The moment had finally come, as now the brigade Lycaon had assembled stood in formation, being one among many. They certainly stood out among the plethora of well-trained and heavily armored regiments, but overall it was not too odd. After all, it was often in the army that there was the militia, and it was often that they were the first ones to die. Lycaon’s brigade knew nothing of this sort; they only knew that they were in a place far away from home, among people that they did not know. They felt and looked like lost children, and for now they indeed were, especially those that were like Herona. Herona was nervous, and for the obvious reason. There was that fear that she would die. Until now she hadn’t really thought about it, but now it was hard to think of anything else. She was at least not in the front row, but in the third.

As she stood stationary, like everyone else, Herona saw at last Lycaon enter. She at first did not know who he was, but when he entered on his white horse, in his shining plate armor, and with his pale hair and skin she could have sworn that rays of light were emitting from him. But her eyes deceived her. From behind him came Sir Daeleth, Sir Glynda, and Sir Sayer, but it was Lycaon who occupied the attention the men and women of his force.

“Alright, men! Stand tall, and by the gods keep yourselves quiet, lest you want a good beating!” Sir Daeleth shouted. “Presenting Lord Lycaon, our Grandmaster of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor!”

“May grace be upon you, warriors of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor, our patron heaven-sent, bringer of wisdom and theology,” Lycaon said. “Hear me, children of Formath, and may peace reign over your gentle hearts, and your bodies be steady, for the gods themselves stand at your side. And what greater advantage can there be than that? Our enemies indeed are plentiful and – I shall not deny it – mighty, but there is no might which the gods cannot fell. Mountains they may destroy, kingdoms they may vanquish, and island they may sink; the mere army of a pretender is nothing to their grand providence. Now, the treacherous House of Manshrew has dared to assail against our great and gracious king, and attempts to seize the throne for himself. It is the aim of that man Andrew Manshrew, ever ignominious and ignoble as he is, to raze our homes, to enslave the young and old, and slay those in the prime of their lives. Yet because of your actions here, that destruction shall be averted, and ruin shall fall on his house. So march bravely, men of our Order, and see that the gods and fortune favor the bold.”

Such were the words of Lycaon. They were not words that were very easy for Lycaon to say, for if the world was truly fair and just he would have been on the opposing side, and would rather be praising Andrew. Many in Lycaon’s brigade were still nervous, but the nerves were not overwhelming. They had been told so many times of the glories of the war, and the honors that they would receive, that they had begun to believe it. That is not even including the anticipation they had knowing that they were soon to receive loot. As Herona heard her fellows cheer when Lycaon finished his words and an easiness reigned among them, there were as an easiness that reigned in herself as well. However, it was to be short-lived, for they were soon to see that nice and reassuring words would not prepare them for what lay ahead. Lycaon knew this, of course, and had no illusions about what would follow. Yet he needed morale among his militia. It was one of the strange things about the art of war, that men fought better when they were under the sways of illusions.

Then came the waiting. Lycaon stood upon his white horse at the front of his brigade, his face free from any signs of emotion. Then at last, when the nervousness was again beginning to return to his troops the battle properly began, and they all saw in the distance the great elephants of House Manshrew on the horizon. A sense of dread and fear once again was fully upon the soldiers of Lycaon’s brigade. They had never been in battle in all their lives, and now it seemed that their first enemies would be elephants, mighty beasts to them that looked like monsters which would trample them underfoot in an instant without a moment of hesitation, and Lycaon knew that such thoughts were not far wrong.

“Fear not, brave warriors of the divine,” Lycaon said. “And remember well this: that the gods watch over and guide the path we now tread upon. With right-guided direction and divine aid you will be delivered from this day victorious and clad with honors. And besides, you do not fight alone, my friends, and if you wish to see how these beasts will be slain, look no further than our allies.”

“So, Patrick,” Sir Daeleth said. “How will you handle this?”

After the elephants the multitude of forces of House Manshrew came into sight, and the closest of these was the light cavalry. The Manshrew elephants had gone charging into the battlefield, with the light cavalry charging not far behind them. Lycaon and his mounted knights stood in the front unflinching, while the knights who stood as officers among the common soldiers kept order as much as they could. Herona could not help herself from shaking. This tension, this feeling, it was the same as when her lord had was standing in front of her and holding the knife bloodied with her sister’s blood. Her breath, no matter how deep and steady she was breathing, felt thin, and every part of her was coursing with an unwelcome unnerving tension. Yet there would have been no use fleeing. She had already left home for good, and it seemed that the battlefield was her new home, even if it meant only a quick death. Not that she could flee now anyway.

Patrick had given the order for the archers to target the light cavalry, instead of the charging elephants in front of them. Lycaon had nearly lost hope in Patrick when this order had come. He could not see what the use was in focusing on an inferior threat, especially when the superior threat was one that threatened to trample over the vanguard and cut deep through their lines, perhaps all the way back to the rear. Then squadrons of mages quickly rose out, and before the elephants reached the lines of the lines of the de Reimer army, they rode in front of the barrels, and as the war elephants of Manshrew reached close the mages made their plans known. These barrels were filled with water, and so this water the mages drew out and froze, and created huge spikes of water which stabbed through the war elephants. So these great beasts were felled to the ground, and many in Lycaon’s brigade could not help but give a sigh of relief. Yet the battle was far from over, and their duty had not been lightened at all, as they were soon to learn.

“Ready yourselves!” Lycaon said. “Here is where the battle truly begins!”

As Herona saw the cavalry drawing near her she began to realize that she had no idea what she was doing. She was holding her spear in one hand and her shield in the other, and had begun to get a feel for them, but she had never been a real fighter, and she was not so sure she could stand her ground against an army of men whose bread depended on their skill in killing. She looked around to see if anyone was feeling the same, as if she were some greater reader of expressions. Rather inappropriately, she saw faces that showed fear, and realized that perhaps her own face was probably looking similar, though the feelings running through her now were far too complex merely to be encapsulated in that one, simple, vague word “fear.”

Elsewhere were Lycaon and his mounted knights, who were at the front. They served as the elite vanguard, and clad in their shining plate armor they stood out. They saw the light cavalry of the Manshrew Army coming, but it did not phase them, and their stares remained hard and resolute.

“Let them come!” Sir Sayer said. “They know not what terrors they now face. Whoever comes and faces me shall have their head thrust from their neck!”

“And looks like you’ll like you’ll have plenty of chances, Sayer,” Sir Daeleth said. “Look at that army. Don’t think there’s been a battle quite like it since the last war. Ah, imagine if old King John could see us now; it’s like the last war never happened.”

Lycaon and his mounted knights were in the front, and as the light cavalry charged towards them they gave their own counter-charge. Lycaon gave a slap of the reins, his steed charging ahead, and his mounted knights followed him closely. Holding his sword high, Lycaon struck one of the light cavalry in the foremost rank by the side of his torso, which sent him tumbling to the ground. To Lycaon’s right was Sir Daeleth, who shouted orders barely heard to his compatriots as he rose his sword, fleetly striking down two of the light cavalry. Sir Sayer’s energetic shouts were lost in the cries and clank of battle, but his sword, which he struck with rapidity and savage strength, struck Manshrew cavalrymen from their seats, as they tried to charge forward. He was struck in the shoulder, but he got through the pain, and the plate held strong, and with his blade both hewed through the flesh of horses and struck down the light cavalrymen from their steeds. Yet he no longer had the enthusiasm that he had in youth, and did not go running off thick into enemy lines, no matter how much he wished to. He was the one leading the counter-charge, and they seemed to have the advantage for a time. Yet their numbers were not great enough to stop the light cavalry from getting through.

But they were too few in number and could not hope to hold the whole line. That responsibility fell to Lycaon’s militia. Though they were only light cavalry, to these unexperienced men and women they appeared to be so much more, and Herona felt that she had never seen a more fearsome sight. Herona, her heart racing, held out her spear as far she could while still having a tight grip upon it, and held her spear up high. Her sigh of relief from when the elephants fell could not even be recalled now. One of the cavalry came straight for her, his lance aimed straight for. She rose her shield, and felt the strength of the spear coming against her. The blow was heavy, but Herona held strong. She had no choice, after all, for to fail here was to die. Then her spear plunged into the cavalryman’s horse. The horse made a great sound, and then fell down to the ground. She tried to pull it back out, but it would not come easily. She felt a rising urge to panic. “This is the end,” she thought, “I’ve done it now. Now I have no weapon, and I am just like a fly caught in a web.”

Sounder thoughts took the day, however. Fueled by an adrenaline Herona could only half understand that came from her furious fear, she quickly drew her axe. However, already a new charging cavalryman had come to replace the last. Thanks the ranks behind her, Herona survived the force of the charging horse, and quickly swung her axe, and killed the horse, half-cutting off its head, which still swung from its neck. A change was coming over Herona, though slowly, and was coming over her peers who had still survived. She saw that many had already fallen, mostly those who were on her side.

Yet the power of charge was weakening. It was then that Herona learned that a charge is very strong at first, but if it does not succeed very quickly it will probably fail if the other side is able to stay together. It did not matter if many were killed, for many of them had indeed been killed, but as long as they kept strong and kept the formation and kept their spears they indeed would have a chance. In that moment there was just an opening that allowed Herona to do something which, in her adrenaline-filled trance mind, gave her a great advantage, though it was only a minor thing. She picked up a spear, and its owner would not miss it, as he was dead. Herona that day proved that she was not a coward. She remained at the frontline. She felt like an eternity passed on the battlefield, but even so she never shrunk. The cavalrymen struck at her, but Herona kept her shield up. She thought to herself, “With this shield I am a turtle. As long as my shell is in the right place I shall be invincible, and I shan’t die.” And with her spear she thrust forward. Not as deep as last time, because she did not want to lose this spear too, but she did thrust deep enough. She saw many men, on her side and on the others, fall in the grime of the battle. Some of the men she felled herself, and some of the horses.

“Fight on, men!” Herona heard Lycaon shout, even over the sound of battle. He must have been near, and his voice was louder than she had previously thought. “Their momentum is gone! The day shall soon be ours! A holy warrior does not cower in the face of evil!”

