyes with the girl and knew right there and then that he wasn't facing down some rebel cultist. She was nothing more than an innocent peasant girl, probably from a forest village like himself. She was a version of himself, or any of the youths he had grown up with at Wiltshire—someone who loved her family and would do anything to protect them. Had the fates turned out different, it would've been him hunting down Princess Leona while his kin languished in captivity…! His aim wavered, and Julien felt his bow lower by a fraction.
Too late did Julien realize his mistake. The girl sprang up on her haunches and lunged bodily into his midriff. Air was driven out from his lungs as Julien fell to his back, his bow slipping from his hands. The girl straddled him, and a pair of hands suddenly clamped around his throat even before Julien knew what was happening. The grip tightened, and he flailed frantically, clawing at the girl above him, trying to dislodge her. But desperation must've lent her strength, for the girl's hands squeezed his windpipe with an iron grip. Her fingers dug into his neck, leaving fresh bruises. Julien couldn't even make a noise as he was slowly strangled to death.
He was thrashing like a dying fish, his lungs desperately squeezing for air. His face felt as if it was about to burst. Heartbeats rang as loud as drums in his ears. The girl's face hovered above his dimming vision, her delicate features contorted with fear and panic. Julien tugged at her arms and slammed his knees against her, but she would not move. She was crying, screaming, or both. Something about…her mother? Someone named Bryce…probably her brother. His hearing was growing fainter by the second.
Julien scrabbled for his skinning knife at his belt, but the girl's legs were in the way. He desperately reached his hands about him, for anything that could save him. Just as his vision grew dark, Julien felt his fingers close around something solid and rough. A rock, one of hundreds littering the hillside. Marshalling what little strength remained in him, Julien swung his arm up and smashed it into the head of his would-be killer.
He immediately felt the grip around his neck loosen. He gasped desperately and felt air rush back into his lungs, filling him a much needed strength. His vision and hearing returned to him, and Julien saw the girl reel above him, stunned by the fierce blow to her head. An undeniable urge to survive gripped him then, and he was no longer a rational human being but an animal willing to kill so it could live. Julien roared, and hit the girl again. She fell away from him, and he scrambled up to pounce on his fallen foe. He didn't hear her pitiful screams and cries for mercy, drowned out by his own outbursts. He was yelling and hitting her again and again with that rock until she no longer moved…
Suddenly it was over. Clarity returned to him at last, and Julien finally realized what he had done. He still held that blood-stained rock high in his trembling hand, about to land another blow—though there was clearly no need for that. The girl was dead, beyond a doubt. She lay before him broken, her face wet with blood, dull eyes wide open. Julien cried out in horror and scrambled away, throwing the rock away in disgust. There was blood on his clothes and face, and he pawed himself in vain hoping he could clean it away. He had killed before, for home and for the kingdom. But now, he realized he had just become a murderer.
Julien again looked upon at the dead girl. Somewhere, he knew, was a woman and a boy in the clutches of the cult, waiting desperately for a daughter and a sister who, because of him, would never return to them. He knew he would never forget it as long as he lived.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Julien blubbered. His shoulders shook as he began to sob. "I'm so sorry… But I have people I need to protect, too."
It had taken them considerable time before they reached the top of the hill. Still panting from her arduous climb, Leona stood guard while Alyce reclined on the grassy knoll against a large boulder. She doubted she would've made it had Father Paul not been there to help her. He had borne Alyce aloft without complaint, and began tending to her wound once she was laid down comfortably. Pain seemed to ease slowly but steadily. Alyce's groans had ebbed to a fevered murmur as flesh knitted itself together under the healing light. She had feebly attempted to sit herself up many times, but Leona bade her to lie back each time.
The prospects seemed grim. They couldn't descend the hill on the other side at the moment. They needed more time before Alyce could walk on her own again, and even then she would not be in a proper shape to fight. The only hope was that Julien and Sister Isolde held the rebels long enough for Martin and Sabine to strike them from the rear. But sound of battle from below had died down, and Leona feared for the worst.
