“Made your tea, Alan.” A crimson haired elf, waifish and young, stooped to offer the human a steaming cup while he sat by the fire. Her jeweled eyes searched his pallid features as he took it from her hands. “You look pale. Are you well?”

“As ever,” Alan muttered, bringing the cup to lips. Oh f—burned his tongue again. A curse was caught in his hand as he rubbed his mouth. “Father always hated that question. Do you hear thunder?”

The elf straightened and tilted her head, listening to something beyond the crackling campfire. Even the dwarf nearby, buried nosedeep in his poetry, paused his writing for a moment when Alan posed the question. The disguised king watched them both, waiting to be assured that he wasn’t insane.

“Aye.” The dwarf nodded. The man wasn’t quite as stocky or burly as his subterranean brothers, being built for art rather than smithy or battle. Probably why he was so far from home. “Must be a storm comin’.”

“No…” A melodious murmur from the elf. “It doesn’t sound right.” Feeling Alan’s questioning look, she shrugged apologetically. “Though I cannot think of what else it could be.”

Alan returned his eyes to the fire with a disconcerted hum, sipping his sage tea though its medicinal scent stung his nostrils.

---

When they stood together, humans could be fierce and valiant in the face of mortal danger. But when routed and separated, they became like animals, blind to sense and basic logic. Despite the fires and the bellowing elves, some chose to hide in larders and cellars, thinking themselves safe from the flames and commotion. Others fought madly, and had to either be convinced to flee or simply felled before he could gather more allies. Most, fortunately, had the good sense to run. It was always an animal’s smartest tactic for survival.

The Ytharien had done this before, and had become efficient at knowing how to scatter the villagers by spreading through the square. Hiding families were flushed from their homes, herded by the end of a blade or the nose of a firearm. The brave were educated with blows and threats and learned to accept their defeat.

Go. There is nothing left for you here but burning timber. Flee west, to Nilum along the river.

Lothren brought his horse to the highest point in the village, where he could see the humans fleeing outward from their home, which had become gilded in flame.

He thought of rats.



The village was nearly empty by now, and black phantoms passed on horse and on foot amid the firelit streets, searching for scragglers. Lothen emerged from a sandstone hut, on foot and alone. Someone had taken his horse for the moment. When a mounted woman began to speed past him, he called out her name.

“Juna!” Lothren’s voice slipped through the chaos to find the mounted elf. While he waited for her to come within earshot, his eyes followed a dog speeding down a distant road, desperate to find safety. A family pet? “Juna, there’s a complication here. I need you to fetch some others. I saw Annara and Aust near a home over there.”

The elf looked over his shoulder and grimaced.

“The villagers had a prisoner. An Aretan Royal Knight.” With the King among them, it wouldn’t do to simply kill a Knight. Innocents had not gone unharmed in the Ytharien’s mission, but slaying a Knight would be a full on act of war. “He is young and strong. I will need help.”

It was tempting to simply shoot the man and never inform Alan at all, but that would be veering too far from what the Ytharien had set out to accomplish. They were wolves, murderers, and thieves, but they were not without their honor. They did not kill without need. If they did, they would no longer be the Ytharien. They would be the savages the Aretans believed them to be.

“Meet me downstairs when you’ve assembled the others.”



A Viceni Magus, dressed in regal gold and violet, lied sprawled in front of Gawain’s cell.

The jailhouse was situated toward the center of the village, the only sandstone structure amid Vicenna’s usual dark, oaken architecture. Even this far in the desert, the Viceni had rich tastes, and magic made many things possible. The village’s militia however offered no wooden comforts to what few prisoners they held within their singular, underground cell.

Past a brief office and a desk, a narrow set of stairs led to a rectangular space separated into two halves: the half in front of the grid of flat iron bars and the half behind. An Aretan Knight had been placed in the unfortunate side, stripped of his armor and weapons. His belonging were locked in a chest upstairs, where they remained unless any parts were repurposed or stolen.

At the unbarred end of the room, an injured Viceni Magus had been knocked out cold by Lothren’s elbow. After taking one look at the man behind the bars, the elf’s eyes widened and suddenly vanished.

The key to the door was on the Magus’s belt. If only the man had fallen a little closer, but his hand was laid out as if in offering. If Gawain reached, he might be able to pull the body closer and free himself. The smell of smoke had slipped into the jailhouse by now, and Knight’s impending fate was becoming clear.

---

Blotting out the stars and much of everything else, a murky cloud of sand had been coughed up by the trembling earth. There was no moonlight, no stars. Only breath that tasted like dirt and a coating of dust on the teeth that couldn’t be licked away. The next thing Amon could identify was enormous pain in his arm, where Linus had gripped him. While the treacherous earth fell away and consumed the hamlet with a defeaning groan, and the reaper himself spoke through Kolbe’s mouth, Amon had been waiting for the end.

When it all stopped, when the thunder ceased, he was somhow still here. Still aware and alive. Death had brushed its bony fingers over his cheek and decided to let him stay.

“What—” Amon abruptly coughed as the sand stung his throat. Loose sand fell away from his body as he assembled himself and sat up. The sand no longer coarsed like a river, but lied still an innocent. When it seeped into the creases of his cuirass, he felt it cold against his skin. “Kolbe?”

Pulling him limbs free of the loose earth, the Captain managed to shakily turn himself over and push himself to his feet. The sand was still up to his shins.

Couldn’t see a blasted thing.

“Kolbe?!” He was right here, wasn’t he? Amon bent over to cough again, the sand filling his mouth as much as it blinded his eyes. “Gerald! Falkenburg! Khff!”

Dawn began to tease the sky as the dust gradually settled. The desert had been swirled like wine and then left, frozen in motion. A gaping chasm where the cattle had once laid, as large as ten men across, lied open and hungry. The sinkhole had transformed the small village into a bowl, where two small fingers clung to its side. At its center, solid pieces of earth were cracked and threatened to cave inward even further.

“What in the name of…” An attempt to pull his boot free from the and brought Amon to one knee. His hands plunged into the sand. “Magic? Devilry…? Falkenburg?!”

“Pft.” The dusty, sand-filled spat of dust and liquid, supposed to represent some form or shape of saliva left Gawain's mouth, and landed within not even far enough to come close to it's target - the mage. Above Gawain's eye, a small cut in his eyebrow spouted a constant stream of blood running down, past his eye, down to his chin, where it dripped slowly. The wound had not been a result of the mage's actions, however. “No, no,” Gawain mumbled to himself as he stumbled to his feet, evidently still slightly shaken by the events that had transpired within these four walls. “The mages, they are gentle. They know not what a strong man's arm can do. They play tricks, tricks of the mind and the brain. But that hurts all the same..”