Lycaon’s knights had held the line where they had been, and now moved to help the untrained militia. Their numbers were too small to make the final push, but the knights, charging through their ranks and hacking and piercing at the armor of the light cavalry with lances and swords, while their own plate were not so easily conquered. Lycaon rode with Sir Daeleth by his side. In the cramped and hurried battlefield Lycaon held one hand on his rein and the other on his sword. He charged towards the light cavalry, the weight of the pace of his knight’s horses pushing them back, and as he approached one of the cavalrymen struck him down from his horse and killed him by a swift strike to the neck. The knights were a welcome sight to the militia, at least the ones who were near them like Herona was, who even now had trouble with the cavalry, even if they could not make up the whole difference.

It was then that the Anjervine heavy cavalry joined, and it seemed now that a truly sufficient cavalry force arrived. And now the light cavalry of Manshrew could but only struggle, and many of them began to fall. Sir Sayer was at the front, barking orders. He was a warrior through and through, and his enthusiasm and energy had not even begun to fade. His detachment of the knights joined up with the men of Anjervine and charged at the light cavalry. Elsewhere, at the head of the militia was Sir Raeya. She had stood strong, and as their commander they had stayed together. Now at her very presence they seemed to rally, as if she was the cord holding them together. Anjervine would not be the only ones who would fight against the light cavalry. Lycaon’s forces kept their line. The knights stood as the vanguard and remained as a strong front, while the militia relied on strength in numbers and spears. And Herona stood strong. She remained a turtle, but was a turtle with a tusk. She simply kept her shield up, and she kept her spear ready.

Lycaon did not expect their newfound success to last long. Andrew he knew was a brilliant commander, and he would not allow the vanguard’s charge to be in vain. To allow such, Lycaon knew, would be a great loss and extraordinary setback. So he was not at all surprised when Manshrew’s infantry came as reinforcements to the light cavalry’s aid. Lycaon’s knights stood firm against the Lannistark soldiers as they came.

“At last they come!” Sir Sayer said. “Men, it is time to hew some necks from their heads! Come, they stand no chance against both Anjervine and us!”

Sir Sayer charged ahead with his section of the knights. The fighting of the Lannistarks was brutal and strange, their way of fighting chaotic. Sir Sayer was in the vanguard and charged ahead, trampling over one of the soldiers and then struck hard against the armor of another who was beside him and threw him down to the ground, but then was felled from his horse, a sword penetrating deep into the flesh of the horse’s side. Sir Sayer was thrown to the ground, but he quickly rose himself up. A sword went down towards him, but Sir Sayer deflected it by rising his left arm that had his buckler attached to it. Then Sir Sayer struck his sword hard against his opponent, knocking him to the ground, and then slid his sword into the slit in the Lannistark’s helmet.

“Bah! What sort of fighting is this?” Sir Sayer said. “Bastards, the lot of them!”

“Sir!” it was one of Sir Sayer’s knights. “Shall we withdraw?”

“Gods! No! Continue the charge, and pay heed to King Patrick and Lord Lycaon’s orders,” Sir Sayer said. “As for myself, I’ve no choice but to withdraw for now.”

Then Lycaon saw none other than Andrew before him, mounted on his horse, as he was charging forward. It had been many years since they had met, but it was a face that Lycaon knew well. He would not forget his commander, the ever dutiful fellow servant of the man who was once the rightful king. Yet he was now an enemy – the enemy – his nobility notwithstanding. So Lycaon struck the reins on his horse, and then charged ahead. He came against Lycaon, and his sword struck Andrew’s steed. For Lycaon it was a terrible sight, to strike down Andrew’s noble horse and throw him to the ground.

“It is a shame that we must meet again in such a fashion, my king,” Lycaon said. “Yet this is fate.”

An element that Lycaon certainly had not taken account of was the Grim Company, or the Company that served under Lady Grim. Lycaon was taken aback by the look of them. They had not completely fallen out of the earshot of his scouts, but all that Lycaon knew of this mercenary company was their devastatingly good looks. They look more like they belonged in the temple as statuaries than as soldiers on the battlefield. Nonetheless, Lycaon knew better than to underestimate a mercenary company. His face unchanging, he looked to Sir Daeleth and Sir Glynda, and saw that they were ready, and would do what was necessary. So the Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor began their charge. A man standing beside Lady Grim with a foreign but distinctly human face rushed forward, but Sir Daeleth rushed forward and met his strange sword with the flat, circular hand. Then as his companions rushed to his aid Sir Daeleth’s horse flattened them with his hooves, and with his sword Sir Daeleth struck two of them. Then he withdrew back. Lycaon looked straight at the leader of the company, the so-called Lady Grim, it seemed, and she stared back with venom he had rarely ever saw. It was not a venom of hate or some other dull thing – such things are reserved for the lowly – but of pure, unsullied ferocity. Lycaon’s horse charged forward at full speed, but Lady Grim without a pause in her demeanor struck a bolt of lightning at him, which struck the horse. Yet Lycaon was not going without a fight, and even as he was going down his sword skidded her helmet. Even as his horse went down he rose himself, and blocked a slash of her sword.

Lycaon was impressed, and already her blade had taken him back to a time when he had been young, when he had truly believed in the Code of Chivalry as more than a useful charade, when kingship and honor went hand-and-hand, and when his face was more than a mask. Right now, however, he wore no mask and conjured no illusions. Lycaon expression changed, subtly, but enough for Lady Grim to take a notice, and for even a hint of surprise to be seen in her face; a look which was soon gone. They said no words. None were necessary, nor could they had hope to say any words that were appropriate. Before Lycaon had looked like a knight, perhaps, but not a warrior; yet now was different. Lycaon pushed their blades to the side, and they dislodged from each other, but Lady Grim did not take a step back, and gave a great shove as Lycaon tried to step forward, pushing him back. Lycaon did not retreat, rising his sword with the speed, strength, and suddenness of a lightning bolt, but Lady Grim was ready for him, and as soon as she parried was giving a strike of her own. So they struck and parried, struck and parried.

Then lightning, the bane of all men-at-arms, came from her hand, but before she had time Lycaon quickly dashed forward, tackling her, and the lightning went past him. Then he rose his sword and struck at Lady Grim, denting her armor. The pain was great, but then flames came from all directions from her, burning Lycaon and forcing to dash backwards, and then Lady Grim put her hand to her chest, healing it. Lycaon struck at Lady Grim, their swords meeting, and from her other hand she summoned fire. Rising her left hand the flames avoided his head, and with the strength of his plate traversed the flame. He saw that her magical power was draining quickly, and as long as he continued to hold out she would soon have nothing but her sword. She shot a bolt of lightning suddenly; he torpedoed ahead suddenly. Lycaon felt like he was cooking, but had still struck ahead. Sparks still flying, they both struck at each other ferociously. Then Lycaon saw an opening. He struck at her arm, so hard he was half certain he broke it, then disarmed her by swiping away her sword. And then he struck at her multiple times, wounding her, until at last one last spell of lightning came from her hands, throwing Lycaon back and wounding him. His men came to him and hers came to her. It seemed, however, in the end, that Lycaon was better off, and as Sir Glynda was helping him he raised himself up, and drew up his sword once again.

“I would say that that was hasty of you, milord,” Sir Glynda said. “But it seems they are withdrawing, now that their leader has been dealt with. But, milord, are you quite sure you are alright?”

“I’ve dealt with worse,” Lycaon said. “If you wish to help, lend me a horse.”

“At once, milord!” Sir Glynda said.

Elsewhere the militia stood strong. The fighting-style of the Lannistark was strange, and their strength was great. Yet with Sir Raeya at their head the militia stood strong. She stood at the front, shouting orders, and fighting alongside her men as though she was an equal among them. Her strength was unfading and as fearsome as that of a lion. She had slain already her fair share of the men of Manshrew, and now another of the Lannistark came for her. Before he had a time to strike Sir Raeya rose her Warhammer and hit against his helmet, the metal caving inwards from the power of the blow, and he fell down to the ground. The battle continued, and
Sir Raeya was felled, a sword put through her neck. She gave one last strike of her Warhammer, crushing the skull of her assailant with a clash, before she went falling down to the ground. The militia might have retreated were they not so hemmed in by allies on one side and enemies on the other, and so they had no choice but to continue on in retribution for their fallen commander. As Sir Raeya’s body fell down to the ground, there was a fellow knight who drew up her body. She rose herself up, and as one of the Lannistark went to meet her she gave a clean strike, cutting through his neck. Another came, but she struck again with speed and precision, and he too fell. Sir Raeya was not yet dead, and looked to her forces, and gave them one last order.

“I may have fallen…” Sir Raeya said. “But you must fight on! Do not falter, and force them to see your heart…This is my last order to you, keep formation, and do not withdraw until the order comes.”

And soon after the life drained completely from Sir Raeya, and that knight who had grabbed her body still held her. There soon came a dozen or so knights who were dismounted, led by Sir Sayer. They were hardly reinforcement, but they took the body of Sir Raeya away and to safety.

“Sir Raeya, I never thought this day would come,” Sir Sayer said, his tears only unseen because of his helmet. “You were honorable both in life and death. But enough! Gwladus, you and I, once again, my daughter, shall show them fear once again.

Even as the knights drew the body back, the battle had not ceased. Sir Sayer was now the one barking orders, though he kept to the commandment that Sir Raeya had stated. Sir Gwladus was no commander, but she, for what it was worth, was the mightiest one there, and struck faster and stronger than either Sir Raeya or Sir Sayer could. Sir Herona kept her shield up, and her spear ready. She felt the awesome force of some sword against her shield, but she kept strong. All around her she saw men and women falling to ground, dying or dead already. She put all her force into a strike of her spear. It struck the armor of one of the Lannistark infantryman in the knee. And soon she was striking again. Lycaon was with Sir Daeleth, mounted upon their horses, and brought their sword down upon those Manshrew infantrymen down below, striking again and again. It had not been years since Lycaon had been in such a battle, and took him back again to a time which now only survived only in his memory, to the time of the civil war.

