The End is Red

Rosomon, all of six years old, started her day as she had for nearly three years, sitting in the solar, focusing intently on the paper before her.

A A A a a a B B B…

At least, she tried to focus. The window kept drawing her attention. It was a beautiful, sunny day. She wanted to go outside and run around – maybe find someone to play with.

Sighing, she turned back to the letters and numbers before her. No fun was to be had here. Still, she wrote and wrote, methodically dipping her quill in the ink before returning it to the parchment.

“Morning!” A hand that was suddenly on her shoulder startled her, and the quill scratched across the paper leaving a large line. She knew she would have to start over, as her father would never accept such a thing.

She straightened address the older boy before her, “Good morning, Gunter. You startled me.” She looked pointedly at the mark on her paper.

“No matter – you can write just fine, so do it again.”

“Indeed, I certainly shall.” She pulled a blank sheet before her and picked up the quill.

A A A a a a B B B…

“You will never believe what I did today,” he said prodingly.

H H H h h h…

“Oh?” she replied without looking up.

M M M m m m…

“Yes…” Gunter went on to tell his story.

Z Z…

“Rosomon!” He grabbed her wrist to jerk her to face him, causing a mark to mar this paper as well. “Were you listening to a word I said?”

“You bested Marcus Olson at swordplay. Then the two of you went to the lake and found a boy catching frogs… and you threw stones at him,” she finished disapprovingly.

He pulled back to look at her a moment. “That’s right. ‘Bested’ is stating it lightly, though. I doubt he will even have the courage to challenge me again.”

Silence grew for a moment. “Ah! I nearly forgot! I have a gift for you,” he said proudly.

Her head canted to the side. “Truly?”

“I do.” Gunter took a step back to stand tall before her. He reached behind him, then bowed with a dramatic flourish. “My Lady,” he said holding a large rose in full bloom before her.

Her eyes lit up. “It is beautiful!”

“Of course – it is the first of the season.” He straightened and said kindly, “And it is for you.”

She smiled at him as he held it up to her. It was fragrant, and the petals looked soft to the touch. Gunter looked at her expectantly, so she reached her small hand to take the rose.

“Ouch!” She exclaimed as her hand closed around the stem.

A laugh cut through the air.

When she made to let go of the flower, his hands came up to caress hers. The move looked kind, but it exerted pressure to keep her hand closed around the stem and thorns. “Now, Rosomon, you do not want to drop your present.”

Her chin trembled and she felt tears behind her eyes, but Rosomon refused to cry. “Let go,” she said.

Gunter looked at her curiously, “Why would I do that?” The pressure increased slightly.

Knowing it would cut her hand more, Rosomon tore herself free of his grip. With one last glare she moved to leave the room.

“What? You don’t like it? Is it not enough? I can get you more!” He laughed behind her. “Come back.” When she did not follow his bidding, he stormed after her. “Rosomon. Come back. Agh! It was a joke!”

Finally reaching the door, she rounded on him, “There is nothing funny about using thorns or stones to hurt people!”

He froze, aghast, but before he could speak she was out the door. “You are no fun,” echoed after her.

Rosomon’s steps grew more hurried. She did not bother going to her parents – she would find no comfort there. So, instead of the rooms, she headed to the door leading to the garden. It was there she found her solace.

Bent over pulling carrots from the soft soil was Clodagh. The old Dunnick woman was always there for her.

Clodagh turned when she heard footsteps racing toward her; she barely had time to catch the child that flew into her arms.

“Miss Clodagh,” came a tearful voice, slightly muffled from her skirts.

“What ‘tis it then, little lady?” Clodagh stroked the girl’s soft curls.

She held up her hand, realizing that the rose was still clutched in it and little streams of blood trickled down her wrist.

“Ach! Whatever happened?” she asked, pulling Rosomon to a bucket of clean water nearby. She took the flower and set it aside, then began cleaning the cuts that looked too big on the girl’s little hand.

“Gunter played a trick,” she sniffed. Clodagh could see the girl was near tears but trying to keep them at bay.

“Hold fast, Rosomon,” she said encouragingly. “Life is uncertain. One day you get a rose, the next you feel the thorns – but the end result is red.”

Herding Sheep

“Rosomon,” Baron Renauld said sternly, “I have had enough of you running off to Banalis knows where! How many times must I tell you not to go off on your own?”

The young girl before him stood biting her lip and looking up with innocent eyes. She appeared sincere enough when she said, “I am sorry, Father,” but the effect was a bit dampened as she was covered head to toe in mud.

The man rubbed his hand across his face in exasperation and sighed, “Yes, I know you are – you always are. Run along and get cleaned up now, Rosomon.” The girl wasted no time in leaving. He opened his eyes and met his wife’s gaze across the room, “Fine.”

Isamina smiled, “The servant girl has herded sheep her whole life – she can easily herd a girl half her age.”

The Baroness had been trying to convince her husband for months to let her bring in someone to watch over their wayward daughter, who had a penchant for mischief. Isamina had spoken with her mother on the matter; the Faulkner Lady had laughed at her expense saying she ought to find a shepherd.

After thinking more on it, she knew her mother was right. She had heard mention of a girl – Maegi – who was nearing thirteen. The girl was an orphan with no family to speak of, meaning there would be no interference. Isamina had heard the girl was maybe not the brightest, but was humble and biddable. ‘Twould be perfect.

Do You See It?

A warm breeze brushed through the trees scattering freshly picked flowers. It was not strong enough to blow away the ones knotted together, though, as little Rosomon had been set about her task for the better part of the afternoon.

