Days Long Gone

Tarot IX - Hermit

After a long and busy lifetime, building, creating, loving, hating, fighting, compromising, failing and succeeding, the Fool feels a profound need to retreat. In a small, rustic home deep in the woods, he hides, reading, cleaning, organizing, resting or just thinking. But every night at dusk he heads out, traveling across the bare, autumnal landscape. He carries only a staff and a lantern.

It is during these restless walks from dusk till dawn, peering at and examining whatever takes his fancy, that he sees and realizes things he's missed, about himself and the world. It is as if the secret corners in his head were being slowly illuminated; corners he never knew existed. In a way, he has become the Fool again; as in the beginning, he goes wherever inspiration leads him. But as the Fool, his staff rested on his shoulder, carrying unseen his pack. The Fool was like the pack, whatever it was he could be was wrapped up, unknown. The Hermit's staff leans out before him, not behind. And it carries a lantern, not a pack. The Hermit is like the lantern, illuminated from within by all he is.

It was, Lans Hamilton reckoned in irony, a complete reversal of the situation after the death of Usar. Another Imperial leader beaten, another enemy army scattered, another district liberated. But this time it was his friend Destin who had made a terrible error and he who would have to bring it before him now. He could not call himself the young man's best friend otherwise.

As expected, Destin was in the planning chamber, coordinating the final offensive down to the smallest division after all the other chiefs had retired for the night. Weeks of battle and marching had scarred him physically and mentally, but deep down beneath the borrowed knight's armour Lans suspected he still bore the strange gentleness of soul that had made him such an engaging child to raise for twenty years. In fact, he greeted him with a warm smile that reminded them both of better days. "Ah, Lans. You have a concern with the plan?"

Without a word, he drew his sword, rammed its three feet of steel into the table. He would never hurt Destin, but wished to make certain the seriousness of his problem came through. "T'is not that battle which concerns me most, my brother, but the previous one."

He looked up, eyebrows arched. "About?"

As he had done with the sword, he took care to reveal a small portion of his outrage to impress on Destin how important this transgression was. "As though you are unaware of what I speak. You spared the witch, sir Destin. Spared her despite dozens of innocent deaths and years of terror and oppression in her district. Spared her despite the unholy 'pumpkin-head' abominations Gilbert says the strike force fought against. Why?"

In his friend he could make out the initial impulse to dismiss this accusation with nothing more than the usual tenet about compassion for one's enemies, but just as quickly he recognized that to be a mistake and composed himself, walking around the table to see face-to-face. "Like the people of Valparin Peaks right now, you believe I forgave her due to her seducing me. You're convinced she's placed me under an evil spell or something." He gave a soft chuckle. "I don't recall hearing such admonishments from you or 'the people' when I spared Gilbert the knife. Is it because he is a man, and she a woman?"

But Lans' eyes darkened further, annoyed like he'd never been before by Destin's tendency to try and fog the issue. "It does Gilbert a disservice, sir, to even mention him in the same sentence as the Witch. Sir Gilbert worked his entire life to safeguard the people in his care. Though Canopus and I strongly disagree with his methods, we recognize in him a genuine desire to protect. In her district, the witch only ever saw fodder for her experiments- she is just as bad as Kapella. So I must ask again; did her beauty play any role in your decision? Recognize that I would have your answer before continuing with this war."

"You dodge well yourself, I see", he commented before folding his arms and choosing his words carefully. "I admit her beauty is alluring. Tantalizingly so. Never have I felt this way around any woman that I have around her. She has resurrected emotions within my soul I believed killed by seclusion and battle. I noticed that she felt the same way, too."

"What do you mean?", Lans demanded, becoming tense. This was not what he had wanted to hear. "Surely, she only displayed affections for you so that you would forgive her! It is always the way. When a woman is gifted with striking beauty by the Gods, they quickly learn as they grow up that it can be used to convince any man to sleep with them, or do whatever else it is they ask. I have spoken with the surviving guardsmen, and several of them worked under her without pay, simply for the privilege of being near the witch!"

But Destin shook his head with a faint smile. He smiled all the time now that he had met Deneb Rhodes. "I think... that it is genuine. In fact, despite my placing her under house arrest, imprisoning her in her own castle without the materials to continue her studies, she has already submitted a request by runner that I return to visit her after the capital has fallen. Me, specifically. Would she do so if she did not care?"

"I would not presume to fathom the mind of the witch", Lans said acidly. "Furthermore, you are acting most erratically for a man on the eve of such an important battle."

Any idea that his friend might be on some kind of stimulant herb was dispelled by the plain annoyance in his expression. "So... What? Just what is it you want me to do? Go back to Valparin and say 'apologies madam, but it looks like we are going to execute you after all because the people want us to'? It doesn't work that way, Lans."

"You should have thought of that before sparing her", the captain insisted. "T'is a wholly selfish act to do so against the will of the people. It is... Out of character for you, sir Destin."

He glared, again locking eyes as was his custom. "And just what makes you think you know me so well?" But he could not hold such a cold stare for long. He still liked his old mentor too much for that. "I'm sorry. That was a callous thing to say. But sometimes, 'the people' are completely wrong, Lans. What if 'the people' declared themselves happy in the Empire's thrall?"

"Now you sound like the Wind Rider."

He hadn't considered that, yet took it mostly as a compliment. Canopus remained one of the best among their veteran warriors, and like Destin himself was of improper blood for his position. As he had explained one day, the Winged Ones consisted of three clans- Eagle, Raven, and Hawk. Each had their own signature colours and traditions, with Raven being the least 'respected', yet Canopus and Yulia were orphaned from the Eagle clan at a young age and taken in by the Hawk clan leader of the time some years back. Since that bird man had died, Canopus had taken over the position. He resolved himself to ask the gruff Wind Rider how often he had complaints from his men that he was unsuitable, and how he dealt with them. He'd certainly had no difficulties killing Raven and Hawk clanners who had joined the Empire, renouncing them as traitors to their people.

Of course, duty came first. The battle for the capital promised to be perhaps the first challenge in which the entire rebel army would die if things went ill. Destiny only went so far- he would dedicate every waking hour, every ounce of his skill, to making sure that did not happen. And the absence of Lans' people would certainly make things far more difficult.

