[IC] Such Haukes, Such Hounds

[Maxwell]

His hounds they lie down at his feete
so well they can their master keepe
His haukes they flie so eagerly
there's no fowle dare him come nie
She buried him before the prime
she was dead her selfe ere euen-song time
God send euery gentleman
such haukes, such hounds, and such a Leman
- The Three Ravens, Traditional

The morning mist mixed with the smoke from the burning city and wreathed the castle grounds in a foul-smelling swirl of ash and corpse-stench. Through the broken remains of the castle gates, left utterly ruined by the invaders' siege weapons, the slow wind carried the sounds of fierce fighting - the din of battle rang loudly in the streets below, accompanied by the screams of the dying, and the choking gurgles as invading soldiers silenced them. From the castle, a victorious cheer could barely be made out amidst the sound of battlecries and clashing blades, and from below, maddened cries of elation mixed with despair, as the denizens of the king's dungeons clamoured to be set free - with such determination that their voices pierced the ground. Pigs squealed and dogs howled in the courtyard, and above it all, the Yellow Raven's patrolling sentries tried to keep some form of communication going with the force that had stormed the castle.

The stained glass window shattered like thin ice under a careless boot, raining pieces of the royal emblem down on the blood-soaked courtyard below. The body of king Erasmus the Indomitable arced limply through the air for a moment, before plummeting into the royal pigsty with a horrifying crash, scattering broken wood and terrified pigs in all directions. There in the mud, stripped of his crown and all his finery, his right arm left behind in the corridors above, the great king Erasmus met his ignoble fate. Perhaps a merciful god would take pity on his soul, but as far as the men, the lineage and the realm of Altranor was concerned, that was it.

The war had been won on the strategic level before it had even begun. When the soldiers of the Yellow Raven and his allies emerged from the midwinter blizzards to take the first village, it was already too late, and no clever tactics could save the kingdom from the armies that poured in across the frozen sea. Before news of the war had even reached king Erasmus, large swathes of land had already been lost, and many of the northern holds had either turned against the realm or been sacked. Messages went out by spell, by horse and by carrier pigeon, by every means available, but by the time they had been received, half the kingdom was already fighting for its life. Erasmus knew he had little hope of winning, but for honour's sake, he could not bring himself to flee - to face a life of exile while all his friends died for the kingdom he had failed to protect. Not everyone loved the late king, and not all his decisions were kind, but he knew loyalty. Perhaps the fact that he fought until the bitter end, rather than die on a betrayer's blade, brought him some small comfort as his life slipped away.

- - -

Many floors below the tower where they had dragged the king, down in the heart of the castle's central keep, a woman stood over the corpses of her child's murderers. She stared out the large, lavish windows at the commotion on the other side of the courtyard, where Erasmus' corpse had struck the ground. Castle Altranor was not the mightiest keep in the realm, nor the largest. It was an old building, and Erasmus had felt far more threatened by assassins than invading armies. Money had gone toward commerce, culture, the finery in that very room, and not toward higher walls and larger armies. But the down pillows and silk were stained with blood now, and all the gold in the world would not buy back what was lost. Her infant child still warm in her arms, Lin'Lise, wife of the late prince Alfred, no longer had anything to connect her to the blood of the royal house. All she had was herself, and with the sound of approaching boots coming in from above, that might not last. She would have to flee or die, to this wave, or the next, or the one after that. The nursery was a story or two above the ground, and the windows did not open - at least, not by design - but the nearby servant's quarters offered a less demanding escape route, down a rickety stairway and out the back door, if she could fight or sneak her way past any stragglers.

When the castle was stormed, the attackers vastly outnumbered the defenders, and some commanders had taken care to preserve certain parts of the castle for later looting. One such place was a large, brightly lit chamber, away from the regular hustle and bustle of castle life. Large bookcases lined the walls from one end to the next, full of tomes and scrolls both fanciful and factual. It was not the largest library in the city - the mage academy boasted one many times larger, with secret lore and ancient wisdom that dwarfed the king's own collection - but it was important in its own way, containing maps, lineages, knowledge of distant cultures, and other types of learning essential to the ruling caste. Nykerius, court wizard and a man of no small power, had none the less found it prudent to hole himself up in that untouched chamber. He was not the only wizard in this war, and though his spells may be powerful, the sheer weight of the magic bearing down on the city walls had made his hair stand on end. He was only one man against hundreds, and as he watched through the high windows above the bookcases, the king's corpse sailing through the sky confirmed once and for all that the battle was lost. As if on cue, there was a thunderous boom as the business end of a battering ram crashed against one of the library doors. Large but not reinforced, they would not sustain many blows before breaking open. A few soldiers might not be much of a threat, but on the other hand, an escape through the opposite entrance would be faster.

The charge on the keep had been led by an unknown warrior in heavy armour, charging in on a massive warhorse alongside an ogre vanguard. A single sweep of his halberd had swatted away the defenders' first volley of arrows, and the fury with which he carved up the soldiers in the courtyard had demoralized even the king's own guard, where they watched from high in the keep. Some cursed the king's foolish confidence, to send the royal protector away in the middle of a war, but the fact was that her presence would have made no difference. In fact, she was present, struggling to get closer as the enemy commander climb the stairs to where Erasmus would meet his doom. She fought valiantly, but even as the last enemy barring the way slid off her blade, the body of the king fell from the sky. Her mission failed, Riven found herself alone in the open, one foot on the entryway flagstones and one foot in the mud. Scouts in Soven heraldry, men and otherwise, had scaled the walls and kept an eye out for fleeing royalty - an arrow striking the ground at her feet told Riven they had seen her. The open doorway in front of her was dark and empty, and the castle promised many places to hide. On the other hand, she could sprint through the unguarded gates, back the way she'd came, into the city, where the fighting still raged. Either way, she'd be running right into an enemy force.

The secret passages of the old castle Altranor were old and rarely used, covered in cobwebs and pitch black. Many had collapsed altogether, but an agile man with a good memory could make it through if he needed to. The court warlock had been more than careful as he made it through, but he could thank nothing other than instinct as he suddenly shut the panel he was about to enter through, just as the tower door exploded inward and a stream of enemies poured inside and rushed up the stairs. By the time they had passed and Roderick had made it through to the next tower, it was already too late. The sounds from above were a terrible sign to begin with, but as he took his first few steps up the stairway, he caught sight of the body dropping like a rock into the pigsty. The warlock froze in mid-step as the sight triggered another vision - not of the future, but of the present. The royal family was dead, he was forced to realize, as images of their ravaged bodies wedged their way into his mind. The queen and all her sons and daughters, and their children in turn, some hacked apart at random, others blood-eagled or literally ripped to pieces with a brutality unlike anything Roderick had seen in the war. All while the king was alive to see it. It was a safe bet that those soldiers would be on their way down now, however, and other patrols were making their way around the castle. Fortunately, the court warlock had no shortage of escape routes.

Pigs were not the only creatures stirring in the aftermath of the king'd untimely death. The screams and bloody stench as the attacking force tore into the defenders frightened not only servants and maids, but also the animals that made the castle grounds their home. There was plenty of room, and keeping animals for the court was far more convenient than constantly having to purchase food from the city. A few of the stablehands had foolishly raised weapons against the invaders, and the resulting slaughter had damaged a couple of enclosures, set free some panicked animals, and seen more than one lantern knocked over. One spark later, and half the stables were ablaze, although the still-thick snow of the early spring kept it from spreading very far. By the time the main force had broken into the keep, the soldiers had already left the stables behind, its defenders all assumed dead. Alas, they were not. She had been fighting off Ghantian solders when a mace blow from behind sent her reeling, and her opponents managed to back her into a corner, where she had no time to react to the sound of breaking wood above. Taula, master of the hunt, was busy digging herself out of a pile of rubble. The king's body would be the first thing she'd see once she rose, and then the empty courtyard, across which she could flee in any direction. She might even scale the outer walls, if a twenty foot drop toward the frozen moat did not deter her.