Despite their intense effort they could not overcome the combined power of the Manshrew infantry and light cavalry. It seems that in the end, no matter how matter how much courage a militia could muster up, they were still only a militia. The battle was far from over, and many more would have to die for it to end, but Manshrew was gaining the advantage. Then there came the order from Patrick for the infantry to withdraw, and Lycaon gladly acquiesced. He gave the command, and his knights gladly gave the order. Then Lycaon’s brigade withdrew quickly, and allowed the Cawanor heavy infantry to take their place. Herona was glad to be gone. She now knew war, and to put simply, she wished she could un-know it. Yet Herona saw that they were still chasing her. She lifted her shield to block the blows, and struck her spear to get them to leave. She felt the spear draw true, and hit hard against steel plate, but the assault did not cease. She felt something sharp hit her leg, and saw that a blade had just cut through the leg. Herona thought that maybe this was it, and the time had finally come. Gods’ know that it had already come for plenty of others. She would fight until the end, at least. Yet that was when Herona saw again that knight, Sir Gwladus, coming to her aid. Herona thought she was moving quite fast for being in plate armor. Sir Gwladus brought up her sword, and struck down quickly two men, and pulled back Herona, holding her by her shoulder.

Their eyes met for a time, but even so, they said nothing to each other. Not that it would have mattered. Their words would have been lost in the din of battle. They did not linger together long, and soon Herona was retreating alone. She saw a familiar face as she was on the way. It was that strawberry-haired nobleman she had seen before. He looked injured and looked to be struggling to get along, so she drew him up, and put his arm around her, and carried him along in this way. He did not try to resist her, no matter how prideful he was. To be alive was better than to be dead.

Then Lycaon quickly withdrew from his spot, and continued the effort to cover his wavering force.

The Manshrew forces continued to give chase, even as they were withdrawing. “Quite an unchivalrous move,” Lycaon thought to himself. “But like a boar who smells blood, they can’t but charge forward, I suppose.” Some of the militia continued to die, as they were chased by the Manshrew forces, but most were able to get away safely, as Lycaon’s knights continued fighting until the militia started to gain some space and were able to retreat more safely. Atop of his armored white horse Lycaon gave a strike of his steel sword, its tip reaching slightly passed a Lannistark soldiers neck, his head thrown from his neck. Another charged forward, but Lycaon, careful at the reins, turned his horse at just the right time, and its hoofs went trampling over another one of the Lannistark. Soon his militia were out of the way, and the brigade now gladly took its place as the reserve. Lycaon retreated back with the rest of his knights, and in his unchanging smile there was the ever small hint of satisfaction, for as far as he was concerned he had won a great victory. They kept formation, but Lycaon knew that their purpose was now fulfilled in this battle, and now they were too reduced to be expected to rejoin the battle. Yet it was not this battle that was important for Lycaon, but the many later ones.

And as they were riding back Sir Daeleth exclaimed, “What a battle! It’s been since we’ve seen anything like it, hasn’t it? Looks like we’ve lost a lot of our own though; a sorry thing that. Not that I could’ve expected anything else.”

“The tree withers in winter and blooms in spring, and so too shall our army,” Lycaon said. “And thus we shall return once again to the fields and cities of this kingdom, and harvest a new crop amidst the sons and daughters of our kingdom. And we shall return even mightier and more plentiful than before, now that ours have felt the sting of the frost of war. Yet we shall not be rejoining a battle anytime soon. I have fulfilled my promise to the King. I have made a brigade to help him in his battle. Now I have a brigade of my own, which belongs to the Order. And it shall be even larger the next time, if I can help it. Yet we will never again be a militia. This slaughter I shall never allow to happen again. No, when my brigade returns to the battlefield again we shall be among the great armies of this land.”

“Okay,” Sir Daeleth said. “But what do we do now? Besides get a drink. Gods know I could use one.”

“After today we no doubt will have earned it. Yet for now our army can only wait,” Lycaon said. “The Concord will be victorious. Now it is only a matter of time. One day Andrew’s soul will dwell among the gods while Duncan and Patrick’s will squander in hell, but virtue cannot bring happiness in ambition, even if it can bring happiness. Andrew may be a great commander, but the odds were against him today. Patrick I think is his equal, or more, as a general. I do not think he ever really had a chance, with his elephants being taken out so quickly, and with the aid of Blackwell.”

“Maybe,” Sir Daeleth said.

As the battle carried on, the men of Cawanor engaged in battle with the men of Lannistark, and Cawanor held firmly the advantage. And as the Anjervine Cavalry attacked from the sides and the Blackwell army came striking again and again against the forces of Manshrew. It seemed Andrew gave the order to retreat, as the Manshrew army soon gave a full-scale withdrawal. The Blackwell army stopped a quick retreat. Lycaon could tell that Andrew’s force was not quite as large and impressive when they finally broke through and managed to escape. Sir Glynda and Sir Sayer now approached Lycaon. Sir Glynda still had her horse, while Sir Sayer did not.

“Standing a little shorter, Sayer?” Sir Daeleth said.

“There is no shame in it,” Sir Sayer said. “It only means that I led as first among equal amongst my men, as the heroes of old did, though in this decadent age such courage is now a novelty. In battle my horse, an ever trustworthy company, was slain, though thankful I have returned but a little harmed myself. And alas, I bring also terrible news with me. Our dearest friend, Sir Raeya, perished in the fight as she led our new cubs into their first battle. At least she found an honorable end. Though, in truth, that does not comfort me, for the void of her absence is not filled at all.”

There was a silence for a moment.

“That is heavy news,” Sir Glynda said.

“Indeed it is,” Sir Sayer said. “Yet…I say we must do what we can to honor her memory.”

And they nodded in agreement.

“Were we on the other side I might curse the name of the de Reimers, maybe be spurred on by anger and hate,” Sir Daeleth said. “But now I can only mourn.”

“Just as Saint Elenor said, ‘To find the righteous is to seek a Ghost Orchid,’1 and Raeya will truly was our Ghost Orchid. She will have a ceremony and honors worthy of a person of her character and deeds. And our mourning, too shall be done in the proper way.” Lycaon said. “But the battle is not yet over, even if the fighting is.”

“Scavenging,” Sir Daeleth said. “It’s a dirty business, though a necessary one. Armies couldn’t very well function without it, though.”

1. A rare flower.

Herona thought that perhaps she died after all. Perhaps her injuries were too much, and she was one of those unfortunate soldiers who died of their wounds after everything was already done with, like in the tragic stories the bards had recited. She could feel that this wasn’t heaven, and things didn’t hurt enough that she could call it hell, so she supposed she was in some kind of limbo, where she’d float around aimlessly like a wisp. Yet actually she was merely groggy from waking up from a less than pleasant day. As she began to slowly rub her eyes, she murkily saw someone was there.

“Who?” Herona said indolently.

“Sir Gwladus,” she said.

She knew the name. It was the knight who’d saved her. Herona was beginning to see she wasn’t dead at all, though she wasn’t certain whether that was a blessing or not. She began to look around, and saw she was laying on the ground, on top or some sort of thick cotton, and had a warm blanket over her. She supposed she had survived after all, and now she was back at the encampment, resting in some tent. Her leg ached, but it felt better than she thought it was. She looked to the knight that was beside her. She didn’t know anything about her – hadn’t ever heard of her – other than she could fight well.

“Sir Gwladus, is it?” Herona said. “Well, it sure is fancy meetin’ ya here. I’m pleased to make ya’ acquaintance in a proper place. Herona’s the name. Thanks for lookin’ out for me all this time. I owe ya one.”

“No need.”

“Oh no, where I’m from it’s ‘an eye for an eye,’ whatever that means,” Herona said. “So again, thanks, ma’am. So looks like I’m still alive after all, eh?”

“You were fortunate,” Sir Gwladus said.

“Fortunate?” Herona said. It was not a word she’d used to describe herself right now. But then she realized she meant she was fortunate because she was alive. “Ah, ‘cause I survived. S’pose I’m fortunate, then. So thanks again, Sir Gwladus. I owe ya’ a drink.”

“Again, There’s no need,” Sir Gwladus said. “I only did the right thing.”

“I insist,” Herona said. “Soon’s the cash’s mine I’ll be right at it.”

Herona saw that there were many others around her, in worse shape than she was. Some were missing limbs, eyes; all sorts of things. All she got was a cut just above the knee. She rose the blankets off of herself and tried to raise herself, and she felt better than she thought she ought to, but it was heavy.

“I had a mage heal you, and the wound was not terrible,” Sir Gwladus said. “But you should not be too quick to run.”

“Thanks! Ya must be my own personal guardian spirit to do so much for me,” Herona said. “Why’d ya’ do it anyway, for someone you don’t know?”

“It was right,” Sir Gwladus said. “I could not just leave you.”

“Good enough for me,” Herona said. “And I’m better for it anyhow. But you can count on that drink, Sir Gwladus. I swear I’ll get it too in all due time.”

So with that said Herona rose herself. Gwladus was watching her carefully, but Herona had no problems with getting up. She felt sore, and there was still a little pain, but she was beginning to see that magic certainly had its benefits.

Lycaon stood next to his lieutenants Sir Daeleth and Sir Glynda from within his tent. As the general of this brigade he had a large and spacious tent, though the floor still was dirt. He and his general stood before a great wooden table which had lain on it a number of important scrolls of paper and had a detailed map of Formath rolled out and pinned to the table with many markings on it. To the side was a rack of weapons and a simple wool camp bed. Currently Lycaon was talking with his lieutenants on the Order’s next move. Sir Glynda had gone over statistics for their recruiting chances across the Kingdom. She was pessimistic, and not without reason.

“Our recruiters have gone over the kingdom once already, making the number of possible recruits considerably smaller. Add in the fact that many men and women have been conscripted into the de Reimer, Blackwell, and Manshrew armies already, and our prospects look even bleaker,” Sir Glynda said. “And it is fair to say that Syphius, where the bulk of our soldiers came from, will not have many new prospects to speak of.”

“You worry too much, Glynda. Lycaon, those reinforcements we need will certainly arrive,” Sir Daeleth said. “If there’s one thing I know about the people of this land it is that they are hardy, and don’t turn away from a good fight, especially when you put religion in the mix. And religion is our business.”

“What do you think, lord?” Sir Glynda said.

“Pray,” Lycaon said.

“Milord?” Sir Glynda said. “Are you joking?”

“Will fortune favor us?” Lycaon said. “We cannot know. We must have faith not only in the gods, but in the people. We will recruit regardless. We must have new blood, or we will not have reinforcements. And if we do not have reinforcements, our future shall die before it has even been born.”
Sir Sayer then entered, with a pair of guards at his side along with a troupe of other men and women who looked far wearier and wounded. They were an odd collection of knights clad in plate armor and lowborn peasants who wore little armor in comparison.

