Part II: No Mistakes

- O – O -

Kent of Caelin woke the next morning uneasy, with the empty helmet of the Crimson Knight lying beside him a reminder of the grim duty he'd sworn to undertake. He'd already returned the rest of his armor to the storeroom, and lying awake staring at the cavern ceiling made him almost regret that he had. It had taken him more than an hour to fall asleep, worrying not only about his task but whether one of his new friends would slip a knife between his ribs and be done with it.

Kent sat up and rubbed his eyes. The cavern was still dark but for the faint glow of a lantern flickering orange in spasms. Glenn sat on a slab of stone, honing the edge of his weapon. His long flaxen hair was tied up into a tail, and all but a lion's patch of hair on his chin had been shaved off. He'd a contented smile on his face as he worked, drawing the stone across his blade meticulously, checking it closely in the light every so often to make sure it was to his standard. Save for them two and a man blanketed in the corner with his cloak, the sleeping chambers were empty and silent.

"Back to bed," said Glenn as Kent stirred. He smirked. "Twelve hours isn't enough for a growing boy like you."

Kent grunted and retrieved his short sword and a pouchful of medicine from beneath his bedding. Still half asleep, he wandered towards the mouth of the room when a hand clamped on his shoulder.

"This place is a maze, mate. We're dug latrine-deep into the side of a mountain. You're getting nowhere by yourself."

"How did this cave get dug out?" Kent inquired as he followed Glenn through the passages, chasing his dim torchlight. "Were these caverns made before the Scouring?"

Glenn shrugged and shook his head. "Hells if I knew that. We've only been using these caves for half a fortnight now. Not long after I found 'em, actually. Might have been a bandit hole at one point. Don't get any ideas of staying here though; it'd be stupid to spend too much time holed up down here. There's only one way in and one way out of this place. There are a lot of tunnels, but they all lead to the same place. Any of Lundgren's goons could bar the exits and hunt us down like deer. Hanuman doesn't like to stay in the same place long anyways; criminals're like the plainsfolk: they like to roooam about, you see.

"At any rate, it doesn't do us much good to stay here anyway. Gotta eat to live, gotta steal to eat...something like that. Hanuman wants the Company on the move."

"Move where?"

"Ask him. If it were up to me we would storm the gates of Caelin proper right now. As fine of an instructor he may be, we both've heard what sort of fellow Lundgren is. We shouldn't leave Lyn in his wonderful company any longer than necessary."

Glenn chuckled. "After all, I take you for the sort that likes a clean woman, wot?"

Kent cringed and held his tongue. Worrying for Lyndis's sake would do him no good, and she could take care of herself anyway so long as she still had her wits about her. It was all he could do, was hope.

As soon as they'd reached the eating hall, Kent and Glenn sat down at one of the splintered wooden tables, where Gregg and a few others sat slurping from wood trenchers loaded with cold soup and chunks of beef. Bits of food lay scattered on the table, collateral damage.

"Feels good waking up with decent work. Robbing sick old men blind gives you nightmares, don't it?" asked Gregg, scratching beneath his one good eye. His bowl sat empty beside him, and he passed the time by being very particular in the inspection of his yew longbow.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Nope. I've only stolen from the rich. And girls whose fathers were away."

Glenn laughed. "That won't buy you any bread."

"Bought me some medicine, anyway." Gregg shook his head. "Never court a poor lass. Too many bugs in their beds...get my meaning."

"Sounds like the sort'a thing what someone who'd call this 'decent work'...would say."

Even Kent couldn't help but grin at that.

Hanuman came by and set a few cracked mugs of near-beer for some of his troupe. Kent made to ask him a question, but the Crimson Company's leader had already disappeared by the time his groggy brain had found the words.

"A bit," Kent said, and only then he realized he was hungry as he caught a whiff of the stew and his stomach grumbled fiercely.

"Fatrod!" Glenn called out. "Bring out a trencher of stew and a mug a' drink for the Crimson Knight."

Kent sighed. "Please, for the sake of both of us. I'm not-I've got no armor on. Call me Kent," he said, rubbing his forehead.

Glenn snickered. "Good on you, boyo! One of the lads! I didn't think 'Kent' would be caught dead with this lot. What about your good name, being known as a rebel and a traitor?

"I am no traitor," Kent said sharply. "I've done many things wrong and failed very many times, but I will not turn my back on my country. All the knights of Caelin are Lundgren's now anyway...I hardly would know them a'more. And what about you?" he added suddenly. "You were a knight of Caelin once. Have you just abandoned everything you stood for?!"

"Hardly," Glenn said. "I'm still a humble servant of Caelin through and through. That you can be damn sure of. I just happen to have a different idea of what servitude entails, is all."

"Hm? What say you?"

