“What a miserable fucking land this is.”
Harsh though the words may have been, none were capable of disagreeing. Their journey had begun on the tail end of revelries that celebrated their induction into the honored Scholae Argentum, a collection of paladins and clerics sworn to protecting their illustrious kingdom. At the outset, certainly, the beautiful countryside had been wonderful for traveling and the throngs of happy peasants that they passed did well to remind them of all that was good within the kingdom of Cyneval. As the commercial capital of Strausham faded into the distance though, and the outskirts of Cyneval’s territories became more accessible to the eye, no longer did mirth and gaiety ride with them.
The Imperial Highway spoke to the state of the land. A vestigial remnant of a history long since passed, in its better days the highway would have connected Strausham to the Great Forest; however, time had eroded the pathway until it became nothing more than cobble and weeds left to mark a vague trail. The upkeep of the road should have fallen to local landlords, but their filial devotion was a laughable thing to consider in any practical sense. Uneven clicking accompanied them then, as horseshoes found purchase upon ground hardly suited for the roughest of nags to walk upon, let alone the steeds of knights.
“Miserable or otherwise,” Sir Darron Trueflame said as he looked about his surroundings with a face wreathed in disappointment, “these are the king’s lands. The wretched creatures responsible for allowing it to fall into such ruin should be strung up.”
Amongst the cadre of knights, four in number, Sir Darron was most certainly the one that most looked the part of a paladin. Born of a family line that dated itself back to the foundation of Cyneval, his pedigree could be seen as evidently upon his face as it worn upon the expensive platemail adorning his physique. Fair of hair and charitable of disposition, even when he frowned it seemed that he carried the weight of good deeds on his mind. The white destrier carried the man, weighted armor and all, as though he were made of feathers.
The man to whom he spoke was in many ways his opposite. Sir Arestes Caernough lacked expansive pedigree or elaborate armor. Perpetually with a pallor that seemed to belong more to the sickly, the lean youth expressed contempt without effort. Any would have been able to frown if given the correct catalyst, but the scornful glance that Arestes gave his surroundings was one that had been carried with him throughout most of his life. Unlike the others, his background was doubly scorned – not only was he a peasant by birth, but his ancestry tied directly to the wild Gesparian savages to the east.
Legend held that the Gesparians spawned from a corpse birthing a vengeful son to avenge its mother. Though it seemed ridiculous to hear, when looking upon Arestes it did not at all seem unlikely. The young man was all but swathed in a gaunt aura. The horse upon which he rode was a foreign creature, savage in appearance and muscled to a point of seeming nearly profane.
That then left two more to their number, each wildly different from one another and yet more closely related than any other in their cadre.
There was Sir Gevin Hopesfire, the largest of the group and certainly the most charismatic. He carried upon him a lineage that was without equal; his father and the fathers that came before him had all died heroically in battle to protect Cyneval from threat. A handsome young man if ever there was one, the swarthy complexion that gave him a perpetually tanned appearance was inherited from his mother, a noblewoman of Zharashadian blood. Upon his completion of squirehood had he been granted an immense beast from his mother’s homeland, but wishing to appear no less the native son of Cyneval than he already did, he quickly gave it away.
Sir Arestes had no compunction when it came to acquiring the horse.
The steed upon which Sir Gevin had settled was a roan colored stallion, strong-willed but easily brought to command when met with a just champion. With hair as black as the heart of the orcs toward which they marched, Sir Gevin’s appearance was one that left few without reason to pause. Least of all, the final member of their group.
In a sea of men, she stood out readily. Though women were slowly appearing with more prevalence amongst the Scholae Argentum, there were not yet so many that the sight of Dame Madelyn Albrecht would not have turned a head or two. To see her riding upon her black mare, draped in a fine cloak that concealed the armor beneath only partially, one might have assumed that the noblewoman was but a lady out on a stroll, but such thoughts were kept furthest from the minds that knew her. Dame Madelyn had earned her distinction just as the others had – truth be told, though often a desirous eye may have left her and approached Sir Gevin, never was it reciprocated.
Much to Sir Arestes amusement in fact, Sir Gevin had not even realized Dame Madelyn was a woman until she was knighted a dame.
“Dame, is it?” Sir Gevin had asked with mild wonder.
“A woman cannot be titled as Sir Knight,” Arestes quickly pointed out. He instantly saw that Gevin had been on the verge of questioning whether or not Dame Madelyn actually was a woman! To his credit, he did not voice such a foolish thing.
How a man could mistake the redhead for anything other than a woman was far beyond Sir Arestes, after all. Though self-important nobles were not very much his style, even a blind man would have been capable of seeing that maturation had not at all favored the dame unkindly. Were they born into a more charitable time, there was little doubt that she would have been a lady of the court or some rich man’s spoiled wife. Instead, she was orphaned by war and rode alongside three knights in the direction of certain conflict.
It truly was miraculous how the Creator shaped destinies so.
“I think that the wretched creatures you speak of – the ones you would see strung up, Sir Darron, also share a table with you when you call upon them.” The words left Sir Arestes without any sign of cordiality to them. He looked pointedly then at Sir Darron. “Or would you cast them aside as opportunity presents itself?”
“I would have you remember to whom you speak, Sir Arestes.”
Sir Arestes turned his head and spat to the side, the saliva describing a swift arch to land upon desiccated soil. “I know well as to whom I speak, Sir Darron.”
The emphasis upon title was hardly one that went without noticing. Though they may have been born of different stations, in an official capacity Sir Arestes was every bit the paladin as Sir Darron was. Irritation cropped up on Sir Darron’s face, marking him as unpleasantly frustrated, but the faint twitching at the corner of his lips hardly seemed to perturb Sir Arestes. In fact, he was only further encouraged by it and gave a humorless smile in the face of the other’s consternation.
