---

The journey across the waters were fairly uneventful. The waters were calm, the winds gentle. The crew of the ship went about their duties, however Ardoiwn’s crew were not content to sit around and do nothing. While few could say they were useful the men and women under Ardoiwn’s command did try their hands at ship based tasks, most meeting with expected failure.

Ardoiwn himself however had more important duties. The first day was spent discussing with the captain, ensuring that the supplies would last, ironing out the finer details of payment, hearing a few rumors carried on port winds, and generally getting on good terms with the captain of the ship. However after that first day Ardoiwn decided that it would be wise to learn of the place he was sought to aid. To that end he located the envoy that had brought the matter up with the king in the first place.

Having gone in the same direction Ardoiwn had convinced the man to journey with him to back Tautom, there were not many ships heading that way from Lampert coasts and it was not difficult. Now Ardoiwn sought the man out to learn more of the land and the king, and with a quick look over the deck saw the envoy leaning on the rail near the bow. Ardoiwn ran up with a wave.

‘’Greetings, Ardoiwn!’’ Said the Tautan emissary. Bruised and battered as he was.
‘’I just can’t get over it, I didn’t think I’d get out of there alive. I understood the risks. How is it your people can weather your King’s aura?
We are fortunate to have a docile and incompetent King. His aura is a joke. ...And that’s no figure of speech.’’

Ardoiwn shrugs as he steps up beside the envoy, “We Lamperts are built of sturdy stock, his presence is commanding, but he tries to be fair.” Ardoiwn then takes a moment to look at the man standing next to him. “I am sorry for what befell you.”

‘’I am just so grateful that at least one of Lampertei’s Lordlings would hear my plea. I knew I couldn’t count on much support -- or any, really. You are too generous, Lord Ardoiwn.’’ The man chuckled and revealed a smile with missing teeth. His broken arm wrapped in cloth from the beating he received of the Lampert palace guards.
‘’At least I don’t return empty handed… Madam Kalisto will be pleased.
Anyway, we’ve come a long way. We should be getting near.’’

‘’Gastald!’’ A sudden cry from the ship’s watchman.
‘’Tautom on the horizon!’’

Ardoiwn leaned over the rails to try to get a better look at the proud city coming into view. The high walls, unassailable and untouched. The palace rooftops peaking out above, its high dome gleaming radiant in the sun. “But… Isn’t that too much smoke?” Ardoiwn asked as he squinted his eyes.
The closer they got, the clearer the view, Ardoiwn saw what happened. The flag flying above the gate, the proud gate doors thrown open, the city walls had been assaulted! No, as the sounds of battle began to carry on the wind Ardoiwn realized the city was currently under assault.
“Tautom is under attack!” Ardoiwn shouted, loud enough for the crew and his men to hear alike. Rushing up the deck to the captain Ardoiwn was quickly joined by several of his band as they quickly went over their options.
The returning emissary’s face turns pale with horror, his eyes widening as he grasps for his cheeks.

“We need to get in there!” Ardoiwn states urgently, “We need to save Tautom.”

‘’Hrm.’’ The captain snorts, himself a Baltian local. ‘’Look at the pier -- it’s no use. The Tautans have raised the chain to deny entry to ships seeking portage. Just what is going on?’’

“Can we land ashore?” Cleph asks, running up to join the discussion, “Catch the attackers in the rear and cut off their retreat?”
Ardoiwn brings his hand up to his chin before denying the possibility, “I doubt our numbers are enough to make a meaningful hammer, and we don’t know the state of our anvil. Not to mention that cutting off their escape route will force the enemy into a corner, we don’t know how many they are or how strong. Putting them in that spot will only make them bolder still.”

‘’Lord Gastald’’ The emissary taps Ardoiwn on the shoulder. ‘’I can attempt use my influence to petition the dock’s overseer to raise the chain for us… Those measures are reserved to keep out alien ships. But ours isn’t one, so legally we must be permitted access.’’

The captain retorts. ‘’Hrmm.. Think I’ll have the ship steered towards the guard tower to which the chain’s attached. Objections?’’

Ardoiwn considers the options, but he couldn’t see many. The only way to help the people would be to get inside the city, and the only sensible way to do that was through the docks. “Very well.” Ardoiwn issued, “Bring us up to the guard tower. Everyone! Grab your things and prepare for battle!”

---

On the horizon of Nova Syrome, the masts of 3 ships began to appear and inside, dozens of eager warrior looking as if they were some peasants that never left the countryside at the Celestian jewel, the so called second capital of Baltia. Those onlookers were the young recruits dragged from the pits of Tautom who knew little but their own city and Baltian-Chlotar farmland. There was however little awe as they approached closer and the city was made more visible. Finally a young blonde man of significantly higher status than most but who yet had been the most eager to see this sight spoke the common thought.

“Its kinda small, isn’t it?” It looked clean, the architecture was nice but they had all seen the towers of the richer districts. Nonnonso, a prince as he was, had seen even more of Tautom’s good side. Behind him a hearty laugh was heard as a tall and handsome man slapped the youthful prince on the back of his bronze cuirasse.
“You’ve seen Tautom Nonnonso, so you’ve seen all that is worth seeing. I guess this city is much like its lord.” The man tilted his head to the side, as if trying to see another angle to this city.
“A microcosm of Celesean glory, juuust a tiny spec of an old culture refusing to die.” Nonnonso could see what Theodonus was saying, though there was a major difference between Tautom and Nova Syrome. In Syrome, some of those magnificent buildings looked new, everything in Tautom was old.

“My Doux!” Someone at the other side of the boat made sign for Theodonus to approach, which he did to look down at a small coast guard vessel. The men of the Doux had smirks on their faces and rolled their eyes and Theodonus could see why. The sailors bellow they looked like… well, peasants. Weren’t they part of the military? These people are the first people to greet strangers into the city and they are a bunch of weaklings! “I cannot allow your vessels entrance to the city if you will not tell me your business!” Visibly someone had already tried to tell this man that the business of a Doux was no one else’s but his own but it didn’t seem like an acceptable answer.

Theodonus leaned against the railway and looked down sternly on the men on the craft bellow. “You tell your master that this is an official visit by the king’s Grand Domestic of the Royal Stool, Doux Theodonus son of Valaris, I’ve come to talk about important business. And tell him the Grand Domestic expects fresh wine and a meeting without delay.” He insisted on that last part. For some reasons nobles always loved to act like they were too busy to receive him, making him wait for no reason and it pissed him off.

---

‘’Which one is it?’’ Belisar asked the runner, a young militiaman who had ran the way from the docks.

‘’Doux Theodonus, your excellency.’’ The runner said, panting from the long run. ‘’He… he claims to be the domesticus of the royal stool…’’

Belisar sighed. It was this imbecile again. And now the grand domesticus of the what, royal stool? He couldn’t tell if such a frivolous title was actually handed out by Orso or if Theodonus had just made it up. Of all the Douxes of Tautom, it was solely this man he could not stand, perhaps more so than even King Orso. The street fighting thug and whoreson who charged into any possible catastrophe he could create. Whenever he appeared, it always spelled bad tidings for Belisar and the kingdom as a whole… he really ought to have this man killed.

‘’Your excellency, he is demanding wine and an immediate audience, declaring he has ‘important business’’ The runner continued.

‘’I am sure’’ Belisar spoke deadpan, looking over his drawings and alchemical ingredients as if to continue grinding poisonous plants and volatile earths before sighing again. Belisar turned to his side and made hand motions to allow pages forward.

‘’Bring wine and my robes’’

Belisar upon this announcement watched as the pages ran off to do as he said, and then returned to working on his alchemy. The runner waited patiently for some five minutes before growing confused. The pages returned with wine and begun dressing the Doux. Belisar took a goblet of wine and handed it to the runner.

‘’Why, the runners of Syrome have always been lazy, useless men who are always late, the Doux Belisar will regretfully not be able to receive Theodonus’ request for another hour due to this dreadful negligence.’’

‘’Uh… as you say your excellency’’

‘’You may drink the wine.’’ Belisar then turned back to his contraptions, and went to work deliberately wasting Theodonus’ time. It was petty, but Belisar had better things to do with his time than deal with the thug lord of the ghetto scum. It would not be until an hour and twenty minutes that he would finally respond to Theodonus request accepting an audience.

But it would not be 20 minutes after the messenger had been dispatched that Theodonus, standing motionless with his troops (2 of the 3 ships had entered the harbor, unloading 80 men as the rest remained at sea), decided he had enough.
“Alright, the Doux has certainly been warned of my arrival.” With this Theodonus decided to simply… walk forward. No way someone of his status wouldn’t be invited to the palace after all, and anyways, a milksop like Belisar certainly wouldn’t leave his palace during the heat of the summer. His men followed his lead without a single hesitation, the water in the canals of the city suddenly vibrating due to the disciplined footsteps of the hoplites.

A port administrator, worried of having foreign soldiers on the loose within the city, tried to interpose himself.
“W-wait! What are you doing!?” Theodonus would visibly not stop for him and so the bureaucrat was forced to walk alongside him. The warrior didn’t care however for the interloper.
“The Grand Domestique of the Royal Stool is going to the palace of Doux Belisar, out of my way!” The man was powerless, the guard uncertain and Theodonus, unimpressed. It was like he could walk in the damn city and do a coup! It was tempting to do so, though he probably didn’t have the men. Not that it had been his choice. One might think Theodonus only brought a hundred men because it is an appropriate escort for a man of his position, but the truth was that he didn’t have many blue water ships, he brought what he could. Thankfully, else Nova Syrome would have had an army at its doorstep.

“MAKE WAY, MAKE WAY FOR THE GRAND DOMESTIQUE!” At this point, it was impossible for Belisar to fail to know that Theodonus didn’t want to wait as his hero screamed at the top of his lung, the mass of spears advancing down the mainway to the palace.

The walls surrounding the palace were manned, heavily armoured Viigocs looking downwards in disgust. The gates opened regardless, a drawbridge over another canal lowered. Formations of Viigoc Household Guard assembled beyond, fully armoured and carrying swords, axes and banners of the House of Aetius, a single page walking out to greet the Grand Domesticus.

The assembled warriors stopped in front of their peers when their commander did. Theodonus and his men eyed the armored guards for a moment. In comparison Theodonus’s men wore bronze cuirasses of sculpted muscles with leg and arm protections, though nowhere as extensive as the Syrovigocs they’re facing. For their weapons, long sarisas, a bronze and wood shield, 2 javelins and a short sword each. To be honest, Theodonus’s men would be at a severe disadvantage in a fight against the heavily armored men facing them, but they couldn’t help but snicker, trying not to laugh at them, their cowardice and how they were probably all ugly trolls under all that armor who didn’t dare to show their faces and other features.

Theodonus raised his fist in the air to restore discipline in his rank as the page finally reached them. Theo removed his helm as a sign of respect and smiled to the page.
“Ah, you must be Belisar’s son! The future looks promising. He chose his wife well if she bore him a child that doesn’t look as sickly and frail as he does.” A step behind him, Nonnonso, his shield bearer, smiled and held himself from laughing. Theodonus obviously knew this man was just a page, but instead of offending himself about Belisar sending someone of such a low status to greet him, he prefered to make a joke. Though… the prince wished his teacher would sometimes be more serious. Belisar wasn’t known to be one to take ‘jokes’.

The page, dressed in robes rather than armour appeared youthful and decidedly effeminate, seemingly smiling as he ignored Theodonus.

‘’His Excellency the Chancellor and Doux of Syrome will see you now, if you would leave your guard here and follow me, my lord’’ the page declared. He then swept his arms to indicate for him to follow.

“Of course. PATHOS!” Theodonus turned around and a 7 feet tall bearded giant saluted his lord before turning around and signaling the guard to be at ease… not that any of the warriors would dare to show a lack of discipline in front of Belisar’s men, either by pride or fear of Pathos’s lashing once they were back in Tautom. Theodonus walked, followed by Nonnonso and… five other men, armed and one of them carrying a foldable chair of an especially decorative design.
“You islanders are too far from civilization, you’re forgetting basic civilities. Where is my wine?!”

The page continued walking, through sections of gardens and courtyards. The palace had clearly been voided on its occupants, as there were signs of food, equipment and other objects of the goings of noblemen, pages and courtly (and not so courtly) women left behind. All that remained were silent Syrovigoc guardsmen, their faces hidden behind steel.

Finally, the page stopped before a rampart of sorts at the edge of the palace, the decorative stone and marble facing the sea of Tears, connecting to a gazebo facing the sea. Behind rippling white silk sheets and purple flags was Belisar, sitting in a chair waiting. Around the gazebo were yet more Viigoc guardsmen.

Theodonus and his companion meant business, not stopping for details. Nonnonso on the other hand, being by far the youngest person present, was curious, his eyes wandering around.
“Seems like they don’t want the ladies to look at a real man…” He whispered jokingly. Theodonus looked back at him with a smirk.
“Stow that, my protegee, this is business now.” Although Theo had said with a smile and a wink, Nonnonso knew when his teacher was serious.

Finally they arrived at their destination. The prince eyes Belisar, curious about the man while the rest of the companions continued to look forward. Theodonus entered first and was followed by Nonnonso and the stool bearer who began to announce his lord.
“Presenting the Grand-” He was interrupted by Nonnonso who stepped back and reached for his sword. “Watchout!” A snake! A cobra slithering on the ground! Before he could unsheath his blade however, Theodonus reached to place his hand atop of his. “Relax…” He commenced, seemingly not flustered in the slightest. “The islands are filled with snakes, there’s been hundreds around us, you just haven’t noticed.” He said, turning his gaze to stare at Belisar in the eyes, heavily insinuating things. “Let it skulk in the dark, it will do us no harm”

Still staring at the beast in its eyes, Nonnonso swallowed but controlled his fear, releasing his sword as his mentor took a seat, not bothering to be offered one. The hero cleared his throat once again to continue.
“Presenting the Grand Domestique of the Royal Stool, Doux Theodonus, son of Valaris.” And with this, the man unfolded a Curule seat, the ‘Stool’, and placed it opposed to the two men sitting, as if it was the third person of the group. Casually, Theodonus handed a ring to Nonnonso who diligently placed it on the cushion of the seat. King’s Orso’s seal. The gesture was symbolic, but it meant that the two men were to speak as if King Orso was watching and of course, meant that in this matter Theodonus was his agent and his voice.

“SO!” Began Theodonus, turning his attention to Belisar. “How have you been Belisar? I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you in Tautom!” He said, indulging in the ritualistic small talk that was the custom, not really caring about it… though maybe he could fit in an insult or two to the Doux, that was always fun.

“Speak, what do you want Theodonus?” Belisar said.

“So quick to business. Well then!” Said Theodonus enthusiastically as he reached to pour himself a cup of wine. “I want a great many things, but it’s not about what I want. It’s about what the KING wants.” He said, raising his glass to the empty chair.

“I am sure” Belisar said, drumming his fingers on the table in boredom. ‘’Let me repeat, what is it that you want?’’

You like to make people wait? Enjoy, asshole. Theodonus thought, taking quite the pleasure to waste the time of his fellow vassal.
“Again, what the KING wants, is an increase in the contribution you make for the defense of the realm!’’

‘’Is that so? I would have thought the Steward or master of the treasury would have informed me of this… rather than the Grand Domestic… of the Stool’’. Belisar asked. ‘’Perhaps an overeager or sloppy bureaucrat has misinformed you.’’

“Oh nononono…” Theo answered, shaking his head. “Its a tax hike.” He clarified with a smile. “Also, that’s ROYAL stool for you. And the reason I’m handling this rather than a taxman is that we’re trying to change things you know? Make the bureaucracy leaner, cleaner… lighter. Less chances that coin go missing. Less bureaucrats to pay.”

“And this cutting of redundancy has led to the Grand Domestic of the.. ‘Royal’ Stool in charge of reporting changes in taxes - instead of the Steward. Clearly there must be some mistake among his highnesses council in the relaying of orders and positions’’ Belisar too then sipped his wine.

‘’I will have to speak with his highness so that we can gain clarity over this… aberration. I am sure you would agree, since you are so keen on seeking leaner… and cleaner bureaucracy’’

Meanwhile in the hallways leading up to the doors a commotion is heard. Muffled murmuring of several voices, just loud enough for the two Douxes to discern, disrupting their talks as all their eyes turned towards the back wall for a moment.
With a large ‘BLAM’ the door flies open, and in there appears the same page as before, doubtlessly with something important. His face looked disturbed.

‘’...What is the meaning of this?’’ Belisar proclaims impatiently, tapping his foot as he frowns.

‘’M-my Doux… It is news from the Capital. It’s… It’s..’’

Theodonus leans backwards, turning his face towards the page.
‘’What is it now, boy? It had best be worth interrupting our very important discussion.’’

The boy, quite flustered, stammers out his report.
‘’The City is being overrun by the Chlotars! They’re inside the city!’’

Belisar doesn’t blink, but his stern frown and wide-open eyes express a shock he can barely restrain.

Theodonus immediately shoots up from his chair, looking at Nonnonso.
‘’Talks can wait! Nonnonso, muster the men!’’

‘’Yes!’’
The young prince jumps up and darts past the page and into the hallway. Theodonus once more turns to the Syromean Doux, smugly.
‘’Seems this puts a premature end to our talks. This is what your negligence of Baltia’s defenses has brought us. But rest assured, old milksop, you’ve not heard the last of me!’’

And with that last show of swagger, Theodonus too leaves the hall to head out towards the pier.

The roads were streaked with anxious and confused citizenry, high born merchants and lowly plebs all looked with wide eyes towards the Amalian Quarter, the sector where even now the busiest streets could hear the screams of dying men, the roars of a victor, and the unmistakable sound of metal on metal. Quintus ignored all of them. Sat on top of his horse, the sound of heavy hoofbeats on the stone cobbles beneath him became a steady rhythm as the images of panic and fear blurred past him. Whorehouses emptied with half naked patrons gripping their clothes, running to whatever safety they could dream up, oiled strongmen and buskers, their public business interrupted by the growing screams from the south of the city began to run. The images sickened him, but soon, he’d be rid of it. Gripping his reigns tight, he made his way through the plaza were not days earlier his daughter had been married to the King’s son, Prince Zeno. Already, the young princeling was beloved by many of the lowborns and plebs, Quintus had made sure of it, with both bribery and threats, and now, with Vetericus beginning the attack from Quintus’ own quarter, he was betting on it.

Finally, a wall of thick salty air washed over Quintus as his horse rode under the great arches that led into Tautom harbour. The harbour hadn’t broken into the same panic as the rest of the city. Cramped wooden houses and colossal warehouses lined the edges of the harbour, settled against the curtain wall that sectioned off the rich merchant vessels from the plebs, some old and rotting, rented to the crusty fishermen, while rich, grand mansions housed what used to be great trading companies, now twisted into brothels and other inns of debauchery for travellers. In front of the buildings stretched a large open open cobbled floor before it dropped away into the ocean itself. At both ends of the harbour, great walls and walkways stretched around, each wall ended with a great tower, connected by an imposing sea chain, to form a protective circle for the ships inside. Nothing could enter or leave while that sea chain was raised, and that is exactly what Quintus was here for. Nothing was to escape or reinforce the city, he would make sure Tautom’s conquest was total. But he wasn’t alone. In the center of the docks, stood five hundred soldiers in formation, headed by his right hand man, Arminius.

Arriving in front of the men, he quickly dismounted the horse, handing the reins to a younger soldier as he turned to the officer. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now.”
“I have sir. The men are… Anxious. We’ve done what we can, their loyalty is assured. But I can’t speak for their nerves.”
Quintus looked over the soldiers nearby. In the past months, he had gotten his hands on the best equipment, weapons and shields for his troops in Amalian fashion, reminding them of the duty to their homeland, removing any discontent from the ranks. Now before him, stood roughly five hundred men, a full cohort, nearly every soldier wore Lamellar Mail, Scale Mail or something similar, each of them loyal to Amalia and by default, him. Quintus furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure about the last one. Steel could be strong. Blades sharp. But the loyalty of a human mind changed faster than metal rusted and dulled. He nodded to Arminius and turned back to the horse, pushing himself up into the saddle. Swinging his leg over to the other side, he noticed civilians beginning to watch the scene unfold, feeling safe in the presence of armed men. He spat on the floor, clearing his throat as he spurred his horse forward. Looking out over the soldiers, he spotted many grim set faces, and felt a wash of relief, many of his soldiers were veterans as it was, they knew a battle was coming, but as he looked, he saw the unmistakable wide eyed fear in several others. They would be harder to win over. Sucking in a sharp breath, he began to talk.

“Soldiers of the Second, men of Amalia! You stand here before me, ready for battle. Ready for a fight! Ready to kill! You have been organised here, alone, five hundred souls, for one task alone!”
Quintus kept his voice loud and booming, he knew if he faltered even once, he could ruin the resolve of these men, and they could lose their lives as a result. Lifting his arm, he gestured back towards the Amalian quarter before continuing.
“Right now, across the city, the Chlotar forces have broken the walls of Tautom. They stream in by the thousands. They slaughter any armed individual they find, and they push in deeper by the minute!”
He turned back to the men, many of whom he knew would be expecting to face the Chlotars shortly.
“But not our walls. Not our city. This is not our home! Our home was ripped from us by those faithless, Lampert dogs, who slaughtered your families and broke our BACKS!”
He paused for breath.
“But never our hearts! For here we are! Stronger than ever! Unyielding and unbroken in defiance of our oppressors! In defiance of the world that sought repeatedly to bring us down!
You have been chosen, each of you, because you are Amalia’s finest! Because today, we take the first step in retaking our homeland. To fight back at those that have tried to turn us into nothing more than disillusioned peasants.The Chlotars right now, are being joined by Amalians as they fight through the city! We are no fools, the Chlotars and we share a common enemy! The only difference is, our “King” wants his best soldiers half deep in their cups living a life of FILTH before we fade into nothing! The same “King” who forces us to live off SCRAPS! The same “King” who now sits in his castle, sending his men to die, surrounded by oiled circus acts, quivering in fear.”
He waited. He watched. Some men looked excited as they realised what was happening. Some fearful, and others confused. But he still had one secret weapon.
“Today. We take the first step to retake our homeland.
Are you satisfied living in squalor?!”
There was a pause. Some mumbling from the soldiers before an officer at the back screamed loudly “NO!” joined by the veterans around him. Quintus continued
“Are you satisfied having to debase yourselves day in day out!?” This time the response was more solid “NO!”.
“Are you satisfied with a king who means for us to waste away, as he enjoys a debauched life of unrepentant luxury?”
“NO!”
“Then your duty is clear! And I will give a years pay to the man who brings me a Tautom Officer’s crest when this day is done!”