The wound on his eyebrow had been the unfortunate result of a man, woman, errr, something.. hitting him rather hard while he came around the corner. It could've been the mage for all Gawain knew, but that seemed unlikely, given the man's pitiful physique. An accomplice, perhaps, who knew. “Hrrrghr!” Gawain coughed, moving his bound two hands up to wipe some of the blood away. It was an awful, awkward movement that hurt his wrists. The bindings were much too tight, and rather than constrict his movements, they simply made them more painful. A true amateurs job, Gawain found himself thinking. But then again, the constraints had done their job of keeping him, well, constrained.

His boots stepped on the dust and sand covered sandstone. He moved with heavy tread, almost falling over with every step. If the malnutrition, lack of hydration and the pain from being locked up wasn't enough, the smoke was also quite a pain to deal with. It wasn't thick - yet. “How the fuck does sandstone burn anyway?” Gawain questioned, but found himself shaking his head at the question as he arrived at the iron grates that separated him from his freedom.

The man fell to his knees and pressed his face against the cold iron grate, pushing his bound arms through the gaps between the bars. “And of course this mage got knocked out by one of those piss-poor Elven sods.” he mumbled with a thick Aretian accent, his words being more like those of an angry peasant than the nobleman he was supposed to be. Fitting, since if he didn't do anything, he'd get a peasants grave.

Fuck.

He couldn't reach the mage. Well, this was it then. A soft thump followed as Gawain let himself fall back as he stared at the grates in disarray. Gawain was dead. Not too long now and the entire structure would crumble on top of him, or worse, the elves would come back and take him, defile him and string his corpse from a tree. Wait, not a tree. There weren't trees in the desert. They'd string him from.. from a rock. Yes, a rock.

A sudden feeling of fear overtook Gawain, made him catch a sweat and made him start breathing heavily. The elves shouldn't take him. There'd be no redeeming his honor after that. Get killed by a filthy elf, and God would never let you join him in his heavenly paradise. As quick as he'd fallen to the ground before, he shot forwards again and pressed against the grates again, reaching for the mage again. “C'mon, just a bit more!” he yelled, pushing his face harder and harder into the grates to get that little extra bit of reach he needed. T-there we go! The mages body was pulled towards the grates jerkily, sliding a bit closer with every tug and pull Gawain made, until he was close enough.

With his hands still bound, he fumbled to get the keys. He dropped them not once, but twice, but finally he caught a grip and managed to hold the keys for longer than a few seconds. He quickly unlocked the prison door, and swung the door open with remarkable violence. The scared, fearful expression on his face earlier had made way for a violent and angry expression - now that the bars of the cell didn't make him feel like all was lost, his true personality shone.

It shouldn't come as a surprise then, then, that Gawain immediately started kicking the mage in his side. “Fuck! You! You! Fucking! Blasphemer!” Every word came with a kick, but there was no response from the man, since he was already knocked out by that elf. Wait, the elf! ... yes, the elf.. if there were elves here, and there was fire.. then..? “Monarch curse me!” Gawain cried out, as he turned round and quickly ran up the stairs, slipping and falling on his elbow once as a result of the dust on the steps and his own haste. He scraped it - badly - but now wasn't the time to cry about little pains when he was about to be set upon by bloody elves!

While riding along on her horse, doing just the job that Lothren had assigned her to do, Juna heard someone call her name. It was voice of that very serious man, Lothren, her dear leader that she had sworn her undying loyalty to. She pulled back her horse’s rein, and stopped her horse’s movements. Her eyes met Lothren, and her slight smile was painted on her face, just as always.

“A knight, is it?” Juna said. “Well, whatever. Lothren, you should know by now that I really hate to run errands, especially those where I’ve gotta gather people. But you’re the one in charge here.”

Then Juna slapped her horse’s reins against its back, and her steed began galloping away. Really, Juna didn’t have any idea where to start looking. She might as well just starting circling around the village until she saw just what she’d been looking for, and that’d be her companions. It was Juna’s hope that Lothren wouldn’t do anything rash. As their leader, Juna mostly saw him as the sensible and quiet type, but then again he was the leaders of the Ytharien.

Now, as Juna rode on and on, she found Aust and Annara. Juna normally could read atmosphere fairly well, and could tell when the atmosphere was good or bad. This one would have been in the camp of the latter. Nonetheless, that had never stopped Juna before.

“Hey there,” Juna said. “Hope everything went well on your side. As long as no one died, I’d say it was another successful day. Everything’s just about here, and all we need to do is tie up one last loose end, and then we can finally get out of here.”

"With us, too", Annara answered the woman. She and Aust hadn't really had time to move since she had gotten back on her horse; mere seconds had passed since her flirtatious response and she was grateful to Juna for telling them that this part of their work was almost over, the village abandoned, its people gone.
"Let's go and deal with it. I hate how the villages feel when we're done with them."

Nothing made her happier than the thought of leaving this godforsaken place behind, the only true caveat being that the day had only just begun, hours upon hours on horseback awaiting her rather than a quick and hard descent into intoxication and sleep. Had she known what kind of new acquaintance Lothren had stumbled upon, she might have reconsidered Aust's offer of returning to camp, but her blissful ignorance was the elves' ally at that moment and, with a click of her tongue, Annara had her stallion moving back the way Juna had come.

Upon reaching a house that stood out from the rest of them by being made almost entirely of sandstone, she and her companions heard a loud and angry male voice cursing from within - even if the words had matched Lothren's vocabulary of choice, the tone did not; nor did it sound like any of the other people from their warband, with the possible exception of the dwarf when he was very drunk and very agitated.
Though Lothren was nowhere to be seen and it wasn't clear what was transpiring, it was clear as day to Annara that the 'loose end' had to be the source of these profanities, a kindred soul to the Eretol woman who was quite adept at cussing herself.

She considered shouting out to Lothren but that seemed like a bad idea. The elf had to have heard the man's shouting but perhaps the man didn't know that Lothren was somewhere around here - if he still was - or that the three of them were listening to every loud word he said.
Maybe it was her experience a few minutes past, a sense of guilt that called for an act of potentially punishing consequences, but Annara found herself dismounting her steed once more and walking to the house's entrance to either find and help Lothren or, more likely, find herself face-to-face with whoever might very well be the last non-Ytharien in this place.