She looked up at the happy sounds coming from the other side of the bushes hiding her. She had been so focused that she did not realize the other children had gathered their flower crowns and are now ready to leave. “Maybe next time,” she said quietly, watching them go.

So badly did she want to join them – but she knew better. The last time she attempted as much they ran away before she could even say, “Hello, I am…” Had she scared them? Sometimes children are scared of silly things. She was afraid of that painting in the hall and Mother’s cat and even the pudding that Miss Cladogh loves to make. It was truly terrifying how the candlelight casts a jiggling shadow on the dining room wall! She did not think she was particularly frightening, but maybe they did… Regardless, she would rather learn to make their flower crowns than anything Mother would make her do – so behind the bushes she stayed.

At last, her crown was done. She placed it on her golden curls and scooped up the remaining flowers in her little hands. Making her way up the path toward home, she hummed a song the children like to sing. It was a lively tune, and she began to skip along.

As the house came into view, she noticed the sky beginning to change color. Perhaps she had been away too long?

Ascending the steps, her wrist was yanked on from below sending her stumbling back down. “How many times must I call your name!?”

All she could see are Gunter’s familiar blue eyes bent close to her face. “I am sorry, Cousin,” she replied kindly, already used to his moods.

The eyes narrowed for a moment before he leaned back to stare down at her, still holding her wrist too tightly. A charming smile came to life on his face, “Very well, then. Come… I have something to show you.”

The taller boy charged up the stairs, towing the girl along, headless of her having to nearly run to keep up and clutching flowers to her chest. He continued on, starting and stopping abruptly to vier through the people before reaching another set of stairs. The girl had never gone up the spiraling staircase before – Father had forbade her. She tried to tug away, but the boy simply tightened his grip and hauled her forward.

She did not understand why he insisted upon dragging her everywhere, for she would follow him if he would but ask. But, no, this was always how it was no matter how old they were. She could not remember a time when he did not tow her about. Sometimes he would show her interesting things, but she knew that when he finally let her be her wrists would be sore for the next two days.

They reached the top, and she froze there, forgetting to breathe because of the beauty before her. Everything was coated in red with the setting sun – the leaves, the grass, the stones, the people…

The boy took her closer to the edge and stood beside her, “Look at it all… Do you see it?”

Of course she saw it. What did he mean? He was surely a confusing boy.

She must have not been paying him enough attention, because he grabbed her chin and grinds, “Do you see it?”

Her eyes widen, “Yes.” It was the same as she had seen her whole life. What does he want her to see?

Seemingly satisfied, he let her go and turns to the view, “Did you hear? I will be leaving soon.”

“Oh?” she was having a hard time following his thoughts.

“‘Tis an honor, really. I will train more, and I will fight. I will show those in defiance that they will never win.” The boy stepped closer to the edge. “Do you see it?”

The girl did not like this anymore, but he tugged her to the edge with him before she could step back. “Do you see it?” All she saw was the fever in his eyes as his gaze met hers. “Since you are clearly too simple, I shall tell you. It is mine – everything my eyes land upon. The mountains. You. The trees. That horse. Everything.”

The boys chest puffed out in pride, but his eyes narrowed once again when she did not immediately concur. “Fine – you can just stand here until you can see it…”

At last he let her go and stepped back, but her arms flashed out to balance her trembling frame. In her effort, the crumpled flowers fell from her fist. As she watched them sink to the ground below she thought, This is not silly.

A Thing of Duty

“I expect you will teach him well,” Viscount Gerald told his friend.

“Of course,” Renaurd responded, clasping the young boy on his shoulder.

Gunter was but five years of age. His blue eyes sparkled in excitement as his father attached a wooden sword at his side.

“Take heed and listen well. You are becoming a man – it is your responsibility to learn to protect this domain,” Gerald told him firmly before stepping back.

The men stood talking for a time, and though the boy listened intently, he could not truly follow the conversation at hand.

“Go say goodbye to your mother, Gunter.”

The boy nodded, excited to be able to move. He was not entirely sure what was going on, but he knew that his father and mother would be leaving him here for a time. And he knew his father deemed it important.

He went to join his mother and Lady Isamina who were clustered near the well looking at whatever the lady was holding. They seemed transfixed, cooing at the thing.

“What are you looking at? I want to see,” he said indignantly upon approach.

“Here you are,” Isamina said. She turned the bundle to face him.

“What is that?”

“Tis a babe. Her name is Rosomon.”

The boy moved closer, “It’s hideous!”

Peronell gasped, “Gunter!” She could not believe the child had said that.

“It’s quite alright,” Isamina said as she laughed gently. “She may not suit you now, but one day she will.”

The boy hummed doubtfully.

“Trust my, little Lord, she will. It is her duty. After all, she will be your wife.”

He thought on her words as he stared at the babe wrapped in a blanket. She yawned and shifted, just waking up. “You mean she is mine?”

The women looked at one another and shrugged delicately. “You could say that,” Isamina replied.

“Well then,” he said, pointing at the babe’s face, “you had best do your duty well! I am doing mine.” He was not entirely sure what “duty” was, but the grown ups sure liked to talk about it a lot.

The babe just cooed happily at him and reached for the finger before her, not knowing in the slightest who the boy would become.

Born to Goodly Parents

Men sparred in the bailey, their breaths like clouds in the morning chill. Renaurd felt his muscles tighten as he blocked the onslaught of maneuvers.

“Is that the best you’ve got, Gerald?” he scoffed at his friend.

The other man guffawed, “Nay, it isn’t.” With that, he arched his blade to meet the other.