The prospect of money. There was a sudden cheer from the men at that, many raised their weapons at that promise. The civilians who were watching began to react, some began to run, while others turned their heads towards the high domes of the Balti palace. Were the things he’d said so wrong? Quintus rode his horse back to Arminius, who looked up towards him expectantly, donning his helmet.
“Arminus, get one squad to each harbour tower, I want that chain secured and kept high. Nothing in, or out. If things start to look bad, the men are to damage the gears so it stays up. One squad to each of the gatehouses in case someone tries to outflank us, they’re to lock it down and wait for reinforcements if anyone tries. I’ll take the main bulk to the harbour to the main entrance and form them up. Arminius, you take two squads, set one to start sabotaging the boats in the harbour, and I want you personally to find the Celeasean Fire storage, secure it and… ‘coerce’ the alchemist to work with us. Do you understand?”. Arminius finishes tying his chin strap up and nods to Quintus,
“Yes sir. Oh… What if it all goes to shit?” Quintus looked over to the men who had all begun drawing weapons and strapping shields to their arms as the cohorts officers had begun walking up and down barking orders, drawing his own as he bit his tongue. “Then Arminius. We’re all fucked.”.

In under ten minutes, the main entrance to the harbour had been secured by around four hundred soldiers in a strict shield formation, any city guard who were around had been dragged out of sight and discreetly butchered so word wouldn’t spread about the Amalian treachery. Civilians had either locked themselves in their homes, or had even grabbed old swords or spears and tried to help the soldiers. Back inside the docks, ships were beginning to list as the sabotage team went to work, and beyond that, the great sea chain slowly began to rise from the waves. Quintus watched it all with apprehension, knowing that once Arminius had secured the Celesean Fire, any resistance inside the city could simply be burned into ash. He offered a silent prayer it would come to that. He’d always hated this city.

After the grey rainclouds on the skyline had passed over the land to a new horizon, the two Paladins rode their powerful steeds through the silent woodlands the grey rain left in its wake. Every leaf was beset by dew, with droplets occasionally falling down misleading passing travelers that it’s still raining. The landscape before them was murky, the forests were asleep. Not a sound was heard, and no bird made song.

For a whole day, neither Paladin had spoken a word to the other. Until Autchar glanced at the horseman riding besides him.
‘’Hrm. You don’t look too well, brother.’’
Einhard paused for a few moments then sternly replied, “I was enjoying the silence.. Trust me, I am we-...” he felt his speech interrupted by an uncontrollable urge to let out a mighty yawn. The environment made the paladin drowsy. He hadn’t slept in days.
For hours now Einhard was pushing himself to keep moving onward, at least until they’d come upon a village or a hearth, any place he could take shelter, but the Paladin company had not come upon any. They are in remote lands. And he felt himself becoming more tired by the minute.
‘’Hrm? Where are you going?’’ The other Paladin raises an eyebrow when Einhard’s horse starts to trail off the path.
“I have been up too long, Autchar, I just need a little time to rest. I think…’’ Einhard shakes his head. ‘’No, I am useless if we were to ride into any peril at present… I would only wear us down.’’

‘’Don’t give me that coward’s tone. Time is of the essence. The King expects great things of you. We can’t let your condition get in the way of our quest.’’
Einhard turns back to Autchar and musters his best exhausted smile. “Keep on moving my friend, I will catch up to you. You have my word.”
Far from being empathetic, the other paladin responds aloof. ‘’Hrm. If you can’t go on, then I will…
I will see you in the frontier township of Rudinberg.’’ With those words, Autchar whipped up his horse ‘’HEI-JA!’’ and sped off. His yells fade out in the distance.

Pulling off the path, Einhard urged his horse to the largest tree in his vicinity. An ancient oak. Following this, einhard tied his horse around a sturdy low hanging branch. ...Then proceeded to collapse on the ground underneath it.



Einhard began to wake. Through his blurred vision he could see the sun’s settings rays piercing through the leaves as the day turned to night. In this state he almost didn’t see it, the figure. How big this creature was Einhard couldn’t tell, but it was standing only ten feet away, and in its hand was a sword. Einhard began to panic and moved to lunge to his mace, but he felt his body moving slowly, he was still stirring and anxiety clinched his body. Finally, Einhard reached his mace and he spun around raising his mace towards the air, hoping that he would catch the blow which would end his life. His eyes squinted, but the blow would never come. After a few moments of holding his mace in the air, Einhard opened his eyes and saw the form kneeling before him. Einhard took a second to process the person in front of him, a man… no, a boy looking no older than fifteen with short hair with freckles dotting his face, and a rusty sword pressed into the brown soil. “What is the meaning of this?” Einhard bellowed at the boy.

The mysterious teen stuttered back in a nervous tone, “I’d li- li- like to become yer yer your shield bearer, Master Einhard”.
Einhard moved his hand towards the waterskin of ale to ease his nerves, relieved by the turn of circumstances. Once eased, the paladin began to sit in a more comfortable position.
“And this is how you were planning on making a first impression?” Einhard stated coldy to the boy.
“I am sorry sir… I was standing watch for hours since I found you collapsed here… I only wanted to help..” the boy uttered back on the verge of tears. Einhard pondered the boy further, he did a good deed by ensuring that the figure standing before him wasn’t some sort of goat legged monster, however nearly killing him with a heart attack wasn’t much better.

After a long period of silence between the two, Einhard resumed talking.
“Alright, it is clear that you have good intentions in your heart... So, tell me boy,” Einhard leans towards the boy while taking a swig of ale then inquires, “How do you know my name?”

Another long pause was endured between the two of them, the boy seemed hesitant, but began to explain himself.
“Back when I was a child, Paladin Mauger often rode through this area on his way to the mountains… and one day me and my father were held up by raiders…” already struck by the anxiety of being faced by an imposing warrior as Einhard, the sad memories being rekindled got the boy on the verge of tears.
“They-... they killed my father before your father could reach us… They were going to turn on me, but your father charged into them and slew the murderer. The others were scared away as he waved his sword at them.” through his tears the boy made a slight smile. “This sword…’’ The boy lifts the sword, holding it before Einhard’s eyes. Indeed, he could recognise the very rune inscription Mauger had long ago etched into the iron. ‘ALAMEHTIGAN’.
‘’Your father gave me his sword, Alamehtigan… and in my mind I vowed that one day I would become his sword bearer, or shield bearer, or any bearer, really.
… though your father died not longer after in the Rudine Mountains.” the boy stated with sorrow in his voice.
Bewildered by the story, and this unexpected encounter in general, Einhard tried to piece together why his father would relinquish such a precious weapon to a stranger… though that was exactly the sort of charitable act he had always known him for.
Suddenly, the boy blurted out “But I never forgot his sigil!
Your father’s insinga, the Clovisciscian Brown Bear… that's how I recognized you, master Paladin.’’
Indeed, Einhard had a brown bear sewn onto the top of his cape, he didn’t think anyone would notice it, but this strange boy did. The paladin was still lost for words as he processed the story.

“...I suppose now that I have finally found Mauger’s son, I will have to return Alamehtigan to you.”
“No.’’ Einhard responds resolutely. “Keep it. It’s yours. My father wished for you to have it, and a son must honour this wish.’’ Einhard smiles.
‘’Besides, I am more of a mace wielder anyway.’’ He points to the mace resting on his side.

Though readily willing to part from the sword he had grown so attached to, the boy seemed elated with the response. ‘’Are you… are you sure?’’
“Very sure.”
While Einhard took in the information, he observed a kindred spirit. This boy too had lost his father at a young age like so many of the Clovisciscan line. Yes… The boy would make an excellent shield bearer.
Einhard cleared his throat, and proclaims with flare; “Very well. I will accept you as my shield bearer then… young… uh.. What is your name, boy?”
The boy responded back with increased confidence “My name is Marozia, Daughter of Cleph… I don’t really have a great family line like you, my father was only a hunter.”
Einhard replied with shock, “Wait… you are a girl?”

Marozia replied, “Yes… I'm a girl… sorry I didn’t want to correct you.”
Einhard takes another long swig of the waterskin of ale, “Guess that explains your voice isn’t as low as I would expect for your age.” Einhard clasps his hand on her shoulder, “Rise then Marozia, I will take you as my shield bearer… though I am currently lacking a shield for you to bear.” Marozia rises to her feet, “Thank you sir, I will do my best to protect you… I have a little practice with this sword, I have killed about ten rats with it!” Marozia says while beaming with a smile, before with growing excitement stating; “OH! Maybe since I don’t have a shield right now you could even teach me how to use it properly!”
Einhard looks away for a second and manages to respond, “You still seem like quite the young… lass… I am not quite sure tha-.” Einhard shakes his head and sighs, “To be honest, the greater reason I can’t take the sword is that I never knew how to wield it effectively. I’m not worthy of Alamehtigan, nor can I teach you how to use it. I’d only bring shame on my father.”

Marozia stares at Einhard for a few seconds and then begins to grin, “A Chlotar Paladin who can’t use a sword and a shield maiden without a shield, maybe one day they will sing stories about us.” She laughs at her statement, her joy forcing a smile out of Einhard, “Hmph, maybe they will.” Suddenly, it hits Einhard that her name is not typical of a Chlotar female, “Marozia, I am assuming that you are of Lampert descent then. Do you follow Godas or are you a godle-...”
Marozia blurts out indignantly, not liking his tone “Of course I follow Godas! My parents had to flee our lands from the King’s dogs before I was born!”

Einhard nods his head, elated “I promise you, Marozia, there will be a reckoning. We Chlotars will restore Godas to the Lamperts.”
If she had answered wrongly, Einhard wouldn’t have struck her on the spot or anything. He’s not a blind zealot. Or at least, so he likes to think.

The paladin turns to his stallion that had all the while waited patiently, “Well, we have a quest to get to.” Einhard motions to her to climb on the back of his horse, stretching out his hand. Taking it, she deftly climbs on behind.
“So what is our quest then Einhard?” asks Marozia.
“I am here to finish what my father started. Our King has tasked me to retrieve the Millennia Horn.” Einhard states to his new companion.
“Okay! Uh… so where are we going to then?”
Einhard responds with heavy voice, “The Horn was lost within the Rudine Mountains.”
“Oh.” Marozia replies with a shaky voice.
Einhard is tempted teasing her about being scared of the monsters lurking in the Mountains, however given Einhard’s track record he decides against it. “Don’t worry, there will be another Paladin with us going into the passes, and I will teach you some of the basics of combat once we reach the township,” Marozia smiles while daydreaming about the adventures they could embark upon and the glory that they could achieve. The sun has gone down by now. They ride into the afterglow, making sure to stick to the road in the darkness ahead.

Lord Captain Leofric

The walls and towers of Syrome soon came into view, as the Storm's Herald glided toward the harbour. They had made a brief stop at an island to the north, to rendezvous with six of their ships. Thankfully, they had not been delayed for long, and could continue onward to their destination. The rest of the fleet was to meet them at Syrome, and Leofric could already make out at least three more of his own ships moored next to each other.

They had taken another vessel on their way south, a trading ship which contained salt and spices. They would be able to sell its cargo here for a hefty profit. Unfortunately, it had not been Eodaen. the entire reason Leofric had gone so far north in the first place was to try and get an update on his homeland's political situation. Sadly, neither vessel had a clue.

The ship slid into an empty space at the dock, and the gangplank was lowered. A custom official was waiting. Leofric crossed over to meet him, cursing internally. Damn these Syromeans and their draconian security measures. Why couldn't they be more like Eodaeland?

And then he remembered the state his homeland had come to, and begrudgingly retracted that thought. Belisar may be just as sleazy as Badastan, but at least he wasn't filling his people's heads with nonsense.

Fortunately, Leofric had an arrangement with this particular official. They exchanged a few words, and Leofric handed him a pouch that was perhaps a bit too heavy to simply cover the standard docking fee. And with that, Leofric walked back onto his ship, pleased to have avoided the usual inspection and series of questions.

"Alicia," Leofric gestured to two of his officers, "see to it that our recently acquired goods are sold."

"Yes, my lord," Alicia said with a quick bow and a slight smile. With that, she began gathering crewmembers and sending them below deck.

"Aella," Leofric turned to his first mate. "Go pay a visit to those three ships. I want an update on their crew sizes, cargo, how many ships they have taken, and anything they've learned."

Aella nodded wordlessly, and saw to her duty.

"Aewick and Ecbert, with me," Leofric said, pointing to two of his more loyal crew members who were currently armed. Both men nodded, and came to his side.

Then, he turned to his Oarmaster. "Peric, keep order on the ship until I get back."

Peric nodded seriously. "Yes sir." Then, there was a moment of hesitation, before he added, "might I ask where you are going?"

Leofric forced a smile. "To pay a visit to our good friend in the palace, of course."

Pelos walks in, the half-naked elite Palace guard. The King would recognize those magnificent golden abs anywhere. He is the warden of the throne room, and he comes with a dire report.
‘’My King, the city is under attack.’’

Orso, enjoying another pleasant spa with his charming wives, was occupied savoring fresh wine imported from Syromean vineyards. The royal company is too occupied with his routine royal affairs to pay Pelos any heed. Nevertheless King Orso, in his generosity, feels he should humor his subject nevertheless.
King Orso flashes his white teeth in a kindly smile.
‘’Haha, Good one, Pelos! I never did take you for a comedian. I didn’t know you liked me so much that you’d even come see me when off duty!’’

A maid walks in.
‘’Your excellency, the Chlotars have taken the walls.’’

The king laughs even louder, slapping his feet loud enough for some of his wives to look up and awkwardly chuckle along.

‘’Oh this is rich! Pelos, did you get some of the other staff to take part in the act? Now that is true dedication!’’ Orso wipes away a tear of euphoric joy as he continues to fill everyone’s ears with hearty laughter.

A third messenger walks into Orso’s domain, this time one of his very own wives, one he has long forgotten about.
‘’My love, the Chlotars have spread into the impoverished southern districts and are poised to take the West Viigoc quarter.’’

‘’Yeah yeah, I get it. The joke’s getting old now.’’

Finally a fourth person walks into the hall, one unlike all the others. A dark frame piercing defiantly through the warm and relaxing steam. Fully armored in cold black breastplate and lamellar, with dark flowing hair falling over his plated shoulders and a stern expression of total resolution on his scarred face. He represents a solemnness otherwise never experienced in the Tautan King’s premises. The King looks up, slightly distraught.
"…Rogan?"
"Abadactus.’’
The man replies sonorously.

‘’I fear it is not a joke, my King. Take a look.’’

The fourth man, whose name is Abadactus Rogan, is the Captain of the Royal Guard of the Tautan Palace. Marshal of the elite warrior unit of the mainland Baltian Kingdom known as the Sacred Band. He moves forth a powerful arm to grip the King’s pitiful noodle-arm, dragging him from his sauna-throne room.

‘’Ow, ow ow! Stop that Abadactus! I’m your King! I order you to get your sweaty man-hands off my royal person!’’

‘’Yes you are a King, and now is the time you assume the responsibilities of one. Look.’’
Abadactus had brought Orso to the elevated balcony perched over the Palace’s front gate. Once a podium from where the Kings of Baltia would address the citizenry. This place offers a clear perspective over each of the city's districts. But Orso has never stood on it since his coronation a decade ago.
And as they stood on the Palace’s Balcony, Orso came to face the awful truth. Smoke, screams and fire. The king ceased his whining and, for the first time in maybe his entire life, his eyes became focused and a thoughtful expression fell over him. It seems like a spell had been lifted.

The King of Tautom needed a moment to process his thoughts, and finding the words, he asks:
‘’Abadactus. Why does everyone hate me so?’’
The Captain of the Guard gives no response, his expression remains focused.
And so the King of Tautom continues.
‘’I am a lovely guy! Right? I have committed no acts of tyranny, I have not repressed, I have never been cruel. I only ever served God by fostering peace and happiness!
How have I ever transgressed against the world for it to seek my downfall?’’
Abadactus gives response.
‘’Your position as King. The leader of a nation is default always reviled. And why wouldn’t he? Whosoever shepherds an entity as far encompassing as a nation, has blood on their hands. There is no running from this. A King must learn to shoulder this burden for the good of all.’’
‘’But I am the best King of Visandza! What have I done to deserve this? All my life I have committed myself to the happiness of the people. Nowhere in all the world does a realm guarantee love, liberty and tolerance as god-guaranteed right! Where the founding King has laid the footwork of paradise!’’

‘’And now the dream of Paradise is on the brink of the abyss by your indolence. Though you are not entirely to blame. I should blame myself for having allowed this to escalate as far as it had. Everyone is to blame.’’

‘’Master Rogan, I only ever acted in accordance to God’s will. That is the true duty of a King! Why, the Chlotar King should be my friend!’’

No reply.

Orso whimpers quietly. ‘’Why does this happen?’’

The lost King looks out over the city, observing the sea of rooftops that spread out towards the far southern wall. He can only guess how many of the buildings under those roofs are already under the barbarian claw. Then his eyes falls on the old bell tower. A thought enters his mind.

‘’Can it be… could we be out of God’s grace somehow? Ever since High Priest Waliyo-Oho has forsaken the city and moved into the Baltian countryside among the Chlotars, the Black Bell of Tautom has not been rung.
Is this divine punishment?’’

Abadactus shakes his head and taps the haft of his lance against the stone.
‘’Superstition, my King. No. This is the doing of an insider. There has been a traitor in our midst for long, and I have a suspicion as to who…’’

‘’Who?’’

‘’It is time to send in the Sacred Band.
Rest assured, my liege, the dream of Odovakre can yet be salvaged. We shall fight these barbarians to a stand-still. There is a reason the Celeseans founded a world empire with their own blood and sweat – and that these northern tribes did not.’’

Orso makes a sharp turn to Abadactus.
‘’Abadactus! You are my most loyal friend and servant, are you not? Then I beseech you – get to the bottom of this! Protect the citizens from the barbarians! Evacuate the rich quarter into the Palace Complex!’’

‘’Fear not, Good King Orso, the Sacred Band shall redeem. We are the vanguard of the eternal dream of Baltia.’’

Vetericus could not help but feel drawn to the sounds of battle across the quarter, where his Baltavigoc kin sought to break through the doors of the Tautovigoc Gate on the walls, but knew his immediate duty lay elsewhere. Under the careful watch of Crocus, he need not worry. Instead he glanced up at the grand old belltower of Tautom, the commanding spire visible from every quarter of the city. Once it rang daily, each toll of its great black bell a proclamation of devotion to God; now it had become so hated by the Tautan that they dare not even defile its architecture. It was at once the most neglected and pristine building in all of Tautom, and Vetericus would see it returned to its purpose even as the rotten city around it was burnt to cinders.

“Sirs! Sirs!”
The shouts brought Vetericus out of his musings, at once able to tell it belonged to no Chlotar or Baltavigoc. Indeed, as he glanced over his shoulder, from his garb it was clear this was one of the many Amalians who had volunteered to fight alongside their liberators. While Vetericus admired their spirit he had little desire for them to fight alongside his men, and Palace Mayor Vierland echoed that sentiment. Rather they had taken up the mantle of many logistical responsibilities, supplying the fighting men with water, the wounded with aid, reports from other occupied quarters, fetching equipment and in this case, messengers. Even a few priests had redonned their robes and resumed preaching with a fervour that befit the release of the years faith had been repressed by Tautom.
“What news?” Vierland yelled back in response, shouting over the din of men working in the background.
“Progress on the Tautovigoc Gate is slow, but it’s drawing their attention! It looks like damn near every last one of those bastards in the city has been thrown into the Viigoc Quarter to keep you out!”

Vetericus nodded before waving him off, the Amalian responding with a salute that indicated some prior form of soldiery, before rushing away again, in the direction of the now closed Amalian Gate if he had to guess. Their eagerness had taken a great deal of strain off of his combined forces, and he was nothing but glad to have the extra warriors freed up as a result. Turning his gaze back to the almost pathetic interior wall that separated this quarter from the Central Plaza, and thus the belltower, he kept a close eye on the progress of the few Chlotarians they had with experience of undermining fortifications. These walls had never been designed to withstand assault, simply divide one class from the next. It wouldn’t be long now. While he still had the chance, he resumed his conversation with Vierland.
“The strongest shields you have, Captain. These rats are not yet cornered enough to fight fiercely here, but caution nonetheless must be taken.”
“What of the harbour, Paladin?”
“I expect Quintus to be able to hold them. They appear to not have even been noticed yet, from the walls.”



Vierland, catching a Chlotar officer as he jogged past, quickly relayed orders for those amongst them who favoured the largest shields in their arsenal to report to him. As minutes went by several dozen Chlotarians arrived in various states, some marked by no more than the dirt kicked up by the run to the gate and others bearing flecks of blood, presumably not theirs from their fitness, or a few scales shattered or missing from blows that would have likely ended their participation were it not for the padding beneath. More importantly however were their shields; upon inspection by Vetericus the smallest came up to his waist, while the largest went little more past his stomach, albeit Vetericus was by no means a short man, and all were rectangular. It would suffice. Vetericus stepped back and Vierland addressed his men.
“This wall will come down shortly, and when it does, we expect archers to be behind it. Stay low, close the distance and don’t expose yourself. No doubt they’ll run. Pursuing them isn’t our concern, however! We make for that belltower and follow on from there. Understood?”
A mixture of ‘Yes sir!’, ‘Yes Chief!’ and ‘Yes, Palace-Mayor!’ was returned, a testament to the fact that Vierland commanded troops of his tribe and beyond. The unity of it had always impressed Vetericus, that so many had been brought together as comrades by Cauroman. Even now, Amalians, Baltavigocs and Chlotarians toiled as one.
“And for God’s sake, try to cover each other if you notice a gap. Mind your legs.”