So he looked back at his old friend, and out the windows of the garrison they'd used as a temporary base, baums from the capital's very walls. "Lans... My brother. None of us are so perfect as we believe. I can't unmake selfish decisions. In fact, I predict that you are about to make a very selfish decision yourself after the next thing I say."

Under his helmet, the dark blue knight blinked. "And that would be, lad?"

He palmed an area of the map far north of their position, still far off from the capital. "I have it on good authority that right here, behind walls every bit as strong as Zenobia's, the Empire has constructed what is called a 'gulag'. No one gets in, no one gets out. A gulag called By'roit, which holds the infamous traitor, captain Ashe."

As predicted, Lans nearly fell over. Even Usar had cursed this man's name to the deepest pits of the underworld. "H-he is... alive? Alive, after all this time?"

Destin nodded. "There are a few others there as political prisoners, but Ashe is the highest-profile resident. I should warn you, he will be guarded. The prisoners are carefully tended to so as not to take their own lives."

But Lans would hear none of it, practically trembling. "It matters not. I request a flying steed, sir Destin, so that I may exact vengeance long overdue on the traitor. I shan't be long, and I shall turn back if the Empire has blockaded the place, though I have no idea why they would do so."

His leader sighed, expecting no less. Sometimes the knight captain was so predictable. "Granted. Take one of Gilbert's Wyrms, and meet us at El Rangen when the deed is done."

If there was some glimmer of recognition by Lans as to how he was being played, he did not show it, and soon departed. The demon was pleased. Satisfied, Destin turned his attention to the two men striding into the room, carrying a blanketed object mounted on a long pole. Setting it upon the table with a dull clank, the first one swept the blanket away, and Destin gasped, for once forgetting all about battle plans.

As expected, the remodelling of his armour was more opulent than the old suit which had been destroyed by Kapella's lightning. What he had not counted on was just how much more so it was. Like its predecessor, the suit was predominantly a faded crimson, though brighter than before, and outlined in silver. Less protective than a knight's armour but also less cumbersome, the new mail, gauntlets and helmet bore intricate tracings of the ancient battles reputed to have forged the land of Zenobia into its original state. Whatever group of forgers had collaborated on it obviously thought very highly of him indeed.

Noticing the expectant look of one of those very craftsmen, he smiled. "Excellent. More than I had ever hoped for on such short notice."

"We spared no expense, lord Destin", the second one elaborated, grinning as he palmed each segment as though it were his own child. "That's enchanted silver from the Janneia riverbeds on the hinges- regularly flexible, but capable of resisting most kinds of magic. The main base was composed of a lime-steel hybrid, strong enough to repel enemy blades, yet the entire set only weighs a mere 25 pounds."

He whistled. That was lighter than the original. He'd still be able to move like the wind. "All cut exactly to your measurements", the forger continued. "You may also notice the helmet bends at a higher angle now, giving you more head room."

"You guys...", he shook his head in disbelief. "It is more than I deserve, and I hope you give equal care towards the rest of the knights." Without waiting for a fitter, he began to detach the heavy iron of the dead knight whose armour he'd worn to the battles at Janneia and Deneb's Garden, minus the enclosed helmet which would have been even more unwanted weight. "I cannot say I shall be sad to be rid of this. Not quite sure how the others fight in it. A stronger man can make better use of it than I."

He spoke truth, for though it was proven that knights such as Lans and Bors built up great physical strength and protected themselves extremely well in wearing oppressive suits of 60 pounds or more into battle, Destin had no time to get used to such a method. He fought best while lithe and mobile. His slow reaction time against Sirius and Letishe proved that beyond all doubt, and so he'd declined tempting fate a third time with Deneb.

Now, though, the new armour felt as though a piece missing from him had at last been restored as he donned it, better than ever. "It is far too pretty to wear into battle", he observed, seeing candlelight reflecting off every polished surface, glimmering as he moved. "So I must apologize, since this wonderful work will likely be damaged soon enough."

"One more thing, my lord", the first forger reminded him, looking at the weapon on Destin's belt. "We spoke with miss Yulia the other day when we were delivering this. You've not yet named your sword, have you?"

He blinked in confusion. Just one more Zenobian tradition he knew nothing of, such as always making camp facing towards where the sun would rise in the morning so that the Gods would see their eager faces, or spitting in one's urine to dilute its evil afterwards. He might consider himself lucky that it was brought to light in private. "No. Should I have?"

"You should", the second said carefully, "if you have indeed slain five enemies. It is tradition for such an accomplished warrior to name the weapon which allowed them to do so. Those with twenty wartime kills are immortalized by their chosen Orders with a title varying according to which one."

He closed his eyes and thought back, going over bloodstained memories that seemed at once jumbled together. So that is why people mark their kills on their cuffs. He would still not do so. "I can remember seven, if you count Kapella."

"A lucky number", the first observed with enthusiasm Destin did not feel at the memory of the old man's head flying. "And governor Radigan certainly counts- he is your most prestigious kill of all. What shall you call it, my lord?"

He thought for a moment, seeing his own reflected eyes in the steel. "Kalanbolg."

The next day, from his flying mount General Kaus Debonair studied the rebel army's opening moves through the district surrounding the Slums of Zenobia with detached admiration. Unbeknownst to him, Destin ap Neb was doing the exact same thing with the imperials a few baums away.

The fact that nearly every part of the opposing army was equipped with flight-capable steeds did not surprise him, for the massive wrought-iron gate of Zenobia was stupendously heavy and its aging mechanisms poorly cared-for by governor Darian's people. To open and close the gate again would take all day, allowing the rebels too much time to sneak through and bypass the Empire's strongest defence. The remaining ground forces must have been kept back in the Slums, unable to leave but impossible to attack.

What surprised him were the numbers. The valkyries alone equalled the size of his own force, and those were borne by a wide range of flying beasts. The white-feathered Cockatrices remained the most common sight, but here and there one would catch a glimpse of domesticated Wyrms like the kind that Gilbert had tamed, griffons and green dragons, all led by the single red brood which the general himself rode. There was a clutch of gold-winged bird men who appeared to be of Eagle clan lineage, which cast Canopus Walf into an avian fury upon realizing that the Empire now had representatives from all three of the bird-man clans in its service. They carried a number of others upon their backs, including beast tamers and wizards.