The men had been up the entire night. It had started out pleasant enough with dinner and cider. The men and their wives enjoyed visiting together during the winter months. With the Lady of the house, Isamina , late into her pregnancy, Gerald and Peronell had made the trip this time.

~

Early last eve, they had all been sitting in the great hall taking turns telling stories of the year’s campaign. It was brought to a halt when Isamina began having shooting pains in her abdomen.

“‘Tis too soon,” she fretted.

“It will pass with no trouble,” Peronell told her.

They eventually realized that it would not pass and sent for the midwife. The women went above stairs to rest. They all waited and waited, but no one came.

“What is this then?” Renaurd demanded of the servant who bore the news.

“Apologies, my Lord…” he drifted off, not having any answer for the man and not wanting to incur his wrath.

An elderly Dunnick woman with grey weaving through her dark red tresses entered from the kitchens. “I believe I can be of assistance, my Lord.”

Looking down his nose, he replied, “Do you now?” Gerald watched the exchange from near the fireplace in amusement. A little boy sat at his feet banging toy soldiers together, and another sat off to the side studying.

“Aye,” she said, confronting his gaze steadily. “Delivered all of m’ grandbarns m’self.”

Renuard held her gaze. When the woman would not look away, he waved his hand dismissively, “Well be to it then.”

He returned to his friend, where they sat and drank until becoming too restless to sit any longer. The boys were taken to bed, and the men moved out of doors to work off some energy on the lists.

~

Their swords met again. “Gah! What is taking so long?” Renuard spat in frustration.

Just then, a servant ran up to them, staying clear of the blades. “My Lord!”

“Finally!” The men stopped their sparring and made their way across the yard to the building with the servant girl trailing behind. Before reaching the door, Renaurd turned on the girl and said, “It is a boy, yes?”

Her steps faltered, “Nay, my Lord.”

“Damn,” he said, walking into the keep.

Gerald laughed at his friend’s expense. “There is always next time,” he said throwing his arm over the other man’s shoulders.

“I suppose,” his mood was dark indeed.

“You have a daughter – and so what? I have sons,” he said proddingly.

Catching on to the man’s train of thought, Renaurd felt his mood begin to lighten. “You are right!”

They made their way up the stairs to his wife’s chamber. Gerald waited outside while Renaurd continued in. Peronell sat on blood coated sheets while pressing a damp cloth to Isamina’s forehead.

“I am sorry, Renaurd,” she said weakly.

He ignored the blood around the room, having seen much of it in his life. “Do not fret, Gerald and I have it sorted. Besides, they’ll be a boy next time.”

“I think not, my Lord,” the old Dunnick woman said from across the room. She held a small infant in her arms, rocking it gently. “The birth was hard on my Lady.” She said nodding to the sheets and piles of soaked linens, all stained red. The woman lying on the bed, nearly unresponsive, should have been evidence enough.

He did not let her words dampen his mood, but felt the need to remind her, “When was there ever a time a Dun knew more of this world…?”

The Price of Mercy

-Five Years Ago-

“Gideon,” sighed the Bishop. He was an older man, dressed in the plain brown robes of the Mendelhim. He massaged the bridge of his nose as he looked disapprovingly at the young Priest who sat across the desk from him. “Back again, I see.”

“Yes, Bishop,” replied the young man. His features were obscured by bandages that had been wrapped around his head, trails of blood soaking through them at the cheeks. Three angry red lines on each side, marks the healers said would never go away. A constant reminder of his decision to involve himself in matters that did not concern him.

“And this time you…” the Bishop picked up a parchment from the desk and scanned it quickly, “interceded in a duel to the death?” His eyes lifted from the page to regard the wounded Priest wearily.

“That isn’t quite accurate, Bishop. I didn’t involve myself in the duel… I saved the life of the loser.”

“You saved the life… of the loser… of a death duel?” The Bishop sounded incredulous.

“Yes, Bishop.”

“Why, Gideon?”

The young Priest met his gaze without flinching. “Mercy in all things, Bishop. I could save the man. So I did.”

“And were attacked in turn by the winner.” It was not a question.

“Yes, Bishop. The Lurihim said I will wear these scars for the rest of my life.”

The Bishop regarded him appraisingly. “And you aren’t concerned that it might put your patients at ill ease to see them?”

Gideon shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll wear a mask…”

-Three Years Ago-

“Gideon. Back again, I see.”

Another Bishop, of the Cyanaheim. A new town. Scrow this time.

“Yes, Bishop.” He wore a mask now, the Plague Doctor visage the Lurihim were known for. His voice was distorted behind the leather.

“Father Superior Cornelius reports that you did it again.”

Gideon nodded. “Yes, Bishop.”

The Bishop sighed heavily. “Gideon… you *cannot* keep doing this. We need to be reaffirming people’s faith in Benalus, bolstering their trust in the Church and belief in God.”

Gideon’s head tilted as he spoke in reply, “I make every effort to stay Lurian’s hand and embolden their faith in God and Benalus, Bishop. I offer Baptism and confession so they might find Atonement and return to our fold. Should that fail, I offer guidance as to how they might relieve their suffering.”

“By directing them to Physikers and apothecaries.”

“Of course not, Bishop. The use of drugs is sinful. I simply tell them who to talk to that might be able to help them when spiritual means cannot. If those individuals lead them to sinful behavior, I have no knowledge of it.”

The Bishop’s mouth formed a line. “You’re walking a dangerous path, Father.”

Gideon spread his hands in front of him. “Have I committed a sin, Bishop? Is my soul imperiled by heresy in doing this?”