"Anytime now, Father," Leona murmured, her hand gripping the hilt of her sword.
"As much as I would love to, I'm afraid I can't hurry this along, your highness," Paul replied. Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he pooled his concentration into his task.
Leona gazed back down the hill. No one was moving towards her yet, and she silently willed her men to show up. It would weigh heavy on her conscious if any one of them had fallen in service to her.
A long, phlegmy snort interrupted her reverie.
Leona whirled around, and saw to her surprise a hammock drawn across two leafy trees on the hilltop some distance behind her. In their haste to bring Alyce to safety, Father Paul and she had somehow both missed it. A tethered mare, laden with heavy saddlebags and bulging gunnysacks, peacefully stood nearby, grazing on dry grass. The hammock rustled, and its occupant sat up and stretched out his arms with a loud yawn.
"Trouble, milady?" Father Paul looked up from his ministrations.
"I don't know yet," Leona muttered as she gingerly stepped towards the newcomer.
The owner of the hammock turned out to be a young man who looked no older than Leona, with short, spiky silver-grey hair and pale ice-blue eyes. He yawned again, and rubbed his eyes as he shook off his stupor.
"What a nap!" he mumbled. "Don't think I've slept like that in months! Gotta give props to Ole Jeffery the next time I see him! That man knows how to weave a hammock—"
The young man blinked as he realized he was not alone. He turned his head and saw Leona, tattered and bloodied by the battle. He frowned.
"What in world—?" the young man started, but then met Leona's equally startled gaze.
The young man drew in a sharp breath as if struck, but his surprised expression quickly melted an awestruck and delighted smile.
"Is this a dream?" the young man exclaimed as he swung his legs out from the hammock. He quickly smoothened his ruffled hair without taking his eyes off of Leona. "I fall asleep in empty wilderness, only to wake in presence of such sublime beauty. I must be living out a scene from a fairytale!"
Leona stared dumbfounded as the young man strode towards her. He was lithe and well-proportioned like a skilled dancer, with narrow hips and slender limbs. His cleanly shaven face was sharp, and had a healthy glow of a man who kept his body in shape. He wore a well-made doublet of dark, cured leather above his long cream shirt, as well as fitting dark-green trousers, a leather belt, and brown traveling boots.
As if sensing Leona's wariness, the young man stopped at some distance and bowed, his smile genuine and reassuring. Good humor and delight danced in his eyes as he gazed at her, seemingly not noticing her ragged appearance. Leona was forced to admit that the stranger's fine looks and elegant mannerisms rendered him devastatingly attractive.
"Good morning to you, dear lady! I hope I haven't startled you," the young man exclaimed. "I regret that the circumstances of our meeting is somewhat less than ideal. Nevertheless, I feel utterly blessed that you have decided to grace my camp with your breathtaking beauty! Allow this humble traveler to pay you homage, and perhaps offer you a cup of tea? Or a wet towel to dry yourself?"
Leona just stared, at a loss for words. The absurdity of the situation in a moment of dire peril was one thing. Covered from head to toe with dirt and blood, Leona's appearance was far from presentable. Yet, this man was looking at her as if she were a goddess.
"Is this guy for real?"
Alyce had finally managed to sit herself up, and was staring at the stranger equally baffled. Leona was relieved to see some color return to the Guardswoman's face. "Do you want me to get rid of this fop, milady?"
"I…well…thank you, sir," Leona managed to stammer. "I do not mean to be rude, but this is hardly the time—"
"Hardly a time for tea? Why, there is no wrong time for a cup of tea! But…I have some wine, too, if you happen to prefer something stronger…"
"No, that's not what I meant. It's just that…that…"
"Ah, for Light's sake," Alyce croaked. With a grunt, she slowly stood up using her glaive as a crutch. "Let me spell it out for you, creep. There are bad men out there trying to kill us, and so no, we don't have time for any one of your damn tea or wine!"