All of this, after Debonair had been forced to split his army in half, and this was the more mobile half. Destin shook his head in dismay at the sight. No matter how well he planned this battle, no matter how destiny watched over them, the rebels were going to lose people today. Lots of them. They would have loyal souls depart to the next world before they could be whisked away to the local Roshian temple, which Destin had indeed made sure to secure right away.

So this is it, he thought to himself fitfully, this is the divine wrath which Gilbert and Bernard believed it better to submit before than face. Though Kaus Debonair's reputation painted him as a decent man, no guarantees could be made about how forgiving whoever took over the punishment of Zenobia's indigenous peoples might be after the battle was won. Not that any promises of mercy would sway him now. We dare not lose. We dare not fail. Not after coming so far. After so many commitments, so many promises... I'll find a way. I have to.

At last seeing the imperial divisions congregating over an area of plains within sight of the city of El Rangen, the rebel leader swiftly reordered his own people into a battle line, circular and bending outwards from the city so it would be difficult to flank. As was the case in South Sharom, air deterrence was key. Jennifer Argyle would direct the rest of the archers in shooting down as many flying enemies as possible, aided in this endeavour by Warren's acolytes, a handful of Volzak squires he'd spent the duration of the rebellion training in the rudimentary basics of Arcana magic whenever not himself engaged. The assigned leader of this group, a sedately-mannered easterling named Tsuno, was enthusiastic about their chances. With Sister Yenda's clerics behind them and ready to heal, they would compose the first line.

The second line, consisting of the majority of the rebel knights and samurai under Fubuki and Bors' stern command, would be held back until the enemy had descended into melee range, for a major component of the Empire's training regimen for its signature valkyries was the education in a basic form of thunder magic, far from Kapella's level or even Warren's, but still lethal against armoured foes or Golems.

Finally, the independent operators waiting in the back to be unleashed. Canopus and all of his men, Gilbert, Ingelsias and Halla were all capable of harassing the flying enemy with fast strikes and retreats, softening them up as they approached. Every kill they inflicted would count twice- once for the flying mount, and once for the rider who would fall 50 or more vertical feet to the earth below without their steed. The ghosts in particular would be a great boon, for the rebel spotters reported no sign of clerics among the enemy. A small blessing, though he warned them not to push their luck.

All of this surged through his mind again and again as he watched the general and his closest subordinates approach from on high, descending to the flat plain equally far between the two armies under the white banner of parlay. Though Warren had spoken of leaders in the Empire who could not be trusted to keep to such a pledge, and would only use it as a trap, the Number One Deva was not one of these. In fact he appeared quite benign at first glance, his youthful flesh devoid of scars or other signs of combat. In keeping with the most common stereotypes about Zetegineans, he bore long, luxurious hair and skin as pale as Destin's own.

Beside him rode two valkyries in red and blue, looking far more battle-hardened. Destin had chosen Gilbert and Fubuki for his own retinue, which seemed only designed to show off both side's best warriors before the battle started. None of the imperial leaders seemed impressed by his new armour.

"Destin ap Neb, hero of the Rebellion", the Highlander general spoke in prim Zenobian, though so heavily accented that someone less experienced might have been puzzled. "We meet at last."

"1st Deva-General of the Empire Kaus Debonair", Destin replied smoothly, quickly suppressing whatever fear might infect his voice and damn him. "I wish I could say it is an honour, but I doubt this will remain civil for very long."

The general smiled sadly. Being half a head taller than his rebel counterpart made him seem greater, and at once Destin was glad that they were too far away for his people to see how he had to crane his neck, rubbing it against the metal collar of his armour to look the general in the eye. "You would be correct, I'm sorry to say. Though, perhaps you might wish to spare your people certain death."

"We have heard it before", Destin said. "Over and over again. Zenobians under your sway offering us mercy, imploring us not to fight for our own safety, and those of the people we protect."

But Debonair waved that away as well. "Not a surrender. If you were that willing to give up you would never have gotten this far- you Zenobians aren't entirely incompetent. I propose a duel- my three best against your three best, for it appears as though we are already gathered. Mounts are excluded, of course. Loser goes home." He cracked a frosty grin, not exactly bloodthirsty, but eager. "A much more pleasant way of settling our differences, would you not agree, gentlemen?"

Himself, the samurai and the beast tamer versus these three. For a second Destin did consider the offer, but then remembered what he'd learned of the Empire's Deva. Kaus Debonair would never propose such a thing if he had even the slightest chance of losing, and doubtless the two beautiful women beside him were formidable as well. The one on the left he recognized now- black-haired Captain Liana ap Fordrannon, who did not speak a word of Zenobian but never needed to in order to make herself understood. Brutal violence was the universal language, and in that language she was an expert. "I am afraid I must decline, sir Debonair. For one thing, one of our best warriors is currently elsewhere, else he would be with us now."

At once he could sense the shift in the general's demeanour, not anger at being rebuked but a fear that the missing chief and his men might be doing something in secret they would come to regret not stopping. "Captain Lancelot Hamilton, of course. We have read the reports on your chiefs. Where is he now?"

He'd stolen the general's frosty grin. "I cannot tell you that. But thank you for the offer, regardless."

Now the general glowered, looking alternately annoyed at his counterpart's stubbornness, and sad to see that nothing either of them did could spare the two groups of disciplined men and women what was to come. He had his own commitments to duty, just as Destin had his. "Verdammnt. Then I suppose there is truly no way out. We will fight. And you will die. Goodbye, Destin ap Neb."

In parting, Destin failed to notice another kind of flyer zipping overhead in large numbers until Gilbert grabbed his arm and pointed them out. Crows. Hundreds of them, circling the area where the imperial force would break upon their line. Cawing loudly together, in anticipation of the feast to come.

To call By'roit a prison did not do justice to what comforts it had. Were it not for the high walls surrounding the gathering of simple buildings and the lack of any children, the place might have been taken for a small town from some thirty years past, and Lans Hamilton had known those years well enough to make such a comparison.

