Before Artois Castle
Pierre had been called Pierre of Achain till two years ago. He had also been called son, brother and lazy laggard, good for nothing, serf and dumb. He had been regarded as a beast of burden by his so called betters and been treated worse than that. He had gone from that place when the Rebellion began and took the oath. Rough instructors had called him worse things and made him work harder than his lord ever had. And in doing so they gave him self-respect and purpose. He had never forgotten how he and his fellow serfs had been treated, but gained a new perspective on it. He was as much a man and as much a human as his lord ever was. And while he was not as rich as him, as schooled as him and grubbed in the dirt that did not give permission to his lord to disrespect him. And neither did it allow the lord to lust after the girls in the village nor to starve them while he still had plenty.
The days he was usually called Pierre Troisime, as he had been the third Pierre to join the Terico. There was no other Pierre in the ten-man squad that Pierre was with, but they shared similar stories and similar hate. Pierre and his squad had all been through the madness that were the Battles of Grasgar Castle and the Siege of Artois without much of a scratch. He had been one those who had received armor to go on top of his Gambeson, sword and shield. He had been through many hours of additional training which had given him more strength, lots of bumps and the knowledge that he would be hard pressed to kill a knight. They had trained far longer for this than he, had been brought up with a better diet and came from a long line of warriors. The good news was that he did not have to do that, he would do it together with his squad. And together they could take any fool with a sword and pretensions down.
Veteran or no, he had stood open-mouthed for long moments when the walls of Castle Artois had come tumbling down. Well, not all the walls, but there was a breach through all the walls between him and the inner courtyard.
"Allez, Allez" was hardly needed, everybody got off the line. Pierre had learned to keep formation, even if in double time. It was the only thing that would keep him alive. It had all been drummed into their heads during the last months and it was fine and right. It also slowed them down and made them a better target. The defenders had been shocked by the cataclysm that took down their walls. Many had been on the battlements above the explosives, they were no longer to be seen. Even those who manned the defenses on both sides of the breach were stunned. Pierre and his complete Terico were the Rebel`s vanguard. All of them threw glances at the battlements and every step they took forward without a missile of sorts going their way was a godsend. There was dust from the explosions, there was more of it thrown up by so many feet trampling the ground. No matter how hard Pierre looked, he could not see what the defenders were doing. The breach had been made two minutes ago and a bit more than half that since the Rebels started the attack. And everybody waited for the defenders to do something. Every second stretched impossibly, every step brought salvation one step closer and hope rose that the Royals were too shocked to do anything.
It could not last of course. The first firing slits darkened as archers stepped into them, and the first arrows rose to the heavens before dropping down. Most of them went uselessly into the ground before the Rebels, some did the same in the gaps between them. Pierre heard one zip past his head with the sound of an angry hornet. Some wasted themselves against the solid helmets and breastplates. Others thunked when they drilled themselves into the wooden shield facings. One or two made a meat-cleaver sound when they hit vulnerable flesh. There was the rattle of rifle fire behind Pierre, the marksmen tried to suppress the archers as best as they could. He could never say if they succeeded or no, there were still enough arrows coming for him, and he would never know how many were not shot. There were still too many and the number of arrows who managed to pierce armor rose. Like his mates Pierre hunkered down like a man walking into a storm. He lifted his shield to the point where it would protect him best and then he could just hope. This was the truly horrible part of the assault: he could be maimed or even die any second and nothing he did was going to change anything about that. And still, none of the Terico faltered. Those who had treated them like dirt were inside and they would pay.
There was another of "those" sounds again, followed by a gurgling sound that really should not come from a human throat. This time it was Maurice, a fellow Rebel in his squad. The arrow had made its way through Maurice`s mouth and from the look of things he was experiencing his last minute in this world in horrible pain. And still the Terico marched forward. There were more arrows now, and now Pierre and all the others had to slow down. The explosions had thrown debris all over the battlefield and if they did not pay attention they would stumble and fall. Pierre doubted that the chances of anybody in the front ranks who dropped in the line of advance were much better than poor Maurice`s. And then they were as close to the wall as the moat allowed. Like all the others Pierre wanted to charge forward, to escape the torment meted out by the archers and pay them back. He could not. The breach was a miracle, but a narrow miracle and it was filled with rubble. Only a few soldiers could climb it at a time and the squads to Pierre`s left had been closer to it so they got through first.
