The Tarnished Maiden

Lorraine sent the blade down hard on the skull of an orc. The blade recoiled slightly from the collision, but nonetheless did its due as the orc fell to its knees. She pulled the reigns of Misha, her steed, and galloped to put some distance from where she sat on horseback in the centre of the all-out slaughter taking place. More than once, she needed to manoeuvre to avoid some on-going fight, and her heart yearned to ease the pressure off of her men. Alas, she knew from deep within her weary soul that such small mercies would do little to stem the tide of blood.

This day had gone far too well. The orc chieftain and by extension his horde had been successfully goaded into a reckless charge with it at the front. They'd pelted it with arrows, bolts and javelins until it dropped dead; in that same timeframe, their first two volleys even succeeded in felling the chieftain's bodyguards. The rest of the demonkin would find themselves running headlong into the spiked traps laid out in a trench at the front of their ranks. Yet, despite all their plans working out, the clashing of steel, iron and flesh had not stilled since dawn, and darkness was fast approaching.

She needed her right-hand. Where was he?

"Gilroy!" she screamed. "Gilroy!"

"Milady!" The response came from behind. She turned to see the approaching figure of her trusted aide. Bloodied, battered plating clanging in the wind, riding an equally armoured, yet tired steed. In his approach, he reached out for a spear buried in the blood-soaked earth and flung it at a greenskin that was about to smite its hammer on an unfortunate footsoldier; the demon fell on its back, but the man took no reprieve and grabbed the nearest foe to slice its heels.

Shoulder length hair matted with sweat, dark eyes filled with adrenaline, the pale man spoke above the noise, "We have the enemy right where we want them!" he righted his fidgeting steed. "The enemy followed through splendidly!"

"There's too many!" she parried a strike, then countered with her own, causing the green figure to stumble into two awaiting foot companions. "They're too many and too fierce! We need to rally and pull the troops back."

"We can't pull back now!" the man retorted. "Everything is perfectly in place! We just have to give them more time!"

Another swipe, she caught a demon in the back of the head. "That's the problem!" she spared her fellow a glance. "It's gone too well. The men just won't last at this pace!"

As she said that, her head was on a swivel as brown eyes surveyed the battlefield around her. The hill was utterly unrecognizable from the one they'd unearthed and rearranged to form terraces for better footing and letting loose arrows. Its side was riddled with the corpses of both friend and foe alike, forming their own little mounds in the process. So much blood had been shed that the ground had turned to mud, and dark rivers flowed in between the mounds. Had it been naught for the humidity clinging to the interior of her helm, she would've been more than bothered by the smell wafting in the air.

This day was truly a feast for the corpse feasters.

The man beside her retorted again, bringing her focus back to him. "And if we pull back, then their sacrifice will be all for naught. So, HOLD!"

She glared at him with all the fierceness of a warbeast, and in return, he glared back with a gaze of tempered steel. The exchange was short, but she in the end took her own frustration out on a passing demon; beheading it with a sudden shriek that left a permanent look of fright on its flying head. She didn't spare a glance at the body as she reached to her side.

The olifant was pulled out harshly from where it was slung on her side. Blowing hard, it's call reverberated through the battlefield, a handful of the men fighting risked themselves to look at the horn blower.

"Men! Gather! Rally yourselves!" she ordered. "To the birches!"

Those closest to her carried her commands across, slowly the men worked through the turmoil to gather around the few standard bearers that remain. The men who bravely held their pieces high contributed to the rally by blowing their own horns, knowing full well that it wouldn't be just their brothers-in-arms that would shove their way to them.

Meanwhile, Lorraine, Gilroy and what remained of their respective bodyguards had gathered into their own group. Horseman at the centre and footman encircling them. Any foul being that dared to close-in were dealt with accordingly.

"You best be right about this," Lorraine seethed. "Else, I'll be hard-pressed to find a good replacement for a second-in-command."

Gilroy didn't respond. His mind fully engrossed in the act of killing. Both heart and soul pulsed in tandem with the swing of the longsword. A chop here, a flick there, thrust into the neck then pull to the side to blind an adjacent foe. Any part of his being not focused on cutting down as many foes as he can was delegated to a single, repeating line of thought.