Glenn chuckled contentedly and rubbed his fingers along his gold stubble. "You know, in some ways, it couldn't have been perfecter. A knight serving his lady, and in the process cutting down everyone who stands before him without conscience or consequence looming over him. And everything you do hides neatly behind that crimson helm. An ideal situation for the faceless, diligent workman. You were the most serious of us back then, that I remember well. Of course, there's no glory in this for you, the man! But you're not the type to steal the glory, what right? Leave it for the Crimson Knight, oi?

"Don't worry too much; Sir Crimson's the type to steal glory from all us. The citizenry will ne'er hear the name of Kent!" Glenn said when Kent did not reply. He put his hand on the Crimson Knight's shoulder and shook him jovially. "Ladyfolk love the mysterious masked men mired in massacres and murk! And you can get some fool sot to write a song about it, or some rubbish."

A fool sot...a fool, hm? I guess there is no time left for laughter anymore. He had to bite his lip to steady himself as his tears threatened.

"How I don't miss the old days. Do you know where the rest of us 'Linner squires ended up?"

It took a few seconds before Kent realized Glenn actually expected him to answer! "No worldly idea," he said somberly. "For years I trained with only a single partner...I was ne'er part of a full battalion."

"Two lone wolves...a pretty girl, I'd hope?"

"...no."

"Figures. Well, probably all of us squires who didn't turn up dead like poor Glendwyr are still in Lundgren's camp now. Not that I've much sympathy for that lot, but Thors, Ari, Valance, Lief, and...ahh, feck, who was that bloody scab, the 'great-great-great-great-great grandson of Ciaran the Great?'"

"I don't know."

"Well, of all of them, look who t'is coming out of all that unscathed." Glenn furrowed his brow and his smile turned broad. His hand fell on Kent's shoulder. "Where did all their fucking arrogant little righteousness get them? Right o'er to the losing side. Feh. Shite luck for them, huh?"

Did they account for this possibility that long ago? Kent wondered

Presently, Glenn woke himself from his own reverie with a shout.

"Oi, Fatrod! Where in the bloody ten circles of hellfire are you gone to, man?"

Portly old John Fatrod waddled in presently with drink and soup, and set it down haphazardly in front of Kent. He recognized the fat man at once as the fellow who'd handed his opponent his armament in the impromptu duel. His paunch hung out from his teal doublet, and what buttons remained seemed to cry out in agony as they pushed away from the threads. His balding pate didn't even play the role of sun-catcher very well either, as small strands of dark hair still poked out from his scalp. He had the face of one who had furrowed his brow way too much.

"I'm not your personal serving wench, you odorous blackguard," Fatrod said. "You bright-maned rogue! You saucy jack! You varlet! You ragged, filthy moppet!"

Never one to take insult lying down (or sitting, as it were), Glenn retorted without wasting a second. "Oh, shut it, you roly-poly sack of sod. You blubbering heap of meat, you barrel of old slosh and sack! If there's anyone to bring the food, it is you, old serving ass, you old hunk of rolling cheese."

"'Sir' Glenn," Fatrod said, shaking his head. "Where did you learn your good speech? In a brothel? Where did you learn your manners? In a dicing den? Respect, respect, respect, 'Sir!' Whomsoever taught you in the way of chivalry should be scourged, beaten, and scourged again! And beaten again!"

"Come off it, plough pusher."

Fatrod tugged at his collar. He straightened his bulging doublet, pulling it as far down over his great stomach with every shred of dignity he could have mustered. "Why, I tell you, and now listen good, that I once laid low a hundred men with mine bare hands in the Battle of Farthington—"

Glenn coughed loudly.

"—and in my youth," he continued, "I was known as the best swordsman in all Caelin. So be you not cruel, good man. Respect your elders, lad."

Glenn turned to Kent. "This is what I deal with every bloody time I want to eat here. This babbling malcontent here. It's just about maddening." Here Glenn turned back to Fatrod. "Listen, you old mule's paramour—"

"O heinous! O cruel! 'Mule's paramour'? Tsh! Poor John, good John, innocent John, he doesn't deserve such a slight! Honestly, sweet lad, good lad, mind yourself."

"Oh, stuff it, you old doddering simp. You fatuous fat gob! You meddling arse-boulder! Just leave us and let us eat! Hell, do you think Kent over here can stomach his food with you flapping your fat tongue like that? You stifled old belch! Get out of here!"

"You won't be saying those terrible things when I steal all your money. You know, in my youth I was quite the thief—"

"Go!"

"I'll have you know I can slight with the best of them."

"I 'slighted' your little sister last night, you poltroon. Right in her big arse, too."

"Fahh! I don't have a sister, whorechild!"

"Right, maybe it was your mum then, I really couldn't tell the difference from behind."

"Glenn, you…you…fair-haired…frog!"

"Frog? Frog?" Glenn said, bursting into laughter. "Come now, old man, that's honestly the best you could muster? 'Frog'? I've been called worse by me mum! And your mum! Now get lost! You've lost! Your mum's lost!"

