Saint in silver, golden sun
Faint in daylight, unicorns stir
Bright come twilight, white mares run
Night reveals the sight of Her
— "Moon's Majesty," verse five, from the Zexen Book of Hymns; unknown author.
-Hugo-
Sticks of colorful incense adorned the surface of the table in the middle of the floor, each one lit with a steady flame that spread their scent throughout the room. Cypress, myrrh, juniper and sage mixed with a wealth of exotic and heady fragrances, combining in a stark and jarring scent that dazed the mind and singed the nostrils. Hugo drew short breaths through his mouth, and wrinkled his nose as the aged Rune Sage slapped a brass-bound wooden box onto the tabletop. He leaned into his seat and studied Hugo's outstretched left hand. With a grunt, he narrowed his eyes and peered at Hugo's far hand.
"Show me the other one," he drawled. He tensed and relaxed; stretching languidly. Accustomed to numbing scent of the incense, he moved in a haze, as though the world had slowed to a crawl around him.
Hugo held out his right hand, and drew back the sleeve. He frowned slightly. "Why?"
The old man muttered something under his breath as he reached out and turned Hugo's wrist upside down, revealing the emerald crest on the back of his hand. "A Wind Rune," he murmured.
Hugo stared at the Rune Sage. His clean-shaven hatchet face was drawn and weary, and the man's eyes faltered. Does this geezer even have the ability? Hugo wondered. He turned his eyes on Nash, who stood leaned against the dark wooden panels of the wall. His arms were folded over his chest, his boots slung one over the other, and his lips were curved in a smile that Hugo could not interpret. Nash shrugged his shoulders, and nodded at the Rune Sage. I've got no choice, Hugo thought.
The old man cleared his throat, and burst into a fit of hacking coughs. "Ever had two runes before?" he asked.
"No," Hugo said.
"For a greenhorn like you, I'd recommend against it," he said. He shook his head as if to convince himself, and produced a corked bottle from his coat pocket. Tearing the cork from the bottle with his teeth, he spat it onto the floor and took a hearty swig of the bottle's contents.
Hugo looked pointedly at Nash. This oaf better be good.
Nash grinned, and winked. The gesture might have been meant to be reassuring, but Hugo found no comfort in it. He sighed, and shook his head. Few Zexen Rune Sages would serve a Grasslander, much less one looking to affix a Fire Rune. Finding one willing to do the job had taken quite a bit of effort on Nash's part, and as much as Hugo sweated at the notion of allowing the drunken old man to touch him, he was loathe to pass up the opportunity to have the rune affixed. He shook his head, and stared at the Rune Sage. Even beneath the mist of incense, the man reeked of rum, the kind of cheap local draft that sailors dulled their senses with.
"Why's that?" Hugo asked.
The Rune Sage's eyes flared, and he flinched momentarily, bending down to cough as he shook his head. "You don't know much about runes, do you, lad? Look, don't go 'round trying to activate the runes at the same time. Don't try to combine them or anything. In fact, don't be experimenting in this whole hornet's nest one way or the other. It's bad practice, even for a rune-bearer far older than you."
"I shouldn't use them at once?" Hugo asked. He leaned against the tabletop, suddenly curious.
"Bloody well right you shouldn't!" the man slurred. "There's no telling what might happen. Huge explosions or bursts of colors or anything you could think of. I once knew a man had himself killed experimenting with that sort o' thing. He came out looking all purple and pale, and the moment he stepped out into the light, he burst into flame! Dead as stone in minutes, but not 'fore he screamed his lungs out. What was left of 'em, anyways."
As much as he doubted the truth of the man's claim, Hugo could not help but shudder at the image. He nodded slowly. "Sure, I won't experiment with it. Just… get on with it."
"Right, right…" the man muttered, polishing the brass-bound wooden box with his fingers. The lid separated with a click as he opened it, and he reached into the small container to dig out several instruments which he proceeded to arrange one by one upon the table. A slender brush, tooled from birch, with fine hairs attached to the end. Three small vials of glass, stained by their murky contents. Lastly, a scalpel with a gleaming iron blade.
Hugo recoiled in his seat, caressing the back of his unmarked hand as if trying to warm himself of the sudden chilling feeling he felt. Oh, spirits, I hope he's only as drunk as he seems—it could be worse, he thought.
"The rune," the old man rasped.
Hugo reached into the satchel by the chair's back leg and rummaged through its contents, pulling out the Fire Rune. The rune gleamed crimson in the dim room, its light waxing and waning as he placed it upon the table, right next to the instruments.
The Rune Sage leaned in over the table and squinted, stroking the Fire Rune's translucent shell with his finger, rolling it over the wooden surface like a marble. Even as the orb revolved on the table, the rune's image remained steady and upright in Hugo's eyes; a stylized flame in bright red with rounded edges. "Exquisite," the old man said. His head drew closer, and his stinging breath caused Hugo to draw back in his seat. "The orb… made of rune crystals from the Tinto mines, isn't it? Yes, I recognize the refractions… Ah… Nearly flawless. Where did a scoundrel like you get this?"
Hugo frowned, but ignored the insult. "I found it in a chest abandoned in the forest," he said sarcastically.
The Rune Sage grunted. "Yes… Folks leave all sorts of things behind, don't they? Now… This might sting a wee bit…"
Hugo rolled his neck and steeled himself. Nash smirked at him.
The pain was excruciating, but even then, it was tolerable.
After all, it was fleeting, and the Fire Rune integral to their plan.
-Sarah-
Sarah still wore the Silver Maiden's guise as she stepped into the dungeon's guard room, smoothing the skirts beneath the illusion. The walls were dressed with iron sconces, rusted beneath rivulets of water that trickled from the cold stones, each one holding a torch that lit the room in effulgent light and dancing shadows. The flames provided some warmth. A table of dark, unpolished wood had been displaced from the middle of the floor at a haphazard angle, and around it were arrayed half a dozen rickety chairs. A single die of polished white bone rested on the table's surface, forgotten. She stared at it for a moment before walking over to the side door and rapping the butt of her stave against its surface.
The rhythmic sound of dulled grunts from the other side faded, and a few moments passed while she heard footsteps. She walked over to the table, but opted to remain standing.
The door opened, and Alron stepped into the room. Wild-eyed and with hair that looked like it had been tossed by a strong wind, he strode towards the table and tossed the thick leather whip in his hand onto the table, rattling the die and causing it to roll off of the table and onto the floor. Sarah's eyes turned to it as it stopped upon the floor. One, she noted.
"I guess I must've been too lenient with the whip; you look no worse for wear," he chuckled. His hand clasped the hilt of his sword, and his fingers caressed the pommel lovingly.
Sarah was not amused. For that matter, she remained unacquainted with her disguise, and with the things that came with it. People would smile, bow, and scrape. They would stare, too, and she was unaccustomed to drawing so much unwanted attention.
"I see that you are having fun. I hope I need not remind you not to put any cracks in our plans, Alron." 'Even the slightest crack, if left to grow, could shatter Crystal Valley,' as the saying goes. It is a good lesson to heed, though exaggerated and metaphoric at best, she decided.
Alron tensed, and nodded. "Of course, my lady. I won't fail you; I'm just satisfying myself." He snorted, and glanced at the closed door through which he had entered. There was silence, now, though the door looked sturdy enough to keep most sound out. "She's stubborn; I'll give her that. I'll make her beg yet, though. I'm looking forward to that."
"You are certainly zealous in your… dedication to our efforts," she said calmly. He disgusts me. It is a terrible thing that we must associate with such monsters in order to reach Master Luc's goal, she thought.
Alron turned to regard her, and shrugged. The leer on his face faded to a frown as he spoke. "It's because of knights like her that we've been coddling the barbarians. Her and that fool Galahad. People like that make my blood boil. I don't like what the council did to them, but they deserved it. They should have learned their lesson at Danay."
Sarah tapped her stave against the floor and let her gaze sweep across the room as he spoke, ignoring his patriotic drivel. When he finished, she fixed her eyes on him. "The plan has changed. I am leaving for the front tonight."
"What about me?" Alron wondered. There was suspicion in his voice.
Sarah shook her head. "You will remain, for now. I am afraid that there will be no trumpets and drums as we had planned for our… glorious march. Nevertheless, you will be sent for soon. After all, you will succeed me as Captain of the Knights." She bent her lips in a tight smile, but it never reached her eyes. She could see disappointment in his features. Disappointment, and irritation, she thought.
"Very well," he said. "What about the safeguard?"