Outside the city walls, a set of large tracks snaked their way through the snow, stopping at a cramped little hollow. Inside, a great beast huddled next to a tiny child, whose body had already begun to cool. The child had had the good fortune of passing out some time ago from fear and blood loss, and passed painlessly from one darkness to the next. Sir knew by now that she was gone, and it was not hard to understand that the children he left behind were gone as well. What's worse, that violent crash he'd heard a little while ago had a definite sense of finality to it, though there was no way for him to know why. The cold air was still heavy with smoke and death, but at he had been given a reprieve from the chaos and the fighting. Outside of the den, the keep loomed behind soot-stained walls and a frozen, stagnant moat, on top of a hill on the far side of the city. There had been no gates barring the way when Sir left, but there was still a city's worth of swords and angry men between him and the last place he had seen his master.

[Nemaisare]

Beyond the city walls, the storm had died down. Silence echoed every strained and outlandish cry that made it across the distance. The only answer was the rustle and crack of pennants flying from tent poles and the creak of wagon wheels through snow. The defeat, while not yet fully enacted, was complete. Yet winter subdued the celebrations. Nothing waited beyond the frozen fields or the far flung woods but the wary witness of animals that flinched at the foreign sounds and moved most cautiously in the other direction. The scavengers would come, in time, but they were pleased enough with the offerings already left behind. The only signs of life were trumpet signals and the plumes of breath required to create the sound, and one slowly disappearing track of shadows pressed into the snow by heavy paws and the little round blood-berries that had fallen along the trail.

The track vanished under a hump of snow, puffs of steam now and again rising from the surface as the heat and breath of the occupant reached through the thin crust. Sir did not feel the pressing ice on every side of him beyond its weight and ability to limit his space. The only cold he could acknowledge was the gradually diminishing warmth of the little one whenever he tried to wake her. Pushing his nose under her chin to that delicate throat that was always so sensitive, that always elicited a response, he whined when there was none. The wheeen of air gasping from his lungs gave her a momentary life as her body rose with his flank, but the pale silver of her life had already dimmed so far as to match the grey of her clothes, and he felt no answering breath across his muzzle. The little one was dead.

His head resting on her legs covered them entirely, his forehead level with her chin. He should have been worried her hands would find his ears and start pulling; instead, he simply swallowed and licked his lips, hoping for the sharp pain of pinching little fingers. An easy target changed nothing. She was dead.

She didn’t need any more protection, or the den he’d dug for her. Sir stayed inside it anyway. Waiting. His orders had been to protect them, the human pups, the master’s future. They were dead. They were all dead. And finding his master within the human storm he could faintly hear beyond the dampening effects of the snow around him would be hard. Yet… Waiting until everything was quiet might mean waiting too long. And being too late. For what, Sir could not understand. Too late meant missing the killing bite or catching a deterring kick in the face instead of the shoulder. Too late meant losing a meal to the smaller hounds. It had never before meant losing his master. Still, while instinct prodded him to leave the dead to their dying, another part urged him up so he would not be too late.

It was, unfortunately, that very notion that kept him curled around the girl for longer than was absolutely necessary, twisting his head to lick at a cut on his shoulder and swiping his tongue over his forelegs where the drying blood was turning into an itch. The urgency of it left him restless, but afraid to answer the pressure before he understood what he was responding to. It was only when a particularly strident shout forced his head through the den’s snowy ceiling in surprise that he gave up waiting for his worry to clear into simple purpose.

Large ears twisted forward, ragged edges sweeping the air to pick up the echoes of that call; he already knew where it came from. So, shaking his head and ruff free of the ice, he stood in a cloud of snow and steam, splay-legged and panting. The air was cold beyond the shelter, nipping at his flank where the child’s blood matted his fur together. He could smell winter tightening the air as though grasping at everything it touched, waiting to preserve it, frozen and hard, until summer. His tongue flicked nervously over his nose as his hackles rose when a whiff of smoke reached him, acrid and stinging. His head swung towards the scent, towards the dark walls rising above the misted ground, defined by even darker shadows, ignoring all else. His home was burning. His pack was scattered. But the walls still stood.

He went back to them. Gliding forward at an easy jaunt, angled away from the gates he’d rushed through earlier. They didn’t offer the fastest route to return to his master. Partially hidden in the smokescreen pushed his way by the wind, Sir’s russet fur faded into grey, his cream legs blended well enough with the churned up snow that it seemed he floated forward. The smoke itself offered little impediment to his eyes, save for the way it scraped at them, though the ash floating with it made it appear, to him, as a light snowfall would to anyone else. Grey dustings on a backdrop of misted snow and black air. They were inconsequential.

Sir paused only once, a paw raised hesitantly, to glance over his shoulder towards the distant lump in the snow. He could barely make it out. Nothing stirred. So, he continued on, picking up his pace in an all-out run as he gave up the strongest thread holding him back. She was dead and gone. His master was waiting.

The Anan moved in a line that eventually intersected with that of the city walls. And there he came to a standstill, gazing upward, momentarily paused by the heavy stone structure in front of him. The top of the wall was just within reach standing on his hind legs. He scrambled at the stone as though the smooth surface might give way and licked his whiskers clean of the ice crystals growing on them. When he’d judged the height accordingly as too high to be worth more effort at just that moment, he fell back to all fours and continued to follow its course. Patiently padding parallel to the solid sheet of charcoal grey as it gradually rose and then belled out into the circle of the keep. The sounds on the other side remained distant; the fighting was past this side of the city. A smart leader should have been waiting nearby, too important to join the fray. But Sir at least knew his master better. The man was smart in his world, capable of getting what he wanted when he wanted it. But he did not always leave the work to those meant for the task.

The man should be near his home, still fighting.

Or dead, but Sir did not think of that option.

Every breath carried the stink of blood and bile, voided bowels and fear. He could hear it on the wind, and the howls of the new pack were too many to fight altogether. But Sir was not interested in fighting until he had found the one he was looking for.

With that determination pushing him forward, the Anan took a heavy, huffing breath of singed fur and cold stone and everything that came with dying, and picked up his pace one more time. His muscles bunched, his back hunched and he was up, the city wall a stepping stone to the larger prize of the wall around the keep. He made it, barely, lower half dragging as he scrambled for some purchase on the battlements and finally caught his elbow against the rising edge of the parapet and heaved, muscles shaking with the exertion. The four soldiers resting there and picking off King Erasmus’ men at their leisure had not expected anything of the sort from beyond the walls, and were thankfully still processing their surprise as he found his footing, though one man recovered faster than the others, and an arrow zipped right through his left ear.

The yelp that provoked stirred the others from their stasis and Sir bristled at the rasp of metal being unsheathed. He bulled forward into the first man, teeth catching hands and arms and crossbow together with an unpleasant crunch of splinters poking the insides of his mouth. The quarrel, at least, had already been spent. When the man’s legs threatened to trip him, Sir let him go and snapped at the next nearest. Her skull offered less resistance than the crossbow’s stock. He whipped the body from its feet and tossed it up and over the courtyard, almost playing, but ignored it thereafter as a dull streak at the edge of his vision warned him that one, at least, still remained. He felt the sudden, sharp pressure at his neck and twisted as the sword clanged against the iron collar and skittered over his back, sharp edge catching only fur until the tip scratched a thin furrow down his hind leg. But by then, he’d turned his head and ducked low, catching his attacker around the middle and shaking hard. The sword went flying, the human’s neck snapped; the last man had run.

