Chapter 17
The boy swallowed hard, staring forward into the inky dark. He clenched his hand around the tiling of the roof a breathed slowly. The Doctor sat across from him. "Why?" he eventually brought himself to ask, gritting his teeth in spite of his own insubordination.
"Beg pardon?" the Doctor answered politely in his calming baritone.
"Why are we... doing this?" the boy looked down to his hands, hoping that by scrutinizing them something would appear different.
"You have to learn, son," was the simple reply, "You fought for yourself before, and I know it. Others will come looking for you, for those special eyes you have... unless you want to be someone else's pawn, you have to be willing to become a king." His spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose as he uttered the last line. With a pleasant smile, he readjusted them.
"It feels wrong," the boy complained.
"It always will," shrugged his mentor, "You should never take pleasure in your work; if you do, you've missed the point. You should know the justification and act on it. That's what I ask of you. Can you complete your assignment?"
The amethyst-haired boy gripped the roof tile intensely, to the point where he feared it would crack in his hand or fly off. He lowered his head and growled, "Yes."
"Then do it," his supervisor commanded impatiently.
He bowed and shuffled his way down the roof slowly, grimacing at the small "clack" that sounded with every step. Thankfully, he reached the edge without issue, and lowered himself over the drainage, clinging to the roof with his trembling hands. He sucked in a breath of air as he swung his leather boot forward, and it made another cringe-inducing tap on its intended target: the windowsill. After another pause for breath, he brought the other foot to the same place. Now came the hard part. He lowered his first foot to the lower part of the window's frame and replaced it with his left hand. He slipped as he attempted to do the same with his right side, requiring him to spend another full minute screaming internally, staring down at the void, washed out with blue, that waited below. Finally, the boy mustered his courage and landed his foot, firmly outlining the window with his limbs. He didn't even need to unlock the vestibule after that; typical of these folk, to always think they were safe high up in their castles. The glass was slowly pushed up, and the amethyst-haired boy slipped himself in, again mindful of the sound of his feet.
A light flickered past the corridor. Dammit, he was too early! The man's footsteps trailed slowly up the staircase. This was a part of the Doctor's plan for certain: the boy would need to enact his training carefully. Without a second thought, he pressed himself to the wall by the door and listened, more intently than he had listened to anything before. The stranger stopped, coughed, and waited, perhaps inspecting something or, as it seemed to the boy, simply torturing him by making the process take an arduous few minutes more, listening with his ear pressed up so closely the boy could swear he heard the beating of his hideous heart.
Then the steps continued, and it became even more terrifying, until that moment of sheer, blank reactivity arrived, when the first edge of a shoe came into view. As the second came forward, the boy darted out and seized the stranger by his shoulders and pinned him to the ground, tossing him to the floor and holding his arms behind his back. "Gah!" screamed the man, "Help!"
The amethyst-haired boy shoved his quarry's head into the carpet to silence him, "I would strongly recommend against that."
"What do you want?" the boy could hear the man's irritated voice past the muzzle of the floor.
"I'm afraid I've been contracted to end your life," he explained in kind.
"How much?" the stranger tried to bring his head back up, "What are they paying you? I'll double it."
"I've long lost the need for money," the boy frowned, "This is strictly a requirement."
"Please," he began to squirm, with a more earnest tone working its way through his voice, "I have a wife and two daughters. They're so beautiful... have you no conscience? Would you really take them away from me? And me from them?"
The boy hesitated, staring at the man's growing, soulful eyes, then closed his own, tightening his grip on his victim's wrists. He felt his vision going again, seeing white overtake the scene. He was presented with an image that horrified him, though he wasn't sure why. He saw Cypress, the dark-haired girl, alone in her chambers, sobbing silently to herself. Her hair was a strewn-about mess as she huddled herself together in her plain clothes. There were cuts along her clothes again, and a scar or a burn imprinting a fiery line on her pale cheek. The boy saw this, and understood that it was a choice, and that he would know these repercussions if it were made.
When reality returned, the man was still struggling, as if nothing had progressed since that moment. The boy nodded his head to an unseen observer and withdrew his knife from his belt. "I'm sorry," he told the man, whose pupils narrowed to the size of pinheads, "but life rarely proves itself fair to everyone. We all have an end before us, Samson, and this is yours."
The man writhed with one last effort to free himself, but the metal was planted in the back of his neck, severing his jugular and nicking his vocal chords, before he could make any further gesture. The blood ebbed in a pool out from his neck as he was stopped instantly, frozen in time, and the boy with the amethyst hair stood, backing away. He continued to step back until he hit a shelf and jumped, yelping acutely. It was at that time that the Doctor sauntered in. "Not bad," the tall man mused, "you need work, but for a first attempt, it's passable."
The boy's throat was dry, "Y-You were waiting?"
"I had to be sure," he smiled, "Some of my students decide to back out at the last moment... Naturally, I can't allow that." The amethyst-haired boy nodded slowly and regarded the body, ignoring his instructor for that moment. "You hesitated," he was called back to reality, the Doctor's inquisitive eyes leering at him, looking as wide and round as marbles, "Why?"
The boy's eyes sunk, and he clenched his fists tightly, the skin turning white beneath the pressure, "He... he said he had a family. I wondered... if it was right."
The Doctor closed his eyes and adjusted his spectacles, "And what do you think?"
"I think..." the boy had to pause to properly examine his own thought, "I think... I think it was a cheap ploy for mercy. If this man had been truly penitent, he would have spoken about his family before offering me money, or asking what his transgression was."