"It is in place. I have already sowed the seed in the knighthood."
He nodded.
"Before I leave, I will give you a reward of sorts," Sarah said.
Alron's face lit up. It seemed all too much like a child's countenance, then. "A reward?"
Sarah stuck her hand into the shirt pocket beneath the blue tabard—she had to rummage around, since her own clothes were veiled by the illusion—and produced a slight orb that glowed in hues of green and gray. She held it out, and he greedily took it from her hand, holding it up to stare at the rune within. His eyes gleamed as they reflected the orb's swirling colors, and his breath caught as he grinned.
"What is it?" he said in a near-whisper.
"It will explain itself once you try it. It will take some getting used to, but you will have plenty of opportunity to practice on the Silver Maiden," she said coolly. "In battle, you will find it quite useful, I am sure."
"I look forward to it, my lady," he breathed. His face glowed with eagerness as he held his hand out towards her, cupping the rune. For a moment, Sarah frowned, and tried to understand the gesture. Is he refusing it? she wondered. Then it struck her. Of course; he needs to have it affixed before he can use it, she realized, feeling a bit silly.
The emotion never reached her features. She stepped forward, and gingerly reached into his palm to grasp the rune without touching his hand. Holding it up, she grasped the cloth around wrist and turned his hand, displaying the back. She pressed the rune's fragile shell against his skin, and concentrated.
The rune seemed to recoil, withdrawing from his skin.
"What…?" Sarah mumbled.
Alron's expression faded to surprise—and something else—as his hand left the hilt of his sword and grasped the rune. "Try again."
This time, it did not resist. The rune flared up in greenish gray light that spilled over their hands as the shell of the orb broke, and its shards embedded themselves in his skin, merging with his flesh.
Alron's gaunt face reflected green light as he stared at the rune. His eyes were wide, and his breath hitched as he watched the emblem embed itself to the back of his hand. A broad smile spread on his lips as the initial discomfort settled.
The rune was affixed.
-Chris-
Chris drew shallow, silent breaths as she pressed herself against the thick wooden door. The sharp sting of bruises on her face, shoulders, back and limbs caused her body to ache, but where the throbbing pain subdued her body, it fuelled her rage. And her rage fuelled her mind, allowing her to remain alert. Like a stream of rainwater, the anger threatened to overflow, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from voicing her building frustration in a fit of screams. She stretched against the shackles that bound her ankles and wrists and chafed her joints, leaning her left arm against the coarse grain of the door. Alron never left her alone for long, but she had spent her few short periods of undisturbed rest on loosening the chains, and her work had yielded results a few hours ago, when she managed to liberate her left arm. The long shackles that held her legs had proven far too sturdy to budge, so far. Trapped though she was, her efforts had given her a little freedom. Enough to listen in.
Hugging the wooden barrier, she could hear bits and pieces of Alron's conversation with the unknown woman, and although most of it had proven to be incomprehensible, it contained bits and pieces of useful information.
Her thoughts raced. What does she mean to say about the knighthood? It is clear that they intend to take control of the knights, but… what is this 'safeguard' they refer to? We should have learned our lesson, should we now? What arrogance! What insolence!
The stinging lashes across her back throbbed with vibrant pain, and she seethed with anger as she drew from the sensations. Thoughts of the vengeance she would exact upon Alron gave some comfort, and provided focus—even if she would never do such things. Compared to these sources of hurt, her headache seemed harmless company; a familiar sensation that reminded her of who she was.
Goddess, I fear for what I might do if I cannot control my anger, she despaired.
The muffled sound of delighted laughter from across the door startled her, and she tensed—if it were possible to become more rigid—and listened. Sudden footsteps from the other side of the door startled her. She skittered back across the cold stones of the fetid cell, and quickly grasped the links of the loose chain hanging down from the ceiling as the door opened. Alron's angular face settled into a smile as he entered, cracking his whip. Growling, she railed against her shackles, tossing back and forth in a show of needless defiance. A show it was—a façade—but the fury was true, and strong. Her lashes throbbed with pain, and a flare was building within her. A flare she had thought long mastered.
"Ready to please, yet?" Alron asked. His smile was patronizing, and infuriating.
Chris bit her teeth together to show a rictus grin. Her pride forbade her to beg, but even without it, her rage would not have allowed it. "Never," she growled. Goddess, mother of the golden moon, lend me a fraction of your strength, to help me protect my dignity, she prayed.
Alron chuckled. He raised the whip, slick with her blood, and cracked it in the air. She flinched. "Let's try this again, then, traitor," he said.
The pain was excruciating, but even then, it was tolerable. She gritted her teeth, and grunted with each lash. Traitor? I will show you how wrong you are, she promised. She held her grim smile.
With the Goddess' favor, all sorrows were fleeting.
-Hugo-
The Council Hall's interior was opulent, an expansive chamber with walls lined with ostentatious paintings and tapestries and doorways flanked by extravagant ornaments; vases, statues, and hollow suits of armor. Together, the decorations obscured the greater part of the polished wooden planks that framed the room, and Hugo stood astounded for a time, staring wide-eyed at the marvels as he entered in Nash's wake. They've even taken flowers and put them in urns! The ironheads are insane, he thought.
Nash glanced back and smirked. "Don't look so lost," he whispered. "You're the associate of a world-renowned merchant, remember?" He turned his head back to the room and leveled a look of practiced disdain on its contents.
Hugo nodded to himself as he tore his eyes from the decorations. He shifted his grip on the burlap sacks he carried in either hand, and shrugged to comfort his shoulders. The sacks' contents clinked with the motion, glass striking glass. One day had passed while they made their preparations, and another night of fitful sleep. He had not rested easy, his thoughts scattered as he tried not to focus on what his mind sought. Who. Nash doesn't seem to be in a hurry, but I get the feeling that he's nervous, too. Is she even alive? He quickly banished the dark thought.
Footsteps echoed through the grand chamber as a man in orange livery descended the steps of the twisting staircase, sliding his hand across the intricately carved features of the polished railing. "Can I help you, sir?"
Nash swaggered as he strode up to the man, planting his thumbs beneath his belt and drawing himself up, elbows protruding. "Yes, indeed! Tell Rean Fetterswin that Jarve Demis is here to see him." His words were somewhat slurred, spoken in an accent that Hugo had never heard, and a speech pattern that made a mockery of his true voice.
"Sir…"
Nash gestured pompously. "Make it quick, good man! I haven't all day, to be quite frank."
"Sir," the servant cut in. "I'm afraid the council is in session at this time. The Head Councilor is not available. Did you have an appoint—"
"Not available?!" Nash—Jarve—shouted. "This is preposterous; indeed villainous and vile!" He wagged a finger at the man, fuming. "I'll have you know, good man, that I have an appointment for this precise day, and this precise hour! Today is the fifth of Moon's Dawn, is it not?"
"It is, sir, but…"
"And did I not hear the tenth bell mere moments ago?"
"That's right, sir. However…" the frustrated administrator began.
Nash snorted, and slapped his hands together violently, causing the man to recoil against the stairs. "Then there is no mistake on my part. Tell Rean Fetterswin that Jarve Demis has an appointment with him for this precise moment!"
The servant shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do that. I have been told of no appointment for tenth bell today…"
"Well! This is an insult, and an outrage. I cannot imagine that Kanakan and Zexen will ever be quite as close after this grievous insult!" Nash railed. His cheeks flared with emotion—feigned, to be sure, but convincing nonetheless—as he advanced on the administrator.
He's a great actor, Hugo thought. Almost too compelling. He's probably been acting with me, too. I need to be careful. Hugo decided. Feeling the strain on his arms, he relaxed his grip and lowered the sacks onto the floor.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir…"
Nash shook his head, and sighed. "There's naught to be done, is there? Well, will you at least let my manservant", he gestured at Hugo, "unload some of our cargo in your storehouses in the meanwhile?"
"I'm not supposed to…"
Planting his fists on his hips, Nash drew himself up further and fixed the man with a withering glare. "Good man, I believe I shall be forced to lodge a formal complaint with your superior over this! What's your name?"
"Halswin, sir, but…"
"But?" Nash quirked his eyebrows.
"But, on second thought, sir, it shouldn't be a problem. Your, uh, manservant is free to unload. It's… it's down the hall, third door on the left past the intersection. The room is marked with a bronze plaque above the doorway."
Nash turned and nodded at Hugo, flashing a brief smile. Hugo returned the nod but not the smile, and lifted the burlap sacks from their restive position on the floor. Drawing a deep breath, he walked into the side corridor.