Naturally his mount drew attention where it came down to rest in the main square. The prying eyes of dozens came forth to watch the knight captain as he carefully slid off the creature's back and onto paved stone, tying the creature up at one of the pillars beneath what looked to be a granary. He left the rope tight but long, giving the Wyrm, who Gilbert said was named Mischa, a chance to fight back against anyone who might try to steal it. Indeed, already he could feel the desperation in many of those watching him like a tangible substance poisoning the air. They would kill, would risk fighting a powerful Wyrm, for a chance to leave this place. Walking down the main road towards the shanties that served as 'residence', he would have to keep his ears open for the telltale screech that meant the green-scaled creature was engaged.

He found the house said to be home to the legendary traitor with relative ease, but upon walking up to its front door he beheld the huge, blocky shape of a golem guarding it. Unlike those he was used to, this one was the same shade of marine blue as his armour with a dull green head, slightly brighter where the eyes were. Though unable to speak, raising its rocky fist before the door made it perfectly clear its intent. This was no doubt a guardian, an eternal construct used to prevent more notorious prisoners from leaving.

Not that he could permit it to stop him now. "I come to see the prisoner", Lans said carefully to the stone being's featureless mug. "I am not one myself. Let me pass."

But the golem shook the massive rock that made up its head to and fro, not budging an inch. Lans tried to walk past, but it gently pushed him back, glowering silently. It likely had no idea of the history of the man it was protecting. To this magical sentry, Ashe was just another convict, and this fact left Lans steaming. "Now look here, creature. I've slain your kind before, and if I must I shall do so again. One more chance. Let me through, or be destroyed."

The golem did not react to him, but the elderly woman running up to their confrontation. She wore unusually well-kept matron's robes for a prisoner, gray-haired visage and small lips and eyes peering out from a mauve hood. "Enough, Talos", she called to the golem briskly. "Let us pass. I bring food and water." And indeed, hanging off her left arm was a bread basket, a flask at her hip.

The dark golem peered down, blinking its green lights in uncertainty- something Lans had never seen a golem do- and then shambled aside for them to enter the small shack. "You have my thanks, milady", Lans said once they were across the threshold. "All of Zenobia is in your debt."

The matron did not seem impressed by this grandeur. "Forget Zenobia, all I wished was to deliver the captain his daily ration. Talos is so stubborn these days, even with inmates."

He stopped, letting her rap at the second door into the main room. "Talos? You named that thing?"

"All living creatures deserve names, sir knight. I am Banya."

"An honour, I am sure", he said, beholding the room beyond the next door. Dusty, plain and lacking in possessions as the first room, it only held a wooden table and chair upon which the target of his vengence lay slumped. Captain Ashe had been old even back when he had led the armies of Zenobia into battle, and now his years lay heavy upon his lidded features. All of the color had been washed from his hair, and the same was true for his bushy beard. The sight of such a man nearly moved Lans to pity, but then he remembered why he was here. "Sir Ashe. I've come to repay a twenty-four year debt."

Crusty eyes looked up from his chair, and the ex-captain slowly stood. He'd looked like a corpse before but his voice and posture yet held a lingering strength. "Hmph... You're Lancelot Hamilton, are you not? The young spitfire from Sharom? Why have you come here?"

"T'is Lans", he replied coldly, brandishing his sword. "And you know why I have come. Of all the dozens of thrice-damned traitors who made possible the death of my liege, you and the Sage Rahsidi are the most responsible of all."

The older knight seemed to deflate, looking from Lans to Banya as she set the basket and flask on a barren table. "Indeed you are right about that. You know I'm actually relieved, sir. I spent twenty years here waiting for a loyal son of Zenobia to come and kill me, for we are not allowed weapons and kind souls like lady Banya here do not allow us to starve ourselves. Rather disappointing... But better late than never, I suppose."

Ashe strode forth with his arms spread, clad in only a single-layer cloth tunic but unafraid. "Well? What are you waiting for, then? Strike me down. Take your vengeance for Gran. I am sure you've waited a very long time for it."

But Lans merely kept his blade at the ready, not wavering. Was this some kind of trick? Surely the infamous traitor would put up more of a struggle than this regardless of his age. Rather, it was Banya who stood in the way of twenty-four years worth of payback, her own arms spread wide to stop the sword. "Enough of this foolishness", she reproached him angrily. "Sir Ashe is one of the greatest heroes this kingdom has ever known. He has done nothing to deserve death."

"Banya", Ashe said before Lans could sputter an angry reply. "You know that is wrong. I failed my liege, failed my kingdom, and failed my people. Twenty four years after the fact, and I have only grown weaker. Death is the only release from my suffering. So please... Step aside."

The woman turned and glared back, equally indignant with him as Lans. "Bah! There you go again, blaming yourself for things beyond your control. Why don't you at least hear what sir Lancelot believes you guilty of first, before embracing the Thirteenth like some witless teenager?"

"That's Lans, miss Banya. Lans Hamilton. And this keeracht, this wretch that dares call himself a man, already knows what he is guilty of: Treason, my lady. Treason most vile." He inclined his head towards the man, seeing acknowledgement of his crimes in that withered face he so hated. Why then, did he continue to hesitate? Was it merely because of the woman now intent on blocking him?

"Then tell me", she ordered grimly. "Tell me what you believe. Because I tell you now, upon my soul, this man is no traitor."

Lans thought back, flashing back through the memories of the worst days of his life. "Captain Ashe was the leader of the Zenobian royal knights", he began. "For many years we served King Gran with honour and integrity, mainly dealing with internal threats to the crown."

"Like that vampire nest in Kastalpe?", Ashe offered, strangely interested in the story of his disgrace and actually looking happy. "That was fun, let me you..."

Lans coughed, wishing no further interruptions. "Like that, yes. But then the Highlanders came. Over the course of one year we fought them in Malano and Deneuve, pushed back by superior numbers and their merfolk allies until we had no choice but to abandon the outer continent and flee to the capital." Lowering the sword, he pointed at the ex-captain. "Then the time came for the battle for the capital. We fortified ourselves behind the great walls a mere baum from where we stand now. So long as we did not open the gate, we held an unbeatable adavantage over the Zetegineans, for not even the Highlanders possessed a weapon capable of breaching the walls in good time. For three days and three nights we held firm against the onslaught. Then... this traitor led the enemy through the gate in the middle of the night, and so the capital fell, and so King Gran was usurped and killed."