The Doctor nodded and reopened his eyes, "Then perhaps you are ready."
"Ready, sir?" stammered the boy.
He dismissed the thought, "All in good time, my boy. I'd like to talk about your heritage a bit tonight, if you'd be willing."
"Of course," he replied numbly, "but... this body..."
"I'll take care of it," insisted the Doctor, "Get yourself home. Cypress will have made you dinner."
"S-Sir," he bowed. The boy crawled back out the open window and climbed up the roof as before.
"Validar..." the Doctor sighed to himself, "Is this really your boy? Maybe he has his mother's soul... or maybe I'm being deceived. In either case, I may soon have myself a weapon."
[*]
With a start, the purple-haired man rolled over the side of the bed and vomited, the sensation of burning in his throat caused his eyes to water. He held his head over the side and waited, ruefully and disgusted with himself. He had made quite a noise, so it would only be a few moments.
Dahlia opened the door, staring straight at her superior. As she spotted him, her eyes followed the trail painted by his and noticed the accident. "Milord," she did her best to sound consoling without seeming condescending, "do you feel ill? Shall I get you something?"
"No," he sighed weakly, resigning himself back to the bed, "The only thing I feel is useless."
"I'll get someone to clean milord's floor," she bowed.
"Thank you, Dahlia," he growled.
The rose-haired swordswoman stood in the doorway a minute more before she decided the pressure to be too much, "Uh, milord... That is, uh, Nihilus?"
His head lifted from the bed, "Yes?"
"If you're not ill, sir, permit me to ask," she took a few steps forward, "What caused this sudden sickness?"
"It... must have been something I ate, that's all," he assured her, rolling over.
"That would constitute illness, sir," she corrected, "for which we possess a number of remedies."
"Then mayhap it was a simple reaction to something. I don't know, Dahlia," he cut a glance at her, "But it is not persistent, so don't bother. And I would ask that you not doubt me when I give you a direct order."
"Yes sir," she bowed, "forgive my impertinence. I would submit myself to milord's punishment."
"Just find someone to clean the damn floor," he groaned, "and see if Cyrus has any news yet."
"Sir," the Rose Blade bowed and left the room.
[...]
"Khan Vlasis... I'm pleased to see you again," the elderly man smiled beneath his dark robe.
The snow-white-haired lad smiled, too, and signaled his companion.
"Khan Vlasis reciprocates your pleasure at meeting, milord," replied Stewart.
"I wanted to discuss some troubling news I've heard of late," the robed man continued, eyeing the khan in a less amicable fashion.
Khan Vlasis raised an eyebrow.
"What is it you wish to discuss, sir?" Stewart allowed.
"Well," there are some troubling rumors that the man who spied upon us at our last meeting has broken free from your custody, is that so?" asked the robed man.
The khan lowered his head and nodded dejectedly to his companion.
"Milord deeply regrets this error, and assures you he is doing all he can to find this scoundrel, that he may be brought to justice," answered Stewart.
"That is not what I wanted to hear," the elderly man scowled.
Vlasis frowned and shook his head.
"Milord can only offer you the truth. All our efforts have been sunken into finding this man," Stewart continued.
"This is... disagreeable news," sighed the man opposite the khan, "I believe this means I must accelerate my efforts."
Vlasis shrugged.
"Milord asks what you mean to do," his stalwart offered.
"I have no choice but to conclude that this man was a spy from the West Khanate. We must take action," the man declared, balling his fist.
Vlasis shook his head.
"This man informed a guard shortly before his departure that he was Plegian," rebutted Stewart.
"Are you really so naïve?" scolded the elderly man, "He was obviously deceiving this man to gain entry to this chamber."
Vlasis bit his lip and frowned. Stewart looked to him, but said nothing.
"You know what I'm proposing then, Khan Vlasis?" demanded the visitor.
The young man nodded somberly. "Might I be privy, milord?" Stewart asked of his khan.
"Silence," hissed the robed man, "You need not know of our work; you are but an intermediary."
The khan shook his head and signed to his comrade, pantomiming the act of taking up a sword and holding up a standard, followed by a point to the castle's west side.
"But milord...!" Stewart exclaimed, "That would likely prove disastrous!"
Khan Vlasis glanced at the visitor and gestured down to his companion, nodding.
"This isn't a request, Khan Vlasis, it is an order," the elderly man scowled at the boy upon the throne.
With a final scowl, the boy nodded. He gestured to his subordinate.
"Milord... you can't be serious!" Stewart rebuffed him.
"That goes double for you, you cretin," the old man hissed at Stewart, "Tell your men that as of now they are all at war with Khan Lon'qu and the entire West Khanate. I will draw up the declaration myself and have it brought to Khan Lon'qu by a delegation of your finest warriors." Without a further word, the robed, elderly man with the cerulean hair took his leave.
"Milord," Stewart shuddered, "This is folly... This is suicide!"
The khan shook his head ruefully and looked sadly down at his comrade. He pointed to himself, then shook his head, then pointed to a pair of imaginary objects.
"But why, milord?" his stalwart begged, "Why let this 'Lord Datura' dictate your choices?"
The young man gestured with his hands folded around himself to suggest a robe, then offered something invisible with his hand, then pointed at himself and outstretched his arms from his heart.
"I'm afraid the meaning of your words elude me, Khan Vlasis," the man at his side stared perplexedly.
The white-haired young man shook his head again and waved his subordinate off, commanding him to undertake his given orders.