“Please, brothers,” Dame Madelyn spoke in a soft and surprisingly consoling voice, “let us reserve energy poorly used upon vim and vigor and exhaust it when we are face-to-face with our enemy, yes?”
It would have been in either man’s right to rise to the challenge of being told what to do, but neither moved to do so. Though they had all been socially equalized, it was Dame Madelyn’s patient voice that often steered them away from choppy waters. If music soothed the spirit of the savage beast, then it was the voice of a woman that could placate the uneasiness of young men.
The cessation of rising hostilities seemed to draw Sir Gevin from blissful repose. His attention shifted away from the surrounding squalor and toward his traveling companions, where a winsome smile offered. “Very good, then. How far are we from Aubraesia?”
“Two days, at the very least,” Sir Arestes answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “By the time we arrive, I suspect that the fighting will be over.”
Sir Gevin’s features, for the first time, related mild worry. “Truly? Why do you say that with such indifference if you believe it to be so?”
“Because I am not overly interested in dying an early death.”
“A paladin that fears death,” Sir Darron murmured.
“One needn’t fear something not to desire it, Sir Darron.” Sir Arestes spat once more. “For instance, I do not fear your mother’s fleshy arse and yet –”
It took Sir Darron not a second to interject. “Another syllable, peasant, and my sword will answer your insult directly!”
This time, no words of caution came from Dame Madelyn. Though preventing the two from spitting at one another would have been a kindness, her legs were tired from prolonged riding and the thought of once more wading between them did not at all alleviate that fatigue. It was better that they get it all out before they entered civilization again, as it was. Seeing two knights brawl over insults to mothers would not do well for the Scholae – not in the slightest.
But civilization did not seem like it was something they should expect to see. Though the chattering of her companions may have taken her mind off of the more dire of sights, it did not completely escape her that the land that she saw was not at all different from the one she had been pulled away from as a child. At one time Cyneval’s countryside would have been a wonderful thing to behold, now it was nothing more than war torn wreckage.
She wished that she could have been as capable of looking past the destruction as Sir Gevin was. His brow had only creased when he feared that they would miss out on the fighting; not a speckle of moisture had touched his eye as they passed desolated farmland and dilapidated villages. She was certain that he did not feel sorrow at the fact death blossomed now where crops once had. That kind of detachment was what a warrior required to survive; it was something that too few were able to carry with them into battle.
Eventually, Sir Arestes and Sir Darron lost the favor for dancing around the concept of battle, but had equally exhausted their desire to actually draw blades upon one another. The silence that cropped up in the absence of their bickering was quickly filled by the rustling of leaves as a bereaved wind crossed beleaguered blades of grass and barren patches of dirt. No longer were there peasants to cheer them on as they passed; now, there were only empty memories and possibilities that would never come to be.
Marshglen had been like that when last Dame Madelyn laid eyes upon it. As but a girl she had seen her father, a bold man to whom bravery was as plentiful as the sweat that decorated his brow, and her mother, a steadfastly proud woman, perish at the hands of the orcs that raided their township. Tears had been plentiful in the days that followed, but her uncle taught her to bear under that burden. She used her sorrow then to hone herself into a weapon of vengeance and twenty years later, that blade was ready to be tested.
It was by the order of her uncle, now the seneschal of Aubraesia, that she marched toward the staging ground for battle. Months ago it had seemed as though little more than a skirmish would occur at the storied fortress that stood as testament to Cyneval’s determination to hold its enemies at bay, but with rising ire from neighboring Gespar and an increase in hostilities from the trolls to the west, it quickly became apparent that no threat was too small to be answered.
Though she and Sir Darron had yet to be tried in battle, Sir Arestes and Gevin both had proven their worth in pitched battle against bandits not too long ago. Though scars may have healed upon their bodies, each man seemed acutely more aware of his mortality and what it was worth. It gave Sir Arestes more reason to be wary of battle and Sir Gevin all the more reason to thirst for it. When her time to battle came, the dame found that she could only hope her resolve was as strong as theirs.
Her task would not be as simple as cutting down men and blocking blows. Unlike the others, her path of devotion had been that of a cleric, and in assuming that mantle she was to ensure that her allies remained at peak fighting conditions at all times. Countless hours had been spent studying scripture and learning divinations to prepare her for the inevitable moment when the very essence of life would have to be bent so that one of her allies might rise from near defeat. In practice it was a simple thing.
The reality of it, she did not doubt, would be something far more difficult to perform.
“What’s on your mind, Madge?” Sir Gevin’s voice may as well have been a shout; it shattered the surrounding silence with a ferocity that sent jars of shock creeping up Dame Madelyn’s back. She glanced away from the path ahead of them and toward Gevin, whose handsome face carried a thin scar where a bandit’s blade had nearly cost him his life. “Worried about missing the battle?”
Even amongst her closest of friends, only Gevin still referred to her as “Madge”. The affectionate term was always spoken as a younger sibling might regarded his elder sister, and although the affection thereof was not which she desired, she could not help but smile when she heard him use the term so freely. “Not necessarily, Sir Gevin.”
As though reminded of something, Sir Gevin’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Forgive me, should I have called you Dame Madge?”
“No,” Madelyn answered with a clever smile. “I believe Madge will do for now.”
“Then what was on your mind?”
In a way it was queer that he could speak so directly to her despite the fact that two others rode amongst them, but as she cast a cursory glance about she noticed that both Sir Arestes and Darron were committed to looking into the distance, no doubt as overcome with the desolation as she had been. Her focus returned then to Sir Gevin. “I have not yet met battle.”
“You have nothing to worry about in that! If Arestes and I could survive it, I see no reason why you cannot.”
“You barely survived,” Sir Arestes intoned warily.