Canny beyond her years, Banya clearly did not believe the tale, but the drama with which Lans had recounted the story still left her aback. "So that is the story everyone heard", she sighed. "T'was not enough to destroy our people and homes, but they have arranged for a great hero to take the blame for it as well."

"He is NOT a great hero!", Lans snapped back, his patience at last exhausted. "And the story of his treachery is not yet over. The day after the capital fell, an executioner's block was crafted in the city square for the royal family... All of them. Gran's wife, his aunts and uncles, his nieces and nephews. His three virtuous daughters and two sons, Jan and Tristan. His brothers and sisters. All were slain that day by a great two-handed axe, one of them after the other, over thirty all told. And when the very last one was dead... The executioner removed his mask for Gran himself to see before they killed him too. It was Captain Ashe. The man before us now, the man you defend." He spat.

Banya was thoughtful, looking at her friend's face for any trace of confirmation of these blistering accusations. "Your sword, knight", she suddenly demanded of him. "I want show you something." Seeing his reluctance, she snorted. "Are you truly so paranoid that you cannot trust the intentions of a man and woman older than you? What sort of knight are you?"

Lans considered it, looking down at his heavy gear. Even if Banya attacked him with the sword it would be easily blocked, and in any case if she meant him harm, Talos would be a much more effective method. Slowly, he set the blade down. Instead of taking it for himself, she passed the weapon down to Ashe's left hand, who held the weapon with the practiced ease of a lifetime veteran.

Lans shrugged. "So?"

Leaning over, she helped Ashe shift the blade into his other hand. No sooner had she done so than the man left the blade clattering on the floor. "Sir Ashe is left-handed", Banya explained patiently. "Even back when he was Captain of the Guard, his right hand was crippled by Sebastian's Plague back before a cure was found. Think back. You were obviously present in the crowd when Gran's family was executed. Which hand did the executioner do the deed with?"

His visored helmet could do nothing to hide the shock slowly spreading over his features. He felt his heart waiting to leap from his throat. "The right hand at the pommel, left hand at the end of the shaft", he breathed out weakly. "But... I don't understand. How?"

Nearly forgotten, Ashe gave a phlegmy laugh. "Can you not guess, young Lancelot? You've spent enough time around wizards to understand their rapport with the old Gods, and our capital was built near some of the strongest ley points of the time."

Talos flinched. Perhaps even those outside the walls of By'roit were wondering who was cursing so loudly and with such creative terms. "Rashidi", Lans whispered, so chilled by the revelation that he neglected to yell at the older knight for calling him Lancelot again. "It was Rashidi all along. He, or one of his pupils, weaved a spell of illusion upon the crowds- including myself- to make the executioner appear to be you beneath the mask."

Ashe nodded sadly. "You know your history, my friend. Who in the Empire is most famous for using such a weapon?"

Lans cursed again. "Prince Gares. The butcher of the north. He is the only man who could do such a thing without showing any signs of regret or uncertainty. His laugh, but your voice." He shuddered.

"See?", Banya said to Ashe. "Even this stuffy fool knows that you've done no real wrong. Failure is not a crime, Sir Ashe. It was out of your hands. Now eat."

For once tamed by the fire in her, the ex-captain munched on the round loaf she provided while Lans went back over the events of the fall in remorse, now pillaging extinct languages for new curses. "And I suppose you did not actually slay three guards and open the gate either", he prodded. "T'was more than likely it was Rashidi, or someone else working for him, once again disguised as you, the one warrior who might be able to oppose the Empire after Gran's death."

"He fooled us all", Banya acknowledged, offering Lans a drink. "Who was more loyal than Rashidi Light, one of the legendary five heroes of Zenobia? Particularly to his fellow hero? Not once before the Empire did the Sage of Light ever give a sign of dislike for Gran."

"You don't seem particularly angry, maid", Lans noted.

"T'was a lifetime ago", Ashe offered neutrally, standing again. "Not that it does not still affect us, but twenty-four years is enough time to let even the greatest flames of hatred simmer into embers."

"Not for me." Lans spat, still feeling anger towards the man no matter how much it had been diluted by today's revelations. Rashidi, he could not feel any more wrathful towards than he already did. "What happened to you afterwards, captain? Why did you not try to avenge our lord? Without you, I was forced to take command of our survivors before I was ready. I... I did not fare well. To put it mildly."

"Ten thousand people saw me execute their king", Ashe offered gently. "And spread that tale to their sons and daughters. What do you think would be the reaction if I showed up to lead you? Besides, I knew then, it was a hopeless endeavour that my presence could not change. As it is now."

Understanding that, Lans regarded his old commander warily. "Not now. Things have changed, my friend. It is not like before- the Empire has only deployed the tithe of their forces here. I do not say it will be easy, but at sir Destin's side I have seen miracles occur. Come with us, Captain Ashe. Reclaim your honour and clear your name. I promise on my manhood to spread the truth to all who will listen."

The Captain did not seem impressed, and at once Lans could not ignore the scars and liver spots lining his features. "Banya brings us news from the outside world. So I know they still have a Deva in command", he reminded Lans. "An elite. Even in my prime, those four were too much for me. I'm sixty-nine summers old, my friend. Most of my friends have already gone on to the next world to meet their judgement from the Gods. But for this marvellous lady, I'd have already joined them."

"I hold you to your oath", Lans pressed. "Gran must be avenged."

Ashe gave a faint chuckle. "I somehow doubt he cares, wherever he is now."

"I care", he shot back furiously, offering Ashe the hilt of his sword. "Sir Ashe. When you commanded the Zenobian knights, you were the standard to which all of us aspired. You offered justice with one hand and slew the wicked with the other, and you did so without forgetting that kingdoms are nothing without their hundreds of thousands of commoners. Speaking from experience, I cannot believe that mere age has transformed the greatest warrior of our time into a doddering coward."

The speed with which Ashe sat up and put the sword to Lans' throat demonstrated just how right he was. No knight worth his steel would stand such insults. However hopeful that brief spark seemed, Ashe yet withheld. "You don't need me, friend. I'm just an old soldier in dire need of rest. I'd be a hindrance. I'd-"

Lans decked him over Banya's shrill protests. "You can still carry a sword", he admonished. "The Captain Ashe I knew would never permit this injustice to pass. I ask you- does he yet live?"