The first pale rays of dawn touched the standard of Areta through a thin haze, glimmering along what remained of the soiled golden thread. Linus Kolbe forced himself from his aching knees, prying his fingers loose from its shaft one by one as dust slithered from the joints of his armor. The enclosing helm came free with a wheezing cough, exposing that horrid head to the crisp, dirty morning air.

Kolbe scanned the horizon beyond the funnel as best he could, dragging long, reluctant breaths through his parched throat. Nothing. No movement. No sign. But he had only one good eye left to him, and the view was far from clear. The horses would like be nearby. Might be his Brothers had found safe purchase also.

His brothers.

The King.

The Elves. The village. The pit.

"Too many coincidences." he grated, thickly.

He wrenched the standard from its housing on his third tug, scraped his way toward the Captain, coughing into his fist. The tarnished banner fluttered mournfully in the dry breeze.

"Sir," he hissed, lowly, "The sun rises quickly, in the east. We must needs find water. Recover horses. Find our brothers, if we can. Return to our duty. We cannot." He swallowed, dryly. "Linger."

The scarred head twisted left and right, taking in the desolate whirlpool that had once been a town. What little in his features remained capable of expression were hard and uncompromising.

"This place is damned."

Aust managed not to frown as Annara played the incident off. Her smile seemed genuine enough and her words certainly went along with the expression, but they still didn't fall quite right on the elf's ears. Still, he wouldn't call her out on it. There was only so much he could do if she wasn't interested in opening up.

Mildly distracted by those thoughts, Annara's touch on his leg brought Aust back to the present with a slight jerk of his shoulders. Despite how often they shared far more intimate contact onstage, he still wasn't quite used to the casual touches out of character and it distracted him somewhat from the situation at hand. Her flirtatious comment caused warmth to rise in his neck and ears and he had a hell of a time trying to think of something to say before she made it too far for him to be heard. Unfortunately, Juna rode up before he managed to get his thoughts in order with news of what Lothren was dealing with.

"Aye, let's get this over with. No sense in being here any longer than we have to," he replied, guiding his mare with his knees to turn and follow the others. Even though the village was nearly deserted, he still wanted to keep both hands on his bow. It wouldn't be the first time some human thought they were being smart, launching a sneak attack after most of the action was over. Aust remained a few horse-lengths behind Annara, silently watching her and trusting his hearing to alert him to any possible ambush. Even with the harsh crackling of burning and breaking timbers and the occasional war cry, he was confident in his ability to pick out an untrained human's attempt at stealth.

As the group neared the sandstone hut, Aust could clearly hear the string of profanity issuing from below. As they closed with the doorway, Annara dismounted quickly and darted into the building. Concerned for her safety, and the possibility that Lothren might also be in danger, Aust slid from his saddle as well and started for the building after taking a moment to hang his bow and quiver from the horn of his saddle. The longbow would only hinder him in close quarters, and any shot he got off would be as likely to hit an ally as an enemy. Drawing his dagger from the sheath at his hip, he rushed through the door of the building several moments after the human woman.

The three of them set off, riding off into the distance, towards that house that Juna had seen Lothren come out of. That was where Juna led them, as she rode in the front, ahead of the two others. She led her companions towards it. Then Juna felt great silence, which to Juna was palpable. The only sound was that of the horses’ hooves against the grass, and that was no sound at all, merely another part of the atmosphere like the chirping of the birds or the sound of the grass whistling against the wind. Annara had been quite right to say she hated how the villages feel.

Juna dismounted along with her companions when she arrived. Her expression, a slight mischievous smile, remained just as it always had. Arriving here, Juna really did not have any idea what to expect, at least specifically. Generally, she knew what was here. A captive Aretan knight was here, and Lothren was hesitant, Juna might say afraid, to approach him by himself, and he likely was still in his bounds and in his cell. Knowledge of the specifics, however, were what would stop everything from going bad, and Juna definitely did not have that.

Annara started to get ahead of herself, and started to rush headlong into whatever struggle that would ensue. Juna had no doubt that something would go wrong, and it would make this whole thing disastrous. That’s what always happened when you needed things to go well. Juna rushed to catch up to her.

“It wouldn’t vex you to slow down now, would it?” Juna said. “Why don’t you let me have the honors of going first?”

Juna assumed she would refuse.

Lothren sat at the top of the stairs, his arquebus between his knees as he loaded its barrel with a fistful of black powder.

Damn lucky the King had found the Ytharien when he did. If ‘Alan’ weren’t waiting back at camp, Lothren would be out of options, forced to leave the Knight to either perish in imprisonment or escape on his own with potentially disastrous ends. What interesting timing. First the impossible sand lions consuming villages, and now the King escapes his castle, ranting about his father’s supposed murder ten years ago.

If Ularien were here, he would be able to see precisely how these events might be aligning. Surely he had, and that was why he had gotten so close to Marion Bay. Too close, evidently, by someone’s measure. But not killed yet. Why…

Clang!

His eyes twitched upward, momentarily distracted from his task. Had the Magus…? No, the knight had freed himself, utilizing the elf’s oversight. Hotly chagrinned, he smirked, the way one smirks fearfully at death. Lothren rose fluidly to his feet, and then began to descend. His match was locked and lit, waiting for the pull of the lever.

The others were on their way, but would they be fast enough?

“Blasphemer?” Lothren reappeared again, his elven weapon aimed downward at Gawain’s eyes. “Is that how you steel your resolve? Reducing a mage to one hateful word?”

A long ear twitched as it caught the sound of voices behind him.

“Down here!” he shouted over his shoulder, then laid his fingers over his gun’s level. “One false move, and your head will be a puddle on the floor. You want the monarch? Then I shall take you to him—if you behave.”

Lothren did not remove his eyes from the knight as he heard feet descending the steps.

“This is a Royal Knight of Areta!” he declared, the silk of his voice filling these stone walls. He had a penchant for declarations, possessing an earnest sound that could raise spirits and light a fire in the hearts of men. “We shall be taking him with us! Restrain him—subdue him if you must—but he's better to us alive.”

---

Amon hung in place, paralyzed between his responsibility to his men and Kolbe’s justifiable sense of urgency. There was no sign of the others. Not one faint voice in the air or patch of moving sand, where someone might have been buried. His tongue stuck to the back of his throat as he tried to control his breathing. Vainly he’d hoped that if he held still, silencing the shuffle of his armor and the moving earth… but there was only himself and the scarred knight. The others were gone.

“Yes,” he agreed in a quiet whisper. The last of his hopes waned like a dying candleflame until being snuffed entirely, leaving only the crushing darkness of overwhelming guilt. “Damned. God forgive me, you’re right. We must move on.”