“It’s crumbling!”
Though nothing seemed to be happening, those digging through the wall quickly scurried away, both for their own safety and to make way. A sizeable force of Chlotarians had been drawn up in the streets surrounding the soon-to-be breach on the off chance the Tautans made a foolish attempt to counter-attack, or if an opportunity to take more than they planned presented itself. Shields were raised and men settled into crouches, Vetericus gripped his great axe retrieved from Crocus so far up the haft it functioned more like a hatchet and Vierland drew his own sword alongside him, not exposing his wrist past the edge of his shield. And then they tensely waited. Vetericus almost began to question if the job had actually been done, when the weight of the compromised walls finally caused it to buckle, bricks starting to fall backwards before the aging mortar bonding them together failed, chunks of bricks smashing into grass with thumps and muddy cobbled streets with crashes. Seizing the initiative, Vetericus grabbed the long pole of the standard which had been embedded in the ground beside him, the red and black of the Baltavigoc Guard adorning one side, while the blue and gold of Vierland hung from the other.
“In the name of God, forward! For fame! For pride!”
Vetericus stepped forwards, ahead of the shields, raising the banner high to ensure those on the other side noticed, and knew fear for it.
“For Emperor Cauroman, follow me to war!”
Vierland stepped into line with his men and whatever confusion for Vetericus not wishing for their protection was cast aside as they advanced, not wanting to be outpaced. Quite without even thinking, they carried the battle-chant Vetericus began that they had learnt from spending so much time with the Baltavigocs.

The wall came down. Despair filled the Tautan archer’s heart watching the breach grow wider. The Chlotar savages were finally into a section of the city he actually cared about! His favourite oil and perfume merchants had filled these streets just hours ago in anticipation for the nightly affairs and now it was to become a battlefield. Even the nearby brothels had stopped their business. This was easily the worst thing to have ever happened, at least since last week when Maximus refused to, shall we say, ‘service’ his ‘rod’. He almost broke into a fit of giggling at such a clever euphemism, his attempt at restraint weakened further by him remembering that Maximus never had a choice in the matter anyway. The look on his face, priceless. What was he meant to be doing again? And why was that flag thing suddenly there? And just who was that man who came running through the gap with a face painted red and black? It looked quite fierce, maybe Chlotar fashion wasn’t so bad after all. What is that he’s saying? Some kind of hymn? The poor man just couldn’t quite make it out. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted another archer knock back an arrow and release it, the projectile whizzing harmlessly past to embed into one of the very impressive shields of the men behind him. Oh, that’s right, he was meant to be loosing arrows at them. Knocking his own arrow, he pulled the string back. That red-faced man was getting quite close now, best to try hitting him. Another miss, the shock of the arrow releasing travelling up his arms, instead hitting another shield. My, what strong arms they must have to hold those big shields… The thought of it nearly made the man weak at the knees…

As they had assumed most of the Tautans on the other side pulled back, leaving a number similar to their own behind to cover their retreat. One of the archers, however, for some reason remained standing in place staring at something behind Vetericus. Vetericus offered up a silent prayer to God, and thanks to Cauroman for bestowing His blessing upon him, certain to be responsible for getting through unscathed. Changing his grip on the standard he let the flags hang behind himself, holding the spiked end like a lance in his left hand, his momentum ensuring it penetrated nearly clean through the chest of the exposed archer, collapsing him onto his back with an undignified squeal while clutching the banner pole that now used his body as an anchor. His left hand now moved back to grip further down the haft of his axe, a nearby Tautan nervously edging towards him with a raised shield, so small it could be better described as an oversized buckler. Swiftly raising his axe only to bring it down onto the shield, the axe blade carved through the wood with little difficulty. The Tautan yelped in surprise and quite possibly pain, if the blade caught his hand beneath. Whether it had Vetericus could not tell, but with nearly as much force as he brought the axe down he yanked it backwards, the sudden shift in direction catching the Tautan off guard as his shield was ripped from his weakened grasp. Before he could move back the axe returned a final time to smash into his ribs, shield starting to splinter as the axe burrowed even deeper into the wood. Gasping, the Tautan stumbled backwards into the few who had come to help him, though by now the Chlotar line had caught up to Vetericus, no longer exposed.

The Chlotarians used their shields as battering rams, trying to throw the Tautans into as much disorder as possible before breaking off and fighting them more conventionally. A few Tautans quickly fell in this charge, but gaps were soon formed up. A few Chlotarians had overextended, the rash action leaving some in unfavourable positions that earned them a swift death. Vierland barked his men back into order, the line quickly reforming and moving together again, Vetericus often acting as the hammer to provide openings for the warriors near him to exploit. The gaps between the cobbles in the streets soon filled with blood, crimson flowing like rivers as men fell, though the losses for the Tautans were heavier. Vierland began to isolate the individual Tautan here and there, cutting them down with an impressive efficiency that would have been impossible had they been more heavily armoured. A few tried to break off and run, only to die to a blade in the back. The reason why became clearer as the men previously assigned to wait in the streets on the other side of the breach began to filter through, Vierland ordering them to push ahead into the Commons as far as they safely could. His men surged forwards, leaving the stairs to the belltower unguarded. Had the Tautans not been to averse to it, it could have been a defensible stronghold in its own right.

“You fight like a duelist, Captain!”
Vetericus clapped Vierland on the shoulder, impressed by his performance. Clearly this man had earned the position through merit.
“When I have the opportunity, Paladin. I hope not to offend when I compare you to a madman possessed.”
Vetericus laughed, glad that Vierland was more willing to speak his mind.
“I think it madness not to know God has your fate in His hands, Captain. If He ordains me to fall, then fall I shall. Until then, let others fear.”
Vierland had no cause to argue; indeed, if God was not with them, who else?
“A conviction I can only admire, Paladin. The bell?”
Vetericus returned to the standard still gripped in the dying archer’s hands, yanking it out with a sickly squelching sound as smoothly as he could. The archer had faded so much so as to not even react to it, life leaving soon after as the blood pooled within his chest cavity spilled over.
“May God rest your soul, if it not be too tarnished to find Him.”
Vetericus and Vierland climbed the steps, the building stretching far above like a solemn oak. Its monumental doors had been been barred shut with a wooden plank then nailed to them, a trifling barrier to a Baltavigoc axe. With each man pressing a shoulder to a door and pushing together, doors which had not seen use in years creaked open on painfully neglected hinges.

The interior was dark, the sun well into its descent not helping matters. One had no requirement of light to notice the copious quantities of dust on every surface, suddenly scattered by the opening of the doors and new circulation of air. Both men began to cough just from breathing, and neither dared to speak. Vetericus elected to move for the stairs and get up and out of it, Vierland resolving to follow. The stone steps, worn smooth by the feet which once walked them, wound high along the interior, a fall from them soon becoming a fatal prospect. Eventually the bell chamber was reached, the wind blowing strongly enough this high up to put it at odds with the dusty interior below. The bell itself, a gargantuan and beautifully crafted piece of bronze engraved with the Baltian Eagle, holy symbolism and script, was held in place by thick cords of rope one would expect to find mooring heavy ships. Thankfully everything else about it seemed to be undamaged, if a little frayed, so little was the desire to be here of whoever that degenerate Orso had sent to do this. Vetericus cleared his throat, coughing out the last of the inhaled dust.
“The bell.”
Vierland nodded, drawing his sword as he went through similar motions to get the dust out of his lungs. While Vierland got to work sawing through the cords, Vetericus searched for the old holsters the colours of Baltia once hung proudly from, soon finding one that he was sure all within the palace, and its defenders, would be able to see. As the standard of those who would see Tautom cleansed of its blasphemy rose higher over even Orso’s in the palace, the last rope tethering the bell to the ground was severed and dragged free of its mooring, the clapper within already swaying just slightly from the wind. Vetericus and Vierland were left to stare at each other, Vetericus speaking first.
“I assume Quintus would want this honour, however…”
“Is it not Baltia? Leave it to a Viigoc.”
“My thanks,” Vetericus nodded as he walked towards the rope which controlled the towers mechanism. “This, my friend, has been long overdue.”

The first downwards pull required a great deal of effort, the bell above moving very little for it. A rhythm was soon established, and the back and forth tug became like clockwork. Before long, a great tolling broke the air and as if the world itself had reacted in surprise the gap between that first toll and the next was silent as the grave. The swinging of the bell had started to give the mechanism a life of its own, Vetericus pulling it downwards and the bell dragging it back up. Being this close to the bell was enough to nearly deafen both men, but each toll felt like its own reward, and though he was unaware of it the hearts of the faithful below were emboldened with each ring. Still, Tautom was not finished yet, and Vetericus would see it through to the end. Having to talk between the tolls, Vetericus and Vierland quickly walked back down the stairs, now practically vibrating from the resounding clangs. Finding themselves at the doors again, Vetericus surveyed the Chlotarians overrunning shaken Tautans, the gates separating the Commons and wealthier districts being shut, those not through left to die. Let Orso cower in his palace, Vetericus thought. That bell tolls for him, indicative of his time at last run out.

Still standing on the Palace balcony looking out over the city, Orso saw it all happen. The belltower never lost his eye, and now the Tautan King actually seems to share Vetericus’ thought: his time is up. With mouth agape he receives a blast from the past -- he had not heard the deep tolling of that bell since his early childhood days. He powerlessly witnesses the fall of a Kingdom. The Tautan garrison are retreating to the Upper Districts to make their next stand… And should they falter there, only the Palace will be left. It will be the last stand of Baltia.

Rudinberg, a South Chlotar township with a large Lampert community. For the past twenty years it has served as a refuge for exiled God worshippers of Lampertei. Some of the locals have pejoratively described the place as a ‘Lampertei enclave’ because of it. Though their allegiance is formally to Chlotaringen, not all of its inhabitants are unanimous in support of the northern King of Aaixen.

Einhard and Marozia trot into Rudinberg on top of Einhard’s great stallion, the constant sparring of the last three days has left Marozia feeling completely sore from for the first time fighting a real opponent. Einhard takes a brief glance to see if he can spot Paladin Autchar, however the streets covered in slush and mud are largely void of people. It’s a rather gloom looking township. Marozia speaks up to Einhard, “Master Einhard, I am quite hungry… rabbit is fine and all… I could just use an actual meal.”
Einhard scratches his beard and replies to Marozia, “Could use a real meal too, I haven’t seen any signs for an Inn or a Tavern though… Do you Lamperts call them something else?”
Marozia shakes her head, “Not really sir, I have always heard this community was more ‘communal’, that travelers would find someone who would freely take them in.
Also.. as a Paladin of the King, can’t you just ride to the Chieftain’s hall directly?”
“Hmph, you’ve got a point there girl.” He scans the town for the largest structure, presumably where the local lord would live. Any subject of the King is obliged to host the King’s agents, after all. He would ask for directions, but there’s almost none of the locals outside.

The first living soul to tread upon their path is an old hunched lady covered in rags, a cloak of a fox’s skin and a scarf covering her hair. She trots through the muddy snow leaning on a crooked branch as walking stick.
‘’Madam.’’ Einhard proclaims with a regal flare as he rides up to the woman.
‘’Who lords over Rudinberg? For I much desire to speak with him.’’
The old woman barely looks up, or gives much of a visible response for that matter. But she raises a shaky gnarled finger with a long chewn nail up to the great lodge up the hill. ‘’Yonder… The dwelling of Odo, Master Paladin.’’
“Thank you ma’am,” Einhard remarks back to the old lady as he urges his horse up the hill.

As they rode up the entrance of the great snow capped wooden structure, they were quickly greeted by a stationed man on the nearby battlement.
‘’Hail! You there, man on the horse. Are you Einhard Cloviscisca by any chance?’’

“Aye I am Einhard, son of Mauger” Einhard replied. Following this, two more men dressed in fur cloaks and hauberks walked up to the Paladin.
‘’If you’d follow us, Master Einhard, the Chieftain will be wanting to see you.’’ He and Marozia were lead through the palisade gate and to the great lodge’s front door.

Inside the Chieftain’s Hearth

Sitting at the table, the mighty Paladin and the little girl finally got to warm up a bit. Central of the great hall, a great hearthfire is blazing to stave off the mountain cold. Even several meters away you can feel its intense emission of heat. Marozia was right about the hospitality in this community. So far they’ve been received as royalty! Though in a sense, Einhard could be accounted for as Royalty being from Cauroman’s court.

‘’It’s not everyday we get folks from far-away Aaixen all the way in Rudinberg. Har har har!’’

A grizzled man with a long brown beard sits opposite to Einhard, taking the opportunity to chug down a large pint of ale in celebration. He is apparently a household warrior of the chieftain.
‘’And a Paladin, no less! And so soon after another Paladin came here. He’d informed us we could expect you.’’
Einhard gives the man a quick smile, ”It’s good to see we have such.. Energetic.. Warriors to guard our Kingdom from the south.”

The man, assuming it was a compliment, replied with a smile where he bares a wide array of yellowed teeth. He takes another gulp, then lets out a tremendous belch. The room smells of alcohol now.
Rubbing the droplets off ale from his lips and beard, the warrior leans in closer to Einhard.
‘’Where you headin’, Paladin?’’
Einhards face begins to contort into a scowl, “We are heading up the Rudins Mountains, as per Royal decree from the King.”

‘’Scouting into the Rudines, eh? You and that little boy? You sure you want to send such youth towards certain death?’’
The man raises the mug towards Marozia, slightly intoxicated and and certainly inconsiderate towards her feelings. Marozia sinks in her chair, avoiding eye-contact with the man.
Getting no response from either of the dumbfounded guests, he continues.
‘’Just like your buddy, Autcho. A risky endeavour i’d say. Old Dalgiserius’ wild dogs roam around every corner. There’s even talk of a dragon guarding the mountain tops… A Dragon, by God’s otherworldly thunder nipples!” He empties the pint with a final mighty swig, then places it down the table before them with a slam, letting out another belch.
“... No my good man, I’d not come anywhere close there. There’s better ways of killing meself! Har har har!’’

For long the hall was filled with the warrior’s roaring voice and laughter, when finally another voice spoke up -- with a tone a lot more downcast.
‘’Hrm. So it’s really true then?’’
The company around the table looks up. A short and gaunt man wrapped in a long cloak has quietly entered the hall from the back, followed by two warriors walking at both his sides. He has a face with pronounced cheekbones, a long blond goatee and dark, sunken eyes. Covering his forehead are several strands of disheveled hair from an otherwise balding scalp, with sickly pale skin and a burning red nose, a look of deep exhaustion. For a chieftain he looks somewhat miserable, and by the looks of it he has a serious fever. A shadow of past glory, yet nevertheless his warriors seem to respect him.

‘’One Paladin coming in so soon after the other. It can only be a sign that War is coming. King Cauroman must be serious about this invasion, then…’’
The chieftain appears sullen, Einhard’s coming has filled him with foreboding.
Einhard shifts in his seat some then replies to the chieftain, “Do not worry much, should Cauroman decide on this pass, the army will not arrive for some time. You will have time to prepare, chief… You never did tell me your name?”

‘’I’d have thought one of the guards would’ve informed you?’’ The chieftain looks towards his intoxicated household warrior seated at the table, who quickly shrugs and feigns ignorance.
‘’Odo of Rudinberg, son of Raginhart.’’ The chieftain finally says. ‘’..That is who I am.’’

“Well met, I am sure you have been told I am Paladin Einhard, son of Mauger.’’ Einhard motions towards the girl sitting besides him, understanding her nerves are keeping her from speaking up in this adult company. ‘’...And this here is my shieldmaiden, Marozia.” Einhard gestures to Marozia who manages a slight smile.

‘’HUH?’’ The warrior sitting opposite him perks up in disbelief, his voice roaring through the hall. ‘’You’re clearly mistaken Paladin. That there’s a boy. You’ve had a bit too much to drink methinks -- to be speakin’ of yer own shieldbearer like that!’’ He burps, and the smell of alcohol fills Einhard’s nostrils. Talk about intoxication.

“Perhaps you have been spending too much time around other soldiers and no longer remember what a woman looks like” Einhard replies grinning, before Marozia jabs his side with her elbow. “You can’t say much yourself, master.”

They are interrupted by the loud sound of Odo’s sneezing.
‘’HAGH-CHOO!’’ He sniffs. ‘’Pardon… So, Paladin… The other Paladin, Autchar, arrived a few days ago. A welcome guest…’’
The chief snorts, his voice getting more hoarse the longer he talks. ‘’...He departed yesterday for the mountains. Am I.. correct to presume you will follow in his tracks?’’

“After a good rest we will be heading out to catch up with Autchar.” Einhard replies. Marozia leans over to Einhard and whispers into his ear: “Tell him the food was amazing.”
Einhard chuckles and says to Odo, “-And no worries, your food was most wonderful as well.”

The chieftain feigns a smile through his aura of misery.
“For the time being, Lord Paladin, you are welcome to remain hosted at my table for the duration it’s required, in order to carry out your duty to our King.’’

Having walked up the table to join the company seated there, Odo takes the seat on the largest chair prepared at the far end of the table. His two henchmen take the chairs adjacent to the warrior opposite to Einhard. One of them tall, blond and bearded as is typical of Chlotar warriors, where the other warrior is a bit shorter, lean and handsome with dark hair and… clean shaven. A rare sight. He doesn’t look like much of a bruiser.

“Allow me to introduce you to my household warriors… Fulk you’ve already met.’’ The brown-bearded man nods, trying in vain to keep himself from burping again.
‘’The men besides me are Liudolf and Lai…Lai... Icholai.’’
‘’Micho, great Chieftain.’’ The darkhaired man says with a polite smile.
Odo responds with yet another snort. ‘’Yes.’’ Turning yet again to his Paladin guest, he asks.
‘’So, Paladin, have you any lead into the mountains? What exactly ordered our King you do, if I may ask?’’

Einhard’s face curls into a stern grim look, “If you have heard the story of my father, and I am sure every man, woman and child around these parts have, we have come to complete what was started.”

The chief's face becomes expressionless, it seems he does not understand what Einhard is playing at.
“... Something about a family heirloom...?“

The blond haired warrior, Liudolf, speaks up. “If you mean to search across the Rudines, I advice you be careful, Master Paladin. Disaster is just around any corridor and waiting to leap from any crevice. A doom-bringer skulks these lands. A foul spawn of God. Tempt fate and he shall be drawn to you.” Liudolf clenches a fist.
“Raditsch. That faithless Lampert spawn.. A herald of woe. He’s the reason the Chieftain is in this miserable state--”
Odo raises a hand. “Enough. Raditsch is not to blame for my condition. He is an unwilling victim as much as anyone of these dark powers.”

“Wait so is this Radits-ch-sch-sch some kind of monster, like a cow-man or.. Or… A DRAGON!?” Marozia blurts wide eyed.

The warrior Fulk perks up with a chuckle. ‘’Nah little boy. Raditsch’s just a sad little man without friends. No one likes him. And for good reason. If you saw him, you’d understand why.’’

Einhard says nothing, quietly listening as he takes in the information with a disconcerting frown. He had to be honest with himself; he is but a stranger in a strange land. And the locals understand things that he doesn’t. For this reason even a little girl as Marozia makes for a helpful guide.

The third warrior, Micho, mingles in the discussion.
“Brave Einhard, pardon my interruption. If you are indeed seeking to retrieve the Millennial Horn, how do you mean to find it, exactly? Because it has been lost without a trace for a long time now.“

Einhard looks Micho straight in the eye with sternness.
“Exactly how I do not know, but I know it to be near a charred ruin. And as I have been given this task by the King himself, so it shall be done.”

Micho grins, shaking his head a little bit condescendingly. ‘’I thought so…
You see, I bring it up because our friend, Raditsch, has great knowledge on the ins and outs of the Rudines… He knows every little pass and trail. The precise Lampert patrol routes. Where their watchtowers are… what caves to avoid to evade the darklings... If you’d take my advice, maybe finding him might not be such a bad idea.’’

Fulk and Liudolf raise their voices in outrage at Micho. ‘’Are you mad?! A God-bred Paladin kissed by a thousand Virgins and Saints with a thousand Blessings cannot negate the doom of Raditsch!’’

“I thank you for your concern, but I think I am quite able to handle this… Raditsch… Trust me I have seen greater terrors than a mere man.” Einhard says with a dismissive tone and a shrug of his shoulders. Marozia raises her voice at Einhard “But what if he is a demon… or his wife is an ogre… or his son is part goat!” Einhard chuckles a little at Marozia’s excited terror, then suddenly sobers up at the thought of a goat man, “Don’t worry little one, I will defend us from any monsters that lurk in the dark.”

The men around the table all look at Einhard incredulously.

Yet with the ruckus passed, the chieftain at last speaks up. ‘’Paladin -- Shield Maiden. I wager you two are tired from the journey. Liudolf will see you to a bed with a warm hearthfire…’’ Odo glares at his henchman, who quietly mutters something to himself before standing up from his chair.
‘’This way, honored guests.’’

Darkness. Alric hears only the sound of the waves, the salt sea brine, and the cawing of the ever tenacious gulls. He feels weak, miserable, unable, or rather unwilling, to face the world. He begins to drift off once more, letting his exhaustion overtake him.
‘’Don’t stop fighting, Prince of Eodaland…’’ A distant voice calls to him from the other side of the ocean. ‘’Awaken. They are soon upon you, my Prince… Awaken!’’