Sir dropped his prize, ignoring both it and the other man, still moaning over his shattered arms, in favour of giving chase. Almost directly, he slammed against a guardhouse door and gave full vent to his desire to catch the one who got away. He bayed, barks starting deep and distinct, and swiftly drawing together as the volume and pitch rose to alert anyone with thumbs that he needed a door opened to continue the chase. His claws caught in the wood and left deep grooves, and the noise he was making echoed, but though he bounced off the wood, and tried to force his muzzle through the impossibly thin crack between door and threshold, the hinges and bolt remained sturdy enough to hold him back, for the moment.

[Hank]

"... as if on cue, there was a thunderous boom as the business end of a battering ram crashed against one of the library doors. Large but not reinforced, they would not sustain many blows before breaking open. A few soldiers might not be much of a threat, but on the other hand, an escape through the opposite entrance would be faster."

Nykerius, shaken from his reverie by the battering ram, sprang into action. His heart was filled with grief and though he longed for vengeance, he had no wish to become entangled in a battle with the Ghantian soldiers right now. There were far too many of them to fight and the sounds of battle would only draw more soldiers to the library, and he could not kill them all. He looked around the old library, his eyes searching for anything precious to save. He saw scrolls, books, tapestries, shields with heraldry... he could not bring too much or it would slow him down. His eyes fell on a particular book, one that was flipped open on display: The Kings of Altranor. It detailed the lives and achievements of all of Altranor's kings and court scribes regularly came to the library to update it, spending countless hours on beautiful calligraphy to immortalize their rulers. Erasmus was dead and Nykerius suspected that the same was true for his entire family. If Bernard of Ghant was to burn this book it would be like Erasmus and his forefathers never existed...

Another loud bang urged Nykerius on. He grabbed the book in his left hand, his right hand tightly gripping the wooden shaft of his staff, his wind-caller. He turned to look at the barred door and saw the wood split and buckle under the weight of the impacts. The wizard knew he was out of time and as he turned to flee, the door gave in and a handful of soldiers entered the room. Their swords were drawn and the look on their faces left nothing to the imagination as to their intent.

Nykerius straightened up to his full height, looking at the soldiers with an unreadable expression. Not only their blades, but their Ghantian uniforms were splattered with blood and gore. Such savagery, Nykerius thought with disdain. One of them, a tall officer with a handlebar moustache, sneered at Nykerius. "Wrong place, wrong time, old man," he said. There was no point in trying to run -- the wizard's old legs could not carry him fast enough to escape. He would have to stand his ground after all. Nykerius narrowed his emerald eyes at the officer, whose sneer faltered a little. Even the hardiest of men felt uncomfortable when subjected to the sorcerer's piercing gaze. "I should think not," Nykerius said calmly, as if he was merely discussing the weather. In the same conversational tone, he continued: "I will give you one chance to flee, gentlemen. If you do choose to assault me, I cannot be held responsible for the consequences."

The Ghantian soldiers laughed; a hollow, mirthless sound. Without another word, they advanced on Nykerius, murder in their eyes. The wizard spoke quickly and quietly, made a deceptively swift motion with his left hand, and several things happened at once.

His half-moon spectacles flashed dangerously and a painfully loud noise, like a whipcrack, filled the room, accompanied by a bright flash of light and a searing sensation that set hairs on end and teeth on edge. The Ghantian soldiers yelled in alarm and instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes. Unseen to them, their commander crumpled to the floor, smoke wafting from a grape-sized hole punched in the fabric of his uniform, close to his heart. Little sparks of lightning arced through the air, afterburn of the magic used, popping and sizzling in the sudden silence -- the only other sound was the wizard's footsteps as he disappeared between two shelves stacked with books.

Nykerius reached the exit before the Ghantian soldiers had found him again. They were searching for him, yelling to each other, but they did not know the royal library's layout. Quietly, but with haste, Nykerius opened the door on the other end of the library and slipped out into a corridor. Here, too, tapestries hung on the walls, and lit torches illuminated the way every dozen yards. He set off down the corridor as fast as he could, using his staff for support. He had to get out of the castle and out of the city... he thought of Riven, Roderick, Lin'Lise and all the others. He could not leave yet without knowing what had become of them. There were still sounds of fighting outside -- that meant there was still resistance. Nykerius headed for the courtyard, keeping an eye out for more Ghantian soldiers.

[Chromane]

King Erasmus VI, the Supreme Ruler of Altranor, known as Erasmus the Indomitable, dressed in only his underclothes and missing his right arm at the elbow and already beyond the aid of any magic known to man, crashed through the roof of the royal pigsty with a sickening thud and the sound of splintered wood and shattered tile. Roderick de Walden, moments previously the Court Sage to the Royal Court of Altranor and sworn vassal and friend to the King, was powerless to do anything but watch as everything he had ever known came crashing down around him.

"NO! No, No, No no nonono..." Roderick yelled, trailing off into desperate mumbling as visions of the Royal Family's bloody and brutal end assaulted his mind. Images of the Queen, fair and regal in life, her throat cut so deep her head hung by a thread above her mangled body. Crown Prince Alfred, his corpse in three pieces in front of the remains of his children. Again and again he saw the brutal fates of the Royal Family, until all hope for a reprieve had been extinguished. Every last root and branch had been burnt out with gleeful, callous cruelty. The proud kingdom of Altranor had well and truly fallen.

Roderick saw red.

He knew he had mere minutes, if that, before the courtyard was swarming with Ghantian troops, but if he was lucky, minutes would be all he’d need. He knew it was stupid and risky, and that it would probably get him killed, but he didn't care; he wanted to see them bleed, and he had the magic to do it.

He broke cover, running fast and low across the courtyard, sheer animal instinct guiding his movements as he closed on the pigsty. Most of the soldiers had gone into the tower to participate in the slaughter, or to loot the castle, leaving just two on watch in the courtyard; standing by the entrance to the pigsty, laughing at the fate of the dead King.

Not slowing, Roderick drew his long knives, charging the first man with an wordless yell of fury, using his momentum and the sharp point of the knife to drive it home through the armour. The second man turned in alarm, but was too late as Roderick crashed into him, bulling him into the pigsty, the two men slipping and sliding in the mud and muck. With another yell Roderick slit the man’s throat, dropping his body to the floor.

Working as fast as he could, Roderick pulled out an old wooden bowl from a pouch on his bandoleer, the intricate carvings on it faded with stains and age. Roughly he collected some of the blood from the dead soldier, then more reverently knelt to collect some from his dead liege and friend, before setting it on the ground before him. He drew his knife along his arm, dripping the blood into the chalice as he began chanting, throwing ingredients in from his bandoleer. There was no rational thought, no time for build-up and magical ritual, just dark, bloody magic forced into being by gut level instinct and a burning rage.

Blood of friend, blood of foe
Blood of mine, shed in woe
Brimstone ground, black frog’s toe

Bring mine enemies down low,
May they reap what they have sown
For our blood spilled, blood of their own!

His voice rose as he finished the chant, a strident call for blood and vengeance. From behind him he heard a soldier raise the alarm and the tromp of many boots heading for the pigsty. Knowing he had but moments, Roderick ran to the back wall where the pigsty butted up against the castle, using the bloody mixture in the bowl to paint his dark sigil on the wall, finishing with a scream of rage and a bloody handprint smeared across it, a dark curse on all who had a hand in the day’s events.