Finding the strength to move his heavy limbs, Amon began to ascend the side of the bowl, moving toward the literal light of dawn. Once he was out of this pit, he might be able to make sense of his surroundings.

“Don’t forget the standard,” Amon added breathlessly without looking back. A cotton symbol seemed almost now, but two men had likely died under that banner. If they couldn’t deliver their bodies, at least the standard would make it back home.

Emerging at the top of the bowl, Amon dug his ungloved hand into hard, cracked earth, pulling his weight up and over. He rolled on his back at first, staring up at the serene sky for all of an instant before he was forced to roll over and cough into his arm once more. His next breath was full of dust.

“The Neratine.” Amon rose to his feet, and futilely began brushing himself off. The sand was everywhere. “It won’t be far from here. If we’re lucky, the horses had enough sense to run for water, and we’ll find them somewhere on the bank.”

In the gray light of a newborn morning, Amon squinted as he spotted a darkening spot in the sand, on the inner side of the bowl opposite from where he stood. A sense of hope surged violently through him and stuffed up his throat, thinking it could perhaps be another knight digging his way free to the surface.

A small glimmer revealed that it was only a trickle of water coursing through the dirt. All that was left of the tributary that fed the hamlet’s waterwheel. The majority of it had been instantly engulfed by the land, leaving only sips of water cut off from the main river. Still, if it wasn’t enough to drink, it at least gave them their bearing. That was north, so the Neratine was straight ahead. Unless a sinkhole had taken that too, it would be a short walk.

Amon began marching forward, at a loss for what to say about his men. To speak of their merits would be to accept that they were dead.

“They might be heading for the river as well,” he said quietly. “Couldn’t see anything I could make sense of. They might be alive. What was…” The Captain looked back. “What was it you were saying? When the very damned earth was cascading around us, you were reciting something. Or did I imagine that?”

There was something in Juna's attitude every now and then that, to Annara, made her seem condescending, as if she thought she could do no wrong while everybody else was incapable of just about everything. The way the female elf spoke to Annara as she walked to the building could have been meant to convey helpfulness, or maybe she was urging her to be careful or let her take whatever risk may have been laying ahead, but just her manner of saying it made Annara feel stubborn and what was indeed a factual reply caught a cold undertone:
"I'm more than capable of defending myself, thank you very much."

She might have meant well and it wasn't fair, for Annara didn't even care to turn and see what Juna's mimic said, but the woman didn't care for fairness at that moment. She was feeling reckless and agitated and just about anybody who tried to reason with her right then was bound to receive a curt answer at best. And that was before she descended to find Lothren and his unwilling companion.

Annara heard nothing after "Royal Knight of Areta". Her ears were filled with a buzzing noise, as if from a thousand angry hornets, drowning every sound but her own thoughts. The eyes she looked into were filled with nothing but hateful indifference towards her but the Eretol girl recognized them, recognized the face. It had aged a little bit, the stress of service and battle accelerating the process and deepening the wrinkles around the eyes before their time, but she had a good memory for faces and names and it was difficult for her to forget a knight.

It was a few years before, not too long before she left her tribe. It wasn't the first raid or the last but it was one of the most brutal ones in many years, the Aretan men attacking just before dawn and killing indiscriminately. She couldn't fight them, they were too fast, too overpowering on horseback; all she could do was try and hide those who were paralyzed by fear, cowering with them like a child. It shamed her to feel so powerless and as the cries and noises started to die down, she was one of the first to come out. And she saw him, sitting on his steed with his ventail open, his sword red and his face a mask of cruel serenity. He could have attacked but he didn't - they never killed too many, they wanted them to spread the word of the massacres among the desert dwellers. The woman who had helped deliver her to this world lay slain behind him in the sand.

This image filled her head and her hands shook violently. Lothren had barely spoken the last of his words when she launched herself at the man and hit and kicked him in the stomach, the face, the side, just about anywhere she could reach, yelling insults in her people's language and the one they shared, like "murderer", "horse-fucker" or "ya chara" - the last one was widely known to translate to "shit-eater". Still, despite not being the strongest person present, she managed to get a few good punches in before she felt hands pulling her a few feet away from him. In an effort to continue her assault, she spit at him, hitting him somewhere on his chin or chest - it was hard to tell in the twilight - and cursed "I hope your cock rots off before you father children!" as she kicked him one last time, aiming at the bodypart she had just named. Nimble as she was, her kick connected, but the knight owed it to whoever was pulling her back that it missed the Aretan valuables by an inch or two.

“I’m sure you are,” Juna replied to Annara rude and uncalled for comment.

She had apparently taken it quite seriously, although it wasn’t as if Juna had meant to question her adequacy in combat situations. She was sure that she had adequate combat abilities, although it wasn’t as if they were involved in situations of extreme combat. Rather, the challenge was getting so that no one had died, which was something which they had probably all failed at least once. God knows Juna had failed, and her failure was something she would never forget, but now she was getting distracted.

Annara went on ahead of her, as she was quite eager to go inside. Juna didn’t know what was going on in Annara’s head, and there was no way of knowing what was. What was certain, however, was that Annara would be going in first. Was Annara always quite so moody and irritable? Juna could not quite recall so, but then again it was not as if she was a close friend, although she did care about her deeply. In a way, it seemed like Annara’s mood shifted from angry to angrier, and she rushed inside the house Lothren had been. Juna wasn’t aware of what was wrong, just that it was. Juna followed suit, even if that meant leaving Aust in the dust. He’d be fine.

Juna saw the knight, who was surprisingly still for a man with such hatred and fervor in his eyes, which was perhaps the second strongest combination of emotions in the world. Juna could tell that if he had any choice, he would spring on Lothren in a moment, but it seemed the power of a rifle was convincing enough. Lothren held the Knight’s fate, and his life was like a string of yarn in between a blade of scissors, ready to be cut at the first notice.

Annara seemed to have had some bad experience with the Knights of Areta. Juna understood, of course, but she didn’t get violent like Annara did. She hit him multiple times, and they were good hits too. Now, as entertaining as it may be to see a Knight get pummeled by a cute girl, senseless violence inevitably had to stop. That was the price that needed to be paid.

Juna grabbed Annara by her arms and carefully pulled her back a few feet. She needed to calm down, and Juna needed to be the one to do it. She had a feeling, though, that she wasn’t leaning on Annara’s good side. Juna thought she had a good nature, but she was not sure about a kind nature.