Past the intersection, and saw the third door on the left. Glancing at the full glass bottles packed tight in the sacks, he forced a smile, and walked right past the door.
-Borus-
Ducking beneath the tent flap, Borus left the din of the lively camp behind him and stepped into the captain's voluminous pavilion. Chris was seated in a folding chair at the center of the stamped grass floor, hands clasping the ends of the chair's arms. The sun pressed against the cloth, rendering the insides in a dull light that cast scarce shadows.
Borus saluted, gauntleted fist pressed close to his heart in a rigid pose. He bowed, and tried to calm his beating heart as he met the captain's eyes. Calm as ever, even before an engagement, he was nonetheless surprised to find her smiling broadly. "Milady," he greeted her. Radiant as the sun, with your rare smiles, he thought, but kept the state of his aching heart unvoiced.
"Sir Borus. Is something on your mind?" she wondered.
"Yes, milady, there is. I need to tell you something important." He could not still his heart, and he found his hands moist with sweat that he could not blame on exertion. I have to tell her; she'll never respect me unless I tell her the truth now, he assured himself. The decision had already been made, but he found it difficult not to back down now that he stood staring at her big violet eyes. Such beautiful eyes. What if she ends up hating me? No, I cannot even think about it. I simply have to tell her the truth, and that is that. No matter the… He could not finish the thought, tramping his boot into the grassy dirt as if to stamp it out.
"Very well, Sir Borus. Would you like some tea?" Her expression did not change, but if anything, Borus thought that he could read curiousness in her beautiful features.
"Thank you," he said with a small nod.
Chris turned her head. "Dindee? Pour two cups of that jasmine tea for us, would you?"
With a start, Borus turned to see motion in the shadows of the corner—preoccupied with Chris, he had not noticed the tent's third inhabitant. The sound of liquid pouring into porcelain rang out, and a young girl strode from the shadows with a cup in each hand. She wore a simple woolen dress, smudged and worn, and though her black hair was washed and arranged in two thick braids, her face was dirty. Sullen and silent as she proffered the cups, the expression on her face was defiant, and perhaps a bit nervous. Borus accepted the unadorned porcelain cup with a slight nod of his head. "Thank you."
Chris watched the girl with equal parts fascination and warmth. "I seem to be losing squires and servants right and left these days," she said as she reached out to caress the girl's cheek—she flinched, but did not recoil from the touch. "I shall hold onto this one." She waved dismissively, and the girl scurried back into the dark corner on stubby legs.
Borus smiled slightly, and nodded. His smile died as he looked into Chris' eyes. "Milady… I… I have lied to you. And I have done something you will not approve of," he whispered. There. He was past the point of no return, now. The truth shall set me free… Isn't that what they say? he mused.
Joy melted from Chris' face, to be replaced with suspicion, and Borus' heart sank with the change. "What have you done, Sir Borus?" she demanded.
"I lied to you… about Karaya. I did participate in that bloodbath. That is, I was there, and… and I fought alongside Sir Alron. We… killed them all."
She watched him impassively, seeming content to hold her tongue while waiting for him to elaborate. Her eyes stabbed his heart, and he fought to liberate the words from his throat.
"Please understand, milady; I was overcome with anger… I couldn't control myself… I tried to…"
"Enough, Sir Borus," she said firmly, rising from her seat.
"Milady…" he whispered. He felt as though withering under her gaze, and the desire to weep was close at hand as she scrutinized him.
He was shocked to see her smile, suddenly. "Fear not, Sir Borus. I do not loathe you," she said with a small laugh. "You did what you had to do; what any of us would have done."
"B-but, milady…!" Why isn't she furious?! She was livid with Alron!
She shook her head. "You should not feel guilt for what you have done. Certainly, it was not our brightest moment, but you must remember that it is the duty of the knights to do whatever it takes to protect the people of Zexen. You fought bravely, and with great zeal to reach that end, did you not?"
"Y-yes, but I… when the anger took me, I killed women and children! I cannot forgive myself for this, even if…" Even if you can, he finished in his mind. He dared not utter those words.
"Sir Borus," Chris said, shaking her head. "No knight could match your loyalty, your devotion. To lose your conviction to this… minor stumble… would be tragic, and a great loss to the people of Zexen, not least."
Within his gauntlets, Borus' fingers pressed furiously against the leather coating. "Milady, do you truly believe that?" She named Alron her Vice-Captain… Does this mean that she approves of what we did? After her fury with Alron, at Brass Castle? he wondered. Singing jealousy crept into his mind as he considered it; whispers that had given him little rest since Alron was named Vice-Captain. It should have been him.
"I do, Sir Borus," she said firmly, losing her smile. This time, it strengthened him. "Please, try to put this behind you. I think no less of you for this. Truly. I will need your might soon enough, and I cannot have my knights distracted by the past when we need to conquer the present. Do you understand?"
"Yes, milady!" he exclaimed, trying to fight down the growing feeling of pride, to moderate his voice and expression. "I-I had to tell you before we reached Iksay, in case… well, I felt I had to tell you."
"I understand. Now, you have more important tasks to tend to. You are dismissed, Sir Borus," she said with a smile.
"Yes, milady!"
He drank in the sight of her before he swiveled and walked away. Ducking under the tent flap, he emerged to the many sounds and scents of a camp in motion, baking beneath the high noon sun. Its light seemed to wash away his fears and worries, and he walked blissfully through the camp.
She forgave me. Oh, sweet, merciful Goddess! My beautiful angel, he exulted.
-Sarah-
"What a fool," Sarah spat. She sprang from the chair the moment he left, stretching her back and shivering. "Thank the True Runes for idiots. Our task would be all the more difficult without them." The adoration evident in the knight's eyes was all too blatant, and it made her uncomfortable. I wonder how she dealt with this. Surely she realizes. How would he react, were he to find out the true fate of his dear captain? Too cruel, by far, she thought.
She felt the shadows twist and curl behind her back, and Dindrane yelped with fear as Yuber stepped from the darkness. He walked up to her side and looked down at her. Tilting her head to the side, Sarah placed her hand on the chair's arm and met his eyes. "You have returned," she noted.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he grinned. "The barbarians are marching."
"And Albert's prediction was correct?"
"Of course," Yuber said, snorting.
"Iksay, then. We shall be fashionably late. Good. I shall be happy once I can shed this despicable skin. It has been an altogether unpleasant experience."
Yuber growled. "We've all had to do things we didn't like."
Sarah sighed, and smirked as she regarded him. His eyes could not be found. "It truly rankles you that you had to leave those lizards alive."
"It's not my style to leave survivors. A necessary sacrifice, but an unpleasant one."
"Of course. We must all make sacrifices for him."
Yuber snorted.
For you, Master Luc, I will cooperate with these vile demons. Only for you, she promised.
-Hugo-
Three soldiers stood lounged near the doorway, standing guard with banded mail strapped tight to their orange tabards and spears leaning against the stone tiles. Conversing in low voices, their eyes turned to Hugo when he rounded the corner and approached them.
"Halt," one soldier said, stepping forward. "Are you lost? What's your business in the dungeons?" He frowned, and his face was marked by suspicion.
Hugo smiled, trying to make the gesture seem at once casual and genuine. He held up the sack in his right hand. "Councilor Rean's aide told me to deliver this Kanakan brandy to the storehouses in the dungeon. Seems like he felt more confident keeping the bottles there," he said, slurring his words. He knew no accents to emulate, but even gibberish would have greater effect than Karayan. Glass bottles clinked as he stretched and stirred the burlap sacks.
The guardsmen's eyes shot up as they regarded each other in silence. The leading soldier pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "Kanakan brandy, eh…? Is that so?"
"It is," Hugo said with a nod. "We got here just last night, with the high tide."
"Really? You from that Kooluk vessel moored by Deadsilver Pier?"
"That's right," Hugo said. Nash has done his research well, he thought. The soldiers clustered around him, inspecting his features and possessions with equal interest. The clothes he wore were foreign, taken from Nash's considerable stock, and with some luck, he would pass for an outlander. Still, he was no actor.
"So you're from Kooluk?" the soldier wondered.
"Doesn't look Kooluk to me…" one of his comrades muttered, leaning on his spear. The third man shook his head slowly.
"Island Nations," Hugo said. He broadened his smile nervously, but caught himself and relaxed the expression. Casual, Nash said. Not too friendly, not too severe, he thought.