He felt the rush of magical energy leave his body as the soldiers came crashing into the pigsty, swearing and shouting. Turning on one foot he flung the remainder of the mixture at the eyes of the first rank, the concoction of blood, sulfur and poisonous frog burning their eyes as they started screaming as they recoiled, slamming into their comrades behind them.

Taking advantage of the momentary confusion Roderick darted left, heaving himself up and over the remains of the wall torn by the King’s entrance from above. The soldiers outside raised the alarm but he bolted through a door into the castle and took off into the twisting corridors, heading low as he could to try and get to another entrance to the secret tunnels. It was time to leave the city.

[Acrolith]

Black smoke and the pained shrieks of dying horses mingled above the burned and broken bones of the castle's gutted mews, eclipsing the ever more diminished sounds of struggle that still echoed into ear. King, castle and country all lay conquered, this knowledge pitted itself in Taula's gut as awareness flooded back into her prone form; a mote of clarity that urged the woman back to her feet. Ash and embers rushed to meet the Drungr as what little remained of the stable atop her groaned in protest against press of her back. With a single mighty shove the building knelt in on itself and collapsed, freeing the huntmaster of the smoldering rubble heaped against her.

Still in the throes of a trance she was half way to where they had put King Erasmus the Indomitable's name to the test by the time the harsh bickering of enemy soldiers drew her gaze. Half of which had split off in pursuit of an unseen assailant as the rest grouped up ahead of their wounded. They were levies by the looks of them, Soven serfs and farmers offered up to the Yellow Raven's ambitions by their Queen. "Don't tell me how big she is, she's still just a woman!" a swordsman with the look of command barked out from behind a throng of men still shaken by a recent assault. "Do you even see a weapon? Damn dark-skin probably just mucked out the sties." he heckled, a line of pikes advancing as the hands that held them paled at the knuckle. She broke their charge with a roar that left her throat raw and seized a soldier that had fallen out of formation. He was powerless in her grip and Taula let the others see it, shouting past him and his desperate attempts to bring an overlong weapon to bear.

"You think me flesh and blood? Conquerable?" she thundered, squeezing the chest of her captured foe against her own until his hammering heart fell silent and body bent back at an impossible angle. "Fools! You stand before a chasm! Step forward and fall!" she dared, ending the beot as one last tug emptied each half of the boy's crumpled body over the cold ground. It had bought her time, for though they still brandished their weapons of war it was an empty threat; not one among them could muster the courage to meet her challenge. As not to squander such an opening she backed them off enough to approach the muddied and mutilated remains of her monarch and meet his gaze one last time; eyes that had held such grandeur. Erasmus had long since passed, numb to death Taula knew that she was staring only at an empty vessel; she'd leave the mourning to Riven if she yet lived. Still, an Estengauk gives what is given and owes what is owed and such debts did not die with him. The King's colors slouched in the mire not far from the pulverized pig pen, its roost at the top of the tallest tower now usurped by the bolded yellow banner of Bernard of Ghant. With more care than the act required she made of it his shroud and offered the toppled ruler up to the ready pyre the burning mews provided.

It was a small sympathy and it had cost her, given the crowd at her back time to scrabble together their resolve. Taula tensed, bucking off the urge to stand her ground; there were more important things to do than meet their march. Keeping her distance she made for the south side of the courtyard only to see her dalliance had come dearly, Ghantian, Thandonese and more Soven soldiers had already cut off any obvious escape routes. Left with little option save to go where none could follow she threw herself at the steep stone wall and hauled her heavy frame hand over hand atop its frigid fortifications. Arrow and spear clattered too close to their mark for comfort during the climb, a hail of hastily aimed projectiles that had nearly knocked her loose. The archers were relentless as she stole a farewell glance of the sacked castle Altranor, the focused fire of their volley driving her over the edge and plunging through the frozen surface of the moat. Shaft after shaft plinked in after her, pot shots loosed in hopes of a lucky hit while other bows stood drawn, waiting for the woman to emerge. When she didn't the Drungr found herself assumed dead for the second time that day.

[Lexicon]

King Erasmus' command.
Fall of Castle Altranor.
Riven takes the plunge.
He had commanded her to go.

This thought managed to break through the haze of sorrow and anguish clouding Riven's mind as she watched King Erasmus VI, her liege lord and friend, plummet from the window of Castle Altranor's tallest tower. He fell, like a bizarre, pitiful one-winged bird attempting to fly, and crashed to the ground somewhere on the other side of the central keep. The Royal Protector had done her best to convince the king now wasn't a good time to send her away. The sudden decline in messengers, carrier pigeons, and mystical sendings from the holdfasts to the north didn't bode well, and several nobles from the Far South spoke of Soveni warships prowling the coastline like vultures circling a piece of carrion. While news traveled slowly in a kingdom of Altranor's size, ships flying the blue and white flag of Soven were rarely seen anywhere near the Land of a Thousand Roads. Unless they were raiding coastal settlements like Akaikos or Port Vessarian, sailing away with slaves and stolen goods to sell in Soven's bazaars. Lately, however, these ships seemed more interested in patrolling the sea lanes to the south of Altranor than anything else, going so far as to flee whenever an inquisitive Altranorian vessel approached. Of course, even the most courageous and daring captains knew better than to pursue a Soveni warship into the Sea of Fangs alone. There was a reason the Forest of Swords' inhabitants were also known as "sea wolves."

King Erasmus VI had dismissed these signs, claiming they were part of the reason why he needed Riven to visit the nearby island of Tyr. The Altranorian monarch had been exchanging missives with an influential Tyrish warlord, a hulk of a man named Lennart Virtanen, in hopes of forming an alliance against Soven. Since Tyr was located between Altranor and Soven it made perfect sense. The king wanted to know what Queen Evangeline's ships were doing so close to Altranor's southern coast, and Warlord Virtanen blamed the Soveni for the deaths of his three sons. Both men were incapable of dealing with the threat Soven represented by themselves, which meant uniting their forces was the only way to get the information and revenge they wanted. After spending a cold mid-winter's evening arguing in the king's chambers, Riven had forced her charge to formally command her to go speak with Warlord Virtanen on the crown's behalf. King Erasmus hadn't needed to command his Royal Protector to do anything in three years. That night, however, he did and Riven begrudgingly left the next morning on a ship bound for the verdant shores of Tyr. She'd returned less than three weeks later to find the capital city under attack by the massed armies of Soven, Ghant, and Thandonia, and, despite her best efforts, she reached Castle Altranor moments before her charge was tossed out the window. Now, King Erasmus the Indomitable was dead and Riven had become the second Koralia to fail in her appointed task as Royal Protector. The weight of this awful realization made Riven tighten her grip on her gladiums, the curved iron blades already dripping with the blood of countless men who'd tried to stop her from reaching Castle Altranor. Hot tears sprang into her eyes.

An arrow buzzed past Riven's face, ending her moment of misery and self-loathing immediately.

"Focus, pup! Your emotions will damn you in battle if you let them. You are a Koralia and you will behave like one!" Riven's mother, Galene, would always say some variation of this when she saw her daughter getting frustrated or angry during training. Gritting her teeth, the former Royal Protector glanced down briefly at the Ghantian soldier she'd slain moments before King Erasmus fell to his death. The man's leathery face now had a crossbow bolt sprouting from it like some malignant growth. A near miss. Looking up to see where her would-be attackers were hiding, Riven allowed a grim smile to spread across her pale features as she saw four men clad in the blue and white tabards of Soveni soldiers standing on the battlements across the courtyard. Each one was frantically trying to reload their clunky Thandonese crossbows so they could take more potshots at the blood-drenched woman standing in front of Castle Altranor's main keep. Riven's smirk faded, however, as she realized the only way those soldiers could've gotten up there without her noticing was if the opposing army had brought up their siege ladders.