"Bah! Blast it!"

Still grumbling and mumbling about his legendary past exploits (none of which Kent had ever heard before in his life), John Fatrod ambled away, sipping from a little cloudy bottle of wine.

"And stop acting like one of the lads, you ancient sack of cow shite!" Glenn called after him.

"Blubbering old caitiff ass. Sent from his family, made a pauper by greedy relatives, blah blah—oi, but all kinds here in the Crimson Company, wot? Even the corpulent washed up highwayman sort as old John Fatrod!"

Kent said nothing, but grunted quietly in agreement and set about drinking his ale (a lighter brew not much stronger than water, fit for breaking a fast or rehydrating) and eating his soup. He took his meal with his head down, thoughts of doubt and recollections of the days before flashing almost imperceptibly in his mind.

"I've something I need to do, Kent," Glenn said after he'd finished his drink. "I'll be back later. Hanuman might want to talk with you, so wait around until he stumbles back in, wot?"

With that, Glenn rose up and strode outside. Still half lost in his thoughts, Kent heeded his friend's advice and stayed in his seat, sipping his cold broth, watching the others in the Crimson Company eat and bumble about. The minute the lukewarm strings of beef touched his lips, he remembered how hungry he really was, and finished the rest within the minute.

"Mother'a'mercy! I've got a headache the size of the mountains!" Kent heard Gregg say. The eyepatched man's long, greasy black hair scattered everywhere in front of his face.

"Oi, oi, well, they say, best thing is to drink more," Gryz said, and the hairy fellow took a big swig of his ale. "Drink! Drink a'till y'cannae drink a'more. Then nothin' hurts a'more."

"Gawdamm! Well said! What a gawdamm smart fellow you are! A man of many sage sayings! 'Drink and nothing hurts a'more!' Well sod me bloody and bludgeon me mum if I'm wrong, you stupid ass, you idiotic horny-back toad, you horrid amalgam of sewage," said Milan through gulps of drink, and launched into a scathing rant of Gryz's intelligence laden with so much sodden profanity that Kent almost thought he was getting hung-over listening to it.

"Well, by all the bloody mounts in Caelin and Bern alike, I'd best drink more quickly, then. I think we're marchin' on the day." Gregg shook and clutched his head. "Where, I have no clue."

"If we're going to, best it'd be soon." The man called Zeke Granger furrowed his brow. He was a blue-haired fellow, tall and sharply dressed in a studded jerkin, and no more than twenty. For a reason that Kent couldn't guess, or didn't want to guess, or would rather not have guessed, this man Zeke spoke with a little more culture than did the rest of the Crimson Company. "From what I heard, Lundgren's men are mobilizing. Where, I don't ken, but now that he has sovereignty over Caelin—and yes, I expect he'll have it soon—I don't think he'll be happy just with having our little land. Men of his breed don't stop at ownin' the horse when he could own the whole stable."

Milan laughed sharply and loudly. "Oh, bloody hell, Zeke! Don't say 'stable'; you know it doesn't do you well to dwell on your failed romances."

Everyone at the table burst into laughter save for Zeke, who buffeted Milan with an open fist and growled discontentedly. The conversation quickly devolved further into a constant barrage of slights and ribald jests until the throng became so loud it was impossible to decipher exactly who was saying what about whose mother at a given moment.

That was all Kent could take. He knew a few faces here and there—only the most off-beat of characters seemed to make themselves known—but there were some sixty men sitting in the Ur-Hole's eating hall alone, and Kent didn't care to know any of them. Finally he saw Hanuman wander in with a trencher of stew and a mug of ale, and motioned him over impatiently.

"Oi, yer finally up?" said the Crimson Company's leader, and sat emphatically beside Kent. "You any better? Won't do ye any good iff'n yer wounds fester on you."

Kent looked down and lightly touched his side, where the arrow had pierced him days before. It still burned from time to time, but Matthew's vulnerary care had been surprisingly effective.

"I'm well. But never mind me. I would fight even were I not."

Hanuman snorted. "Just the thing a good knight a' the realm would say. Puttin' your motherland ahead've yerself. If only I'd've been as good a man as you, maybe things would be diff'ent."

"What do you mean?" Kent asked, but Hanuman had seemed to have already dropped the subject and Kent did not care enough to broach it again.

Hanuman had nearly finished his seven-day stew when Kent worked up the nerve to ask him again. "Do—we've a campaign to retake the castle. If we're going to siege, there's no better time than now, since—"

"No. Not soon. Lundgren's surely called th' bulk a' his knights back to protect his keep. Especially with what he's been plottin'...we couldn't seize an outhouse with our force. Not under these circumstances we inn't. He knows that good as I do."

