It was evident the Royal Knights were seldom seen this far from the castle walls in Marion Bay.

The Neratine River drew a lazy trail through the eastern parts of Areta, dotted with flourishing cities closest to the ocean’s coast, where the King of Areta was celebrated and most loved. The Knights were welcomed warmly and offered rooms in the luxurious inns, which quickly became decorated with the king’s colors: gold and blue. Here they would stop for the evening to rest and resupply, before resuming their trek at dawn. Boys waved their wooden words, and ladies their colored scarves.

As the Knights rode further upriver, less of the king’s influence could be felt. The cities diminished into villages, and then into hamlets as the Neratine led them to the country’s border. Here, the Knights encountered less welcome, and instead found more fear and agitation. No one lived this far from Marion Bay to call themselves patriots.

The inns here did not welcome the Knights without prompt. Instead, they were taken by royal decree. Offered assurances of leaner tax collection as compensation, the captain’s men were fed, wined, and housed on the locals’ own coin. If a village lacked an inn, they stayed at the largest house. When the time the Knights left at dawn, the locals breathed easier and traded spiteful curses.

By now, Captain Amon Serona had become specially skilled tracking down the impetuous King Alonso. The boy’s tastes were decadent and spoiled, and though not everyone recognized their ruler on sight, most recalled the finely dressed young man who bought only the freshest fruit, the best cuts of meat, and stayed in the cleanest rooms. Following the king’s trail was as simple as asking after suddenly wealthy whores in the area.

The sun was setting on the Knights’ second week from the comfort and security of the castle. On Serona’s map, the Neratine bent at a sharp angle just a few miles ahead, becoming the defining border between Areta and Vicenna. The King had likely foolishly crossed over.

The acrid smell of charred wood reached them before the carcass of a ruined settlement revealed itself from behind a rolling hill. Startled into awareness, the captain kicked his horse into a trot, prompting his Knights to do the same. Beneath a bleeding sky, their horses took them onto the still smoldering remains of a lonely hamlet.

“Look alive!” Serona called back, finally requiring their capacity as the kingdom’s protectors for the first time since they’d left Marion Bay. It was a lot to ask at this hour, when all of their asses were sore from riding all damned day. “This whole place is burnt! What the devil happened here?”

Half of a blackened waterwheel hung by its axle alongside one of the squat, stony structures situated on the river, large portions. The flames had died by now, leaving only patches of glowing embers. Two nearby homes had partially collapsed. Most intact was a tall barn, accompanied by the dilapidated skeleton of a low-lying fence. The first corpses they spied were two dead cattle, bones picked clean by buzzards and jackals, but no humans so far.

The road was littered with frantic foot and hoofprints, far too many to account for the dozen or so souls who must have lived here.

“All of you!” The Captain promptly stopped his horse and dismounted, leaving it to shuffle and bray in distress outside the hamlet. “We’re to look for survivors. Or bodies. Find out any indication as to what did this and report.”

Despite the clear sky, distant thunder murmured at them from the darkening Vicenna sky. Serona glanced upward and grimaced. It wasn’t anywhere close to the wet season.

“Gerald, your eyes are better that anyone’s, watch for movement. The tracks are fresh. There could still be someone here.” The Captain pushed back his hood. With the sun setting, there was no more need for it. “Falkenburg, those cattle don’t look burned. Find out what killed them. Kolbe… for god’s sake, if you find anyone, try not to frighten them.”

---

On the fringes of Vicenna, just beyond the Neratine river, a campfire cast an orange halo around a mass of tall, smooth faced rocks jutting up around a tiny spring. The wagons of the Mummers of Merry Andrew had set up in a circle within the sheltered area, alive with ribbons, vibrantly striped canvas, and the sound of jubilant laughter. The wagons were dark, and the theatre troupe was off duty now, but many were still in costume from their performance hours earlier.

Carven into each of the half dozen wagons were artful faces, both beastly and human, opened wide into jubilant smiles, unbridled rage, and overwhelming sorrow. Spry elven forms sat on and around them, as light as leaves on trees, drinking from clay cups or chewing on their share of meat.

Just beyond their camp was a small Viceni village, tucking in for the evening. It was called Muon Pond, and in the afternoon they had welcomed the Mummers and swarmed around their stages in awe. As their opening act, the dwarf had read his poetry, more tender and eloquent than a man like him appeared he could be. Following that was the enchanting voices of the she-elves Juna Hakallerva and Anuwelyn Deydra, producing a harmony few humans had ever heard.

Lothren of course played the title role in their following act, The Aurelian Collector, about a covetous villain who stole the land’s finest women to encase them in gold, preserving their beauty forever. Alan’s role in the play was of his comical assistant, whose fascination with anything lustrous resulted in his constant blundering. (Why must molten gold be so hot!)

The exotic Annara en’Sammat played the Collector’s newest victim, to be rescued by the dashing Aust Galen. An unconventional romance between an elf and a human always drew particular fascination (or disgust) from the audience. Often enough, their closing duet coaxed begrudging applause from the most stubborn spectators.

As evening settled in, the actors were resting and preparing for their twilight assault. Those who weren’t eating were readying their weapons. Archers oiled their crossbows, swordsmen sharpened their blades, and pistoliers tuned their flintlocks.

“Can’t believe the voice on you, Aust.” Alan laughed between drinks. He still wore his hooded cap from the play, but he’d removed his shoes to warm his feet by the fire. As usual, he avoided any and all interaction with Juna, the decided virtuoso of the band. “Almost forgot my lines.” He did forget them. “Annara, you’re lovely but I think you should listen to Lothren’s advice. You’re much too serious. Lady Isabella is a happy woman, it’s why she baffles the Collector.”

Alan glanced over his shoulder at the shape of Lothren, perched atop a nearby rock. No longer animated now that he was out of his role, he’d defaulted to his usual brooding state. No doubt troubled by the fate of his brother. It was evident in the way he aimed his arquebus at the distance, which gleamed in the crimson sunlight.

“Shame what we have to do tonight,” Alan mumbled into his mug. “But you heard Lothren. No bodies this time. No one needs to get hurt. We just have to scare them west in to Areta. Set a few fires, swing a few weapons.” The disguised king swirled his drink. “No need to kill the damned cows this time. Poor animals never hurt anybody.”

"I told you before, Alan", Annara responded, looking up from polishing her short swords and examining them for dents and hairline cracks she may have overlooked. "I wouldn't look so serious during the play if Lyla would finally get around to making that dress fit for humans to wear. I mean, look at me!"