They were silent for a few seconds, watching him. He felt sweat building on his brow, but remained still, smiling. He fought the need to elaborate. Don't volunteer too much information… he reminded himself.
"Obel?" one of the men asked.
"No. Tilbara Island."
"Never heard of it," the guard said. His comrades grunted in agreement.
Hugo laughed. "Doesn't surprise me; not even my grandmother remembers the island, and she lives there! The crabs around there make it all worthwhile, though." Oh, spirits, please don't ask me about seamanship… he prayed.
The guardsmen chuckled. "Tell me about it," the man said. "If anyone around here's heard of Muanay, they probably saw the name in a tax report."
"You sure the tax men know how to find Muanay, Ghanis?" one of the others joked.
Ghanis laughed. "You might be right."
Hugo leaned down to set the left-hand sack down on the stone tiles, rousing a clatter of glass. Reaching into the right sack, he felt along the bottlenecks for the strip of cloth that set the one flask apart. Pulling it out, he presented it to the guards. "It isn't fair for the stiff-necks to keep it all to themselves, now is it?" he said with a wink.
"Damn true," the soldier said, snagging the bottle. The three of them eyed it covetously for a moment before the first man waved him along. "You'd better get going. Wouldn't want you to be late on our account."
"Thanks, friends," Hugo grinned.
Hoisting the sacks, Hugo drew a lungful of air and walked through the doorway and descended the widdershins spiraling stairs. The stone steps were damp with moisture, and the darkness loomed beneath, hinting at the presence of meager light. He fought the need to exhale until he could no longer hear the soldiers behind him.
He was inside.
-Borus-
Noon had come, bringing fire to the sky, and passed, leaving a wake of orange flames that bled into the clouds above the farming village of Iksay. The very heavens burned with seething emotion as smoke rose from the blazing farmlands, a gray fog that crept into the sky's bright colors, seeking justice from the clouds. Screams filled the air, terrifying shouts of wrath and piercing shrieks of fear that gave voice to the chaos enveloping the torched village. Beneath it surged the crackle of flames, and the ring of steel on steel. The chorus of war.
Bloodstained sword held aloft, Borus galloped back towards the forward pickets, ducking his head low as arrows swooped through the air at either side. His heart pounded like a drum. Filthy barbarians! he cursed, scowling.
Rushing up towards him as he raced, he saw Chris astride a restless dun mare, surrounded by Salome and a handful chosen knights, while a contingent of soldiers marched past them towards the burning village. They parted like a wave as he passed, giving him wide berth. As he reined his horse in near the captain, she met his eyes.
"Milady!" he shouted, catching his breath. "The barbarians have torched the fields and set most of the houses ablaze. The fire is spreading, but they haven't—"
She raised a gauntleted hand to silence him. "We shall show these barbarians the price of Zexen blood. Advance into the village and rout the enemy."
Salome leaned in to whisper something. His expression changed to surprise, but he hid his emotions well. Chris shook her head, and silenced him.
Advance?! But it's a trap! he thought. "But, milady…!"
"That is a direct order, Sir Borus."
Borus met Salome's eyes, but the older man was silent, sitting stiff in his saddle and fiddling with the reins in a nervous manner. Borus stared, but held his tongue. Salome will set her straight, whatever she is thinking. Fist to heart, he saluted. "As you say, milady." His warhorse snorted as he turned the steed around and began trotting towards the first row of houses, following the column of soldiers marching into Iksay.
Advancing with caution, the frontlines were coming into contact with the enemy. The Grasslanders struck in small squads from shielded positions, harrying the flanks and disappearing before the Zexens could pursue. Already their tactics were beginning to take a toll on the soldiers, and wounded were filtered back, some on stretchers, others steadied by their comrades. Sergeants shouted orders, raising shield barriers to meet the Karayan arrow volleys, and turning squads of spearmen around to meet sudden strikes from the alleys.
This is madness! What is she thinking?! Borus despaired.
Hooves beat the earth as Roland wound through the throng to rein in by his side. His face was impassive. "Sir Borus, if you will direct the central push, I will cut in from the east and relieve your positions."
His confidence faltered. "Roland, this is madness!" he hissed, careful not to be overheard by the anxious soldiers.
Roland smirked. "Do not give these animals too much credit, Sir Borus. It matters not how far their cowardly tactics stretch. In the end, we will prevail, and we will have done the world a service by putting the mongrels to sleep. Put your trust in the Captain."
Frowning, Borus shook his head and cleared his thoughts. He's right. She believes in me. I should believe in her. I have to prove that her trust is not misplaced, he decided.
Gritting his teeth, he motioned his horse into a gallop through the ranks, raising his sword to the sky. "Glory to the Goddess!" he shouted, and the call rose among the dispirited ranks; a buzz of fevered voices.
The sky's color bled into the Zexen banners gliding on the wind, burnished orange blurred by the sun's bright glare.
The rippling cloth seemed almost to burn.
-Hugo-
The dank dungeon walls were slick with moisture, and unseen water dripped from the ceiling, gathering in tiny puddles in the shadows along the corridor. Hugo walked in silence, adjusting his load so that he could caress the back of his hand as he moved. The skin still throbbed where the Fire Rune had been affixed, and though the Rune Sage had assured him that the pain would pass soon enough, the bruised scars made him feel uncomfortable; dirty and vulnerable.
The sudden echo of voices gave him a start, and Hugo readjusted his grip on the burlap sacks and froze, listening. He heard laughter, and the casual words spoken between soldiers as they patrolled the dungeons. He was well past the storehouses, now, and he doubted that any excuse he could think of would convince them if they found him here. Sliding up against the wall, he listened to the approach, looking down the hallway towards the intersection. The sounds told him that they were coming from the side path.
Sweat beading on his forehead, Hugo grinded the back of his head against the cold stones of the wall and held his breath. His hair soaked up the moisture. If they go the other way, they might not see it. Might not. Not good enough, he decided.
There were no doors, no side paths that would not put him in view of the approaching soldiers. Gauging their remaining distance, he glanced up towards the ceiling. It would have to do.
The slick stones made poor handholds, but the Wind Rune glimmered in the darkness as gentle winds eased his body and boosted him up to reach the rafters. The dark wood felt half-rotted and creaked under his weight as he clambered onto the beams, but metal bands held them in place, and he hugged the coarse wood with anxious arms and legs. He had left the burlap sacks on the ground, hoping that the shadows would obscure them enough to avert the soldiers' attention. He drew his long-knife from its sheath, clutched the hilt, and prayed that they would.
The use of the Wind Rune had triggered some delayed reaction in the Fire Rune, and his right hand flared up in pain as he clung to the rafters. His fingers paled as he gripped knife and rafter fiercely.
The soldiers strode into the intersection through the side corridor, turning into his passage. He held his breath as they passed beneath him, footsteps echoing through the corridor. Water dripped from the ceiling, some of it pooling in his hair, while other droplets fell to the ground.
"What's this?" one of the soldiers exclaimed.
"What?"
Hugo cursed in silence as two of them squatted down by the sacks and began to rummage through their contents. "What in the blazes is this doing here…?!"
"What is that, rum?"
Gritting his teeth, Hugo tensed his limbs and remained entirely still, praying to the spirits that the soldiers would not see him. He tried to think of a plan, but his mind raced too quickly, out of control. He would have to attack them.
One of them raised a bottle and shook it. "No, I think…"
Sweat warmed Hugo's limbs. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed and switched the grip on his long-knife, moving his leg to the side. He had to do it.
Footsteps sounded from behind them. Hugo froze, turning his eyes to see a knight walked into the corridor from the other end.
"Sir Percival!" the soldiers exclaimed. Metal clinked and leather creaked as the four men arranged themselves to salute, stiffening their backs and raising their heads. Hugo grimaced, building a string of curses in the silence of his mind. I can't take them all on. Spirits, Percival alone… he despaired.
"At ease," Percival said. "Is something wrong?"
"Sir, we've found something strange here. These sacks…"
"We think these flasks are filled with oil, sir."
Cursed misfortune! Hugo seethed. His pulse raced, and despite the damp rafters and dank air, he felt like his head was boiling.
Percival nodded, stretching his neck lazily. "Good job. I'll handle this."
The soldiers shuffled for a moment, but they did not protest. "Of course, sir." A second passed in silence before the men saluted and continued down the path. Before long, the shadows had swallowed them, and only the echoes of metal boots on stone tiles told Hugo that they were walking away, back the way he had come from.
Percival remained where he was. He crossed his arms over his breastplate and tilted his head to regard the burlap sacks. His raven hair gleamed in the torch-light as he tapped his booted foot against the floor.
