Wayward Son

by Gunlord500

Renault, the Burdened Bishop of Valor, is one of Fire Emblem 7's most mysterious characters. This is but one account of his immensely long, tumultuous life.

36. Falling Stars

::Previously, on Wayward Son!::

"The rebels don't have enough men to keep pressin' the eastern front," Gafgarion read from the letter. "This is an ideal time to take the initiative, go on the offensive, and put an end to this war. I want Gafgarion and the Autonomous Company to return to Thagaste. They'll accompany the rest of the Royal Army as we head north, straight to the Fortress of Spears. 'S the most powerful stronghold the Rebels have open to them. Once we take that, we can push past Austros, through the Lurkmire Forest, and take the city of Nerinheit. The Autonomous Company'll be an important part of this plan."

Renault and his friends enjoyed (in a way) the "break" at Caerleon, and now they're heading to Thagaste to rendezvous with the rest of the army! But Paptimus has his own nefarious plans, and now they come to fruition! Keep reading to see how it all plays out!

36: Falling Stars

"You know, it's ironic. I became a mercenary thinking I'd never have to see this city again. But this is the third time I've been back here since the war started."

Renault said this to Kelitha as the two friends left the forge of a man named Goddard. He was Count Hallard's personal blacksmith, known across the entire region for his skill in repairing magical artifacts. Renault had left his mystic armor in the man's supposedly-capable hands, and while Goddard had said he'd worked with similarly complex pieces before, Renault had his doubts. Still, Harvery himself had recommended him and the Assassin hadn't led them wrong before. Kelitha, for her part, had purchased a new Silver Spear from the man, which seemed to be perfectly crafted, so she, at least, was in quite a good mood.

Thus, she giggled upon hearing Renault's grumbling. "It's not that bad, is it? I mean, this city has several wonderful libraries. I hear Count Hallard's collection is even bigger than Exedol's!"

Her friend grinned. "Yeah, that's right." His face suddenly grew a bit more solemn, though. "Oh, hey, Kelitha, that reminds me. I, uh, wanted to ask you something…"

"Hm?"

"Well…it's about how long you Pegasus Knights have to fight. I remember you sayin' that around 30's the age you can retire. And that's still pretty far off for you and Keith, right?"

"Um…yes."

"Is there any way you girls can get out earlier than that?"

"It's possible, but very, very difficult. If a Pegasus Knight can acquire five hundred thousand gold one way or another and gives it to the Union, they'll free her from her obligations for the rest of her life."

"So, for both you and your sister, that'd be a million total, right?"

"I believe so." She stared at him curiously. "Why are you asking?"

Renault blushed slightly. "I…well…I mean, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but remember a couple of weeks ago, back at Caerleon, I told you it was too soon to start thinking of…you know, that sort of stuff?"

"Er…um…yes, I remember that…"

"Well…it seems like this war's gonna be ending soon, right? After we take the Fortress of Spears, the rebels are pretty much done. So while I still stand by what I said, I was just…well, running things through my head and stuff, and…aw, hell." He sighed. "Lemme just come out and say it. Kelitha, when this war finishes, I was thinking of paying off you and your sister's debt to the Ilian nation." His face became a bit more red. "I mean…you wouldn't have to, obviously, but if we got together that 1 million gold you and your sister would be free, right? So then maybe I could take you back to Etruria or something. There are a lot of big libraries in this country, especially in Aquleia, and you'd probably…well…you know…" His voice trailed off.

Kelitha continued to stare at him for a few moments longer, her face reddening a bit as well. "Renault, are you saying…?"

"Uh-huh. I mean, like I said, only if you want to…maybe you like the whole mercenary business better than I thought, but if not…just an idea, right?"

"R…Renault, that's…but how would you get that much money?"

"Hey, me and Braddock are famous mercenaries. We've probably earned over three hundred thousand gold, easily. And Khyron, Reglay, and Hallard owe you a few favors, don't they? We can ask them for some extra gold. And if even that's not enough, well, me and Braddock can sell off that…that heavy armor we wear. From what Goddard told me, it's really, really rare…our armor alone would be enough to pay off your debts! So when this is finished, I don't think we'd have any problems, uh, easing you into civilian life, know what I'm sayin'?"

Her eyes widened. "You…you'd do this for me? For…us?"

"H-hmph! Don't get ahead of yourself, lady!" Renault looked away, scratching the back of his head. "This is all just an idea! Who knows if it'll work out or not! But…well, you and Keith are…hell, I don't need to say it, you know how it is. More important to me than a suit of armor, at least! So if that money's what it'd take to…"

"Oh, Renault…thank you. Thank so much. I never thought…nobody's ever offered me anything like that before. Never. I never thought someone who isn't Ilian would show us this kindness, but…"

With an expression on her face and a look in her eyes he'd never seen before, she strode right up to him, causing him to take a step back in surprise. Goddard's forge was in a busy section of town, and the two of them were already getting looks, partially due to their notoriety and partially due to the fact that Ilians weren't a common sight in Thagaste. Kelitha didn't care, though. Before Renault could react, she took his hands in his, stood up on the tips of her toes, and gave him a kiss on the lips.

"I…um…"

He very desperately wanted to say something, but at the moment he was simply too taken aback to form a coherent sentence, or even notice—or care—that he was now the object of attention from several more passerby.

"That's all you get for now, Renault," she grinned mischievously as she stepped back from him. "After all, we don't have time for more at the moment, right? But once we live through this war, you just may get it…assuming you keep your promise, that is!"

With another pleased laugh, she turned and skipped away from him, the smile on her face seemingly happier than any she'd ever worn. Not that it registered to Renault, either. The only thing this battle-hardened Mercenary Lord was capable of doing at the moment was stand dumbly outside of Goddard's forge, the crowd of people staring at him growing larger by the moment, so that he could ponder the import of what was his very first kiss.

-X-

"Are you worried about him, Meris?"

"Ah?" The redhead was jolted out of her unhappy thoughts by the voice coming from the bed behind her. She turned in her chair to see Glaesal staring at her, propped up by his pillows as he had been for the past several days.

He coughed—a harsh, phlegm-filled sound that made it seem as if he had the flu, though that was very odd at this time of year. "You—gah! Excuse me! From the way you were staring out the window, I thought…"

Meris smiled, getting up and moving over to the bedridden man to place a comforting hand on his hot forehead. "You know me too well, Glaesal. Yes, I was worried about him…he's never done anything like this before. It's so unlike him."

"Y-yes, I thought the same thing." Glaesal let out another series of hacking coughs, at which Meris hastily brought him a glass of water. "Ah, t-thank you, dear," he said, downing it hastily. "But what was I—ah, yes. I understand your feelings, and shared them myself at first. But when all is said and done, Paptimus has done more for our cause than anyone else. I believe in him…it's not as if we can do anything else, at the moment."

"Ah…indeed." Meris wiped his sweaty forehead with a clean piece of cloth. "Especially in your condition," she muttered to herself, too quietly for him to hear. It was a very strange thing. Just a few days ago, Glaesal had been the very picture of health, at least for an older man. But almost without warning, after his last conversation with Paptimus and Meris, he had suddenly fallen sick like this.

"It's the stress," Meris said to herself, again too quietly for him to hear—not that it would have mattered, for with a yawn he seemed to have fallen asleep. "It has to be."