“Well that was something,” Juna said, giving Annara a smile. “But don’t hold it against me for doing this.”

“I understand the want, the need, for revenge,” Juna said, and her smile had disappeared into an expression of deep serious. “But you can’t go and attack him simply because he is a knight. And even for the one who you want revenge on, you must be willing to become evil, and more evil than they ever could be, because they never had your morals, but you did.”

“Well, why don’t we get on to the next order of business,” Juna said, her smile and seemingly carefree demeanor returning. “Now sir knight, I am an elf, and I’m sure you are overjoyed to meet me. If we become friends I’m sure everything will go great, and I’m sure you know it too.”

Aust was last to make it into the building and down the stairs, and by the time he made it Juna was already pulling Annara away from the knight. On the floor a bit behind them all was a man in the garb of a Viceni mage, clearly unconscious. In the middle of it all were Lothren and the knight, one with a firearm leveled at the other in order to discourage any hostile movement. All in all, it was an interesting scene. Aust wasn't sure who was in more danger at that point; the Ytharien, the knight, or Alonso's disguise.

Juna seemed to have a handle on Annara, and Lothen had the knight under control for the moment, so Aust paced slowly around them all the check on the mage. Aside from being severely battered and bruised, presumably from the knight's tirade he had heard a few moments before, but would live without any attention. If not for the fact that he would be stranded and alone in a building with a the potential to be destroyed if others fell on it, the Viceni would have eventually woken up and recovered from the probable concussion in due time. Under the circumstances, however, it seemed unwise to simply leave him be.

Now that Juna was addressing the knight, Aust turned to their leader. He had given his instructions as to the knight, but hadn't said anything about the mage, or about what would happen when Alan saw them returning with a knight in tow.

"What about this one? He's out for now, and will be for a while, but I don't think we can just leave him. It's obvious he's a Magus. If he wakes up to the village empty and destroyed, he might get it in his head to track us down for some revenge. Could be a real threat. Beside that, it doesn't feel right. We got everyone else out as safely as we could. Who knows what could happen to this one before he stirs?" Aust said, speaking from where he knelt at the unconscious man's side. He carried his longknife bare in his right hand, the sharp tip pointed in the general direction of the knight in case things got exciting again. The elf's eyes flicked between his companions and the two strangers, trying to pay attention to the whole situation at once.

Gawain coughed violently as he stared up into the barrel of the firearm aimed directly at his most precious item - not his face, but rather what was inside of it. “Just like an elf,” he groaned with a smirk on his lips. The man was clearly not impressed by the little spiel that the elf was putting on. “An elf would aim a weapon at a man with nigh more than his fists.” he continued as his eyes fell upon those who were entering the room. The first down seemed to be a girl - human from the looks of it but evidently no better than these pointy eared rats. Second came a woman, an elf woman none the less. The footsteps of the third could be heard but by then the human woman had nearly slung herself onto the knight - for no reason!

The man defended himself as good and bad as he could. The presence of the firearm was, ofcourse, a demotivating factor. He tried to shield himself, mainly his face, using his arms and shoulder as a shield against her many blows. She spat at him, a nice big wallop of spit landing in his face before she attempted to kick him in the sack. The elven woman pulled her away barely in time and he felt the feet connect to his inner thigh, nearly hitting his second most precious item. As he got on his knees, coughing violently again, his eyes went up and stared into the eyes of the girl. “I've no idea who or what you are,” he said while he gathered a mix of blood and spit in his mouth before tuffing it out in front of her and the elven man with the guns' feet. “But from your language you're evidently a tribal whore. And if you've ever looked for a reason we hunt your people every now and then, the reason lies right before you.” he said, spreading his arms presenting himself as 'the reason' for hunting the tribal horse people.

“Criminals hide in your tents and your people refuse to give them to us. And now look at you. Beating an unarmed man.. if this gun wasn't aimed at my head I'd have your head...” His words were followed by a shifty glance at the gun. He decided to hold his tongue with the insults for now, for fear of his head being blown off. Gawain was a hothead, and an aggressive fighter when it came to it, but he was not dumb enough to fight back with.. whatever that thing was aimed at his head. He'd seen one before - once, only once - and whatever those things do, he did not wish to experience it.

The third figure had now entered the room but was quickly obscured again by the elf woman stepping up. She spoke some horseshit at the other woman, something about being evil. It made no sense to Gawain so he simply grimaced at it. He was unsure what to do - there wasn't much more to do but wait for a chance to get some kind of sharp weapon and get rid of these pointy eared fuckers. She continued to put on a little play for the knight, pretending they could be friends. But she likely realized full well that the knight was in a position where he couldn't demand for anything. It made sense. “Aye,” he said, one of his eyes already growing thick from the beating he'd received from the woman. It didn't seem to stop him from playing along with the game. “My first elven friend. I'm overjoyed..” He snorted and spat out some more blood before awkwardly stumbling onto his feet, though not making any extremely fast movements to avoid getting, you know, shot.

The man stepped up now, finally making an actual statement. It was about the mage - and although Gawain could live with it if they simply left the mage, something compelled him to speak up. It must've been the fact that to Gawain, mages were heathen blasphemers. “He somehow captured me. The man is a criminal. You might be an elf, so I don't think you'd understand the concept of.. justice.. but if you've any contempt for kidnappers and backstabbers, you'll end this man's life.” He looked at the elf for a moment before shaking his head solemnly. What was he talking about. Backstabbers? “Ofcourse you'd not understand.. you four are all backstabbers like he is. That's the reason I got captured.. unarmed and unarmored. Monarch bless me.. I'll need it.”

Juna was normally not quick to anger, but there were certain things that could be done which trigger her anger instantly. They didn’t number very high, but if by chance you treaded on one of them Juna would have been far more willing to merciless. She would never go straight to being evil, except in one circumstance, but her nature would become so that she would be quite unpleasant for he enemies, and quite sadistic.

It so happened that this Knight, this pompous and arrogant man, unable to keep up his façade of bravery in the face of a weapon pointed at his face, had crossed a line which Juna would not appreciate being crossed. When he had called Annara a tribal whore Juna had decided she did not need to hear any more. It seemed she had made a mistake and had not come to correct conclusion when she had burst forth a lesson in ethics from her mouth.

“I’ve changed my mind! Sorry about this, Annara.” Juna said with a smile. “It seems deep thoughts really can only take you so far. Forget all about that pseudo-philosophical drivel I spouted. ”

So Juna promptly let go of Annara, releasing her arms. Then she looked at the knight, and angry look in her eyes but a firm smile on her face. She knew exactly what she would do, and it would only be the beginning. She kicked him between the crotch with a firm thrust of her foot. Juna would see how much he liked that, how smart he was now.