"Oil, huh?" he exclaimed. His lilting voice sounded strangely theatrical. "How odd."
He paused for a few seconds. Then he resumed his stroll.
Hugo's eyes bore into his back as he walked away. What in the world was that? he wondered as his lungs recuperated and his skin cooled. The knight's peculiar behavior had him rattled, and he waited for several minutes before climbing down, listening to the sound of his own racing heartbeat as he tried to discern footsteps in the distance.
He still felt dazed when he hurried down the corridor towards the cells.
At least the pain in his hand had faded.
-Roland-
Cursing the Fire God, Roland launched arrow after arrow at the Karayans and saaraks as they ran past smoke and lurid flames. His aim was true, but his targets had a habit of disappearing behind shelter all too soon, and he wasted arrows more often than not, even as his soldiers were cut down around him. The Karayan archers were sloppy, hurried, and inept, but what they lacked in skill and numbers, they made up for by tenacity, and they had the upper hand to be certain. 'Even drunken dwarves can outshoot a Towayan Sniper, if the world is upside down.' Never truer than now, he mused.
The barbarians were a testament to the inferiority of their races. Humans were filthy and base, but a handful proved capable of rising above their endemic disadvantages and become worthy friends. In comparison, lizards, ducks, and other pathetic mongrels were worth less than the dust beneath his horse's hooves.
Soldiers shouted as the Grasslanders launched yet another strike. They rushed forth from between two burning houses, brandishing knives and short swords as they bellowed their unsettling battle cries. Two saarak warriors added their rumbling voices to the death choir, charging headlong with their glaives. Shields were raised even as Roland nocked his arrow, but the lizards bowled through the ranks, clearing the path for the tenacious Karayan warriors. Arrows sailed from the second story of a building off to the side, its roof not yet aflame. Most struck grass and dirt, but soldiers screamed as shafts embedded themselves in their limbs.
Roland turned in his saddle and released the bowstring. His arrow shot through the air and hit its mark through the window. A scream rang out, and a bowman collapsed against the windowsill. His body was pulled back in, moments before Roland launched a second arrow.
"Stand firm!" he shouted. "Close the ranks and hold your ground!"
Lizard roars filled the air and sent shivers down Roland's spine as a group of saaraks emerged from behind a pile of debris, slamming carts and burning barrels aside to emerge before the soldiers. Roland recognized their leader.
"You!" Dupa bellowed. "I know you! You're the human with blue hair!"
Roland sneered as he nocked a new arrow. His quiver was quickly emptying, but he still had more than enough ammunition to settle this debacle. "You insult me, lizard! I am an elf, not a human!"
"You warm-bloods all look the same to me, worm!" Dupa shouted, slamming his glaive against a box. The wooden planks broke apart like twigs. "Do you remember me?! I am Dupa, War Leader of the Saaraks!"
"I remember," Roland said, loosing his arrow. He smirked.
Dupa twirled his glaive and slammed the arrow aside. With a thwack, the shaft struck the ground and impaled the earth. The lizard growled.
Roland gaped. Heart filling with dread, he hurriedly reached for another arrow. "Soldiers, fall back! Rally around me!" he shouted.
"Let's see if I'm a match for a true knight, warm-blood!" Dupa roared. With a great bellow, he started down the slope with his glaive leveled. As his warriors fell in step with him, the earth seemed to shake. Perhaps it was his imagination.
Roland loosed arrow after arrow, felling one lizard and striking another's arm before the group slammed into the first rank of soldiers. Their shields raised, they jabbed spears and thrust swords at the charging lizards, but fell with screams of agony as the glaives tore through them. Dupa and his warriors trampled them beneath their feet, spinning their weapons like staves to knock soldiers aside. Two of the lizards were brought to their knees and mobbed, disappearing beneath a flurry of steel, but despite their best efforts, soldiers fell like dolls and a path to Roland was clearing. His eyes wide, he shouted for the soldiers to hold their ground as he liberated his feet from their stirrups. The Song will not end here! This is not my time! The Wind God sings my chorus! he vowed.
Leaping up, he landed safely on the well-trained horse's back and balanced on the saddle. Dupa tore through the ranks, swinging and thrusting his glaive with tremendous skill and uncanny speed. The barbarian ambushes had harrowed their ranks, and now they were too few. A soldier set his spear against the charge, trying to skewer the lizard. With a great leap, Dupa bellowed and slashed. The soldier's spear was split in twain along with its wielder. Roland loosed his arrow.
It struck the lizard's shoulder. Dupa roared, but the scream was born of anger and not of pain. He approached all-too quickly, now.
Cursing under his breath, Roland nocked an arrow—to his surprise, it was his last—and aimed. Dupa cleared the last soldier, and leapt.
Roland fired the arrow. The shaft darted towards the lizard.
It never connected. The glaive tore through his legs, and his world exploded in pain as he fell. His lungs burned with pain as he found himself lying on the ground. He tried to rise, to move, but he could not.
The last thing he saw was the glint of sunlight on steel as something darkened his vision.
Then there was pain, and finally peace.
The Wind God was silent.
-Chris-
"Never liked the knights much," the soldier grunted. "Always strutting around, thinking yer better than us." He spat, and struggled for the words. "Well… you ain't."
Perhaps due to the unknown woman's chiding, Alron had grown more cautious, and he had ordered a guardsman to watch Chris while he was absent. Chris, meanwhile, found herself unable to do much except remain still, and bide her time.
"I am sad to hear that," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. Her body ached with equal parts weariness and pain, and her back throbbed with hurt as the welts on her back screamed out to remind her. She needed no reminders. Even so, she kept her back straight, and her head high. Even in chains, she still had her pride.
"Shut up," the man growled, slapping her bruised cheek with his gauntlet. The strike was half-hearted, but stung bitterly. "Keep yer mouth shut." His task was to keep her awake, but he was quite liberal with his attentions.
"I assure you; the knights do not make a habit out of considering themselves better than others," she said. Though it does not surprise me that a worm like you felt disparaged, she thought to herself.
"I said shut up!" he shouted, slapping her once more. This time, her head reeled.
She turned her face back to meet his eyes, and smiled.
The guard spat. "Women should leave the fighting to us men. You fit better in chains than in armor," he laughed stupidly. "What kind of idiot made a woman a knight, anyway?"
"That would be Captain Galahad," Chris said. "But I believe it would be an overstatement to call you a man…"
He raised his hand to slap her—
Springing from her knees, Chris lurched forward, releasing the unshackled manacle to grab his arm. He shouted in surprise, but she dragged him down, and kicked up to wrap her legs around his shoulders. Slamming him down, she battered the back of his head with her elbow. His head was driven into the ground, and she heard a crack, and a groan.
Her blood pumped, and the sudden motion unfettered her emotions. In a fit of fury, she grabbed the hairs on the back of his head and slammed his head against the stone once more. He made no sound. "Filthy worm," she cursed. Heart racing, strength returned to her limbs, and she filled her lungs with ragged breaths as she fumbled along the soldier's belt, twisting his prone body to grab the keys from the girdle. She heard noise from the adjacent room, but ignored it, reaching up to fit the key into the lock of her manacled right hand. Frightened and tired, her hand shook and the key slid against the iron, seeking the keyhole without success. She heard the door creak, and cursed under her breath. Stressed, she slid the key towards the lock. It fit, and she drew breath.
The door opened. "Dolton, what's going on?!" the entering guardsman said. He saw her, and began to run towards her, opening his mouth to yell; "THE PRISONER—!"
Something moved in the doorway, and she heard the sickening sound of sliced flesh. The man groaned, gurgled, and collapsed on the floor with a reverberating thud.
Holding a bloody knife, Hugo stepped through the doorway. His eyes found her, and he paused.
Once the shock resided, her heart filled with brimming warmth. She was delighted to see him.
Even if he had come to kill her.
-Hugo-
Chris sat frozen on the floor as he approached, staring at him with a look of confusion and… something he could not decipher. The shock of seeing her as she was had been staggering. She was battered, bruised, and all but broken, with contusions all over her arms and face. The clothes she had worn when he found her in her mansion were grimy with dirt and blood, torn and barely fit for modesty, and her features were slick with sweat. The sight of her roused a blinding rage within, the maintenance of which required deep lungfuls of air and overshadowed whatever other angers he felt.
His fingers ached around the hilt of his long-knife. He eased his grip and quickly wiped the blood on his trousers before sheathing the weapon. "I'm not here to kill you," he said.