She stood up and spun around elegantly, wearing her dark clothes and armor of leather and metal that left little to the imagination. Of course she wasn't the only dancer in the troupe and most of the elven women looked otherworldly beautiful, but perhaps that was why she and the two, three other pretty human girls caught the looks of their fellow humans - their bodies' blemishes made them seem more approachable. And Annara enjoyed the attention.
"I'm not exactly 'thickset', like she claims, but even I can't fit into a dress made for an elf without holding my breath. How about you try to dance, play and sing for three hours while you're being suffocated?"

Her words earned her a few chuckles from several of the men and women around, even from an elf or two within earshot, and she grinned along with them. The people around were in a fairly good mood, considering what the night had in store for them. She hadn't understood why they needed to do this, not the first few times when she more or less just watched as it happened. She had called Lothren a 'cruel bastard' and a few other, much less flattering things when she saw the handful of dead people amidst the burning houses, and Annara had been tempted to leave, to return to her people, to admit that leaving her home was a mistake. But Alan and the others made her understand. It certainly wasn't something she felt very comfortable with but she had accepted it and her part in it.

Still, Annara tried not to let it show. She preferred looking haughty over looking guilty and let her swords glide through the air for a moment, twirling them around and, satisfied with the sound, put them into their sheathes. She picked up her cup and sat down again, now next to Aust, and, with uncharacteristically clumsy "oops", intentionally spilled half of her wine, turning the ground red - a small offering but sometimes that was all they needed. That and a clear thought.
Elders, please don't take any child to you tonight. Let their parents be watchful and loyal and let mercy guide our every hand and step.

Her face must have turned somber for a moment as she prayed, for when she reopened her eyes, she thought she saw Aust give her a sideways glance but upon actually looking at him, he seemed to go about his business unaffected by her 'accident'.
She put her cheery smile on again.
"Alan got one thing right, though - You were great."

Konrad rubbed his thighs vigorously, his muscles protesting loudly. They had ridden for hours on end, in increasingly hostile territory. The last village they visited a ma nspat on the road in front of them. He stroked his mustache.

A decade ago, I would have struck that man for his arrogance against the King's men. He shook his head again, his eyes scanning the horizon. He knew that Alonso had travelled far out this time, farther than he normally went.
Last time we found him, it was mere miles from the capital.. This time, I worry for him. It's too far from easy reach... I won't lose him.
Like the captain, Konrad served Alonso since he came into power. He had served his father, too. Although he missed the late king, Alonso was a good lad. He just needed to grow up and accept his duty to his country.
A few hours later, they found the village. The wreckage. It was sickening and infuriating at the same time.

"Falkenberg, those cattle don't look burned. Find out what killed them."

Konrad snapped to attention, straightening and offering crisp salute. "Aye, sir."
He hopped from his horse, walking over to the dead animals. He bent down, knees clicking. He grimaced, and reached towards the beast, turning the corpse about. Aside from the gnaw marks and the peckings of crows and buzzards, he noticed some deep scores in the bone, one rib cracked lengthwise.

It could have been brigands. They sometimes slaughter for sport.. No. They would've took the meat. These scores here.. And here.. These were bolts, from a crossbow. Hastily applied to the poor animals; they must've suffered..
The other beast had swathes of bones simply.. Broken and missing. The skull had a giant hole on one side, a smaller one opposite of it.
Shit. Blunderbuss? Pistol? Bolts are easy to stop. My shield'll do fine. Bullets? Fuck, I knew I should've brought my lucky pair of trousers.
He saw a glint in the dying light under one of the legs. Pulling it out, he swore. "Fucking bolt. Gerald's probably right. Fucking knife-ears."

He spat, slipping the bolt in his belt. Sloppy killers, whoever they were. Standing up, he heard Gerald's war cry, followed by a muffled thump and some cursing. He jogged to the source of noise.
Way too old, Konrad. Why didn't you open up an inn, like the old man said?
His steps faltered, only for a moment. More rooms for Astrid's lovers. God above, please help me so that I don't murder some poor noble one day.
He drew his flail when he reached the scene, the chain rattling. He snorted as he looked at the grungy man. He raised an eyebrow at Gerald. He grinned.

"Hey, Colossus. You think maybe you should ease up on that fuckin' sword? Looks like he can't tell you shit from how hard you shoved it against him. Any farther, and it'll be in his ass."
His face grew grim again, looking at the ruined husk of a village. "And seems you were right, lad. Fuckin' elves did this, mark my words."

These sods probably died as they lived. In abject squalor and filth.

When every breath brings pain, one learns to guard ones words.

Kolbe hadn't said much during the journey. He'd spoken cordially but little with his fellow Knights and not at all with the commonfolk, and even now the captain's acerbic order drew only a low rumor of acknowledgement from behind the blank iron helm which hid that terrible, ravaged face.

Linus dismounted and planted the Aretan pennant in the center of the blackened ruin, driving the shaft hard into the dry earth and kicking up a thin cloud of dust. The sapphire-and-gold banner flapped morosely in the hot breeze, specks of soot catching on its surface and marring the royal heraldry. It was eerily quiet.

The perforated helm creaked left and right, taking in the scene. Destruction and chaos. Not a pillage or raid -- they'd stopped just shy of salting the damned earth. This was the burning-brand of fear. No human bodies. Slaves? Or sent fleeing, like the others flooding over the border? Details. Like as not unimportant ones, for now.

What narrowed his mind was the timing.

They were following the King and his new wastrel friends. The King had passed this way. And this was all that was left in his wake. Could be a number of conclusions a man could draw from that. Were they here, when this happened? Had the King of Areta been captured? Or did...

Hnh.

He turned away from the thought, looking back to his fellows. Old Falkenberg and Gerald the Giant, going about their duties and cursing the Elves aloud. With no small reason, for that. The further from the city's walls they'd come, the more ill rumor they'd heard of these savages and the cruel witchcraft they wrought along the river. In the end, the only surprise was they hadn't come across this sooner--

He felt the battle-roar in his bones almost before he heard it. Gerald had found one alive. Konrad was already on his feet and halfway there, ready to aid... or to mitigate whatever damage The Colossus was about to do in his fit of zeal. Kolbe took his time, marching slowly, watching their backs. He didn't know them well, and they like as not didn't well know him. But instinct told him they were good brothers. Brothers he knew he could depend on when the fat started to fry. He'd pay them the same, in blood if need be.

The captain? Could be that was another story. Could be he might not be a man who'd do what needed to be done. Time would tell.

It always did.