But in the recesses of her mind, she couldn't quite shake the conviction that there was something more sinister behind her friend's sudden illness.

-X-

"You are certain Maxim will be there, Revolutionary?"

"Very certain," said Paptimus, standing with Yurt, Trunicht, Yazan, and a dozen of the Revolutionary Army's best assassins underneath the streets of Thagaste. The sewers certainly lived up to their name in terms of their smell (indeed, Yazan's wyvern seemed on the verge of collapsing due to the stench) but it was an inconvenience the infiltrators were more than happy to live with—after all, they provided the easiest way to sneak into Thagaste without being detected.

"I wouldn't have called for you if I wasn't sure your target was here," smirked the Black Knight. "The entire Royalist army is gathering here, including the Ostian."

"Then I will focus on him. Your concern with this Great General is not mine."

"Yes, yes, we understand. But if you happen to run into Char, you will help us kill him, won't you? We'll make it very worth your time…"

"We'll see."

Those were the Assassin's last words as he disappeared into his characteristic puff of black, oily smoke, leaving the rest of the Revolutionaries alone in the dank sewers.

"Ugh," shuddered Yazan, laying a comforting hand on Hambrabi's head as the beast growled suspiciously, "I've seen a lot of creepy things in my time, but the Silent Chief is the creepiest of all. What the hell is up with that guy?"

Trunicht shrugs. "I've heard some of his story, but even I'm not entirely sure. In any case, does it even really matter?"

"Guess not," acknowledged the Bernite.

"In any case, we must keep moving," said Paptimus. "Captain Varm and his ships will probably be making their presence known in the docks very soon. We'll have to take out the Great General while his forces are distracted with them. Let us proceed!"

-X-

Dearest Ethlea, the letter began, As always, yor your letters are a relief for my tired mind. To answer your question, I am doing fine, I have not been ij injured, though many of my comrades have not been so lucky. Fortunately though the war effort is proceeding very well the rebel army is on the verge of collapse and perhaps even before winter falls I will be able to see you again

Jerid paused for a moment, looking over these lines in the privacy of his candlelit room. See her again? What did that mean? Yes, it was true these past few months had been very trying for him, and yes, it was true that the letters from Ethlea in Aquleia had often been the few bright spots of his life as of late. Hell, if it wasn't for her encouragement and concern for him (it couldn't have been easy for her to write to him so much, given how busy she must be—he guessed she was very serious about not letting him fall out of contact again), he probably would have fallen back to drinking again. Still, "Dearest Ethlea?" Well, since her last missive to him had been addressed to "Dearest Jerid," he guessed it was simply fair, but…

"Ah, well, what does it matter? Let's just see how things go." Jerid shrugged his burly shoulders—all that time lugging that heavy Knight's armor around had been good for his physique—and continued his letter. Once he finished it—a few paragraphs on how well the Royalist forces were doing, how high their morale was, and again, how much he wanted to see her again, he signed the sheaf of paper and placed it on his desk, confident he'd be able to send it off tomorrow. Sighing in satisfaction, he got up and walked over to the window of his small but reasonably well-furnished room, opening it in the hopes of catching some clean night air as well as a good view of the moonlit sky of Thagaste, a view which had always brought him much comfort in the past. His room in Hallard's castle also faced south, allowing him a decent view of the beautiful tributaries of the Tiber—his city was situated at its mouth and the city's docks were a source of pride for him and the rest of his fellow citizens.

However, even in the darkness he could tell that something was…off, about the docks this night. Under the moon, he could make out the shapes of four large, tri-masted sailing ships making their way to the docks. It seemed as if they were coming from the tributary which led to the Shield of Durbans, but that was strange. A few weeks earlier, Count Hallard had received a letter stating that five trading vessels from one of the merchant clans of the Western Isles would be heading towards Thagaste, hoping to sell some weapons before the war ended. However, these massive ships looked much sturdier than merchant ships, even the larger galleons. He couldn't make out the emblem on their sails, either. All in all, these ships seemed much less like part of an ordinary trading fleet and more like something dangerous.

His suspicions were confirmed when the boats moored, and soon after, spots of orange began piercing the darkness around the area of the docks—flames.

"A pirate attack? Now?" he spat, though nobody was close enough to hear him. "What the hell could they be thinking?" Not that it mattered—his responsibility was to defend the city. Remaining calm, he walked over to the armor stand kept in a corner of his room—he'd long ago learned the value of keeping his equipment within easy reach. He didn't have time to put on all his armor, but he slapped on his boots, gauntlets, helmet, and distinctive Knight's chestpiece before grabbing his spear and rushing out the door as fast as he could. "Tell everyone we're under attack!" he called to a stunned servant as he rushed by. "I'm gonna get Lord Henken!"

As he ran up towards the Great General's quarters, however, he would end up being less than pleased at what he saw.

-X-X-X-

"Hey, Maxim. Look at this."

"Um…yes, sir?"

"That's right, you better call me 'sir!' Now, look at this."

"Hey, isn't that a reed pipe?"

"Uh-huh. You know how to play?"

"Uh…not really…"

"Don't you know anything? What my sister sees in you, I have no idea. Well, just watch."

He placed the instrument to his mouth and began to blow, playing the tarantella Pamela enjoyed so much. The blue-haired youth who had his eyes on her grinned cheerfully, saying "Hey, she loves that song! When she comes, can you play it for us? It'd be great to dance to!"

"Why don't you learn to play?" He tossed the pipe to Maxim, who, to his credit, managed to catch it. "You saw me, didn't you? Just put your fingers over the holes to make different notes…"

"I'll try…" Again, to his credit, he made a valiant attempt, but the noises he managed to produce were anything but melodic.

"At least you tried," he grunted under his breath, but he made it a point not to allow Maxim to hear him. Rather, he started laying into the young man. "Even for a first time, that's terrible! Do you have two left hands or something? I—"

"Hey, leave him alone, Char!" Pamela's stern voice echoed from across the tree underneath which they were sitting—she was followed by Harvery, with the spy wearing his typical silly grin. "Plenty of people aren't very good with instruments. I'm one of them, remember?"

Maxim looked at his beloved with an immensely grateful expression on his face, but before Char could lay into the lad, Harvery piped up with "what's the point of even teachin' him? He'll never be as good as I am. Just listen!"

With a single deft movement, the spy brought out his own trusty pipe and began playing the same tune Char had been, at which Maxim and Pamela, big, guileless smiles on both their faces, took the cue and took each other hand in hand, dancing and swaying around while her older brother looked on. But at seeing her so happy, even he couldn't stay displeased at her companion for long, and in a short time he'd started clapping to Harvery's beat, unable to keep a grin off his own face as he watched Pamela and Maxim dance the afternoon away, looking as if they didn't have a care in the world…

"Ugh…did I nod off? Sloppy."

The Great General blinked as he sat up in his chair, the fragments of that happy memory rapidly giving way to the reality of his personal chambers—utterly dark except for the small candle on his desk. It served to give him enough light to write down the next set of orders for his army—he'd been doing that all day and night, since the upcoming offensive would hopefully be the push which finally ended the war. Perhaps it was getting to him—he'd always stressed to his soldiers the importance of knowing their limits and realizing when they had to take a rest before their performance started to decline, so he resolved to follow his own advice. He blew out the candle and made his way over to his modest bed in the corner of the room, preparing to lay himself to sleep, until he felt something very strange. And very dangerous.