Sir Gevin laughed. “That is because I did not have a flaxen-haired harridan protecting my flank, did I?”
For a moment it seemed that Arestes might defend the woman spoken of, but as he thought of applying the term harridan to the mousy commoner whose bow and arrow had proven the only thing more precise than her sharp wit, he could not help but offer a rarely offered grin. Currently, Remington should have been at Aubraesia with their main force. In an odd way he missed her persnickety mannerism already. That feeling, he was certain, would not last long after being returned to her company.
“So by the hand of luck or harpy, we managed to make it out alive,” Sir Gevin continued. “You have on your side skill, talent, and blood. After all, you are the seneschal’s niece.”
“An honor I do not believe blade or arrow will care much for when seeking heart,” Dame Madelyn said lightly. “I do not mean to appear lacking in courage or valor – certainly, I will ride with you into the mouth of the dragon should it be necessary. But it is a disconcerting thing to consider, is it not?”
Sir Arestes and Darron offered glances that more or less confirmed her statement. It was Sir Gevin alone that presented contest, though not in a manner any could fault him.
“I should think that would be a bit of fun, no?” He glanced to the others with a smile that was without flaw. “Riding into the mouth of a dragon; what with the glittering teeth and flames leaping this way and that, right?”
“She spoke figuratively,” Sir Arestes sighed. “Dragons are not so large that you could ride into their mouths.” A soft intake of air from Sir Darron drew Sir Arestes’ attention to him. “Did you have something to add?”
Sir Darron lifted a hand and swept his blonde bangs away from his eyes. “Actually, I do. You speak as though you have experience with dragons.”
“To his defense,” Sir Gevin offered, “it is not so uncommon that farmers happen upon a slumbering drake. It is possible he and his father might have –”
“My father is a blacksmith,” Sir Arestes interjected quickly. “And I do not need to have encountered a dragon to know that they are not so large. I have seen their remains.”
In a way, it was actually better to have them arguing with one another again. It banished doubt from her mind only because she was forced to focus on their actions rather than the worry that found position in her abdomen. Once mothers entered the fray again though, she cleared her throat. “As Sir Arestes said, it was a figurative statement. I apologize for presenting so debatable a topic.”
None were so foolish as not to see what she meant in that – they had taken what was a topic about courage and turned it into another verbal jousting match. As though children given sore bottoms from a skilled hand, each knight looked shamefully away while Madelyn settled her attention back on the road. Though it would have been simple to engage Sir Gevin once more in conversation, she found that her eagerness was not quite so great as to eclipse the knowledge of it meaning little in the end.
Only a blind woman would not have been able to see that Sir Gevin was entirely uninterested in her, and despite whatever Madelyn may have felt, she certainly could not fault him for that. There was no lack of women that showed favor for him. They were women born to a luxury that she did not know; women whose hands that would never carry callous or blood. So unaware was he of her affection that on several occasions he had asked her for advice for how to impress one of his beauties.
Naturally she, eternally devoted to his happiness, could not help but give it.
They had discussed why it was she was worried, but the topic had not arisen as to why she looked forward to the march. Perhaps, in some way, when Sir Gevin saw her in battle he would be drawn to her in a way that those painted women could not replicate. Certainly they could perfume themselves in expensive scents, but could they raise a man from near death to return to the fight? It was a far-flung dream, but it was one that she clung to readily. A girl needed something to believe in, after all.
Each of the cadre needed something to believe in. Yes, they were united by the Oath of Reckoning, initially spoken by Promaeus the First as he stood over the smoldering ashes of the vanquished necrodrake Xz’enthis, but that did not speak to why each of them was prepared to face death once more. As Arestes had been so quick to state, one needn’t fear death not to desire its presence. Surely something else must have motivated them forth, then.
Dame Madelyn found her attention drifting away from the road and toward her traveling companions. With the sun setting she could see less of their faces than usual, but in a way was granted a more genuine glimpse of who they were. The monotony of riding often deprived a person of awareness and in that manner a depiction of their true nature shone through the thick plates of deception that so many used to shield themselves from harm.
There was, for example, the manner in which Sir Arestes allowed his heels to lift when he did not pay attention to maintaining form. Knights such as herself, Sir Gevin, and Sir Darron had been trained from youth how to properly ride, but Sir Arestes though learned as a farrier, proved to have little natural grace when it came to poise. Certainly he could ride roughshod over most people placed against him and with a beast as powerful as the one he saddled there was no lack of chance to do so, but his form was nevertheless telling.
In other ways a person’s true character could be ascertained not by what they did, but simply who they were. Sir Gevin to that end was eternally looking to the future for a new conquest or campaign to take part in. It was his wide-eyed innocence, married to a mischievous grin that managed to convincingly draw Madelyn so readily to him. Never before had she met a man so completely capable of capturing both the naive and the virile in so beautiful a way.
How she longed to be able to express those words, and yet whenever they began to form on her lips she found herself incapable of even the vaguest utterance. When the time came to place her mace in battle she could only pray her constitution was stronger in that arena.
“Do you truly believe there will be a battle at Aubraesia?” The question came from Sir Darron and managed to penetrate the encroaching darkness. The melodious chirping of crickets managed to punctuate his words in a manner that seemed almost orchestrated.
There were also times when a person’s nature could be told from what they said.
Sir Daron was, without a doubt, the one amongst their number that should have attained glory. Certainly Sir Gevin dedicated himself to the pursuit of it, but looking at Darron in the moonlight, Madelyn could not at all find it difficult to imagine him leading a valiant charge against impossible odds. There was a touch of desire in his voice when he spoke of it, but it was married to a fear that made it seem all the more realistic. He did not wish to play at soldier; he wished to become one.