'A bit more time. A bit more time. A bit more time' he repeated.

From the distance, an armoured figure spied the on-going battle through their monocular. They've been keenly appraising the situation after they saddled up and out from camp at early evening. Thus far, the current development wasn't particularly to their liking.

"Give it a rest, sir. She's doing better then we'd thought."

Lowering the tool, they turned to face the speaker. A man in half-armour, with an open-faced bascinet helm revealing the rugged face underneath. He lolled on his saddle, the beast beneath expressing just as much discontentment at the lack of action in their current situation.

"If she'd taken what I'd said to heart about the lure, then perhaps they wouldn't be dealing with such harsh response in the first place," they said, accented tone clear in the wind. "The lass is going to pay for her mistake with her and her men's blood. Pray, that she may even have half a hundred men to promote by day's end."

The figure returned to spying at the battle raging in the distance, prompting a deep sigh from the man on horseback beside him.

'Tough one as always, Sean' he thought.

He looked back at the assembled cavalry behind him. Men armed with lances, axes and even a few military cleavers for good measure. Like him, they were wearing only half-armour for the speed it provided and also the fact that they were going to probably be fighting on the uneven ground around the foot of the hill; not including the fact that the bodies piling up would be problematic on its own, or the fact that the battlelines by this point were non-existent.

A horn sounded in the distance. Green eyes darted to the direction of the noise, only to find that it came from the hill opposite theirs. The tribal banners on that once stood proudly on the peak were being pulled down, something that didn't go unnoticed by the orcs below who began acting sporadically. He could catch a glint of steel in the evening sunlight, a surge of confidence and renewed fire welled up within his being.

Turning back to the armoured figure at his side, he made to bid the man to give them the word but as always, they were two steps ahead of him.

"Cavalry!" A deep, accented voice cut through the ranks. "Close ranks, lances to the front! Cleavers in the rear! Crash and splinter!"

The order was met with a collective grunt of confirmation. The few who were brave enough to take off their helms by this point were quick to put them back on and fasten the belts. The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the gaps in the lines along with the clopping of hoofs as the formation rearranged at the behest of their leader.

When all was said and done, the figure turned to see those assembled behind him. His aged faced and well-kept white beard almost belied the raw apathy and stone-faced expression he wore. A form perfected over decades of warring. He gave the assembly a final once over before turning back to the front and closing the visor of the houndskull bascinet he wore.

Stretching his sword arm upwards then ahead, the signal to charge was given. As the head of the cavalry, he quickly gained distance followed by the rest of his host who together quickly began their descent down the slope they had been stationed on; the illusion magic hiding them had done its work alongside the enemy's rapt attention at their main force.

The veterans held back their cries of war up until the last moment, wherein they could bring out the full shock potential. Their horses -many of which were veterans like their masters- joined the cacophony with the sounds of bugles in the air. The demons were caught flat-footed, some of their numbers were in the midst of trying to run back to their hill and intercept the ones who flanked them while others were still simply too caught up in the present battle to notice the new arrivals. Either way, the fell had come, and it called for them to the afterlife.

The battle was over.

From where they stood -or sat- on the enemy's hilltop, the skirmishers that had been sent to flank and deal with the enemy spellcasters watched as the heavy cavalry all but ploughed through the mass of greenskins. Already they could see their foes turn craven and try to scurry away, but in their sudden haste they seemed to have forgotten that they were in the midst of battle and were promptly cut down by tired, but still very blood-drunk men who cared nothing more than to add another kill to their name for better or worse.

Analach let out a breath he hadn't known to have been holding. He sat on his rear amidst his men and the corpses of a dozen orcs. Most were part of what one might call the senior aged group but were nonetheless dangerous especially since three of them were apparently shamans. For the simple fact of the latter existing, he'd opted to put no less than half a dozen bolts in each followed by stabbings. Only when he was sure that they weren't a threat did he sound the enemies own olifant -a wicked thing made of bones he'd wisely ignored- followed by his men breaking their banners to set the scene for what is to come.