"Then what are we doing sitting here carousing? The longer we wait, the longer Lady Lyndis sits captive! Is your goal really to depose Lundgren? When why tarry? Are you really so craven that you would—"

"Shut up," Hanuman barked. He swung the back of his hand at Kent's face and the man of Caelin flinched beside himself. The glare in Hanuman's eyes cut deep into Kent, and then he laughed, his hand still frozen menacingly in mid-air. "Craven, inn't? Go change your knickers, boy. When all your party were cut down, you went a'runnin'. And now you want the easy road, oi? I inn't here to deliver Lyndis to you wrapped in a bow. She's more important t'him as a showpiece than a corpse, and he inn't gwan to fuck her so hard she'll just up an' break. Don't get me mistaken, I've as little love for Lundgren as you got, but I din't form up the Crimson Company to bull rush a fortified compound and die. I've my sights on bigger things."

"What would you gain storming Castle Caelin, anyway? Why would a bandit care so much about Caelin's affairs?" asked Kent, quietly this time. He realized after he'd said it that perhaps questioning Hanuman's motives in helping him wasn't a great idea, but his unanswered questions would not go away on their own. "And why do you hate Lundgren?"

Hanuman sighed. "None of yer fecking business. And it's nothing to do with Lundgren. Caelin's a small state, but even a marquisate has a treasury. A half-pence thief burgles a house; the master burgles the castles."

It took all of Kent's self-control not to chastise Hanuman. Here he was planning a theft of Kent's sovereign land, with Kent the dutiful accomplice.

Hanuman seemed to notice the meek trepidation on Kent's face, as he continued. "Don't worry, you'll have yer share by the end. We'll take the gold, you take th' woman. And you'll be see'n that cute lil' princess of yours on th' seat a' Caelin, just as you wanted. An' that's worth all the fightin', inn't what you believe?"

"Company marches on at nightfall," he continued. "Take your helm an' a coat of mail. You'll be at the van with me; the first thing we want those poor wretches t'see is the face of the devil in the darkness. We win when they fear."

"The devil?"

Hanuman laughed darkly. "They're Lundgren's men, Saint's sake. They could use someones t' put the fear of God in their hearts."

- O – O -

Nightfall couldn't come quickly enough. Kent spent the hours by himself, watching the rest of the Crimson Company as they diced and drank, completely unwilling to bring himself to their level. From the beginning, he'd known he didn't belong there, in the company of thieves. Yet the more he thought the more he came to the conclusion that there were few places left for a knight in exile to belong. Caelin was in disarray, and with it his home. There would be no running, to Santaruz or Kathelet or elsewhere, let alone to Bern or Sacae. The thought of running terrified him. He turned those thoughts away but one by one they returned and left him hollow and scared. There was only one way

Kent sat back against a wall and pinned shut his eyes. The others' eyes passed over him and looked away. He was "The Crimson Knight" again, champion of the oppressed, figurehead of a revolution, and he had no appetite to join in their happiness.

The men there owed nothing to nobody. They paid no taxes, swore service to no lord, and lived off the land in whatever way they saw fit.

Had he been as vulnerable when still a squire, Kent wondered? He had carried the pack and the standard of a withered old knight for nearly a year, when he began training under the command of General Eagler. In the austere halls of the general's training grounds he had met the boys who were to be his peers. Most of them didn't make it as knights, but he had. Over time the vulnerability he felt—leaving his homestead to live and bunk in a garrison's barracks—disappeared and left a sense of belonging. He had been vulnerable then; young and naive. Kent had figured those years had left him, but in the course of hours, anxious hours waiting for the cover of night, he found himself back where he had begun.

The thought had occurred to him to speak with Glenn. After their training, he hadn't seen Glenn for years, but he'd returned a skilled swordsman in his own right. As friendly as he'd been since their reunion, he wasn't the same boy Kent had known before.

Startled from his reverie by a gloved hand, Kent followed Hanuman and a few others down a winding cavern path into a circular chamber. An oil lamp coughed and flicked in the center of a table, illuminating a worn yellow map of Lycia.

In their "war room" stood three men, aside from Kent and Hanuman himself, two of whom looked very familiar. Hanuman grunted, and in turn the strangers each introduced themselves.

"Merovech. By rights a baron of Caelin," said the first, a tall man with a receding hairline of grey. He was dressed in light plate and armored from his calves to his toes with iron greaves tinged blood-brown. A cloak clasped around his shoulders bore a seal of nobility that Kent did not recognize personally, although he'd venture a guess. He'd only met General Merovech twice before, and his young wife once, but he was a man who made a strong impression from the first moment on.

Next, the young man who stood across the table from Kent introduced himself, and jogged Kent's admittedly distracted memory. "I am Caeldwyr, of Bern. An honor." Kent could only equate Caeldwyr's dress with that of the knights of Ostia, light-colored heavy plate over what appeared to be studded mail, spaulders embroidered white and gold, and plates layered on plates covering his entire legs from his thighs to the point at the end of his sabatons. Around his neck, a gorget; concealing the armor's gap by his arpits, rondels; upon his dark-hair, a fitted skullcap. For certain he had come prepared. Caledwyr bowed slowly, arm swept around his shoulders. Some nebulous quality about him that Kent could not put his finger on suggested that he could more than hold his own in a battle despite the untarnished state of his armors.