"So, what was that you were doing with him before I rudely interrupted you, Annara?" Juna said, discretely drawing her knife.

Without even the ashes of the village behind them, the desert had been robbed of its luster. The wind ached, trailing dust across the dunes and flapping at the standard. The horizon shimmered warningly even in the pallid dawn, and the sand beneath their feet seemed to run like water as they trudged, soiled and exhausted from the ordeal of that harrowing night.

The Captain was talking, guarding against the silence. Understandable. Good that he cared for the fates of their brothers. But most like they were gone, and would not be seen again until it was their turn to walk undaunted into the Underworld, and meet what judgement awaited them. Time was an enemy they could grant no advantage.

They had left a long trail of footprints over the sands behind them when the Captain asked his question. Kolbe's ruined head raised to the cloudless sky, drawing in a long, hissing breath. Contemplating. It was some time before he spoke.

"Vespers XIX: Canticle of Unyielding." he rasped in that deathlike voice. "Strange 'twas not familiar to you. Great upheaval, 'pon that hour. Difficult to hear. No doubt why."

Still.

"A chant of resolve, for the servants of God. Strength to stand against the unholy, against Djinn and witchcraft. To hold fast to courage in darkest hour when one knows dawn may not come. I have cried it before. Will as like do so again."

Kolbe slowed his pace, coming to a halt. The mail of his gauntlet clinked as he tightened his grip on the battered standard, looking out toward the north. As though seeing something that wasn't there.

"Because evil must be opposed," he exhaled, firmly. "Even if odds are overwhelming. Even if the battle is hopeless. Evil. Must be opposed."

His head turned slightly, as though regarding the other man out of the corner of his blinded eye.

"You understand." he hissed, softly.

It was a statement. But the echo of a question hung about it, unvoiced. Do you?

In the absence of words and trudging footfalls, a faint sound carried to them on the warm wind. A distant whisper of white noise, and another sound, one instinctively familiar to the two knights. The whickering of horses.

"There." Kolbe pointed, increasing his pace. The river sparkled before them, a long flowing stream of white-capped water, skirted with long reeds and shaded by thriving, leathery green trees. The mounts idled at its muddy banks, tails flicking, drinking their fill. One for each of them. The others could make their way home. It was, at least, some small blessing.

But Kolbe didn't smile.

Perhaps he couldn't.

Lost for words, Amon cast a slow look back at Linus, contemplating the man’s dogma. Kolbe was akin to a sharpened blade, forged for nothing but battle in the name of its master. He spoke of evil as if it were an entity in and of itself, and perhaps it was, but he made his purpose sound so singular. What would he be without the evil he loathed? Was it valiance he spoke of, or hunger?

A sharpened blade did not grow dull when purposeless and unused. It was ready to cut whatever it was put to. Only its master retained the ability to discriminate.

Amon faced forward again, rubbing his stubbled chin with the heel of his thumb. Only Kolbe survived of the three men he had traveled with. Why had Magistrate Harking given Captain Serona the men that he did?

“I understand,” he finally answered after a lengthy span, and many steps in the sand. “And agree. Of course.” Amon’s silvery blue eyes gained a faraway look, losing focus on the ground in front of him. “Often the trouble is knowing what evil looks like.”

Poignant, considering the godawful state of Linus’s face. The added mumble was barely audible over the sound of the wind in his ears

“… Particularly when looking it in the eyes…”

The sight of horses and water in the desert, though welcome, did not bring a drop of joy to either Knight. Amon could not help but feel that he was abandoning his men if he did not at least attempt to stay and look for them. He glanced once at the dusty banner to reassure himself of his duty and steel his resolve. The King must be retrieved. He must know of what had happened to this place and his men.

It wasn’t until Amon reached the sturdy, grassy bank that he was able to hurry his pace, tired of trudging through sand. The horses were still packed with saddles, bags, and water skins ready to be refilled in the fresh, cold Neratine.

Still frightened from the earthquake, the horses nickered and edged away, forcing Amon to approach them more cautiously. There were only two of them left. His own black stallion, which had been the wise old leader among them, was nowhere to be seen.

“What senseless deaths!” Amon muttered in frustration, referring perhaps more to the missing riders than their steeds. “If this is the work of elves, then they are more than a nuisance, they are declaring war. Come, Sir Kolbe. We drink our fill and move on. The King must be made to understand what we face.”

The implication, of course, was that King Alonso didn’t understand much of anything.

---

While Annara punished the Knight for crimes only she could define, Aust’s beckoning pulled Lothren’s dark eyes reluctantly back to the Magus lying on the stony floor. Still and breathing shallowly. He was forced by his conscientious friend, rather against his liking, to reconsider what to do with the creature.

Mages were gods made mortal, given the power to shape the earth and suck the life out of creation. The Viceni Magi were lords among their ilk, and gluttons for a power they little understood. Though magic users themselves, elves were prone to fear and disdain them as much as any Aretan. For every drop of arcane arts sipped by the elven race, the Magi consumed entire seas.

This one in particular must have recently expended his the greater part of his strength, likely while subduing and imprisoning the Knight, or Lothren might not have gotten the upper hand.

“He is a complication; he shouldn’t be here. Nor should the Knight,” Lothren relayed to Aust in his native tongue. “Had we the Viceni Prime Minister as well as the Aretan King in our midst, I would consider taking him along with our desert faring friend.” The elf returned his attention to Gawain and fortified his grip on his gun. “But I have the safety of the Ytharien to consider. I would contemplate killing him if he still had the ability to defend himself.”

The jail was made of stone and dug underground. The fire and its choking cloud should not reach this place. If left here, all that awaited him was the same fate that would meet the rest of the village.

“Do what you feel is merciful,” he added in common tongue, for the benefit of all. “If he is left here, he may wake and flee before the sand lions arrive. His gods can decide what happens to him.” That still left the opportunity for the mage to track the Ytharien, but that risk sat better with Lothren than cold blooded murder.

The glint of a knife quickened the elven leader to a sense of urgency. They had lingered in this place long enough, and Sir Knight had received ample punishment for the moment. Dawn was coming, and it was best the Ytharien returned to camp so they could move onward.

“Enough,” Lothren commanded after the second beating. “We’ve all suffered at the hands of Knights, but take care that we do not become the same savages they are. We’re to take him alive, and preferably not in pieces, to deliver him to his monarch in working order. Would you like that, Sir Knight?”