"Sire," Stewart obeyed.
[...]
"Gods help us..." murmured the elderly woman as she shrunk back into her doorframe, seeing the soldier looming over her.
"Don't make any fuss," he commanded gruffly, "just hand over all your food and there won't be any trouble."
"Can't you leave us alone? We're folk of meager means; we hardly have anything to begin with," growled her aging husband, stepping out front.
"I don't have time for moral quandaries or the opinions of peasants. Just hand it over and I won't kill you," the soldier repeated, rolling his eyes, "simple enough?"
"You'll have to take it from my cold, dead hands," the old man scowled.
"If you insist," the aggressor shrugged, unsheathing his sword.
"U-Um... S-Stop," begged a shaky voice. The group turned their eyes to a young man with brown hair pointing his pitchfork at the assailant, the pot on his head rattling, "Stop that... er, please?"
"Holland, you fool boy!" his grandfather scolded, "Get outta here! You askin' to get yourself killed?"
"I, uh..." he shuddered, then pointed his makeshift spear at the enemy, "Leave my granmammy and grandpappy alone."
"Ugh, just move aside, Holland," insisted a voice that was very clearly more than exhausted with the discussion. Severa impaled the foe on the end of her blade with little more than an excited yelp from his mouth. "You just gotta be decisive," she sighed, pulling out her sword with a grunt of effort."
"Hey, Severa," another gruff voice called out, "I hope ya didn't have any plans, 'cause that guy ya just stabbed has got a couple'a friends."
"How many's a 'couple?'" she asked.
Brady cupped his hand over his eyes to block the sunlight, "Two hundred? Maybe more."
Severa grimaced, "Always on the days when I get my hair just right..."
[...]
"Do we know much about the village?" Lucina demanded, glancing forward.
"No," Stahl answered, "It doesn't have a lot of strategic value-it's all plains-and there aren't any real choke points achievable by taking it... Why they're here is a total mystery."
"Do you suppose it's still worth the effort to attack, milady?" Frederick asked, "Perhaps we can leave this group for later and eliminate some of the larger concentrations first."
Lucina breathed to ponder it a moment, then nodded, "I'm not one to leave things to chance. If they're here, I'm willing to bet there's a good reason. And besides, I can't just ignore my own countrymen when they're in peril. What kind of princess would that make me?"
Sully chuckled, "You're becomin' more like your father every day, kid."
"I can only hope so," she smiled. "Now then," the village was slowly coming into view, "you have your assignments. Legacy Shepherds, to arms!" Horses worked up into gallops and boots began to beat steadily as dust clouds rose and the Legacy Shepherds stormed their way into the village.
As was typical, Stahl and Sully were the first ones in, and they wasted no time bouncing the enemies back and forth from their lances, opening up an entryway. Cordelia rode from above and threw javelins down with pinpoint accuracy, deftly picking off the stragglers that the cavaliers' initial advance missed. Kjelle, too, picked up her parents' minimal slack, spearing any of the mercenaries who had managed to avoid all the other onslaughts.
Gaius rode alongside his wife, who sailed quickly across the open plains, scorching and scattering of waves of the mercenaries with little effort. When they came too close, Gaius leapt off and drove his blade into shoulders and across chests to repel the tide of troops suddenly forced to scramble to their feet.
Kellam and Miriel made up the rear guard for this attack, striking like artillery with javelins and blasts of flame, respectively, to disrupt larger congregations of the enemy holed up in the village. Sumia and Frederick were left to take point, Sumia circling the skies and Frederick patrolling the ground to provide aid where it was needed.
Lucina entered the town, now alive and roaring with the sounds of metal clinking and scores of soldiers rushing to attention, on the coattails of her vanguard (Kjelle eventually stepped aside to find smaller pockets of troops that might have gone unnoticed), taking considerable joy in making her presence known. She had caught the attackers off-guard; they had never predicted that Ylisse would retaliate this quickly. She would find her father soon.
No sooner had that thought entered her head, however, than did an arrow narrowly miss doing the same, cutting a few sapphire locks as she flinched and sidestepped after the fact. A warrior bared his teeth at her as he swung his axe, and the princess tiptoed past the sweep carefully, catching her breath from the surprise. Her foe wasted no time and chopped again, but this Lucina parried, creating a cacophonous twang as her blade intercepted the axe. The rapier, however, was thin and the axe-wielded very strong, so the princess skipped back a step and waited for her foe to charge again. The opponent happily complied, but Lucina was now prepared and moved out of harm's way as easily as if she were navigating a foot-wide wall, and delivered a quick retaliatory stab with her weapon, toppling the enemy.
The archer fired again, albeit less accurately; this shot stuck in the ground near Lucina's foot and she grimaced, looking for a way to return fire. Before she could answer the attack, though, a knight rattled up to her loudly in his massive suit and thrust his lance forward impatiently. Lucina bobbed her head out of the way, but felt a rough push to her back that almost brought her to the ground, but only succeeded in making her stagger forward; an enemy swordsman was halfway through swinging his blade at her, and the knight was ready to do the same. Seeing that, Lucina ducked down and heard the sword smash with a loud metallic vibration against her other adversary, who, by sound, had just grazed his ally with the lance, confirmed in short order by a drip of blood that landed near Lucina's crouched head.