Juna, like many of the rest of the traveling mummers, had sat down to enjoy herself. She held her goblet up to her mouth, gulping down a mouthful of mead, and then made an audible sound that showed her enjoyment of it, and how refreshing it seemed to her. The place seemed to be in a good at the moment, and Juna was feeling the same, and reveled in it. Between her and Annara’s performances and the play, they had put on a good show today, and now that their work was over for the day the revelries could begin.

Times like these, for what they were worth, were quite enjoyable. You would take a seat, and have a nice drink with some of your fellows, while an entertaining yet absolutely unremarkable conversation would go on.

For now, though, that could wait. Alan had made a comment on how Annara ought to have less frown, more crown, to borrow a certain unnecessary phrase. Annara gave an acerbic reply, which was fitting for her. Juna had her usual mischievous smile the whole time, and she took another sip from her goblet. She didn’t butt into their conversation, and let the kids have their fun. Juna instead allowed herself to be surrounded by men, who she might just lead on enough to keep them interested, and to keep them fun, but probably not more.

Of course, the mood couldn’t stay flowery forever. At their heart they weren’t just traveling entertainers, but a warband. Every one of them knew it, and no matter how much they fretted about the paticulars, they knew it to be true, and they’d accepted it. If they hadn’t, they’d have left already. Still, Juna didn’t want to see those two, Annara and Alan, with blood on their hands. Herself as a murderer was enough already.
In the background was Lothren being gloomy again. Juna eventually headed on out there, over to him. Her arrogance wasn’t so great that she thought she would be able to make him smile and join closer with the others. However, what she did know was that she had known him for a long time, and he wouldn’t be rid of her so easily.

“Being broody again?” Juna said as she knelt down beside him. She had a feeling that, even to her, he would be less than welcoming.

"Just wait until I get my hands on a proper flute," Aust said with a smile in reply to Alan's compliment. While he was familiar with many instruments and had a deep, smooth singing voice, the woodwind was what he preferred. Unfortunately, he had been forced to abandon his silver flute some time ago in a hasty escape from an ambush along his way back to the Ytharien. Since then, he had been unable to find a suitable replacement.

While Annara defended the quality of her performance, Aust simply smiled and went on sharpening the long dagger that he usually wore at the small of his back with the hilt within reach of his right hand. His longbow, already strung, rested against the log he was using as a seat. He had already changed back into his usual clothing and donned his armor and covered it with his cloak. The feathered ends of a handful of arrows were visible over his right shoulder and the strap of the quiver cinched his cloak tight to his upper body.

For his part, Aust thought Annara sung and acted rather well. The dress was small for her after all, not that the roguish swordsman he portrayed onstage would find anything to complain about there. When she showed off her form in the circle of firelight, he was forced to admit to himself that he shared that sentiment on some level. After so much time in Areta he often found himself more comfortable in the company of humans than with his own kind.

When the human woman spilled some of her wine and closed her eyes in prayer, Aust glanced her way and raised an eyebrow. It was a custom he knew of, and mostly he was curious as to why she seemed to prefer not to do it openly. Lost in thought, he only managed to turn his eyes away when she started to open hers. If she did not want others knowing or speaking of it, it was no business of his. Her compliment, combined with his thoughts over the past several moments, brought a mild tint to the elf's usually stoic features. Hoping that the ruddy glow of the fire would hide the color, he finally spoke up about the task ahead of them.

"Let us just hope they have the sense to leave quickly and peaceably. Nobody has to die tonight, but neither should we hesitate to defend ourselves. Remember, a broken rib or slashed arm is likely to get our message across and send any but the bravest running if they confront us." It had taken a little practice, but Aust had become used to fighting non-lethally when the situation demanded it. It was unfortunate and understandable that people would defend their homes, but it did not mean they had to pay for it with their lives.

The Knight was on him before he could so much as blink. Tuyev had underestimated the vigilance of the armored men, just as he had underestimated the size of his head when he tried to peer out for a curious look at the newcomers. Now there was a sword to his throat, a knee on his chest, and flecks of spittle on his cheek as this giant roared some question about elves. Certain that he was about to experience a very painful death, Tuyev wished very genuinely that he had the answer.

At least Tuyev had his answer. No, they were not bandits or elves. They were the King’s men, judging by their prestigious attire and the loathsome colors on that banner.

While he was still stammering out an answer, that blade pressing into the soft underside of his jaw, the Knight’s comrade sauntered up to join the interrogation. His tone was maddeningly playful, almost jovial, but Tuyev could see the hanging flail in the bottom of his vision, and there was no move made to remove the brute pinning him to the earth.

“I didn’t—” The nomad whimpered when he felt the blade bite into his flesh upon the formation of words. “I didn’t do this. I was—was just l-looking…”

A third came into view. A silent spectator to his imminent death. Help me, Tuyev pleaded with the universe. Please. What have I done? How could his existence mean so little to them?

“Yes!” Tuyev broke into a desperate sob, his hands scraping against the rough earth in a vain attempt to back away from the weapon. “Elves! B-burned the place and left! Everyone ran. I… I came back. They left everything behind.”

Produced from his writhing, a silvery object, oblong and curved, protruded from his nomad wrappings. An errant motion from his arm knocked it fully into view. Tuyev apparently regretted this, and despite his predicament, pawed blindly outward to get it back.

“N-not mine!”

It was an elven blunderbuss, recognizable to every man present from their previous encounters with the slender beasts. Floral engravings in the metal made its craftsmanship unmistakable. The wooden handle was iridescent and polished to a glassy shine, seeming to repel every grain of sand. Its flared muzzle was blackened and warped, indicating to the trained eye that it had misfired.

Tuyev could have sold it for a handful of silver, perhaps even a gold crown, but he was sure that that elves wouldn’t have left it behind if it was still working.

Captain Serona fell in beside Kolbe to observe the scene, but left its handling to his men. The weapon proved Falkenburg’s observations: this had been the work of elves. The only question was whether they were close enough on the King’s trail to be involved with him.

“We’ll make camp here tonight,” the Captain rumbled to the scarred soldier. “If anyone else returns: elf or villager,” the nomad received a passive look, “or another pathetic scavenger, we’ll be here to greet them.” An upward motion of his chin bid the two forward Knights to do as they willed. “Find out what this man knows of the attack, and burn that elven garbage.”

---

The nose of Lothren’s firearm followed the ghostly movements of a young rattlesnake weaving its way from one dry patch of woody foliage to another. He did not break his focus, not even when Juna climbed up beside him to pitch him a question. No twitch of an eyebrow or shift in his posture indicated that he had so much as noticed her presence.

Clack.

Nothing happened when he depressed the iron lever, but he lowered the arquebus into his lap with the satisfaction of a gratified gunman. Juna was finally acknowledged in the corner of his eye.