It was amazing, Lans thought inwardly as Ashe considered. Fifty-eight summers of his own and never before had he felt this strange rush surging in his blood. Because their lives had been so similar, the right words and actions to take seemed to pop to the top of his head almost immediately.

This was how sir Destin convinced others to join the rebels. How he had made Canopus Walf once again willing to work with humans after a terrible betrayal, how he had talked Sir Tomas Neralai out of suicide. Even how he had rebuked Kapella Radigan's accusations that the rebel dream was not his own, if Selec Fubuki's tale was to be believed. Deep within, we all operate by the same basic elements of pride and equity. Men and women young and old, animals, ghosts and dragons and even werewolves... It requires a very special individual to push the right buttons. To unite these disparate folk in a common cause. That, not his swordsmanship or endurance, is his greatest gift.

And he understood just as quickly that Sirius had been right all along. If ever this young man, rare as Malanian crystal, were destroyed or corrupted, the rebels would have no hope, no chance of victory. Never again would he underestimate the power of persuasion, even if he lacked in it around any but a fellow knight of Zenobia. Both of them stood, silently united in their reminiscence of better days, of days long gone.

As he stalked along the rebel battle line, Bors heard prayers being recited to a dozen different Gods but did not interfere. There was very little time left now before the first Imperial squadron would be upon them, and the slightest twitch could be taken ill. Ironic, really. Most Zenobians, himself included, believed the Gods dwelled high above the clouds in a realm forever separate from Earth, a mirror of how the mythical Ogres were sealed deep within the molten fissures of the world. Yet now the first attack by their real enemy, thus far signified by a large cluster of black dots against blue sky would descend from the above, with many of its number beautiful enough to be the divine ones in disguise. Just one more reason to reaffirm that the rebel cause was worthy and righteous.

Passing a group of archers practising on the swarm of crows that had gathered, he saw the other division chiefs finishing up their own plans before departing. Once things got complicated, each division would mostly be on their own to follow its general goals as prescribed by their chief. If another group next to them was torn apart by valkyrie lightning, or boxed in and massacred by the enemy, it would be up to them to prevent their people from panicking or breaking file. The fact that Bors' people were in the second line and would witness many fall in the first before they even drew their blades would be countered by their experience- nearly all of his people were veteran knights from the first rebellion twelve years back. Those who weren't wouldn't dare break when surrounded by older, stronger men watchful against such cowardice.

The fighters from the slums remained an unknown quality. A pack of local volunteers assembled off to the left of Bors' division under the temporary leadership of Liat, it was yet to be seen if the new civillian recruits had the spine and steel to match their big talk of overthrowing governor Darian. Chaos and death would bring out their true colors, as it had every other man Bors had ever known.

For once, Selec Fubuki did not look like he'd smelled something rank upon seeing the knight leader, instead giving a small nod behind the face mask that was all he needed to see. "Not scared, are yeh?"

The samurai raised his sheathed blade. The backup one again, with only nine kill marks. Even though the forgers had finally gotten around to remaking lost or destroyed weapons, Fubuki was too pessimistic to try a brand new katana in a fight of this magnitude, not before he'd put it through its paces in a more peaceful setting. And tested it until he knew where the shatter point was. "Never."

"No?", he grinned, raising his metal visor in hope that he'd finally get to see the other man's face. "Never seen a scuffle o' this size, I'll bet. Yeh weren't here when the Empire attacked the capital, an' there hasn't been one to equal that since. Well, maybe the vampire nest in Kastalpe-"

The old disdain rising in him, Fubuki stood. "I was off in Deneuve fighting for my Order when Zenobia fell, knight. Against the Ninja Order."

Ah. This old rivalry again. The same story from every easterling warrior he talked to of Denueve's civil war between the Ninja and Samurai Orders. He would have offered the younger man some mead if they weren't going to be needed sober soon. "And that battle was big as this one?"

Fubuki scanned the skies, noting how the swarm of flying black dots had grown in size and number. "Hard to say until we start. I would wager there were at least two hundred ninja at the battle of Antioch- half of them Masters, of course- and more than that of my own people. That was my first battle."

This surprised Bors. "An' yeh lived, boy?" Though it seemed a foolish question, the scale of such a thing gave it validity, else the samurai was simply lying to impress him.

His fellow chief gave a harsh laugh. "Watch your tongue, knight. I'm no boy, though I'd say I was then... Liat saved me. Took a shuriken that would have pierced my heart. Instead, it pierced him."

"Not hard t' guess where", he said. "Friends, are yeh?"

"Hardly", Fubuki said. "We competed in everything from boating to women. When I was excommunicated, the true surprise wasn't that he was as well, for the same crime, but that he chose to stay with me afterwards. I kept waiting for the moment when he attempts to take vengeance for his eye. I'm still waiting for it."

"Sounds like a friend to me", Bors observed. The other chief grunted. "I would've thought you'd be more focused on what lies ahead, knight, not on gossip."

"And I'd have thought the same of yeh." He spread both arms wide. "But here we are, yapping like an old married couple. Guess ol' Destin's got the right idea after all, eh? Gods guide your blade, samurai."

"And yours, knight", he said back after a moment or two. "Looks like it's begun", he nodded toward the opening in the clouds before the first line. Dozens of black dots had swelled into hundreds, and the first of those hundreds were growing into distinct shapes with flapping wings. Bors returned to his own division, which needed little in the way of a pep talk. He gave them one anyway, filled with obscene descriptions of the Imperials' mothers and what they would do to those who broke past the first line.

He was rather good at them, all things considered. Some commanders were and some weren't, and some never even tried out of some misplaced sense of courtesy, but for captain Bors there was nothing to take the edge off a battle's tension quite like throwing your best adult insults at the enemy before things got hectic.

Finishing just in time, he lowered his visor and raised his helmet to watch the flapping figures begin to descend. Some of these were, in fact, crashes caused by severe injury to the flying beasts from either the first volley of arrows, the efforts of Canopus and Gilbert's flying divisions, or the ghosts' own attack. It was impossible to tell at this distance and this late in the day. Frazzled by the swift drop but not beaten, most of the riders- particularly the valkyries- had managed to cushion their crash landings in mostly the same area, and now thirty or more figures arose in front of the first line to attack head-on. Growling, Bors motioned his people back. This was unexpected, but them breaking off to engage out of turn would only make things worse. They would just have to wait and hope that the attacked portion could handle it.