“You arrive at last, Sir Sayer,” Lycaon said.

“Yes, milord,” Sir Sayer said. “And for such an occasion!”

Laying on the table behind was a small, well-crafted box dark brown in color. Sir Daeleth opened it up, revealing that it was filled with many small silver medals octagon in shape.

“Soldiers of the Order of Saint Elenor, by the testimony of your fellow men-in-arms you have been shown to be true warriors. The gods have blessed you with strength and courage, and with right judgement you have acted upon your virtues, for many of our foes were felled by your hands,” Sir Lycaon said. “And such acts must be given the proper honors. I present to each of you the Silver Medal, given to true and mighty warriors who fight on behalf of the Church. But if your tastes lie elsewhere, you will receive not only prestige for your honors. I will see to it that the wages for each of you is raised for this month. And I can assure you this payment is not a small advance.”

Then Sir Sayer named each of the veterans one by one, signaling for them to come forward. From the small box Sir Glynda grabbed a medal, and then Lycaon put it over each’s head. A peasant woman, introduced as Herona, was the last of those who were given their medal. She bowed her head as Lycaon gave it to her.

“If any of you have any reasonable requests I will be happy to oblige in repayment of your honor,” Lycaon said.

“If you please, m’lord, I’d like some five pieces of silver,” Herona said. “I’d like to take a friend o’ mine to a drink, you see, m’lord.”

Herona felt the viciousness of the glares on her, like the stare of her baron, though it was like there was a dozen of him staring down at her now. Then she realized that his asking such was probably a bluff, a “formality,” as the high folk loved to put it. But how could she have known? His words sounded so earnest. She wasn’t privy to this sort of show. Yet Lycaon was not bothered by her request.. He tossed her a gold coin, and despite a bit of stumbling she caught it as it came soaring through the air.

“Do not mind the change. It would not be worth the effort for you to return it,” Lycaon said. “Now, brave heroes, you are excused. I will be leaving you now. You and your friends shall stay awhile to tend to your wounds and rest, but I am needed elsewhere.”

And with that said, Lycaon left the camp alone. He went to the stables quietly, where there was a small troupe of knights. Lycaon and they grabbed the fastest horses his Order had brought along and left. Sir Daeleth and Sir Glynda then informed the officers of Lycaon’s speedy departure and his intention to allow the men to rest, and told them to pass the information along to the soldiers.

Lycaon and the few knights that he had taken with him had hurried on to Nyhem. He had no doubt that he’d have plenty to do once he arrived. The call for the bishops of the land to gather in Nyhem and elect a new High Priest or Grand Cleric had already been sounded for the battle, and no doubt they had already mostly arrived. It would be disastrous if things did not go as he hoped. The very reason he had Mildred eliminated was because she was so exasperating. She was greedy, satisfied with the status quo, and far too clever. Once Bishop Irenaeus, loyal and quiet as he was, was on the Holy See then Lycaon could be sure his plans would go as planned. Yet there was still the problem of the heretics. Lycaon knew the danger they could pose. Unlike the wine sacks who stood aloft in their castles and palaces, Lycaon had seen the discontent of the people firsthand. With the tyranny of the mad king, two civil wars in a row, another war with the Blackwells just around the corner, high taxes, and abuses of power from both priest and aristocrat, their grievances were many, and Lycaon knew that many of them might follow any fool whose ideas half-aligned with their own. He needed to work fast in order to prevent Johannia’s ilk from spreading. There were already her sympathizers running amuck through the provinces.

All that would have to wait, however, for now. He had no choice but take things one step at a time. Lycaon was not barred by the gate guards, and he quickly rode into the city. Lycaon turned to the attachment of knights he had brought with him as protection and excused them, and commanded them to return to headquarters. He continued to ride quickly, though not so quickly that he would bump into the hustle and bustle of the city, which would only slow him down even more. Some in the city recognized him and greeted him, and he waved back at them. Yet then he returned to his ride, making them aware he had other places to be.

Lycaon arrived at a large mansion, very much standing out in the neighborhood in which it stood. This place was his home in Nyhem, lavishly made, newly-built, and did not quite yet feel like home. Lycaon pulled the reins on his horse and stopped the steed, alerting the two knights of the Order of Saint Elenor who guarded his house, but they were caught by surprise and saluted when they saw who it was.

“Sir, you’ve returned!” they said.

“Indeed,” Lycaon said. “See to it that this horse does not run away, for I will be needing it. And one of you I will need to return to headquarters. Bishop Irenaeus and Bishop Leonellius will need to know that I have returned. You no doubt have no idea where they are, but headquarters will. And make sure that you inform me of your success.”

“Yes sir!” they said. “Shall we alert her ladyship of your presence?” one asked.

“No,” Lycaon said. “I shall go to meet Felise myself.”

He opened up the door easily enough. He had a key for it, as this was his house. As he opened the door the maid who was in the main hall sweeping looked at him with surprise at first, but then bowed. They exchanged the proper pleasantries, but Lycaon told her to continue with her duties. She offered to alert to his wife Felise, but Lycaon was intent on doing it himself. So she told him the room she was in, and Lycaon walked in that direction. This place still did not feel like home. Lycaon entered the room he had been told Felise was in. It was a room filled with servants all at work at their spinsters. Yet they had all risen for their posts, and as he opened the door Felise was there to greet him.

“You were expecting me,” Lycaon said.

“A suit of plate is hardly fitting for sneaking about,” Felise said.

Then she leaned towards him, and they kissed.

“The house has been lonelier without you,” Felise said.

“And the road is lonelier without you,” Lycaon said. “But at least for now I will not be leaving Nyhem.”

“Even if that is true, I know you won’t simply be lounging around here with me,” Felise said. “Bishops from all four corners of the kingdom have been coming in, ready to elect a new leader for our holy church. It’d be all people could talk about, were the civil war not at its zenith. ”

“They say companionship heals loneliness,” Lycaon said. “To have you introduced to the King’s court shall be no problem. You are of noble blood, and married into noble blood. And I am sure that ”

“I am no longer a sixteen year-old maiden,” Felise said.

“But your beauty and charm hasn’t faded,” Lycaon said.

“Only you were ever impressed by my charm,” Felise said. “Putting that aside, where does your day now send you to, Lycaon? A bishop, or perhaps some official that needs some coaxing?”

“Soon, but not now,” Lycaon said. “We can finally have some time alone.”

It was over an hour later when Lycaon finally met with one of the Bishops. He sat in the dining hall alone with a man named Leonellius. Nearly seventy years old and a bishop of thirty-five years, he was well-versed in every art and skill a bishop would ever need to partake in, and he was well-respected by about every bishop in the kingdom, at least publicly. He knew Lycaon’s plans for the Chuch, and was one of his most staunch and competent allies, supporting even those plans which Lycaon dared not utter publicly, but he had no desire for power himself. He was also a friend, who Lycaon met many times in his youth in his father’s court.

“Grandmaster, it is a pleasure,” Bishop Leonellius said. “You are the first to return to Nyhem after the battle that I know of.”

“I did not march with an army,” Lycaon said. “And I returned as quickly as I could. But many bishops arrived before I could return. So tell me, while you have been here and I have been away, what have you seen?”

“Not much,” Bishop Leonellius said. “As things have not gone completely well. It is a blessing of the gods that we have managed to keep secular affairs out of our own. Whether the land is de Reimer, Manshrew, or Blackwell, the bishops have arrived. Bishops from Uzgob and even Telmarion have arrived. Still, the war has been disruptive. Some bishops whose sees have been turned into battlefields have arrived nonetheless, but they arrive late, and some have not arrived at all yet. Still we wait. And there are some who have no excuse at all for not arriving. Bishops from Ralda and Cawanor, who should have arrived already, are nowhere in sight. And Bishop Marko, who was here in Nyhem just a few days ago, is nowhere to be seen. The same goes for that theologian, Avicebrol. It seems she went with Marko. So for now we have been having nothing but idle debates, which mean nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

“And I trust Bishop Irenaeus is in the favorite as the choice for next High Priest,” Lycaon said.

“As the bishop of Nyhem and your chosen favorite he is naturally the frontrunner,” Bishop Leonellius said. “But you had better expect a fight, Lycaon. There are many bishops here who do not appreciate your influence here. They see you as a mage-sympathizer and an innovator against tradition.”

“And I would expect nothing less,” Lycaon said. “But now is a time of urgency, and with the advent of the Johannians I think they know it. They will want a leader, and they will feel the pressure to give in. And my opponents are not united. They have nothing to stand for, other than their dislike for me.”

“One day they will have unity, Lycaon,” Bishop Leonellius said.

“But not today,” Lycaon said. “For now I will trust in you to see to it that Bishop Irenaeus becomes High Priest.”

“I will, to the best of my abilities,” Bishop Leonellius. “I hope that we achieve a majority immediately, otherwise this will get ugly.”

“I can only leave it to you,” Lycaon said. “Though I feel that we will. Change is in the air.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Bishop Leonellius said. “Though it is exactly that sort of talk that makes so much of the bishops dislike you.”

Sir Daeleth stood at the head of the brigade of the Order of Saint Elenor as they marched on towards the capital, the pages who stood at the front at the edges of the first rank blowing loud on their trumpets, announcing their approach to the city. Also at the front were the two flagbearers, one bearing the holy flag and the other depicting the emblem of the Kingdom of Formaroth. The knights were in the front, standing atop their armored horses, and were followed by the militia behind them. Sir Daeleth rode alongside Sir Sayer. Sir Glynda had not joined them, and had gone to give their friend Sir Raeya a proper burial. They too had tried to give their friend a proper sending off, but in a different way. Sir Glynda dealt with the graveness of death and burial, while they celebrated with merriment, taking a detour to the city of Telmarion. Sir Daeleth could no longer remember much of it. The band began to play on their instruments as they approached the gates of Nyhem. Daeleth had met with this band personally, but only knew some of them, and others seemed only vaguely familiar. He vaguely remembered a lieutenant telling him that they had managed to convince some local Telmarion musicians to join them by offering an exorbitant amount of money. Most of the night in Telmarion he did not remember. He remembered joining Sir Sayer at a tavern. There were a number of Telmarion taverns that their units filled, with those who knew Raeya and those who served under her taking a few drinks in her honor. But he had joined with Sir Sayer. The event was very teary and heartfelt at first, and then became very rowdy and wild. The last thing Daeleth remembered was him getting into a drinking contest after he slighted his ability to hold down alcohol, the rules being whoever was down first was the loser. It apparently was a draw. The mourning went well into morning, and the soldiers had apparently caused quite a ruckus. An officer had reassured him that technically there had been no deaths, but Daeleth did not find this reassuring.