When Alric awakens, it dawns to him what happened; he is in the middle of a wreckage of the ship he sailed on.
Lifting his head from the sand, he faintly looks about, to find no trace of the others. They’ve all been taken by the ocean tempest. He may feel a little bit sorry for them, but his head is still dizzy. Having rubbed the sand off his face, he takes in his surroundings. The sky above is still overcast. But the darkest clouds have dispersed. There is no sign of the storm that had obliterated the ship he was on.

In this moment Alric was disconnected from time. He wondered to himself how much had passed. Perhaps his troubles were long passed. Perhaps all those he’d escaped from had forgotten him. He then remembered the voice. His troubles were not behind him. And then visions of his recent traumas began to flash in his mind. When trouble came at his bedchamber he ran. When the tempest hit he hid. What son of Eodaland was he? His people, my people, Alric thought, were in need of a leader. A King. This was the revelation the young Prince needed. Without hesitation Alric set out, spotting amongst the wreckage a stray sword but he knew this wasn’t enough. Might would not save him. Alric needed a miracle and to find one he needed to take a leap of faith. So he turned his back on the wreck and the ocean and headed into the island.

Whatever shore he has been washed on, he doesn’t recognise it. Nor is there a trace of humans having been here in a very long time. The island is barren, desolate and rocky… and also cold. Hopefully he would come across a sign of civilization, and help. He needs to find a way to get off this island. And if worse comes to worst, he has to build a raft out of the wreckage of the ship, and hope it holds.
The dryness of his mouth began to irritate and he knew before long he would need to find water… and food. In that moment he heard movement ahead. Suddenly from behind a rock a white hare leaped out and, spotting Alric, began to sprint off to the island’s interior towards a formation of rocks. The terrain was painful to traverse barefoot but in desperation Alric continued to keep up with the animal the best he could before he began to feel as though the hare was not running from him, but perhaps leading? When Alric was tiring and slowing down, so too did the hare slow down as if to test him. The Prince stopped suddenly and as he did, so did the hare. ...Alric was perplexed. The hare then continued, slower this time, and he followed.

Now finding himself in a valley, Alric finally saw the hare stop at what seemed to be the entrance to a cave. Looking down he saw his feet were bleeding, but he felt little pain. He also felt once again the dryness of his mouth but this time felt little thirst. Before him is a deep hole leading into the earth… Was this one of those lairs where dark things sleep, of which he has heard so much growing up? Looking into it, it seemed almost as though the darkness therein looked back at him likewise. But the hare entering it was somehow reassuring.
Casting his lot with the hare, he knew there to be no threat down below, and the Prince enters.

Slow and steady the Lampert Company’s ship steered towards a Tautan guard tower at the northern end of the chain.
‘’I am familiar with some of the guard posted up there. Surely, once they recognize me the chain will be lifted…’’ The emissary tells everyone while trying to sound reassuring.
Meanwhile the ship crew could see, no, smell, the smoke from the burning ships being torched in the harbor.
‘’Unbelievable…’’ one of the men on the ship quietly mutters.

‘’Hail! Man on the tower! Is Orangtos there? Or anyone?’’
No reply. For obvious reason it seems whoever is tasked with manning this section of the wall is occupied elsewhere, perhaps understandable for a city under siege. The screams and clashing of metal in the distance bode ill, to say the least.

It was several minutes before someone finally looked down the fortified rampart. In the meantime the crew had to torment themselves with inaction, standing by, waiting as the city fell to enemy slaughter. The Baltian sailors and their Lampert allies were all equally impatient and anxious.

‘’Who is it!?’’ A Tautan guard could be seen looking down to their ship with a bow in hand, an arrow already placed on the string and ready to fire. Unlike most of the city’s guard, this man was geared up in sturdy chainmail with a spangenhelm on his head. Ardoiwn deduced it had to be a Viigoc -- a Tautovigoc guarding the wealthier upper commons of Tautom.

‘’Hail friend!’’ The Tautan emissary speaks. ‘’I am the King’s emissary, Lulupus of Sonimossos! Is Orangtos up there..?!’’ The emissary asks with a hopeful glint.
Following a moment of hesitation, the Viigoc guardsman finally lowers his bow. He deadpan answers. ‘’He’s dead.’’
The emissary’s face pales, before the Viigoc guard adds;‘’There’s been a mutiny in the Amalian unit. Your friend was among the casualties of their treachery. They’ve failed to capture this section of the wall though.’’

The emissary goes mute. He tries to reply, but all he does is stammer incoherently.
Witnessing the uncertainty of the emissary Cleph steps forward, “Be there any chance you can lower the chain?”

‘’I fear not.’’ Replies the Tautovigoc. ‘’The leverage has been captured by the mutineers. They’re in control of most of the dockyard.’’

‘’Is there no way in then?” Cleph cries up at the guard.

‘’....
Wait there.’’
The Viigoc guardsman disappears behind the wall. After a moment of rummaging he returns with a rope in hand.
‘’Here. Climb up with this.’’ The guard attaches the rope to a hook, and then casts it down to the ship below his sentry tower.
‘’Honestly, it seems like a lost cause to me. You might want to think this through. If you want to get away with your lives, now’s the chance.
If you’re really serious about saving this festerin’ dunghill of a city, well, be my guest, you dapper warriors.’’

“There are people who need our help, who need our steel and our courage. We must help them.” Ardoiwn states, looking over his friends and allies as he takes a grip on the ropes and begins to climb.
Behind him his companions and life long friends too take the rope and begin climbing up towards their fate.

One by one the Lampert delegation and some of their Baltian allies were pulled unto the wall. Admirably most of them were committed to the relief and liberation of the city, regardless of the Tautovigoc’s warning. Only the emissary, the ship’s captain and a few of the core crew remained behind.
‘’Lord Gastald, we will row the ship further ahead so the attackers won’t spot us… That means there will be no way back once inside the city. Good luck, sir. God guide you.’’

Climbing up the wall Ardoiwn looks down to the captain, “Best of fortunes to you as well sir!” Turning back to his task of climbing the man mutters, “God? Guide? Hump.”

That same hour, most of the reinforcements managed to get up the wall with the help of the Viigoc. They number close to eighty men. It can hardly be called an army or even an expeditionary force. It is Ardoiwn’s personal Lampert war band.

Getting a view at the environs, Ardoiwn spots a largely empty section of wall connecting to the guardsman's sentry tower on which they stand. It seems this Viigoc is the only one of the Tautan garrison that mans the sea wall. The wall section connects to another tower, which is the only way down into the harbour. The door of this tower has been barred shut by a tall stack of crates containing arrows, rations, supplies and whatever else the man could find. Presumably the Tautoviigoc moved them there as barricade against the Amalian mutineers. It shows, considering they’ve not taken the sea wall yet.

‘’Good. Your ship’s reinforcements is inside now…’’ The Tautovigoc guard begins to address the foreign company surrounding him, his voice more hushed than before. ‘’Honestly I was about to look for a means of escape myself, but with you lot being here, we may actually be able to drive them back!’’ The man chuckles, though it was of a nervous sort to cope with the very dire straits they’re in.
‘’I don’t think they could’ve spotted us. Your presence should catch these mutineers completely by surprise.
That said, time is really of the essence. By the looks of it the Chlotars are already inside the central commons and are advancing on the Palace. If I had to guess, they want to get to the King. Your best bet is heading straight there. And doing that…’’

‘’Let me guess, we’ll have to make a path through the mutineers.’’ Cleph finishes the Viigoc’s line.
‘’...Yes.’’

“Very well then.” Ardoiwn states as he makes his way towards the barricaded door. “Disloyalty and treachery are foul beasts, things to be put down. We shall draw up and closely as we can before springing on the enemy and taking as many as possible. At that point we cut down any who get between us and the palace.” Pulling a crate away from the door Ardoiwn also adds, “Don’t forget, we’re here to save the city. If anyone should come across those in aid do what you can.”
Shifting a final large crate out of the way Ardoiwn opens the door and allows Cleph the van, following not far behind and then followed by the rest of his band.

The Lampert warband descends down a narrow set of stone stairs in the tower’s interior. At the bottom is a small barracks. A close iron door leading outside, a table at the center with empty chairs, and in an opening behind the stairs a bed where a Tautan guardsman is resting motionlessly. Were Ardoiwn to look closer, it becomes apparent that the poor man is dead. His throat had been slit in his sleep. Apparently some of the mutineers had already passed through here.
‘’Typical Celesean cowardice.’’ One of the Lampert warriors mutters to himself.

The war band of eighty men all gathered in the cramped confines of the tower, ready to barge out when the Gastald gives the signal to attack. After Cleph did a headcount, ensuring everyone was assembled, he nods to Ardoiwn.
The Gastald raises his spear. ‘’My friends, ahead of us is glory! Let us take it!”
The company of warriors roar and cheer in choir, and grasping their swords, axes and maces, rush out through the door, aching to strike down any man foolhardy enough to come upon their path.

Meanwhile the Amalian soldiers were busy; flames had begun to light up every inch of the docks as shadows moved from jetty to jetty, ensuring that no boat could be used to escape the city as the timber constructions were torched. The soldiers, only about twenty in all, had all gathered to watch the flames, some had even removed their helmets. There was no joyous cries from them as the orange glow bathed their somber and hard set expressions, glinting off of their armor and shields, some well aware their only escape was now crumbling into ash and falling into the water before them. The stern expressions were suddenly broken by alarm, most of the soldiers spotting movement as a tower door was opened a few hundred feet away, watching as soldiers began to stream through into the open.

“Fuckin’ hellfire! Those bastards are rallying!”
“We cleared that tower, who the fuck are they?!”
“They’re gonna hit our rear!”
Suddenly a sharp voice cut through the confused tones, an officer with a red crested helmet started grabbing the nearest soldiers and shoving them towards the new threat as he roared at the top of his lungs. “THEY’RE YOUR NEXT MISSION SOLDIERS! MOVE, MOVE, I WANT THOSE SHIELDS UP IN FRONT OF THOSE BASTARDS NOW BEFORE THEY GET THROUGH TO THE GATES!” The small squad began grabbing their helmets, hurriedly trying to pull them on as their faces grew white. The officer, a grizzled and broad man with several medallions on his chest declaring his experience, snarled and slapped the nearest soldier around the head. “Leave the helmet Triscus! I SAID LEAVE IT! GO!” With the initial shock over, the soldiers left helmets and their equipment behind, sprinting with their shields to get between the advancing Lamparts and the rear of Quintus’ detachment. As they watched, more and more soldiers began to spill from the tower, it wasn’t long before a sickening realization dawned on them, that they were outnumbered.

“Triscus, RUN! WARN THE GENERAL!” Triscus stared, dumbfounded at what was happening in front of him, the words falling on deaf ears as the soldiers assembled in front of the Lamparts, shields locked as tireless drilling took over their thoughts and actions, but even the soldiers extensive training and experience never prepared them for a fight with such poor odds. “Triscus I swear with Godas as my witness I will SODOMIZE YOU WITH MY FUCKING FIST! PAY ATTENTION!”
“Sir?!” Triscus snapped back to reality, looking to the officer as he tightened the grip on his own blade, having fallen in at the rear of the formation. The officer reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back, growling in his face, the thick smell of olives washed over him and Triscus couldn’t help but wince.
“Get to the general. Warn him we have one hundred swords advancing on their rear, we’ll fight a beating retreat but we’ll need support!”
“I… I…”
“It’s not optional. MOVE IT!” The officer simply shoved him back, and then stepped into his place. The men all stood with shields forward, ready to face the charging horde as the officer began to shout encouragement to the men, some of whom were already looking over their shoulders to the safety of the gatehouse, but the majority knew it was far too late to try and outrun the enemy. Triscus blinked, taking one last look at the twenty or so men he had spent years fighting with, eating with, living with. Then he turned. And ran.

The Lamperts wasted no time seeing how unprepared they caught the crew of mutineers. They must not squander this opportunity.
“Cut them down!” cried Cleph, pointing his mace at the Amalian crew being hastily assembled in a pitiful attempt at obstruction.
“Break through these mutts. No quarter!” The war band rushes forward letting out terrifying battle roars as they engage the mutineers. The Lamperts were upon them with such speed that there was barely chance for the Amalians to form a cohesive formation. The battle had begun.

The Amalians use their spears to attempt and hold the incoming crowd at bay, but they were utterly swamped after failing to set up a solid line of defense. Mercilessly the Lamperts bludgeon their way through the men.
“Stand fast! Stand fast!” the officer exclaims in an effort to stem the flood. But when the strait gets too dire he himself joins the crucible and hews his blade into the nearest barbarian, which slides off his helmet and hits then into his shoulder. The struck Lampert warrior recoils sideways. The officer takes the opportunity to bash the staggering enemy with his kite shield, who loses balance indefinitely and stumbles into the Lamperts adjacent him. For a moment there is an opening for the Amalians who waste no time to jab their spears into the disoriented opponents.
The Lamperts on the left flank have been repulsed! Then Cleph appears besides the officer, and his mace batters his unguarded side before he even thought of raising his shield in defense. And before he could question how the Lampert got past his unit, the officer observed how the right flank had collapsed. He and ten of his remaining men are now completely surrounded.
“Reform into circle formation! Shields out you wretches! Do not let up! AAAARGHHHH!” The officer screams wildly ignoring the bleeding wound made on him. “DO NOT LET UP! GODAS OBSERVES THIS DECISIVE MOMENT!” For what felt like an age the Amalian circle held its own. Some dared to hope they would make through to see a new dawn. But they soon found this hope sadly misplaced. After several minutes of stubborn hand to hand combat, the officers head was finally struck by Clephs mace. Hard enough that the officer’s helmet went flying, ricocheting over the cobblestone tiles. The remaining soldiers lost heart. And soon they were no more.

With the bloody deed done, Ardoiwn raises his crimson stained spear.
“Onwards! We cannot stand still, take the gate!” Lowering his weapon and giving a sigh of relief at this initial success. Cleph runs up to him, his mace crimson but himself seemingly unharmed. Nonetheless the look on his face was dire, “Who?” Ardoiwn asked.
“Daufer, three spears to the chest. What will we tell his sister?” Looking over the water, before turning his head up towards the city Ardoiwn replied, “Nothing, not yet. We need her focused on the battle ahead of us. Don’t let her know until after the day is done.”

As Cleph ran off to coordinate the men, the Viigoc guard from before walks up to Ardoiwn.
“Lord Gastald, bypass the columns and warehouse to the right and follow the street through the white arch. There you will doubtlessly meet the bulk of the defenders.”
With a nod Ardoiwn placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Thank you. Without your aid this city and its people would be far worse off. Try to find somewhere safe, with your family if you have any. Otherwise, feel free to fight with us in glory, you have earned that right.”
The Viigoc gives a nervous smile, then looks over the harbor. All the great ships have already been torched or rendered unseaworthy. Only a few smaller vessels remain that the mutineers seemingly overlooked, or had not the chance to destroy. None of the mutineers are in sight. They must be trying to link up with the Chlotar Army in the central plaza. The coast is clear.
‘’..I don’t think escape is an option at this point. There’s no way to bypass that chain. ...I might as well try to make it inside the Royal District with you.’’

With no time to waste and having already emerged victorious from the initial skirmish, the emboldened Lampert company march through the harbor streets. The air about the place smells of fire, charred wood, salted fish and now the smell of deathly decay. From expired fish more so than slain Tautans. But the screams heard in the distance are a grim reminder that time is truly of the essence. And so the foreign warriors head straight for the northern district past the corridor. But as they come closer, they are met with a dreadful surprise. The mutinying forces are not at the plaza at all, but were right there at the far end of the street, as if waiting for them in the arches leading to the Royal Quarter. They could just make out one of the mutineers running up to the group.

“Sir! Sir!” Quintus turned to look as he heard a hurried voice pant out behind him. The officers surrounding him all scowled as they looked on Triscus, doubled over and red faced, struggling to catch his breath “Sir the Tautans! They’re in the docks sir! They’re killing us!”
“What?! WHERE?! How many!?”
“Behind me! No more than uh… One hundred? Maybe two?” Quintus gritted his teeth and grabbed the young soldier by the neck plate, pulling him close as he growled. “Think man! THINK! How many?!”
“Uhm… One hundred sir!” Quintus released him and immediately started barking orders to the officers.
“Vitellius, I want the first, second and third Centuries on me now. The rest are to remain here and guard the entrance to the docks. I will send runners with information.” Vitellius nodded to Quintus, pulling his helmet over his head, he and two other officers began jogging to sections of soldiers, all waiting eagerly, already their shouts were being drowned out by the sounds of screams and shouting from behind then, the sounds of battle. Quintus ground his teeth at the thought of an enemy force sneaking behind them. How? As far as he knew the docks were practically sealed on all fronts. He reached down, pulling his sword free and spat on the floor. He could find out later if there were any survivors. Behind him, there was a cry.
“Soldiers. About face! You will advance on my command!”. Quintus drowned the words out in his mind and began walking through the ranks of soldiers, the first Century and it’s officer, Vitellius were now facing where the supposed threat of the enemy was coming from. Already the sound of fighting were growing quieter. It wouldn’t be long now before the grey cobbles would be thick with blood. “SOLDIERS. ADVANCE!”

Ardoiwn had transitioned towards the van of the moving warriors, and thus was among the first to notice the enemy line.
Looking over the enemy they were both more numerous, and far better prepared than the last group. “We can’t just charge through that.” A warrior next to Ardoiwn said, almost to himself. The Gastald had to agree.
“HOLD!” Ardoiwn shouted to his warriors as he pushed ahead. The Lampert band halts, forming a thick mass of muscles and weapons behind the Gastald as he took a few steps ahead. Perhaps if Ardoiwn could single out and defeat their leader the main body of soldiers would rout, or surrender.

Three strides past his men, Ardoiwn stared over the enemy line before slamming the metal capped butt of his spear into the stone tiled road and shouting out, “Hail! A Gastald of the insurmountable kingdom of the Lamperts stands before you! I will have words with your leader, should he not be a coward!” Several laughs and cries from Ardoiwn’s band punctuate the point as the Lampert leader stood awaiting response.

The marching tramp of studded boots didn’t falter at first, shields hiding the bodies of the men behind them, helmets catching the daylight as swords poked through the strong shields like some kind of spined animal. As the word “Coward” was called out, there was a sudden cry from the ranks approaching the Lamperts. “Centuries, HALT!”.

“Are you certain?” Quintus glared at Vitellius, his brow creased in a mix of anger and yet excitement was clear in his eyes. “Aye sir. He said Lampert. I’d wager a month’s pay on it.”
“If you’re right i’ll GIVE you a month’s pay…” Quintus responded, his face lifted towards the lines of the enemy, several ranks of men stood between him and Ardoiwn. A Lampert. The men who had slaughtered, raped and nearly annihilated his home. The men knew it too, many of them were already whispering in the ranks, casting sidelong looks at each other. Quintus brushed it off, his mind racing. After all this time, here presented a chance for retribution. A prelude to the long war to retake Amalia, that he and his men had always hoped for. Here was a prize worth solidifying their alliance with the Chlotar forces tearing through Tautom behind them. Then he felt it in his heart, a burning hatred and passion to end this creature’s life. With one outstretched, open and waiting hand, he discarded the rational thoughts in his mind, and gave in to his anger. “Spear.”

The ranks of the Amalians stood still, Quintus had made sure he’d picked only the best, and it showed. But even now as word spread through the ranks that before them stood Lamperts, even some of the older veterans began to shift, twisting their weapons, hatred clear in their eyes. The mood of the Lamperts meanwhile was the reverse, almost jovial as several of them threw jeers and taunts. Cleph tried to keep the host controlled as Ardoiwn awaited response, but one man can hardly hold back eighty.
Suddenly, there was movement. Small, thin, invisible perhaps to those without the eyes for such. Indeed, Ardoiwn would have missed it had he not been staring at the enemy line intently, waiting for a sign of a departing commander. A javelin flew through the air, whistling death aimed at the Gastald. A half dozen hurried steps back into his war band and the spear lodged itself in the dirt where the man once stood. Sighing in relief Ardoiwn stepped forwards again, examining the weapon. It was nothing remarkable, a simple javelin which had desired his life. A lone weapon, thrown from an unseen enemy. The thought brought a fury to the breast of the warrior, someone had sought to kill him in so indignant a fashion! The men around the Gastald held similar thoughts, and the jeering and merry threats turned sour and fierce.
“Not just a cowardly leader, but an entire band then.” A sigh escaped the Gastald’s lungs. He had hoped for a parley, a few words, maybe an honorable duel that would allow the defeated to leave with a semblance of honor intact. “Very well. If they wish to see blood spilled.” Ardoiwn’s voice rose as his introspection turned to rallying cry, “If they wish to meet cold iron and blazing hearts, if they wish to know the fury of the Lampert, than who am I to stop them!? Such weak men will only be kindling to the likes of us, their numbers merely further glories for us to claim! To me warriors! Death to God!” His warriors cried alongside their leader, and charged the enemy line with fervor.

Leofric couldn’t help but frown as he approached Belisar’s palace, flanked by two of his men. To Leofric, Belisar seemed almost as bad as King Badastan himself. This deal did not sit well with him, yet it was necessary - it gave him a reliable stopping point to sell his goods, catch up with the news, and offered some degree of protection should Eodaeland or another Kingdom make more active attempts to hunt him down.

Before leaving his ship, he had changed into some of his finest clothes. Officially, he was an Eodaen Earl who took to the seas like many others of his kind, which was true, only in the official story he was a merchant rather than a pirate.

Wiping the frown from his face, he approached the gates, and the palace guards looked at him expectantly. “I am Earl Leofric of Eodaeland,” Leofric introduced himself. “I request an audience with Doux Belisar of Syrome.”

The Syrioviigoc guards, while recognising the man were clearly on high alert and suspicious, though Leofric could not possibly know for what reason, as he could not have been aware of the other Doux’s surprise visit and stand-off.