Sir Arestes was not quite so sympathetic to the man’s nature. “No, Sir Darron. I dress now in platemail, ride upon a beastly steed, and travel with a band of knights because I believe a party awaits us when we arrive at the fortress dedicated to holding back the enemies of our kingdom.”
“There is no need to be so spiteful,” Sir Darron said warily. “You said you are not overly eager to die, yes? Then why do you ridicule an honest question so?”
The distinction would have been enough to trap a slower witted man, but if there was one quality Sir Arestes was known for, it was his sharpness. He may have been only marginally larger than Dame Madelyn and only vaguely better at riding than Sir Gevin, but when placed on the spot he could always think his way out of a situation.
In private, the seneschal had once remarked that it was the reason why peasants made such good shopkeepers: their minds were attuned to finding fault in any deal so that they might capitalize upon it. As Dame Madelyn watched Sir Arestes then, she could not say that his expression was entirely different from a shrewd grocer seeking to work over a hapless fool. Unfortunately, Sir Darron was that fool.
“There is a keen dissimilarity between not desiring death and seeing the folly in attempting to avoid its emergence,” Sir Arestes said with an almost condescending sigh. “There is a good chance that when we arrive, orcs will descend upon the fortress in numbers that rival the stars now above us.”
Sir Gevin’s head lifted then, his eyes darting about the inky blackness above. “That would be an awful lot of orcs, would it not? Easily more than one hundred.”
Though a smile touched Madelyn’s lips briefly, Sir Arestes was not so quick to humor Gevin’s assessment. “Yes, Sir Gevin, easily more than a hundred. That was my point.”
“I know,” the skygazing one answered. “That’s why I agreed.”
Sir Darron offered a decidedly dubious shake of his head. “Numerous though our enemy may be, I believe you overstate their position. My family’s estate was not so far from Aubraesia and never were we witness to more than a few raiding parties here and there.”
“You edit the Grim War from memory,” Sir Arestes noted. “Was it not the very same war that deprived Dame Madelyn of –”
Sir Darron’s temper revealed itself then. “Show some compassion, peasant.”
“—No, he is correct,” Dame Madelyn quickly asserted. “Perhaps tactless, but he is right to bring up the point. If my parents’ deaths should serve as anything let it be as a reminder that our enemy is not so disorganized as to be incapable of driving push.”
There was not an ounce of sorrow to her voice when she said that. The Grim War had been costly for many people in the kingdom; hers was not a sorrow born alone. At the Battle of Lanshank Fallows, Gevin’s father had died valiantly fighting against the same beasts that invaded Marshglen and took from that life her mother and father. In many ways that kinship in suffering was a connection that Madelyn looked fondly about, for though both had genuine tears, so too did they share them as one.
The Grim War may have been an unlikely thing – uncommon even if gauged by the ancestry of their people, but it was certainly not unique in that it would only happen once. To that end, Sir Darron’s tongue was soon set to the task of explanation.
“Even now the Gesparian dogs bark at our shadow, willing to bear their teeth only when our hands are busy elsewhere.” There was no lack of malice when speaking of Cyneval’s clannish neighbors; to that end, all were in agreement. Even Arestes, whose fine complexion was owed greatly to the savage and militaristic clans could not find fault in that assessment. “After we finish with these orcs—”
Sir Arestes snorted. “War is not so simple as to be finished upon bidding.”
“Is it not? The righteous will prevail over the wicked.”
It was a sentiment that any paladin would have endorsed, but only a fool would believe. It appeared to Arestes that Darron was thus far twice the fool. “Good men die, regardless.”
A look of disdain settled onto Sir Darron’s face then, his lips drawn together as he eyed his associate. “What some might call rationality, others would see as pessimism.”
“I piss in the mouth of that man, then.” To further emphasize his disdain, once more did Arestes spit. Though the outline was caught by moonlight, where the globule landed was obscured by the shadows that dressed the ground about them. Oddly enough, it was that very action that made the cadre acutely aware of how late the hour had become.
In many ways, Arestes’ statement could have been met with violence, and yet though the two may have danced around that very subject all day, as the darkness about them sank into their bones the fight that each had known so well became a thing suddenly too difficult to maintain. Even Sir Gevin, whose eyes had shown brightly with a desire to see what would be around the next bend in the road, suddenly seemed to be without the spirit he once held.
“It would not be unwise to seek shelter for the evening,” Sir Darron stated after a prolonged pause. His words were carefully chosen, almost as though to see if Arestes would return with a clever quip, but when nothing came from the other he continued. “If I remember this area correctly, there should be a hamlet no more than three miles ahead of us.”
Three more miles of riding would not be simple, not when each knight suddenly felt the weight of a day’s travel on their shoulders, but it had been training that brought them that far, and each could surely hear their master’s indefatigable voice in their ears telling them to press still further on. The journey could not be the focus of their actions then; it had to be the destination.
How nice a warm bed would feel after a day of hard riding; how wonderful a meal cooked by commoners would have tasted. Sir Gevin’s stomach nearly growled at the thought and though hard bread and cheese waited for him in his satchel, he decided to keep his hunger at bay if only for the time being. If nothing else, he did not wish to dishonor whichever commoner was given the privilege of garrisoning them by not being able to eat at least two helpings of their food.
No longer did words speak for the cadre then as they moved. The beating of eight hooves against the ground communicated the only thing that needed to be understood. Their mutual desire was to find a location to rest at; to find a place where they could lay their heads down if only for a few hours. Aubraesia was not so far in the distance and if battle did await them it would be wise to be well rested before they arrived.
The miles then became manageable things if only for the sake of their destination. The first mile melted away in the blink of a tired eye; the second faded away against the wind that met against fatigued faces. It was not until the third mile came, when a soft yawn escaped Dame Madelyn’s plush lips that an eerie feeling suddenly beset the collective as though a warm blanket was ripped away from them. Where once the night had been alive with the sound of horse hooves and bugs chirping then did it become silent.