Both that night and the hangover it produced were long gone, now, and it was finally time for them to have a little rest after a long travel. The band continued to play jubilantly as they marched through the street, the people looking wide-eyed at them as they passed them by. It was then that they dispersed. They had already been given maps designating their proper location. Some units were to be sent to manors belonging to associates of the Order, some were to be sent to fill inns that had already been reserved before, and some were to lodge with residents friendly with the order. Daeleth had informed the officers that if any of them got lost and ended at the wrong place there would have hell to pay.

Herona marched with Sir Sayer’s unit, along with Sir Gwladus, into an inn. Sir Sayer was the first to enter, standing tall and spirted in his suit of plate armor, standing so fearsomely that none of his men dared to cause a ruckus as they entered. Sir Sayer walked over to the barwoman, and in a gregarious voice announced their arrival to her, as if she were not aware already, and gave her his thanks. The men were already taking their seats at the tables that were set out. Herona had her mind set on joining them.

“Now’s a good a time as any to get ya’ that drink I promised ya’,” Herona said, turning to Sir Gwladus, who merely nodded.

Rhodanthe had just about arrived at the city of Nyhem, and could already see its proud stone walls. She was not a normal girl. Since the age of twelve Rhodanthe had suffered from a strange ailment. Sometimes she would black out, and when she awoke people told her that instead of blacking out she spoke strange, oracular prophecies and forewarnings. Fenick had claimed that it was divine possession. Rhodanthe could scarcely believe it, and even now she could hardly understand it, but she could only accept the will of the divine, whatever that was. These episodes were disruptive to her, however. They came at random, and when they came hours would often pass until Rhodanthe was herself again The visions had been acting up abnormally recently, and twice already she was sure she would have had a harder fate had not a kindly family of villagers taken her in.

She had now departed for a second time from such a family of villagers, and now headed to the city of Nyhem. Born a subject of the Manshrews, she would have reason to hold the capital with a certain amount of disdain. To some extent this was true. On her way here the war between the Manshrews and the De Reimers seemed to have reached its peak. She had seen a city besieged by the Concordant’s forces, and decided that it would have been best not to go that way. She did not know if her city was already burned, and if Fenick too had perished along with it. Yet still the city looked to be a glorious sight, and she wanted to see it.

She saw that even in days of such strife the gates remained opened, and were not barred to visitors, though it obviously was not unguarded. She entered alone, with no possessions on her save her backpack. As she entered into the city she knew that she should first find a place to stay, but she could not put her mind to it, for as she entered Nyhem she could only look around with wonder. This place was bigger than anywhere else she had ever seen. She believed that there could be no bigger place in the world. And there seemed to be excitement and bustle around every corner.

-------------------------------------

As she had travelled around the city, Rhodanthe discovered how disagreeable the merchants really were. Because of her disheveled appearance, they treated her with contempt, thinking she was nothing but a beggar. When they learned she was a traveler, they become more agreeable. She would admit she did look more like a beggar than an adventurer. Yet because they had been so unpleasant, Rhodanthe had taken herself away from the hubbub of the market, and into the deeper sections of the city. At some point she was half lost, half wandering aimlessly, the fatigue of travel starting to hit her. She should have just gone to an inn like she had planned. It was then that she came across a group of men, armed clubs, and a deep chill struck through her. She did not need any special intuition to know that there was something wrong with that appearance.

“Hello there, ma’am. You look lost, and cold.” one of them said. “Why don’t you take a seat with us? That’ll keep you out of the cold.”

“That’s alright,” Rhodanthe said. “I’m no beggar or vagrant. Just a traveler. I get that I don’t look it, but it’s the truth.”

“A traveler, eh,” he said. “Well, it was fancy meeting you here, though I reckon this’ll be where we depart soon. As I suppose what we’re doing don’t concern an outsider such as yourself, but any good, godly person’s invited to join.”

Rhodanthe’s interest was not peaked, though her worry increased. They had clubs, after all. “And what is that you’ve been doing?”

Another one of them spoke in a serious and somber tone. “There’ve been many outsider’s who’ve been coming recently, but they haven’t been like you. They wear the cloth, but they haven’t been holy. It’s the heretics I speak of, of course. Johannia’s priests, and all their ilk. There’s one in particular that we got our eye on. Caro, that preacher that’s been around.”

“And what are the clubs for?” Rhodanthe said.

“For him, and anyone with him,” one of the men said. “Father Henriks organized it all. He’s a true holy man, unlike that Caro. We’ll go to him soon.”

“I see. I’ll take my leave of you,” Rhodanthe said. “Do what you will.”

Rhodanthe did not wish to stay there for another moment. She quickly ran off, after these words had been spoken. They didn’t know what to make of it, but they didn’t have enough reason to pursue her. From their words, preachers spreading the messaging of Johannia had arrived in Nyhem before her, one of the main ones being one named Caro, and tensions between them and those who would cling to the ways of the bishops had already spiraled out of control. One such traditionalist, a priest named Henriks, was already planning on violence. Rhodanthe had not come to Nyhem for war, though perhaps she should have known better. After all, this seemed to be a time for war. She thought now that perhaps she shouldn’t have ran so far from those men, though they unnerved her, as now she had no idea where to find Caro. There was no helping it now. Perhaps if she followed a crowd she’d find the man she was looking for.

Uncharacteristically, Bernarda was running through the streets, her hands pulling her robes up somewhat so as to not drag it across the filthy stone. She was heading towards the local headquarters of the Order of Saint Elenor.

“Take me to the highest ranked person here!” she said to the two knights who were on guard duty. “It’s vastly important!”

“State your business,” one of the guards said with complete calmness.

“Shut up! I have urgent of the most urgent kind!” Bernarda said. “So urgent that your little head could not hope to understand! Lycaon’s very life is in danger! I am no ordinary Friar. The synod itself hears my voice whenever it gathers. If you do not let me through I can have you excommunicated in at least three different ways!”

Eventually they decided her cause may have been true, and that there was no harm in letting her see Sir Daeleth. They escorted her to the top floor of the Order of Saint Elenor’s headquarters, and led her to a room. Bernarda slammed open the door, and saw Sir Daeleth inside, where he was looking over some papers. She knew him well enough to know his name, but not more. Unlike Lycaon, this Daeleth did not seem to have much care for participating in Church politics, and as far as she knew she was only Lycaon’s lieutenant in the Order, and nothing more.

“Sir Daeleth, I believe?” Bernarda said.

“And you are?” Sir Daeleth said.

“Bernarda Avicebrol, priest and theologian. I shall have you know I always have the ears of the bishops.” Bernarda said. “But that is of no importance now! I bring important news, Sir Daeleth. Lycaon’s life is in great danger! It is because of that Bishop Marko. It turns it he was far more vicious than I thought. He once had told he would contact me when the time was right, though I now know what he meant was far more sinister than I had originally thought. Today he did summon me, and so I came to his estate. There were several other clergymen with him; I did not know them. But that does not matter. He then told me his horrible and impious plan. The Church is taking the wrong direction because of that Lycaon, he declared, and in order to solve this problem he simply needed to get rid of Lycaon. Assassinate him! I was horrified! I do not know if I was the only one who was feigning agreement, though I said very little myself, but they agreed that it would be done in three days’ time. That was three days ago. I am sorry it took me so long to get here, but it was not easy to sneak away from the Bishop’s estate.”

“And you rushed here because you were afraid you’d be implicated yourself,” Sir Daeleth said. “It was race, really, between the two of you. If you got here before they carried out their plan then you saved your skin, but if you got here too late then you’d be implicated, and be as good as dead. Little better than Johannia, in fact.”

“How dare you!” Bernarda said. “These words are poison! I simply came here because I care for the well-being of my dear friend, Lycaon.”

“Whatever you say,” Sir Daeleth said. “Well, Lycaon’s neither here nor at home right now. He went to visit Bishop Irenaeus.”

“So no one is home, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sir Daeleth said. “All his servants and his wife Felise will be there. But that means they’ll be the ones in danger. What sort of men will be behind this attack?”

“It seems that Bishop Marko has mercenaries,” Bernarda said. “But they did not sound like they were anything special.”

“Then we should make short work of them,” Sir Daeleth said. “You said it was today? In that case I’d better hurry.”

“Indeed,” Bernarda said.

“Not you, though,” Sir Daeleth said. “We don’t need a priest to pray for us. You just stay here, I suppose.”

“Very well. That is for the best.” Bernarda said. “I pray for your success, of course.”

Yet Daeleth had just said he would not need it. Whatever the case, Sir Daeleth soon exited his office, with the two knights who had escorted Bernarda in looking at him.

“Get a platoon ready as soon as possible,” Sir Daeleth said. “I’ll tell you the situation as we ride.”

The day had been quiet for Felise. Lycaon had returned several days ago and had been with her for most of the time. He had put aside his world of intrigue and power for the time, and allowed himself rest while in her company. She did not enjoy his long journeys away from home, though she understood why Lycaon had to go through with such undertaking, and knew that he was pained from departure from her just as she was pained with departure from him. When he was away she read and composed, she spun and weaved, and she brewed. She had spent the last few days with Lycaon, but today was slightly different. For now he was away, meeting with Bishop Irenaeus. Yet she knew that he would not be long, and that he would soon be with her again. Today she was at her spinster’s wheel at a room in the first floor, weaving carefully as her fingers were around the circle. Yet as she was there, alone with her thoughts in the room, a servant came into the room with heavy breath.

“Milady!” the servant said, not even bothering the curtsy. “The house is under attacked!

The gentle smile Felise had disappeared, and was replaced by a stern and strong expression. She always knew that this was a possibility. Though she was surprised, she was shocked, and she did not let herself become overwhelmed by pointless questions. “Have they broken in already?”

“N-no, milady!” the servant said. “But soon. Very soon, they will.”

“Calm yourself,” Felise said. “There is much to do, and we’ve little time to do it.”