The guards did not respond other than to tell him to halt and wait, as a guard captain whispered with another and then palace servants arrived, each gesturing and whispering to each other in a kind of rushed silence, servants moving back and forth.

It was sometime until another servant returned, and finally the guards turned back to Leofric.

‘’Your audience has been granted Eodaelander. The Doux will see you.’’ One of the guards followed the servant back into the palace, and the servant gestured for Leofric to follow.

While the palace was beautiful, it was clearly in a state of hasteful movement and sudden activity, with many guards, pages and other retinue members moving around - both cleaning up from the mess with the intruding thug of a Doux, as well as responding to the news concerning Tautom. The Servant and guard too, were rushed.

They stopped at the throne room rather than the seaside gazebo, and Belisar was busy discussing something with a guard captain when the servant knocked and announced Leofric’s arrival.

Belisar spun around, robes drifting in haste and immediately turned to Leofric.

‘’What is it that you require, pirate?’’

Bowing his head slightly, Leofric smirked.
“Your Grace, I merely wished to inform you that the better part of my ‘merchant’ fleet has arrived in your city. I thought it would only be polite to make sure you were aware, and to see if you had any special requests in mind before I set off again. And if you don’t mind, I would also ask if you have received any updates on the political situation in my homeland.”

Belisar nodded and quickly drew out a piece of paper from his robes, holding it out to Leofric.

‘’This letter came from a Pigeon, a Eodaland one. Your ‘king’, Badastan... he is coming here. It would be wise for you and your fleet to avoid him during his stay. Otherwise, I will require you to monitor activity along the coast of Tautom, particularly of any Chlotar activity” Belisar said, still holding out the letter.

Leofric accepted the sheet of parchment, and read it as Belisar went on to explain. “I see,” he noted. He wondered just how many ships Badastan would be sending, and whether or not they would all be grouped together, or if they would split up. Then he contemplated the idea of laying some sort of trap or ambush to sink or capture as many of them as possible. But there was no way to come up with such a plan given the limited information, so avoiding them was indeed the wisest course of action… unless they found him anyway.

Instead, he nodded. “Very well, I shall head west.” He was going that way anyway; many of his countrymen had fled to Chlotar, in protest of Badastan’s idiotic squirrel cult. While they were right to abandon the fat usurper, Leofric couldn’t help but think them foolish to so quickly pledge themselves to a foreign banner - the banner of the same man who killed Eodaeland’s previous King. Leofric would need to convince them to fight under his own banner instead, or - more likely - that of Prince Alric, the true heir to the throne, if the boy still lived.

“If there is nothing else, I would ask to take my leave,” Leofric requested.

‘’It is granted. Fair travels pirate’’ Belisar said, immediately turning to his guards and gesturing to escort Leofric out. Already moving to other concerns, Belisar turned back to his Guard Captain who had approached again, sensing the end of the pirate’s audience, and he began again talking, now in whispers.

Quintus let out a grunt as he hefted the spear in a hard overhead throw. Quintus watched the iron tip sail through the air before it slammed into the dirt. It wasn’t Ardoiwn’s blood that graced the spear as intended, the pilum had missed him by inches. Vetellius turned to his commander and grinned at him with a hint of sarcasm. “Do all nobles throw good like that sir?”
“Bah. The wind caught it, it was headed straight for him. You saw it!” Quintus snarled in response, frustration clear in his voice. Vetellius simply smirked “Well. Hopefully your blade skills are better than your throwing skills… We’ll be fighting them the old fashioned way.”
“You mean the proper way.” Quintus responded, the frustration in his voice receding as he suddenly barked out himself. “SOLDIERS! READY PILUM!” The cry was carried by the other officers in the ranks, soldiers hurriedly replacing their swords with the much deadlier throwing spears, beginning to draw them back as they got ready to unleash the barrage of cold iron on the enemy. “THROW!”

Bolstered by the frustrated rage of their leader the Lamperts charged.
Ardoiwn was still hung up on the fact that they had tried to slay him in such a manner. The thought of being slain without even seeing his killers face… Ardoiwn shook his head, this was no time for such thoughts.
“Cleph!” Ardoiwn cried to the man next to him, “Yes sir?!” Cleph answered, “Take our right, if we’re going to win this we’re going to need to punch through and surround them!” With a nod the second in command howled and moved down the line. Ardoiwn looked ahead, the distance between the two forces closing. Suddenly he saw the glint of steel as the enemy soldiers changed weapons. “I can’t bring them all out of this...” The man whispered to himself dejectedly.

With a single barked command, the front ranks unleashed their pilum towards the enemy. The spears, designed with a soft iron shaft to bend after impact, embedded themselves in shield, armour and flesh without discrimination. Any pilum that were lucky enough to embed themselves in shields and armour now made these defences useless and unwieldy, the spears stuck in place, their iron tips bent so they couldn’t be pulled out. Those Lamperts were forced to throw their shields aside, making them easier prey as the Amalian’s swords were drawn once more.

The frontliners of the warband use their axes and maces to hew the stuck pilums off their shields, to varying degrees of success. Some broke theirs off with ease, but others couldn’t get it done before the enemy was upon them -- there was not the luxury of time.
Thankfully untouched by the volley Ardoiwn considered the options ahead of him. Force of arms alone would not see him through, but diplomacy was already spent. The only hope was to punch deeply enough to turn it from a clash of lines into a chaotic melee.
His spear leveled in front of him Ardoiwn cried out, “For Lampertei!”

With battlelust and yells and cheers, the company of Lamperts charge forth to meet the enemy, and slam their axes, swords and maces into Amalian frontliners -- splintering shields, breaking bones and, if not that, denting armor. A bloody crucible. The Lamperts may be outnumbered, but covering the width of the street it is impossible for the Amalians to use this to its full effect, to surround or flank them.

The charge was met by the immovable strength of the Amalian shields, the charge’s chorus was answered by Amalian screams. Quintus watched as the front rank of his men buckled under the charge’s impetus, but stood strong, only a few of his men falling under Lampert blade or axe. He knew what would happen next, he had no need to give the orders. From the front, an officer roared. “Hold shields! HOLD!” as the line of Amalians started to regain their footing, one soldier briefly threw back his shield, thrusting with a shortsword into the gut of one Lampert, resulting in a pained cry as deep red and brown guts spilled from the wound. In a second, the soldier withdrew back behind his shield as the Lampet fell, screaming in abject terror and agony. Quintus watched as this motion began to mirror itself across the entire Amalian line, like an armoured machine, the soldiers behind the front rank braced the soldier in front of them as they began to lash out with short blades, ideal for the chaos of the battlefield. More Lamperts began to fall, blood starting to fill the gaps in the cobbles as the Lampert’s weapons crashed against shields and armour with little effect, if they could even swing them to begin with in the cramped press of the battle lines. Even so the Amalian’s still took casualties. Each one was ignored by his comrades, and simply replaced. Deciding to press the advantage, Quintus growled, raising his voice above the screams of dying men “AMALIANS! ADVANCE!”.

Ardoiwn looks on with horror at the display in front of him. The lampert charge made little ground on the metal wall, the quills of short swords punching through narrow gaps to bring swift death. Ardoiwn could merely watch as Alo took a blade into the gut, the man was now on the ground, trying to keep his innards within. Pert took a sword between the ribs, nonetheless he tried to fight on but his strength was gone, his blows glancing.
They were all dying. There was nothing Ardoiwn could do about it.
Ardoiwn did not hear nor see any greater progress on the flanks either, whenever an opening was made, whenever a lampert struck down one of their cowardly foes two more would take his place.
As his friends and comrades died around him a cold rage began to burn in Ardoiwn’s breast. He had to punch through, he had to make the death of those that followed him worthwhile. He had to kill as many enemies as he could, he had to kill all of them.
Charging to the front Ardoiwn was a rapid fury, seven blows here, six of them faints, one striking true. Two blows above the head to punch a spear into a leg before his enemy could respond. Not good enough. Faster, he had to be faster. One enemy got too close, within his spear. Their sword swept across Ardoiwn’s face, but it wasn’t deep enough. Ardoiwn brought his head into his enemy before pushing them away and spearing them.

With fury in his eyes, Ardoiwn breathed heavily, his teeth clenched as exhaustion was pushed aside. He had to kill their leader, then he could slay the rest, then he could save his friends. His eyes darts through the frightened faces before him to make out any man who resembled an officer, anyone with a distinguishing helmet, a plume, the air of command. His eyes falls on a red horsehair crest adorning an ornate helmet, and another beside that, both belonging to two officers, one looks to be in his prime, a scarred face and a grim set dark expression. The other is older, his face beginning to relax in its age, but no less determined, experience obvious in his eyes. With a faint surge of hope in his chest Ardoiwn shouts at them, “Are one of you the coward!? The coward that would slay my friends without so much as a word!?”

Quintus turned his head to the cry, spotting the source instantly. Ardoiwn had taken down several soldiers in front of them, having pushed the gap made in the lines before the soldiers could push back. The Amalian’s had begun to advance, pressing into the Lamperts all the more, making their larger, heavier weapons next to useless, almost impossible to swing around as their own comrades were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the melee. Here the Amalian blade came into its own, slipping between shields and gaps in armour, slaughtering the Lamperts who came at them like madmen. Quintus was relieved to see the tides of the battle becoming clear. But even so, he watched as this Lampert leader hacked his way over Amalian men towards him, followed by a handful of his emboldened retainers. He knew he had to be dealt with. Quintus took his shield up, nodding to Vetillius as he grunted, his eyes set straight forward “The center is buckling. That one.” He nodded towards Ardoiwn “He’s rallying the Lamperts. He needs to die.”

Even as Quintus looked on, the cost of the Lampert charge was beginning to show, while they had managed to make a dent in the center of the Amalian line, it had cost them their flanks, as slowly the Amalian veterans carved their way to the rear of the Lampert line, slowly but surely, the Lamperts were being surrounded, and all that was left was to cut the beating heart from the Godless heathens. Quintus sucked in a sharp breath, in front of him, was the final soldier between him and the berserking warchief, holding his shield high. Quintus grabbed him by the shoulder, bracing him and falling into formation as he growled in his ear “Stand fast soldier. I will give you fifty silver pieces if you carv-”
“With all due respect sir. Shut up.” Quintus blinked at the growl from the soldier in front, seeing that he was watching Ardoiwn intently, until finally, the moment came.

Ardoiwn’s spear punched through an Amalian soldier’s shoulder. There was a sickening crunch of bone and armour as the weight of the blow sent the soldier onto his knees, Ardoiwn grunted as he pulled his spear from the man, the Amalian soldier dying in a pool of blood beneath his face. With the Lampert leader momentarily distracted, the soldier in front of Quintus suddenly struck, throwing his sword out from behind his shield towards the Lampert leader. There was a sound of metal on metal, blade on shield as it was stopped dead in its tracks. At the last second Cleph appeared, having parried the blow, saving Ardoiwn’s life.
“What are you doing here?!” Ardoiwn cried as his friend replied, “Flanks are collapsed, thought I’d save your life.”
While his focus was on his lord however Cleph presented an opening, one the Amalian took to bring his shield down on Cleph’s leg. Cleph howled in pain as his knee was crushed. The Lampert warrior screamed as bone gave way to the metal rimmed shield, his scream was cut short a moment later as the Amalian’s sharp blade tore into his chest, resulting in a brief gurgle before he fell away in the tide of battle. The Amalian looked now to Ardoiwn with a curse on his lips, lifting his blade back for another try at the Gastald, but Ardoiwn wasn’t paying attention.. As he thrust with the shortsword for the Lampert’s neck, Ardoiwn’s spear suddenly shot upwards to catch the attack before parrying the blade away. The tip of Ardoiwn’s spear then shot forwards and hit the soldier in the hand. The Amalian screamed, dropping his blade before it reached its target as the spear pierced his skin, blood oozing from the deep gash. Quintus grimaced, imagining the end for the soldier in front of him. But it wasn’t over.

As Ardoiwn pulled his spear back for a finishing jab into the Amalian, there was a burst of blinding speed, a fit of unexpected rage, when the Amalian lifted his shield, throwing it into the spear before it could begin its forwards momentum, and then threw a hard kick at Ardoiwn’s crotch. There was a soft thud, before Ardoiwn’s eyes widened in unexpected pain, quivering as a loud groan escaped his mouth. With his eyes rolling into his head, the Lampert didn’t have time to stop the Amalian from tearing Ardoiwn’s heavy knife from his waist. Coating the side arm’s handle in his own blood, the Amalian lifted it, and pulling away the shield, swung it hard for Ardoiwn’s exposed face. There was a wet parting sound as Ardoiwn’s flesh tore, the blade cutting deeply. Blood poured down Ardoiwn’s face as he staggers back, before falling in a heap on the ground, defeated.

Quintus watched the grisly spectacle with wide eyes, his mouth open as he watched the berserking Ardoiwn felled by a nameless soldier. Looking past the soldier, he saw the Lamperts closest were also briefly shocked by the apparent death of their commander. The Amalians took full advantage of the brief lapse in their foes rage, with a triumphant roar escaping from their throats, the Amalian center began to push back, hacking down any Lamperts who tried to return to the fight. Quintus looked back to the soldier in front of him, who was still holding the hefty knife and panting, the bleeding wound on his hand almost forgotten. “What’s your name soldier? You did… Well… Better than I thought.”
The soldier didn’t answer at first, his mind lost to the carnage unfolding before him, before finally he seemed to snap back to reality. “It’s… It’s Triscus sir.”

The Lampert line is collapsing, and the Amalians can sense victory. The advancing Celeseans are held off by only a handful of defiant Lamperts, but they too understand their battle is now a lost cause. Their sole motive for fighting a losing battle is not the pitifully naive hope to turn the tide, but rather the insistence on an honorable battle death in the Lampert tradition. The rest of the warband are already dead, or fleeing.
‘’Finish them off, men! Disperse this rabble, for that is all that they are!’’ Quintus shouts, waving his swords as his men leave their formation to charge down the street into the remaining barbarians.

The cobblestones of the street are wet with blood. The gaps between the stones are filled with red to overflowing, as the combatants’ corpses pile up. Sensing that the battle is ending some of the citizens that had huddled away in their houses glimpse out of the windows. All can sense their anxiety as they motion to the men behind them to come closer.
Whatever is on their minds, it matters not. The Amalians have had a taste of vengeance at last.
‘’Doux Quintus Vitalius!’’ A runner came up from behind to the Amalian commander with a look of intense distress. Quintus turns about. ‘’Doux Quintus Vitalius! It’s… It’s very bad news. We have been flanked. The cohort stationed behind at the gates are being overwhelmed! Troops from inside the Royal District have launched a surprise attack. We battled them for as long we could, but now they’re coming here!’’
As Quintus turned around, he saw the remnants of the veteran cohort he left behind withdrawing towards him, something that has almost never happened before. They can only have been pushed back by a very formidable force...

Lo, a foe enters the battle theatre more dreadful than any assailant of Tautom could dream. A battalion comprising large, and largely undressed barrel-chested men of such bulging beefy muscle proportions that the image of them together is nearly grotesque, carrying great shields as they advance in a mobile testudo formation with metal lances protruding from the gaps. Their shields and bodies both are so slathered in oil that, with the setting sun shining directly on them, the entirety of their formation gleams radiantly as a beacon. It’s a surreal view, any man not familiar with Tautom would be struck numb by the mere sight of them. From the centre of their formation flies distinctly the red Baltian Eagle, clutching the Holy Sword Weishairus.
And driven before them is the bulk of the Amalian soldiers that Quintus had positioned at the gate, pulling back and regrouping to Quintus’ men. Most were exhausted and bore wounds of varying seriousness, but it was clear the enemy had broken them. Quintus looked towards the banner, and his eyes widen in recognition “The Sacred Band…”

The Sacred Band of Tautom, an immovable battalion, sturdier and more cohesive than even the Amalian’s. The metal shields they carry are heavy, enough so that only specialists of immense training and body mass could effectively wield them. The Sacred Band are those specialists.
‘’AUXILIARIES! CUT OFF THEIR MEANS OF ESCAPE! - SACRED BAND; ADVANCE!’’ A sonorous voice resounds through the street from a dark haired officer marching at the fore of the advancing Band, armored in a black breastplate and a red-plumed ornate helmet in similar fashion to Quintus. He is Abadactus Rogan, Captain of Orso’s Palace Guard and Marshall of the Sacred Band.

Quintus looks around, his eyes narrowed as he bit his tongue. Their muteness seemed to last forever as several of the soldiers around him, including Vetellius looked on in apprehension. Quintus finally lifted his gaze, towards a tall watchtower not far away and his mind tore through how to deal with this new threat. His eyes lit up with a spark of ingenuity as he stared at that watchtower, and he turned to Vetellius, he found he needed to take a deep breath before he began speaking to stop the words tumbling from his mouth in one heap. “I want the soldiers to make quick time towards that tower. We’ll set up a shield wall in the street below it and wait for them. Send a runner to the rest of the troops and tell them to rendezvous with us there.” He then looked to Triscus, the man who seconds ago was simply a faceless grunt was now looked on with a newfound respect by Quintus. “You. Take twenty men, and strip the surrounding houses and shops of any oil, alcohol, torches, anything that makes flame, moving with us as we make our way to the tower.”
Triscus stared at Quintus, a puzzled expression in his weary eyes before he stammered out “But… Why sir?”
Quintus turned towards the Sacred Band, whose formation is getting so close that their sweaty oily odour fills Quintus’ nostrils as they’re about to engage his regrouping Amalian unit, a determined snarl etched on his lips. “They fight like us. Godas as my witness, they’ll have the same weakness as us.”

But then to make matters worse for the Amalian unit, Tautan warriors came barging from out the very houses that Quintus had ordered stripped, carrying with them spears, shields and blades, and strangely some of them are not even half-naked! These must be the auxiliaries that Abadactus had issued commands to. The local citizenry had been harbouring them in their houses, waiting to strike at the arranged signal -- the Sacred Band’s banner. For in the confusion of battle, those inside the houses flanking the street mistook the Amalians as Tautan defenders and the Lampert warband as Chlotar attackers.
Now the Sacred Band and their auxiliaries are surrounding Quintus’ unit from three sides, with a handful of Lampert stragglers still fighting on the fourth…

Triscus let out a warning cry as he saw the doors of the nearby houses swing open. Half expecting to see fishermen coming out to assault them, he was surprised when he spotted glints of mail and swords. Ignoring the biting pain in his sword hand, he lifted his sword high once more, his eyes focusing on a soldier running towards him. Clearly past his prime, the man wore a large intimidating beard and wrinkles surrounding his deep set eyes, his armour obviously a bit too small for his frame, contrasted by his thin arms as he hefted a spear, charging Triscus. Triscus hefted his shield high, feeling the familiar slam of a weapon crashing against the shield, he waited a moment, making sure that the man would try to hit him again before he swung his shield out away from his body, and felt the satisfying crack as a wooden shaft was knocked aside. He was met with a look of surprise and fear as the soldier tried to pull his spear back to defend himself, but it was too late. Triscus lunged with his gladius, feeling the metal plunge through the man’s old armour and biting flesh. There was a strangled cry as the man in front of him stiffened, his eyes wide as he released the spear with a clatter and fell to the floor, caught in his death throes. Triscus looked around for his next opponent, around him, he could see small groups of similarly armoured men, most dead and dying as the Amalian soldiers cut through their armour with well honed strikes. A few Amalians had fallen in the initial shock of their charge, maybe they’d have stood a chance had they actually been trained properly, Triscus thought with a grimace, his thoughts broken as a fresh wave of pain ran through his hand, looking down, he winced at the sight of his blood oozing from his hand.

With the Auxilliaries not posing much of a threat to the hand picked and well trained Amalian soldiers, Quintus turned his attention to the Sacred Band advancing towards him. One of the beefy oiled men of the Band jabbed his lance forward, penetrating armour as it impaled an Amalian’s abdomen, who wrongly thought to be out of their weapon’s reach. Then the hulking Tautan tilts the lance upwards with one arm, as the Amalian helplessly dangles from it like a banner, blood squirting from the savage gash.
Quintus watched this with apprehension; he hated the idea of retreating after such a quick victory, but he knew that outnumbered against an elite unit that fought just as his Amalian troops did, there could be no victory. Not yet. He sucked in a sharp breath as he turned to his officers. “Withdraw. Withdraw now. We fight our way to the tower in broken formation, we can move faster than they can. We’ll need to move with the men searching for the oil and alcohol, so prepare the men to fight a beating retreat, but we mustn't engage the Sacred Band until we’re ready.”
“Sir… What exactly are you planning?” A younger officer piped up, his chest was bare of the medallions a more experienced officer would possess, showing his inexperience, but every officer was hand picked, soldiers who would never turn their backs on an enemy. “We’re going to make a stand behind the tower and lead the Sacred Band under it. As they do… Well. We’re going to rain fire upon them.” Quintus ended it with a confident smile, even though he felt the burning knot in his stomach. It was a long shot, but he knew even the Sacred Band wouldn’t hold formation if half of them were burning alive. “Sir, what about the Celesean fire that Arminus was searching for?” Quintus frowned for a moment as he thought, they should have secured it by now. And if they could employ it against the sacred band, they might not even have to fight them, but why hadn’t Arminus reported back?

“Alright, Labienus, wasn’t it?” The young officer nodded, pushing out his chest and standing to attention. “Take Triscus and his twenty men, you are to instead report to Arminius as a priority, secure the stashes of Celesean Fire and bring it back to be employed against the Sacred Band. We’ll Rendezvous by the tower. When you have secured it, Send a runner to the Amalian district. Round up every Amalian loyal to us, and tell them to rally to the harbour, their leader would have words with them.” Quintus finished, watching the younger officer for any hint of a reaction. Labienus simply nodded, his face looking somewhat concerned but determined. “Yes sir. I won’t let you down.” He offered a prompt salute, before turning and running off to find Triscus’s small team of men. It appears Triscus’ team was all the while giving mercy kills to the fallen warriors lining the street.