Finally, the last stranger introduced himself. Kent recognized him in the man who'd slept in his quarters, huddled in a blanket in the corner. In sharp contrast to the knight of Bern, the short man neither looked nor sounded the part of a competent combatant. He was dressed lightly in magus' robes that seemed several inches too large on all sides. The pale red silk hung awkwardly off his body as though they'd fit him perfectly—once. His skin was pale, his cheeks sunken and wasting, and long dark shadows cast down beneath his closed eyes. He opened them—grey and glassy—and spoke. "Simon Silvecchio. Formerly of Etruria."

His voice was little more than a whisper. Raspy and sibilant. Cold and anemic. Contemptuous. He'd spoken no more than five words before closing his eyes and turning away his head.

Finally it was Kent's turn. "I am—" He hesitated. "The Crimson Knight."

"Serr Kent," Hanuman corrected. About to protest the revelation of his identity, Kent realized that the sound of his name didn't register in the memory of anyone present, and he closed his mouth. His sensitivity hadn't been lost on Hanuman, and it bothered him.

Done with introductions, the leader of the Crimson Company approached the table. He brought his fist crashing down, and the entire cavern nearly shook.

"It begins tonight. Some ten leagues east, Fort Zaragoza, at the border of Tania. Might be a mite reinforced, but inn't nothin' to worry about, hm? Maybe when we're done, then the cavalry'll come."

"Hold...we're not marching to Keep Caelin?" Kent narrowed his glance. "We've a duty to Lady Lyndis to hel—"

"Oh, shut yer bloody mouth, and use yer bloody head," Hanuman growled. He rubbed his bald head. If we make 'an attack 'em front-on, we'll be crushed underfoot. We need to draw them away, somewhere their forces inn't. Then we strike. Lundgren's a paranoid bastard. Trusts no one—least of all his 'friends.' If he even gets a sniff of Tania or Santaruz he'll have men racing to th' border. We canna risk scratching at Laus's collar, not when their marquess's one of the few in bed with Lundgren. So east it is, to Tania."

Kent almost opened his mouth to mention Eliwood of Pherae's promise that Lycia would remain neutral, but stopped. If Hausen had passed away, and Lyndis's rebellion was marked a failure, Lundgren would have already become marquess, and his ascension meant an entirely new die was cast. Marquess Lundgren would have nothing of silly promises—Kent knew him only well enough to know that he was already playing dangerous games under the table. All was unwell in Lycia.

"Fort Zaragoza is a potent stronghold," said Merovech. His quiet baritone was a welcome contrast to Hanuman's boisterous jawing.

"Potent, but not impregnable," Merovech continued, "insomuch as Caelin has little in the way of strongholds. A militant nation, perhaps Bern—apologies, sir—" and here he nodded to Caeldwyr, who tilted his head politely—"could muster a force of three thousand and take all Caelin with few casualties.

"For all this, laying siege to any fortress would be a feat far too attritional for us to undertake. Not with traditional warcraft, at any rate."

"And that," said the man called Simon, "is my duty. You've all a luxury few could afford. An Etrurian master sage of magics, at your service. Wood, stone, men...they burn and they break all the same."

"Don't ask where I found this rat bastard," Hanuman said. "I've seen enough to know he's worth the risk of keeping alive."

Just the way Hanuman judged the mage's life so casually sent a shiver through Kent.

"I'm honored," Simon said for his part, nearly monotone, "to be of any use to you. I was cast out of my wretched golden palace and delivered...here, to this dusty paradise in the domain of the rats and the kingdom of the sh—"

"Oh, shut up," said Hanuman, dismissing the gaunt mage with a wave. "If you 'ad half the sack as you have brains, maybe you'd not've ended up here, wot? Look 'ere then. Mission inn't that difficult. Simon here'll draw the fort garrison out. They'll run to us in the dark, naked and flailin' their sticks about, then we flay 'em before they can tell our arses from our foreheads."

Merovech chuckled.

"And when all is done, we let a survivor 'slip through' our lines, and plant the colors of the State of Tania at the gates. In two days Lundgren will have a fifth of his men riding east as the crow flies. He'd do absolutely god-damned anything to protect his own arse, and his land as well."

"If I may ask a question," Caeldwyr said pleasantly when Hanuman had finished. "Sir Kent—Sir Crimson, if you'd prefer—what is your role in all this?"

"My role?" Kent replied. "I'm here to oust the illegitimate Lundgren and restore the rightful heir, Lady Lyndis, to her place."