Finishing what she had started, she turned the key to liberate her right arm from its manacle and rubbed her sore wrist and forearm with her hand. She remained silent, mystifyingly so.
"They didn't… you can talk, right?" he asked, hairs standing on end as he knelt next to her and took the key from the dangling lock.
She blinked, and gaped slightly. "Yes," she said. Suddenly animated, she edged away from him and looked at his hands. "I will do that."
"No," he said. Before she could protest, he leaned down and unlocked the chains that bound her ankles one by one. He listened to her hitched breaths as he worked, breathing through his mouth to filter out the cell's stench of urine.
Freed from her chains, Chris staggered to her feet and stretched her legs, steadying herself on the manacles hanging from the ceiling above. For a moment, her eyes clouded and closed. She collapsed—
—into Hugo's arms. Embarrassed, he pushed her back and held her shoulders carefully as she roused. "Can you walk? You look like rotted wood. Do you… need me to carry you?" he wondered. Spirits, please say no, he prayed. A quieted part of him wanted the opposite.
"No," she breathed sharply, stepping away. Her violet eyes were clear, and she flushed. Collecting herself, she stiffened her back and regarded him calmly. "You have not come to kill me, and indeed why would you go through all that trouble just to beat Alron to the punch. So, why are you here?" she wondered. She rasped the words, but she kept her voice steady.
"I don't know. Who'd want to hang around in a place like this?" he said sarcastically. The truth is, I really don't know, he admitted. "I wanted to talk to you. I'm not going to let… I mean," he fumbled, embarrassed. "Forget it. This isn't the time. …Alron did this?"
The question roused her from a daze. "He feels I make a poor Captain," she said, forcing the words.
Hugo spat. "He's a right bastard. If I catch him—"
Chris watched him curiously. Her hand brushed against his side. "Are you hurt?"
The touch roused a frisson of excitement, and Hugo flushed. "N-No," he stammered. Her features softened somewhat with concern, and she frowned at him. For a moment, he stared, but then a distant sound of clanging metal brought him back. He swallowed. "Let's go."
Chris' mouth opened, and she seemed about to speak, but shook her head and clamped her lips together. "Let us indeed," she said after a moment, nodding to herself.
Questions are for later. Spirits, I need some answers myself! Hugo decided.
Without another word, Chris walked towards the gaping doorway, and Hugo padded behind her, keeping a firm grip on his sheathed dagger. He went cold as he saw her torn back. Spirits, how can she even stand up?! he wondered, gaping. Grimacing, he readied himself to catch her if she should stumble, but she seemed to have poured steel into her spine, walking with straight back and brisk steps.
Stepping over the soldier he had stabbed in the back, Hugo entered the guard room. The dank chamber was empty, and he glanced back at Chris as he strode into the middle of the floor and moved towards the far door. "We've got everything set up; this way."
"We?" Chris wondered.
"Right, I…"
The side door opened, and Alron stepped into the room. His sullen features changed to shock, and his gaunt cheeks flared with emotion. His eyes were fixed on Hugo as his sword flew from sheath to hand. "You!" he exclaimed.
The all too familiar face made Hugo's blood boil, and he saw Chris' features harden to stone. "You've made a big mistake, rat," Hugo growled.
"I don't think so, barbarian," Alron snickered. "Your slut doesn't even have a sword, and you… you don't stand a chance."
He stepped forward and drew his long-knife, moving the blade in a ceremonial curse. "I'll carve an apology out of your hide for that," he hissed. Glancing at Chris, he unclasped his cloak and slung it back to reveal his father's sword in its sheath on his back. She stepped behind him.
Alron laughed. "Hiding behind the barbarian, little girl? You're a disgrace to the knights!"
"Not quite, sir," Chris said icily. She braced her left hand against Hugo's shoulder as she drew the sword from its sheath. "Pray for death, Alron: I very much doubt that you have my tolerance for pain." Her voice twisted with starving rage as she spoke and ended with a bestial growl.
Hugo tore the cloak from his body and flung it towards Alron. The knight laughed, and Hugo raised his left hand. The Fire Rune flared bright crimson. Flames burst from his hand and shot towards the cloak. The cloth burst into flames as it sailed towards Alron. Hugo stepped to the side as Chris ran past him. Invoking his Wind Rune, he flung fists of air through the cloth. The unseen hands pummeled Alron. He did not react. Chris closed the gap, and slashed.
Alron's features blurred as he leapt to the side. Too fast for a human. He balanced on the table, parrying Chris' sword with ease. His features were hazy as he lunged. Steel clashed on steel as Chris was driven back. She retreated against the wall and parried his swift strikes with each step.
Hugo panicked, gathering wind force. Knotting the air, he raised a barrier. Alron's sword cut through the shield like a knife through vellum. HOW?
Alron swung around to laugh. He raised his left hand, displaying a bright emblem in green and gray. The symbol was not known to Hugo. Chris gasped.
"A Gale Rune," he snickered. "Still think you've got the upper hand?"
The cloak burned to ashes as the flames simmered on the floor.
-Jimba-
The windmill turned, revolving without concern for the fact that its skeletal slats were blazing. Aflame, the wheel of fire kept rotating in the wind that fuelled the flames, seeming to burn a hole in the sky, singing the clouds. It seemed a harbinger of fire, and of chaos.
Jimba stood beneath the windmill, watching the village as small bands of Karayan warriors darted between houses and conversed in hushed tones, setting up ambushes for the willfully advancing soldiers. The Zexens had marched into their trap with great zest, commanded by their Captain of the Knights, and he was more than surprised. Perhaps she is not cut out to be a knight, he thought. It was a depressing thought, though hard to define.
'Blood for blood,' the saaraks had called, demanding vengeance for the Zexen aggression. Chief Lucia had spent much effort on reversing this vengeful desire, to calm the saaraks before too much blood was spilled. And in the end, he had brought his warriors both to cement the alliance, but also to prevent a holocaust. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince Dupa of this. Still, he had relented. It was the Karayans who had bled the most, after all.
Even then, he could not shake the guilt. Torching homes was… unpleasant. Unworthy.
Shouts rose from the square, where the debris of a dozen houses had been emptied and set aflame. A galloping horse sped into view, and upon the horse sat—
Christina? Jimba thought. Gaping, he stood baffled for a moment. How did she get past our warriors? What in the name of the Goddess is she doing? Blood pounding, he ran down the slope towards the square. Saaraks were beginning to filter in from the sides, running through the rubble towards the woman. Soldiers were rushing towards the square, but they were checked by his warriors. They would not reach her in time.
"Take her alive!" he hollered, twice. Bolting, he ran towards her. The saarak warriors flocked around her, drawing closer. She raised her sword, but made no motion to shout or defend herself.
He sprinted, screaming.
The saaraks thrust their glaives into horse and rider, stabbing and slashing with brutal efficiency. The horse fell, and the Silver Maiden collapsed beneath its flank, crushed. The warriors gathered around her and stabbed their weapons repeatedly.
Jimba went cold, and felt emotion building within. Searing rage, and chilling sorrow. He reached the square and halted as a rooftop collapsed before him, spilling burning planks and rubble onto the ground. He shielded his eyes from dust and sparks, and looked up to find that he had lost sight of Christina through the lurid flames. When the blaze simmered down and the dust settled, the square was covered with debris.
Did she get buried beneath the rubble? he wondered. Running closer, he looked around. He found nothing, no blood, no horse… No knight.
No saaraks. This is… awry. This can't be right, he thought.
A wordless bellow of mindless rage snapped him back to reality. He turned to see a knight separate from the advancing soldiers, charging past the Karayan defenders. His sword bit into their flesh as he passed them, but it was an afterthought. His eyes were on Jimba. And he was furious.
Knight and horse thundered towards him. He threw himself behind a burning barrel, avoiding the warhorse's trampling hooves. The steed galloped past and was reined in amid a cloud of dust. The knight threw himself from the saddle and landed with a thud. "Die!" he screamed.
Rounding the barrel, they came face to face. Blonde hair framed a face contorted in blind rage. He held his sword with both hands, and charged.
"Borus the Butcher!" Jimba exclaimed. His shock was tempered by anger.
Sparks flew as their swords connected. The knight drove wildly, slashing and thrusting. Jimba slammed the sword from side to side to parry the attacks. Backing up, he suddenly lunged. He feinted, but the knight did not fall for it. Borus countered, and Jimba almost stumbled as he batted the attack aside. They say he's the best swordsman among the Zexen knights… How good is that? he wondered.