He stopped, standing straight and still. His cold grey eyes scanned the darkness, seeing nothing amiss. He could feel it, though. It was the stench of magic—dark magic. A certain heaviness in the air, a tingling across his skin…he didn't have much experience with this sort of magic, but he'd encountered a bit of it in the battles at Aquleia and Thagaste, and that was all he needed to recognize it. Even so, this was different than anything he'd felt in either of those battles. The eldritch aura was much stronger, so oppressive that it was almost like a physical presence in the room. Then again, as he'd quickly find out, perhaps it wasn't the only one.

"Your reputation is well-deserved, great general," a voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. "You've managed to sense my presence already? A pity I have to kill you…you would have made an excellent mage."

Henken didn't even register the compliment. Instead, he ducked and darted forwards just in time to avoid a globe of purple-limned energy materializing in the air where his chest would have been. His room was, of course, too small to permit any kind of more elaborate evasion, but that was fine with him—his opponent would have to make do with the same limitations, after all. He quickly spun and turned to the door. He could see the darkness in front of it…shimmering, almost. Shifting. After a moment, it coalesced into the shape of a huge, armored figure, the moonlight from the window reflecting off of his ebony plate mail as well as the blood-red pauldron on his right shoulder.

Henken didn't need to guess twice to know who this was. "Paptimus," he said, his voice not betraying even a hint of emotion.

"Very good," came the voice, this time coming clearly from the armored man. "You…yes, I thought it might be you. Char, of Cornwell. How you managed to escape from that Ostian prison, I'm not sure. But it doesn't matter, now…"

"You killed Pamela, didn't you?" Still his voice held no trace of emotion.

"Ah…I'd try to deny it, but it wouldn't work on you, would it? Well, there's no point. Indeed I did, Char. It was necessary…necessary for the good of my plans, and thus for the good of Elibe. But you won't listen, will you? Oh well. I can at least send you to join your sister!"

The armored man held out his hand and sent out another burst of dark energy, which Henken again managed to dodge with a quick sidestep. It wasn't aimed at him, though—rather, it sent the armor stand behind him topping to the floor, sending his enchanted raiment, including his magic axe, far out of easy reach.

Henken knew that any attempt to reach his weapon would be foiled. So he didn't try. Surprising his foe, almost too fast for the eye to see he dashed forwards, keeping his body low to the ground, and slammed into Paptimus' legs, the force of his slam enough to send even the almost eight-foot-tall Dark General straight to the ground. Henken intended to tear off his helmet and go straight for his eyes, but another orb of darkness materializing just over Paptimus' prone form forced him to halt his assault and back off.

"I'll kill you," said Henken, his voice now trembling. "You'll pay for what you did to her, Paptimus. There's no escape, now."

"Heh." Despite his new position on the floor, it seemed the turncoat was smiling underneath his helmet. "You're quite wrong about that, Char!" As the Great General leapt on him, intending to rip his head from shoulders with his bare hands, Paptimus simply melted into the floor, disappearing into the inky blackness before rematerializing behind his opponent.

As he did so, he raised a hand towards the room's window, over which appeared a strange purple sigil, very large and bright, visible across the entire city. Henken had no idea what it was supposed to signify, and he didn't want to find out, either.

Not that he had a choice. "I was taught this little trick by your own soldiers, Char!" Paptimus laughed. "I hope you enjoy it!" The Great General leapt at him again, and once again the Dark General faded into the shadows, but this time his essence seemed to coalesce around Henken, and when he fully rematerialized his large arms were wrapped around the smaller man. Henken could have easily escaped from such a grip, of course, but it would have taken him a moment—and a moment was all the Revolutionary needed.

A white light enveloped both of them, spiriting them away to a location not very far off…

-X-

"Renault, wake up! We got a problem! A big problem!"

"Aw, what the hell?"

Despite his grumbling, it didn't take Renault more than a moment to up and collect himself as he rose from his bed at…Jerid's insistence? Across from him, Braddock was already blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes—a testament to their growth as mercenaries that they were prepared to fight even after being awoken so rudely.

"What the hell, Jerid? Is it rebels?"

"Maybe, but they're comin from the sea! A bunch of pirate ships've moored in the docks and they're causin' a hell of a lot of trouble! Now move!"

"Shit!" Renault looked at his friend. "Our armors're at Goddard's, aren't they?"

"Doesn't matter. You haven't forgotten how to fight with just a sword, have you?"

"Hah! Like hell I did!"

"I got some spare pieces of armor for you in case something like this happened," said Jerid. "They're in this room's chests! Not as good as your normal stuff, but they're better than nothing. Now get moving! Head to the docks as soon as you can!"

"Wait," said Renault suspiciously, "Where the hell's Henken? Shouldn't he be giving us orders?"

"I wouldn't be givin' 'em if I knew where he was!" yelled Jerid in frustration. "He's not in his room, nobody's seen him, and nobody knows where the hell he is! So until we find him, GET MOVING!"

"Alright!" The two men hastily opened the large chests at the foot of their respective beds and took out worn but serviceable sets of leather armor and traveling boots and gloves, not perfectly fitted for them but close enough. Renault grabbed his Silver Sword and Braddock grabbed a small buckler shield and his Basilikos, eager to try it out in battle himself. The two of them rushed out the door to their room and down the stairs leading to the first floor, and they were quickly joined by their commander and the rest of the Autonomous Company. All of them had already been informed of what was going on, so there was no need to brief any of them. Following Khyron the moment they saw him, all of the Company (except for Keith and Kelitha, who were running to the castle's stables to ready their mounts) simply followed him without hesitation into the city's chaotic streets.

Already, those streets were milling with soldiers and guardsmen, the civilians having already locked themselves inside their homes—by this point, the people of the city were more than passingly familiar with the sounds of battle in front of their homes. A small group of Soldiers were taking the main road to the docks, and the Autonomous Company followed them.

"Just who're we fighting?" Renault asked Braddock as he ran by his side. They were nearing the docks, and the buildings around them already gave evidence of being ransacked by a particularly cruel and merciless enemy. The screams of women emanated from several windows, and flames were belching smoke from others.

To answer Renault's question, as they rounded the corner they came across a small band of the culprits. Half a dozen burly men in ratty, banged-up clothing, smelling of salt and rotten fish, were standing near what had once been a baker's shop. They all had white bandanas wrapped around their heads, and three of them carried bows tipped with flaming arrows, which they were loosing into any open window they could find with loud laughs. The other three were laughing as they emerged from the doorway of the shop with their mouths stuffed with its goods, their hands occupied by nasty-looking twin axes. Renault had heard of these types of warriors before—Corsairs, ruthless pirate warriors who could fight on both land and sea.

"Oy, look sharp, lads!" said one of the Corsairs as he noticed the Soldiers approaching. "Let's give these landlubbers a warm welcome!"