Dame Madelyn pulled upon the reins of her horse and brought it to a halt; those about her did the same. No longer was the destination a goal to be cherished; in the blink of an eye it had become a foreign and uncertain location. Madelyn looked toward Sir Darron for confirmation.
“Are you certain that we near a settlement,” Sir Arestes’ voice though dubious did not carry the malicious edge it normally did. In its place was a sharp sense of uncertainty. A nod of Sir Darron’s head answered his inquiry.
An echoing snort left Arestes’ massive stallion, the sound traveling with enough force to rustle the grass and send a collection of crows flying into the sky. As the black birds cut through the air, like a living shadow against the night, an acute feeling of dread met each of their hearts.
Sir Gevin was the first one off of his horse, followed by Sir Arestes and then Darron. Without thought, Gevin assisted Dame Madelyn off her destrier, though so taken was she with the ongoing silence that she did not readily assess his gentlemanly mannerism for what it was. For the moment, dismounted, the four stood warily at the threshold to the unknown.
It was not until Sir Gevin took the handles of his horse and began to walk forward that the others followed suit. With each step taken, the reality that they were not approaching a warm meal became all the more certain. The wind that met them stank of rancid meat, a smell that quickly caused Dame Madelyn to lift a hand to her mouth, while the others fought their best to avoid grimacing as mightily as they wished to.
They acted true to their training; not a word needed to be shared between them for what was to follow. Sir Arestes removed his two-handed sword from its place at his horse’s side; Sir Gevin brandished the two sabers he had been granted from his father’s will; Sir Darron removed both sword and shield from their resting place, and Dame Madelyn lifted her buckler and flail.
Their positions were arranged according to their armoring. Sir Darron, with the greatest amount of armor and shield, walked at the head of their group. To his left and right moved Sir Arestes and Gevin, each prepared to engage a potential ambush. At the rear of the group and in the least amount of armor was Dame Madelyn, her mobility enhanced by the lightness of her regalia.
They were four well armed and trained knights; whatever waited for them beyond the darkness would be easily dealt with. Even as they walked, Dame Madelyn began to prepare a spell of illumination to vanquish what lurking shadows might present themselves when she was given the command from Sir Darron.
The stench grew stronger as they walked, but the shadows revealed not a sight of any that might be around them. Finally, Sir Darron nodded to Dame Madelyn. The cleric whispered a select few words and lifted the hand that her buckler was attached to. A collection of ivory flames danced upon her palm before dispersing into a small glowing sphere that brightened the area.
Each knight was given a glimpse of what surrounded them.
Each knight wished they had not see what they did.
This was not the type of sight that a knight should witness. Through all of his tutelage, Sir Darron Trueflame had been reminded countless times that good men would always be there to prevent evils from befalling his brothers. Certainly there would be those that died in battle, or on occasion those that were harmed only to be avenged, but the scene that now spread about him and his companions, illuminated by the sacred flames that danced about them, went far beyond his vilest of nightmares.
The lustrous glimmer of blackened eyes glistened faintly in the darkness. Though a good deal of carrion birds may have been given flight when the horse’s snort first sounded, still many more addressed themselves to the outlying shadows. While their attention may have been turned toward them, there were others that simply continued to go about their business. The business at hand was what truly shattered the resolve of even a proud knight. At the front of his group he had to take another step forward, and yet he could not.
Flesh hung as though fanciful mustaches from elongated beaks, as with little care or concern for their immediate danger, the ravens tore into the rotting carcasses about them. On occasion they would look up toward those that approached, but the beasts were nearly as large as a small child and did not seem overly concerned with whatever it was that approached them. It was as though they could sense the indecisiveness of the armored humans and used it to their advantage to gobble up a few more bites.
Had he anything in his stomach, Sir Darron was certain that it would have been shared with the ground then. The grip that he maintained upon his sword became a difficult one to keep, but he found it in himself not to allow his constitution to waver so far that he would be rendered incompetent. It was the closeness of his friends that kept him from breaking away at the sight, and not even Sir Arestes seemed to have a cruel word to change focus from the depravity that was before them.
There was no doubt that the large raven before them was the leader of the unkindness surrounding it. Though it carried neither crown nor mantle to distinguish itself from the rest of its flock, there was a certain defiance to the way it looked through their presence. Unspoken, but hardly unidentifiable, the challenge to the newly arrived was easily discerned. This was their feast; they were not welcomed.
Sir Darron’s mistake came in looking into the creature’s eyes. It revealed to him a land of death that stretched far beyond anything that he knew; a world of carnage and viscera that not even the bravest of men would have been able to champion. Each second that he held contact with those eyes was another second that he felt his will leaving him.
“Avernum,” Dame Madelyn’s voice was followed by the surrounding flames consolidating into a single lance that shot directly into the breast of the lead raven. As impact was met with a startled cawing before the bird shot into the air, its massive wings causing a faint gust of wind to be replicated by those surrounding it. Singed feather fell in a patch toward the ground.
There was no mistaking the look of vehemence that shone in the ungodly creature’s eyes, but as Sir Darron saw it he no longer felt the hand of fear grasping his heart. Though the shadowy beasts may have been nightmarish in appearance, they were no less mortal than the beings they feasted upon. The longsword that he held was hefted slightly upward as he prepared to ward off whatever was coming their way. Undoubtedly, the large birds would have been able to strip flesh from their unprotected faces if they so desired.
The number of carrion birds only continued to grow, until finally they were all airborne. To look up at them, it would appear that the very night’s sky had come to life and with each of their black, soulless eyes focused upon them it created a sea of void stars that wished to strip them of life just as the others had. The sight alone should have been enough to send the cadre fleeing back to their horses, but it did not.