Quintus watched Labienus leave, as another officer muttered under his breath “wet behind the ears…” Quintus glared at him, causing the officer to lower his head and avoid eye contact. He simply grunted “Move them out.” Around him, the Amalians still fought the Auxiliaries who were brave enough to join their comrades in death, rushing the Amalian’s as single soldiers, they stood little chance, but the Sacred Band’s formation was now only several meters away and slaying men as they went -- and soon upon Quintus’ own bodyguard. It was high time to leave. He began to move away in a jog as the officers ran back to their respective units. The young officer had initiative, but he couldn’t help agreeing, Labienus was inexperienced, but he’d need the experienced officers with him in case he had just sent twenty good men to die.

Further down the street, Triscus and his team were taking care of any surviving Lamperts that had not yet left the theatre, stabbing the throats of the succumbed men lying on the ground, ensuring their (relatively) painless deaths. Triscus turns to the fainted body of Cleph, recognising him as the Lampert he had himself defeated. He wanted to offer a silent prayer to the godless heathen, wishing him good speed as he departed to the afterlife. Therefore, mumbling a short prayer under his breath, he thrusts forth the sword stained red with Cleph’s comrades, straight into his throat, sending his Lampert adversary off from this world. He pulls the sword out and would've turned to Ardoiwn, had Labienus not interrupted him.
Hearing his report, Triscus gestures to his team. ‘’Leave the rest! Move out men, to the pier!’’

The Amalians are at last leaving the street; the Sacred Band of Tautom sent those traitors running. A grin appears on Marshall Abadactus’ stubbled face as he motions the men behind him to quicken the pace. While the Auxiliaries were supposed to cut the Amalians off, they at least managed to wear them down long enough for the Sacred Band to deliver them substantial casualties, but there was evidently not enough time for them to pin the mutineers in place, and they’ve failed to capture their leaders... the elusive head of the snake.
Abadactus raises his left hand, and sticking out a thumb he turns it upwards as he barks: ‘’Sagittars; fire at will! Wear down their retreat!’’ Then proclaiming with a wider grin; ‘’Today is a good day to die.’’
Yet more auxiliaries slip by the Band’s testudo coming from the Royal District, this time with shortbows in hand and arrows ready to fire. While jogging they already pull their strings to unleash a barrage of projectiles at the withdrawing Amalians, most of whom were wise enough to raise their shields in their direction. Those that lacked vigilance however with their backs turned towards the enemy were shot in the back accordingly, some of the bolts puncturing through their cuirasses or striking their heels, crippling them.

‘’The mutineers are getting away, Marshall! Ready to launch the pursuit per your call!’’ The Auxiliary officer barks towards Abadactus from down the street, waving his spear towards the running Amalians.
The Marshall places two fingers on his forehead in thought, mumbling inwardly.
‘’...You believe that I am going to play this game on your terms, Quintus, you fox? ...No friend, I will have none of that…’’ Then gives answer to the officer, shouting; ‘’There will be no pursuit. Our duty.. is to protect the royal demesne above all else! Let the traitors lick their wounds, their bite is but the bite of insects next to the pressing Chlotar threat.’’
Abadactus sends the officer off with a short dismissive wave of the hand, then looks out over the macabre in the street, the aftermath of battle. Amongst the slain corpses that line the street he recognises overwhelmingly the warband of foreign soldiers, mixed in with his own auxiliaries.
‘’As tactician I made no mistakes, though damned be God’s name, underestimating the expertise of the Amalian's Unit might just be one. The traitors fight well...’’
Then he raises his right hand, with his thumb turned down, motioning the Sacred Band to halt. ‘’But not as well as us..!’’
While glancing through the corpses, his dark eyes fall on one of the barbarians, and judging by the ornate armour likely the commander of the bunch. The man twitches his arms as if clutching to life. ‘’Hrm. One of the barbarians is still alive…’’ The Marshall walks up to Ardoiwn.

‘This is the end then isn’t it?’ Ardoiwn’s mind managed to put together as he lay bleeding across the cobble. ‘Doesn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would.’ The gastald’s body shivered, ‘No, wait, that was the adrenaline. There’s the pain.’ From his vantage point face first in the stone Ardoiwn couldn’t see what happened around him, and the sound of blood pouring out of him kept him fairly unobservant. His mind was barely in one piece, as darkness bit at the edges of his consciousness. He had failed. His king, his people, and those he meant to save. Perhaps if he let go, perhaps if he stopped thinking, he could go with his friends. Why wasn’t he letting go? He hears footsteps coming his way, stopping next to him.
In a moment of sudden clarity, he hears the close yet distant voice of the Marshall.
‘’I should thank you, barbarian leader. Your company presented us the opening that we needed to make our charge against the mutineers.’’
Abadactus Rogan falls to one knee, observing Ardoiwn’s bloodied face from up close. ‘’The fact you still draw breath is a testament to your strength. Your people fought… admirably. Though you don’t strike me as Tautovigocs. Hrm. Syrovigocs, per chance…?’’
No response. Then he turns towards the auxiliaries yet again. ‘’Bring up the brancards and search for survivors! Pronto!’’

From out of the houses auxiliaries are seen carrying makeshift brancards that were originally beds and mattresses that his men confiscated from the local citizens, and placing several of the fallen auxiliaries and even a Lampert or two on them. Ardoiwn is no exception.
This swiftly done, Abadactus raises his left hand yet again, waving his index and mid finger in another of his various signalling hand motions.
‘’Men! We are moving out! Withdraw to the Palace and bar the gates! I want everyone assembled in the courtyard, ready to engage the Chlotars.’’

In under ten minutes all the combatants in the street had moved away, and only the dead were left behind. Some civilian non-combatants are coming out of their houses to heap their deceased brothers on a great pile, and dousing the pile with oil before setting it on fire with the very torches that Quintus tried to pillage from them. As they burned, a quiet drizzling rain falls down as though the heavens lamenting today's deaths. The day draws to a close.

‘’Here; this is as far as I’m allowed to tread. Beyond here is no-man’s land.’’ Fulk of Rudinberg stops his horse, then points his spear at the valley down the edge of the cliff from which they stand. The valley gradually slopes upwards towards two high mountains, between which a narrow pass is visible.
‘’That’s the pass I told you about… Careful; while Lamperts don’t usually go through there, one can never be certain.’’

Einhard looks towards the valley with a determined look on his face, then replies in a gruff manner, “That’s if Autchar left any of the Lamperts to us.”

Fulk nods, then turns to Marozia. ‘’Watch yourself out there little boy!’’

“FOR THE LAST TIME I AM NOT A-” Marozia shouts then takes a deep breath.
Following the outburst Einhard lets out a brief snort of laughter while Fulk just grins like an idiot, pretending not to hear. He slaps his horse; ‘’HEI-YA!’’ And the Rudinberg warrior races off, withdrawing towards the road from which they came.

Marozia puffs up some at Einhard seated in front of him, “What I keep telling these boneheads is that I am a girl, and they can’t get it through their thick skulls!” Marozia shakes her head, “And anyways, did you actually mean you are looking to kill Lamperts, Master Paladin?”
Einhard urges the horse on which they sit towards the valley and feels for his mace, “If it comes to it, it will be the only way. Hopefully we manage to link up with Autchar before any real fighting takes place.” Einhard turns around at Marozia with a grin on his face, “The men of the Clovisciscan Clan prefer to have real warriors to protect their back when we charge into battle.”
“Hey!” Marozia yelps back, “I only recently started training, I have plenty of time to learn to use this thing.” Marozia takes out Alamehtigan from the sheath on her waist and swings it in the air.
“Marozia!” Einhard bellows, “Put the sword away; it is not a toy to be played with!”
Marozia bows her head with shame, “Sorry master Paladin…” and returns the sword to the sheath.
Einhard sighs, “Just don’t do it again. Now let's go.” Einhard urges his horse to begin moving at a faster trot through the valley.
As the Paladin and his Shieldbearer got closer to the Rudines they were met with a fierce mountain wind, but otherwise no sound. ‘’Say, Einhard, you mentioned the King had a vision. About the Horn. It’s somewhere in a mountain top ruin, right?’’
‘’Correct.’’
‘’So, where should we start looking? Just go by every mountain?’’
‘’We need to find this Raditsch, apparently he isn’t hard to find. So say the men of Rudinberg, anyway.
And also-…’’

From beyond the mountain tops Einhard spots something peculiar, a single dark stormcloud has appeared on the skyline, surrounded by an otherwise clear blue sky. He looks at it for a bit with a disconcerted brow.
‘’...And also, what?’’ His Shieldbearer notices Einhard having gone mute, and after perceiving the frown on his face, she follows his eyes to whatever has disquieted him. She spots the distant cloud.
‘’What is that? Is a storm on its way?’’ Marozia says, slightly unnerved. ‘’Do you think it’s an omen?’’
‘’...A good one, I hope.’’ Einhard finally says. ‘’Let’s go.’’

In under an hour they reach the pass and ride their steed through the opening. They are now in the Rudine Mountains, the highest in all Visandza. Immediately the two can sense a change, and not just in altitude. The air here is so clean and pure that it was always said Healing Powers are invested in it, divinely inspired. It is no coincidence that these mountains were once a place of reverence for the followers of Godas.
Looking around in wonderment, the jagged mountain tops are wreathed in fog and covered by crystalline layers of ice, glinstering in the morning sun. A few flakes of snow dart gracefully towards the ground from up on high, yet beyond that the cold is strangely soothing.
Disrupting the rapture however is that single dark stormcloud, which seems to have gotten closer.

Einhard had a sudden inkling. “Something tells me we need to go there”, pointing at the cloud.
“Why? Is the Millennium Horn there or some such?”
Einhard gives no response, but steers the horse down the rocky trail to circumvent the mountain behind which peak the cloud is looming.

Over the next two hours of carefully navigating through perilous and steep pathways, evading cliffs and jagged rocks, and hoping not to come across scouts from Lampertei, the two ride closer and closer to their destination floating above the mountains. Finally circumventing the great mountain -- though but one of many in the great mountain chain that is the Rudines -- they come upon a clearing, a forested and rocky meadow leading down to a lake.

The meadow is shrouded by the overcasting cloud. And standing closeby, the two can perceive rain dripping down from it into the clearing, and stranger yet the occasional crackle of lightning. If it wasn’t already apparent before, that cloud is certainly no result of natural processes.

Having taken in the view from their elevated path, the two ride down the mountainous slope and into the meadow. Before long however, Shieldbearer Marozia points towards something near the lake.
‘’Hey, Master Paladin, look! I think there's someone sitting there!’’
Einhard narrows his eyes and tries to follow the direction of Marozia’s finger. It must be her young eyes, for the Paladin can only just make out the vague silhouette of something.
‘’Do you think it’s a Lampert?’’ The Paladin asks his shieldbearer as he attempts to perceive what is waiting down below.
‘’Could be?’’ She replies.
‘’Well, there’s only one way to find out.’’

Not long thereafter their steed enters the clearing. And now looking through the trees, they can see from afar a man sitting lonely on a great stone with his back turned towards them. He sits motionlessly, as if asleep, and is draped with such tattered and worn raiments that the colors of it resemble and camouflage with the stone. On top of his head is a straw hat, from a distance appearing to be smeared with white paint.

Riding closer, Einhard clears his voice and bellows at the sitting man, “In the name of King Cauroman, identify yourself!” Einhard pauses for a second, awaiting response. Receiving none, the Paladin raises his voice yet again, “I am Paladin Einhard Maugersson, identify yourself now!”
The sitting man gives no response. ‘’Stay on the horse, Shieldbearer.’’ Einhard tells Marozia as he climbs down the steed, handing her the reins.
Then the Paladin walks over to the motionless man. He places a hand on his shoulder, which is covered in white and black sludgy matter, leaving a white print on his hand as though paint.

“Gah what in the Hellfire is this.” Einhard shakes his hand trying to get the paint off, but ends up splattering more of it on the armor.

‘’Bensdu marcarii Lampoerti?’’
The man suddenly speaks hoarsely in an unfamiliar language, and he turns his face towards Einhard.
‘’Wo bensdu?’’
As the Lampert language sounds similar to Chlotar, Einhard could understand what he said a little bit. ‘Who are you.’
“I am Paladin Einhard Maugersson of Clan Cloviscisca, courtier of the King of Chlotaringen, I am here on official business of King Cauroman.”

As the Paladin looked upon him, he saw a worn and miserable face, with loose strands of grey and brown hair covering his forehead, disheveled facial hair and blotches of diseased and burned skin on his cheek and neck.

‘’Are you? You are dapper to tread alonaz so near to the Cuninc… King’s domain, outlandling.’’ The man says, speaking now in Chlotar. ‘’I am Raditschs.’’ he says, turning around.

“The Chlotar Paladins fear no man, especially not the Mad King of the Lamperts.” Einhard replies sitting down on a nearby large rock. Einhard undoes the cap on his mead to take a swig before extending it to Raditschs. “Care to take a drink?”

Raditschs hunches forward, looking perplexed at the skin of mead offered to him, not having experienced mannerisms of kindness in a long time. He looks up at Einhard questioningly.
‘’A Paladin of the Chlotar Cuninc… I assumaz you are among his blessed mennus, and need not fear doom therefore. Nor to have mine doom be brought upone you.’’

Dismissing Raditsch’s gloom, Einhard continues to hold the skin towards Raditsch, not letting go until he accepts it. “Not quite the reaction I was expecting, but come on. Every man, friend or foe, should be able to share a drink between each other.”
The haunted man’s eyes light up in disbelief. He looks between the Paladin’s face and the mead, then back to his face as to discern how serious he is, before finally stretching out a calloused hand to take the meadskin, and pressing the opening against sore dried lips... After handing it back, Raditschs just keeps staring at Einhard piercingly, still lost for words and puzzled as to his intent. Both men find the other to be the stranger.

Einhard puts the cap back on the mead skin. “So you are Raditschs, from what I heard you were cursed… I don’t know what to think of you.”

Raditschs murmurs something inwardly, his happy disbelief returning to his accustomed sternness. Then he points a finger upwards to the cloud hanging above them.
‘’I assumaz that is how you foundas me.’’

“A darkcloud that unnatural and a man proclaimed by drunken warriors to be cursed and an agent of discord… I made a fair guess.” Einhard chuckles to himself, “You had quite the fan down there in Rudinberg-” Suddenly Einhard turns serious, “So what are you then, a spawn of evil, a cursed holy warrior, or some unfortunate man caught in between their battle?”

Raditsch nods, and while processing his thoughts, speaks slowly, carefully picking his words. ‘’I am damned, to darkness driven. Where your King had bestowaz you his white boon, mine King bestowaz me his black curse.’’

Overhearing, Marozia calls from the back: ‘’Your King? You mean Dalgiserius?’’
...At the mention of the Lampert King’s name the cloud above them crackles with lightning, scaring the horse who neighs and would’ve surely run off, had Marozia not pulled at the reins. ‘’Wow there, calm there!’’

Raditsch continues, moving a finger towards his straw.
‘’I weare this hutt in vain attempt to scield mine head from rain unending, and also the birda.’’
Indeed, only now Einhard realises the white sludgy substance covering Raditschs hat and shoulders is bird poo. A lot of bird poo. For one to have such tremendous bad luck, he must surely be under the effects of a curse.

Einhard stands up straight, undaunted by Raditsch’s everpresent gaze, “Dalgiserius is a wicked deviant, he will receive what he is due in time, for what he has done to his people.” Marozia pipes up, “Yeah, like making the birds shit on him!”
Einhard sighs and shakes his head at her.

The haunted man seems distraught rather than consoled by their words, lowering his head and looking to the ground, finally ceasing his relentless staring at Einhards face, who was probably getting uncomfortable from it by now.
‘’Long ago… Mine King Dalgiserius was a fine princeling from a noble kingdom.’’

A flickering light appears in the haunted man's eyes, and he raises a finger.

“Dalgiserius though a mannus prone to outbursts and violence, was just, and always the first to ride to his peoples defense among the Lampert princelings. I had once accompanied him on one such exploits, I did.
… Of course, this was back when his brothers and kinsmen yet lived.
Now it’s as though he has been possessed by a demon. A demon whose hold firmed with every death.
Long I have dwelled at the March of Lampertei in miserable exile, in hopes he would one day clear the dark of his mind.
Alas.”

Einhard stands motionless with his hands placed on his thighs as he looks down to the haunted man, listening intently, though he can’t help but raise eyebrows in regards to some of the words spoken. ‘Dalgiserius fine? ...Lampertei noble?’

Looking up again to Einhard and Marozia, Raditschs sighs. ‘’There is no rest for me, so I fear. When I close mine eyes I can still heare his fell voice screaming mine damnation.’’

From his mind, Raditschs recalls an image of a dark stone hall wreathed with green flame. There a large and dark imposing figure sits on the throne, menacingly waving a scepter at the conjuring of a wicked hex. The rage of that voice would ring with him forever.



“Mine curse.” Raditsch says reflecting with a downcast and defeated tone.

Marozia, not understanding the gravitas of damnation, leans towards Einhard and whispers, “I swear, not every Lampert is crazy.” Einhard nods at Marozia then turns to Raditsch, “Thank you for your story…’’ Einhard politely says with faux amusement. To him the notion of Dalgiserius being anything other than a demon in and by himself is a foreign one.
“I suppose now is the time I tell you why I am here. I am looking for the Millennium Horn.”

“The selfsame Horn carried by a Paladin before you, I recall. I did not realise at the time it was such a mighty weapon.
Am I to assumaz you seek to enlist mine aid to this end?’’

Einhard lets out a hearty laugh, “Yes I- ..we will need help finding the Millennium Horn in these Mountains.”
Again the haunted man stares at Einhard intently, seemingly to test how serious he is.
‘’I do know of the whereabouts of the Horn, Paladin. But I do not know if you should want to go there. It is in Lampertei Domain -- to tread there is to tread into uncertainty and chaos. If you are caught there is no telling what the Cuninc’s Men will do to you.
And if I am caught accompanying you, I will be beyond redemption and cursed forever.
The risk is too great.’’

“If indeed you prove yourself useful, of course I will help you lift your curse. As a Swordbrother of the King of Chlotaringen, I can effortlessly arrange a meeting with a King to mend your curse, one nobler than the mad Lampert King...”

‘’You would… you would arrange such?’’
For a moment Raditsch is dumbfounded, struck by the acts of unusual kindness the Paladin repeatedly offers.
‘’If I have your solemn promise, that you would indeed let me see the Chlotar Cuninc, than I will do all in mine power to guide you there.
But heed me now, Paladin. The path to the horn is arduous… There is no guarantee you will leave unscathed, blessedness or no.
Do you have the readiness.. the certainty of mind?’’
Einhard nods in approval and stretches his arm out towards Radistich, “I already made up my mind as I rode to find you, Raditsch. Take me to the Horn my father died for, and I vow by my ancestors, I will take you to King Cauroman.”

”This place smells.”

Idelchis grunted at his companion’s truthful, but less than acute observation. ”Of course it does. Do you forget who lives here?”

“It’s not that.” Gambar lifted a fistful of dry soil from among the tall yellow grass at their feet and held it out to the other Farigai’s nose. ”Feel this? Stinks of old ash. Now, I don’t know how wide the last fire was, but it can’t have reached here.” He pointed to a small, but clearly old and gnarled tree aways from where they were crouching. It was as strange as any of the vegetation here by the coast, with its twisted trunk and fir-like needles instead of leaves, but clearly untouched by flame. ”And it’s been a good spell since. It shouldn’t smell suchlike.”

“It’s what I told you.” Idelchis shrugged as Gambar let the earth run through his fingers and fall back to the ground. ”This is the domain of witch. Nothing is astonishing. Be glad the smell is all there is to it, rather than some swamp of filth and leeches. I have had my fill of abominations in that valley.”

Indeed, the land around them was, in spite of its bleakness and unnaturally lingering stench, far more welcoming than the gloom they had been creeping through as they followed their quarry. Forested vales and mountains had given way to tall, though mildly sloping hills sparsely dotted with patches of short bushy trees among old withered stumps, which had themselves thinned out when they approached the sea. Between the harsh sun-bleached grass that covered the soil in stretches and the light that streamed down from the jarringly clear sky, the southern landscapes were so bright that the Farigai, accustomed to the perpetual darkness of the Rudines and their dungeons, had been squinting and flinching for days on end as they moved from crag to gulch, often taking more care than needed not to be spotted in this glare. If not else, the shrubs and arid thistle brush around the tower made it much simpler to observe and remain unseen.

The edifice itself, overlooking the sea from the edge of a deceptively sloping cliff, looked as though it had been taken by a divine hand and dipped in a lake of pitch. Its lower side had been charred by numberless fires, so deeply that not even the sea-spray could wash it away. Cracks and dents in the stone marked where the sturdy walls had been struck by stones and rams, not great enough to threaten their integrity, but visible from afar in their grim reminder that many had fallen at the foot of the hold.

Still, had they even been larger, they would have been dwarfed by the yet more obvious traces of battle the travellers had been encountering over the last few days. It was small wonder that the only trees they saw were small and stunted, for axe and flame had left their mark on what had once been wooded hillsides. Nothing was left there but scorched ground dotted with a few stumps and younger growths creeping back over lost earth, like ghouls and graverobbers across a battlefield in the night after the slaughter. Not even flies buzzed over the ashen
desolation, nor rats scurried in the sickly undergrowth.

Nor were the blackened walls as eerie as those forsaken places where villages or small towns had been razed to the foundations by marauding armies. Many of them had been abandoned ever since, lying upon the ground as hollow, broken corpses of giants. The Farigai had not seen much of them; they had made wide detours even when Antonia’s party passed near the accursed spots, because they brought bad luck. Only those with a charm from the Soothsayer could approach them safely. Of course, they cared little what would happen to the Queen’s daughter and her retinue beyond ensuring that they reached the tower.

And that they had done to perfection.