The elf unlocked his gun and released the match, which had gone out minutes ago. The arquebus had lost its ability to fire not long after he’d first aimed it, but humans were delightfully ignorant on elven machinery.

“I will gather our horses. Take him up above.” Lothren slung his gun over his shoulder. “The sun should be rising. Let us return to our friends.”

Trusting the Ytharien to their task, the elf turned and walked once again up the steps. Restoring the wretched Knight to his young King should suffice as an act of good faith.

---

The King would be found only a few hours into the early morning, perched on a high rock with a looking glass.

One of the only benefits to tracking any man through the open desert was a wide field of vision. The land occasionally rolled with hills or suffered jutting rocks, but a caravan was obligated the take the easiest, flattest roads made along the river. The sun was high and the dust kicked up by the earthquake had been left miles behind.

The wheel tracks and hoofprint had been aged by a few days of wind, but here the air had begun to smell of burning. Not like hamlet the Knights had come across the day before, but a from small fire with a tall, thin plume of smoke rising up above some short cliffs. Sunlight beat down over the yellow desert, exposing nearly everything to the searching eye.

Sat lazily on his rock, clothed in bright red and gold, and grasping his gold plated scope was the sandy haired Alan of Marion Bay.

The caravan was hidden in the shade of the cliffs behind him. After waking up the dawn watch for the third time on his way out to relieve himself, Alan had begrudgingly sent the stupid old dwarf to sleep with the other elves. If he couldn’t stay awake alert the caravan to incoming danger or the return of their fellows, then someone else would have to.

Couldn’t sleep himself, anyway. Felt too ill in his head.

“Two horsemen?” he mumbled to himself, attempting to find them through the looking glass. “What are they doing out… is that a standard?” Found them. Oh hell. “That’s my standard!”

When Alonso scrabbled off of his rock in a damn hurry—dropping his scope in the process and skidding as he had to pivot back to grab it—Amon knew. He almost laughed, but he was too angry.

“His Highness!” he declared, with as much scorn as he could without sounding traitorous. Kicking his horse, he rallied his comrade. “Sir Kolbe!”

Not a few moments later, the King reappeared from around the squat cliff astride a white mare in full gallop. Hoofbeats left a dusty trail behind him as he headed for the river, as hard and fast as the horse would agree to. A short cape fluttered around his shoulders and back as the King leaned into the run. It was an old horse that would quickly tire. He could not hope to outrun his Knights, but he had to at least lead them away from the caravan if he could.

No telling what they would do to each other.

Annara took in every word the knight said but it had little effect on her. What he said about her people were lies and what he called her... It didn't make her struggle any harder against Juna's grip but it didn't weaken her efforts either. Neither did Juna's words, for that matter.
All the bigger was the surprise when the elf let her go.

It was so unexpected that she didn't know what to do for a second, long enough to watch Juna kick the knight herself and draw a knife, and before she could decide whether that was a good thing or not, Lothren spoke and put a damper on her anger or at least her freedom to express it. The knife coming into this had reminded her of her part in the attack and stilled her raging emotions like a bucket of cold water; she managed to give Juna a grateful look, recognizing that the other woman had just defended her honor, but reached over and laid a hand on the she-elf's all the same in what must have been the friendliest gesture they ever shared - Angering their leader wasn't worth it, not over something of such insignificance.

As Lothren gave his orders and disappeared up the stairs, Annara closed the small distance between the Aretan man and herself and looked into eyes that were filled with pain and what must have been disgust the likes of which she'd never seen.
"You know everything you said was untrue and if you don't, you're an even bigger fool than your masters. I've seen the innocents you've killed and I hope they haunt you every night."

The Eretol girl kneeled down a little so she was level with him, despite the stairs - given their height difference, it didn't take much.

"But I thank you for the compliment. Every whore possesses more honor and morality than all the Aretan knights together." Annara gave him a smoldering look that was utterly seductive, yet not free of the passionate hatred she had expressed earlier. He had hit closer to home with his words than he could possibly know. "And I'd rather get on my knees in front of every beggar in Marion Bay than to spread my legs for the likes of you."

She turned away and went up two, three steps, swaying her hips so markedly that her beauty couldn't have escaped his attention if he tried. The look Annara gave him over the shoulder, however, held none of the promiscuous promise: It was cold, adding weight to her finger's idle play with the hilt of one of her daggers.
"Now: Move."

Gawain was promptly shown what side of the blade he was on in this sad sad story of treacherous elves and Eretol whores. The kick between his legs landed, firm and stout, sending him hurling forwards landing on his knees. He planted his fists into the ground as he grunted, coughing slightly and spitting out blood on the dusty, sand-covered floor beneath him. He took a brief moment to recover before looking up, grinning slightly. The grin morphed into a deep, ragged laugh. “You kick hard,” he said with a voice equally as ragged as his laugh. “.. for an elf.”

“Give me a knife like you have and we can settle this betwee-” his answer was cut short by the elven leader, who stepped between to stop the woman. He then proceeded to ask the knight if he'd like to be delivered to his monarch. Oh, if only... “I'd like that very much, elf.” he said, looking down at the floor again, still wincing from the pain. Oh, if only he had a knife, he'd string that elf bitch up on a noose along the rest of these vile creatures. The Eretrol whore, she'd meet a kinder fate. She was a whore, surely, and a tribal at that.. but she was still a human. She'd become his personal servant, to serve his every whim and need. Just the thought of that made the pain between his legs ease away.

A set of boots approached the man again, and from the sound of the voice it seemed to be the Eretol. She didn't get far past her initial sentence before Gawain really did collapse - not from pain, but from laughter. Was she serious? He snickered even as she continued to speak. This woman was remarkably fun, even for being an Eretol whore. “I know what I said to be untrue, is it?” he asked her then, looking up finally with a twinkle in his eyes. “Then I s'pose you're not a criminal, and you simply arrived here to feed these poor villagers.. and then somehow a fire started and you came here with your weaponry to make sure I was unharmed?” He shook his head; no, it was clear what they had done here. And justice would be served for it as soon as he saw the chance to do it.

Her comment about her never spreading her legs for him didn't do much for him. For her, ten Eretol whores who would gladly offer up their hatred for the Aretians for some money. So he simply raised his shoulders at her comment, slowly rising upon his feet now, pushing himself off of the ground with his fists. This was the first time, however, that he managed to get a good look at the woman. She was stunning. It made him think twice about what she had said before, too - she certainly was attractive, for an Eretol. Only his hatred for those desert faring half-traders kept him from acknowledging this, even to himself.