Rough voices and footsteps reached their ears, as on cue. Leona turned and felt her heart sink. The rebel forces had finally caught up to her. There was still no sign of her men.
A dozen Soldiers and Militiamen trudged out of the forest and spread out to surround Leona. Leveled spears discouraged any further attempts to escape. Sabine's strategy had taken heavy toll on the enemy, but the rebels had still broken through the gauntlet in the end. Leona calmly drew out her rapier, determined not to show any fear.
Two Cabalists strode towards Leona. The lead cultist fixed her with a predatory smile, his teeth gleaming amidst his heavily tattooed face.
"I am Eudes, Seventy-Third Disciple of the Hallowed Circle," he drawled with a mocking bow. "I must congratulate you on making it this far, girl. But you are a fool if you thought it possible to escape us! For the Prophet misses nothing, and the Crimson Eye watches us all."
"It watches us all," the rebels murmured in unison.
"You have not defeated me yet," Leona coldly replied. "For as long as I draw breath, I will fight you and your ilk."
"And she's not alone," Alyce growled. She tried to raise her glaive to bear, but with her injury bothering her, she tottered. Father Paul was beside her in an instant, steadying her while continuing to conjure healing light to her abdomen.
"Defiant," Eudes grinned. "I've expected as much. Your reputation precedes you, Princess Leona. You fight as fiercely as your father, and you are not afraid to face death! But…if when it comes to the safety of your men…well…."
Eudes snapped his fingers, and two Militiamen came forward dragging something forward between them. Leona's face crumpled with dismay as she recognized the bound form of Sister Isolde. The Acolyte gave her an apologetic look, shamed by her capture.
"See, I like to study people. Especially fugitives I hunt on my spare time," Eudes gloated. "Everyone has weaknesses. Fathers have children, soldiers have wives, merchants have their wealth…"
The cultist drew a sharp jagged knife from inside his robes, grabbed Isolde's head by the chin, and placed it against her right cheek. An involuntary whimper escaped her lips. She struggled against her bonds, but the rebels held her tight.
"And you…have your men. You are compassionate beyond measure, girl. You think that's a strength, but I say it's a liability. You can't bear to see people you care about suffer. Like this little trollop, for instance…"
Eudes pressed his knife. Isolde screamed and thrashed as the jagged edge cut across her cheek and drew blood. Alyce roared with anger, though helpless to do anything.
"Enough!" Leona cried out in desperation. "You've made your point! I will…I will surrender. Just let my men go free!"
Eudes stared at her with an eyebrow raised. "I'm not blackmailing you, girl! Why would I do that, when I already have you in my grasp? No…I just wanted to see that hopeless, fearful look on your face before I cut this bitch's throat open. Call it my weakness, if you will."
The cultist's smile grew even wider as he brought the knife down to Isolde's throat. Leona's breath caught in her chest.
A polite cough interrupted Eudes's gloating. Eyes turned towards the young traveler, whose presence had been ignored and forgotten by rebels so far.
"I'm not quite sure what's going on here," the young man said slowly, staring down at his feet with his arms folded. "but it does seem to me that you are being very, very rude to the lady here."
"Stay out of this, peasant!" Eudes snarled. "We'll deal with you later!"
"See, that's the problem," the young man continued, scratching his head. "I was raised to respect women, and it really, really upsets me when I see brutes threatening women like that. And holding a beautiful Acolyte hostage and torturing her? That is just low. As low as it can get." The young man lifted his head to stare at the cultists, his eyes fierce. "I really think you should stop harassing these ladies and apologize to them. Immediately."
"What are you supposed to be, a knight in shining armor, rescuing your damsel in distress?" the cultist sneered. "You've been reading too many romances, peasant. What, you think you can keep the holy army of the Prophet from our sworn duty?!"