He could just watch while they made their way up the incline left by the explosions. They seemed to move slow as sloths while arrows and stones made themselves felt every second. Pierre`s squad got their shields locked together to keep themselves protected, but two strikes of what had to be pieces of rubble thrown by the defenders jarred his arm. He nearly missed the defenders who stepped into the breech`s crest, heard rather than saw the small avalanche of stones that raced down and removed the Rebels on the incline.
He saw the knights that had stepped up in two rows. Proudly erect despite the heavy plate they wore, handling their weapons as if they were born with them. He heard the rattle of rifles behind him and the Knight dropped in the time needed to talk about it. And then, then he could finally make his ascent from danger. Which meant he had to leave the meager protection of the interlocked shields had provided and hope the best. The incline seemed to have no end, the rubble shifted under his boots every second step and sent him half a step back, snarling in frustration. An arrow glanced off his helmet, another ripped the gambeson on his right arm without ever touching the skin. Still another fell Louis, who took a missile that would have him if he had not been in the way. He could not pause and check on him, he could go only up. Every step seemed to have the sound of something hitting flesh, another chance to die without the chance of striking back.
"Gauche, Gauche, get to that wall now."
He did not need that order, every fiber in his body wanted to get to the parapet that held the archers that had frightened him so much. He was about to step up to the intact portion of the wall when he saw the archer that would take his life. Time seemed to stop, he saw the ugly, gap-toothed mouth, the bronzed skin and the unshaven skin. But even more he saw the arrow`s point that seemed to go straight for his face. He knew, simply knew he would die then and there. Before he could take another step, the missile was loosened while he stumbled forward on something under his feet. The arrow glanced on his helmet and rang it like a bell. That was when he jumped forward as if shot of a catapult and the tip of his sword found an unprotected throat.
The sword and shield that had been so heavy just a moment before seemed to weight no more like wooden toys, the air fresher than he could ever remember and he laughed while he ran forward to the slaughter. The archers were not armored in any way, their bows were not worth a damn at close quarters and he could release the tension. He killed like he had been trained to, using his shield to push his enemies off-balance and the point of his sword to find the vital organs. There was no flourish in his fight, no elegance, no style and no mercy. There was the blood, the wretched feeling of initial resistance when his weapon pierced and the coppery stink of blood as he made his way. He murdered his way all across the battlements, joined by his surviving squad mates till they hit the door. A solid oaken door, fixed with iron bands and bolted from the inside.
That was what stopped Pierre Troisime, former serf and soldier, even if only for minutes. He used the pause to catch his breath and take a bit of water from his canteen. He watched other Rebels make their way up the ramp to the next curtain wall and saw them beibng pelted for their lives. He saw a rifle company make his way up the wall he had cleared, saw them take the enemy under fire from up here and up close. Now they were much more effective, now he saw the bleeding Royals duck or die.
There was not much of a break, the sappers brought their hammers and crowbars quickly enough and they ripped the door from its hinges quickly enough. And then he stood before the dark opening, knowing only that the enemy way somewhere in the darkness. Time to do something about that.
"Granat" brought two of their precious grenades into the hole and everybody did his best to avoid being in the doorway when the explosions filled the stairway below with lethal overpressure and fragments. Pierre was the first to step into the tower and he nearly dropped on the remains of the defenders who had been in a position to ambush him. He made his way down the winding stairs and managed two complete turns on the winding staircase before the first defenders came into reach. His gloved hand scraped along the outer wall when he stabbed downwards again and again. His shield made it a bit hard to see the enemy, but there was just a small place where they could be at all. And like all such staircases the steps wound to the right, giving him by far the upper hand against anybody who tried to fight his way up. His shield took several punches, one of which even pierced the stout wood above his left arm. Something scraped along his boot, all the while he punched downwards for all he was worth. Muscles that had worked on the fields every day, that had been strained further than he had believed possible by his drill masters pushed a sword point into everything that was presented to him. At one point he heard a cry and a crash. He found no enemy left and when he advanced he saw that he had dropped a Knight in plate armor onto his comrades who were now piled up at the landing. Both he and Yanis kicked, picked and slashed at the pile of bodies long after it had stopped moving.