"Hey, boss," a voice called him.

"Hm,"

"You think we getting a reward fer this? I mean, we did kinda win the battle fer them, right?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you have something in mind, Eustace, then say it."

"Come on," he raised his arms. "We should be getting good stuff. Ale, money… wom- Eep!"

The skirmisher in question never finished before a knife was suddenly embedded in the ground a mere hairline from his hand. His contorted into a snarl before he noticed the atmosphere around him had changed.

Some of the other skirmishers had slowly started encircling him. Analach himself now stood in front of him with his spear held loosely by his side, and the sun to his back. His tired blue eyes held a look of contempt that put Eustace on edge as the man before him squatted.

"How long have you been part of the troop?"

"Um, three weeks sir," the man fidgeted.

"You a foreigner?"

"What?"

"You either moved in here, or Lady recruited you from some no-name cesspit. Which one?"

"…. She had me at the part of adventure and pay. I figured it was great for a guy like who was always the laughingstock of the village; maybe earn me a woman like how those Black Dogs… always brag about."

Throughout his speech, Eustace failed to meet Analach's gaze, and for good reason. He could feel the man's ire building but even he knew just how much he screwed himself over the moment he talked about the legendary mercenaries of Eostia. The gnawing pit in his stomach seemed to grow when he felled the man's hands grip him by the collar of his tunic and raise him so that they both now stood. Even then, he refused to see the man's face.

"You remember this good, Eustace," he began. "No one here talks of those dogs- and also no one here works just to get in bed with women. We may ask for extra coin or ale or housing, but the moment you make moves that seem remotely suggestive, then it's the stockades for you at the 'very least'. You got that?"

The scout nodded solemnly; eyes cast down. Analach released his grip on him. The hostility from the others lessened as well, with one of them even patting the sullen man on the shoulder whilst muttering how everything will explained later.

With the moment somewhat ruined, the men set to work in gathering their kit and the bodies. Weapons were collected and the corpses were cut into more manageable parts for carrying. The sounds of battle had begun dying down, with only the occasional roar or scream here and there denoting aftermath skirmishes.

"Lady please," he softly pleaded. "The healers will look to my wounds. You, on the other hand, could use some rest, no?"

"I'll rest once everyone gets settled out."

"But-ow!" Came a sting of pain, courtesy of the light slap.

"Hush," she emphasised with her index. "Now, not a single frown so that I can finish this."

The wound was a simple cut along the forehead. Thankfully, it wasn't life-threatening, but the amount of blood seeping through was a definite cause for concern and she'd preferred if her subordinate didn't have to go with one eye shut for a while until the healers came.

After fastening the bandage, she tapped him twice on the shoulder before standing up and dusting herself. The man in question -a trained footman- offered a muted 'thank you' which she nodded back in return. Her eyes noted the long line of men that stretched to either side of her and how they all sported wounds just like the one she'd treated. There were those in even worse condition and in the process of being carefully moved to newly erected tents for immediate attending. Others were more fortunate like the man before her and would stay where they were in the line with water being regularly handed out. A scarce few had walked out of that terrible battle with minor injuries, and it was something that mildly worried her.

Lorraine pursed her lips, eyes cast downwards as she turned on her heels to look away from the scene. She'd best get going to see to the rest of her duties in the encampment. Lest she end up burning precious time chasing after every wounded man in need of aid.

"Lady Lorraine," a noble's voice called, prompting her to look up.

Gilroy approached, a small entourage in tow. At some point, he'd manage to retrieve his destroyed helm from the fields. Albeit it may as well be thrown with the scraps for reforging. Other than that, the man looked surprising no worse for wear with his shoulder length hair tied into a simple bun. His plackart plating had been discarded, leaving only the once neat green brigandine that was now stained with dry blood and sweat.

"Gil," she greeeted. "How bad is it?"

His gaze wavered. "We're two hundred men strong. Perhaps with an additional fifty if we include the ones who can be treated." The explanation was mired with uncertainty.

The weight that had been building on her shoulders seemed to double at the news. If it were not for the fact that she was standing in the centre of the camp, the maiden would've long since fallen to her knees. Already, she could feel the heaviness in her heart worsen.