"A knight in shining armor! Wow. To be honest, I find that concept sort of outdated in this day and age," the young man replied airily. "Still…the least I can do is even the odds here a little bit."
Striding towards his burdened mare, the young man began to rummage through his belongings, whistling a merry tune as he did so. A feathered hat, a canteen, a leather-bound book of Ispellian poetry, a box of shaving kit, and a dozen more items tumbled to the ground before he turned back. Clutched his hands was a sheathed sword.
"I needed a morning workout anyway. Might as well take the opportunity," the young man grinned as he unsheathed his weapon. He casually twirled the sword by his wrist, testing its balance. "Care to oblige me?"
"Praised be the Light!" Father Paul exclaimed. "A Fencer!"
Leona stared, for the swordsman's weapon was unlike anything she had seen. Unlike the straight, doubled-edged swords traditionally favored in Elbion, the Fencer carried an elegantly curved blade with a single edge honed to razor sharpness. The pearl-encrusted pommel of its ivory handle bent the other way, while the handle itself was wrapped with leather thong to improve its grip.
"Give a peasant a weapon and he fancies himself a hero! What a joke!" Eudes scoffed in derision, and turned to one of the rebel Soldiers. "You there! Cut down this impudent whelp! Show him what awaits those who defy the will of the cult!"
The Soldier glowered, and charged the swordsman with a fierce shout. The young man looked on with a faint smile of amusement as the rebel thrust his spear towards him. The aim had been well-placed, and against any the thrust would have been fatal.
With a twist of his ankles, the swordsman gently pirouetted around the lunging soldier and swiftly swept his blade across the air.
The rebel soldier took a few tottering steps past the swordsman, and then sank to his knees. His shield and spear slipped from his lifeless fingers as his headless torso collapsed onto the ground. His severed head landed a few paces further and bounced away into the undergrowth.
The movement had been so effortless that it took a second for Leona to realize what had just occurred. The rebels were staring at their fallen comrade in shock. Even Eudes was speechless, his face reddening with fury as his eyes bulged at the smiling swordsman.
"Hmm, that was easy. Anyone else care to join the fun?" the Fencer grinned.
"Kill them! Just kill them!" Eudes screeched, finally losing his temper. "Kill them all!"
The rebels surged forward to carry out the cultist's bidding, but the swordsman was already among them, his curved blade flashing left and right. Thrusting spears sought purchase on their deadly foe, but the Fencer was constantly moving, always moving out of his enemies' reach.
"Too slow, too slow!" The Fencer laughed. "Call yourselves warriors, do you?! Too much time in bars and too little on the fields, tut-tut!"
The Fencer darted and wove in between the rebels. His sword flashed with every stroke, its keen edge parting leather and flesh alike. Against sturdier plates or mail the weapon might have proven less effective, but none of the Soldiers possessed anything better than layers of low-quality brigandine. Men screamed as they fell clutching gaping wounds and stumps where their limbs had been. Those still on their feet lunged forward, desperate to contain this new threat. The Fencer laughed uproariously as he parried their clumsy spear thrusts away from his vitals. He deftly twisted around a lunging Soldier, gripped the upper rim of his shield, and used it as a leverage to leap and deliver a swiping kick across a face of another. Spearheads nicked and tore at his doublet, but the gleeful smile never left the Fencer's face. Eudes's outraged screech rose above the scuffle as he demanded his men to bring down the upstart.
Sight of the fight restored Leona's resolve, and the Princess found herself rushing in to join the fray. She quickly took down a distracted Soldier with a thrust through the back of his throat and hamstrung another. As the man fell, she finished him off by plunging her rapier into his belly. The rebel writhed, reaching out his bloody hands perhaps to plead for mercy. Leona kicked him away in disgust as she yanked her weapon free.
"Traitors!" she cried, "Light knows your sins! For Elbion!"