The swordsman swore vengeance as he snarled at her and, clutching his side, swung again. It was blocked easily, and Lucina elbowed him to the ground, catching the knight preparing another attack. Hurrying into action, the princess drew up her slender blade and thrust it into the open helm of the knight, the suit's one vulnerability. She stepped back as a fountain of blood poured out and the knight fell to his knees, screeching and clutching blindly at his inaccessible face. With finality, Lucina stabbed down to silence the swordsman before he could recover.
But there was no time for celebration; another arrow whistled through the air, and, fortunately, Lucina was cognizant enough of the archer's presence to get behind the fallen knight, who absorbed the blow. The hooves of cavalrymen, most likely the mercenaries' elite, began to beat into the ground, and Lucina became acutely aware of the amount of sweat on her forehead and fatigue in her breast from so many swift movements as the sounds of enemies drew nearer.
At the last moment, however, the hooves turned, accompanied by a voice, "Gut the redheaded bitch and the priest! Then get back here!"
A thought on those words crossed Lucina's mind, and so she ducked out from behind the knight and sprinted with all the energy remaining in her legs to get out of the archer's range. Sure enough, the sapphire-haired princess found her guess to be correct, seeing the familiar girl and her significant other grit their teeth at the approach of the cavalry.
"Any ideas, Brady?" asked the girl, staring death in the face.
"Not many, other than kill 'em all and let Naga sort 'em out," he replied, dislodging his axe from an enemy's skull and turning to face the riders.
Despite already feeling quite out of breath, Lucina sprinted forward toward the line of horses and summoned her strength: she would only have one shot at this.
[...]
"You're sure you're okay joining the fight today, daddy?" Sylvia supported her father's shoulder as he moved out of the tent.
Morgan was watching them both, "You... you were hurt pretty bad. Are you going to be any help to us like that?"
The Grandmaster tapped his chest gingerly and coughed, "It was a burn, not a laceration, nor a bone fracture. I can fight just fine. If an enemy gets close enough for soreness in my chest to be a factor, I'm already in hot water."
The group had already travelled a few miles from Rosanne, leaving Cherche with roughly half the army they had gained to protect the keep in case of any future advances (Robin was, to the group's mystery, rather certain that there wouldn't be). Meanwhile, Robin, his daughters, Inigo, Virion, and Gerome led the remainder of their force over the Lieben border as a part of a greater strategy Robin had not yet revealed.
"What is our approach?" the duke of Rosanne elected to ask as the group walked toward a small cliff overlooking their intended target: a Liebenese border town.
"I've had increasing suspicions, traveling across Valm as I have thus far, and one of them has recently provided an interesting lead," the Grandmaster began.
"Don't keep us in suspense, old man," Gerome tapped his foot, leering at Robin.
"The mage that attacked me..." he sighed and closed his eyes, "Did you see any other mages among the Liebenese forces?"
Virion pinched his chin and pondered it a moment, "Now that you mention it, I do not believe so."
"That's because the Liebenese use only physical weaponry; the study of magical arts is seen as a waste in such a military culture," Robin concluded with a nod.
"So, what does this mean for us, daddy?" Sylvia put her finger to her chin.
"It means someone other than Lieben and General Argent is pulling strings in this fight," Robin folded his arms, "which leads us to here. This is the last town the Liebenese soldiers could have visited before reaching Rosanne Keep, meaning there may be some clues to our mage's orders hidden somewhere within. In terms of our fight with Lieben, it will provide us with the added benefit of a direct supply line to Rosanne."
"So," Inigo pushed forward, "what's the plan of attack?"
Robin looked to each of his comrades, "Gerome, since you're our only flier, I'll ask you to provide support and surveillance. Virion, as the leader of this army, be bold and encourage them forward, but remain within their midst, where you're protected. Inigo, I'd like for you to take to the front."
"And what about me?" Morgan interjected.
"If you want to follow Inigo onto the front lines, I won't stop you," Robin conceded with a bow of his head, "but I will be right beside you."
"You're going to be up front?!" Sylvia stammered, "No way! That's way too dangerous in your condition!"
"Sylvia, I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine," he patted her head, "Stay near Virion and have your staff ready if things get dicey."
"I really don't approve of this plan," she pouted.
"Who's the master tactician here?" he winked back.
"The same one who nearly died less than twenty-four hours ago?" Sylvia cocked an eyebrow.
Her father chuckled, "I know I'm a hard man to trust, Sylvie, but I beg your cooperation. You'll see I usually have at least some idea of what I'm doing."
Sylvia stared slowly at her father, then shifted her eyes over to her sister and frowned.
[...]
A pocket of water swirled beneath the ship's bow and slapped into a small whirlpool with an amusing plop. Leo adjusted his legs, leaning to the other side and shifted his weight forward onto his crossed arms, settled on the railing. A shimmering silver-scaled fish darted alongside the vessel at breakneck speed before promptly veering off. He stared at it only a moment before refocusing on the cerulean blue of the seafloor, some high crags of which were visible thanks to the water's clarity and the abundant sunlight. He watched the pale rock, tinted aqua, pass slowly under their transport.
"There you are," he was snapped back into reality by a lighthearted voice. His mother settled herself beside him, "You thought you could hide out below deck the whole trip, huh?"
"I wasn't hiding," he rebutted, still attending the ocean, "I just keep to myself."
"Don't I know it," the redhead smiled gently. When she saw she was having no effect, she patted her son on the head, "Talk to your mom for a second, huh?"
"What do you need?" he turned, presenting the servile tone that was his inheritance.
"I want to know more about those assassins you joined," she examined the insignia he wore.
"I can't just reveal everything," he preempted her.