“It draws nearer,” he murmured. “Every sunset brings it one day closer. Squeezes the trigger so slowly, leaving us waiting for the fatal shot. I don’t know when it will come, Juna.” Lothren lost sight of the slithering snake ahead. It had found a new home in some burrow. “And while I grow mad with anticipation, the human king prattles away about singing.”

The elf turned fractionally toward the firelight at his back. So little live appeared to dwell in the old creature when he was not standing upon a stage. The burr in his voice could echo in a village square, taking an audience by force. He composed body and limb with masterful precision, every movement a dance, every step a promise.

A century of life had left only decades in his features, not so much as lightening a single long strand on his brunet head. But here as he rested, Lothren was barely more than a corpse. Every year could be seen to his fellow elf, and then a few more.

“This will end soon.” Lothren’s dark eyes burrowed Juna. “As will ‘Alan’s’ incentive to help us. He is my key to freeing Ularien. While we have him, we have leverage. Do you understand?” It had been weeks. Alonso’s men must have been searching for him, and by now they couldn’t be far. “The king will not remain ours to keep. When that moment comes, remember that a blade on his throat will stay a blade on someone else’s.”

At the fire, Alan pulled off his hooded cap, leaving his sandy hair in a whirled mess. He sniffed through one nostril while he leaned his head forward to scratch the back of his neck. The scent of his own unwashed person wafted into his senses and for a fleeting moment, he ached for a hot bath back at home.

“We don’t even have to go that far,” he replied to Aust. “It’s not bravery that keeps people from running, it’s stupidity. Everyone believes they’re invincible. That nothing could ever happen to them.” Alan emptied his cup, and then tossed it aside, leaving it to roll in the dirt. He sucked on his teeth for a moment, ignoring an echo of the Knight Captain’s advice in his head. “But something is happening, right this very moment. And Lothren is the only one who’s ever believed me.”

Alan propped himself up on his knees, leaning into the glow of the campfire.

“We can’t be hurting anyone else, it’s not right.” Not that Alan had killed anyone at all. His martial prowess was far lacking, and even when he had attempted to join the fray (if only to help warn villagers to run), a thin hand had held him back. He was left to watch elves burn and frighten villagers, both Viceni and Aretan, herding them westward. “Lothren tells me some people can’t be reasoned with, that they’d sooner die than be chased from their homes. I think he’s wrong. I think he’s just old, and out of patience.”

Looking between Annara and Aust’s face, Alan pretended to be speaking with the characters from the play. It was easier to think of them as heroes rather than violent criminals.

“Promise me no one else gets hurt.” Pain creased his brow. “I can’t bear it. I know what the Ytharien do, but you’re all better than that.”

As Juna sat beside Lothren, he had his firearm up, aimed at a young rattlesnake. Even as she spoke to him, he kept it aimed. Then he pulled the trigger, and of course there was nothing in it. The rattlesnake climbed back down into some hole, and Juna thought of the whole thing as normal. There would have been no more point of killing the rattlesnake than killing the cows, and that had surely been a mistake. All that was necessary was for Lothren, it seemed to Juna, was the satisfaction of knowing he would have killed him.

Then Juna was acknowledge in the corner of his eye, and he spoke of her. He was clearly upset about his brother, which of course was fair. “This will end soon,” he had said. Of course, Juna had her doubts that anything about this would be easy. Yet he carefully listened to each of Lothren’s words.

“The King will not remain ours to keep,” Lothren had said. “When that moment comes, remember that a blade on his throat will stay a blade on someone else’s.”

As Lothren spoke, Juna kept her usual expression her. Her face bore her usual slight smile and sly expression, and not a single change appeared in her, making her completely unreadable. Then Juna unexpectedly playfully put her right hand through Lothren’s hair and then withdrew her hand before he would have been able to react.

“My, my, today’s not a good day, is it?” Juna said. “Even if there’s nothing to be cheerful about, I do it anyway. Now, I’m not saying for you act like me, as that is more the stuff of nightmares, but, as they say, keep your chin up.”

Then Juna got off of her feet, and stood up.

“I understand, though, Lothren,” Juna said. “You’re brother’s in a rough spot, so here’s what I’ll do. I promise you that Ularien will be delivered back to you, safe and all.”

However, then Juna’s tone of voice changed, to gravely serious, unlike her normal self, when said, “And remember, Lothren, I’m counting on you to do the right thing.”

“Well, I better get going,” Juna spoke again, her tone back to her usual, unserious tone. “Some of the others seem to be getting ready, and I better not disappoint.”

And then Juna was gone nearly as soon as she had come. It was very much to her nature to come and go once she felt she had done what she needed to, and then she would quickly leave.

"Yes, sir." Another crisp salute to his captain.

Konrad slid his flail into its sheath, bending down to pick up the blunderbuss. A curious piece of machinery, or magic. He shrugged, not really caring which it really was. His heavy crossbow did the job well enough. He didn't need any devil-powered weapons. Standing up, he saw Gerald knee the man in the stomach, handling him as a child would a doll. Gerald's side comment to Kolbe and himself made him narrow his eyes, his lip curling a bit.

"Gerald. I want this man alive, you hear me? The captain said nothing about killing him. We don't need to be killing the smallfolk across the lands. And if he's with the warparty, we need a bargaining chip. People don't pay for damaged goods." He pointed his finger at the man as he talked, his armor clanking as he did so.

No one deserves that shit. Poor sod. I'll have to ask the captain about keeping him as a prisoner.

He shook his head. No need to go turn on fellow knights. He may need them, and they him by the end of this. Sighing, he looked at Kolbe.
"I'm off to burn this. I'll start the main campfire and gather firewood while I'm at it. Might as well make dinner, too. Do you mind pitching the tents? I'd appreciate it." Konrad nodded at the man, then went off to start his nightly chores.

He found the perfect spot. A building, its walls still strong. The shed out back big enough for the horses, not touched by the fire. He scanned the area.

Needs some work. If we had some foot soldiers, we could dig a pit around us and fill it with spikes. I'll work on that soon enough. Maybe.
He smiled to himself. Years ago, he would've leapt at his tasks with gusto. Now he went through the motions, stiff and aching in his joints. He felt every year he had on him. The fire caught, crackling as he added kindling then smaller sticks. He threw on some ruined timber from the attack, recycling some of the already burnt wood. No need to go tearing more houses down. He led his horse over to the shed, tying it up. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure none of the other knights were present.

"There we are, Mr. Hooves. You had a long day." He stroked his horse's muzzle, then hooked up the feed bag and began rubbing her down and cleaning her hooves.