Then she quickly ran out of the room into a full sprint, quickly going past the servant, who, taken by surprise, soon followed her lady. As Felise ran to the front of the house she heard the clanking footsteps of men in armor, and the sound of her ladies in waiting being slaughtered. Never had she heard a more terrible sound. They were closer than she had hoped. She avoided the main hallway for the time, and took another route. Yet she quickly ran down to the entrance, where she saw a number of servants standing, one of which was the head maid, Yolande Vigeriche.

“Milady!” Yolande said.

“Yolande,” Felise said. “Aena told me what happened, generally. But tell me, what happened on your end, as shortly as you can.”

“We were attacked, but I suppose Aena told you that,” Yolande said. “When we saw a group of armed men trying to get in, we piled as much in front of the door as we could, but they broke through, and we could not stop them. I barely escaped up.”

“Do not give up hope,” Felise said. “I have an idea, and it should work. Gather all the servants, and have them meet in my bedroom.”

Her plan would never come to fruition. The men charged for them before they had time to react. They said no words to her and or to any of them. One of them struck Yolande through the chest, and Aena was next. Before Felise knew it, both of her servants were struck down to the ground, their blood wetting the ground.

“So, it seems my time has come,” Felise said. “But with this act you have shown yourselves to be fools. This will not stop Lycaon. He will come for you, and none of you will survive.”

“Lycaon is next,” said the one who seemed to be their leader.

“Hmph, such arrogance,” Felise said. “I wonder, Lycaon, will this help you? You always seemed like you were being held back, you were too cautious. Yet perhaps with this, maybe you shall become what the gods wanted you to be.”

The one that seemed to be their leader stabbed Felise through the chest. Oddly enough, the first thing she noticed was how it soiled her dress. Yet that was a triviality. These fools could not soil her, no matter what they did. For a moment she thought of how she would never be remembered, or at most she would be remembered wrong. They would always think of her as just the lovely flower who served as Lycaon’s pretty wife. No one but Lycaon would ever know who she really had been. Yet the praise of fools was meaningless, and personal glory always faded with time. Now she was dying by a sword wound through the chest. Her grandfather would be proud. For one last time, she thought of Lycaon.

“This, too, was implied in our contract, Lycaon,” Felise said. “Gods…”

Caro came off to people as a powerful and austere man, and whether this was the case or not was not of importance. He, in a black robe, with long black hair and a long black beard, stood firm and tall over the people on a podium, and so while he gave his sermons, said in a mystic and enigmatic style in imitation of Saint Elenor, his listeners were enchanted and invigorated at every word and phrase. Indeed, it was a fitting sight, for it was Saint Elenor herself who had uttered that famous aphorism, “the fool is fluttered at every word.” His sermon denounced the Church of the bishops, their wealth and their corruption. Yet there was also a darker side to his speech. He spoke of mages, practitioners of black magic and evil spells and spreaders of evil curses, as he called them. There were a few Knights from the Order of Saint Elenor watching, unaffected and unamused by Caro’s rhetoric. Lycaon had ordered his knights to keep an eye on the local heretics in Nyhem, though he had not yet commanded anything more. Rhodanthe arrived just as he was making his speech on the supposed vileness of the mages, of their evilness of their incantations and their secret influence. Rhodanthe wondered of the validity of this teaching, for Fenick had never mentioned to her before, and she wondered if the subject was even appropriate for a sermon. Yet this was not why she had come here. She slowly pushed herself to the front of the crowd, and approached Caro.

“Father Caro?” Rhodanthe said. “Sorry ‘bout interruption, but there’s somethin’ I need to say, for everyone’s safety.”

“What is it, child?” Caro said. “I can see by the look in your eyes is that what you say is of some importance. So speak.”

“It’s another priest, a Father Henriks,” Rhodanthe said. “He’s not with us; his hearts still with the bishops. And he’s got some men with him, men with clubs. They know your name and they know you’re here.”

“I know Father Henriks,” Caro said. “Once we were friends, but since then he has denounced me personally and publically. Yet however profane his tongue was, I would never have suspected him to have gone so far. Yet I believe you. With his every action you can see portents of such a vile act.”

“What shall we do?” asked a man in the audience.

“We must stay strong!” Caro said.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to fight them,” Rhodanthe said. She could tell from the man’s words that was just what he was planning to do.

“It is written that one must never instigate the enemy, and act in murder,” Caro said. “But to fight for the sake of self-defense, to defend one’s self against the wicked, there is nothing which the gods extoll more!”

“What? Father, you can’t be serious?” Rhodanthe said.

“Do not doubt me, child!” Caro said. “Or are you one of them? You are, aren’t you? You were sent in an attempt to frighten, to disperse us? Well, we will not frightened, nor shall we disperse. How I wish I could send you crawling back to your master and tell him that we have no fear of him. Yet, my child, I cannot send you back. It is a shame.”

Rhodanthe suddenly saw suspicious eyes all around her. She had never really felt afraid before. At least, not like how she now felt. She now felt she knew the real meaning of that phrase, “alone in a crowd.” She was quite a fast runner, so she decided now was the time to test out how practical that ability of hers was. Yet before she had time than give more than a step her sprint was cut off, and she was thrown to the ground. She was terrified, and her previous feared seemed nothing in comparison. Yet nothing happened further to her, at least for the time. As a man held her down, and Rhodanthe was too terrified to resist, Caro continued to talk the crowd, firing up the crowd with rhetoric which grew more and more inflammatory and combative. The phrase “holy war” was used more than once. Then Caro spoke suddenly, in words without the artificial charm of his half-baked oratory, and ordered the crowd to bring as many likeminded believers with them to increase their numbers, and plenty of weapons. They did as their leader said, and as time passed they returned bolstered and more aggressive. The Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor were at a loss.

“Shouldn’t we be tryin’ to stop this?” Herona said.

“Yep, that we should,” Hakon said. “But really, look at the lot of ‘em. Not a thing we can do, ‘lest ya’ know some way we can knock down hundreds at a time.”

“I see your point,” Herona said. “And headquarters said that this’d be an easy job. Just right for someone just back from the fight.”

“That was a fool to say,” Hakon said. “Who’d ever heard a’ fanatic tha’ was easy to handle.”

“Well, even so, we must try,” Herona said. “It’s our job, after all.”

Soon the traditionalists, those who still aligned themselves with the Church, arrived, a fair number of them with clubs in their hands, and were being led by the priest named Henriks. Yet they were surprised when the heretics were boisterous and brave when they met them. Caro ordered his mob not to attack, not to instigate, but no one could doubt that the heretics were ready to fight, and would attack ravenously at the first sign of trouble. The Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor, thin though their numbers were, stood in front of the two groups and prevented them from clashing. Then there suddenly came a man who came shouting news.

“Lord Lycaon’s estate has been attacked. An attempt at assassination!” the man cried.

This was followed by much whispering and gossip. It was not surprising that such news had come. Lycaon was well-known among the people of the city, especially among the most religious. Considering the situation, it wouldn’t have taken long for someone to have reported it to these two crowds.

“Lord Lycaon was attacked?”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Who indeed?”

“The heretics?”

“The heretics attacked Lord Lycaon!”

“The heretics tried to kill Lord Lycaon!”

“It was the bishops that tried to kill Lycaon!”

“We were framed!”

“This is a vile conspiracy!”

“The heretics have assaulted Lord Lycaon.”

“There is no forgiveness or mercy now.”

Everything was lost in the whispers, and now the rowdiness of the crowd made what they had been before seem calm in comparison. All hesitation from them was now gone, and Henriks and Caro no longer bothered trying to control their respective mobs. And when the news came that Lord Lycaon had been assaulted or even killed, the Knights of Saint Elenor’s efforts to hold back the traditionalists became half-hearted, except for Herona who genuinely wanted to keep fighting from breaking out. No one knew who struck first. Later those there would be haunted by Herona’s words.

“By the gods, what are you doing?” Herona said. “Someone could die!”

Yet for now none were moved by these words of warning, for they were currently too occupied with their own passions, rage, and bloodlust. Rhodanthe felt the hands which held her down fall away from her. As soon as that happened Rhodanthe went running off. For now she cared for nothing other than getting out of there as fast as she could. Yet she did take one look before she left, and saw that the fighting was now be done without any hesitation. Henriks and Caro were egging on their respective mobs with words of authority, but neither had any real control over them. The Knights of Lycaon had begun to withdraw, and it was not hard to see why. Herona was the last of the knights to try to stay, for she was clinging to the hope that they might be able to do something to stop the fighting, and Hakon had to practically drag her away.

“We can’t really just leave, can we?” Herona said.

“Ain’t no point in tryin’ to stop ‘em when they get like that,” Hakon said. “We’ll be back, I swear on it. And when we do we’ll be a proper force.”

Now the two sides were left to themselves, and they were free to fight and kill to their heart’s content. Punches were being thrown, people were being thrown, pushed, and tossed. Both sides drew their clubs and beat their opposition in submission, while others, on the heretics side mostly, drew knifes, quickly stepping forth a giving a stab, their unlucky opponents falling to the ground bleeding, where they felt the weight of a plethora of kicks from a plurality of bodies. Both sides were beginning to withdraw from each other. There were too many dead and injured, and the mobs, no matter how impassioned, could not bear that. It was then that Henriks was stabbed three times in the chest. The stabber was pushed and beaten way soon after, but it was too late for Henriks. He tried to utter some encourage words, but most of it was lost as he coughed up blood and life began to fade from him, and all they caught was, “serve the gods, remain straight-pathed,” though he said other things. The traditionalists began to flee, though not before giving some strikes with their clubs to save face. So the heretics shouted triumphantly, with Caro serving as their leader who egged them on, if such a crowd could be said to have a leader. And this was only the beginning.

Rhodanthe was glad to be rid of that bastard priest. It turns out that the old man was right that you can’t trust everyone in the Church. Still, she was hoping that at least those who were on her side she would be able to trust. She had to put all that behind her for now. Things had only gotten worse. That priest’s men had started a riot, and it had spread more rapidly than she could believe. Now it seemed like the whole city was aflame. Rhodanthe could run or hide, but there was no way she would. She could hear the sounds of distress in the distance, and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to face the old man again if she did nothing.