"Wait!" yelled Braddock as their allies charged into battle with a scream, but to no avail. As the soldiers ran forwards, the invaders responded with a trick of their own. With a surprising amount of coordination for a band of outlaws, as one the Corsairs swept their weapons horizontally, the mass of their axes combined with their burly frames succeeding in batting aside the spears of their enemies and breaking the charge. Just as quickly they ducked, allowing the Archers behind them to draw a bead on the Royalists and fletch each one of them cleanly, sending them all collapsing to the ground with arrows in their foreheads.

"Har, har, har!" said one of the Corsairs. "Nice one, boys! I—"

He didn't have time to finish his question before he was literally blown to pieces.

With a loud, enraged scream, Braddock had made a charge of his own, a sudden burst of speed from his strong legs propelling him first in front of his comrades, then into the air with a jump. The Basilikos glowed bright blue as he raised it over his head, and when it came slamming down, enhanced by the force of his leap, the closest Corsair was blasted apart before he knew what hit him, the massive axe cleaving his body entirely in two before the gusts of wind which were its enchantment scattered the pieces all across the surrounding area. With a speed that belied his large frame, but with an amazing strength that suited it well, the moment he landed Braddock twisted his right wrist, flipping the gigantic axe horizontally with only one hand, and then swept it around himself in a great circular cut. The great blade's size along with its magic winds were enough to reduce the other two Corsairs into bloody chunks of flesh flying through the air as well. The remaining Archers were too shocked to do anything but gape, and this resulted in them meeting the exact same fate. With a step forward and one more powerful sweep of the Basilikos, the pirate archers were gruesomely dispatched in the same fashion.

For the moment, the battle seemed to have ended—there were no more pirates in the immediate vicinity, though the sounds of battle were coming from inside the buildings and across the street, and there weren't any more allies around either, though the shouts and tramping boots of panicked Royalist soldiers could be heard as well. Thus, Braddock was allowed a moment to look at the carnage he had wrought.

"W…wow," he said out loud, slightly astonished at his own handiwork. Judging by how all his friends had themselves stopped to gawk at the scene (with Apolli distinctly looking a bit queasy), he was not alone in his reaction. "This axe really does deserve its reputation!"

"Aw, man. What I would do for a sword with that kind of power," replied Renault with just a tinge of jealously.

As he would soon find out, he was far from the only one.

"It's indeed a mighty fine axe ye got there, landlubber," came a gravelly, coarse voice from within the darkened confines of the bakery. "Methinks I be takin' it fer meself!"

"The hell?" Immediately snapped out of their shock, the Autonomous Company readied their weapons and turned to the shop's entrance. From the shadows emerged one of the largest men they'd ever seen—slightly taller than Braddock, almost as tall as Paptimus, so large and heavy was his frame that he had to stoop to exit the average-sized doorway. He also had to carefully keep his massive weapon low to the ground so that it didn't get caught, either. And massive was just the right word for it. The huge man held in his right hand a huge, vicious-looking Iron Axe that seemed as if it didn't weigh much less than Braddock's Basilikos—and what it may have lacked in enchantment it made up for in nastiness, judging by the many notches on its blade and the blood staining almost every inch of it. The man himself didn't disappoint, either—he was clad in virtually no armor, but still managed to look incredibly intimidating. He wore only a loose, ragged pair of red pants and a horned metal helmet—only two dimly glowing red dots could be seen from within the darkness of its visor. His chest was completely bare, though the moonlight highlighted the scars crisscrossing his leathery, tanned skin.

"Who the hell are you," asked Braddock, "and why the hell are you talking like somebody who's had more than blood knocked out of their head?"

This elicited a loud, wild laugh from the Berserker. "An attitude! Ye'd 've made a damn fine pirate, lad. Pity I 'ave t' skewer ye. But t' answer yer question, I be Captain Varg, th' most notorious pirate lord of the Western Isles!"

"Varg?" repeated Khyron incredulously. "Why would an outlaw like you ally yourself with a man like Paptimus, especially in such a brazen attack? You're giving up everything! Surely you know you can't succeed in taking this city with only five ships!"

"Aye, that be true," acknowledged the Captain. "But here's the thing, mateys. I hate you Etrurians. I'm more'n willin' t' throw away th' lives of me an' my men if it means layin' that King of yours low! And Master Paptimus, well, 'e has a plan that'll do just that!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Think it matters? I may die, but I'll be takin' more'n a few o' you scalawags with me! AT 'EM, BOYS!"

Suddenly, the street corner which had been almost deserted before was now bustling with activity. It seemed as if the entire pirate fleet had been hiding in these buildings—Archers popped out of the windows of both the bakery's second floor and the neighboring shops, training their bows on the Autonomous Company below them, and Corsairs burst out of the doors of every building in the vicinity. To make matters worse, there was a large sewer grate just behind Renault and his friends, and the moment Captain Varg made his proclamation, it burst open, and several Corsairs armed with axes and skinnier pirates armed with knives crawled out from its depths. The Autonomous Company was completely surrounded.

"Now," said Varg, "Time to—"

He was interrupted by a loud commotion from behind him, right where the Corsairs had emerged from the sewer grate.

"Commander! We've been looking for you!"

The sewer Corsairs, previously so eager for a fight, were reduced to screams and pained gurgles within a moment as a pair of white flashes descended upon them. In a single swoop, Kelitha unsheathed her sword and swung it down at the Corsairs several times, leaving all of them with gashes across their throats. Her sister fell on the knife and dagger-wielding pirates, her spear jabbing and thrusting with blinding speed, skewering all of them before they could even raise their weapons in defense.

This was all the time the rest of the Company needed. "You think you rabble stand a chance against us?" declared Khyron incredulously as he and Rosamia raised their arms, sending waves of fire crashing into the windows of the baker's shop and those next to it, roasting the surprised pirate archers within. Apolli had unlimbered his bow and sent arrows flying into the windows of the buildings on the other side of the street, sending each archer standing in them tumbling out and down to the ground with arrows in their eyes and throats. In the same moment, Renault and Harvery had dashed forwards, dealing with the Corsairs on street level. Running towards the open door of the bakery, Renault swept his sword to the side, spinning as he did so, cleanly removing the heads of the trio of axemen closest to him, then delivering a swift kick to the midsection of the headless corpse standing in the doorway, sending it toppling backwards and knocking over the Corsairs behind it. Harvery backed him up, the Assassin dashing around the Mercenary Lord faster than the eye could see, leaving the surrounding axemen and knife-wielders with bloody throats and empty holes where their eyes had once been. Roberto, for his part, was much less graceful but no less destructive—with an angry roar, the eyepatched Warrior charged into the group of pirates on the other side of the street, swinging his axe wildly, his size and strength breaking bodies and morale, sending the survivors scurrying away from their Captain Varg. Finally, Braddock concentrated on the Captain himself. He cut the Basilikos across in another horizontal arc, slicing through the Corsairs who had marched forwards to defend Varg, then took another step forwards and cut chopped downwards, intending to bisect the captain. Varg, however, was too experienced a warrior, quickly hopping to the side to avoid the cut. The rushing winds of the axe prevented him from being able to launch a counterattack of his own, but he took advantage of how they pushed him back, stumbling too far away to allow Braddock to catch him with another swing.

The damage had been done, however. The Autonomous Company had been surrounded by dozens of battle-hardened pirates just a few moments ago. Now, their only enemy still alive was once again no-one but Captain Varg.