Perhaps a single knight would not have had the courage to face down those beasts, but as Sir Darron felt the presence of his friends surrounding him, his resolve was steeled. The grip upon his shield intensified as he lifted it slightly before himself. Should they attack, he would be ready. The soft chanting that came from Dame Madelyn indicated she was preparing a secondary spell, and that said nothing of what Sir Arestes and Gevin were certainly willing to do if the birds charged upon them.
The baited seconds became a minute. It would only take a caw from the wounded alpha to send the others into their frenzy. Never before had Sir Darron seen so immense an enemy, and as he looked into its heart he could see his own reflected. Adrenaline pumped through him with a frequency that made remaining still difficult, and though a part of him wished to charge their mass and begin swinging madly, he knew that to do so would not only endanger him but also his companions. No, he would hold his ground.
At long last the caw sounded. Flapping intensified as the sound was mimicked by the surrounding ravens, but where their dreadful swooping should have commenced they instead broke their number and took to the surrounding area. With their dispersing the full moon above once more was allowed to grant the knights sight of what surrounded them. In many ways, Sir Darron felt that the sight of the ravens had been a less gruesome thing to behold.
With the vanishing of the ravens, so too did the dreadful aura that had surrounded them disappear. What was left in its wake was a horrific sight, but no longer did Sir Darron feel as though his feet were weighted to the ground. He began to walk forward slowly, the sights that surrounded them going deeper into the nightmarish the further that they moved.
“There won’t be any survivors,” Sir Arestes said as he returned his two-handed sword to his back. The zweihander was a heavy weapon by appearance, but he wielded it with an offhanded ease. “Whatever was here before those birds is gone.”
Silence confirmed what the man said to be true. Whatever had been responsible would have been driven off by the same creatures that had nearly seen them back to their horses. Question may have been turned to who or what was responsible for the carnage that stretched about them, but for the time being it was the carnage itself that took center within the minds of the cadre. It truly was a sight that went beyond words; a sight that went beyond the farthest stretches of one’s imagination.
Sir Darron knelt beside one of the partially uneaten corpses that were strewn about the hamlet’s outskirts. The face was hardly recognizable and if not for the fact cloth still remained on the chest of the remains, he might not have been capable of identifying it as human at all. What the ravens had not consumed remained as bloated and rotting flesh, no doubt the source of the rancid scent that had met their noses previously. The only thing that was more gruesome than the fact that the man had been left unburied in such a way, was that he was not alone.
“How long ago do you think it happened?”
“Three-four days ago,” Sir Arestes said without needing to think. “Maggots have already begun to mature in their wounds; it means they’ve been out for some time.” He paused and looked to Sir Darron, whose constitution seemed to be nearly broken. “We couldn’t have made it to them even if we left a day earlier.”
They were words meant to comfort, but only so much solace could be taken from their surroundings.
Bodies covered the ground as though discarded leaves cast down from withering trees. Their sizes ranged from men that more than likely had worked as woodsmen, to their wives and children. While the knights found it in themselves to begin their exploration of the hamlet, none moved so far that he would be out of the other’s sight. It was not so much that they feared ambush, as it was that they loathed separation. What kind of person would have been able to survive alone in so horrible a place?
Sir Arestes looked over one of the corpses, a young man with his arms outstretched and stripped of flesh. As his eyes played over the remnants, he could not help but shake his head. “Orcish weaponry.”
“You found something?” Dame Madelyn had progressed the least into the warzone; to that end, Sir Gevin remained close by her side. In response to her question, Sir Arestes shook his head.
“No, but I know how it cuts.” He knelt beside the corpse and placed his gauntlet glad finger against an area in the bone where a sizable chip had been removed. “Their metalworking is foolish at best; it leaves them hacking rather than slashing. This was done by one of their blades.”
“That is impossible,” Sir Darron said as he stood. “The orcs have been held at bay outside of Aubraesia for nearly six months now. A raiding party of any size would have been spotted long before it could descend upon a village.”
“Blades don’t lie,” Sir Arestes answered pointedly. “I can’t tell you how they got here, but I can tell you that they were here.”
But Sir Darron would not be dissuaded. “Perhaps you are mistaken, Sir Arestes. There is no way –”
“Reiterate whatever you will, Darron.” There was no attempt to mask his contempt for the man then as he stood and glared at him. “I will also be forced to remind you that this town was razed by orcish marauders.”
“And I will be forced to remind you that that is impossible.”
“—It does not matter,” Dame Madelyn stated with enough force to draw both men to silence. She released a ragged sigh and looked about herself. “Whatever happened… whoever is responsible is no longer here. However, our countrymen currently rot beneath the sky. Let us address that which we can change.”
Sir Arestes and Darron bowed their heads slightly in silent recognition of her plan’s merit. Though heated eyes found each other once more, the two shared not another quarrelsome word.
Withdrawn to that point, Sir Gevin stepped away from Dame Madelyn and toward the others. A man awakening from slumber would have revealed more awareness of his surroundings, for the young man’s stride was without hindrance. “Very well, I believe peasants often keep tools on hand for digging, do they not?”
“Some do,” Arestes drawled charily. His patience with Sir Gevin’s presumptuous statements was a fragile thing, but given their situation he saw no reason to press the matter further. The time would come when Sir Gevin’s statements would be met with a more permanent answer, but as their last battle had not yet left his mind he knew to respect the man’s prowess if not personality.
“Then we will find their shovels, bury them, and be on our way.” To hear Sir Gevin speak of it, they were going to complete a daily chore, not lay to rest the wrongfully slain.