"Just a few questions," Anna reassured him.
He leaned back against the ship's railing, "Make it quick."
"Who was your last target?" she made eye contact.
Leo frowned and swallowed, "Privileged info. I'm not at liberty to say."
"How about your first?" she insisted.
"Low-ranking Valmese official," he remembered after some difficulty, "Claimed to be starting a rebellion against the new government in Walhart's name. Called himself Stonbrin, I think."
"Is that mostly what you did, then? Silenced rebellions?" Anna continued.
"No, sometimes we encouraged 'em. It depended on the situation. It was a question for the big shots to decide," her son elaborated. "Although," he thought, "for the first few months, I was kind of a squirrel." Anna blinked and waited for him to say something more. "I got all the nuts," he explained with a smile.
Anna laughed and shared the smile with her son, then added, "What can you tell me about leadership?"
"Well, they say it comes from within, and it requires great strength of character..."
"Ha ha. Your leadership, smart guy. Who are your superiors?"
"I won't name them," he told a cloud behind his mother, "but promotion is entirely internal; you have to be in long before you can call the shots."
"Any kind of mission statement?" the merchant continued, amazed to have gotten this far.
"We recognize that the world is imperfect," the assassin supposed, "We try to keep the corrupt in check, to make the ruling class answer to someone. They have an obligation to their people, too. I know the question is always 'But who watches the watchers?' and all I can say is we do our best to strictly self-regulate. We recognize that we, too, are imperfect, however."
"What a lofty credo," Anna mused, watching her son's reverent soliloquy.
"Mostly just doctrine," Leo finished, "Work is work. I just happen to like the way those guys think."
"Just as long as you remember..."
"The gravity of taking a life?" he repeated the caution from his father verbatim, "I'm aware, I promise. Every life I take... I run a feather in the blood. I let it set, and when it dries and is sterilized..." Leo drew his cape over his shoulder so that its underside was visible. It was lined with drooping feathers, each of which bore red streaks of varying length and with that resulted in a sort of striped look to the salmon-colored robe. "The weight of the deed is always on my shoulder."
Anna stared at the rows and columns of feathers a minute longer, then nodded slowly to her son, "Thanks for chatting with me, sweetie."
"Any time, mom," he turned to face the ocean again.
"Your mom loves you," the redhead tacked on.
Her son blushed, "Uh, you too."
Anna took another moment to stand by her son and watch the sun turn the horizon orange as it began its descent. She heard Steven begin to whistle another tune from the wheel, then gathered herself and headed back to the upper deck.
[...]
"One," Lucina breathed, drawing her rapier close.
"Two," the redhead across from her also exhaled, bringing her steel sword up almost to shoulder level.
"Three!" Brady jumped forward with his axe held vertically, the blade of it dividing his face in half. It glinted as he jumped as high as his legs would tolerate and planted the weapon in his enemy's skull.
Shortly, Severa leapt out from her hiding place and threw a series of careening slashes at the next cavalier. The first two or three of these had no effect on the rider but marked up the horse terribly, causing it to rear in such a way as to make the rider more accessible, whereupon the remaining flurries of Severa's sword flung him from his steed to sink into a puddle of his own blood.
Lucina concluded the attack, brandishing her rapier and leaping forward, praying to deliver one concentrated stab with its needle tip, but this approach failed as the rapier's length was brushed away by a lance, the oppositely-positioned tip of which would have impaled Lucina if not for her breastplate. Instead, the princess felt the wind knocked out of her chest, a sensation of forceful exhale that dropped her promptly to the muddy ground. The cavalier's horse trotted a few steps closer and he raised his lance to strike down.
Then there came a lush-sounding sort of squishing and shearing sound, like a knife slicing a cucumber. The rider slid limply off his horse with a hatchet buried in his face. "Ha, right between the eyes," Brady celebrated. Severa gave him a distasteful look, but he shrugged innocently and she seemed to stop caring. The redheaded mercenary drifted over to the princess and offered her hand. Lucina accepted it graciously and felt her weight pulled back into a distribution between both her feat.
"Thank you, Severa," the young lord breathed, "I knew I could count on you."
"Don't get used to it," she folded her arms, "My mother might be obliged to protect Ylissean gentry, but I don't have time to babysit."
"How I've missed that sunny disposition of yours," Lucina smiled weakly.
"Glad you're all right, Lucy," Brady stepped between them, "I heard what happened to Ylisstol, and I-well, we-feared the worst. We were actually on our way up there, but we got involved with these troublemakers..."
"Say no more," Lucina replied, "they'll be making no more trouble after today; the Shepherds and I are going to reclaim my homeland one battle at a time."
"Sounds like fun," Brady winked.
"So, you think I'm going to tag along just because you say so? Because you want me to, huh?" Severa snarled at the lord.
Lucina frowned, "I'm sorry, Severa. Did I cause offense? Are you unwilling to help us?"
"Did I say that?" the redheaded girl rolled her eyes, "Of course I'm going to help, but only because I want to beat these dastards more than anybody, got that?"
"Glad to have you aboard, Severa," the princess smiled appreciatively, "Now that you're with us, is there anything you can tell us about these... would brigands be the word?"
Severa stared at the body of the final cavalier that had been killed, the blood seeping into his hair from the axe wound, "I think 'brigand' is fair, though they fight better than any random looter, I have to give them that much. The only thing I know for sure is that Brady just axed their commander... literally."
"That's great news," Lucina nodded, "they'll capsize from within."