Mr. Hooves was actually a girl horse, but it really didn't matter. He remembered buying her almost a decade and a half ago. A gift for his little girl, at the time. And when your little girl tells you that the name is Mr.Hooves, the name is Mr. Hooves. He cleared the lump from his throat. Dinner needed to be made.

It was a quick meal, some rations boiled over the campfire to make a warming stew. He lit it simmer, looking at the strange elven weapon. When he couldn't find a mark of ownership, or the maker's insignia, he pitched it in the fire, under the pot. He spied the captain, walking over to him.

"Sir. Camp is almost made, and the blunderbuss is being burnt even as we speak." He gave a small salute before continuing.

"A moment of your time sir." He stepped a bit closer.
"I know it isn't my place, but are we going to kill that man? Wouldn't he be more valuable to us alive, rather than dead? He could be telling the truth. I know that in times of war or battle, decisions must be made regardless of how harsh it may seem." Konrad stood straight, stepping back once more.

"That's all, sir. Stew's in the pot. I'll take first watch, if you don't mind."

He retrieved his crossbow, readying it in advance. Any brigands or would-be killers out there would be in for a nasty surprise. He loaded his bolt, then picked up his bowl of stew, silently eating.

I suppose it's a "shoot first and ask questions later" kind of a night.

"Lothren is wrong about this", Annara said, her voice only slightly lowered. It wasn't the first time she voiced her opinion on this and after the first few raids, she had given everybody hell who killed somebody for defending their home... only to be humbled by having to kill somebody herself, a girl only a few years younger than her who surprised her when she entered a house and dragged her to the ground, knife in hand and desperate courage in her eyes. The young woman knew that if she hadn't stabbed her in the side, she would be dead now, but feeling the hot blood rush over her stomach, being unable to mend the wound, watching this stranger die a slow and agonizing death... It took her several days before she would eat again and even now, weeks later, it weighed heavily on her conscience. It wasn't the first time she killed somebody - the Aretan raids on her people rarely ended without blood being spilled - but it was the first time she truly felt soiled by something she did.

"I'm not going to hurt anybody unless I absolutely must. You know that, Alan."
He had been the one to find her, hands still pressed on the wound long after the girl stopped breathing, tears streaming down her face and begging the spirits that they might yet let her live. He had been the one to pull her away from the lifeless body and to comfort her until she gathered the strength to go and wash herself. But Alan had been a little harder on her ever since, his critique a little less fair, his jokes at her expense a little more waspish, his flirt a little less sincere. Something had changed - perhaps he had thought that she wasn't capable of doing such a thing until then and was disappointed. Whatever it was, their friendship was suffering as a result of it and she had not yet summoned the courage the take him aside and talk about this.

Instead, Annara did the only thing she could right now: She reassured him.
"Nobody is going to get hurt tonight. I promise."

Aust frowned down at the polished blade of his dagger, considering its edge. Of course the young human king disliked the raids they performed. While the elf didn't agree with the methods, he had come to believe them necessary. The important people never listened to a lone human or elf with warnings of impending disaster. They were tied down to one place, and would not leave it until they were forced to. Sadly, some would never leave the homes they chose to protect. Though every one of them had been made in the course of protecting his own life or that of one of his companions, Aust regretted every wound he had left and every killing blow he had struck.

"You both know I will not hurt anyone unless I must. I wish as much as you do that we did not have to do this at all. We do what we must to make ourselves heard, and nothing more." Aust was sure Lothren was keeping something from the others, but there was nothing for it. His old friend would come around in time, or the truth would otherwise make itself clear. The Ytharien would not be on the path they had chosen if they did not have trust in their leader, and something of import must be on the horizon to guide them to such drastic action.

"I'm sorry, Alan, but I can't promise you that. I can only account for my own actions. When and where I am able I will do all that I can to ensure that this goes without injury. That goes for every living being that will be in that conflict tonight. If it is possible, I will see it ended without blood. That, I can promise," he said, finally looking up from his blade to the others around him. As he slid the dagger into its sheath, hoping he wouldn't have cause to draw it forth later, he studied their expressions and reactions. Alan was young and naive, but he had potential. He didn't truly belong among them, but Lothren allowed him to continue his charade. Anara was more difficult for the elf to read. She possessed some quality that interested him beyond her physical features, but he could not yet name it.

Glancing over his shoulder, Aust took in Lothren and Juna as they parted company. The Ytharien's leader was very much the same as Aust had known him before, but also very different. It was understandable, with his brother in the hands of humans. There was something else weighing on him though, something the other elf couldn't quite see. Juna he was less familiar with and had not spoken to as much as the others since he had come. The she-elf was certainly alluring, and he admired her skill with her voice and a harp. She was a skilled warrior as well. Still, she seemed to hold herself a little apart from the others, or perhaps they from her.

Kolbe nodded, once, and withdrew, setting to his task, his duty, as the shimmering red horizon settled into gloom.

The scavenger didn't matter. He'd had no part of what happened here. Just another desert vulture come to pick the carcass clean. No need to labor themselves with a prisoner. No call to slow their quest or sully their hands with an execution. No. A few minutes alone with the Colossus would be penance enough.

The last year had taught Kolbe well, and the camp was in order before darkness came, and a canopy of stars ruled the sky. He spared another silent, approving nod at the sight of the Elvish weapon being put to the flame. A good brother, as he'd known.

Time passed. Falkenberg was trading words with the captain. Kolbe paused in his writing, sat facing the campfire, head turned slightly toward them. Palpably listening. There was no sign yet of Gerald, but like as not the dinner bell would bring him, though all the legions of hell stand in his way.

Serona used the embers nearby to burn the dead cattle. Better than to let them rot and foul the air while they camped.

Subjected by the Colossus to a less-than-gentle interrogation, it was surmised beyond a reasonable doubt that the nomad ultimately knew nothing of the attack on the hamlet. There was enough confusion in his barked sobs to rule out his association with any of the known elven warbands that had been spotted in the area. Like his fellow Eretol tribesmen, Tuyev was a simpleminded child of the land, picking the bones of the dead like an opportunistic buzzard.

His “questioning”, to put it politely, was carried out while the other three knights assembled their camp in the heart of the ruined village. One final breath of life for a lonely settlement at the edge of Areta, which would ultimately crumble to ash and dust in their wake.

While the horses chewed grain and kept each other company, and the men bathed in firelight, Serona warded himself against disquiet with thoughts of his family back in Marion Bay. It was better than wondering too deeply about what might have happened to the people who once lived in these blackened buildings. And whatever the foolish young King had to do with it.