"D…dammit!" stuttered the pirate in astonishment. "Ye ain't human, ye're devils!"

"We get that a lot," said Braddock, the Basilikos slung casually over his shoulder. "Now, why don't you surrender peacefully? We might let you live if you tell us just what Paptimus' "plan" is."

"Haw! Nothin' doin, landlubber! I wouldn't be a real pirate if I didn't have a few tricks up my sleeve, y'hear? Later!"

While he spoke, the pirate captain had surreptitiously edged his left hand towards the pocket of his pants. He quickly reached into it and took out a small bag of powder, throwing it on the ground before anyone could stop him. There was a bright flash of light and a large puff of smoke, enough to make the Company stagger back and cover their mouths and eyes. When they looked up, as could be expected, Varg had disappeared.

"Damn trickery," yelled Khyron indignantly as he coughed. "I'll hunt him down and—"

"No time to worry about him," said Harvery. "More of 'em are comin'!"

He was right—it seemed as if all the remaining pirates had realized the captain of their fleet was in trouble and were bearing down the road towards Khyron and his soldiers. More than a hundred, it seemed, and with more joining them.

"That's not all!" exclaimed Kelitha. "Lord Khyron, on our way here we saw something suspicious at Zodian's Rest. We sensed magic, and there were flashes of light that made it seem like a battle was going on. We didn't want to engage without reporting to you, first!"

"Damn, could that be that "plan?" But what if it's a distraction?"

"I got an idea," said Braddock. "Khyron, me and Renault will head over to Zodian's rest with Keith and Kelitha while the rest of you try to hunt down Varg. If it's just a distraction, we'll rendezvous with you, and if not, we'll delay 'em enough to allow you to back us up when you've dealt with the pirates!"

Khyron nodded. "Admirable initiative, Ostian! Don't waste any more time talking! Go!"

With that, he and Rosamia raised their arms over their heads to send a pair of Elfire spells at the first of the oncoming pirates, with the rest of the comrades readying the weapons and preparing to deal with the rest of them. Renault and Braddock, on the other hand, hastily jumped onto the backs of Kelitha and Keith's Pegasi, who swiftly ascended into the night skies of Thagaste, towards the great cathedral which had seen so much bloodshed and was about to see much more.

-X-

Henken felt disoriented and woozy when the white light left him and he found himself on an familiar stone floor in an area that seemed strangely enough even higher above the ground of Thagaste than his room in the castle. He didn't allow it distract him long enough for his foes to kill him—he rolled to the side just in time to avoid a blast of ice which would have frozen him solid. He got to his feet, keeping his body low to the ground, and cautiously glanced at his surroundings.

He recognized this place—it was the very top floor of Zodian's Rest. Though he wasn't a member of Monica's flock, during his time as a stoneworker he'd made enough repairs to it to recognize its top floor. The entire cathedral still hadn't been repaired and the fire damage from Renault and Tassar's last fight was still evident in many places, but the top floor hadn't been too badly damaged, except of course for the fact that it was missing its bells. This was also a very dangerous arena to fight in, given how there were no walls or railings to prevent anyone from falling over the floor's edge; the roof was held above him by pillars. It wouldn't be a problem for his enemies, who could use Warp magic, but it certainly would be for him. Paptimus had apparently chosen their battlefield quite well.

He had also thought ahead—when Henken glanced behind, he noticed that the entrance to the lower floor had been assiduously blocked away by a mass of burnt furniture they must have moved from the lower floors before they Warped—or more accurately, Rescued-him here to fight. And "they" were nearly a dozen men. Before him stood the armored figure of Paptimus of Scirocco, arms crossed over his massive chest arrogantly, and next to him was a sinister-looking man in ebony riding armor and holding a Rescue staff which marked him as a Black Knight. In a circle surrounding Henken there stood six more men—all clad in pitch-black robes and holding nasty twin daggers in each hand. Assasins, just like Harvery.

"This cathedral will be your grave, Char," gloated Paptimus. "Now, Assassins! Carve him up!"

Paptimus had spared no expense in selecting the soldiers he'd taken along with him for this covert mission—they were the best Assassins the rebel army had available to them. But even an unarmed Henken was more than a match for them. As the Assassin in front of him leapt towards him, Henken made a leap of his own, and when they met in midair, the Assassin was forced to let go of both his blades with a surprised, "OOF!" as the Great General slammed into his midsection and brought him to the floor. Henken rolled off of him just in time to allow a cloud of darkness to materialize over his body, then disappear with a purple flash—leaving nothing of the unfortunate assassin but a cloud of red-tinged dust. Paptimus had little care for the lives of his men—he wanted Henken, and he would do anything to get him.

Of course, the Great General wouldn't make it easy for him. Faster than a General ought to ever be, even without armor (Henken was clad only in his casual sleeping clothes), he again hopped to the side, keeping his body low to the ground, avoiding another spell from Trunicht this time. The remaining five Assassins quickly moved to surround him, but all of them were quickly sent to the floor again—Henken steadied himself with his hands and then spun his entire body around in a sweeping kick. One might have mistaken him for an exotic Sacaen dancer if the roundhouse sweep hadn't been so effective. He capitalized on this success by hopping right over to one of the Assassins, before the man could get to his feet, and jamming his hands straight into his eye sockets. The unfortunate killer screamed as his eyes were reduced to bloody pulps within a second, and Henken didn't stop there. As the remaining four got to their feet, he quickly reached out and grabbed one of them by the neck. The almost superhuman strength contained within the Great General's unassuming frame was enough to crush the man's throat with one hand. However, by this point, Paptimus and Trunicht had moved forwards and the remaining three Assassins were closing in. Henken may have been able to deal with their knives, but in his position he almost certainly wouldn't have been able to dodge the spells of both Trunicht and Paptimus.

Neither he nor his assassins expected the Autonomous Company to lend a bit of assistance.

"The hell?" came a voice from behind Paptimus that Henken recognized as his former apprentices'. "Who're these people? What's going on?"

A pair of Pegasus riders soared deftly between the pillars and landed under the fourth floor's roof, depositing their passengers—Renault and Braddock. The two men readied their weapons and stared at the scene before them, not yet entirely sure of what they were looking at.

"H-Henken," called Braddock—at this height, the moon provided enough light for him to make out the Great General's recognizable form. "Why are you-" He then looked at the huge, armored figure on Henken's other side. "PAPTIMUS?!"

The Dark General laughed. "So we meet again, Ostian? I should've killed you personally before the Civil War started. Your death and Char's will make this a more productive outing than I ever imagined!"

This was all the provocation Braddock needed to re-start the battle.

"PAPTIMUS! I'M GONNA RIP YOU APART!"

With a blood-curdling scream that seemed to echo across the entire city, the Warlord hefted his Basilikos and launched himself straight at his hated enemy. Renault wanted to call for him to wait, but the moment he realized that Paptimus himself had decided to participate in this assassination attempt he knew nothing he could say would get through to his friend—the only thing he could do was hope that Braddock was strong enough to live for more than a few moments. Instead, he concentrated on rescuing his former master. He charged straight at the two Assassins in front of Henken, forcing them to jump away or get sliced up through their backs. The other one was behind Henken and tried to drive a knife into his back, but the Great General was too quick. He spun around and landed a punch as strong as a blow from a knight's mace to the killer's face, crushing it to a pulp and sending him literally flying off the edge of the floor. Trunicht, for his part, thought he saw an opening and readied his Luna tome, knowing it would bypass Henken's sizable resistance to magic, but his attempt was foiled as he was forced to meld into the shadows beneath him with a curse—Keith and Kelitha were charging towards him, not being able to maneuver well under a roof, but still fast enough to keep him occupied.