Heads turned in her direction, and rebels suddenly realized their cornered quarry had become a predator. Inattention cost them dearly as the Fencer seized the moment to renew his onslaught. As he finished carving yet another man into ribbons, he spared a brief glance towards Leona. Beneath his raised eyebrow, his piercing eyes glittered with amusement and approval.
"Not bad, lady! Your skill at arms is only matched by your beauty!"
Leona's blood was up, and a primal part of her ego instinctively bristled at his patronizing attitude. She involuntarily frowned, but then saw the Fencer's eyes widen.
"Duck!"
The urgency in his voice compelled her to obey without thinking. Leona threw herself to the ground, just as she felt a crackling glob of dark energy hurtle through where she had been standing. She winced as errant tendrils of magic tore at her back, ripping long tears in her blouse. Others caught in its direct path did not fare as well. Two rebel soldiers shrieked and flailed as eldritch fire engulfed them, their flesh dissolving into charred skeletons within seconds.
Eudes's attendant showed no sign of remorse but began his incantation anew. His blackened lips mumbled harsh syllables while his fingers curled and stretched over the pages of his tome.
"For Elbion!"
Sabine de Lanois burst forth from the trees behind, finally having returned to the battlefield. She charged full tilt on foot with her sword held level at her waist, just as fearsome despite having dismounted. The Cabalist turned around too late to confront her. Sabine slammed into the cultist and ran him through the heart with a length of sharpened steel. Spell died at the cabalist's lips, gathered energies dissipating into nothing.
Trailing behind Sabine came Martin, panting and sweating profusely from the rapid ascent up the hill.
"Right! For…Elbion…or…whatever," he wheezed, trying to brandish his sword and failing miserably. Giving up, he stuck his weapon to the ground and doubled up trying to catch his breath. "On second thought…you guys got this right? I need—I need a minute here."
The tide had indeed turned against the rebels. The Soldiers had expected easy prey, outnumbered and demoralized by dark magic at their disposal. Instead, they found themselves being torn apart by determined foe who fought with the ferocity of cornered beasts. A couple of Militiamen turned and fled down the hill, limping and clutching their severed limbs.
"Come back! Stand and fight you cowards!" Eudes screeched to no avail.
The Fencer leapt towards another Soldier. He ducked beneath a spear thrust and quickly lunged past to left. His blade sliced out mid-stride and disemboweled the rebel with an upward horizontal cut. As the man fell moaning, the Fencer stood back up and rammed his pommel backwards into the rebel's head. The blow pulped something soft, killing him instantly. The last remaining rebel backed up, tightly hugging his shield with frightened eyes. Smiling, the Fencer strode towards him. With a desperate yell, the Soldier jabbed his spear at him. The young man swayed, reached out, and grasped the spear by the haft. The rebel squealed and tried to tug his weapon back, but the Fencer didn't budge an inch. A steel blade suddenly stabbed into the back of the Soldier's skull and erupted from inside his mouth.
"Thanks, beautiful," the Fencer winked as Sabine yanked her blade back out and let the rebel fall to the ground with a gurgle. She merely fixed him with a deadpan glare.
"Nobody move!"
Eudes had seized Sister Isolde during the scuffle. He held her tight against him with a knife drawn across her throat. His earlier gloat had disappeared, replaced by a panicked look of a beaten man. Isolde, though clearly terrified, did her best to remain calm.
"It's over, you degenerate," Leona brandished her blade, anger dripping from her every syllable. "Your men are dead, and your mission is over. Let her go, and I'll give you a clean death!"
Leona's men began to close on the cultist from all sides.
"I said nobody move, or I'll gut this bitch right now!" Eudes screamed. He began to inch backwards, clearly intending to make his escape.
An arrow whistled out of nowhere and tore a bloody trench across his arm. Eudes shrieked as his knife tumbled out of his grip. His attention wavered that moment, and Isolde seized her chance. She whipped her head back and smashed the cultist's nose flat. While Eudes reeled, Isolde slipped out from his grasp and ran towards her companions.