But his words did not manifest without challenge. “We can’t afford to do that,” Sir Arestes said as he looked over the carnage about them. “If there is a roving band of orcs in this area they could be victimizing other localities. We must inform the guard at Aubraesia.”
The logic in his words went without needing to be stated, and yet each that heard them felt ill. “We cannot leave them unburied,” Sir Darron quickly stated. “Even if it means losing a day’s travel, what of it? We were expecting to rest tonight as it was.”
“And be rested for the day to come,” Sir Arestes added. “If we spend all night digging we will be thrice as fatigued when sun rises. That says nothing of carting their bodies along to these graves, or covering them back up. A day lost? To do it properly would require two.”
Upon hearing Arestes’ case, Sir Gevin’s mind was made instantly. “Then I say we leave them as they are. As Arestes has pointed out, I do believe it would be wiser to conserve our energy than to expend it in so frivolous a manner.”
“I said nothing of frivolity,” Sir Arestes muttered. “It is not that these people’s lives are worthless, but…”
“Yes, yes. Politician’s talk surely to follow,” Sir Gevin hurried the conversation along. “That gives us two votes in favor of leaving them as they are and one to bury them. Madge, where do you stand?”
It was not until she heard her name that Madelyn’s attention left the bodies about her and lifted to her companions. Their eyes each turned to her, asking a different thing. From Sir Arestes she saw a need for expedience; from Sir Darron a need for protocol. Both were correct in their own way and Sir Darron’s words were the closest to what a paladin should feel.
After all, even if it worked them to the bone, they had sworn to dedicate their lives to the singular pursuit of maintaining order within Cyneval. Leaving the dead unburied was a dangerous precedent to establish, and while Sir Arestes’ words were not without their merit, they certainly could not eradicate the tutelage she had undergone. Those that had died here had suffered, without a doubt. A proper burial was what they deserved more than anything else.
The paladins of the Scholae were, for the most part, expected to act as vanguards against darkness; as a cleric, she in turn was to be a fountain of hope by which people could align themselves. Though numerically a vote against Arestes and Gevin would have meant that they were deadlocked, Madelyn did not doubt her opinion would be the definitive one. She was, after all, the seneschal’s niece.
But what would the seneschal have expected of her then? Should she follow the pragmatic or the idealistic? Both cases had been presented fairly and the advantage to each was beyond questioning. To further compound the situation, was the fact that the dead though gone, were not completely absent from the area.
It would have taken diviners or someone else equally learned in the ways of spirits to understand what was about them, but as a cleric Madelyn’s connection to the souls of the living also granted her glimpses at what the dead felt. They were raw emotions, often times amounting to little more than a fleeting wind passing over her, but even that foretaste was enough for her to know that they had been massacred in as cruel a manner as possible.
The images were vague at best, but she felt desperation and frustration – terror and horror. They had been aware of their impending dooms and turned their eyes not toward their enemies, but the heavens for salvation. That salvation did not come though, only the roars of their attackers and the death that they brought with them. Now they were corpses, rotting in the yards that they had once tended to with care.
When her eyes opened the horrors that she had seen were still before her face, but through that darkness Sir Gevin’s wistful gaze managed to shine brilliantly. It would have been a simple thing to vote against Arestes, but how could she possibly dismiss the notion that Gevin desired? Whatever the seneschal would do was one thing; what she would do was another.
“We leave them as they are,” she began with more assertiveness than she felt, “and send men back to bury them when we arrive in Aubraesia.”
“This goes against everything we have studied,” Sir Darron pointed out.
“And what did we ever learn about something like this, Sir Darron?”
The dame’s question was a justifiable one. It was the very thought that had been on his mind not long ago, and as she looked toward him with an expression only a commander certain of herself could give, he relented in his protestations for the time being. “Still, we should say a prayer for them.”
None could disagree with that. Had there been eyes to close then they would have set to that task presently, but the ravens stripped away eyes from their victims first and those sockets that were not empty had become home to maggots and flies; sights that no sane person would ever wish to see.
Each knight found a way to his or her knee, from which position their heads bowed and they expressed sorrow and a promise for vengeance. If the marauders did remain amongst the living then so too would they be brought to justice by the blade.
As though they had never come across the location, they turned about and began back to their horses. Though heavy hearts may have met some, their feet moved with a rapidity that denied even the illusion of lethargy. Somewhere in the night the culprits for the massacre remained and there was no telling what they would do next. The best thing that any could do was alert the seneschal.
It was not until they were nearly outside of the hamlet that Dame Madelyn was given a reason to pause. Sitting against a tree, a child’s doll looked back at her with a lopsided smile painted upon its face in red. She glanced to the others and saw that they were nearly upon their horses, but could not bring herself to turn away from the doll. After all, to some degree it was the only survivor of the massacre.
She bent forth and picked the doll up. It was far coarser than the one she had as a girl, but the feeling of it in her hands returned to her mind suppressed memories of huddling behind a band of soldiers as her parents fought to drive back the orcish hordes that threatened to push through Marshglen and into Cyneval’s heartland. That doll was now lost amongst the many items she was forced to abandon as they fled from Marshglen, but this one was in hand.
Between its missing eye, bloody smile, and patches of hair that were missing, the doll certainly looked as though it had survived a tragic event. Had the person that it belonged to been playing outside when the marauders arrived to visit death upon home and family?
“Madge, are you ready?” Sir Gevin’s voice acted as appropriate insensitive for Madelyn to abandon her position, though she could not find it in herself to put the doll down. When she returned with the item in hand a suspicious glance was thrown her way from Sir Arestes but he said nothing more of the matter. After she returned to her saddle, the knights drew themselves into positions once more.
“We ride for Aubraesia and do not stop until its walls are in sight.”
The gathered offered nods of affirmation before she whipped her horse forth.