Braddock, though, seemed to be in trouble—at first. As he leapt towards Paptimus, the former Prime Minister held out a hand and froze the big Warlord in the air, paralyzing his entire body. The visor of his helmet glowed red, and it was easy to tell he was grinning beneath it. "It's more important to kill Char, but I can spare just a bit of time to get of you."

To his great surprise, however, he felt a sort of resistance he'd never encountered before. He could only let out a surprised "What?!" as the fingers of his hand twitched, then began to tremble, before he finally had to break his spell, stumbling back with an echo of Trunicht's curse and shaking his entire arm, now numb. As he was held in the air, Braddock had let out a low, animalistic growl, his eyes rolling to the back of his head and a line of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth as he focused every single bit of his mental energy on breaking the invisible chains Paptimus had wrapped around him. His mind's fortitude had been greatly increased by both the power of the Earth Seal as well as his experiences over the course of the war, and Paptimus could no longer simply pin him down with nothing more than his own magical energy. Braddock's paralysis was completely shattered, and he landed cleanly on his feet, ready to continue his attack.

"Not as weak as I used to be, right?" he spat. "Lemme show you another trick I learned!"

He again raised the Basilikos, and this time a small, miniature tornado materialized around the massive blade. He swung it down with all his strength, and with a loud BOOM a shockwave blasted its way straight towards Paptimus.

The Dark General wouldn't prove to be easy prey either, though. "Hah!" With his other hand he held open his Gespenst tome towards the approaching shockwave, summoning a purple cloud of dark energy right in front of him which absorbed the blast with a flash of purple light.

His companions weren't having an easy time of it either. Trunicht was fading in and out of the darkness, too occupied with avoiding the charges from Keith and Kelitha to assist. The other two Assassins attempted to mount a final,desperate suicide attack on Henken. "FOR THE REVOLUTION! FOR THE RED SHOULDERS!" one of them screamed, and both of them twirled their daggers in the air, each of them seeming to split into three figures momentarily. Henken, however, had spent too much time near Harvery to be caught by this deadly technique. Grunting, he again crouched to the floor and picked up a dagger dropped by one of the dead Assassins, then hurled it at the third afterimage of the Assassin to his right. The afterimages disappeared as he staggered backwards with the dagger buried in his gut. The remaining Assassin disappeared completely and the area around them darkened, as if the moon had vanished for a moment. It seemed like he might have been the one to finally take down the Great General, but Renault foiled his plans with a typically graceless move—he simply ran right up to Henken and slammed into him with his body. Around him came a series of red flashes and a series of cuts and slashes, but these landed on the Mercenary Lord's arms and leather armor rather than Henken's face and throat. Renault groaned in pain, and he'd taken a particularly serious gash on his left shoulder, but the important thing was that his General still lived.

"Good to see you're making yourself useful," said Henken calmly as the two of them quickly extricated themselves from each other and got to their feet. The Assassin had reappeared behind the two of them, preparing for another attempt, but Renault, now angry at him, wouldn't give him the chance. "Go to hell," he snarled, whirling around and stabbing his Silver Sword forwards. As he anticipated, the Assassin dodged the attack easily, leaping into the air over his head and aiming a slash at his head. Renault ducked, allowing his momentum to carry him forward and turn his stab into a tumble. The surprised Assassin made a clean landing on the ground behind him, but this allowed Henken to dash up and grab him around the neck. With another quick twist of his arms, the last Assassin joined his companions in death with a broken neck.

"This is getting out of hand!" yelled Paptimus, "He's already taken out our Assassins! Call in the reinforcements!"

"GLAD TO HELP!"

All the participants in the fray, on both sides, had to stop what they were doing in order to survive the entrance of the newest entrant on the battlefield. With a wild, crazy laugh, the flapping of leathery wings, and a wild gust of hurricane-force winds, Yazan bolted under the roof of the belltower, the Rex Hasta leading his way. His wyvern had been clinging onto the wall of the tower's south side, waiting specifically for Paptimus to give this call. Hambrabi had detached from the wall, soared into the air some distance away, then banked and descended as quickly as a Wyvern possibly could.

"WATCH OUT!"

Paptimus and Trunicht melted into the shadows while Keith and Kelitha instinctively spurred their mounts to gallop off the edges of the floor on the north side and into the air, ascending to safety above the icon of Saint Elimine on the very top of the roof. Renault and Braddock both had to dive to the ground, covering their heads as they were buffeted by both the wind from Hambrabi's wings as well as the mini-gales from the Rex Hasta. The only person who couldn't avoid the attack was Braddock, still recovering from the shockwave he had launched—so he didn't even try. "God DAMMIT!" he screamed, the force of his will causing the Basilikos to glow blue and summoning another small tornado around its blade. He twisted his body and swung the blade across, and just in time it met the tip of the Rex Hasta. The result was an explosion louder than any Renault had ever heard since the death of Barbarossa, and a shockwave that would have blown both him and Henken clear off the cathedral's top floor if Renault hadn't jammed his sword downwards and gripped it with all his might and if Henken hadn't driven his bare fingers into the stone.

The wielders of the two mighty weapons had been affected similarly by their collision. "Graaah!" Braddock nearly lost his grip on the Basilikos as he was blown back, but he grit his teeth and managed to keep both a hold on it and on his feet as he tensed his legs and slammed it back into the ground, stopping him before he could fall right off the edge but carving a deep cleft in front of him. Yazan managed to keep from getting hurled right off Hambrabi's saddle, but both he and the Wyvern had been sent past the south edge of the floor, though the wyvern managed to twist in the air and return to flight, circling around the tower as Yazan laughed. "Ah, hah hah hah! That was great! Haven't had a fight like this in months!"

"Yazan indeed has his uses," chuckled Trunicht, as he rematerialized behind Henken and Renault, who was getting to their feet. The Luna spell he was readying would have killed Henken if he hadn't been foiled yet again by the Pegasus Sisters—he spun to the side with a grunt of pain to avoid being skewered by a Javelin tossed by Keith, but not quickly enough to avoid it completely; it clipped the red pauldron on his right shoulder and sent him tumbling gracelessly away. Kelitha swooped past both of them towards Yazan, unlimbering her Silver Lance to harass the Wyvern Knight, taking advantage of her superior speed to offset the benefit of his much more powerful weapon. This left Braddock, Henken, and Renault free to concentrate on Paptimus.

"How stupid are you, Paptimus?" laughed Braddock as he, his best friend, and the Great General readied themselves to gang up on the mastermind behind the rebellion. "We've been waiting for an opportunity to get you alone like this, and you just drop it into our laps!"

"Hah. A good tactician knows when to take certain risks, fool. And this one's a bit more calculated than you give it credit for!"

To illustrate his point, a gravelly, corpselike voice seemed to echo across the belltower, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, just like Paptimus' had.

"The Ostian is MINE!"