Two minutes later he found himself shoulder to shoulder with the four squad mates that had made it this far. There were ranks forming behind him, for now they were then edge of the sword presented to the defenders. This was what Pierre and the others had trained for the last months. They started forward and whenever one of their feet came down they pushed something forward with all their might. Either the shields crashed into anything was before them or the swords probed for weakness. There were yeomen before them, Knights in armor and nobles without much of that. They clashed into each other like an accident and by rights Pierre should have died the very first minute of it. The only thing that saved him was that neither he nor his fellow Rebels ever broke formation. They protected each other, they killed the enemy that was not aiming for them and they never saw the strikes others intercepted.
Their enemies were not so, they had arrived piecemeal, they came in a hurry to stop the breech, they knew that they could handle the Rebels easily at this game. They could not and so they died. So did the Rebels. When Pierre had reached the end of the corridor, when it lead to the rooms beyond there was just Yanis at his side.
He did not know any of the others who now stood in the ranks besides him. There was a bit of confusion, then the ranks broke into small teams that were to clear the many rooms that branched off. Pierre made his way towards the first room and volunteered to stand in front of the doorway. When it was about to be opened he found that his heart still had the power to send thunder to his ears. He could only wait till the heavy door opened to reveal blackness and nothing else. In the end there was nothing in there but a few supplies. The next room held a desk and some scrolls, nothing more. The next door saw him flanking one side, others did their share now. When the door opened nothing much could be seen, but the moment the Rebels stepped forward a spear tried to pierce the armor and nearly succeeded. And while his mate sprang back Pierre pulled the cord and threw a grenade into the room before the door was pushed closed again. The bang was muted by the stone walls and the door, smoke and light made their way through the cracks for a moment. When they opened the door again there was no resistance. Instead there were bodies, three of them. The grenades had done a grisly job on them, but they were still recognizable for what they were. The Royals used squires, children on their way to become knights sooner or later. Pierre had just helped to kill a trio of barely teenaged boys.
The rest of the assault was a daze, like moving through a dream one could not wake up from. The team lost another soldier when they did not use grenades in another room and he was ambushed by a man hiding in a corner till it was time to strike. They killed that man as they killed others who might have been a danger. Everybody was more than exhausted of body and mind when they broke down a door barred from the other side. The room held a huge bed and more slender furniture than anything they had seen in this castle before. Behind the bed a woman of maybe 20 years stood before two very small children. She held a dagger in a way that suggested she had no idea about what to do with it. Her face displayed a mixture of desperation and determination that was as rare as it was striking. It was then that Pierre realized that this battle was over, that he would survive this madness. And the woman before him was very, very desirable.
Cathay, 120 kilometers from Port Ki
Jurchen Khan`s party was made up by some of the finest warriors his clan had. Their horses, their gear and their weapons were of the highest quality and they rode through the sunshine. Things were about as good as they could for the nomad khan, but something was missing from the group. Normally there would be jovial banter, boasts about past deeds and future conquests. There would be the excitement about getting back to the camp, anticipation and good spirits. Instead there was a low murmur, lots of nervous glances and resentment.
A month ago the Heavenly Dragon`s envoy had come to his clan. The Jurguts were roaming the arid plains that were south of the Great bastion, the remains of a Hung invasions many generations past. They had fought the Cathayans until both were exhausted. Now they called the arid plains home, raised goats, cattle and raiders. The Dragon paid them tribute so they would not raid the trade roads, the farmers and the towns. Life was good.
The Envoy had offered less tribute than before, an insult to Jurchen Khan and the Jurguts. He had sent the Envoy back, naked, shaved and with only one eye. He had to lead the survivors of his retinue whom the Jurchen had blinded to make their displeasure known. The Khan had called the Clan together, had told them of honor, the need to spill blood to keep getting stale and looting. It had been well received and now the Jurguts were on their way to Port Ki to collect the tribute they were owed.
Yesterday they had found one of the scouting parties. They had been good Jurchen, handy on their ponies, good with bow and lance. They knew that they needed to run when they met the enemy, that they needed to report. They had known that the closest friendly was some 20 Li behind them, they had been vigilant. Their camp was far from the road, the fires had been small and sentries had been posted.