Serona allowed his lifeless eyes to settle on Kolbe and his writing, finding something meditative about the image. One usually wouldn’t expect a man so scarred to have much to say about anything, much less to put into ink. There was nothing scholarly about him, and so it was surprising whenever he demonstrated that he could still wield a quill as well as a sword.

It was Falkenburg that rattled Serona from his silent trance.

“He’s not valuable to us at all,” the captain replied, turning his ear to the Colossus’ ministrations. “Our friend doesn’t know anything, but leave it to Gerald to be thorough.”

Serona paused when the distant thunder noised again, interrupted his thoughts. He tilted his head, looking up at the darkened sky. Nothing but a field of stars, and not one hazy cloud to be seen. Odd. It wasn’t the season for a storm. Perhaps a bout of dry thunder and lightning was blowing in from the west?

“Of course we’re not going to kill him,” Serona continued, picking up where he left off. “We’re Knights, not murderers.”

Still, perhaps it was wise to remind Gerald of that fact. Amon rose and left to relieve the man of duty, and to ultimately release the nomad. The only thing he was guilty of was looting, and for that, he’d received ample punishment. Tuyev scrambled off, freshly bruised and mumbling curses in his garbled tongue, and the Knights were left to fill their stomachs and share in sparse conversation.

Their time together grew quickly stale without the entertainment they’d enjoyed at previous stops, and while Falkenburg sat on first watch, listening to low, constant thunder, the king’s men found what rest they could under the open sky.

And when the moon was high and bright, the thunder shattered the quiet night.

Mystifying Falkenburg, the thunder had remained relatively quiet but steady for the duration of his watch. But it was only thunder, without so much as a glimmer of lightning. It was harmless. Almost soothing. But all too suddenly it roared over them, erupting so sharply that every one of the knights could feel it through their bodies, as if the air itself had cracked a bullwhip in striking distance.

The horses reared and panicked, pulling frantically at their reins and kicking dust into the air. Though the leather pulled and twisted, it did not snap loose or let them free. Whinnied shrieks filled the intervals between new bursts of deafening thunder. Serona was on his feet, having already scrabbled vainly for his sword. His heart tightened into a hard knot in his chest.

Nearby, the charred carcasses of the cattle began to stir and writhe. Their blackened bones shook to life, scraping the earth as, impossibly, they stretched their limbs and wriggled against each other. When the sandy ground beneath them crumbled and began to cave inward, it became clear that they had not been reanimated. The corpses slipped without resistance into a newly opened crevice.

Another crash of thunder painfully sundered the air, physically shaking the earth. From where the cattle had fallen, a lightning-shaped crack split the ground open faster than the eye could see, cutting the knights’ camp in half, and stopping just short of the horses. A smoky cascade of dust puffed upward from the opening, beginning to cloud the air. For the first time, Serona realized this thunder was, and had always been, coming from beneath them.

“Get the horses!” The captain had all but screamed his order, but the booming earth swallowed up his voice as it had the cattle. Not waiting for his men to comply, Serona gathered up his helmet and his sword and began to bolt toward the animals.

The crevice then began to rapidly widen. Crumbling inward as if made of ash, the sinkhole expanded until it engulfed the nearby barn and parts of the fence. It grew toward the knights’ camp, threatening to pull everything into its black, hungry maw.

---

Juna’s movements were noted in the encampment by the disguised king, watching her shadow pass beyond the glowing haze of the fire. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing he had forgotten to listen to what Annara was telling him, though somehow the apologetic sentiment of her message had soaked in. Alan mulled over what she told him, but her bloodied hands and that girl’s blank stare rose in his memory along with it.

“Thank you,” he muttered, transparently insincere. Though he wanted to, he didn’t believe her. All of the Ytharien were well-intentioned but ultimately ruthless.

Aust explained himself in his eloquent, elven fashion, prompting Alan to scratch his forehead vigorously in sudden frustration.

“It’s—it’s just nonsense!” He sighed through gritted teeth. Sitting here in this den of wolves, who were all quite polite in each other’s company, it seemed possible to speak reason into them. It killed him that they were all too willing to resort to bloodshed to send their message. What did their message matter if the recipients were dead? “If they won’t leave, then you don’t have to kill them! You’re just—just—marauders, at that point.”

“Yes.”

Lothren had materialized just outside the light of the fire, his arquebus slung over his back on a leather strap. Alan bit his tongue as he jumped, then he leaned forward with his mouth covered, humming and then cursing in trivial pain.

“If that is how we must appear to move the humans,” Lothren continued in gentle tones, stepping in to seat himself next to Aust, “then that is the role we must play.”

“So you just—” Alan drew his hand from his mouth, spotting dark color on his fingers. Really? He broke the skin? Damn, it hurt. “So you just kill everyone who stands in your way.”

“Humans find strength in numbers,” Lothren explained. He opened a pouch and produced a few strips of dried meat. One piece was handed to Aust. “If a man stands to defend his home, and we spare him, then others will join his cause and rally the defense of an entire township. If a man stands to defend his home and falls, then humans will do what they must to survive. Flee.”

Ignoring Alan’s look of horror, Lothren tore off a bite in his teeth.

“We are few,” he added solemnly. “We must be effective.”

“You’re savage,” the disguised king hissed. “You’re underestimating humans. One of these townships will rise up despite being afraid of us, and then what? They’ll kill all of you.”

“No one joins the Ytharien to live a life of peace.”


No one indeed. The Ytharien elves and humans rested, or didn’t, until the first violet streaks of dawn began to rise from the horizon. No longer donning the gay colors and brightly painted masks of mummers and fools, a well-armed warband mounted their horses and stormed toward the same village they had visited the previous afternoon. Where they had sowed delight, now they brought torches and sharpened blades.

Leaving only five behind to guard in their encampment, including Alan and the lonely dwarf (tasked with making sure the lad stayed put), twenty Ytharien brought the promise of destruction with them as they road. Most of them carried burning torches, coated in pitch so that they blazed even in the wind. Though the village slept, the night watch was given plenty of warning before the elves and their cohorts charged into a sleeping village, rousing them with their war cries.

Lothren swung his sword at one of the watchmen, missing widely but startling him off of his feet. His torch was flung into the nearby stable, quickly igniting a bale of hay.

“This land is ours!” he cried in the Aretan tongue, and then again in Viceni. He pulled his horse in a powerful rear, and then charged down the main road. Others joined his charge, lending power to his display. “Leave or be cut down! Ytharien! Burn it all!”