She would be careful to stay away from those rioters, but she’d do what she could to keep as many as she could safe. She headed towards a church, which was covered in flames. A few townsman and a priest were still trying to put the flames out with the few buckets of water they could gather, but Rhodanthe could see that it was useless. She was about to do what she could to stop them when she saw a man heavily injured lying on the street. He had his hand on his stomach, covering what looked like a knife wound. Rhodanthe ripped off a part of her shirt, and lifting up his arm from the wound covered the wound properly, creating a tourniquet for the wound. She smiled at him. She didn’t know why. She thought it might give him a little comfort, but she must’ve been a fool to think that a smile could bring any joy to someone whose stomach was bleeding out of them.

“Thank you…” he managed.

“Anytime,” she said. “Though I suppose ya’ don’t want that to happen again.”

Rhodanthe approached the men who were trying to put out the fire, but Rhodanthe saw that it was useless. She knew that water wasn’t cheap, and what they were doing with theirs was really a shame.

“Don’t waste your time with it,” Rhodanthe said. “That fire’s not going out, not like that. I hate to say it, but you need to just let it burn.”

“This is my church!” the priest said. “I can’t just let it burn!”

“Oh, just listen to her,” an old woman said. “What’s the use wasting all the water. What good has it done you so far.”

“If I can just-” he began.

“I’ve lived up north, in Uzgob,” Rhodanthe said. “I know fire. If you don’t have the water for this, better to just let it burn. Better to gather up all your stuff, and get on out of here.”

“So who are you, miss?” the old woman said. “First ya’ help a random dying man on the street, and now yer’ tryin’ to get us all away to safety. Are ya’ a saint, come to life?”

“Nah,” Rhodanthe said. “Just some passerby.”

“Damn it all,” the priest said. “This is my church! We were on the same side! Both of this heard the good news, both of us approved of Johannia! So why’d they have to go and burn down my church?”

“Ya’ met the rioters then,” Rhodanthe said. “I was there when it happened. No one’s goin’ to stop them, not even their own leader. Right now they’re just a mob, runnin’ on pure anger and greed.”

“Oh they’ll be stopped, alright,” the priest said. “The King’ll stop ‘em.”

Her words seemed to come at an opportune time. A number of men, in a very disorganized fashion, began to come in their direction. Rhodanthe could tell that they didn’t come to help, they had come to loot. As if there was anything to loot from here. Rhodanthe thought they might have better luck if they went towards one of the districts where the rich folks were. Yet she knew that if these folks didn’t find enough here that was to their liking, then maybe they might just straight up take the women and children instead. Well, Rhodanthe wasn’t going to let that happen without a fight.

“Get away from here!” Rhodanthe said. “I’ll distract them.”

“Are you insane?” the old woman said.

Rhodanthe was not listening.

“Stop!” Rhodanthe said. “Don’t come this way! Not unless you put those clubs o’ yours away!”

At that moment the worst thing that could have occurred happened to her. She blacked out, like she did sometimes. It was a habit, no, an illness of hers. She didn’t even know if she’d be alive when she was herself again.

“Come now, you bastards!” Sir Sayer said. “I’ve got all day! I’m here because of you, after all. So come on, which one which of you fools wants to lose their head first? I’ll show you what it means to fight a warrior. You will regret that your impudence ever entered into your foolish minds.”

Yet at his fierce words the heretics were not turned. One came at him with a club, and Sayer was happy. Times were rare when he had the opportunity to face unarmored opponents and could hack and kill at his leisure. Long before the heretic had time to finish his swing Sir Sayer fleetly struck at the heretic’s arm, severing his arm. Then as the heretic began to scream Sir Sayer struck his blade through his neck in an instant.

“Another!” Sir Sayer said.

Their rage was not yet quelled. The Knights stood side-by-side on the bridge, their shields up as they faced the charge of the rioters. Though only four ranks strong, they were strong and disciplined. They kept steady and strong as the rioters came to them. All the Knights struck out their swords, each of the vanguard striking down one of the rioters. Sir Gwladus struck with great speed, far greater than these rioters had ever had the opportunity to see. She hacked through them, and soon a total of five fell down to the ground below herself. The rioters were not soldiers, not even a militia, and they had no organization or motivation. They were merely a mob that wished to loot and destroy. So they were quickly routed, and easily forced into retreat.

“Pursue!” Sir Sayer said. “They are on the run now! We must not let them destroy them anymore. Until their hands are up continue to kill at will!”

The whole of headquarters of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor was in an uproar. Informants and scouts were constantly going in and out, relaying new information and quickly leaving to discover more. Some were lost in the riot, but their names were forgotten. All the while, Knights and militiamen of the Holy Order were steadily reinforcing. Lycaon stood seated in his office, a spacious yet unelaborate room filled with a few books and a great many of scrolls. He did not sit behind his desk now, however, but had moved his wooden chair to the center of the room, where he stood fully armor save his helmet, holding his sheath in his hand, the bottom touching the floor as he held it. A number of intelligence officers were in there with him, telling him what events had unfolded according to their latest information. As they were relaying on what street a large contingency of rioters were last seen on after leaving the street they were previously seen on, Sir Daeleth entered the room with several other knights at his back, and his expression was grim.

“You bear a rare expression, my friend, or at least it is rare for you,” Lycaon said. “In this mayhem I wonder what it could be that could stir you.”

“I come reporting bad news,” Sir Daeleth said. “There was an attack on your estate, my lord. Though you weren’t there…”

Lycaon slammed his sheath hard against the ground. “Felise!”

“My lord,,” Sir Daeleth said. “Oh, guess I should’ve been a bit more gentle. Your wife, Felise of Dagensburg, did not survive. Men with swords and spears overwhelmed and stormed the place. There were no survivors.”

Lycaon had no words, but his rage was seen and felt by all. He drew forth his sword with lightning speed and quickly raised himself from his seat. Grabbing his helmet from his desk he ordered the nearby squire-scribe to mount it on to his head, and he did so.

“Not one will survive,” Lycaon said. “Every heretic down to the man will be slain. If I have to bloody my own sword with every last one of these hell-bound souls, so be it! Make no mistake, Daeleth, I have not gone mad with vengeance. At least, I am not mad yet. But this is not vengeance, this is justice. The books say, ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ and so shall it be. For this act of murder I shall see to it that these heretics shall not draw breath! All of you, grab a sword. I will head down to the militia. Daeleth, meet with Oswyn and gather as many knights as you can. I will meet up with you later. When I am ready, I will have a mage signal you to my location. You’ll see it.”

“And what of Sayer?” Sir Daeleth said.

“He went to protect Halthroth Bridge,” Lycaon said. “When the time is right I will gather him with me, and he shall join us.”

A great many of the rioters now stood outside the Grand Temple, shifting and shouting angrily, cursing its wealth, and the wealth of the Church in general. They chanted for Bishop Irenaeus to come out. Then they began to pound against the doors with their clubs and broke the stained-glass windows. Yet just before they would have gone pouring inside, someone kicked opened the doors from the inside, throwing down the men with the clubs. It was Lycaon, who came out in his shining plate.

“Lycaon!” they all shouted. They were surprised. They thought he had been killed.

“Calm yourselves, children of Nyhem!” Lycaon said. “Do you not know what it is that you do? Would your wives and daughters approve of you smashing through windows and doors? Would your priest? I understand why you are angry, why there is such turbulence in your hearts. I have seen your poverty and misery firsthand. I stood among you, and did what I could to help you. Food, money, housing, and goods of all I kinds I gave to you not out of some whim, but because I thought it might plant goodness and relieve suffering. Yet you know this already. So I know why you quiver at the sight of wealth, and are filled with anger at the sight of it. This is only natural, and I do not blame any of you for it. But do not aim your anger at the Grand Temple. This world is full of sin, and thus of misery. Everywhere you see the mire of greed and gluttony, and this Divine Temple is the only light which comes shining through the filth of the world. Do not hate its beauty; rather, revel in it, it is a sanctuary for all of you. It is the rich and powerful that has created your misery, not this great and holy temple of the gods.”

Some indeed did withdraw at his words. They were gladdened by them, and were already relieved to see that their beloved Lycaon was alive. Others, however, were too egged on to be dispelled.

“Go home, my children,” Lycaon said. “Tell no one what you have done, and abandon all those false passions you fell to today, and your lives may continue on.”

Some indeed did do as he said, all the while wishing Lycaon well and professing their intense gladness that he was alright after all. Yet there were those who would not give up the cause and riot so easily.

“You’re just one of the rich and powerful after all, Lycaon!” a man said. “You’d side with them over us, anyway. If you aren’t with us, you’re against us!”

“For a man who is in a state of sin it is best for him to be punished rather to follow his appetite,” Lycaon said. “If you think that I shall allow you to tear down the Church on some evil whim, then I shall be forced to teach you of your error. I and my knights shall turn back any who would dare to try and assault this holy place!”

When the man came forward with his club Lycaon came up with his sword and struck the man’s hand, blood being drawn and the club being dropped. Those who had been convinced by Lycaon already quickly went into a sprint, running away from the place. Men of the Order of Saint Elenor came pouring out. They were the militia clad in leather and wielding spears and axes. Herona was one of these many, incidentally standing right by Lycaon. She wasn’t sure if they could hold their own here – they weren’t as reliable as the knights, she thought herself – but she saw that Lycaon had no fear or doubt in his eyes, from the little she could discern from his unreadable face. The militiamen stood in formation, quickly organizing themselves into a group that could withstand the incoming stampede.

They came with clubs and with fists, but now the militia was ready for them. Lycaon stood at the front, and hacked through the chest of a rioter with a slash of his sword as he came forward. Herona stood up, and did not falter as the rioters charged up to her. It wasn’t like the strength last time, though the weight was still fierce, but Herona managed to keep herself firm. The militiamen held out their spears and struck as the rioters came, and many of them were felled. Herona struck her spear, striking through until she hit the rib, and then quickly withdrew her weapon. There was another Herona struck too, through the chin, the spear going through his skull, and then quickly withdrawn. Who they were, what they were fighting for, what she was doing; these were questions that she had quickly learned she was not to ask. She’d focus on the task at hand, at following orders, and most of all on surviving. Their strikes and piercings of their spear did not cease, and when one’s spear was broken they quickly drew up a mace, axe, and short-sword. The rioters were now retreating. They had been broken, and could not fight anymore. They were not soldiers, and their courage was not courage at all, but merely rage and anger born of passion, and that was quickly destroyed when the fear of death came swarming in.