Lowering his eyes from the flying formation and the impossible rain of arrows now hurling into it, he looked over the aforementioned portion. Warren's spellcasting acolytes seemed more numerous than before. They shared equal space with the Roshian clerics there, but the presence of Ruclomb and Pheles eased the stirring in his bones somewhat. Withheld by their master, one dodged a lightning bolt while the other loosed a frightful howl that would weed out any amateurs in the Imperial line through flinching.

There were none. Bors whistled, watching Warren unleash his own attack, a darkened sphere of some shifting, undefinable substance that he'd never seen the Moon Sage use before. Whatever the stuff was, the valkyrie struck by it let out a fearful shriek before collapsing to the grass. Another fell to a concentrated arrow barrage, but that was all the Sage was willing to risk. Now he motioned to his entire group, the centre part of the first line, back in time to prevent them from being overwhelmed. Now it would fall to Bors' veterans to safeguard that core, luring the survivors deeper in. They couldn't help but-

He leapt forward, feeling his heart nearly give out right there for the shock he'd received. Still better, he digressed, than the shock from above that had struck one of the armoured men beside him. In all the ruckus he'd lost track of the main group, which had flown past the now-distracted archers to deliver death from above to the second line. Something not quite a magical lightning bolt but equally as fast touched down a ways to his left, and left behind it a rising cloud of oddly shiny dust. When that faded, those around the unlucky victim fell back from their comrade, expressions of unshakable fear showing beneath their helmet visors. There was nothing left of the target but a small, diamond-shaped rock, dark green just like the man's armour had been.

"It's fine, lads!", he called over the growing din. "He's not dead, jus' petrified! Couple hours and he'll be back to normal right enough!" All the same, his heart was pounding and breath short. This was not the way their leader had expected things to go. The main force was now past Bors' group nearly unhindered, and closing on what was meant to be the final defence- Destin's own division. If Kaus Debonair was among that force, there would be no way for the rebels to stop him from pouncing from behind and slaying their leader.

Were the Sage to be believed, that would mean the end of the second Zenobian revolution right there.

Rallying every uninjured man, in his division to him, he stopped on the verge of gesturing towards El Rangen with his broadsword, cursed. They were expected to act as a defence for Warren's group, one that was badly needed from the way the original strike force was cutting through the recruits that stood before them, only 20 meters or so from Bors himself now. He could see Eagle clanners, some of the Empires's own wizards, and of course the valkyria working their way up already, one coming within spitting distance of his position before Pheles mauled her.

Decision time. The petrified and injured lay thicker around him now, but a good division leader would be able to think on his feet regardless of the screams erupting all about him. Hold the front or charge off to save Destin from certain death? Looking to Warren, he saw an imperceptible nod from the older man and cursed. This was no way to wage a defence.

"GIDEON!", he railed out the name of his closest subordinate in hope that his goateed second-in-command yet lived. "GET UP FRONT! I'LL TAKE THE REAR! KUMO AND LYDWYN TO ME!"

There was no way of knowing if Gideon heard and no time to check. The rising trill coming from all around the two lines would have drowned it out anyway. An echoing, undulating wail from nearly a hundred throats and tongues honed over the years to unnerve the enemies of the Empire and inspire its soldiers. The valkyrie battle cry. His divsions' counter-yell of "LONG LIFE TO GRAN" suddenly seemed less adequate, and the cry of "FIGHT IT OUT!" up behind them even more so.

At least Kumo had made it, he noticed with a brief smile. The easterling knight matched his leader's pace despite their armour, both running to intercept the pack of flapping figures now descending into shot range of Destin's group and prompting a hail of arrows to start rising up into them. He could see the rebel leader there on the hilltop, bellowing orders and rearranging his formation as best he could against so many. Ironically, their sprint up the hill went undisturbed- a flight of Cockatrices tried to pounce only for Canopus' people to show up and tear them to shreds in a dogfight. To the right a squadron of enemy wizards had overextended themselves in pursuit and encountered Liat's raw recruits. Canopus certainly would have joined Bors in the rush to the rear in fact, but for the sudden appearance of two green dragons and two Eagle clanners over the horizon, chasing the rebel air unit away for parts of the sky unknown.

Peeking over to his left, he saw Fubuki's twenty men engaged with two more of the huge green reptiles and finding them equally difficult even with their leader freely using devastating his 'Ianuki' spirit technique. Good hunting, samurai. Greens might have been the weakest brood of dragonkin, more of a growing-up phase for them than anything before they reached adulthood and their scales changed colour, but they were still Dragons and still twelve feet tall behemoths of scales and claws and teeth. That division had their work cut out for them.

He and Kumo were the only ones in a position to see the drop as it happened. Five flying mounts peeling off from the main group and descending right towards Destin's position. Three were quickly shot, but their riders had expected it, immediately dismounting and falling the remaining distance down. Familiar lightning flared out, felling a row of archers and scattering the rest of the division. Though outnumbered, the five were fighting with enough skill and coordination that it seemed forever before the division could regain some kind of coordinated defence.

He managed to get within meters before witnessing another sight that turned his knees to ice regardless of his thirty years in the Zenobian guard. One of the attackers, likely the drop leader, had brought her halberd weapon down on Destin as she fell from the sky- the other attacks had only been diversions to isolate the rebel leader. Destin's body did not fly back, simply battered to the ground with a dent in his helmet that left no doubt that his skull had been cracked. Slain, or else so badly muddled that like Bors' own father he would never be able to command or fight again. The same result for the rebellion either way. Defeat. The end of all their hopes, and a certain retribution against all those who had aided them.

He shivered. No. No. He dared not think it. Perhaps Warren had been wrong. Perhaps the blow wasn't as severe as it looked. Regaining his serenity, he screamed and charged the assassin while Kumo intercepted the closest enemy knight. Just as usual, as Bors preferred it, when facing an opponent in a sea of friends and foes after a battle line was broken, the amount of focus one placed on their target reduced the rest of it to something only slightly above background noise, so that such a battle broke down into a vast multitude of smaller duels packed tight against one another. Situational awareness was never his forte, and now that he recognized Destin's assassin he knew he would need all of his skill to avenge his lord.