The night before, Juna had gotten a good plenty of sleep, cuddled deeply in the tent of hers. She was also alone, even though she could not have been, and some would have thought that it wouldn’t have been optimal, although really it was optimal. To Juna, having a partner to warm up with was more of a literary device than a literal philosophy, but perhaps she had been wrong, as, by God, she truly had been cold, and it had been horrible, although not more horrible than anything else she had done.

Whatever the case, she had slept as well as she usually did, with all that that would entail. Her dreams she preferred not to comment on, following the philosophy of a choice phrase that told her never to discuss the things that would bring only bad. She had followed Lothren, along with most of the others, back to the village.

Juna stood atop her steed, one hand holding on to the horse’s rein and the other holding on to a wooden torch, the heat of the bright flame emitting. She rode alongside the others of the Ytharien, and they swept through the village with intentions as pleasant as a pack of boulders rolling down a hill, although less helpful.

Lothren had shouted forth “this land is ours!” first in Aretan, and then again in Viceni. Then he said, “Leave or be cut down! Burn it all!” And so they had returned to the village which they had burned. Once they had come to entertain, and now they came to burn. They were making their stand against the village, although it came after they had gladly taken some of their money. Juna, as always, would be there on the frontlines and do just as Lothren had commanded. She would have to leave the moral dilemmas to “Alan.”

Juna slapped forth her rein, and her stead came running forward. A pair of men ran out of the way of her horse, and they kept running, as they were smart enough to not want to tangle with a warband. In front of Juna was a house, nicely built and large enough to hold a large family for a comfortable life. As was always the case, Juna checked inside to make sure no one was in there. Lothren certainly seemed like a regular warlord, but he didn’t quite have the heart, or rather didn’t have the lack of one, to go full force in the endeavor.

“It appears the lot of you have come across a bit of bad luck,” Juna said to a family of seven. “The fire’s already started, so I would highly recommend one full actuality of getting the hell out of here.”

And so then that family did indeed leave, as they gave Juna bad language and insults, and looked at her with fierce expressions. It didn’t matter. Juna continued onward to another house, which was empty. The denizens had already gone their separate ways from their home, which made Juna’s job simpler.

Then Juna came to a small hovel, the owner standing outside with a pitchfork in his hands, holding it as if he had a spear, which he clearly did not. Juna’s steed ran towards him, and Juna’s blade cut through the top part of his pitchfork, leaving him without a weapon.

“Foul Savage!” the man said. “I’d rather die than have you take my home. Come at me, elf. I’m not afraid to die if it is for my home.”

“With such a livelihood, I don’t blame you,” Juna said. “But why don’t you just go ahead and run. I won’t stop you. No really, get out of here.”

Juna unmounted from her horse, and walked towards that man’s small house, with her torch in one hand. The man came towards her with what remained of his pitchfork, but Juna swiftly gave him a rather harmless kick, forcing him back. He landed on his back, but not really any worse for wear. Then Juna’s torch felt the hovel’s base, and its flames slowly began to spread.

“It’s already begun, good sir,” Juna said. “Now, with nothing to gain, I suggest you get out of here.”

The man had a look of disgust come over his face, but he did decide that he had nothing more to gain here. Juna mounted back on to her horse, and she would continue to do as she had been doing.

The exchange between Lothren and Alan still rang in her ears as Annara rode into the village, her hair and face covered in blood from a dinner rabbit, the carefully applied 'warpaint' making her appearance downright terrifying. Despite her attempt to reassure Alan, he was not convinced and, of course, he didn't warm up to her. Perhaps he was right - they both knew that, if somebody threatened her life, she would defend herself, even if that meant getting more blood on her hands.

As she threw her torch on an open henhouse, the chicken already roused by the noise and thus as safe from the flames as they could possibly be, Annara saw movement in the entrance of a building, a small face with wide eyes.
She dismounted and, with sure steps and a dark expression on her face, entered. Three voices all shouted over each other but they all died down when her sure hands had found what they were looking for: The hair of a small boy, no older than eight, and her knife, pressed against the child's throat. His parents stood across from her, his mother swimming in tears and his father frozen in place, his knuckles white around a spear's shaft.

"Drop the spear", she said, her voice cold and unwavering. It killed her to see the people before her so powerless but had she not gotten hold of the kid, the spear would have long been buried in her chest. The man complied and, with a look of resignation that made her heart ache, let the weapon fall to the floor with a dull clang.

"Good. Now take some food and coin for the road and put it in a bag. You are leaving."
She saw a hint of defiance in his eyes but the sobbing child that was at her mercy made him think better of it as he turned and began to gather things. Annara directed her gaze at the woman.
"You, go and set the beds on fire."

The woman didn't move an inch, crying and uttering incomprehensible reassurances. With a merciless tug on his hair, the child and mother yelped in panic as she drew blood, but Annara's voice, commanding and loud, pierced through the noise within the house and without.
"If you don't stop crying like a useless whore, your boy is going to be a lot less pretty when you get him back. Set. The house. On fire."

Without another moment's hesitation, the woman grabbed burning logs from the hearthfire and ran about with them, destroying her home with desperate fervor. As they returned, Annara stepped backwards through the door, the parents in tow. Most of what they said to each other and the boy was drowned by the thumping of her heart in her ears, but once outside, once they saw the other villagers fleeing, the other houses on fire, the other Ytharien wiping their settlement off the map, she noticed how their shoulders sagged and knew that all will to defy her was gone.

"Go. Run. And don't return. This land doesn't belong to you anymore."
With a rude push, the boy fell forward and scampered into his mother's arms. Both of his parents shot Annara looks of passionate hatred, yet their relief and fear got the better of them, as they turned to run.
Only the man let his gaze linger a bit longer and spoke through gritted teeth:
"I hope that your death finds you helpless, desperate and agonizingly slow."

She watched them join the other refugees as the first flames broke through the roof of their former home, then turned around the corner and, no longer able to hold it back, fell to her knees and emptied her stomach. The coppery taste of blood was more welcome than that of bile, yet it did little to quench the next wave of nausea that shook her.
This entire episode had been scary, to say the least, but it wasn't the fear for her own life or what she did that made it so sickening - it was how easily she had been able to act against her better judgement and morals, how powerful it had made her feel to exert control over others, how the persona she thought she only pretended to be had become her, ready to do anything.

Annara heard footsteps and turned her head as she wiped her mouth. She couldn't really see who it was from the corners of her eyes, though she was sure it was one of the elves, perhaps Aust or Juna. Had they seen what she did with the family, that she had her knife at a young boy's throat? She waved her hand, the taste of vomit still tingling in her throat.
"I'm fine. I... just need a moment."