Thankfully, her trusted companion was there to indirectly aid her once more. The man frowned upon noticing something peculiar on her person.

"Ma'am, you're bleeding," he stated. Lorraine blinked and looked down to ascertain what he meant. That was when she noticed the blood droplets falling from the edges of her crude mail onto the ground below her. Quickly, she turned to Gil with a reply in mind.

"It's just blood from an orc, nothing more." She tried to dismiss him. "I'll be in my quarters getting cleaned. In the meantime, I suggest you find Saul. He should be getting things ready for the ceremony tonight." She turned heel and began walking briskly in the direction of her personal tent.

"…. Saul's dead, Lorraine." Gil hesitantly replied, catching her mid-walk. "Paul too, one of the men found his staff. His hand wouldn't let it go."

Learning of this revelation, she dipped her head and soon continued walking. She didn't stop to respond or greet any of her men as she passed them, rather she doubled her pace until eventually she made it into the dark confines of her tent where she tore her gloves off and threw them somewhere she'd bother with later before sinking onto her knees.

A long, tired sigh escaped her as the outcome of the day's battle finally set in. With trembling hands, she reached to unfasten the crude full face helm that she wore and placed it gently to the side, revealing a relatively young woman in her late twenties with auburn hair in a low ponytail with a set of scars on her face; one ran up her neck from the right up until the lower jaw, another was over the edge of her nose leaving a permanent clip and a final one close to her left eye that started from her temple and came down just barely scraping the edge of her peripheral. Overall, not a pretty face but if she had wanted to retain her beauty then she would've never chosen her current venture to begin with.

She set to work removing the crude mail that had served her well throughout her time in the field. The mail itself was easy but removing the thick layers of padding -let alone the fur cloak she wore- proved far more of a problem seeing as how much of it had been exposed to continuous mud, sweat and blood. Furthermore, in her isolation, she began taking note of a particular pain in her left arm.

Her answer was soon given. A crude iron spike, perhaps from some accursed greenskins spiked shield. She'd see a few of those in the chaos, but as to when or how one had managed to bash her hard enough to penetrate her protective layers was beyond her. No matter, she thought, a small price to pay and perhaps one of many soon to come.

Administering medical treatment wasn't exactly something she'd consider her expertise, but her time serving as the leader for her company had taught her much about being self-sufficient. Even before they were joined by Ser Connery and his steel-clad warriors, a lesson she'd learned quickly was how she needed to act tough for the sake of those that trusted her leadership. Lest they think her an easy victim or worse, prey.

Besides, this is by far the least problematic wound she'd had. There was that time with the goblin ambush, she remembered getting slashed at her lower legs with foetid blades that left her bedridden for a week. Also, the minotaur intrusion where she got runover and briefly impaled. Then, there was also her warband's first major battle against the demon race wherein a hobgoblin buried their axe in her backside; it was the first time as well that she would be away from her men in a fight, and it scared her enough to lose a few hair strands over.

Memory after memory resurfaced, her mind's eye became clouded with details and phantoms for the five years she had spent in leading and bringing her men through hell and back. Names and words passed through her as the significance of them flowed over her form like a thick, cloudy fog embracing a moss-covered piece of masonry. Despite being wide awake, she could hear the familiar clicks and ticks that haunt her dreams.

By the time she regained her senses, she had absentmindedly finished the treatment, much to her own mild surprise. She appraised it for any faults, before finding it satisfactory enough until she could get it discretely checked by a proper healer. On the other hand, the bolt she pulled out was given a proper inspection and much to her relief it wasn't filthy or poisoned and she very much doubted it was cursed as the shamans they killed were confirmed to be not the type capable of such.

With that done, she turned to look at the narrow slit that marked the portal to the outside and flinched when she noted that sundown had long since pass. Throwing open a bundle she'd dumped in one spot of her tent, she quickly retrieved the thick tunic and pants stored within along with the plaid that would serve as her substitute for the fur cape she usually used. For footwear, she just opted to use the same boots as they were the only ones she had on hand. Final adjustments were made, and she soon took flight out of her tent.