His staring was interrupted by her cold, cold gaze into his eyes, and voice that spelled only hatred for him - the kind he returned the favor of, most definitely. As she ordered him to move, he simply bowed lightly, as if he was bowing for a noble woman in court. “After you, milady..” he said playfully. In his mind he promised himself to make these fools pay for taking him captive. They should've killed him when they had the chance, because he was going to annoy them to death for the lack of a sword to do it with.

The one thing that betrayed his playfulness was his body, which was bruised and dehydrated. As he attempted to step forwards to follow the woman into his captivity, he felt a sharp pain between his legs and in his side. The mage had been kind - played only mind tricks on him, which would explain why he couldn't recall much of his time in captivity. But between the hard sandstone floor in his cell, the elves and the Eretol whore beating him up and the bad shape he was in.. Gawain had seen better days.

His arm was placed across his stomach to hold his hurting side, as he slowly made his way up the stairs following after the woman, and no doubt followed himself by whomever of the two remaining elves had decided to follow them up. His side hurt like hell, as did his sack. And his leg wasn't feeling too good either.. he swayed slightly as he attempted to hide that he was hurting. He did a bad job at it - it was clear to anyone that he was in some pain.

It didn't stop him from wishing death to all those who were in and around the village at this time.

"Complicated indeed. I understand," Aust replied tersely in the Elven tongue and returning his blade to its sheathe. Pushing himself to his feet, he crossed his arms over his chest and finally settled his eyes on one person. The Knight didn't seem to be of a mind to resist, at least not yet, but that didn't mean he shouldn't be watched. Very shortly after the Elf rested his eyes on the figure however, he dropped to the ground. Upon glancing to Juna and the blade she now held, he surmised what had happened and couldn't help wincing in mild sympathy to the man's pain. While it may not have been entirely undeserved, a kick like that was simply cruel.

Reasoning that the Knight had likely dealt out at least as much cruelty to any one being in the past, Aust remained silent while Lothren gave the rest of his orders and vanished up the stairs. He tensed and almost spoke up when Annara approached the man again, but the anger she had been mired in earlier seemed to have passed. At the least, her insults had become less crude and she wasn't striking him. After they both got a few words in, Annara started for the stairs. Aust watched her climb them, noting the way she moved and the dispassionate look she offered the Knight over her shoulder. The man, clearly weakened by his plight and subsequent encounter with the Ytharien, was slower to make his way up those first few steps. As the two climbed the stairs, Aust spared another glance towards Juna before looking down to the man still sprawled at his feet. Nothing had changed about the Mage's condition in so short a time, but the elf still looked troubled.

"Go on ahead. I'll be along shortly, after I see what can be done for our other friend here. Won't be more than a minute behind you, I just don't want him following us if I can help it," he explained, kneeling by the mage again. Placing a hand over the man's eyes, he started to chant softly as though preparing a complicated spell to lay over the Mage.

Juna quickly put her knife back into its holster that was hidden within one of the pockets of her armor. She simply gave a little shrug to explain her actions. Juna herself wondered if she had ever really planned on killing him. Hurting him, definitely. She could do a hundred things to him without killing. Yet she did not know if she had the intent to kill. Juna shrugged off her thoughts, assuming she had neither the desire nor undesire to kill him.

“Well, seems I got a bit excited there. These things happen; you understand of course,” Juna said. Or maybe he didn’t. She had rarely lost her composure. “I’m sure you understand as well, sir knight. Of course you do.”

Lothren had told her that “enough,” and that was good enough to her. He was their leader, and she owed him a great debt, likely never to really be repaid. She looked back at Annara, who gave her a touch on the shoulder and a look that Juna thought looked almost sympathetic. Juna gave Annara a look, holding that smile that seemed to always be there.

“That one’s a lively one for sure,” Juna said, and then added mockingly, “His words, at least.”

She took a step away from the Knight, although kept her eyes on him. Who knows what he would do if he had the chance? He was rotten to the core, Juna could tell, and very angry. If he tried anything she would react, although he strong he would do so. He had not been willing to do so already, and now the ideal time for that had passed. They were now going back outside.

Metal heels thumped into the horse's flanks. The mount's bellow sounded across the plain, echoing back dully from the rocks as it was thrown into a gallop, sending the pair thundering across the dry earth. Linus flattened himself against the saddle, the fluttering standard held low like a jouster's lance. A tarnished, horseshoe-shaped medallion graven with the name "Mister Hooves" jingled from the mount's tack. Linus glared at it a moment through the perforations of his helmet. Poor name. Lacking purpose. Would have words with Falkenberg if he still lived.

They drew nearer, pounding across the sands. The Captain spoke true. This was their charge. But his mind circled even as his focus was honed to a narrow point. Why run? 'Twas no callow defiance. A trap? No. Unthinkable. Couldn't have anticipated this meeting. Perhaps simple fear. Perhaps some grander gesture. Perhaps something to do with the curious absence of the boy's companions. Answers would be had soon, for the distance closed, nearer and nearer.

The King's mount turned sharply, cantering down through a pass Linus couldn't have perceived even had he known it was there, descending into a dry, shallow valley. Kolbe drew hard on the reins, twisting the mount's head painfully to one side. Mister Hooves lurched, singing in protest, twisting its body to follow, legs gouging a furrow into the earth and skidding a good three meters before slowing enough to turn, throwing up a glittering wave of sand in their wake. Reckless. Stupid. Couldn't follow now. Continue, then. Use the elevation to see how the land lay. Avoid further surprises.

Kolbe thumped the horse into action once more, slowly building to a gallop along the crest of the ridge. He leaned hard in the saddle, gripping it tightly as he looked below, tossed up and down by the relentless pace. There -- a white blur, trailing a billowing cone of dust. The Captain was in close pursuit, keeping pace with the boy, unwilling to endanger a child of the Royal bloodline but clearly losing patience. The valley was narrow, but treacherous, serpentine. Their apostate master could not outpace them, but they could be lost. It was time to force a resolution.

Linus pulled. Another primal bellow rang across the empty plain, one that the other two riders were puzzled to find drawing rapidly closer.

---

The desert in front of Alonso exploded into a heavy fountain of dust and silica as Mister Hooves landed bare meters in front of him, ploughing into the sand and skidding near a forty-degree angle, legs scrambling to control its momentum. The standard of Areta, stained, torn and ragged at its end, flapped above the cloud, held high in one tarnished, armored fist.