As if responding to some unheard command, several loud bangs joined the chorus of screams and howls echoing through the courtyard as more siege ladders were laid against the castle's walls. Dozens of Soveni soldiers, their pale faces dripping with sweat, began to scramble up the ladders like a horde of blue and white clad rodents. The bulk of the Ghantians and their ogre allies were ransacking the keep's interior so it made sense for Queen Evangeline's warriors to sweep the outer areas for any final pockets of resistance. The Thandonese were probably still rampaging through the capital city, looting and pillaging to their heart's content, while they waited for further orders from their leaders. Pushing these worrisome thoughts out of her mind, Riven dashed into the swirling mist and wood smoke wreathing the courtyard, her breath emerging as puffs of white as she ran. This cloud would provide decent cover while she tried to reach the base of the tower near the archers, and the structure itself might also harbor some Altranorian survivors. While the former Royal Protector knew her only option at this point was to try to escape Castle Altranor in one piece, the idea of leaving any of her close friends behind made her stomach churn angrily. These bastards had already killed Erasmus and she wasn't about to let the same fate befall Taula, Sir, Roderick or anyone else. The archers on the wall finally finished reloading their weapons and several more crossbow bolts whizzed towards Riven, each one humming like a hive of angry bees as she narrowly avoided them. Adjusting her course to avoid any more incoming projectiles, Riven was about halfway to the tower when she heard the sound of an animal yelping in pain coming from somewhere near the crossbowmen.

Glancing in the sound's general direction as she kept running, Riven almost skidded to a stop when she saw Sir, the king's loyal anan, attack one of the Soveni archers, biting his hands and causing the man to scream in pain. How in the name of the gods had he gotten up there? As Riven watched the beast toss one of his attackers into the courtyard, she decided it didn't matter all that much. At least the anan was alive and fighting against the invaders. Unfortunately, just as Riven reached the base of the tower, the final Soveni ran into the structure and slammed the door shut. Sir launched himself at the door, obviously angered by his prey's cowardice, and began to scratch at the wooden portal in an attempt to reach the coward.

"Good boy, Sir! I'm coming for you," Riven called out even as she was forced to back away from the door as several newly arrived Soveni scouts picked up where their kinsmen left off. Bolts were flying through the air like leaves in a windstorm, though not a single one found purchase in Riven Koralia's flesh. Abruptly, the tower door was thrown open and three massive ogres, each one wearing a blue and white Soveni tabard around their waists like a kilt, emerged from the structure clutching rusty, pitted broadswords. The grey skin of their right cheeks bore three slash-like burns, which almost looked like claw marks.

"Well, well, well, what 'ave we got 'ere, lads?" the largest ogre in the group said, his voice sounding as if every word was being dredged up from the bottom of some muddy crevice. Tugging at his bushy black beard, the ogre smacked the side of the horned helmet he was wearing and said, "Oi, wasn't I jest sayin' we needed ter find us a bit of nosh? Da boss told us ter stay in the tower so we can kill anyone who tries ter 'ide in there. And jest when we decide ter go out an' find some food the gods bring us a nice, ripe little bird. Tell ye what, lads, the one who kills the hen gets ter choose how we cook 'er! For the Burnin' Claw clan!" With a chorus of throaty roars, the threesome charged at Riven, who'd already backed away to put some distance between her and the murderous beasts.

Ducking to avoid the lead ogre's initial swipe, Riven raked one of her gladiums across the ogre's gut, which was hanging out from the bottom of his ill-fitting chainmail hauberk. The monster howled in pain and tried to bring his blade down in a brutal executioner's cut, though the former Royal Protector was already gone, her cloak whipping behind her as she scampered around her opponent. Trying to hold his innards in with one hand, the bearded ogre slowly turned, a defiant sneer on his face even as blood oozed out of his mouth.

Riven's swords punched through the back of the brute's open mouth and clanged against the back of his helmet. The ogre fell backwards with all the grace of a poleaxed ox.

The two remaining ogres, who'd been eagerly watching their leader's fight, gaped in stupefied astonishment for a few moments. One of them, the smallest of the trio and the least armored, suddenly screamed, "You killed Aghi, you bitch! Now yer facin' me, Alfric, son of Krom of the Burnin' Claws! Got any last words?" The third ogre chuckled nastily and hefted his blade as the duo began to walk slowly towards the formidable human, their piggy eyes gleaming with hunger and rage. Ironically, the Soveni assumed these monsters would finish off this woman in a few short moments so they'd turned their attention elsewhere. Many of them were pressing on deeper into the castle grounds while others decided to take the opportunity to rest after hurrying up the siege ladders. Every now and again Riven would have to spin out of the way to avoid an incoming arrow, though these moments were few and far between. One woman didn't warrant the attention of an entire army.

"A question, actually," Riven said as she pulled up the hood of her cloak. "What's more annoying than a babbling ogre?"

Snarling like a rabid dog, Alfric and his companion surged towards the Lady Protector, the muddy ground shuddering beneath the combined weight of their charge. Riven threw herself to the side, conveniently avoiding several more incoming crossbow bolts from the castle walls, and quickly scrambled back to her feet. Putting one of her blades in its place on her belt, Riven pulled a clay vial from one of her pouches and hurled it at the two ogres. The vial shattered as it struck the ground, releasing plumes of red, yellow, and blue smoke. The mist swirling around the courtyard had been largely dispersed by this point, though the battlefield was even harder to see now. Alfric staggered through the cloud of red smog and opened his mouth to call out when he felt a sword punch through the back of his neck. Gurgling and spitting up blood, the ogre heard a voice quietly say, "There's nothing more annoying than a babbling ogre."

As Alfric toppled to the ground, Riven narrowed her eyes as the final ogre lurched out of the yellow smoke cloud and she raced towards him. The titanic beast swung his sword in a series of short, chopping cuts that forced Riven to give ground. Her gladiums were strong and well-forged but they couldn't hope to trade blows with a broadsword that large. Stepping back and ducking to avoid a clumsy stab, Riven got close enough to slash the ogre's belly from sternum to groin with one of her blades. While the monster squealed like a gutted hog, Riven drew her other sword and carved a red smile into the ogre's throat. Surrounded by swirling yellow smoke, the Royal Protector stood there, panting heavily and dripping with sweat. A splash of ogre blood had painted her pale face a ghastly shade of crimson.

At that moment, a voice cried out, “Blood of friend, blood of foe. Blood of mine, shed in woe. Brimstone ground, black frog’s toe. Bring mine enemies down low. May they reap what they have sown for our blood spilled, blood of their own!” Despite the admittedly terrible situation she was in, Riven smiled widely. Roderick was still alive somewhere! Once she got Sir she'd try to find him before the smoke dissipated and the enemy figured out their ogre clansmen had failed to kill her. Praying to whatever gods were listening to keep the warlock safe, the former Royal Protector ran out of the smoke, immediately diving into a roll to avoid a flurry of arrows from the wall, and looked to see how Sir was doing.

Instead, she saw Taula standing atop the wall, preparing to jump. Riven opened her mouth to call out when the drungr dove off the battlements.

“No!” Riven howled and she ran full out to the base of the tower, throwing open the lower door and taking the steps two or three at a time. Her legs and arms burned from her recent exertion, but she didn’t care. Taula had just jumped into the fucking moat! The Soveni man Sir was trying to reach was struggling with his crossbow when Riven got to him, and she barely stopped to cut his throat. A flicker of remorse sent a shudder coursing down Riven's spine, though she shoved it away. Throwing open the door and brushing past Sir, the Royal Protector looked over the moat. Several more ladders were being raised into place, the hooks at the ends of them catching the battlements, and Soveni soldiers were streaming up them.