Tendrils of noxious gas even blacker than the night around them filtered from the windows of the lower floors of the cathedrals, streaming through the air with great speed. They surrounded Braddock in a slimy, filthy caress, and the Warlord knew all too well who they heralded.

"Shit! YURT!"

The Silent Chief appeared in the air above his prey, bringing his shotel and dagger to bear. Braddock didn't try to raise his buckler in defense, knowing that the small shield would be of little use against the curved weapon, especially when he wasn't wearing much armor. Instead, as quickly as he could he swept the Basilikos up into the air, relying on the wind the weapon produced to stave off Yurt's dive. He succeded—the Assassin was forced to twist in the air as the wind diverted the arc of his attack, but he landed on his feet and behind Braddock. Renault, however, wouldn't allow him to spend much time on his friend.

"Don't you ever give up!?" he yelled, his Silver Sword flashing in the moonlight as he charged at Yurt and swung it at the Assassin's head. Yurt twirled and ducked, crouching down and preparing to stab his dagger into Renault's belly, but once again had to dodge to the side as Braddock turned and smashed his axe into the ground, missing the Silent Chief but producing enough force to send him off-balance, stopping him from following through.

However, this provided an opening that Paptimus exploited. Yurt's distraction had given him enough time to make full use of his Gespenst magic, summoning a black cloud around Braddock just as Yurt stumbled away. "No!" yelled Renault, realizing what the spell would do to his friend, but as he reeled back to avoid the orbs of darkness produced by Trunicht's Luna spell as well as another slice from Yurt's shotel, he realized he could do nothing but hope his friend was strong enough to survive a blast from the magic.

Braddock was, but only barely. "GYAAAAAH!" he screamed as a flash of purple light sent waves of destructive energy rolling through his body. Only the resistance to magic he had built up over the course of his journey and his own fortitude saved his life—he felt pieces of him disintegrate from the inside, as if both body and soul were violated by the most loathsome predator imaginable, and it seemed as if his lungs would fill up with a combination of blood and dust, for his ribs felt like they were on the verge of collapsing in on themselves. He sank to the ground, fighting the urge to retch (and failing, vomit rising in his throat), and the Basilikos fell from his grip.

"I finally have you, Maxim!" crowed Yurt in satisfaction, seeing his quarry dropping his Basilikos and keeling over on the floor. Renault moved to stop him, but the Assassin was just too quick. He leapt right over the Mercenary Lord and towards the injured Braddock. However, he would find out that the Warlord wasn't entirely out of the battle yet.

"Y-you're not getting me, you slimy son of a bitch!" he spat through gritted, vomit-stained teeth, and with as much strength as he could muster he managed to get off his knees and lash out with a bash from his buckler. It was nowhere near as strong a blow as he would have been able to unleash in better conditions, but it was still enough to completely surprise the shadowy Assassin. Yurt let out a cold, rage-filled shout of pain as the buckler connected with his strange helmet and sent him flying backwards—

Right where Renault was waiting for him.

With a vicious smile on his face, the Mercenary Lord gripped his Silver Sword with both hands as strongly as he could and jumped in the air, right at Yurt, flying backwards as a result of the shield bash to his head. The disoriented Silent Chief tried to dodge as best as he could, but it was in vain.

"GAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

He twisted to the side as Renault slashed down, but not quickly enough. The Silver Sword connected with his outstretched left arm, which held his dagger. The powerful blade cut straight through the armor, through the skin, and through the bone, cleanly severing the limb in one perfect strike.

Streams of black smoke surrounded Yurt—it seemed he was losing control of his powers as he flew past Renault and over the edge of the belltower with a blood-chilling scream, loud, low, and cold, as if it were coming from a male version of the Banshees from the terrifying stories Renault's father had told him as a youth.

Henken, for his part, saw an opening and took it. "Should've kept your eyes on the prize, Paptimus," he spat, only the tremble in his voice providing evidence of his sheer, burning hatred of the Dark General. "Now it's time for you to pay for what you did to my sister!" He reached to the ground to pick up a dagger dropped by one of the Assassins and hurled himself at Paptimus, who was preparing for another spell.

However, this seemed to be just what the Dark General was waiting for. "You've let your emotions get the better of you, Char! For the first time in your life…and for the last!" Laughing, he disappeared into the shadows—he had been standing near the edge of the floor, and expected Henken's insane charge to carry him off of it entirely.

It almost did—but the cunning Red Comet had a trick up his sleeve. As he tumbled off the edge while Paptimus re-materialized behind him, he quickly reached out his free hand and gripped it before he fell too far away from it. In the split-second afterwards, he pumped his arm and propelled himself back up over the precipice—one hand was all he needed to send his entire body back into the air. He was again flying straight at Paptimus, and this time hit the dark magician squarely on the chest, sending him stumbling backwards.

Henken kept his grip on the much larger man's body, wrapping his free arm around the man's left shoulder, and with his right hand twirled the pilfered dagger and jabbed it down. It was aimed for Paptimus' neck, past the steel gorget of his armor, and only a split-second, instinctual decision to jerk his head to the side and divert the dagger by knocking his helmet into it saved his life. Instead, the blade bounced off his right shoulder's red pauldron.

The Great General wouldn't be deterred by something like this, though. He let go of the dagger and then gripped Paptimus' left arm, covered in its gauntlet and chain mail, with both hands.

Then, with a quick jerk of his own hands, and with his burning desire for vengeance on the man who'd destroyed his country and killed his sister, he simply tore it right out of its socket.

The Revolutionary leader could only shriek in horror and astonishment as his limb went flying through the air, followed by the sounds of twisting metal and bits of chain mail following the stream of blood it left in its wake. He continued to reel backwards, gaping at the man who had given him such a grievous wound. The Great General's normally cold grey eyes now seemed to be burning with raw hatred, and the sight and smell of his enemy's blood only spurred him onwards.

But it would be this bloodlust which would prove to be his undoing.

Paptimus had not survived in the fighting pits of Etruria because he had little tolerance for pain, and he had not become as skilled with dark magic as he was because he had little discipline. Even as blood poured from the ragged socket, he realized he could still win this fight. With a loud, aggressive roar that came from his time as a gladiator rather his present position as a proud master of dark magics, he unleashed a charge of his own, barreling straight towards Henken, who had tossed away the limb and was actually preparing for another rush, not expecting his wounded adversary to again take the offensive.

The Dark General's mass was more than enough to send both of them flying clear off the edge of the belltower, down to the ground below.

"S-shit!" spat Braddock, who was again on his knees, "we gotta help him!" Renault agreed, but since he was currently kneeling by his friend, trying to help him to stand, he knew neither of them would get there in time. "What the hell do you think we can do? We can't fly!"

It would have done no good for the Great General. "You want to kill me?" he spat at Paptimus as they plummeted down towards the ground. "I don't mind, so long as you join me!"

"My dear Char," replied Paptimus, gritting his teeth and attempting to ignore the pain of his amputated arm, "I'm afraid I have to disappoint you!"

In his remaining right hand he held his Gespenst tome open, and he began chanting as if he were casting one of its normal spells. This time, however, the words were different, as was its effect. The strange dark cloud wasn't the only effect a master of darkness such as Paptimus could draw from the tome. The letters of the book glowed purple, and from its pages poured tendrils of pitch-black energy, cracking with purple electricity. The tendrils worked their way from the pages of the Gespenst tome to the stump of Paptimus' left arm. There, it seemed as if they were forming…another arm.