The Bishop pinched the bridge of his nose, a common expression of frustration when dealing with Father Gideon. “No. Not technically. But-”

Gideon leaned forward in his seat. “If I’ve done nothing wrong, then why are we having this conversation?” His voice was hard, with a tinge of annoyance. The leather of his glove creaked as his fist balled.

“I should be at the Hospital tending to patients. People actually in need of treatment to avoid Lurian’s grasp. I make every effort at healing through the Church’s means, Bishop. But I cannot allow a living creature to suffer.” His voice had an impassioned edge. “Mercy. In. All. Things.”

The Bishop took a step back, clearly affected by the vehemence in the Priest’s voice. “A-and what if they should find their way into the arms of another faith?”

Gideon’s voice maintained it’s edge. “Then they do so of their own devices and that has nothing to do with *ME*. As I said, I make every effort to reaffirm their belief in the Benalian faith. Should they choose to seek out damnation of their own free will, they have done so after I have alread expended my attempts to bring them back to Benalus in order to treat them with our methods.”

Gideon’s stare could be felt from behind the glass discs that covered his eyes. “But as I said, Bishop: Mercy in all things. I cannot allow a living creature to suffer.”

The Bishop sighed, his body language backing down. “I fear for your soul if you continue this path, Father. And for your well-being. Lurian may take you sooner than we would like if you continue this foolishness.”

The masked Priest shook his head. “I don’t believe he will, Bishop Farin. I believe he wants me here, doing his work…”

-Last Year-

His smoking body stank with the odor of charred flesh as it was quickly placed in the center of the ring of powdered silver. A candle sat at each of the four compass points around him, lit one by one by the white-clad Priests who worked hurriedly to prepare the ritual. Beneath him lay a red sheet that obscured the blood soaking into it from the gaping hole just below his stomach. A ranking Lurihim, clad in white ceremonial robes, began to quickly work on the downed man, cutting away his burnt robes to leave him in his smallclothes and then beginning the surgery that they hoped would save his life.

It was all a haze to Gideon. The pain was indescribable. He faded in and out of consciousness. He couldn’t feel his legs.

Is this it, Lurian? Is this how you will take me? For doing Your Will and staying Your Hand where I could?

To his surprise, he heard a voice, melodic and otherworldly. A shape rose up before him, apparently unseen by the other Lurihim, including the Bishop who worked frantically on him. It became a massive figure in a white cloak, with great feathered wings, reaching a hand out towards him.

~Gideon… my dedicated servant. This is not your end. The fire mage has crippled your body, but your soul remains pure and untouched. Your work here is unfinished. And I am with you.~

“L-Lurian…” he muttered fitfully as the Bishop continued to work on him. He could see that three of the four candles were extinguished. The Bishop made his supplications and prayers even more earnestly. Gideon felt a wave of anger flow through him.

Damn it, Lurian! You say that this is not my time, but the fucking ritual is failing! Are you toying with me? Mocking my dedication to your Mercy and the sanctity of life? Is this really how you treat your humble servant in his time of need, with empty promises and placations?! Fuck off with your taunts and teasing! If I am to live then let me live, God damn it!

The Bishop completed his surgery with one candle left. The spectre of Lurian began fading from the delirious Priest.

~If that is how you speak to your Patron, Gideon… then let it be so. But know that I will never be far from you…~

Gideon woke, exhausted and battered from the ordeal. But he could still sense a lingering presence in the back of his mind…

-Four Months Ago-

The clergy and layfolk were both wary. The church leadership were unsure what to do with him. They deliberated amongst themselves.

To top it all off, one pointed out, that Fire Mage still wants his head. He cannot stay here.

But where can we send him? Another asked. Where would he be safe?

It’s not a matter of safety, said a third after a moment of contemplation. It’s a matter of practicality. Stragosa. He already has friends and allies there. Let them deal with him. Let him obsess over his Mercy and preventing suffering in a place where the first is desperately needed and the second most likely foolhardy.

Put him on the frontier? Asked the second incredulously.

Exactly, responded the third. Send him to Sir Percival. Have him answer to his Order there and the White Lions. Either he’ll get what he needs from the chaos that surrounds that place and his true purpose will come forth… or he’ll die. Probably horribly, if the stories about that place are true. Either way, he’ll no longer be our problem.

But will Sir Percival accept him in this state? Asked the second.

Why does he need to know? replied the third coyly. Gideon has a deep devotion to his Covenant and the healing arts. Surely that information will suffice.

The other two fell silent in contemplation.

I suppose… mused the first, if we took his masks, armor, and weapon… gave him some fresh Plague Doctor masks to eventually ruin once he gets there…

Precisely, replied the third. By the time anything is noticed, he’ll be settled in. And entirely not our problem anymore.

But… objected the second, what if what he claims is true?

If what he claims is true, said the third smugly, he’ll be protected. If not, he’ll be taken by his beloved Archangel. And either way, still no longer be our problem.

The first and second reluctantly nodded in agreement.

-Several Months Ago-

The masked Priest approached the forest warily. It was dark and foreboding, not the kind of place he wanted to be unarmed. The rest of the newcomers looked nervous as well.

A man came out of the treeline, carrying a lantern and a sword. He looked the rag tag group over with world-heavy eyes.

“My name is Graham. I’ve been sent to escort you the rest of the way to Stragosa.”

~Terrible things are going to happen to this man. You should tell him so.~

“Not now,” the Priest muttered into his mask, “This isn’t the time for cryptic warnings.”

One of the others looked at him.

“Did you say something, Father?”

Gideon shook his head. “No, it’s nothing… Lurian guides my thoughts. Keep an eye out, I’m not completely sure we can trust this man.”