Riven didn’t see Taula emerge from the icy surface of the moat.

An arrow caught Riven in the shoulder, spinning her around, and she cursed as pain radiated through her right shoulder. The sounds of booted feet were coming from the tower and she knew she didn’t have much time. Looking at Sir and ripping the arrow out of her shoulder, Riven said, “Sir…we cannot stay here. We need to…” She trailed off as more soldiers flooded up the ladders and the door she’d just opened began to fill with Soveni.

“Fucking gods, it’s the Royal Protector! Kill her!” one of the Soveni said and Riven didn’t hesitate. Glancing back at the castle briefly, hoping everyone else got out, she gestured for Sir to follow her.

And she jumped. Riven's final thought as she plunged through the layer of ice covering the moat was simple. Gods help us...we are all fucked, the former Royal Protector thought as the freezing cold water of the moat began to sap what little strength she had left. As she dropped beneath the ice, Riven realized if she didn't find a weak point and return to the surface soon then her own equipment was going to kill her as surely as the Ghantians had killed Erasmus.

[Raptorman]

Numbness, loss, a deep pain that she had never felt before, and a fog that made it difficult for her to think. The foreign princess from distant Vyrndar, who had been married into the royal house of Altrantor, stood by the window of the nursery. Her fine clothing was stained with blood and other unpleasant materials best left undescribed as her arms cradled the cooling corpse of her daughter. Lin'Lise watched as the king of the realm plummeted bleeding and missing an arm to his death below and met the inglorious fate of being feasted on by swine. She watched as new fights broke out below in the courtyard with little thought as her blood soaked silver hands gently soothed a child who was beyond soothing.

How could this have happened? Her father had known strength, he had chosen this nation, these people, despite their humanity as worthy of his daughter. Could he have so greatly misjudged the strength he saw in Altrantor when he sent her there? Could she have been wrong when she judged Erasmus to be a man who despite his humanity was worthy of respect and admiration? Should she have been more forceful in insisting that they flee when the war had begun to go poorly? Could she have saved Vel'Lis from this... Her hands clenched with surprising strength as a flash of burning rage pierced the strange fog in her mind.

In the wake of the rage came grief and her golden eyes began to leak as she looked down at the limp bundle in her arms. Her daughter was growing cold in death, but even blood soaked and dead the little girl remained beautiful to her mother and her arms tightened around the limp bundle as she cradled it to her chest once more. Then came a sound that managed to drag her from her grief and clear the fog from her mind for a moment. The sharp clinking of metal boots against the stone of the hallway drew a sharp look towards the door and she could hear the men joking about the plunder and pillaging that they would be rewarded with for having taken the castle.

Lin'Lise had been startled out of her grief and she did her best to avoid being sucked back into that morass of emotion. As painful as it was that Vel'Lis was dead, and that all her dreams and plans had died with that little girl she still needed to act. The sound of the boots began to fade into the distance and reluctantly Lin'Lise lifted her daughter's corpse up. "Goodbye, My love." She whispered the words, one of the few times she had even spoken of love sincerely and pressed her lips to her daughters forehead. "May her light engulf you." Then she set down the bundle upon the bed and with an expression of pained determination she turned towards the door.

It was fortunate that she had been healing when the wall fell, that she had been cautious and taken the dagger her father had given her with her this day. Even now she couldn't think of it as anything other than a dagger despite the fact that it was longer than many human swords and substantially heavier. She did wish she had learned how to use it better though and as her hand awkward gripped the hilt she could already tell that what little she had learned in the old lessons wasn't going to help her here.

The sounds of the boots had faded and Lin'Lise opened the door quickly. She glanced down the hallway and seeing no one there quickly ran for the quickest way out that she knew of. The servants quarters were just down the hall, she had insisted on it so that Vel'Lis would have all the care she ever needed close by, and if she could get to them she could get to the ground floor, and it was just a few hallways and a door to the courtyard, and then she just had to figure out a way to get out of the walls. That seemed a losing proposition but it was the only one that she knew of.

Lin'Lise could hardly be stealthy on the stairs, they were old wood and she weighed much more than a human. A chorus of creaks and groans came from the belabored wood as the half lorenvolk did her best to sprint down them. But aging wood was not her friend and as she neared the bottom of the twisted stair one of the steps simply snapped with a sickening crack and as she tried to catch her balance on the railing it too broke. She staggered forward and landed awkwardly at the foot of the stairs as several more steps and then much of the staircase itself collapsed under the strain in great crash.

With a very real flash of terror, such a clamor could not possibly have gone unnoticed, Lin'Lise hauled herself up. She could already hear footsteps in the hallway coming towards her and there was no chance they would just pass by like the soldiers had before. Her sweaty and bloody hand gripped her dagger as she drew it awkwardly and held it in a way that showed she had little to no idea what she was doing with it. There was certainly terror but there was something else as well. If she was to die now, she would show them how a lorenvolk died. She stepped from the room with her weapon held out in front of her and as much fear compound as she could ready to be released.

To her surprise though it was not the soldiers that she saw but rather a man that she knew and she managed to move her sword so that he did not impale himself on it as his headlong run took him straight at her. "Roderick?!" The exclamation came as part surprise and part relief, surprise that the backwards sage was one of those who was still alive and relief, she had always been told he knew the castle's secrets. "Can you get us out of here?"

[Maxwell]

The frozen mud crunched as corpses hit the ground all across the courtyard, their comrades already screaming for reinforcements as the defenders fled in every which direction. And reinforcements they would have, as soldiers soon poured out of every doorway. With the battle won, there was nothing to keep the occupied away from the castle grounds, and even Ghantian priests and magi emerged onto the battlefield, to ward their men and see to the wounded. By some divine mercy, the fighting was still too disorganized for proper formations, and confusion kept the officers from mounting anything resembling an effective pursuit, and men damn near trampled one another trying to figure out who exactly they were supposed to be fighting. Through windows in the castle itself, faces could be seen staring blankly at the chaos below, perhaps wondering if they should be alerting someone higher up as to what was happening. The two women had dove over the wall before anyone had become quite clear on what was happening, choosing the company of hibernating leeches in the frozen moat over that of blades and spears up above. Never the less, soldiers with more initiative were already starting to encircle the one enemy that remained in plain sight, spears and shields and arrows leveled at the white, wolf-like thing on the wall, as bold men came up the staircases, onto the wall and advanced on the anan.

A sudden stench assaulted Sir's nostrils when the Drungr woman heaved herself over the battlements. The sudden sound of shattering ice and the smell of the moat's stagnant water - too subtle for human nostrils at this distance - told him what had happened as surely as if he had seen it. A second splash told him Riven had gone the same way, and his own options were dwindling. Dozens of enemies were trying to surround him, tightening the proverbial noose with every step. Not only that, but behind the lines of spear-wielding soldiers, men glowing with magic were reaching down and pulling the fallen back on their feet, good as new. There were enemies inside the castle too, he knew, having been there himself, which meant arrows could be coming out of those high windows at any time. To make matters worse, the unmistakable scent of his master's sweat and blood trailed in from somewhere nearby. King Erasmus had not been a slouch when it came to personal combat - he was strong enough to hold a wagon upright while they replaced its wheel, and could offer fair sport to the best of his knights, but even he could not hope to stand against this many. With Riven out of sight, the still-haphazard rain of projectiles began to move toward Sir.