"We're still probably gonna hafta fight a bunch of 'em," Brady observed banally, watching a few of the Legacy Shepherds locked in fierce melees.
"Don't tell me you're scared," Severa leered at him.
"Hell no," the priest answered, "I'm just wondering how long we're gonna stand around balking before we get to it."
"Point well taken," Lucina nodded, "Let's end this."
"Right behind you as always, Lucina," Severa raised her sword, "Let's get moving." The two girls began hastening to the aid of the Legacy Shepherds. Brady held on a moment longer, staring at the enemy faction with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, Brady!" Severa eventually called after him, "Quit dragging your feet, gawds!"
[...]
"You've gotten a bit better with that sword," Robin remarked contentedly as Morgan swung upward and gashed her opponent.
"I've always had talent, some people are just blind to it," she answered with a wink, knocking another enemy to his feet with a quick swipe. She lurched as she was apprehended from behind by a knight.
Said knight was thrown to the ground and had another sword stabbed into his face. Robin kicked him for good measure, "Confidence is an asset. Arrogance is a flaw."
"Can we minimize the lectures on the active battlefield?" she groaned, dusting herself off and kicking an advancing mercenary.
"Just keep your wits about you," the Grandmaster smiled, slashing at a pair of soldiers, felling them in twin sprays of blood.
The pair continued their fight, making short work of most of the ground troops (Gerome and his father helped to keep the skies clear of other wyverns) and staining the ground at their feet decidedly amber as the winds dried out the signs of the struggle. The enemy were standing on their last legs before long, and the conflict itself was populated solely with simple engagements throughout the small town, Morgan and Inigo eventually splitting of from their strategist and cleaning up pockets of hidden or fleeing troops until they rejoined one another at the gate to the town opposite of the one they had entered.
There, an older-looking man, seeming wearied from combat, awaited them atop a horse that was decorated with purple standards, which stood out against the remaining Liebenese soldiers' red. As he saw them approach, he signaled his men to lower their swords and gestured with his hand to indicate an offer of parley.
The trio approached with small trepidation, though Morgan and Inigo were less shy about coming to the front. Regardless, however, the older man looked to Robin first, "Then... you must be Grandmaster Robin. I recognize you by your cloak."
Robin nodded slowly, "Evidently my name has spread more than I could ever have dreamed."
"Of course," the older man smiled, "Your feats are nothing short of legendary. Rosanne is indeed fortunate to have been granted such an ally. But enough of that, let's be on with the matter at hand."
"Let's," the Grandmaster agreed, "Do you have terms to propose."
"I do," the apparent Liebenese commander nodded, "My men will lay down their arms and vacate the city, myself included, if you'll be willing to allow us to do so without attacking."
Robin nodded wordlessly, "That's simple enough, but I do have one other request."
"Name it," the commander offered with only a slight fall to his smile.
"You lead the garrison of this town, yes? I'd like to have a look at your orders," Robin commanded.
The commander swallowed, "Er, that's... I can't offer that, I'm afraid. General Argent... he'd execute me for certain, you see, if the enemy knew of all our plans."
"'All your plans?'" the Grandmaster repeated with confusion, "Surely your general didn't give you every detail of his strategy in a single order, that would be madness."
"Oh, no," chuckled the commander, "of course not... That would be ridiculous."
"Then may I see the orders you received?" Robin demanded again.
"Er, well, that's..." a bead of sweat appeared on the man's forehead. His eyes widened for a moment, then his smiled returned. "Oh, yes," he called to one of the men gathered around him, "You there, grab that document I told you to safeguard." In a moment, a scroll was retrieved and placed in Robin's hands. An insignia at the top margin of the page declared it to be "From the Stationery of His Highness the Almighty General Argent."
Robin read quickly and found himself disappointed; there was no evidence of the connection he suspected on this page, and his request had been satisfied. He would have to search later, and he would need to let this group go. "Well, thank you for your cooperation, sir. I'll allow you and your men to make your exit, then."
"Thanks be to you as well, good Sir Robin," the commander bowed. He dropped off of his horse to offer his hand to the Grandmaster, "You are as gallant and forceful in person as you are on the battlefield."
Robin, too, offered his hand, but he was halted by Morgan, who leapt between them, "Hold it!"
The commander gritted his teeth, "What is the meaning of this, you impudent little girl?!"
"That 'impudent little girl' is my daughter," the Grandmaster scowled, "What's the matter, Morgan?"
"You didn't notice it," she pointed her finger at the commander, "but he was trying to poison you. He stuck a pin in his cuff, probably laced with any manner of poison, right before he offered his hand."
"I haven't a clue what you're saying, you delusional brat!" growled the commander.
"I recognize the technique," she shook her head, "I've used it before. And if you don't believe me, give me the opportunity to prove it to you." The redheaded thief made a grab for his cuff.
"That was just to keep my sleeves pinned, dear girl," he tried to wrest his arm from her, "Mere presentation, like your silly accusation."
Finally, Morgan withdrew the pin, "Oh? Then why don't you let me prick you with this? If it's not poisoned, it should be no problem, right? Unless you're afraid of a little girl with an ordinary pin."
"I don't have to subject myself to this," he roared, "our terms have been agreed upon!"
"See that, good men of Lieben?" Morgan appealed to the soldiers behind him, "This man is willing to jeopardize your safe retreat for fear of his own life, of making his cowardice known!"
"You little whore!" he snarled, "I ought to gut you like a gods-damn trout!"