Fires that still held embers when Jurchen Khan saw them. Sentries who had died where they stood, with the smallest of wounds and no signs of struggle. Others had died in their sleep and some of their bowls still held their food. The warriors spoke of witchcraft, of ghosts and assassins. His shaman did not think so, but that worthy was as nervous as his warriors ever since.
He doubled the guards when they were back at the camp, he made sure his retinue would keep silent for now. He made sure that his horse was seen to and then he retreated to his tent. It was an elaborate affair, a part of the tribute. It stood apart from the other tents in the middle of the camp. There was a ring of guards around it, he had enough relatives who thought they might be the better Khan.
He would call one or two of his wives, let of some steam and tomorrow would be different.
There was a dagger sticking from the roll his head rested on during the night. A simple affair, a hilt with no ornaments and a straight short blade of the deepest black. It pinned a note which he unfolded with trembling fingers.
We are what you barely see from the corners of your eye.
We are the dagger in the dark.
We are the poison in your wine.
We are the sword that brings the fright.
We are Nightwatch.
There would be no tribute this year.
Tavern "Hammer and Sickle", Weissbruck, Empire
Belenus rested the Monochord on the bench and made sure it was well covered. Others might succumb to the newfangled guitars the Germans had brought into this world. They were well and good, but the Monochord was the true instrument of a bard. He had just finished the last songs including the new ones about the Reiksbund Paladin`s. He was quite proud of the latter, there were not so many things that rhymed with "Power Armor" and made for a good song. His hat contained more than a few coppers and even two German marks. That would get him through this evening easily, especially if he went light on the wine. He knew that was a fond wish, but who was a bard if not a dreamer.
Things might be good if not for the man who did not belong here. Dressed in German outdoor clothing he had entered the Tavern half an hour ago and listened intently to his performance. That would all be well and good of not for the fact that the stranger had checked something on the magical box called "smartphone" several times. That he had looked up after that check, mustered Belenus and then nodded had pressed more than a few buttons in the bard`s head. He tried to remember of he had any dalliances with German wives during his last stay and could not remember any. Well, one, but she had said more than once that she was not wed. So, did he own money to…
"Are you by chance Belenus Wagner?"
"Depends on who wants to know that."
"Oh, I am sorry, I am Enjott Schneider of the GEMA. I have been looking for you for the last two weeks."
"What does this GEMA have to do with me? I never played for them, I do not know them."
"No Herr Wagner, but we know you. You have performed "Valten`s Stand" with Subway to Sally last year, didn`t you?"
"Err, yes? If it is about the Hotel, I can explain..."
"No Herr Wagner, this is about the song. The band told us that you wrote it?"
"Yes, I did."
"Ah then. The original recording at the "Rock am Ring" has been played more than a few times and the remixed versions had its share of downloads. And that means you are entitled to your share of the royalties."
"Uh, royalties? I am not a noble…."
"No, I do not think so either. But any radio station who played that song and any service provider who made it available for streaming and download has to pay to the GEMA. And from that we pay the artists. The band insisted that you receive your share. Would you prefer cash or do you have an account where we might remit…..
wiki/GEMA_(German_organization)
The Warp
The Empyrean is a reflection of the minds in what mortals perceive as the real world. Every mind perceives it differently and they shape it in turn. Some minds are bigger than others, many minds can be united in belief and purpose. These form parts of the Empyrean to their likeness, forcing other minds to apply their filter to perceive their parts of the Warp.
This part was the perfect forest, unblemished and impressive. Green light filtered through many leaves, rodents and birds skirted through the trees and a deep roar could be heard from the distance. It was the ideal of a forest, an image of the Asrai`s realm. It was soothing and exiting at the same time, a place that offered rest and invited exploration at the same time.
Lileath hated it, abhorred the earthly smell forces upon her sinuses, the fake spots of sunlight that tried to deceive her and the absence of True Elves. This place was shaped by them and their minds, yet they were not its masters. It was a symbol of her defeat and an image of Athel Loren, the forest that kept her true people.
Time had a different meanings for anybody in the Warp, godess or no. She could not say how long she had to observe the mirage before the voice reached her ears. A voice that held curiosity and spoke of an unfettered mind.
"Mother, it has been a very long time. What made you seek me?"
Ariel might not be Athel Loren`s mistress, but she was impressive in her own realm.