In moving away from the massacre, Dame Madelyn could feel her energy returning to her. There was a good chance that she had not made the correct decision in leaving the town’s inhabitants unburied, but the sooner they left the site the easier it would be to forget about the whole ordeal. Aubraesia would be an answer to many problems, and the plodding of horse hooves reminded her that with each second they drew closer to that location.
Horses of a lesser quality would have been driven to fatigue as they rode then, but between the four beasts that labored beneath them, not a single one seemed ready to stop running until they were given the command to. Sir Arestes’ stallion, bred to master the steppes of Zharashad, even seemed to redouble in strength as it ran across the flat ground before it. Rumor had it that the beasts would sweat blood before they slowed down, and to see the beautiful creature with its flowing mane and tail billowing about it, it would be an easily believed thing to consider.
The quickness with which the knights rode served another purpose though, one that had little to do with how quickly it was that they would arrive at their destination. People riding at full speed could not stop to think and they certainly could not think. The only thing that mattered was holding onto the reins of their steeds as they rode with as much alacrity as their horses could manage.
No longer did Dame Madelyn find interest in what her friends were thinking; no longer did Sir Arestes desire to quarrel with Sir Darron; no longer did Sir Darron look wistfully upon the horizon; no longer did Sir Gevin envision the glorious battle that was ahead of them. The only thing that mattered to them was not riding into Aubraesia, but away from the hamlet and the rotting carcasses left behind in it.
The sun rose before any had realized it. Though their eyes may have become heavy, Madelyn’s declaration would not be forgotten by any that heard it. It was only after the sun began to slowly descend upon the horizon that the outline of Aubraesia’s walls came into sight. To the tired minds that recognized that outline, it was as though the heavens had opened and revealed the way into paradise.
There was a legacy to Aubraesia that any citizen of Cyneval worthy of the title would have known. Built by the M’takrali interested in preventing the orcish warbands from pushing through Cyneval and into the Great Forest, its completion marked the beginning of Cyneval’s sovereignty over its land. Some four hundred years ago it rose to keep the enemy at bay, and to that day it continued to do so. Even through the Endless Night, in which Cyneval faced its darkest hour, Aubraesia stood tall.
Now that same pillar of hope presented the cadre with potential reprieve from the nightmares that chased them. Inside of those walls were some of Cyneval’s bravest soldiers and commanders, their position amongst the most gallant of champions indisputable.
It was not difficult to see why it was that Sir Darron found it hard to believe that the orcs could have crossed those walls. Aubraesia’s stone face extended as far as the eye could see in two directions, and should a warband have made it through then surely a signal fire would have been ignited to inform the others of danger. Dame Madelyn’s eyes lifted from the ground to look toward the silent pyres.
No one had seen an orc crossing through.
Whoever was responsible for the action had to still be within Cyneval then, and she vowed by the hairs on the head of the doll in her hand that she would find out who it was and bring them to justice. Their horses slowed at long last and let off tired huffs as they drew them closer to the fortress.
“Hail,” one of the sentries called from his position atop the wall. “More knights, then?”
“From Strausham,” Sir Arestes replied. “So let us in.”
The sentry glanced over their number again. “What proof have you of that?”
“Proof?” The word was nearly spat at the man as Arestes narrowed his eyes. “We’ve just ridden past a slaughter and you’re asking me for proof of who we are, you simpleton? I’ll ask you to come down here and find out whether or not I’m a knight, varlet!”
The acrimony was more than genuine, and though Madelyn though to curb Arestes’ tongue, she could not find it in herself to disallow him to express some disdain. The last thing that they needed was to deal with a guard too taken with his position to see how very tired they were. “Let us through,” she demanded. “I am Dame Madelyn Albrecht, the –”
“—Seneschal’s niece?” The sentry finished, his voice suddenly weaker.
“The same.”
There was silence then as the guard took a moment to look at Madelyn more directly. The seneschal’s niece was known to have red hair; she was also known to wear finely tailored cloaks when she traveled. More importantly, she was said to be a woman of rare beauty – when all three things were identified, the sentry nodded toward the fellow below. “Let them in!”
The door was pulled open with a great deal of gears grinding and pulling against one another. The opening of the gate was followed by Aubraesia’s interior sprawling before them. A group of guards stood at the ready and as the knights approached they each bowed their heads respectfully.
“Apologies, M’lady,” the guard captain. He was a heavy set man with a bushy mustache that concealed a small upper lip. “The seneschal ordered us to tighten our security. We did not expect you for another day.”
The time that they made was indeed impressive; to that end the heavily breathing horses beneath them went to explain how that was. “Your name, captain?”
“Samuel,” the guard captain replied. “Samuel Ashby, at your service.”
“Very well, then Captain Ashby, see to our horses being properly stabled and fed.” She dismounted them from her mare; the others quickly followed suit. The captain seemed hesitate for a moment before nodding his head toward his underlings.
“You heard the dame,” he said. “See their horses stabled.”
One of the guards began to protest, but was silenced by a gold glare from Captain Ashby. He stepped forth and took hold of the lead, before his fellows did the same.
“What other service might we be of, M’lady?” The horses cast uncertain glances back at them before they were led away, but moved along nevertheless. Dame Madelyn shifted her attention away from the warhorses toward the captain once more.
“And take this to my quarters, as well.”
The doll was held out then, its disheveled appearance only enhanced by how tightly she had holding it during their ride. The guard’s military training came into hand then when he managed not to reveal his confusion as he accepted it. “I will see it there myself, M’lady. Would you also like your arrival to be announced to the Lord Seneschal?”
“I would.”
The guard captain nodded in what could be considered a bow and then indicated for the others to set their tasks. Madelyn glanced over her shoulder as the massive doors behind them drew to a close once more. She could only hope that they had arrived in time to prevent another massacre from occurring.
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