"Then you admit it," Robin stepped forward.
The commander looked to each side, seeing his men becoming unsettled, then shouted and swung his sword out of its sheath at the pair. Both father and daughter dodged to opposite sides, withdrew their blades, and cut an X across their enemy, dropping two halves of the former body to the ground. Robin took the opportunity to search the cadaver and retrieved a different scroll, this one emblazoned with the Mark of Grima, although it was slightly altered, probably to represent a more minor family, and read it. This message was the confirmation for which he had been searching.
Inigo read the Grandmaster's face and drew his conclusion, "Good men of Lieben, this man was not your ally; he served another master. I would urge you to leave this battlefield now. If you would still serve your general, we will not pursue you today, but you will never encounter us again if you choose to desert at this time."
The crowd of Liebenese soldiers stood and muttered between themselves for several minutes, forming a vibrating mass of scarlet armor until, eventually, several clusters of troops began to throw off their helmets and walk away. Meanwhile, those that lingered approached Inigo. One among them spoke up, "Sir, we offer our sincerest apologies for attacking your men. As you can tell, we were manipulated into believing these orders were those of General Argent... As a whole, I no longer know what to believe."
Inigo nodded empathetically, "If this was the case for you, I'm certain other Liebenese were likewise deceived."
"But," another soldier spoke up, "Surely General Argent still wanted war with Rosanne. That much he proclaimed for himself."
Robin shook his head, "I suspect there is much nuance to whatever little plot brought you against us here today. All the same, I think it would be appropriate for us to continue on. General Argent still wants his fight, and as of yet, I see no choice but to give it to him."
"Sir," the Liebenese soldier implored, "I would ask that you check into the power structure of our remaining forces... If what you demonstrated today holds true for other factions, honest men may be doing work contrary to their general's orders, and that would devastate them, so contrary to their nature. Please, give the Liebenese a chance to fight for those they truly believe in."
Robin nodded and Inigo thanked the man, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. The remaining group slowly abandoned their helmets and marched over the nearby hill.
"Nice work today, team," Robin sighed contentedly, wiping the blood and sweaty hair out of his face.
"You looked so commanding just then, Inigo," Morgan lauded, hugging him tightly, "My handsome prince."
"All in a day's work, milady," he puffed out his chest and flashed his white teeth, "Your work in preventing your father's assassination was equally remarkable. You're an amazingly perceptive woman."
Robin rolled his eyes and moved away from the swooning couple, suddenly ending up in the arms of his other daughter. "Hey daddy. Everything okay? Are you hurt?"
"I'm just fine," he smiled.
"I'll be the judge of that," she traced her hands all along his skin to check for wounds.
Gerome and his wyvern settled down to the ground with fantastic applause from his father, who was also emerging from the back of the waiting army.
[...]
The general sat silently in his room, resting his cheek on his fist. His eyes were half-closed as the pale light of midday streamed in, periwinkle, through the open window, pushing in a cool breeze that made the grass sway slowly in the same manner as did waves. He was disturbed from this reverie by a flapping of wings and a loud caw that made him lift his head. "Ah," he noticed the raven perching itself on the windowsill, "Back so soon, Naesala?"
The ebony bird squawked loudly, flitting its wings for emphasis.
"Is that so?" the Silver Soldier contemplated, "You're sure?"
The beast craned its neck to one side and squawked again.
"Then things are proceeding faster than I thought," he paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then smiled, "I always was a fan of the blitzkrieg, but I never thought I would be in a position where I could pull it off. How wonderfully interesting."
Naesala cawed once more and fluttered to his master's side. Argent offered his hand and the large bird took the seed that was clasped therein.
"Continue to observe this occurrence for me, and tell me of any major developments, understand?" ordered Argent.
The bird squawked again and flapped off out the window once more.
"Datura, you twisted bastard, now what's your game?" muttered the general, sitting back and closing his eyes.
[...]
The leaf-green-haired man pulled out a stool and sat up, placing his hands out on the bar and commanded some rum. He took a sip and sat back, sighing to himself, it tasted like swill, of course. This was a port town; all the good liquor was exported to the mainland, to the big cities with rich investors. The men here, with their bandanas and torn shirts covered in greasy spots, they were as good to their employers as sardines to a tuna fisherman. And that was why he hated port towns.
But, of course, it would figure that a port town was exactly where he had to sit and wait for these sorry bastards to appear. He thought of her, that woman, with her long, flowing red hair and the wisdom in her eyes. She looked a bright girl, to he sure, but could she really be married to that exalted tactician? Of the stories he'd heard, her personality seemed entirely incongruous to his, but then, she had been reserved, unwilling to trust a stranger, and that was wise. He shrugged his shoulders and took another swig of his awful rum, hoping for the day he could meet the man himself.
That was the day Nihilus was waiting for, too. The Storm Blade had no idea why, but that had been the ardent desire of his commander for ages. Maybe a desire to challenge the legend, like himself, or maybe Nihilus just hated competition. Either way, that obsession was what had led poor Cyrus into this crappy tavern with its shoddy, rotting wood tables and dirt floor, surrounded by the sailors in their busted shoes and torn, sorry clothes... this was all his fault. Cyrus took another drink.