The shouts of Zexens and Karayans filled the square. The soldiers were advancing, pushing his warriors back.
Borus swayed, stepping forward with an overhand slash. Their weapons clanged together several times. Jimba backpedaled and thrust back. Borus met the attack and pressed forward. He broke the deadlock with a twist of his sword, and drove the point forward.
Jimba leapt back, retracting his sword to parry. Sparks flew. He lunged, sweeping his blade from side to side. The knight held his sword aloft to catch the blow. Weaving past the sword, Jimba thrust, then slashed.
Stepping aside, Borus slammed fists and hilt into his shoulder. He brought his sword down. Jimba grunted as he was forced onto his knees. Reeling, he parried the attack. Rolling back, he bounded back onto his feet. "You're good, but you won't beat me," he said, breathing raggedly.
"You're wrong," Borus growled. "I'll kill you if it's the last thing I do."
"Not today, you won't," Jimba said.
He turned and ran.
"Retreat!" he shouted. "Fall back! Fall back!" He sprinted for all he was worth, and made for the nearest building. Borus cursed his name in fits of furious screams. Jimba rounded the corner—
—and heard the thwack of a steel blade embedding itself in the wood. The sword swayed, vibrating. He kept running, blood chilled by Borus' enraged bellow.
That man is a beast, he thought. Fearing horse and hooves, he sprinted for cover.
Before long, he was thanking the Goddess for Karayan exercise.
-Hugo-
Alron lunged. His features blurred, and his sword flashed, too quick to follow. Chris flicked her sword. Steel clashed on steel, and blood poured from her shoulder. She gasped, and staggered back.
Hugo cursed, and gathered wind force. Bands of air snatched up a chair and tossed it. The wooden stool slammed into the knight's back, staggering him. He's quick, but his reactions are no better, he realized.
Chris darted past the dazed man as Hugo grabbed each chair in turn. Alron swept his sword and swayed, dodging two chairs. The third slammed into his gut, and he grunted, doubling over.
Still blurred, the knight straightened his back as Chris ran to Hugo's side. Alron laughed; a strained sound. He charged towards them, sword outstretched. He raised the blade.
"Now!" Chris hissed. She grabbed his arm, and threw herself aside. He followed.
Alron's sword clanged and scraped against stone. He slammed into the wall, and grunted.
Hugo scrambled to his feet and tore the door open. Chris did not need encouragement. They ran through, and slammed the door shut. "He is quick, but not accustomed to the rune," Chris said. "We can use that to our advantage."
Hugo nodded. Within moments, he heard the knob turn. The door was open before they had come ten paces down the corridor. Sprinting, Hugo kept glancing back. Alron emerged from the doorway, speeding through the dark hall like a hazy arrow set on its target.
They threw themselves aside. Alron ran past them, skidding to a halt further down the corridor. He staggered, but kept his balance. Turning, he grinned, and then his form blurred. He charged.
Chris raised her sword. "Use your rune!" she said.
Hugo drew a deep breath, gathering wind force in his hands. The hems of his clothes flapped in the breeze. Alron raced towards them, and Chris lunged. Her sword twisted, slamming against an unseen blade twice before she thrust the weapon. Gasping, Alron veered and crashed onto the ground.
He was on his feet in an instant, grinning.
Hugo unleashed his spell. The wind force spawned a whirlwind that formed into a ball. He threw it towards Alron. With a great noise, the sphere slammed into his gut.
He stood unaffected.
"It's not working!" Hugo shouted in frustration. He cursed profusely, stabbing his long-knife through the air.
Chris pursed her lips and stepped in front of Hugo. She took up a protective stance. Irritated, Hugo met Alron's eyes over her shoulder.
The knight held his sword parallel to the ground. "Frustrating? The sword I wield is a Crown Rune; a child of the Sovereign Rune. Quite a useful gift from… another benefactor. As long as I hold this blade, your magic is useless against me."
Hugo's blood froze. And then there's the Gale Rune… Can we win? he despaired.
Chris snorted. "Impressive. One more rune, and you might be able to fight like a man."
Alron growled. Watching her, Hugo frowned. For all her bravado, she was exhausted, and in no condition to face the knight even on equal terms. He had to do something.
"Run," he hissed. He grabbed her arm, and sprinted, pulling her along. The staccato beat of too-swift footsteps on stone followed. Alron. With a heave, he pushed Chris forward. She grunted and staggered down the corridor, and he turned. Alron flew into view. Hugo ducked and swept his leg out. He connected with Alron's knee, toppling the knight. Alron slammed into the ground with a thud, but Hugo was already running. He raced down the corridor, catching up with Chris. She snarled at him, and he grimaced at her.
Rounding the corner, Hugo dove to the side. He crawled up against the wall and pulled out the burlap sacks he had left there. Sheathing his weapon with fevered hands, he grabbed a bottle and tossed it. Alron leaned in mid-stride as he came into view, moving too fast to turn. The bottle smashed into the ground and split open in shards of glass. Hugo raised his hand and activated his Fire Rune. Flames shot forth, igniting the oil that spilled from the broken bottle. The corridor erupted in flames, and he reached down to grab another bottle. Chris did not need an explanation. She was lobbing oil flasks towards the knight, one after another. The Fire Rune flashed repeatedly. Bottles smashed against walls and floor, their contents lighting on fire as soon as the spark hit the oil. He lost sight of Alron.
Chris tore the sacks from the floor and handed one to Hugo. She slung the other over her shoulder. "Move!" she said.
They fled down the corridor, hearing Alron's screams over the crackle of the flames.
"Did we get him?!" Hugo asked breathlessly.
An aura of bright flame surrounded Alron's hazy form as he leapt through the fire.
Hugo cursed. Glass shattered as bottles flew through the corridor, and he ignited the oil again and again. The flames paved a zigzag path for the furious knight. The fire singed him, but his sword seemed to protect him. Mostly.
They rounded another corner, and Hugo reined Chris in as he threw a bottle around the corner. She looked bone weary, and her breathing was hitched. Why in the blazes am I doing this, again? he wondered. He shook his head, and pulled her close. "When he comes around, stab him," he whispered.
Without waiting for confirmation, Hugo turned. Alron spouted profanity as he sped down the hall. Hugo grabbed a bottle and slammed it into the ground right before his feet, stepping back to avoid the oil spatter. He took a deep breath, tempering his fear.
The hazy knight gained shape and contour, skidding to a halt at the corner. He turned. Hugo torched the oil, and Alron staggered back, shielding his eyes. Chris ran past him and lunged. Alron swayed.
Chris' sword pierced his shoulder and pinned him. Screaming, he stumbled. His sword flashed, and she drew out her sword to parry. He staggered, and she lunged. Steel clanged. Hugo ran towards them. Chris slashed—a feint. Alron tried to parry, and Chris clutched his throat. She stepped forward and planted her knee in his crotch. Three times. Groaning, the knight doubled over as Hugo came to a halt before him, breathing raggedly. He blurred, struggling to escape. Chris pushed down, bringing him to his knees. Her eyes were murderous. With a push, he collapsed onto his back.
Dropping her sword, Chris took to fists and nails.
Sickened, Hugo averted his eyes and listened to the tortured groans. He deserves it. I'll stop her, but… not right now, he thought, swallowing.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor. "There!" someone shouted. "Halt!" another man said. Hugo turned to see a squad of soldiers running down the corridor towards them. He ran towards Chris, looking down the flame-wrought hallway they had left behind.
Chris hesitated, and Alron screamed, "A-Arrest them!" His voice was muddled, and he coughed blood.
Hugo shifted his sweaty grip on his long-knife and stretched his neck, hiding a sigh beneath a growl. He glanced at Chris, still sitting on Alron's battered body. Her eyes gleamed, and she was hunched over, breathing with a rasp. Her fists clutched Alron's bloody clothes. If I'm this tired, I've no idea what keeps her going. Well, anger, he guessed.
Chris rose to her feet, resting one foot solidly on Alron. He struggled weakly beneath her foot, and she stamped down her heel on his stomach several times. He groaned.
"This man has committed high treason," Chris said. "Arrest him."
The soldiers halted, staring at the scene in confusion. Whispers ran through the men, and they exchanged glances. "Is that the Silver Maiden…?" someone muttered.
"What is the matter? Do you not recognize the Captain of the Knights?" Chris scowled.
"N…Nonsense!" Alron shouted. He grunted as Chris stamped her foot down, but kept talking. "She's… she's just a prisoner. D-Don't be fooled!"