Inside the castle, the smell of blood was everywhere. The screams of the dying had stopped by now, or they would have been drowned out by the screams of rage and the barking of officers trying to restore order. Word was spreading upward far slower than outwards, and that was fortunate - anyone who had witnessed the onslaught of the Ghantian commander and his cronies would have known to fear his wrath. As court warlock Roderick fled through the corridors of the castle, the stomping of boots behind and above him mixed with the general din of combat until he had no idea where from the enemy would come. His own footfalls were impossible to make out amidst all the noise, but as he passed by an open door, a sound rose from below that silenced all the others. He was right above the royal dungeon, its armoured door hanging off one hinge, and through the door came a jubilant chant that would have raised the hairs on anyone's neck. The Ghantians were not going to release common murderers or thieves, of course, but there had been a full season of war, and court hearings and executions had been a low priority next to ensuring the survival of the realm. These were people kept under the watchful eye of all the knights of the court, behind magical wards the city jailors could only dream of, nobles and generals to be ransomed, and rebel leaders whose grand and public deaths would reinforce faith in the rule of Erasmus. Roderick only saw the broken door for a moment as he rushed past the room, but it gave him an entire new reason to run for his life from castle Altranor. If those wards were undone and the dungeons emptied, it would not matter how many lives he had.

There had been no message in or out of the city in over a week - no mundane messages, at any rate. It was difficult to say whether the wizards' attempts at communication succeeded, especially since the city college had shut its gates as soon as the invading army arrived. It was not entirely unexpected; organizations as important and as mercenary as the wizard academy were often spared in these conflicts. It had been many, many centuries since the academy in Altranor city itself had been threatened in such a way, but its headmaster and archwizards had refused to participate in the war. All magi who wished to lay down their lives for king Erasmus had been let out, and the gates had been closed. There was no time to wage a civil war against the city's own wizards, so the ivory towers of the academy remained unmolested by Erasmus' men as well as the Yellow Raven's. The temples were the same - aside from some that remained defiant or that were particularly hated by either of the three invading kingdoms, the houses of the gods were allowed to keep their treasures, and to serve as sanctuaries for the commoners. It was a certain bet that many merchant houses with contacts in Soven and Ghant would stay standing, as well. Some careless individuals had even been heard gloating in the days before the final assault, that there would soon be a lucrative market for buyers of war-spoils in Altranor. At the current rate, it seemed that such predictions would come true.

[Chromane]

Roderick ran deeper into the twisting maze of the castle's back passages, his mind still reeling from the terrible visions he had received of the Royal Family's fate. He snarled and shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but it was no use; he knew the images would be imprinted on his memory for the rest of his life. Which, given the circumstances, mightn't be an overly long time.

The sound of his hurried footsteps bounced off the cold stone walls and mixed with the din of battle and the weak cries of the wounded until it was impossible to tell where any of it came from. He supposed it was a mixed blessing; he would be harder to track, but he wouldn't be able to tell if anyone was ahead of him until he was right on top of them. Absently he noted he was still holding the carved wooden bowl in one hand and quickly stowed it in its pouch, glad he'd reflexively kept hold of it in the confusion. It wasn't some powerful magical item; it was just useful, and one of the few reminders of his adopted father and mentor he had left.

Roderick entered the room that had served as the guard-post for the dungeon entrance and blanched at the sight of the armored door hanging from a single hinge, a gleeful howling rising from below . A contingent of soldiers had obviously been sent to secure the high-value prisoners being kept below the castle in order to stop any of the beleaguered defenders getting any ideas about revenge or hostages. Then he was past it, a burst of speed carrying him as far away as possible, He had no desire to be nearby when the soldiers returned upstairs with the freedom drunk prisoners - some of whom he'd helped capture in the first place.

As he ran on, there was a great clamor of crashing and splintering wood that echoed through the corridors, though he couldn't place where it came from. Suddenly an inhumanly tall and thin figure with golden hair stepped out from up ahead, holding a short sword in both hands. Roderick gave a short cry of alarm and jumped to one side, colliding with the wall as he awkwardly tried to avoid running full pelt onto the sword into the narrow corridor. Luckily the figure seemed to recognize him and lowered the sword as he approached. It didn't stop him from having one hand on his knives before her identity finally clicked.

"Roderick?!" Lin'Lise said, "Can you get us out of here?".

"Yes m'lady". Roderick replied, adding the honorific automatically. Years of intensive etiquette lessons and life in the Royal Court had made the response instinctive. The vaelie-lorenvolk wasn't his favorite person in the Court, but right now he was happy to see someone not wearing enemy colors. His heart sank more at the blood on her hands and clothes, and he knew without saying what she'd been through. Seeing her also made him wonder which other members of the Court and staff might still be alive and present, though he had no idea how he'd find them without running into more enemy soldiers. "I was doubling back around to the east side - there's a hidden passage that can take us out of the castle proper" he explained, starting to head off in the same direction he'd been heading.

"We need to keep an eye out for anyone friendly still around" he said, building back up to his previous pace, although now trying to keep a better eye out, as he now knew there could still be allies in the castle, and considering he'd nearly got impaled.

[Nemaisare]

Sir was lucky, locked out of any easy way off the battlements as he was, that the Soveni soldiers found themselves distracted by more interesting sights. Though more than one head had turned at his loudly announced frustration, only a few had broken off their given task to deal with him. Over his own barking, along with the general cacaphony from the castle and city, he didn't hear their cautious approach behind him. Riven's shout only barely registered, and then only because he recognised his own name, ears perking up before he even understood why his tail was wagging.

He paused with a forepaw braced against the door and glanced down over the wall, the other paw curling in uncertainly. There were too many figures churning about below to pinpoint who had called him. So, he went back to digging at the door, his efforts redoubled now that they'd been acknowledged. Soon enough, something cracked behind the wall, and a roughened voice proved the man hadn't liked it. Sir was all set to try again when stranger sounds distracted him. First an ear flicked back, then his scrambling paws froze and he lifted his head to find bright silver life behind him in a shape he readily recognised. Along with a few others he did not.

The large Anan let out a quiet huff at odds with his earlier enthusiasm and cocked his head while she ignored him. The strange soldiers were between him and her anyway, though they were also looking at her now, and the arrows he'd already decided he did not like were trying to hit her. He snapped at one quick flash of grey as it went past his muzzle and then lifted his head in surprise when he realised Taula was no longer standing where he'd last seen her. Sir let out a little whuffle of air in confusion until the crack of breaking ice slammed through his eardrums and made him bounce nervously. A moment later, as the soldiers all ran to the edge of the wall, he caught a breath of dead water and snorted.

She'd gone swimming.

She wasn't going to open the door for him.

Sir turned back to it, determined to finish what he'd started as shouts sounded behind him and arrows struck stone too close for comfort. When it opened of its own accord, he had to freeze his immediate lunge and stifled the growl in his throat before Riven noticed his threat. And yipped excitedly. She had dealt with the door. And the man he wanted... She would tell him what to do next. His tail ticked once, twice and then she was spinning, barking her own angry sounds and saying his name. The Anan looked at her to prove he was listening, though he could not ignore the soldiers this time as they closed in. He was growling before she gave up giving an order, and he followed her to the edge, but baulked there, teetering.

He turned a worried circle, snapping at the strange faces surrounding him, hesitating to follow her when that wasn't where he knew his master was. Another circle, and he lunged at the men closing in to force them back. But while they moved out of reach, two strings twanged and he yelped as arrows slammed into his flank, turning to bite the offending twigs as though they were insects he could nibble free. A sword struck his other side and the Anan, though still caught between his desires, chose the lesser of two difficulties and hesitated no more, but launched himself after Riven and Taula.