Aust spent the rest of the evening silently staring into the small fire, contemplating the path that had led him to this point. It was something he did often, and none of the others bothered to rouse him before it was time to leave. It was Lothren that eventually placed a hand on his shoulder, stirring him to rise and take up his bow. Almost numbly, he climbed into his horse's saddle and followed the others toward the village. As they rode, he steeled himself for his next role. Earlier he had played the cunning, dashing rogue of a swordsman. Now he would be cast as a savage marauder, ousting people from their homes and lives. To him, it was just another mask to hide behind.

Riding hard behind the others, Aust lashed out with his left heel to knock a man aside and onto the ground. The unfortunate human took the blow heavily, but soon scrambled to his feet and began to rush away, clutching at his shoulder. Raising his bow toward a grain silo, he nocked and arrow and loosed in one swift motion. While the arrow was still in the air, he muttered a phrase in the elven tongue. It burst into flames mid-flight before piercing and sticking into the wooden wall of the silo. The grain within ignited almost immediately, causing a huge bonfire where there had previously been stored food. He started two more fires in this fashion, aiming for buildings that would surely contain no people. Flying wide of his target, his fourth and final flaming arrow landed among the thatched roofing of a small house.

Aust pulled his horse aside from the others right away and dismounted aside the burning house. Rushing inside, he quickly checked each room and listened carefully. Finding only a small dog within the house, he grabbed it up and exited the building before it could burn down around him. As he stepped out and looked around, he lowered the pup to the ground where it immediately scampered away from the unfamiliar elf. The others were continuing to drive the commonfolk away, and for the most part seemed successful. Few were willing to fight back, and the majority of those were quickly sent packing by hands more experienced at combat. Eventually his eyes settled on a form just around the corner of another building, double over on their knees. He made his way over, and recognized Annara before too long.

"Are you going to be alright?" he asked softly as he approached, concern clear in his features. In the shifting light of several fires, he noted the pool of vomit that was already soaking into the ground. When she professed to be fine, he sighed softly and scratched at the back of his neck with his free hand. Indecisiveness struck him and he was torn between attempting to comfort her, and trusting her to her own devices while he helped finish up the raid to end it as soon as possible. Unable to come to a decision quickly he whistled to his horse and mounted it as the mare neared. "Are you sure? I do not think the others need us at this point. We could return to camp, or simply take it slow until we are done here. This doesn't look like it will last too much longer."

So, it was Aust. Annara wasn't sure if she was glad it wasn't somebody like Lothren or if she would have preferred somebody like their leader who would yell at her to pull herself together. She could hear the concern in his voice and, somehow, that made her feel even worse. She wasn't the victim here - a drop of the child's blood still clung to the edge of her knife, sitting next to her.

"It's nothing", Annara insisted, grabbed her knife and shakily got up, steadying herself on the wall with one hand as she wiped her mouth with the back of the other.
Maybe the elf had seen what happened, or maybe he didn't. Either way, she didn't intend to talk about it, at least not to him. Something told her that she would be met with understanding, with compassion, with excuses for her behavior, and she didn't want any of it. Nobody had forced her hand. She couldn't stand the thought of somebody defending her when she felt so guilty.

Instead, she let go of the wall, turned around to Aust and forced a wry smile on her face that made the muscles in her cheeks ache - still, it looked real enough. If she had learned one thing among the Ytharien, it was how to lie convincingly.
"It must have been something I ate. Either Rannon's cooking is really bad or he's actively trying to poison us."

The dark-haired woman closed the distance and, with her clean hand, softly patted his leg, looking up at him on his horse.
"Try not to think about this during the next play. It would make those kisses really awkward. And", she lowered her voice and gave it a sultry tone as if she wasn't covered in blood and had just lost her dinner, "Alan didn't comment on them but those were really good, too."

Flirting and teasing were so much easier than telling the truth. He was a good man, as far as she was concerned: A little quiet but obliging, a good listener, and the only elf who consistently put up with her attempts at learning their language. Yet she didn't want to confide in him.
Without another word or even awaiting his reaction, she walked out of the small alley and, after a quick look around, found her own horse. The stallion looked a little unsure of himself with all the chaos around them but as she approached, cooing gently to him, he seemed to relax and let her get up.

Indeed, most of the townfolk seemed to have abandoned the village by now but she wasn't ready to ride back yet. After all, she had promised Alan that nobody would die today, and she would make sure of that before she rode back to camp.

In night, in firelight, the void roared toward them. The nothing. The Great Devourer. Where no mortal hand could stop them, the Prince of Hell had sent his black chariot to stay them from their task.

It widened toward them, a ravenous shadow, the splintering of blackened timbers mixed with the tumultuous hissing of sand. Impossible. Unignorable. Kolbe's papers were taken by the desert wind, the stew upturned and forgotten with a clattering of pottery. He snatched up the standard, hurling himself toward the hut which sheltered the horses.

Captain was shouting to untie them, mount up. No. No time. Cannot outrun the earth itself. Reached them. Rearing, heaving at their tethers, screaming in fear. Drew his sword, sliced though the cords in two desperate strikes, cracking hard through the wood. The animals bolted, dragging chunks of carpentry, instinct driving them to safe ground. Good soldiers. Good soldiers.

Captain shouting again. Panicked. No time. Hut built by the rock that buttressed the hill. Only chance.

Kolbe roared and drove the standard, the pillar of Areta, into the rock, driven by hysterical strength. The vicious pike-end jammed deep into a thin crevise, wedging fast, the plated shaft nocked in the crook of his arm and clenched tight in one mailed fist. His other arm locked hard around the still-bellowing Captain's, holding on with every ounce of strength as the tide slammed into them, and house and horizon fell away into that dark, malignant funnel.

Sand and ash and timber cascaded around them, pounding them with terrible, bone-shaking force. The earth groaned, an echoing din like the lament of some vast desert demon. And a hoarse, shuddering voice answered it in mad defiance from behind worn steel plate.

"Though I stand within the very teeth of Death," it rasped furiously against the punishing tide, "I will fear only failure-"

Kolbe's sickening voice was a wounded, airless scream against the battering of the storm.

"--I will not suffer the unwinnowed bushel or the bent rod--"

The stars vanished in a running river of dust.

"--will shake off the ashen words of the faithless--"

The shaft creaked and shook against his nerveless arm, the banner snapping violently like an unfurled sail in an ocean tempest.

"--holy Areta--"

He held until his hands were numb and his lungs were choked with dust and every lacerated muscle burned beyond endurance, and still there was nothing but the relentless, earthen scourge and the terrible, white noise.

"--for ever and ever--"

In the merciless storm, the croaking litany went on.

And on.

And on.