Far from the response Kent expected, both Simon and Hanuman laughed. The elder Merovech's dry lips broke into a sour smile, and Caeldwyr himself tilted his head to the side, as though weighing Kent's words against him. In ebbs and surges, Kent could feel his temper beginning to flare.

"A noble goal indeed," he answered. "But that wasn't quite what I meant. I meant...why are you here? In this room. At this time."

Before Kent could question his authority in saying so, Hanuman spoke.

"He was a knight of Caelin. Studied the blade with'n Lundgren 'imself, didn't ye? Who better to shed the blood of his stalwarts than one of his own?"

"And wouldn't that be a convincing reason...not to count him among us? If Lundgren's eyes and ears are among us, well, maybe we are seeing the eyes of the devil."

"I swear no allegiance to that man!" Kent said. "He's poisoned the lifeblood of his own state with his actions. To think that he—of all people!— could succeed Lord Hausen! He's proven himself the worst traitor of all. I promise, on the body of Elimine, I will see him dead. I will spare Lady Lyndis his tyranny."

"I admire your convictions," said the knight of Bern. "Again, a noble, noble ideal."

"And what of you? What would a Bernman like you know of loyalty?"

A murmur of approval went through the chamber. General Merovech, some sixty years raised in Lycia, nodded his head.

For his part, Caeldwyr did not yield. "A quality lacking in the leadership of Bern, as I'm now free to say aloud. I am no longer a knight of Bern. I am as you, a man...and a criminal. There were ideals I too, could not hope to uphold. Fortunately, the king could not make me hand over my regalia before I rode across the border. The Crimson Company suits me well.

"Now," the knight added, "would you like to hear what Bern knows of this Lundgren? His intentions, perchance?"

"What Bern knows?"

Throughout, Caeldwyr was nothing if not calm, only sparing small grins at Kent's myriad suspicious. His features were hardened and his shoulders but young, eyes—lake blue and as placid—belied his competence. "Ostia is not the only governance known for cloak and dagger, Sir Kent."

"Save your breaths," said Hanuman. "Time for storytelling later. Zaragoza's a day out and we inn't makin' any progress standing here."

The group murmured in approval and filed out. As they left, the white knight from Bern and the Crimson Knight stared each other down. On principle, Kent had no preconceptions about the men from Bern, but he knew much of the militarism of their easternmost neighbor. As a Lycian knight, almost as a matter of culture, saw a soldier of Bern of any sorts as one not to be trusted. Try as he might to rein in his suspicions, Caeldwyr sat ill with him.

Kent's misgivings about the Berner could wait; at any rate it was better a Bernman than a criminal, he figured, but not by much.

- O – O -

That night a contingent of the Crimson Company departed their stronghold anonymous, emerging from the mountains and following a steep decline eastward until the stone and hills gave way to meadows overgrown with tall grasses and sunflowers. They marched until the sun rose, and then they rested. To Kent, it was only one on a list of many grievances he'd have lain at Hanuman's feet. Still, after an evening's march there was nothing he could appreciate more than a few hours of sleep, afternoon in an overgrown field though it was. By midday they were on the move, and by sundown Fort Zaragoza appeared along the horizon, flanked by forests and surrounded by a ten-foot high wall of stakes.

"Full dark, then we move in," Hanuman said to the group. They numbered forty-two, but the moment Hanuman spoke they fell silent as one.

The Company made camp in one of the groves nearby the fort. Gregg, Milo, Milan, and a few men Kent did not know all took turns watching for soldiers on patrol, and the rest sat in a small clearing by a small fire, talking quietly amongst themselves. The Crimson Knight took a seat on a stump and buried his head in his hands. No one came to talk to him, and he reasoned it symbolic, that there he sat, the figurehead of all their merry band stood for, and yet no one came to talk. Neither Glenn nor roly-poly old Fatrod nor even Merovech had followed them east.

Are we going to take a defended stronghold with these numbers alone? It isn't though they'd just up and open the gates for us!

"Hey."

A firm hand tapped on Kent's shoulder; he nearly jumped to his feet from surprise. A redheaded boy, sixteen, maybe seventeen, stood behind him, a longsword and a small set of hunting knives strapped to his belt.

"What is it?"

"You're a knight?"

Kent paused a moment before answering. "Yes."

"A knight of Lycia?"

Again Kent hesitated. The boy before him was young, but he stood as tall as a grown man, and his eyes were as cold.

"A knight of Caelin," Kent replied.

"Caelin..." The boy sneered. "What little use you all are."

"What, now?"

"You heard me. If the knights of Caelin have fallen in line amongst criminals, the rest of the League can't be far behind."

"I've done a lot of things wrong," Kent said, clenching his fist. "but our order swears an oath. To lord and country. And I am—doing...what I must."

"What you must? Please. Say it in truth: you're just in it for the money. A mercenary knight, as plain as the day is long. As am I. So stop acting like you're better than me."