Julien appeared from the woods, his bow aimed square at the cultist.
"Nowhere to run, you bastard!" the Hunter growled.
Eudes exploded with fury as he realized he was doomed.
"No! This wasn't supposed to happen! This is not what I was promised! Traitors! Weaklings! I'm surrounded by fools!" he ranted maniacally. "I will not go down like this! I will not go down like this!"
The cultist moved swiftly, and a tome of dark magic was suddenly clutched back in his hands.
"I will obliterate all of you with my genius! By the power of the abyssal deeps, I call upon the power of the eternal Flux…"
The pages of the tome began to glow with black fire. Leona started forward determined to cut him down before he unleashed his spell.
The Fencer was faster. He had run up to Eudes with his sword drawn in an eye blink, before Leona took even a single step. Time seemed to slow as his blade arced downwards, until it landed on the cultist's tome and sliced cleanly through its bronze binding.
The tome exploded into a flurry of loose pages that cascaded into the air. Leona thought she could make out the individual letters scrawled upon the surface, a scant second before all of them burst into black fire.
Eudes screamed as burning pages smothered him like waterfall. Fell fire leapt onto his robes and spread like water. The cultist desperately tried to pat the flames out with his hands. But foul magic freed of its containment was not to be denied of its sustenance. The fire moved as it were alive, ravenous and unrelenting. Cries of pain turned to fear as fire clung to his flesh and began to roast his skin. By the time Eudes fell to the ground writhing, the fire had engulfed his whole body. He did not stop screaming until the fires shriveled his tongue.
Leona and her men watched in horrified silence as the flames slowly reduced the cultist into nothing. Only then did it sputter out, leaving behind only a smoking pile of ashes.
"Now, that's a terrible way to go," Martin managed to speak after a while.
"No more than he deserves," Alyce scoffed. "In fact, I think he got off lightly. I think I might piss on those ashes later."
"His own magic has claimed him," Sister Isolde whispered. Father Paul had freed her bonds, and was quickly healing the cut on her cheek. "There's nothing left of him anymore, body or soul."
"Sister Isolde, are you well?" Leona asked anxiously.
"Nothing time or Father Paul can't cure, milady," the Acolyte smiled back.
"At least those thugs won't bother you again," the young swordsman said, sheathing his blade. "Shame, I hoped they were more of a challenge!"
"I owe you a debt of gratitude, good sir," Leona turned to him. "Without your intervention, we would've suffered far worse!"
"Aww, I only did what was right," the swordsman grinned. "I couldn't sit idly by while those thugs threatened your life, could I? Though I must say, you probably could've taken them all without my help. It is a rare thing to meet a lady as talented with swords as she is beautiful."
"You are too kind, sir," Leona smiled graciously. "Are you of noble birth, to behave so gallantly? A lord on a journey to fight against evil?"
"Not a pint of noble blood in me, I'm afraid," the young man said. "My name is Kai, a humble traveler and a wandering swordsman, lately come of Iconia and Verzante! I have ridden across deserts and sailed the oceans, earning my keep by selling my services to the highest bidder. I have loved women as fierce as panthers and broke bread with jeweled princes. And now, I find myself back in the western continent of my youth, ready to embark on my next adventure!"
"So…just Kai?" Leona asked.
"Just Kai," he grinned. "Easy to remember, easy to say."
"I suppose it is," Leona laughed.
"Now that we're better acquainted," Kai said. "Could someone please tell me what's going on here?"
R&R
2 OCs WANTED! PM me if you would like to submit.
# 1. Human Raider, from Zerakon, male, in his 30s or 40s
-Someone boisterous, cheerful, lives for combat, etc.; a typical Viking warrior
-Scandinavian-sounding name
-A thick beard would be a bonus
#2. Human Burglar, from any of the Reikmarne counties, male, in his teens or 20s
-Someone sort of shady, unpleasant, cunning, cruel, scheming…
-German-sounding name