Fear-stiffened legs struck the ice and spidering fractures exploded apart, engulfing him momentarily in breath stealing cold before he bobbed back to the surface through the shattered blocks of ice. He'd landed near enough to Riven that there was a rather wide area of blocks that bounced off his muzzle and back as he thrashed at the water, large paws automatically moving in a pattern that would keep him from sinking. Snorting and huffing to clear his nose of water, the Anan scrambled at the ice, pushing chunks beneath the surface as he tried to climb onto them until he reached the edge.

The more solid ice there let him get both forepaws up before it gave beneath his weight and he went splashing back down. He tried again to get out of the water, again and again, rising sometimes halfway clear of the water before the ice gave out. But each time falling back. The moat smelled of wet rot, heavy and thick with dead plants. The cold had quickly crept through his wet coat though Sir's efforts kept him warm for the moment, the heat wouldn't last. At least his injuries had grown numb.

His efforts, more blinded by desparation than aided, had him scrambling parallel to the wall rather than away from it. He was heading a little off to the side of the hole Taula had created, and managing to crack and splinter the ice across a wide surface until the hole he'd made had become a dark line contrasting against the snow and water splashed up through the ice on either side in little pressure made geysers as pieces shifted and slid against each other.

[Maxwell]

The sounds of battle still reverberated through the castle, and the din did not seem likely to diminish any time soon. Roderick and Lin had stood exposed at an intersection, corridors and antechambers all around, though by the grace of the gods, no enemies had happened on them before they took off again. As they made their way through the hallways, the signs of battle were relatively few. Although the screaming and clanging made it evident, and the warlock's keen senses picked up the scent of blood from all directions, the corridors themselves were mostly empty of signs of combat. A few doors had been broken down, the occasional painting disturbed or miscellaneous item stepped on, but the castle defenders were not incompetent, and clearly had barricaded themselves in the most defensive positions. The king's assassins were men of transcendent power and strength, but where they had carved a bloody path through the Altranorian soldiers, the footmen had a far harder time. On their way toward the concealed door at the castle's other end, Roderick and Lin passed fighters both dead and alive, behind broken barricades or still fighting for their lives against groups of enemy soldiers, walls of spears and swords barely holding the onslaught at bay. The warlock and the giant might have been able to save a few if they dared.

The winding, pitch-black tunnels beneath the castle and her surroundings were a jumbled mess of new and old, dug by workers of varying competence in the preceding centuries, with the odd stretch reinforced in later years, and more than a few passages caved in. There were tunnels and stairways dug through the rock that led to private storages and wine cellars, as well as larger ones that would take you down through the hill and out onto the city wall below - everyone knew about these, and some saw traffic every day. The secret paths were different, however, leading to false walls in dark alleys, into the city sewers (rudimentary though they were), and even a path that exited out into the northwestern forest, over a mile away. Roderick could find his way in his sleep, of course, and a lack of light was a minor inconvenience to him, but others were rarely so lucky. Herding a large number of people through would be as easy as making them hold hands, of course, but it would take time, even without the additional delay of saving them in the first place. The enemy had the advantage in both magic and numbers, and more were certainly on the way, not to mention the living nightmare about to emerge from the dungeons. It would be difficult and slow to get someone of Lin'Lise's size through the cramped tunnels, even without a trail of survivors stumbling and squeezing through behind them. It was a risky proposition - If the enemy caught up with them inside the tunnels, the fate of the soldiers, and possibly Roderick and Lin themselves, would be sealed. On the other hand, scores of valiant men and women were about to die for a country already lost, and there just might be some way to save them. The last thing the enemy soldiers would expect was a sudden attack from behind.

- - -

"Don't let them get away, men! Throw your spears if you have to! Get some archers up here, and mages, by the gods! Kill them all!"
The shouts echoed over the walls, followed by a shower of missiles. Daggers, stones, arrows and a handful of spears rained down over the moat, cracking the ice further and driving Sir below the water again. The next time he surfaced, it was by the edge of the dirt-brown water, finally with some earth - or at least some hard-packed snow - to dig his claws into and clamber out. The stench filled his nostrils, drowning out all other scents, but screaming from atop the wall told him the enemy was still after him, although they seemed to have run out of ammunition for the moment. More people were coming, however, and Sir could hear the tromp of their boots against the stone stairs on the other side of the wall. Riven and Taula were nowhere to be seen, too far under the murky water to even register as dark spots on the surface, and the cold and danger made it impossible to search for them for real. Clawing his way out of the moat, the great anan had no choice but to push himself over the edge of the cliff, and tumble down the steep slope. Below lay the city wall, and on one side of it, freedom. To the north and west, snow-covered fields ran for about a mile before the edge of the forest, and to the east was the city proper, still on fire and at war. Sir had some control over his descent down the hill, and could land where he so chose.

[Nemaisare]

The effort of hauling himself up and out of the water, finally free to stand instead of struggle against drowning, left Sir a bedraggled, stumbling mess. He couldn’t see anything in the water through the mess of floating ice and arrows and spears. All he smelled was the dead water. All he heard was anger against him. If Riven or Taula still survived, they’d have to save themselves.

He pushed himself forward again and his legs almost buckled beneath him when the ground was not where he’d expected it. He’d not noticed the edge until it was too late, and only narrowly avoided rolling down the steep slope by sitting back on his haunches and sliding down the first half until he could keep up with the momentum. Tail waving nervously behind him in some bid for balance, the large beast ignored the snow and stones scraping through his fur and picked himself up into a desperate, skidding run. Half bounding and half slipping and falling, he was swept forward by a rush of gravity and dislodged hill, and could spare only enough attention to avoid running full tilt into the city wall.

He leapt the last dozen feet before the slope ended and crashed into the snowy fields, skidding for a brief moment on his chest and chin when he couldn’t find his footing fast enough. He stopped there, sneezing and snorting to get the snow out of his nose, trembling from both exertion and exhilaration, the adrenaline running through his body just then enough to give him the extra energy he still needed to reach somewhere safe. He took a moment longer to shake the water out of his coat in a heavy spray of algae and water drops and ice crystals and blood all mixed together, leaving a fine pattern on the snow. His fur sticking up or straggling down in thickened strands and silly little spikes that only added to his miserable appearance.

Ears back and tongue lolling from an anxiously open mouth, he snapped at the arrows still in his flank and glanced once back up the slope he’d just come down before turning to limp towards the trees, gradually picking up the pace as he regained his breath. He cautiously skirted the edges of the city until the wall went too far off his course and then he slipped into a ground covering glide that, half a second later, turned into full out flight, tail tucked and head low, at a trumpet blast behind him. His running silhouette could be made out from the walls in between the veils of smoke until it passed beyond the first few trees.

By the time he stopped, the anan was exhausted from fear and effort both and his face and throat were rimed with frost from his breath, while the air practically steamed around him from the heat he was giving off. Clumps of ice on the tips of a few soaked strands were pulling at his skin with their slight weight, and his whole body felt itchy. But when he dropped to the ground and eagerly started pushing his face and throat through the snow, rolling onto his shoulders to scratch and cool off, the two arrows still caught in his side bit at him. He yelped and jumped to the side with a snap of his teeth for the space that had hurt him, though of course nothing was there. Standing for a time, confused, he finally shook out his coat again and settled more carefully to rest and wait for his master to call him back. Though there was a tired, sore and miserable part of him that knew that would never happen now, he couldn’t help wanting it.

So, head between his paws, battered, bloody and cooling too quickly to be fully comfortable, Sir licked his lips uncertainly and waited, listening through the wind in the trees and the faint noise still drifting from the city for a voice that wasn't coming.