From their hiding-place, Gambar and Idelchis could ill make out the features of the people that now moved towards the scarred bastion across the nigh-barren approach, but it could have been none else. The group stopped before the imposing doors that had withstood many a charge, evidently calling for the watchers within to open them, and soon vanished from sight behind the tower’s corner.

Gambar let himself fall backwards from his crouch, landing in a sitting posture upon the hem of his cloak. ”Now we wait?” he asked with a half-heartedly stifled yawn.

Idelchis nodded. ”The Old Man must know what’s to be done. I doubt they will be coming out again soon.”

“Good time to rest, then.” His fellow settled on the cinder-smelling ground in the fashion of a soldier lying down after a march. ”You take the first shift.”



No sound stirred the heavy dark air of the subterraneum, neither filtering down from the surface nor drifting through the chambers themselves. Not even the single brazier at the far end of the room crackled or whistled with its unliving breath, for the unnatural flames of the Lampert King’s domain are voiceless. The silence that smothered the sunken hall could have almost been called sacred, were it not that it lay in the heart that burned brightest with the hatred of what was holy, and that among all the figures that stood assembled there not a single shred of piety could be scraped together.

They were a dozen, perhaps more, dim and indistinct as shadows passing in the night. The scented vapours rising from the flames, though thin, cast a blur over them, hiding their numbers and faces, as did the effluviations of the basin of steaming water they stood around. The one that stood in the centre lifted a bowl over the pristine surface, and the unholy trophies on his person rang out softly as he raised his arms. Thick, dark fluid dripped, then streamed down in a thin sluggish pillar. In the green light of the brazier, it looked like the blood of something not human. And perhaps it was not only the light that made it seem so, but also the concoction that was mingled with it. The same that had been in the skull the king’s youngest Gastald had quaffed from.

The bowl was emptied, and the leader passed it to the man to his right, who caught it in his only hand. Then, the elder’s fingers descended into the basin. They did not dip into the marred liquid, but gently lit upon the surface, touching down upon their tips and sinking no further. With slow, precise motions, he began to trace bloody patterns, never lifting his hands from their work. Round they went, again and again, and as their motions grew more regular, settling into an unbroken cycle, his eyes rose up and stared into the darkness ahead. Though none could glimpse them, they were blank and empty, as those of one who is dreaming.

”I see them,” he spoke. His voice sounded hoary and ancient, yet there was a power in it that held those present in its spell. ”I see the tower and the sea, in her eyes. She walks over ashes. The others are shades around her.

The doors. They open, and she is inside.”

The circle of wraithlike forms stood immobile, barely daring to breathe as they drank in each of his words.

”A courtyard. Stairs. I see decay under their surfaces. She rises. I see it by the windows. A corridor, a door.”

The voice suddenly grew harsh with seething scorn, and sparse teeth grit together.

”I see a woman - it must be her. The witch. She speaks. I do not hear.”

Minutes passed without a word being uttered. The fingers continued to run over the water uninterrupted, their pace hastening and slowing in steady alternations.

”I cannot see her mouth, but I can imagine her words. They will speak of Udos. What will be done there.”

His motions hastened for a few moments, without losing their deftness, then subsided again.

”Now. Now I see better. Much of what they say is useless-”

The fingers slowed perceptibly.

”-but this. As I thought, she urges- Advises. To surrender to the Enemy. Join them in earnest.

Pigskull fool!”

Giselart abruptly tore his hands from the basin, sending blood and water up in small sprays from each finger.

”As if that would change anything.” His voice, no longer suffused with that strange antiquity, had resumed its usual tone. ”But now we know we can count on that. Well, the Enemy Above won’t find us unprepared. Is Dauraulf back yet?”

Ratechi shook his head. ”Not now. He must have a good catch up there to keep us waiting this long.”

”All the better. Although I’d rather not have him take needless risks this one time.” The Soothsayer wiped his hands against his clothing. Behind him, one of the Farigai took a step towards the flame and tossed a handful of something over it. The strange-smelling vapours began to thin and fade, shaking the assembled men from the dreamlike atmosphere that had pervaded the room until then. The gazes of most were still fixed and glassy, though Giselart seemed to have fully awoken from his trance and was as inflamed as ever.

”It wouldn’t do ill to have the witch herself immolated with all that rot she has inside. Not right away, but once the war begins, no one will notice. Make sure we keep her under good watch.” He gestured to one of the figures at his left, who nodded and hurriedly walked out of the chamber. ”Ratechi, I’ll trust that to you. Would I rather be both there and in Udos at once, but we aren’t gods, our fathers be thanked.”

Between a jest and a curse, the final scheme to end all days in flame was afoot.

In the distance Vetericus stood, the pinnacle of dread. Though his vision was crossed by stiff resistance, he knew a last assault had to make short work of the plotting of heretic and sword. The command could be given now, and recklessness would approve, but the wiser course was to wait and coordinate with the Amalians. Nonetheless, he gave the Tautan defenders and the ilk who sought refuge with them little respite; the night had been filled by Baltavigoc song and music, warriors taking turns to bare their souls before God and request His strength. With luck their sleep had been disturbed, whereas the Baltavigocs rested all the more soundly for it. By dawn’s light the defenders witnessed the heads of their comrades now mounted on pikes, paraded along their shared interior wall from the commons to the periphery quarter, held aloft in the grips of cheerful Baltavigocs who maintained their tune. Vetericus watched it all, frustrated at how close Tautom was to being restored to a city of faith, delayed by the vermin cowering behind their walls and steel they had long since forgotten how to use. He struggled to find any sympathy for the fate he would bring unto them. A brief grip on his shoulder caused him to turn.
“Paladin? Are you well?”
“Merely lost in my thoughts, Vierland.”
Vierland stepped forward to stand beside Vetericus, who in turn resumed his vigil.
“How fare your men?”
“Well enough. The Amalians are kind to be so diligent of our wounded, and we keep the wall patrolled in good order.”
“And the gate?”
“Not to be a problem for much longer. Quintus appears to have fought off the Tautan sally, but it’s hard to know the cost.”
Vetericus nodded, mulling it over before speaking.
“I hope enough of them are in good order to handle their flank themselves, but in truth we cannot get every warrior through their…” Vetericus paused a moment, quickly substituting a different word for the gate named after traitors of the vilest sort. “Northern Gatehouse. Nor any breach we make in the wall. When that harbour gate opens, I can think of no better man to ensure the Amalian bite is felt.”
“I was going to suggest it myself. I have already decided on the warriors to come with me. I will arrange for a man to watch for your attack and signal us.”
Vetericus turned slightly, lifting a hand from where it had been palm-down on the smooth stone wall before him to offer his quickly taken customary wrist-shake.
“See that God’s will - and Emperor Cauroman’s - be done, Vierland. He marches with all of us.”
With that Vetericus took the haft of his axe in his grip again, letting it rest over a shoulder as he walked towards the besieged Tautovigoc Gatehouse.

Vierland soon found himself stepping through a newly-made breach in the internal wall between the commons and harbour, the Chlotarians sappers who made it, the very same who had engineered the collapse that allowed them into said commons in the first place, giving a hasty salute as they stepped back to retrieve their weapons. Facing them they saw a tight formation of weary men; Amalians who held their posts but appeared dispirited in doing so. Regardless he continued towards their ranks, his own soldiers following close behind in a long column three men wide. By comparison, the Chlotarians positively beamed. Barely a metre he made it before an Amalian with a red-crested helmet under his arm stepped forward, calling out to the newcomers.
“Identify yourself!”
Vierland halted, swiftly followed by hundreds of boots and spear-hafts audibly stopping in their tracks. Keeping the frustration out of his voice at the delay, Vierland rumbled back his response.
“Chlotarian relief, Amalian! We are here to help kill your Tautan problem.”
The Amalian officer nodded, ordering his men to part their ranks before shouting towards the Chlotar column now marching past them.
“Keep straight to the road, then go left! Our commander, Doux- Er, Captain Quintus Vitalius of Amal, can be found near the gate.”
With a nodded thanks Vierland led his men through the harbour, taking stock of the damage. Noting the heavily damaged vessels moored he thought it a shame to have such a fleet harmed thus, but reasoned it better to err on the side of caution than merely err. The state of Amalian troops spoke of the assault they had endured; he was unsure however if it had been especially fierce, or if the Amalians hadn’t the skill, or heart, to repulse it thoroughly enough. At any rate Vierland was eager to meet this Quintus upon whom so much of this invasion had relied, forcing himself to keep his pace towards the gate steady.

In all honesty many unflattering thoughts had flitted through Vierland’s mind in regard to the appearance of Quintus. So much so, indeed, that when he finally came face to face with him he was almost taken aback; rumour had taught him spies and Tautan’s were akin to weasels, though perhaps that was only true of the latter. Quintus’ introduction drew him out of his musing.
“Quintus Vitalius- I’m sure an officer has already told you. You are?”
Vierland had yet to decide if the disappointed expression he wore was natural for his face, or a result of recent events.
“Palace-Mayor Vierland, under the command of Paladin Vetericus to assist.”
Quintus muttered something to yet another Amalian officer by his side, who in turn saluted and scurried off, before addressing Vierland again.
“Appreciated, but untimely. My sentries report no Tautan advance on the gate.”
“I suspect that would be because their attention is held by their failing gate. Something the Paladin wishes us to exploit.”
Quintus adjusted the grip on the short sword belted at his waist, glancing over his men stationed nearby.
“Go on.”
“We wait for the signal of the Baltavigoc advance. Then, sally out and attack them from their rear.”
“I see. My men are battered and bloody, Palace-Mayor... but itching for revenge. We’ll follow.”
Quintus quickly got to dispatching his officers, rounding his men up and delivering them promises of a chance to get more than even with the Tautans. Vierland meanwhile simply got his warriors into a loose formation before the gate, just wide enough to fit through it and the streets beyond unhindered. No words of encouragement were needed for them, for now many had adopted the fierce fire in their eyes the Baltavigocs had taught them.

“We’ve sailed across the sea!”
Vetericus shouted, the response from his Baltavigocs merrily returned.
“Rowed for miles and miles upstream!”
Baltavigocs had hacked their way through the door of the Tautovigoc Gatehouse, though it was by no means the end of their work. Beyond debris had been piled up, seemingly as much of the furniture from the district beyond as they could fit in its narrow corridor and stairwell. Instead of expending hours upon hours clearing it, they had elected to gather great bundles of fabrics, mostly from the now abandoned commons, pack it between as much of the furniture as could be reached and set it alight. At the same time, and for a while after the blaze had begun, Baltavigocs had been dispatched to locate the sturdiest log in the city they could. Once it was brought before Vetericus two notches had been cut out of its top, one near the front and one near the rear roughly equally. More timber was acquired to act as crossbars, and then the crude battering ram was fastened together with the strongest rope as could be found on short notice. The Tautans’ had little need of the carefully-stacked cart of goods it had been securing anymore anyway. While unfit to take on any sturdy fortifications, it would suffice for this task.
“Give me all you haaaaave!”
Vetericus’ voice rang out again, walking the ‘ram’ backwards with the other men who gripped crossbars. The response was returned not just by them, but by the hundreds of Baltavigocs preparing to rush through the breach soon to be created both in the gate below and gatehouse atop the curtain wall.
“Push as hard as you can!”
The Baltavigocs whom had previously been marching along the wall holding pikes aloft now stood at the front, severed Tautan heads still impaled upon them, though they had been slid far enough down so as to ensure the tips would still find more foes. Behind, the usual Baltavigoc mixture of weaponry dominated by large axes, followed by those who refused themselves the battle in place of their instruments. On the fringes Amalian priests competed to have their blessings heard over them and the growing battle-chant, but nonetheless the warriors appreciated their efforts.

Tautan defenders on the other side warily eyed the scorching heat now emanating from the Tautovigoc tower, the banded boards on the door below cracking and blackening to charcoal. More pressing however was the din on the other side of the gate; a cacophony of what to them sounded like the demonic howling of a beast to the tune of, admittedly rather excellent accordion playing, and the steady pounding of wood on wood. What worried them was the pounding slowly giving way to creaking as the bar on the door broke and what little they had leaned against it started to shift backwards. Weak demands for more barricades were made by what were supposed to be officers, but the reality is most of the men had already lost their spirit before battle was even to be joined. In the span of less than two days the city with walls they had known to be impregnable lay overrun by barbarians who had little interest in showing them mercy, their attempts to secure escape through the harbour had failed, their own gate served to trap them, their sleep had been stolen, no siege rationing had ever been maintained, most of the defenders knew several comrades who had fallen in the defense and the cost of their lifestyle which had enabled all of this had stared back at them for hours with dead eyes affixed on jubilant marching pikes. Near certain death had bolstered some of the defenders, true, but most simply felt as if they were entrenched in a city that was no longer theirs, kept alive not due to any defence, but because the invader felt like letting them live a while longer. Without even God to turn to, bleary-eyed Tautans holding spears in weak grips aimlessly watched the gate and awaited their fate.

Vetericus could feel it in his bones. The gate was finally giving way, the last impact had made more progress than the previous five combined. Another man on the ram shouted it back to the army, eagerness clear in their eyes. Soon to have their hands around the throat of the enemy with nowhere left to run. The smaller group on the wall, who were to go through the ruined gatehouse after it had finished burning, willed the flames to die down, happy to suffer the terrible heat afterwards as long as it got them into the battle. As Vetericus helped bring the ram backwards one last time he remembered part of a fable most every Baltavigoc knew, and though it had held a much different meaning for the ancestors who had created it, he found it fit just as well now.
“Tautom and beyond!”
Rushing towards the gate, the ram slammed into wooden panels one last time before being pushed backwards as the last of what had been keeping the gate firmly shut was smashed aside and snapped, those on the ram quickly dropping it and pressing all their strength against the doors, opening them wider for the troops behind. As they began to march forward, without fault the host finished Vetericus’ quote.
“That’s where the winds will us guide!”
The ex-ram crew quickly moved backwards, cautious of arrows, but had no reason to fear. Vetericus took his offered axe back from the Baltavigoc he had lent it briefly for keeping, clapping the warrior on the shoulder by way of thanks, before stepping into line beside the pikes. Though the Tautans’ were slightly longer, that did little to bolster their courage at the sight of red-and-black faced men moving towards them with a grim smile on their lips and chant on the tongue. With no alternative they moved themselves into formation, those who sought death for fear of survival at the fore.

The Baltavigoc pikes were held carefully by their wielders to ensure the mounted heads faced upwards, the average Tautan struggling to avoid looking into their ghastly eyes. For a moment it looked like it might be a standstill, Baltavigoc spears held just out of reach. Instead, gaps were formed in the Baltavigoc formation as infantry, and Vetericus, wielding weapons much more fit for close quarters rushed forwards past their spear tips. Some didn’t make it through the second row of spears, skewered where they stood as chants were replaced with shouts of pain soon drowned out, dragging themselves off speartips and hoping they hadn’t been impaled too deeply. Most however were quick enough, causing many Tautan spears to swerve to the side in a panicked attempt to intercept, most uselessly smacking their hafts against chain, scale and padding. Unfortunately for the Tautans it provided the opening the Baltavigoc spears had been waiting for, pushing them forwards wherever they could find purchase. Some were dodged by the nimble, some were deflected by luck, yet some found their marks and caused a Tautan to die gripping the severed head of a comrade to drag the spear which impaled both out. Finding little room to maneuver Vetericus forced his way through their paralyzed defense, shoving and making short swings with his axe where he could. The shorter weapon wielding Baltavigocs beside him had a much easier time, hacking through sometimes padding, mostly flesh, with wild abandon. Through gritted teeth, Vetericus growled at a Tautan who sought to obstruct him with particular determination.
“God as my witness, Tautan! I’ll run this city into the ground!”
The defined streets ensured neither force could utilize their numbers as an advantage, but the zeal of the Baltavigocs ensured that row by row the Tautans would be outmatched. Blood flowed freely and the cries of the dying mingled with the instruments from the rear, care having to be taken to avoid tripping over corpses soon becoming a carpet. Vetericus spent some time carving a path through the defenders, each slain a monument to the hatred he freely showed his foe, almost surprised to suddenly find himself staring at a man with the same black and red painted face, covered in soot. Vetericus did in fact not recognise him for a moment, given where he was or his state, but quickly picked out features.
“Crocus, so singed I thought you a demon!”

At once he extended an arm, blood and soot mixing as Crocus grasped it.
“In a world of your own again, I take it? You’re missing them turn tail and run.”
Vetericus, who had been keeping an eye generally on his fellows but little regard for the Tautan rear, confirmed as he spoke that they had started to pull back.
“Making for the palace, no doubt. Ever the coward.”
Vetericus, resting a moment as he let the head of his gore-spattered axe lie atop a dead Tautan, looked over Crocus and those who had followed him through the tower which still wafted smoke out of its now barren stony interior, checking for wounds. Finding none, his gaze returned to the Tautans. Indeed, they outnumbered the Baltavigocs, perhaps even heavily. Despite that, their rear had started to crumble and draw back to the only gate that remained in their control, still some distance away. Their frontline at this point was simply trying to stay alive, backing away from Baltavigocs who never relented in pushing them. Any semblance of order had faded, which made the appearance of a column of well-organised men marching into view behind the Tautans - between them and the palace gate - quite the contrast. Crocus looked towards Vetericus.
“Reinforcements?”
“Reinforcements indeed.”
The Amalian banner, suffering its own minor wounds along the way, flew alongside Vierland’s all the same, held aloft by the hammer to the Baltavigoc anvil.
“This war has endured too long.”
Lifting his axe, he shouted to the warriors around him as he began to bound forward into the fray again.
“Storm the district! Head for the gates! Leave no man or woman alive!”

Vierland stood proud alongside his soldiers, who in turn stood shoulder to shoulder with Amalians. Quintus nearby directed his warriors personally, yelling orders that his officers carried down the line. The Amalians, better suited for the defense, were to support the Chlotarians, and as they spotted the faces of Tautans turned towards them as they tried to run from the Baltavigocs they knew their arrival had been perfect.
“Walk with Godas!” Vierland cried. “Teach them the error of forsaking Him!”
Cheers resounded and Chlotarians surged forward. Amalian officers stood with disgruntled expressions for a moment, Quintus snapping them out of it with a barked order to advance. The Amalian infantry, though the fighting had been cruel to them and not made them desire more, were far too disciplined and committed to allow the Chlotars to advance not only without a rigid formation, but unsupported. Training and pride overrode all else, and soon the shared slaughter of the Tautan rear made them nearly indistinguishable from one another. With nowhere to run the Tautan defense had finally become bitter, but far too late. Between two fronts, confusion arose as those in the middle tried to pick a side to defend. For every one or two attacker the Tautans slew they lost as many as four or five of their own. Corpses had begun to pile up so that height played a part in the battle, and the centre of the Tautan mass began to empty save of the dead and dying who slid back down into it. In their final moments, every man at the front was certain they had heard the odd Tautan gripped by despair slip into prayer. It did nothing to stay their blows. Vetericus hoped it would do their souls some good, but had his doubts. After what had felt like days, at last, ally looked ally in the eye past an ocean of the dead, blood filling it as water. No man felt the desire to count the casualties, or envy those who were to clear the street.

The company of three make their way through the mountains, now certain to be in Lampert territory. They can no longer afford laxity, because every now and then they spot distant their outposts indicating that no Chlotar had come here, perhaps since Einhard’s father.

Raditsch walks on the fore, as he knows most every trail and pathway in these lands… The Paladin must depend on him therefore; this lone Lampert wanderer. But a dark cloud follows the company wherever they go so long as the accursed man walks among them, making their movement all the easier to track to their enemies. To make matters worse, they have only one horse and it can’t carry all three of them. The Paladin opted therefore to dismount and move on by foot, handing the reins to Marozia whose infant legs are likely less durable than those of the two grizzled adults.
To avoid being easily spotted and surrounded, the company had to make wide detours if only to hide that damned cloud trailing them.

Nevertheless they traveled for a day now, and as the party progressed their rations began to dwindle. Malnourishment is something Raditsch has long been accustomed to, but for a royal Paladin and little girl? Unacceptable!
From the horse, Marozia doubles over holding her stomach as a loud growl is emitted from her mid section. “Ugh, Master Einhard! I’m so hungry, can you please hand me some of the rations?”
Einhard rummages through their supplies, grabbing the pack which usually contains some yeast bread, and leftover of duck from Autchar and Einhard’s hunts down the road. However, Einhard finds nothing but crumbs contained in the pack;
“Hmmm… I didn’t bring enough food for the three of us, I thought we would have linked up with Autchar by now.”
Marozia cries out, “Well I need something to eat or else im going to DIE!”
Einhard shakes his head at her, “If you want to be a shieldbearer, you will have to get accustomed to occasional hardship.. The first time is always the hardest, but you won’t die, little one. We have seen some goats and small game in these passes… -the next one we see will be your meal.” Marozia straightens up and looks at Einhard, “Thank you so much Master!”

After the party advances further into the Mountains, a few rocks fall down, and one of them hits Raditsch’s shin, who flinches forward to grab his injured leg. The cursed man then looks further up on the cliff from whence they came. ’’Just mine luck.. the beasten on mine trail ever seek sabotage of mine journey.’’ he points a calloused finger at a white mountain ram, standing on top the cliff ahead. And right then and there Einhard recognises their dinner-to-be, and prepares his hunt with javelin in hand; “Alright, hand me the reins Shieldbearer.. I need the horse for this one, but follow me swiftly.” With Marozia having climbed down, Einhard mounts the horse in one swift motion and urges it towards the most gentle slope near the ram. Einhard’s urgency was however not needed as the ram barely reacted towards the Paladin till it was too late. When the ram sensed incoming dread and bursted off, Einhard’s javelin was already hurtling its way towards it. It lodged itself in one of the ram’s hind leg as it continues to limp away from Einhard, passing from the party’s line of sight with painful blares and leaving a trail of blood, with the Paladin hot on pursuit. When he sees it running towards a cave, he moves in for the kill. ‘’Nowhere to hide..!’’ Einhard snarls through clenched teeth as he took aim.