His companion furrowed his brow, but in the dark forest, surrounded by possibly threats, they didn’t argue.

Gideon was unarmed but confident. He had faith that the Archangel and God would not abandon him…

Sailing the Sea of Coils

Sharp wind cut through the thin blanket that William had wrapped around himself. He took a shuddering breath and crouched next to a crate to block the wind.
“First time to Njordr?”
William looked up at the voice, eyes dead. He nodded.
“You look cold.”
William nodded again.
“I’m Asja. Asja Gatewatch. And you’re William, yes?”
Sighing, William sat straighter. “What do you want, Asja?”
“Well… the others were saying that you were one of the guys in charge of the Sea Beggar? Big fan of your business. I was the one who helped Fearghas Llewyn get North.”
William shrugged, still not really interested in pursuing the conversation.
“Well, before we left, the captain, Julio de Monique? He said that you could use some help.”
William sighed. “No. I really don’t want any help. I don’t care who you are. I just want to be left alone.”
“God, you’re depressing.” Asja folded her arms and shook her head.
William shook his head as well and huddled down again.
Asja shook her head. “Look. Julio told me about Miss Tiarnan. Said you’d need some help getting back on your feet.”
William felt his anger building, but shook his head again and didn’t respond.
“I’m trying to help,” she said with a sigh. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just leave you alone.”
Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, William sank back down to his slumped position.
Shaking her head, Asja turned and walked away.

How dare he. How dare Julio tell this stranger about him, about his business. And how dare she bring up Lile. He gritted his teeth and tried to fall asleep. He dreamt of Lile.
He awoke to wind whipping past his face and his stomach lurching. He was falling. He hit the water and his breath was slammed from his chest. He fought his way to the surface and took a deep breath. He looked around, treading water. It was dark. William grabbed the edge of the boat and began to pull himself from the water, letting his waterlogged blanket fall from his body. He heaved himself over the rail and collapsed to the deck. He rolled over, still gasping for air. An axe hit the deck next to him and his eyes rose to meet those of a thickset man with njordic markings coating his skin. William’s eyes opened wide.
“What the hell?!”
The man lowered the axe toward him. “Don’t move you fat swine.”
William held his hands up, somewhat relieved. Maybe they’d just kill him.

Sitting in the boat, all William could hope for is that he’d freeze to death. His eyes were dull and he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. He wished they would at least have left him his mask. They were sailing North, towed behind the enemy’s ship. He tried to feel something at the very least, but honestly couldn’t. Maybe it was good that he’d survived, but he didn’t care, not without Lile. North.

A Wilted Lily

William pushed his hair out of his face, grinning as he tied off his final line. He waved toward the Capitan. “Julio! I’m going to go! I’ll see you later!”
Julio laughed. “Say hi to Lile for me.”
William waved again and snatched his bag, and the box next to it, from by the gangplank as he left. He smelled the lily he’d gotten for her; his terzo regalo. She’d finally asked for it when she gave him the ring. He grinned as he thought about it, shifting his gear around himself to make it more comfortable.
“William!” came a friendly call from behind him.
Laughing, William turned. “Slaine MacAlister, what are you doing out here?”
“What, I can’t come see the Sea Beggar make its triumphant return?”
William rolled his eyes. “What do you want Slaine?”
His friend put his hand on William’s shoulder, smiling. “Conor and Malmuira are making a big meal tonight to celebrate, why don’t you and Lile come?”
“I suppose we should,” he laughed. “Since we’ve skipped the last few.”
“That’s not your fault, you’ve been travelling a bunch. How many are you at now?”
William smiled. “I don’t keep track. Not enough until we can fix the whole issue.”
Slaine shook his head. “You’ve helped a lot of people William. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
Laughing, William shook his head as well. “Why do you think I’m trying to get back to Lile.”
Slaine grinned and patted his shoulder again. “I’ll see you later.”

Craigellachie was beautiful in the fall. William took a deep breath as he walked through the town. He waved to a few people he knew as he went. It’d been nearly three years since he’d come to Dunland. He’d never thought he’d fall in love, not with the city or with Lile. Something was different in the air that day. Maybe it was that he’d been away a couple of weeks, maybe it was that he was going to see Lile again. He smiled as he thought about Saoirse, the girl he’d taken to Port Melandir, who reminded him so much of Lile. But there really was something different on the air. He sniffed it again. There was the smell of fire on the wind. He frowned. Was there a fire somewhere? There was no smoke on the horizon. Leaving the city boundaries, he kept walking toward the Tiarnan family farm, still thinking about the fire. It didn’t smell like a cooking fire, nor really a bonfire. He shook his head. It seemed too much for that.

William stopped on the corner of their farm, hands growing weak as he saw the stake rising from next to their house. He dropped the box in his hands and sprinted toward the building, dropping his bag when it got in his way. There was the pyre, burnt out on the yard. There was the stake, still standing from the charcoal. He paused there, looking at it. Who had been burned? What had happened here? A moment passed and he tore himself away. He pushed open the door. “Lile!?” he called.
Llwyn, her brother, was standing next to their crying mother. He turned to William with fire in his eyes and ran forward to meet him, then slammed his fist into his jaw.
William collapsed against the doorframe, eyes wild and hand to his cheek.
“It’s your fault, you bastard!” Llwyn yelled in his face.
William shook his head, not understanding. Then his eyes grew wide and he staggered back out of the building, back toward the pyre. “Lile!?” he cried out again as he pushed through what was left of the pyre. His palms were tearing open on the rough wood as he cleared the wood. He found a bone, carbonized flesh fused to it. He cradled it and screamed out.