It was Captain Liana ap Fordrannon, one of Kaus Debonair's commanders from the morning's parlay, who stood crowing over Destin's fallen body. Thankfully most of the army hadn't yet realized he was slain, for they continued to fight on. Bors approached in a stance of open menace, rage clouding his normally charming voice into a beast's bark. "Over here, missy, and yeh'll fight a real warrior."

Looking insulted, Liana kicked the red-armoured body over, trying to remove the helmet with her halberd so as to be sure of her kill. Her black hair and skin seemed to glow amidst the fireballs and lightning bolts being hurled around "Not much point to it now, haaswein. But what's one more bit of Zenobian dung smeared into the ground?" Leaping from the body in a single bound, she brought the pole weapon down on Bors' shield, rolling away before his sword could connect. Generating her own bolt of lightning from the halberd, she was momentarily surprised to see the shield absorb that as well, leaving Bors the time to take a number of shots at her.

Both rolled again, Bors avoiding a close-range bolt and Liana avoiding a stray arrow. The valkyrie came up with her weapon spinning in one hand, powerful but only a diversion for her to drive the other arm beneath the man's shield and break the straps holding it to his arm with practised ease. Not allowing himself to be stunned by the sudden loss of his protection, the southerling knight ran his sword across Liana's leg, leaving a messy line of red right through her armour before she could get away. Feeling the sheet of steel drop off, he flexed his blade about to emphasize his newfound mobility.

The warrior woman was not impressed. She began to charge the blue energy in her halberd again, only halfway done before Bors' own, heavier blade knocked it aside, trimming it's bottom on the backswing. Unconcerned, she put her own weapon forward into Bors' chest plate.

The entire world seemed to phase in and out. Bors knew his limbs were thrashing about, trying in vain to channel the lightning that had just been pumped into his system, but could not feel them as they did it. It was a struggle just to remain conscious and grit one's teeth bloody until he regained feeling in his sword arm, bringing it back but not fast enough to catch his foe. He lowered into a wide swing, crying out in surprise as she lept clean over his head with another resounding strike to his helmet. Or perhaps that was just the pain of that hit, but either way he was surprised. He'd have expected this from Debonair, but such a leap did not seem terribly unique among the rest of the Imperial soldiers he caught glimpses of as he wheeled around.

Not in twenty-four years had he witnessed such coordination, such expertise, such all-around strength in every movement and strike as they drove back the rest of Destin's men. Not flawless, but clearly superior to the rebels. If he couldn't match an Imperial soldier, even a division leader, then what chance did the younglings have here? For now, his bulky armour was holding up against repeated blows from the halberd, each too fast to stop, but one more lightning strike and it wouldn't matter. He felt like a metal drum.

"Enough!" Liana went in for the killing blow, trying to drive the undamaged end's spike into Bors' heart, which battered armour could not stop. A screech of overstressed metal rang out, but it was Bors who gave the grin of the victorious- he'd twisted at the last second, allowing the weapon to penetrate deep into the steel. Too deep. The pain was very real- he estimated less than five minutes before his body would simply give up- but there the halberd remained stuck. He shifted again, and the long pole brought its owner up with it. Straight into a forward slash on his left side, accomplishing much the same thing against lighter and weaker armour.

The valkyrie cursed and sputtered as she fell back, but it was clear she had about as long to live as Bors himself. No amount of training could overcome having your inner organs pierced. He chuckled over a hacking cough. For all the other types the Empire was fielding today, he had not yet seen a single Cleric. He might have a chance to live past today, but the valkyrie chief would not. He had won.

That notion did not quite fill him with as much joy as it would have, had his lord still been alive to see it.

Liana ap Fordrannon died choking and foaming, unable to muster a final taunt for the pain that surely dominated her perception as it nearly did Bors'. Ignoring the body, he limped back towards Destin's, arms too exhausted to rise in prayer to the Twenty-Two that his injury had not in fact been mortal.

Destin lay face down in the grass, unmoving. His body felt numb and Bors was initially reluctant to move it. After several seconds he twisted the red suit from the left, raising it up before letting the man's face peer up at the sky instead. It was nearly the sky of the evening now, with only a few rays of daylight mingling with the clouds. As always happened in Bors' experience, heavy fighting distorted one's sense of time, so that hours of bloodstained violence could pass in no time at all.

Seeing the face of the body made Bors go still, his vision cloudy. It seemed an impossibility, but the closer he looked the better he understood. "Gran's bones!"

This was not Destin. It had the same armour as him, distinctive and elegant, and similar hair protruding out from beneath the smashed helmet. It would fool most of the rebels if the man had been any good at imitating the young man's voice. But Bors had spent countless meetings looking Destin ap Neb in the face close up and he knew at first glance that this man, whoever he was, could not possibly be him. If anything he actually looked a slight younger than the rebel leader, with better cheekbones and hazel-brown eyes now stretched open to their absolute limit.

Bors felt a hand on his shoulder. Twisting, he saw three more people standing around him and Liana and Not-Destin's body, a valkyrie and two wizards all bearing Imperial red on their cuffs.

Not one of them looked happy. As looked around he saw there were no warriors in blue close enough to intervene. His divison, all of the brave men under him, were doomed. "Captain Liana", the wizard growled. "You killed her?"

He could not stand, only balance himself on his crumpled legs so as to face the three with whatever emotions he could muster up. Most of them, such as his pride, made him want to laugh at the whole situation "Aye. Wanna fight abou' it?"

"At least the rebel leader is dead", the valkyrie noted. She had to have been friends with Liana from the tearful tone of her voice. "She'll be honoured as a hero in the histories of Zeteginea."

"She'll be honoured as a fool", Bors countered. An angry strike from the new valkyrie's halberd knocked him sprawling, but he only laughed harder. "She'll be remembered as a foolish, idiotic whore who killed the wrong man! Have a look, yeh bastards! This ain't Destin! He's alive! Alive, and one day he'll come and KILL YEH ALL!"

Another pike-thrust struck lines of red across his vision but did not stop his throat, nor his mad laughter. "He'll rip General Debonair's heart out of his body an' mount it on his WALL! He'll tear Rashidi's head off an' piss in the STUMP! He'll-"

The third strike came down. He died before he could elaborate on what he hoped Destin would do to the Black Queen.