That evening they had hoisted their catch on a spit over a fire. The Paladin resolved a successful hunt, and the shieldbearer had her meal, though frankly all three were famished. The horse was tied to the branch of a nearby shrub.

Raditschs gnaws on a roasted leg through skilful use of the few usable teeth that had not fallen out, before turning to Einhard with a hush, his voice filled with foreboding... ‘’As agreed, I can see to it the Lamperts will not mar your path. That is easilaz done. Only come nightfall will the greater danger reveal itself, drawn to doom like moth to lightas.’’

Einhard looks at Raditsch with a puzzled look, “What do you mean greater danger, do bigger birds come out during the night? Or are there some kind of wolves or bears in these passes?”

‘’No.. no… Well, perhaps. You can never really know in the land of Darklings. It is seldom I have taken this route. Around the Rudines old tales go around of cursed wanderers, much like myself, that had been here long before Dalgiserius. And they are not all as benign to your cause as myself..’’
Einhard’ eyes are on the fire as he rotates the spit, and let the flames roast the unsinged back of the ram as he listens, heeding Raditsch’ words.
The cursed man continues; ‘’Therefore I say, it is best you sleep with one eye open tonight.’’ He takes another bite as his eyes look keenly into the fire.

Marozia butts into the conversation, “Well then we are all screwed, cause I managed to sneak up on Master Einhard!”

“Quiet young one, there is truth in what the mad-man speaks.’’ Einhard tells Marozia with a grave face. Einhard looks towards the setting sun and continues, “I fear we will have to fight for our lives tonight, any banter will not be welcomed.”

The shieldbearer motions towards the cave before which they sit. ‘’What if we hide? Maybe the Darklings won’t find us if we’re hidden well enough?’’

Einhard and Marozia look to Radistich as to hear the advice of the experienced cursed man.

‘’Nothing is certain. Sometimes fear of doom is worse than the actual doom. Perhapsaz nothing will happen… But if doom does come to pass, hiding will not avail us. We will have to be prepared irregardlaz.’’

‘’Than to be sure, we ought to look into that cave and confront its denizens. Darklings hide in such dark corners, correct?’’ The Paladin stands up, his eyes fixed on the dark and gaping opening of the cave, and Raditsch silently nods to him.
‘’Then I will go and see, lest night falls.’’ Einhard takes a lump of wood, placing the tip of it in the spitfire until it catches fire as makeshift torch, and with his free hand draws forth his mace.

The party slowly edges towards the cave, gaining confidence as they move into the opening in the mountain. Einhard leads the way into the cave and slowly moving the torch across his field of vision to expose the area at the fore of the cave.
“There is nothing here so far, just stones and bones of things long dead.” He observes.
‘’Bones? That does indicataz that this cavern has been something’s lair…’’ The cursed man responds.
‘’Einhard! Raditschs!’’ Marozia hisses under her breath, anxiously pointing a finger deeper into the cave. ‘’I.. saw something move there..!’’
Einhard snaps his orientation towards where Marozia was pointing causing the dark creature that Marozia was pointing towards to bolt in a white blur. The creature had bolted further into the cave and Einhard motioned the rest of the party to follow him as he pushed further into the mountain.

After a few moments of tracking the beast deeper and deeper in, suddenly a large thud is heard in the section just beyond the group. “If we are lucky, we will find this foul creature in the next room.” Einhard says as he crosses the treshold of another opening leading to some deeper interior. As he scans the room with his torch, Einhard begins to emit a hearty laugh. “What, what is is!? What is so funny Master Einhard?!” Marozia begins to demand from Einhard. Einhard beckons his two companions behind him to come look at the terror of their night. In front of Marozia sits a small white rabbit licking its paw. Marozia puffs up and turns to Radistich, “Is this what a terror is to you, crazy man!?!? I was scared half to death!”

‘’As I said, nothing is certain.’’

“Let’s just be glad our trial has been put on hold for a moment longer.” Einhard says as he sits down to catch his breath, returning his weapon to its sheath. The Paladin then looks for his skin of ale but remembers he had left it back at his horse. The fluffy rabbit observes the Paladin inquisitively before scurrying off into a dark hole deeper into the cavern. Before Einhard even thought of killing it for an easy meal, a terrible shriek is heard from outside the cave. The vicious neighing of a frantic horse; it’s Einhards steed!

Einhard rushes past his two companions and immediately heads out to find the cave exit, and the shrub where he left his horse, only to find it lying bleeding on the ground. Standing over it is a great jet black hound that is itself the size of a horse, with intense white eyes like saucers, drooling over his killed catch. The horse’s neck had been snapped with the fell bite from its greats fangs.

Einhard bellows at the sight of his dead horse, “Kex!” Einhard draws his mace, gripping with such anger that his knuckles begin to turn pale. Einhard mutters his curse to the beast through clenched teeth, “Once I am done with you, there will be no skull left. You spawn of hell.”

The great Hound listened to Einhard’s threat with unblinking eyes, and only reacts by leaping down the cliff, then crosses the gap over to another cliff with another intense leap. The beast moves with such a swiftness that a man could not hope to catch up with it.

‘’Paladin! Hold!’’ Raditschs cries after him, hastening out of the cave.
‘’That is no mere dog. I know him… That creature has sporadically been drawn to mine path for many a year since having obtained the King’s hex. It belongs to the Wild Huntsman...’’
“Raditschs. You could have warned me that your mad ramblings meant there was a horse-killing demon hound.” Einhard spat at Raditschs with anger.

‘’...When haz anything of what I said been ‘mad ramblings’?’’

With the Paladin’s beloved mount dead, the company now will have an even harder time to navigate through the mountains and reach the Millennium Horn.
Nevertheless Einhard remains resolute, he straightens his back and looks to the moon, at this time of month appearing as a thin crescent “Once dawn arrives I will go out and slay this beast… For Kex.”

Ardoiwn swore he was dead. There was no other answer for it, was there? He sat, weakened and numb, within a small boat riddled with holes. From each damaged tear in the wood a grey brackish water seeped in, slowly bringing the boat into the waters below. Ardoiwn could see nothing behind his craft, the fog of death lay heavy upon the black waters and his eyes could not see past.
When he turned his gaze down towards the water however he did see something, something of great horror and shame. In the water, just under the surface, floated corpses. The dead, still screaming out silently their final cries. First floated by his warband, his friends. Those he had known all his life drifted by. Each who bore their own desires, their own wishes, their own loves and goals. All now dead in foreign lands, killed as dogs by an enemy who knew not of honor. Ardoiwn wept for them, but their number was small, and soon replaced by new faces as the boat crept onward.
The warriors, the soldiers, whom Ardoiwn and his men had slain. Their arms and armor now rusted within the waters, their final cries for their commander, for order. At first rage wanted to boil out of Ardoiwn, but this land of fog and death allowed no such heat, granted Ardoiwn no such fire with which to warm his soul. In its place he felt only pity, for the men who too had dreams and hopes, who would never see them realized, who died to what they thought savages. Perhaps, Ardoiwn mused, they were right.
However both his men and those men he had slain were but a footnote. As his craft slowly sunk deeper into the void, as the water brushed against Ardoiwn’s legs and brought him the ever closer to the cold of death, he saw the first faces of Tautom. Those who he had come to protect, to save. The dock workers, who cried out for their now ruined vessels, the craftsmen who never found time to craft their masterpieces, the warriors who let fear into their hearts at the final moment, and now cried in pain under the water. The children who cried for their parents. Some in the water deserved as much, one might argue, but Ardoiwn saw far too many who didn’t. The water was to his knees. He knew, that once his boat sunk, that he was join them. Ardoiwn questioned why he hadn’t already. What was there to hold onto? What kept him from allowing the coldness into him, from sinking down and leaving the world behind him?
The bodies were close now, so much so that hands, white as death and red with blood, surged from the water to grip at the edges of the boat, each threatening to bring it down. But then, one last body floated by. One Ardoiwn had not seen for many years. One he could never forget. Her skin was sunken, pale, far too thin, all consequences of the time spent within this river. She had waited for a long time. Her hand, feeble as it was, reached up and gripped the boat. It stopped. The other hands retreated, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Peering into the void Ardoiwn saw her, “Mother?” He asked, as the world around him pulled away.

Ardoiwn coughed a long, hacking cough as his eyes shot open to the world around him. This was not the streets of the great city. The smell of blood was thick, but not as much so as it was before, Ardoiwn’s eyes blinked as he took in the scene before him.

He is lying bare-chested on a bed of the Tautom Hospice, a shelter for the miserable and the dying. At a time like this, you’d expect such a building is crowded with droves of unfortunate and battered warriors. Yet he found himself reserved in a small room in which there is only a single bed. A room.. saved for apparently special people. His lamellar cuirass had been taken off, its muddy and bloodstained iron lying on top a nearby crate.

‘’There you go champ, there’s a big boy.’’ An unwelcome, shrill voice fills the Gastald’s ears. Looking in the direction from whence it came, Ardoiwn observes a beefy barrel chested man sitting on a bench against the wall, his skin oozing with glistering oil.

‘’Old Aba told me to look after you. Honestly barbarian-boy... I took you for dead on that battleground. My dear marshal has a knack for picking out the most exalted of men, I’ll have you know!’’ He places a hand on his lips and lets out a giggle.

Ardoiwn brought his hand to his head, between his wounds and the sound of this massive man’s voice he had to brace himself. Taking another deep breath he found his voice and asked, “My friends, my men. Did any of them survive?”

The man scratches his chin, looking up to the ceiling as he considers the Lampert’s inquiry for a bit. ‘’Not many of them did, sorry to say. From the ones we’ve carried off maybe two or three or so of your fellow barbarians were breathing… Their survival depends on whether they’ll recover from their injuries.’’ His face makes a swift turn to Ardoiwn, and the cheekiest of smiles takes form on it.
‘’Ho ho! Your friends got a good clobbering out there!’’ He says with a chuckle, either unable to read or flat-out indifferent to Ardoiwn’s feelings.

‘Two or three?’ Ardoiwn mentally asks himself. He had arrived with nearly everyone he had known from his village, and now they were reduced to two or three, who ‘might’ live! “I can’t go home.” Ardoiwn says aloud, “They’re dead because of me and I can’t go home.”

‘’Embracing death is part and parcel of the warrior ethos, I thought you barbarians understood that better than anyone? I’m sure they’re having a nifty time in the after-life right about now. You can join the party later, but right now...’’ The man stands up, taking up the great heavy shield and spear he had placed next to the bench. ‘’We’ve got a date with those Chlotarboys.’’

He had barely finished talking before a messenger knocks on the door, who immediately opens it without waiting for permission of entry.
‘’Excuse me, you two...’’ a teenage boy peers into the room, looking between Ardoiwn and the bulky man. ‘’The Chlotars have breached the gate into the Viigoc Quarter! We’ve got instructions from Abadactus Rogan to evacuate to the Balti Palace, right this instance!’’

The man perks up, placing his spear over his broad shoulder. ‘’In the name of all that is carnal… So soon?’’ He looks to Ardoiwn, who has likely hardly recovered from the shock, and asks him:
‘’Can you walk, barbarian-boy? Want me to carry you?’’

Ardoiwn shook his head, clearing away the final fragments of unconsciousness and bringing himself to the moment. “I’ll walk.” Pulling himself out of the bed Ardoiwn quickly tumbles forward before bracing himself on the nearby wall. Raising and lowering his legs he quickly gets to grips with his body again before collecting his equipment and making his way out with the muscle bound soldier.

Under a mellow rain, blood and water mixing equally, men scurried back and forth in the evening-turning-night, hours expended on clearing the street of the hopeless number of corpses. Vetericus walked amongst them as a bloody spectre, inspecting the interior walls with Crocus at his side and Vierland not far behind, frequently bogged down in the direction of his own men. He hadn’t admitted it, but the creeping realisation that he was at a loss as to how to proceed without incurring horrific casualties on their troops slowly dawned. Thinking as he went, he was pulled out of his reverie by the sound of a nigh-theatrical voice from the walls.

‘’Wow! What tussle dynamic has graced these streets! Awe-mazing! Viigoc Mentality!
Are you their leader?’’
The jovial call, trying not to sound distraught, seems aimed at Vetericus, the one that walked at the fore of his company. The voice continues:
‘’You there! You -- with the stylish facepaint and the funny hair! I am the King of this city you are so rudely conquering!’’

Vetericus turned his head upwards, observing a bare-chested and gaunt man leaning over the parapet. He contrasted Vetericus in nearly every respect; where his weapons and armour spoke of the blood that had been shed, hair matted and warpaint smudged, this man on the wall looked akin to a well-dressed corpse. Immaculate, and sickly. His fine blue cloak, the diadem atop his head and the sceptre of office gripped in gnarled fingers told Vetericus it could be none other than King Orso if the announcement hadn't, at last crawling from his hole. It would be insincere for him to say no satisfaction was felt upon looking in the eye of the clearly rattled, verminous ruler.
“Come to see what awaits you and the rest of your ilk? Or will you show some spirit and come down from your-”

Before he could finish speaking, King Orso raised his shrill voice in the hopes to stem the flood of ill will.
‘’There there, master barbarian! Clearly we started out on the wrong foot here, for I am not your enemy!
In matter of fact, I am very much impressed by your achievements these last two days!
A man of such vigor as yourself would make for a suitable Grand Domesticus of the Royal Muscle -- a champion of Baltia!’’

Vetericus, at this, was for perhaps the first time in his life taken aback. He could not stop himself from looking towards Crocus, catching the growing crowd of Baltavigocs who had halted their duties to watch out of the corner of his eye. Orso’s declaration was met with a raucous laughter, from himself and his Guard.
“You wish to make one last joke before I tear your mongrel, fetid grasp from this city? I care nothing for your thoughts on ‘worthiness’, defiler of God and traitor to ancestors ‘king’.”

Orso all the while does not let the laughter dismay him. Thoroughly convinced he can make the Viigoc defectors see the error of their ways, he cries on. Vetericus’ vile vitriol can only be met with a calm kindness.
‘’You are among the Viigocs, I can see it in you. I am a merciful ruler… ‘YOUR’ ruler too. I am of the blood of Odovakre. Give me a second chance and I will---

Vetericus felt his knuckles go white as he gripped the long haft of his axe, rage causing him to consider throwing it.
“You rule nothing. The name leaving your tongue is insult enough - you think to pretend you can even compare to it? You think to claim my loyalty? You will die as much a fool as you have lived in the skin of one.”

‘’Is there.. Is there nothing I can say? You know as well as I do that there is no way you can take this fortress. You may conquer in the end, but at what cost? Neither of us wish for all this needless slaughter to carry on. Surely you are of the same mind? I bid you end this now!

Vetericus in that moment was consumed fully, blinding rage and hate prevailing, practically spewing from his eyes.
“You can run, Orso, but you can’t hide. My power over ‘your’ city is too great; I know that God is on my side. Your penance is too late. I shall weed you heathens out one by one, purge you in fire in front of everyone. I shall make examples of you degenerates, I’ll send you down to hell’s fiery pits!”
The Baltavigoc Guard met this vehement proclamation with a cheer, making it clear they were eager to follow through on those words.

Orso seemed to have lost his tongue in the face of this tremendous foe. The retainers that accompany him show nothing but shock and revulsion on their faces hearing the Viigoc’s words. After a moment of silence, Orso can only reply with a nervous snicker.
“Well.. I tried. Just so you know, I tried. If you want peace, I am all ears. But if you want to rage… Than your rage is clear.’’
With that flux of the snivel keeping his nose in the air, Orso turns around, cloak aflutter as he departs from the wall.

Vetericus meanwhile made use of the invigorating anger now flowing through his veins, turning towards Crocus. His own outburst had provided him his idea. His order was made through gritted teeth.
“Find me Quintus.”

Day breaks over the mountains, with beams of light breaking through the overcast mountain skies. Since the Jet Hound’s attack, no Darkling had fortunately been drawn towards them in the night.
Raditsch was the first to stir from slumber in the cave’s seclusion, and as he emerged into the light of day, a bird flew over, loosening a blob of its feces that landed stark on his head… invoked by the unholy and cruel powers of the curse.
Raditschs grumbles. ‘’Forgot mine hat in the grotto.’’ He was about to retreat back into cover, when he spotted on a distant sky the gathering of dark clouds, many of them, hanging over some unseen dale beyond the far mountain tops. It is a great and heavy tempest, another anomaly of these sinister lands.
The cursed wanderer looks upon them, and a glimmer of hopeful anticipation reflects in his eyes. ‘’The day of reckoning has comen…’’ He murmurs under his breath.

Einhard having been roused by the cursed man’s wakening followed his lead out of the cave, being met with the very same view. For the Paladin the dark clouds had the opposite effect, filling him with doubt and pondering on their meaning.
“How many men has your King doomed to wander these mountains?” Einhard asks Raditischs somberly.

But Raditsch speaks to him reassuringly, making erratic hand gestures and motioning towards the clouds as if they are a good omen.
‘’That is where the Horn is… and the lair of the Huntsman’s beast.
That is where you must go, Paladin.’’ This he says, but not without his usual layering of foreboding.

Einhard nods his head at Raditsch’s statement, “If that is what you state, I don’t believe I will ever understand these cursed mountains.”

For the better part of the day onward, the three moved towards their destination, treading cautiously, moving through narrow passes and treacherously steep trails. All the while Einhard never lost sight of those looming dark clouds beckoning him from afar… Is the Millennium Horn really there? How will he recognise it?

Hours follow, and having come close, the tempest now nearly engulfs them. The sound of the wind seems to speak to the three through ominous howling. Distant and unrecognisable sounds are carried on them, yet none in the company can surmise from what they are. But regardless of from where they’ve come, the three are very close to its source…

Marozia had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole day. But now she pipes up nervously to Einhard, “Uh… Master Einhard, I think I hear something through the wind.”
Einhard continues to forge ahead as he takes in the sound of the wind. After a long quiet he answers; “Aye little one. It must be the sound of that demonic creature… And something else...”
Indeed, carried on the wind are yells, screams, the fierce clank of iron and the dull chop of wood being cut and splintered.

‘’Lamperts.’’

Their objective is past them, and Einhard, bound by oath to his King, will kill as many of them as is necessary to see his mission done.
The sound of men seems to be coming from down ahead. When he observes a cliff leading down into a clearing, the Paladin pauses, and looks behind towards his Shieldbearer, and then to Raditsch. He raises a hand and says:
“I will take a look. Stand back.”
They nod.
Einhard proceeds to climb the slope in front of them to peer down the edge of the cliff.

His intuition proved correct: as the Paladin looked, he observes a great Lampert encampment, perhaps more like a makeshift fort, protected by battlements, rock formations and palisade walls. He sees armed and mustached men moving all over the place, carrying felled game, recuperating and patrolling.
Einhard goes on to analyse if indeed the Horn is there.. or the Demon Hound… Or anything. But what he sees is none of the things he came looking for, but something entirely different that catches the Paladin completely off guard.

“Autchar…!” he hisses under his breath.

Against a pole in the centre of the encampment is a gagged and bonded Autchar -- he has been captured by the Lamperts!
And standing opposite of him is a tremendous presence, clearly distinguished from the other Lamperts by his stature and armor and iron crown. The pinnacle of Lampertei’s host.
‘’The God-hating Lampert King himself? Now? Here of all places?!’’ Einhard curses inwardly at this turn of events. With Dalgiserius’ presence here, it explains the unnatural clouds looming over this place.

The paladin returns to brief his two traveling companions, with a hush filling them in on what he surveyed...
‘’King Dalgiserius is here? What terrible luck!” Marozia splutters.

Einhard grimly looks to Raditsch, and sensing what he is thinking, Raditsch is filled with shame. “I fear it is mine curse at work again to be so afflicted.”
But before Einhard can start to reconsider the wisdom in having brought the cursed man along, Raditsch continues:
“All is not lost on this day of reckoning. For I ken the lore of shapeshifting. With a brew of Rudine fauna growing near here, I can create you a concoction which allowaz you assume different form. Thereby you can enter the camp, and liberate your swordbrother.”

Einhard sarcastically mutters to himself, almost loud enough for Raditsch to hear. “Perhaps you could turn me into a dragon, so I can turn the lot of them to ashes...” Einhard does not know whether to take the man’s word seriously, but speaks louder this time, “Go do what you will, I will search for a way into the encampment.’’

As the Paladin left to see to his work, the cursed wanderer turned to the shield bearer.
‘’Marozia, was that your name? So you are of Lampert stock, as much as I.’’
Marozia turns to the cursed man with a half smile, “Ah yes, my parents were originally from the Lampert side of the mountains.’’

‘’I need you to leave.’’
‘’What?’’
‘’In the dale we had passed in our coming here, I observed there grew special Rudine fauna in its blossoming. With the Purper flower there, I can create mine shape-shifting concoction. You must go, Marozia, and reap it.’’
“Uhhh… why do I have to go and get the flowers, you are the one who knows these damned passes!”
‘’With mine old eyes, I ken not to differentiate between the purple and the blue. And we need purper flowers specifically.’’

Marozia sighs and heads off to find the flowers. Making sure to wait till she is out of view, Raditsch then approaches Einhard who is keeping vigil into the enemy encampment, and frowning deeply by what he sees.

“The odds are stacked against us…’’ Einhard grimly proclaims, sensing Raditschs’ approach, and gestures towards the rigid Lampert defenses.
‘’So they are.
I never doubted your good will when you vowed to lift my curse, Paladin.
Though I am long beyond reproach, I beg your forgiveness.’’
Einhard turns his head sideways, not sure what the rambling man is on about this time, when he is suddenly pushed, forcefully cast down the rocks and into the clearing below.

‘’There -- There he is!’’ A Lampert man with a missing eye snarls at the fallen Paladin, and immediately an assortment of armed watchmen carrying halberds encircle the dumbstruck Chlotar. He is betrayed.