All at once, the sombre atmosphere seeped into her being and the same weight as before returned into her soul in full force. Fortunately, her time alone had served well to strengthen her spirit. However, by all means that didn't necessarily mean she would be completely prepared for what is to come next. Even after so many battles throughout the years, she never found it to be a simple matter when it came to giving the last rites to her men; those who chose to willingly embrace a life of uncertainty and strife, who follow her every command and look at her with expectation when it came to the promise of prosperity….

Whose lives she could dictate and choose where and when to forfeit even if against her own volition.

That last line of thought always scared her the most.

What would be known as the Dark Dance of the Steps would be heralded as the biggest battle fought in the Vallem since the sallying of the last Princeps. Bards and storytellers would sing and weave tales of their deeds this day to immortalise them in the minds of adults and children alike.

Most will only know the tale of the warrior maiden who led the host of six hundred strong warriors into a demon horde and won.

She, meanwhile, will remember the time she led six hundred men into a literal bloody nightmare and managed to miraculously return with only around a third of that number intact.

They had built not one but four funeral pyres, each as large as a hall. The structures were spread out in the small gap between the two hills and their respective fires illuminated the night sky, casting an orange glow that made it seem the sunset never ended. The ash and embers that seemed to rise and fall out of the pyres was eerily similar to an early snow in autumn.

No songs or merriment were to be had, the survivors were too tired, and many had lost kin in the din of steel and iron. Yet, the need to send off their fallen into the next life properly was too great to ignore. Hence, they pulled together what strength they could find just so that they would at least have something good to tell those back home.

"Quite a gaffe this time, eh?" Someone had quietly spoken next to her. A glance, and she already knew who the figure was. The luminance from the pyres did little to even brighten the neatly cut dark brown hair. His usual mail coif was pushed down, allowing full view of his wildling features. He looked at her with what must've been an attempt at being nonchalant. Sadly, it was far from the appropriate time, so she simply ignored him.

"… Look at the upside," he mused. "This ought to keep the roads clear of any horny dastards for a time. Once we get back, I'll have Kaine running practice with the new lads we're getting. We'll use this opportunity to bring them up to speed before the winter sets in. No worries, I won't hold you for this one."

She nodded animatedly at every word said. Analach pursed his lip and proceeded to look down at his feet in contemplation. He knew better than to speak his worries directly from previous happenstances. Instead, his hand went to her shoulder and clasped it with a firm grip. The least he could do for his leader to soothe her pain.

A short distance away, Gilroy took note of the interaction but decided to dismiss it altogether. His eyes turned back to the fire as it carried his subordinates into the night. With a closed hand to his chest, he offered his own personal prayer to all the men they were sending to the dark beyond. In his time in service to the Lady, he'd learn the customs and legends of Vellum spoke of the night as a thing of beauty, and how those that died needed to be purified by rite of fire before joining their forefathers in the great beyond; away from all that is cruel in the world.

Many took in the peace of the night with no small amount of gratitude. In addition to a proper send off, the light and heat served to keep their surroundings well-lit and somewhat comforting. In a way, it was very befitting, that their dead continued to look out for them as they moved on.

The procession had lasted for only another hour, Lorraine then ordered the men disperse and rest as they had to make preparations to leave before dawn. The wounded still needed a far safer place to allow their wounds to heal, and there was also the matter of their war loot that needed to redistribution. On top of all that, the fact was their enemies would not remain idle, and if they see the sullen faces of her men then they would be certain to start getting ideas.

Perhaps, Analach was right and that they could use the opportunity from this stint to train a new batch of troops and fill in their ranks before winter. She made a mental note to make the necessary adjustments to the garrison patrols for the new blood. However, even if they managed to restore their numbers, the experience and skill of the old members would still be lost to them. The beginnings of a headache could be felt on top of the heartache for all the familiar faces lost.

Engrossed as she was in the future, that she failed to notice the heavy footfalls and shuffling of plates behind her as she made her way back to her tent. Suddenly, she felt something dull prodding her lower back, prompting her to reflexively reach for her dagger. However, the thing behind her was faster and delivered a sharp flick that sent her hand away from her scabbard. The only warning she had for what happened next was being forcefully turned around, followed by a hard smack on her exposed temple that left her vision blurred and off-balance.