He didn’t know how long he sat in the pyre, ash coating his skin. When he came back to himself, it was raining. His exposed skin was burning under the ash, but it didn’t matter. His heart was broken. What had happened? He began to cry, probably not for the first time. He slowly began to stand, pulling what bones he could find from the pyre. He pulled his blanket shawl off himself and wrapped up the bones. He walked up to the house, but Lwyn stood at the door.
“You’re not welcome here anymore.”
William didn’t say anything, he just stared.
He glared at William. “They said she was a witch. She was screaming about ‘just wanting a child’ as they burned her.”
William still didn’t respond.
“Get out of here. You’re not welcome here,” he said again.
After a moment, William turned and walked back toward the pyre. He stopped, tears still streaming down his face. He bent down and picked up the little tressertag bracelet he’d given her months before.
He walked to the pyre and paused again, then pushed past it. He kept going, stopping only to take his bag before he continued back to his ship. He left the lily behind, wilting in the mud.

The Fine Enough Figurehead

A fleet shadow topped with bouncing copper curls darted in the dark into the fen, shoes and staff being sucked into the mud with every step – it didn’t matter; she was filthy enough already – no one would follow her this way. It was slower than the road; she would have to make up for it with her pace.

Bullfrogs croaked, insects sang… and dogs brayed in the distance behind her. Saoirse lengthened her strides.

She’d had no time to say goodbye; no time to explain; no time to think, not yet. Misty air puffed from her lips, breathing growing heavy, head aching almost worse than her body.

It didn’t matter that she couldn’t trust the sailor with the mask and the colorful clothes; the young Dun decided that the only choice she had was to throw her lot in with him. The mud beneath her turned to sand, lending more strength to her burning legs carrying her as quickly as they could to the boat. “Take me with you,” she begged through labored breath, cheeks flushed pink with exertion, “please,”

The man – who she would soon learn to be called William II de la Marck – looked up as she spoke with eyes drooping like a hound’s. “You… I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you… you’re from Craigellachie,”

“Aye,” Saoirse panted, “Please, ye must have room for one more,”

He frowned, looking out over her shoulder. “Do you have papers?”

She did not have papers; she did not have anything at all. “No, I…” She faltered, and shifted demeanor – she could not fail tonight, “I’m getting on that boat and ye cannae stop me, even if I’ve got tae lash myself down tae the bow like a figurehead,” she declared as insistently as she could, her accompanying stomp muted by fatigue and the sand.

“I would pay to see that, maybe we should,” he responded, looking back at another sailor behind him, a patronizing glimmer of mirth in his eyes. They shared a laugh before he turned back to her, “Or you can hide down in the hold with the grain?”

Assault on Red Abbey

Play:

I, Brother Cadica, scholar monk of Curia Militum, do commit this event to pen from my first hand observations in this, the month Decembris in the 604th year of the Lion Age. Herein lies my true accounting of the assault on the Red Abbey, wherein a heroic coalition of mankind did bring battle against land entrenched by the foe of all humanity, the accursed and hated warriors of the Kuarlite heresy. These are by my own witness, and from the accounts of those I have spoken to.

The last gasp of Autumn was giving way to Winter, and the winds that had been blowing so fiercely for these past weeks upon the road had gone from merely gusting to also gusting bitterly cold. The frost stays upon the ground longer each morning, and before long, the snow shall come.

The commanders’ tent stood in the shadow of the monstrous Fortress Monastery, this so-called Red Abbey. It squatted upon the nearby mountainside, just on the eastern side of the river that cut through the ancient rock. A superior defensible position, to be sure. I shuddered to imagine what terrible deeds these walls had been raised to protect and hide from the sight of God.

Outriders had reported that the enemy had taken up inside the walls in preparation for the righteous reckoning that was at hand. Already I could see additional palisades and fortifications being placed upon the fortress walls, periodically adorned with sharp ironwork or a human skull placed out in warning. This design was familiar to me, as it would be to any Brother of Curia Militum, for it was a standard of the Gothic Codex Militum to perform such reinforcements without delay. Surely whichever accursed being was in command of that blighted monument was once a soldier of Gotha, to the shame of all mankind.

Scouts had mantled the higher crags across the river to attempt a count of the forces within the fortress. When the reports were gathered, Sir Reinhart concluded that there were around ten dozen of the damned within, as well as three cadres of those dark riders that had been seen months before at Portofino. It seemed that all of the monsters of the region had taken up shelter in this bastion of evil. A climactic battle here could destroy the entire Kuarlite Force, though given the haste at which the armies arrived, an encircling position was not yet established, and there yet remained possible escape routes away from the fortress.

The haste of our fighting force was notable, but perhaps understandable. By the time the soldiers of mankind had set up for the assault on the Red Abbey, they had already been out of supply for weeks. Some disaster had clearly befallen the supply carriages, and the men had become tired and hungry.

In attendance were the Fafnir Dragoons, under orders from Sir Lilian, the fearsome Blood Dragon and under the direct command of their Captain, Otto; Sir Hezke von Heidrich had arrived next, personally leading her Stragosa Strike Force – two units of mighty shock cavalry, three units of dragoons, and four hundred archers – these who had proven so effective at destroying Kuarlites in the past at the Battle of Tusk Grove, who rarely are seen to field archers themselves, preferring, it seemed, to do the killing at close range. The Black Company winged Huszars had arrived, with Lord Herulf von Corvinus, five hundred mighty horsemen and their steeds. All of these arrived disheveled and bedraggled, long since deprived of stores and provisions. When the men and women of the army saw the huge crimson walls, bedecked in spikes and skulls, a thick, stinking smoke billowing forth from somewhere behind the walls, many were losing heart already. Morale was very low, and it was clear that despite their great numbers, the intimidating fortress and its damned defenders were causing the men to waver in their faith. Many of these had expected to be joined, or even lead, by the zealots of the pontifical armies – but these, like many others, had failed to arrive at the battle by the expected time.