"Who are you," Kent said, "coming here so combative? Just leave me be."

"You have a debt to settle...but so do I. And I intend to see it paid in full." The redheaded boy walked a few paces and crossed his arms. In profile, shadowed by the gibbous moon, he was very different compared the rest of the Crimson Company, beyond just his young age. At the same time, Kent couldn't help but muse, the boy did seem right at home amongst the 'mercenaries.'

Hanuman sounded the call for the Company to come together, and so Kent rose to his feet, but the boy stood still, looking coldly off into the distance, crossed arms, fingers biting into his leather coat.

"Just wanted to let you know," the boy added as Kent passed by, "how worthless you are."

- O – O -

"There're two gates to Zaragoza, one eastward, one westward. We inn't having any grown man escaping alive. This's a military base, and they've all thrown in with Lundgren." Hanuman shot Kent a scything glance as if to direct his words. "They've as good as cast their gauntlet. Half of us will wait in the reeds by the west, half of you will wait in the field by the eastern gate. Milan!"

Hanuman withdrew a folded piece of cloth from a leather satchel and tossed it at the blue-headed spearman. He threw an identical one at the tall man beside him.

"The tabard of the Royal Allied State of Tania. I don't expect a few wrong colors t'fool even Lundgren for long, but Marquess Tania is weasel enough and Marquess Caelin dolt enough for it to buy us time."

Hanuman laughed darkly. "This shouldn't be too difficult. Just be ready to cut 'em down as they flee at you. Y'all'll see what I mean. Wait for Simon's 'signal' and be prepared. Milan! You take your boys to the eastern gate. I'll take Serr Crimson an' the rest westward."

"Aye, sir!" said Milan, with a gleeful smile. "Tear 'em a new arse, boys!" With that, he led his brother Milo and about half of the remaining company through the overgrowth, circling around to the fort's far side.

"Now move, and remember," Hanuman barked to those who remained. "No mistakes."

The detachment crept through the woods to the western side of the fortress, where they knelt in patches of tall grass on a small knoll overlooking it. The gate was much as the fortress itself; made of wood, sturdy but not impregnable, and reinforced at the base by small piles of rocks to deter diggers and animals. Kent had seen his share of stone-walled fortresses, and many of the old hill-forts common in the age of the Scouring to protect from raids from pre-civilized Lycians and dragonling whelps alike. To Kent, this bastion of wood was something else entirely. That the border of Caelin and Tania was so heavily forested played a role in its material composition, in larger part the fortress existed because a hold made of sterner stuff wasn't needed. The Lycian League had stood as a paragon of cooperation among divided governments; the fact that brigands and highwaymen were the least of the border patrol's concern told testament to that.

And we...are to shatter that peace.

"There are guards at the gate," Gregg said, hoisting his bow. "Two. Spears. I could probably make the shot from this distance."

"No need. When Simon lights the fire, they'll start to panic. Just kill 'em then."

"What do you mean, light the fire?" Kent asked, and started when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The man himself came from behind him, his hand as cold and him as quiet as death.

"Watch," he hissed, and his cold eyes had come to life.

Carefully, they crept through a patch of undergrowth until they reached a small valley of ferns, within stone's throw of the gate.

"Now," said Hanuman. Kent had never seen anyone so gleeful as Simon, in that moment. From within his ivory cloak, Simon withdrew a large, leather-bound tome like one a mage of the elements would use, and pressed a trembling palm against the arcane symbol marked on the front. In an instant, the symbol turned deep, vivid crimson. It shuddered with the power of the anima.

Simon's incantation was wholly unlike Erk's, or those of any of the mages-in-training from the Caelin courts. His voice morphed from an anemic hiss to a guttural growl, speaking a language far less than human. The tome flickered and radiated warm light upwards until it bathed the sage's visage and cast a long shadow beneath the cleft of his chin. His body began to tremor, the unintelligible chants growing louder and rising to a crescendo. Finally, Simon threw his free hand high into the air and shrieked loud enough to pierce the sky.

Kent was sure the sentries at the gate had heard the sage shout, but at that moment they all had something greater to worry about. From the center of the fortress, deep within its walls, a gigantic pillar of flame rose into the sky, the width of a guard tower and the height of the sky itself. The conflagration swirled around and around in a perfect cylinder of flames white and red. The Crimson Company stood in awe, with only the gasping Simon and Hanuman looking away from the fire. Without warning, a second smaller pillar of flame erupted from the earth, and in quick succession three more encircling the first, scattering ash and ember, drowning the fortress in a thick sea of smoke. Screams split the air. Men and women clamored within, voices lorded over the roaring inferno.

"Gregg, take the shot!" Hanuman barked, and the time for action had come. "The rest, charge!"