"But, Sir Alron…" one of the soldiers started.
"Enough of this!" Chris exclaimed. "Have this man bound in chains, right now."
The soldiers hesitated. "Is it really her…?" someone asked. "Why would she be here, like this?" another man wondered.
"She's an imposter!" Alron spat. "And the resemblance is minor! She's—ungh—with a Grasslander!"
One of the soldiers stepped forward. "He's right! It can't be the Silver Maiden!" He pointed his spear towards her. "Release the Vice-Captain this instant!"
Hugo glanced at the captain and the pinned knight. She remained furious, and more so due to this slight, but her features were cooling with each moment that passed. Alron met his gaze, and smiled.
"I think not, Sergeant," a voice called out.
The soldiers parted as Percival strode in among them, making his way to the front of the crowd. "Milady," he said, bowing deeply. The soldiers gasped, and fell to their knees in salutations. Chris nodded calmly.
"No! Arrest them!" Alron spat. "She's a t-traitor, and she's assaulted a f-fellow knight!"
The soldiers glanced at Percival, whose eyes turned to Alron. "I think you will find that the Silver Maiden is much more beloved than you, Alron."
Alron's features showed surprise, then sullen resignation. No fear, Hugo noticed.
"Sir Percival," Chris said. Her voice had softened, but the absence of rage left an overwhelming streak of exhaustion. "I am glad to see you."
Percival's voice was tense with emotion as he spoke. "Arrest Sir Alron at once," he said, pointing. The soldiers ran up towards the pinned knight, and Percival approached Chris as she released him. Hugo regarded the knight with leftover suspicion. What will they do with me…? Sure, I helped her escape, but… Hugo wondered. He kept silent, afraid to draw attention to himself. He could see the soldiers look at him with distrust. He even recognized a few faces from before.
"Milady, I…" Percival began. He swallowed, looking at her battered and bruised body. "This is horrible. He… Alron did this?"
"Yes," she said simply. She glanced back to regard Alron as he was dragged away by the soldiers, too beaten to walk without a great deal of support.
"Percival, I need for you to lock Alron up in the deepest cells. Make sure only you and whoever you have to involve know about his presence here. Have the Gale Rune on his hand removed. And do not speak a word of what has happened here today."
Huh? What is she playing at? Hugo wondered.
Percival's eyebrows rose. "Why?"
Chris shook her head. "I will explain later. Right now, we need to move swiftly."
"Yes, milady. I will see to it immediately. A Gale Rune…" Percival mused in a low voice. "I thought I was supposed to be the 'Swordsman of the Gale.'" If it was meant as a joke, he gave no indication. He bowed, and turned to regard Hugo for a moment. With a grim smile on his face, he bowed again, nearly as deeply. Surprised, Hugo stared at him as he walked off.
Clutching at his chest, Hugo breathed raggedly.
Somehow, he was alive.
-Chris-
Chris went from wardrobe to wardrobe, tearing through the contents and tossing clothes into a pile in the middle of the room. She worked methodically, sorting out everything that might fit. She had no time act like a lady.
"What are you doing?" Hugo muttered again. He sounded weary, and this fact reminded her of how exhausted she must be. Somehow, she had managed to remain conscious throughout the ordeal, but she thought it a feat of sheer force of will. That, and a healthy stamina. Now that her anger was abating… somewhat… she found sleep inviting. It had been too long since she rested. She could not sleep quite yet. The pain in her limbs and joints, and the tremendous, scathing ache on her back allowed her to remain focused.
"There should be a washbasin in the cupboard over there. Find me some soap, as well, and fill it up with water," she said.
Hugo sighed. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why?" he wondered. Even so, she heard him walk over to the cupboard and begin rummaging through its contents.
"You will see," she muttered. She glanced at his broad back as he acquiesced, feeling a strange stirring within. Confusion, no doubt. Why in the Goddess' golden court did he come? He hates me… does he not? Why would he go to all this trouble, and for what? She shook her head, abandoning the thought. She was glad for his presence, and that was that.
Thankfully, her headache had abated, allowing her to concentrate. She was rifling through the pile of clothes when he walked over with the water-filled washbasin and set it down, handing her the soap. "Here."
"Thank you," she said. She stole a quick look at his eyes before she knelt down and quickly washed her face. "You are aware," she said between breaths and splashes of water. "That it is terribly unfit of a gentleman to watch a lady wash herself?"
"No, not really," he said. Oblivious to her hint, he squatted next to the washbasin and stared at her. He stared! Openly! She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He did not look away.
Shaking her head, Chris snagged a towel and wiped soap and water from her face. Looking into the mirror she had procured, she saw that her face remained severely bruised.
"Heal my face," she said.
"What? You've been bloody whipped, and you want me to use my healing on your face? I know you're beautiful, but—" He paused, and blushed. "You're incredible!" he snorted, scowling.
Clearing her throat, Chris pretended that her cheeks were not flushing with color. I am not a girl. I am used to such inane flattery by now; it should be of no consequence, she thought. Should. Folding her arms over her chest, she frowned at him. "Would you please do as I request? I would do it myself, but that… woman… removed my Water Rune."
"Fine," Hugo grumbled. He triggered the Wind Rune on his right hand and reached out to her face. Realizing what he was about to do, he hesitated with an awkward look on his face.
She did not flush. "Go ahead," she said.
His fingers touched her forehead, barely. The bright glow of the Wind Rune washed over her face, and she felt the warmth of healing magic seep through her skin and into her veins. The ache in her cheeks and jaw began to fade as it spread through her head, and she found herself unable to contain a sigh of pleasure.
"That's… that's about it," he said.
Chris opened her eyes and drew a deep breath. She wiped the smile off of her face, and found Hugo staring at her with an odd look. Flustered, she grabbed the mirror and examined herself. Most of the bruises had vanished, and the few that remained were nearly indistinguishable from her skin. "Can you see the bruises?" she asked Hugo.
"Yes. Well, not unless I look really closely. It's fine."
She nodded, and rose to her feet. "Now, I will tell you in no uncertain terms…" she began, placing her hands on her hips and fixing the Grasslander with a stern look. "It is unbefitting of a gentleman to attempt to catch a glimpse of a lady while she is dressing."
"What's a gentleman?" Hugo wondered.
"You are," she said. "Do you understand?"
"Uh, sure. You don't want me to look. Fine." He looked embarrassed, and turned around, sitting down upon the ground with his legs crossed and arms folded.
Chris chose the most fitting clothes from the pile and stepped behind the flowery screen in the corner of the room. She peeked her head out briefly, and saw that Hugo remained facing the far wall.
Satisfied, she slipped out of her torn clothes and dressed in the clean garments. Her wounds sent stabs of pain through her body when the fabric touched the sore spots. Even so, she dressed in haste. I cannot believe that I allowed him to remain in the room with me. What am I thinking? Well, I might need his help, somehow. Yes, that is it. I might, she decided.
She tried to tell herself that she was not embarrassed.
Chris eyed Hugo with suspicion as they stepped out into the Council Hall corridor. He had remained on the floor and with his back showing when she emerged from behind the screen, and she had no reason to believe that he had tried to peek at her, but she found it difficult to trust him, for some reason.
She felt prepared, as well as was possible with such short notice. Her hair was lacking—she had tried to rearrange it on her own, but her work had been hasty, and dissimilar to her usual style.
Passing an increasing number of busy servants and maids scurrying through the corridors, they stepped into the main hall.
Jena's face turned, and she regarded Chris with surprise.
Rage flooded through her mind, threatening to ignite her heart. Depthless sorrow and pain followed, with memories of Sir Galahad. She fought for control, quelling all emotions as she approached the brown-haired woman with Hugo at her side.
Then, she did the hardest thing she had ever done.
She smiled.
Author's Notes: The orb shells that hold runes are supposedly made of "Water Gems." However, I don't like that term, especially since it refers to one of the five basic rune elements, so I'm going to use the term "Rune Crystals."
Next Chapter: In politics, nothing is ever simple. Time pauses for no woman, and as the Harmonian army draws ever closer, the wounds that separate the Grasslands from Zexen are gaping wide. In order to save her nation from disaster, Chris is forced to play a dangerous game of shadows and lies, and in order to win, she must hide her feelings well enough to fool the person she hates the most.
Politics, intrigue, allies and traitors and delicate schemes… Will Hugo be able to come to terms with Lulu's death? Can Chris trust Hugo to play an integral part in her schemes? Find out next time.