Thinking of the redheaded woman, and of Nihilus, his thoughts again drifted to Dahlia, the only individual among their number who had ever earned a rank equal to his own, but he had never really seen the rose-haired woman fight. She could whip a blade around like a dancer's ribbon, sure, but he had never seen her in real combat, face-to-face, where the enemy moved around, bled, spit, swore, bit, and clawed in retaliation. Cyrus wondered what his commander saw in the girl, but he knew better than to question Nihilus's judgment; the man had a head for foresight that was enough to make the Storm Blade's head spin. All these intricate plots... Cyrus couldn't be bothered to keep all of his associates' affairs in mind, so he left the planning to Nihilus and acted as a soldier and spy, as he was asked.
But, he reminded himself, he was smarter than the blind oxen Nihilus had under his boot like Arc, that fool. Cyrus was intelligent enough to complete missions his own way and act just a little outside the parameters as to do the work without risk to himself, and that was what had earned Nihilus's admiration. So Cyrus believed, at least.
Waves were lapping loudly at the shore as the tide came in, the somber violets of evening lowering themselves into the backdrop of the crystal blue of the ocean and sky. It would be a bit before that crew arrived from the shores of Regna Ferox, before he could strike them all down and laugh in the glorified tactician's face when he revealed that he'd killed his family... Until that time, he would have to wait in this shitty port town, drinking this swill and eating day-old fish while sailors yelled at each other in the hellish heat of day. He groaned and rolled his eyes: he was going to kill them even harder for every day he was forced to sit around this dust bin.
"'Scuze me," a voice drawled languidly. A woman took up the stood beside him and smiled, "How are you doin', honey?"
The man with the leaf-green hair smiled back, "Not much better for being here, if I'm honest."
She laughed, loudly. In fact, so loud that 'guffawed' might have been a better term. After her chuckle, she continued, "You don' need ta tell me, honey. But you might tell me what a handsome boy like you's doin' all the way out here in the sticks. Shouldn't you be going to balls with girls in fancy dresses an' 'at?"
"I'm waiting on some folk, yes," he tapped his fingers on the bar.
"Oh, I get it," she smirked sagely, "You've got some princess crossin' the high seas in her little white dress so you can meet her and kiss 'er on the beach."
"I'm not spoken for," he rebutted, drinking from his glass and quickly regretting it; filth had collected in the bottom of the glass.
"Really?" this prompted a bigger grin, "Well, if you'd like some less shitty drink, I've got a bottle o' whiskey from a distillery in the south of Valm, tastes like butter and applewood goin' down."
"Sold," he grinned, letting her take hold of his arm. Maybe port towns weren't all bad.
[...]
He lifted the tent flap and peered in, doing his very best not to make a sound. He smiled contentedly as he saw his little girl wrapped tightly in her blanket, tucking her knees to keep warm, the way she always had. This was the only time she let her hair flow free, instead of constantly micromanaging it, and it glistened in loose, wiry bands, but still curled playfully at every end, some of it sticking in her soft cheeks, just short of her nose and eyes. He never knew how she got to sleep like that. Satisfied, the Grandmaster let the tent close up again. He would have liked to visit Morgan, too, but there was no way he was going to risk entering her tent with that flirt of a prince courting her day and night. Instead, he collected himself in the crisp night air, simply contemplating for a moment.
A voice broke his concentration, however, "Nice night, isn't it?"
"That voice..." he hesitated to turn around, "But... you can't be..."
"I'm not, I'm afraid," answered the woman who had sauntered up behind him, "So you told me once yourself."
Robin pivoted, "I'm not sure I take your meaning."
"There was a time..." she explained weakly, "You must have been told of it. A time wherein a fate... both similar and dissimilar transpired..."
"I'm not used to hearing that voice talk in riddles," the Grandmaster replied simply.
"I'm sorry, I don't like it either," she breathed, "We- that is, I can't afford to allow... plans to be known. Sorry, if I told you, it would mess everything up."
"I understand," he chuckled quickly, "I've been there." The woman waited a moment longer and simply watched the man as he stood and considered her a bit more. "But... if that's the case, why come before me at all? Is there some 'presage' you wish to share with me?"
"No..." she looked down to the ground, "Forgive me, I've been presumptuous, but... well... I did live around you for quite some time..." The woman was blushing brightly.
"O-Oh," he began to understand, "I see... I don't mean to offend, but..."
"I know," her head drooped, "It wouldn't feel right. As a matter of fact, in my case, it might feel especially wrong. You said the same thing then, too. I can appreciate your dedication to her. I just... I can't help but feel..." They stared at each other a few minutes longer in the silence of night, "Naga dammit, this is awkward. Sorry I don't have any big speech prepared, I just couldn't help myself, I really wanted to see you. Especially to see you so different, so much happier, than when I knew you."
Robin rubbed the back of his neck trying to hide his own blush, "Sorry to have disappointed you."
"No," she held her chest, "I knew it would be like this; I didn't expect anything back from you. It's enough just to see you again. Just do me a favor and try to smile a whole lot, okay?"
He complied immediately, "I'll do my best. I guess I have to see what's in the cards."
"The cards?" she scoffed, "Baby, I'm the one holding all the cards, and the house always wins this game. I've made sure of it."
"I hope you're right," he nodded.
She looked to each side and breathed, "Well, I hope this wasn't all too weird for you. Kudos for taking it as well as you did. Just... be careful, and, like I said, be smiling. As long as you do that, I've done enough. And I hope you don't mind if..." The woman pecked his cheek quickly, "A girl can be greedy sometimes, can't she? Stay safe, a-all right?"
"I've got it," he nodded, contemplating her blushing face, "Anna."
The woman threw her hood back over her long ponytail and hopped into the canopy of trees.