In contrast, Sir Garrick von Trakt arrived with his First Wing, 2000 soldiers recently levied from Woefeldt, and these shining peacekeepers were fresh and healthy, with crisp uniforms and in good order – it seems that they had been controlling and measuring their rations from the start, long before whatever incident at the supply lines, in anticipation of the possibility of disaster. Aleric Museldorf, the House Heidrich calculator, had done his job admirably, anticipating all of the possible permutations of the campaign.

Finally, Sir Reinhart von Sonnenheim, the Lord Marshal himself arrived. His force of heavy cavalry had been to the South of the city, having only just arrived, and had been spared the loss of materiel. There was rejoicing that the Lord Marshal had arrived safely, and given the dire circumstances around provisions, he called for the attack to begin immediately.

Passing out orders to all of the captains and commanders, the true prowess of the Order of the Shining Sun became obvious. The Sonnenheim maxim is “We are a Light”, and the truth of these holy words became obvious to my eyes as I beheld what happened next. The tired, dirty and hungry men who had shivered in the shadow of the dark fortress began to light up, and like a single candle spreading its flame from wick to wick, Sir Reinhart passed through the camp delivering orders and speaking with the common soldiers until the force’s spirit was alight like a flame. Reinhart was the torch that relit the hearts of men, and before long, it was clear that this brilliant flame of humanity could drive back the shadow.

Forming into battle lines, Sir Reinhart insisted on leading the attack, and thus his force of heavily armored horse took the vanguard position. Behind him, the main body of the Trakt’s First Wing arrayed themselves in assault formation, followed by the Fafnir and Heidrich cavalry forces, Sir Hezke taking command. Finally, the Black Company and Lord Corvinus remained in reserve to crush the enemy when the opportunity arose, the hammer to this anvil. The uneven forest terrain had the many horses present stamping and braying, uncomfortable making fast charges. The fierce Autumn wind whipping at the proudly flying white eclipse banners had the Heidrich archers repeatedly testing the air with wet thumb, trying to judge the right wind, but looked uneasy. Dirt still clung to the boots from the long, tiring march of most of these brave heroes, but the Trakt infantry and Sonnenheim cavalry in the front of the battle held their poise, and Sir Reinhart blew the warhorn to signal the attack.

The thunder of Sonnenheim hooves roared across the ground, and arrows began flying freely from the walls, whistling through the air above. Sir Reinhart’s plan was to draw their fire by charging the walls to give time for the infantry to reach it with ladders. Arrows struck all around, with few of them coming close to the horsemen in their furious charge. The autumn wind was knocking their arrows of course just as badly, buying precious seconds for the rest of the battlelines to approach. Black fletched Heidrich arrows loosed in return, also skipping and dancing off of the hard stone of the walls without much report. The wind was playing hell on the arrows, and Reinhart chanced a glance over his shoulder, checking on the progress of the rest of the cavalry. Late – the uneven forest slowing them. Speed was critical; Reinhart cursed and whipped his horse faster, but he knew he could rely on the brave men and women trained by Commander Trakt to follow their orders and hold their line. The thought alone of them renewed his stalwart steadfastness.

The Trakt soldiers fared better – taking quickly to the fortress walls with siege ladders, they flooded around the sheer stone three and four ranks thick. Arrows and oil rained down upon them, but their swift climb was already disabling some of the capabilities of those defending the walls – locking up their murder holes with thrusting spears and sheer righteous audacity. Some of the men were already reaching the ladder tops, though none had mantled the top yet. A Trakt ladder came crashing backwards to the ground, men groaning and rolling, but got up quickly, determination less cracked than their ribs.

Elsewhere, the cavalry were catching up to the battle – surrounding the walls and making use of their superior numbers over the Kuarlites to make them defend more ground. Captain Otto fixed his sallet visor into place and scanned the battlefield to assess. A disruption happened at the center of the huge Trakt infantry force near the wall. It seemed that they had already made it through the huge front gate, much faster than expected. As he swung his horse around to get a better look, he reared back, and quickly ordered his horsemen to set up for a rescue charge.

The enemy had opened the front gate themselves and the Trakt forces had charged the breach into the inner bailey. Screams echoed from within – screams of pain, but also screams of righteous zeal. They remembered the advice of their Blood Dragon cohort, and used their stalwart courage to show the enemy that they had made a grave error in inviting them within. Those outside couldn’t see what happened within the walls, but a terrible melee was clearly ongoing and the Trakt force was making the enemy pay full price for every drop of blood they gave to the cause.

Already an hour into the battle, and arrows continued to trade over the wall from the Heidrich positions – peppering the inner bailey where they could make the shot. The sky screamed with missiles as the melee at the inner gate quieted, more Trakt soldiers suddenly having room to push inside. The Fafnir and Heidrich cavalry knew that signaled a catastrophic loss of life inside, and horns were blowing to signal the Trakt infantry out of the way as they charged two and three abreast through the open front gate to engage the enemy with saddle-swords. Sir Hezke adapted the battle plan for her division, and recalculated to take advantage of the chaos of battle – there wasn’t room to charge, but fighting from horseback would still be an advantage that could grant the Trakt soldiers relief enough to rally back up.