"Fail," spoke an accented voice. "Get out of your sorry state lass. Had I been a demon, you'd already be getting dogged on the dirt and having your other holes filled."

Oh, by Celestine's, not this shit, she thought whilst internally groaning.

"A wonderful night to you too, Ser Connery," she replied. "I wondered just when I'd get to see your senile arse again."

The man wasn't wearing his helm, which allowed his full displeasure to be seen. Behind him, his second stood to the side, looking ever apologetic at his superior's behaviour.

"I told you to reconsider the execution, girl," he reprimanded. "That scout had clearly meant something to the chief. We could've used it to our boon; surround them from all sides and let our archers have our way with them." He stepped forward and came close enough that their noses almost touched.

"It was well pass the right time for changing plans," came the cool reply. "Besides, we got what we wanted out of it right? The big pig charged right into our lines- right into the archers and crossbowmen. Just like how you wanted."

The armoured man seemed to hum in agreement. "Oh, that he did," he nodded sagely. "I also remember fondly how he went straight through three ranks worth of men and took at least fifty with him to oblivion."

"The savage was put down in the end."

"What about the cost? He nearly compromised our lines and would've let to the army's collapse if it hadn't been for the smart thinking of your officer."

"The breach was a mere small price to pay for beheading the serpent's head."

"Is that right? A small price? Or was that referring to the size of the pouches you're planning to give to the families."

"The men have done what is asked of them. You, being here, is a waste of my time so do. Step. Aside."

The finality in her tone was matched by the cold gaze she sent to the man. A similar, indiscernible one was sent back in return. Eventually, one of them broke eye contact and stepped aside to allow the other to pass through, but not without a final word.

"Be wary of acting so callously with your men. Their lives aren't rags for you to discard after shitting."

With that, he stomped in a random direction away from her. His aide followed in pursuit, but not before giving a polite nod. He sent a look her way as if he understood what just transpired, but by this point she couldn't give a damn with how tired she was.

Her return to the demesne was thankfully without further interruption. Aside from the sentries on duty, the camp had fallen deathly silent. No doubt, there was much for those still present to come to terms with. Out of habit, she gave the grounds surrounding the site a once over. Her eyes then briefly glanced to the two men stationed a short distance away, and one of them gave her a nod of assurance when he noticed she was staring at them. Satisfied, she inhaled a deep breath before stepping inside to the dark confines of her abode for the night.

The straps were fastened, and in the darkness the tired woman loosened her attire but made no intention of taking them off out of fear and paranoia born from countless nights in the field. The exception to this was the longsword around her waist that was set beside her sleeping bag for ease of reach. Finally, she allowed herself to lay down and rest.

In the dark, confined from the outside world with no one to hear her, the only barrier that stood erect was that which existed within her. With none to bear witness, slowly she led her guard down, starting from a sniffle followed by her curling up into a foetal position and finally trembling quietly as her hand went to her mouth to stifle her sobbing.

In the pitch-black darkness, a tarnished maiden wept for all the faults she had brought upon in the world.

A/N: Here I am again. Back with ANOTHER ONE! Good grief, I almost feel bad for doing this.

To my followers, Allied Star Chapter 5 is still in the works. However, my recent focus has been somewhat disarrayed what with Elden Ring and life in general. Not complaining or anything.

Earnestly, I should be questioning myself for why I'm doing this fic. The best reason I could give is a writer's high. I was aspired to do this when reading StaffSeargent's works. Dude practically pioneered the Kuroinu crossover and turned it into a writer's sandbox in my opinion. I pray he returns soon

In addendum, I originally wanted to do an Elden Ring story, but it would seem as if fate would have otherwise. This story takes some extracts from the Mount&Blade Warband mod: Age of Arthur set in the 430's AD. My aim is to take a different take then what already has been written here. Fingers crossed for completion notice though.

Also, feel free as always to comment and DM. Details on the characters and setting will be expanded on as we go along. We'll wing it.