“Onward men!” Lycaon said. “Unruly men, surrender now if you wish to live! Your lives will not be spared by running! Soldiers, warriors, do not spare them! These men have rebelled against the gods, and now they dare to try to escape the fate that awaits those who seek apostasy! Put all those who dare to run to the sword!”

“And with that the crowns debt has finally been paid back” Isabel exclaimed proudly to Duncan. They were currently inside her personal chambers. The room had a fireplace in the corner of the and a large luxurious bed in the middle. On one side of the room was massive armoire accompanied with a mirror. On the other was a table at which both Duncan and Isabel were sitting at. An array of books and parchments were neatly stacked on either side of it. “I must say the Ironbarks were not happy when I told them that the debt has been liquified”

“Indeed, I imagine they have grown very rich of the crowns debt” Duncan said with a smile as he sat back in his chair “It’s nice to know that I can finally put this problem behind us. Still I imagine that this was expensive, even for us” at this Isabel’s face turned to a grimace

“Yes, between paying back our debts and funding the war are profits have taken turn for the worst. This is the first time in decades our monthly expenditures have outweighed our profits. Still, if Patrick is correct the war will be over soon. With the payments from the Blackwells and the taxes from our new territories, our income will be higher than ever before” Isabel finished smugly. Her expression hardened before she turned to face her brother “has there been any word on the origins of this ‘mysterious’ mace” She said, a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice “and have you decided whether you’re going to tell me what this is about”. Duncan face turned stern. He had chosen not to tell Isabel about why the weapon interested him so much. It wasn’t something she needed to be concern herself about, a decision that hadn’t made her happy.

“Yes, we found the blacksmith and it turns out his trademark symbol is very similar to another blacksmith I knew. The answer turned out to be rather anti climatic I must say” Duncan said with a fake smile. This was of course a lie, the true was he had found no trace of the mace’s smith nor the forge in which it was made. Isabel raised her eyebrow, she knew her brother was lying but she choice not to question it.

“Very well brother. Now all we need to do is- “Isabel was cut off by a panicked knocking on the door
“My king” shouted the voice of Alenius “The is a serious matter that requires your attention” At this Duncan immediately jumped to his feet and headed towards the door. He opened it to a very red faced and sweaty Alenius, it was clear she had been running around the castle to find him

“Your grace there is a major riot in the city, we currently don’t know what is the cause but it spread like wildfire through the entire city”. Duncan barely had enough time to process what was being said. How could a riot start so quickly? Eventually Duncan responded simply with
“Show me”

Lycaon stood atop his white horse, which now had its steel harness and armor laid upon it, and rode with a company of fellow knights, riding alongside Sir Daeleth, Sir Sayer, and Sir Oswyn. Many of the heretics had been captured and slain, but many others had remained throughout the city. Now the great remainder of them gathered in the center of the city, wreaking havoc through the marketplace and purposefully approaching ever closer to the royal palace. These souls sinned impiously against the gods and the Church, and they were behaving quite unfilially to the state. Therefore they would be given the ultimate punishment.

“Today, men, you become holy warriors unequaled in all of Formarath,” Lycaon said. “There is no greater virtue for a warrior than to put a heretic to the sword. Sir Sayer, your platoon shall take the left. Sir Oswyn, yours shall take the right. Sir Daeleth, you will ride around and attack from the rear. I shall take the recruits and charge the center. Show no mercy.”

“These men are no soldiers,” Sir Oswyn said. “They shall surrender quickly if we surround them.”

“These are heretics, practically beyond saving at this point,” Lycaon said. “You are to show no mercy to them, and no hesitation in their utmost slaughter. Yet I will not have the Church stained by any whispers of atrocity. If you see them surrender, by all means allow themselves to give them up to our courts. Yet in the din of war against such a mob I do not see how we can see such a supposed surrender. So unless you are certain of their surrender do not allow your steel to let up.”

What the Order meant was clear. If a complete slaughter of these heretics ensued it was no problem for him. They all quickly departed with their respective units, but as Sir Oswyn left there was a shadow over his heart.

As the heretics were there looting, burning, and causing havoc as they marched ever closer to the gates of the palace the Knights of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor marched charged forward. Lycaon led the militia near the front, ordering them to charge forward, and they did, as they pressed forward in square formation, forming a menacing wall of spears and shields. They charged forward, the riots steadily turning to them, and their rocks and clubs fell deaf among the steady shields of their ranks, as the militiamen’s spear steadily cut down the heretics. So the militiamen steadily went ahead and advanced over the corpses of heretics, and as the rioters angrily tried to overwhelm their enemies they were stopped in their tracks.

On both the right and left there came ranks of knights mounted atop armored horses slamming into the ranks of the heretics, their hooves trampling over them and the lances of the knights piercing through the thin linen of the heretics’ garments. The heretics fought for their lives, many of them seeing no escape. Some did try to escape, running from their brethren who were but pigs for the slaughter, but as they did they saw that they were being cut off. From behind came Sir Daeleth’s unit, who charged forward, piercing through the ranks of the heretics. The heretics were hysterical, and went into a rage, and were spurred in a terrified and terrifying surge of heroic energy. A beast, they say, will become strong when cornered. So they finally decided to act like warriors. So the battle was far elongated. Yet the heretics could not win the day, not when they were surrounded by elite knights on three sides. One by one the heretics fell, and there was no way out.

The street was so bloodied that it ran through the streets, creating a sanguine river. Many of the new recruits, though they had seen some of the fiercest battle the Kingdom had seen in recent years already, could not help but puke at the sight of it. Both the knights and recruits were ordered by Lycaon to search the battlefield thoroughly. They were take each corpse and stabbed it to make sure that all the heretics were truly dead, and then they were gathered in a pile in front of the palace gates.

“It is done,” Lycaon said. “Now all that remains is for Johannia’s head to be delivered to me for Felise’s spirit may be satisfied.”

Duncan was currently standing atop the keep walls alongside Alenius. From bellow he could hear Alice barking orders to the various members of the city watch who were grabbing their shields and weapons. Duncan had ordered that the majority of the keeps host leave to restore order to the city. The rioters were now looting the marketplace and were slowly making their way towards the keep. Even from this distance he could clearly make out the chaos. This was a disaster, if he didn’t restore control then Nyhem would view him as a weak king. However if his men started killing civilians he would lose all support from the people of Nyhem, sully his family name and he would become no better than the tyrant Heylot.

“Your grace, look” Alenius said as she pointed towards the market. Duncan’s face turned to joy as he saw Lycaon’s brigade surround the rioters to maintain order. However, his joy soon turned to anger as he watched Lycaon butcher the numerous men and women who had fallen into his trap.

“That fucking idiot” Duncan growled under his breath. Though he hadn’t acted under Duncan’s orders, Lycaon was his representative in the church and the people would surely blame him for this. “Bring Lycaon to me. NOW!” Duncan yelled at Alenius.

“Yes, my King,” Alenius said.

Alenius made her way past the pile of bodies and made her way through to Lycaon. They could tell that she was with the King, and paved her way to Lycaon said.

“Grandmaster Lycaon?” Alenius said. “The King requests your presence. Immediately.”

“Sir Daeleth, keep order here,” Lycaon said. “His Majesty requests my presence.”

Lycaon followed Alenius as she led him to atop the walls, where Duncan was. So the King had been watching. He was unsure whether the King approved or not. Regardless, Lycaon had to ensure that the King was on his side. More than any other time, Lycaon needed Duncan’s approval. As they approached Lycaon bowed.

“My King,” Lycaon said.

Upon hearing his name Duncan spun round in fury, a burning rage in his eyes

"Sir Lycaon" he growled spitefully "I demand you explain yourself. Explain to me this-" he said as he pointed towards the market square "massacre that just took place before my own eyes"

Massacre? Was that what Duncan saw? Perhaps it was. He could not imagine that a De Reimer was worried about how this would look? Lycaon was not worried about that, however.

"My King," Lycaon said. "These men were nothing but heretics. They have caused chaos through your city, and have set the proud city of Nyhem ablaze, and have resorted to looting and killing to their twisted hearts' content. They were even so brazen as to assault the stronghold of your beloved majesty, but as your subject I could not bare to see it. These men have thrown away their virtue by throwing themselves away from our Holy Church. They are a disease which will engulf the land in fire, madness, and anarchy, and like any plague nothing is more abhorred by the people than these heretics. Thus for the sake of the land I have slain. Yet, with unending deference to his Majesty's impeccable wisdom, I call it not a massacre, for these men were not innocents, but ravenous beasts."

"You have just made us an enemy to the people of Nyhem. How many people will support the concord after they find out what happened here" Duncan shouted

"Their support will be unwavering, my king," Lycaon said. "As it was the heretics who were at fault here. They dared to attack the very home of your Beloved Majesty. These heretics do not speak for the people, my King. They were a plague on them. However many times they retreated, they would continue to loot and burn. They needed to be eliminated. The people shall applaud us for subduing those who looted and burned their homes, my King."

Duncan raised an eyebrow, he remained sceptical of Lycaon's claim. While it was true the rioters had started the conflict, the heretics would no doubt make these rioters as martyrs. However Lycaon did have a point, while the heretics would no doubt paint him as a villain, he could do the same. While he had preferred to remain unassociated with matters involving the church, making the heretics enemies of the Concord would be the best way to shift the blame off him. Duncan's face softened as he tried to calm himself

"I see" He finally managed "in which case sir Lycaon see too it that the bodies are cleared from the market immediately" Duncan said as he turned away. The less of the massacre the people of Nyhem saw the better. Though he hid it better than before, his fury for Lycaon had not reseeded and he wanted him out of his sight as quickly as possible.

"Yes, my King," Lycaon said.

Lycaon gave Duncan another bow before he left. Then he quickly walked away. Their words had not been of a tone that Lycaon had desired. The King was angry with him, and he no doubt still was. He simply did not understand. This was the way it had to be. There could be no other way to get rid of this heretical menace that complete extermination. Yet he could see that the King was angry, and he made his way back to army as quickly as he could.

"So how'd it go?" Sir Daeleth said.

"Not well," Lycaon said. "But that is of little consequence. We are to clear the bodies of the heretics from the marketplace immediately."

"It would be better to pile them up and burn them," Sir Sayer said. "It would send a better message."

"Perhaps," Lycaon said. "But these are the king's orders. And we shall follow our monarch's commands."