The archer notched an arrow and drove it perfectly through the forehead of one of the bewildered guardsmen. Throwing on his helm, Kent and the rest charged forward, with Hanuman reaching the gates first with alacrity that surprised Kent. Hanuman drew his axe, and before the remaining guard at the gate could raise his spear, he had already been cut down.

"Now we wait," Hanuman said. He threw over his shoulders a colored tabard, same as those he'd given his subordinates. "And watch."

Before Kent caught his breath and made to inquire "for what," he had his answer. The great wooden gate before them stirred and began to groan. It hadn't seemed so, but it was soon clear the gate was made of timber so thick that as it opened inward, it did so inch by maddening inch. One by one, panicked faces of soldiers clearly unprepared appeared in the opening of the gates, ready to squeeze through as soon as they could fit. The first who could was first to die.

"For the Ally-State!" Hanuman bellowed, and nearly hacked the unwitting spearman's head clean off. The rest of the company joined in as more soldiers surged through.

And now, thought Kent, as the first soldier set his sights on him, what I must.

Kent hadn't brought the full set of plate, but even fighting with a full helm was strange. He barely evaded two thrusts of the enemy's iron lance before stepping forward and slashing through his leather with his sword. Enraged, the soldier whipped his lance like a quarterstaff around. Kent braced himself against the strike with an armored forearm, and with his right hand cut down across the enemy's face. Drawing in breath, he quickly turned to see who his next opponent would be. He nearly staggered back in shock; all around him the bodies of Caelin border guard lay, face down in the grass or prostrate with eyes frozen wide in terror.

How-how long...?

The pillars of flame had fallen within the camp's walls, but the fire still raged on, catching what appeared to be barracks and outhouses all made of wood.

"Cavalry!"

As Gregg said, a force of four cavaliers charged towards the company from somewhere within the burning camp, spears and swords at the ready.

"Saint..." Hanuman muttered. "Stand your ground!"

The archer had already notched an arrow, nearly missing one horseman's head before catching another in the right shoulder. Hanuman met one of the knights at the front, toppling his horse with a quick chop before its rider could lash out. Yelping, he fell to the ground and they began to clash. Kent stepped forward to take the next, deflecting several of the cavalier's blows with his buckler and striking back with blade. For a moment the battle became chaos again; from both sides flew arrows, Gregg trading shots with two archers in the base and getting the better of them from range. At the rear guard, the sickly mage conjured much more modest burst of fire, still enough to unhorse several of the charging cavaliers and burn through their leather besides.

Hanuman brought his axe down on the last living knight; only then did the Company stop and take stock of Fort Zaragoza. The fires still blazed so intensely they obscured their surroundings. He couldn't say for sure, but Kent reckoned there had to have been more soldiers who'd simply perished hemmed in by the flames or suffocated amidst the black clouds.

Beside them, one of the fallen soldiers stirred. He growled with the intensity of a man with nothing to lose.

Kent and the others turned to face him, hands on their weapons, but Hanuman froze them with a silent hand. The leader of the Crimson Company walked to the rising soldier, waited for him to turn and raise his sword, then disarmed him and grabbed him by the neck.

"Do you...know who we are?"

The soldier shook. From pain, from weakness, from fear, from anger, Kent could not say.

"M...M-monsters..."

"You know who we are," said Hanuman coldly. His eyes settled on the garb of Tania he wore, now tattered and stained with gore but more than recognizable as a symbol of sovereignty.

"Y-You...you..."

"You know who sent us. And now you'll know—" Hanuman whirled the soldier around to look at Kent. The Crimson Knight, face still obscured by steel, stood without moving. His eyes met the soldier's.

"The face a'the man who will make your end. Tell Lundgren we inn't planning to stop until his kingdom burns. Go," Hanuman said, finally releasing his grip on the petrified man's neck. "And tell him..."

For a moment, a grimace passed across his countenance. If Kent didn't know any better, he would say it were the look of a guilty man.

"...that even the wicked fear the Crimson Knight."

Hanuman turned his back. As he stumbled to his feet, the soldier took one last glance at the Crimson Knight and nearly tripped over his own feet turning tail, through the westward gate and into the night.

The clamor of the battle had faded, but the ringing and the metallic clattering still echoed in Kent's ears. Far from the revulsion he'd envisioned having felt in this moment, the sounds of bloody death now contrasted gently against the hushed night air. The fear had gone. The tension began to slip from his shoulders, and the sword in his grip seemed half as heavy. He closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and exhaled, and then a smile flushed over Kent's face. Hanuman put a hand on his shoulder and said something, but for all Kent heard he might have been standing leagues away. He was floating somewhere outside himself, somewhen other than then, somewho other than himself, somehow completely calm as the blackness surrounded him.

For the first time, they'd won a battle. For the first time since he'd come to the Crimson Company, Kent hoped. For the first time in this little civil war, Lundgren would feel fear.

For the first time since that day, Kent felt at peace. He closed his eyes, and toppled.