No, not quite. Aside from the obvious fact that it was formed out of pure darkness, the shape was different. After the elbow, the dark appendage terminated in what seemed to be a vicious, curved blade somewhat similar to that of a scythe's.

And all this had taken place in the span of a few seconds. "NOW DIE!" yelled Paptimus, stabbing the blade of shadow directly through Henken's chest as the two of them fell. There was simply no way for him to dodge, and the dark blade punched through him as easily as a sword of steel would have done—no, even more effectively, for it utterly disintegrated the flesh it came into contact with. When Paptimus retracted it, it left a large, gaping hole in the center of Henken's chest.

The burning light in his grey eyes faded into nothingness. Henken didn't make a sound as Paptimus lifted a foot to kick away from him as the Gespenst tome stopped glowing. Moments before they hit the ground, in a desperate move, Paptimus brought the tome up to his mouth and chomped down on it to hold it in his teeth. With his free right hand, he quickly reached to his back and unlimbered his Warp staff, disappearing in a flash of white light just as Henken's body smashed onto the ground.

And Henken's would not be the only death that terrible night. Keith and Kelitha had both attempted to save him, and both had failed miserably. "No! Lord Henken!" Keith yelled—she had previously been busy sending Javelin after Javelin at Trunicht, keeping him too distracted to cast his magic, but her Great General's plight distracted her long enough for Trunicht to knock her out of the fight. He popped out of the shadows right in front of where she was hovering and held out a hand to her as he chanted, and she wailed in pain as a purple sigil appeared over her and sent six orbs of darkness crashing into her small young frame, completely bypassing the resistance to hostile magics the mystic Pegasi conferred onto their riders. Trunicht hadn't had enough time to properly focus his spell, so she was allowed to slump in the saddle, feeling a deep, burning ache in every corner of her body as she clung to consciousness, her mount realizing its rider's plight and veering away from the belltower to the safety of the roof of a nearby house below.

Kelitha was the only one who'd had a chance to save him. "No! Lord Henken!" she yelled, veering her Pegasus away from Yazan, ascending just far enough to avoid a diving jab from the Rex Hasta, and then spurred her mount to zip as fast as possible around the cathedral's tower on the north side, preparing to descend and catch Henken before he hit the ground.

But Trunicht wouldn't let her do that. "My apologies, countrywoman, but I can't allow you to ruin this opportunity!" He darted to the edge of the floor, closed his eyes, and crossed both arms over his chest as a white sigil appeared beneath his feet, sending sparks of white light into the air around him. Renault realized what he was doing—summoning up all his reserves of energy to deliver a killing blow. "Crap! If only I had my hand axe!" yelled Braddock, still unsteady on his feet and leaning on his Basilikos for support, but Renault, who wasn't as wounded, saw no reason he couldn't stop the spell Trunicht was preparing.

"You ain't helpin' her!" yelled Yazan, spurring his Wyvern in a charge at Braddock and Renault now that he wasn't occupied by Kelitha. Renault had to push his larger friend away from him, to the side, to keep both of them from being skewered by the Rex Hasta, but the winds from the powerful lance pinned both of them to the ground as Yazan swooped by. Now, there was nothing stopping Trunicht from carrying through with his attack.

"NO! KELITHA! KELITHA! NOOOOOO!"

It was too late. The Black Knight uncrossed his arms, causing the field beneath him to disappear, leaving only a white aura around his body. He then pointed a finger right at the section of air Kelitha was passing through, catching her right in the middle of the purple sigil Renault knew was a Luna spell. He could only watch in absolute horror as those six baleful orbs slammed directly into her body, with far more force than they'd hit her sister.

The young woman—Renault's friend, the one who'd given him his very first kiss—simply fell apart in the air.

It would have been more merciful for him had it been too dark to see anything—but alas, the purple sigil glowed, producing enough evil light that Renault could see her death in gruesome, vivid detail. The moment the orbs slammed into her chest, she didn't even have the strength to keep on her mount—she was gone, just like that. Her legs slipped from around her mount as if they were nothing but strips of cloth, sending her body falling down. And the way it fell was the worst thing. It separated first into two halves, and then into multiple parts. Her entire torso had disintegrated into a cloud of dust from the dark power of Trunicht's magic, leaving her lower body, arms, and decapitated head to disappear beneath the edge of the belltower's top floor.

Before her head disappeared, though, Renault managed to catch one last glimpse of her face. And for as long as he lived, he would not forget the expression of pain and horror etched on it. And one more thing—perhaps a figment of his imagination—

It seemed as if she had been mouthing his name as she died.

"A job well done!" gloated Trunicht. "My, that was almost perfect timing. I really should use this spell more, it's—"

He was interrupted by the piercing scream of the man who was now his mortal enemy.

"TRUUUUNNNIIIICCCHHTTTT!"

This scream contained every last bit of hatred Renault had summoned up over the course of his life—even his best friend, standing beside him and watching with utter dismay at the death of their Ilian comrade, was surprised by the sheer venom in the Mercenary Lord's voice. It was easily as intense as his own hatred of Paptimus.

Renault was gripping his Silver Sword so hard that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes burned like coals in his hate-filled face. With another rage-filled scream from the very depths of his being, he charged straight at the Black Knight.

But Trunicht, rather than afraid, was still grinning. "Was that girl "special" to you? Sorry to have to kill her, but it's just business. And I don't have any more time to spend on you tonight! Farewell!"

Trunicht casually hopped backwards, straight off the edge of the belltower, just as Renault reached him. He let out another yell full of rage and frustration as his blade cut through empty air…and then looked up to see Trunicht flying away from him on the back of Yazan's Wyvern. The Bernite, following his charge, had not continued his attack but hovered right below the edge of the tower's top floor for this very reason.

Keith, recovering from her injuries on the roof of the nearby house, could only watch the entire scene unfold with wide, horror-struck eyes. Braddock could do nothing but try to limp over to his friend, an expression of utmost dismay plastered on his pale face, and Renault could do nothing more but hurl invectives at the disappearing Black Knight and Wyvern Rider.

And above all of them, piercing the sky above, were two streaks of light—one red, one blue. A pair of falling stars, they crossed over in the sky, flaring brightly—then disappeared over the horizon.

::Linear Notes::

Holy shit! Not much I can say here, my friends—I'm rushing and rushing to get this chappie out on time! I'm technically a *little* late because it's 4 AM on August 2, however, I got a chapter out before I went to sleep, so it still feels like August 1 to me. All I can say is that I'm not sure when the next one will be out—I promised last chapter that I'd put a chappie out weekly, but things are getting mad hardcore and I may need to work extra hard on the next two chapters. You see, I know you've been sitting with me for this whole arc, and I know some of you are getting impatient, so I gotta say, this Civil War is ending SOON—within the next two to three chapters—and…well…you know Braddock's ultimate fate, and Renault's meetup with Nergal…that's gonna happen in five, maybe six chapters. So things are definitely heating up! I *mught* get next chappie out next week, maybe the week after that—and that it's provisionally entitled (might change) Chapter 37: Falling Spears! See you then!