It was the Fafnir cavalry that entered the gate first. Captain Otto pulled the valiant but inexperienced Trakt infantry back out of the gate, where a good number of the Kuarlties pursued to do battle outside the wall – where fresh victims could be found. Counting on this, the Fafnir forces kept them occupied just long enough for the full company of Heidrich and Corvinus cavalry to smash into the back of the Kuarlite formation. Despite their size and mass, red armored bodies careened through the air head over heels as the enormous armored horses smashed into them and through them. Kuarlite bodies lay broken in the dirt, sliding down the rocks and hills at the base of the fortress.

When Sir Hezke raised her sallet visor to survey the results, she saw that it had been costly – all the Trakt ground infantry were routed, and the Fafnir dragoons that had made the critical charge possible were unhorsed and bloody, their unity shattered. In just those moments where the Kuarlites had taken the bait, almost half the Kuarlite force were destroyed, but so were the Fafnir and Trakt forces. Sir Hezke caught sight of Sir Reinhart’s banner from the top of the wall. The remaining Trakt soldiers had taken the tops, killed all the defenders, and Sir Reinhart’s group were opening all the fortress gates and slipping down the inner wall. As the sun began to slip to the horizon, the sky bled crimson. Sir Hezke wheeled her squadron around for another charge through that bloody gate as the air screamed with arrows and wind once again.

Sir Reinhart was signaling his remaining Trakt allies that had taken the walls with he and his soldiers to get down the inside wall as quickly as possible. I, myself, had climbed the walls behind the heroes in order to take account of the battle, and I offered to hold the ladder for Sir Reinhart as he descended, such that no soldiers need be left behind. With a seeming reluctance to trust the strength of my monastic arms, Sir Reinhart allowed me to hold the ladder and slipped down. As he climbed, he could already see Sir Hezke smashing into the remaining Kuarlites in the bailey, and recognized their banner right away, for it was his own. The Kuarlites holding the center of the line were his own men – men he had drank with, trained, encouraged. Some of them weren’t surprising – rowdy and reckless men, with a cruel streak, but others were thoughtful and formerly kind. In their midst in acting command was Alaric, the Lord Marshal’s former First Captain. As Sir Reinhart finished his descent, he called a rally to the men with him into fighting formation. The cavalry had been extremely effective when allowed space to do their work, so he knew he must reform the anvil for them to smash against. The Kuarlites seemed distracted with something, standing around a huge burning pit of bodies, black smoke belching forth – the time was now.

Sir Reinhart clashed face to face with his former lieutenant, raining blows on him and calling out indictments while the traitor seemed almost as if he couldn’t be bothered to fully engage. The torn and blood spattered Sonnenheim banner stolen from its company stood high on a pike next to the great fire – and Sir Hezke and the Stragosa strike force were somewhere beyond the black smoke, which was obscuring everything now as the wind whipped it around the field.

From my vantage, I could only see moments of the battle where the smoke cleared – I saw Heidrich horses being skewered on huge crimson lances – I beheld many of the Heidrich forces now in full retreat as the far company of Kuarlite heretics wheeled on them, one leaping up onto the horse itself to tear its head free – I witnessed Sir Reinhart, swords crossed with Alaric, take some kind of battering injury to the shoulder, and fall backwards into the deepest haze, his foe nowhere to be seen. From then forth I could see no more – a hateful cyclone seemed to take up the acrid smoke and push it every which way. I knelt then and did what I could still do, to pray with all my soul to Mithriel, entreating Him to bring us victory in this most righteous of battles. It had already been five long hours of fighting, the sky long since turned as black as the soot that poured through the air, and I did not know how much longer the strength of the righteous spirit of the Lord God could endure in these tired and poorly nourished bodies, facing now such protracted and persistent evils.

Suddenly I beheld Sir Reinhart pulled free from the fighting, set now upon his great warhorse, but slumped as if injured – one of his Sonnenheim honor guard guiding his horse away by lead…but through that black miasma I did see that he clutched in his arms the Sonnenheim banner that was lost, rescued from the traitors, and thus restoring the lost Valor of his Knight Order. I thanked Mithriel for at least this most auspicious sight, though as a new tempest began to whip through the inner bailey with all of the gates now open, the smoke began to clear, and I beheld the new state of the battle.

One final squadron of Trakt spearmen heroically held their line against the Kuarlites, who had been greatly diminished in numbers, but now merely were nearly man to man with the Trakt soldiers. Lord Corvinus attacked them from the rear again and again with what were left of his horsemen – riding them through the now loosened press of the courtyard. The few, bold Trakt men, whose Order of the Broken Sword is famous for their gallantry, heedless of the odds or challenge, had pinned the Kuarlite force into position with their backs to their bonfire, keeping them at bay with their long pikes – even as the Kuarlites lashed out and snapped like animals against them in a berserk fury, sundering and breaking the long pikes they held, heavy great halberds, dropped from Huszar hands, were passed forward hand to hand by brigade to replace the broken spears and keep the pressure up. All the while the Huszars continued to sweep by in slashing wedges, taking one here in the leg, another there on the shoulder, wearing them down, and down and down. Each cleave from the mighty Huszar heavy halberds punished the enemy with heavy, crushing blows that dented the cursed steel and cracked the blacked bone they clad themselves in.

By the end, I shut my eyes and simply prayed in mute witness to the selfless valor, the flaming compassion of these men and women who faced down evil in a place of utter darkness, and did not falter, did not fear. I prayed in thanks, whatever happened next, to the Lord our God who gave us the strength to face such evils with our hearts strong and full of His strength. I prayed in thanks to Sir Reinhart, who had united this coalition with the strengths of each of his asset commanders, uniting the hearts of mankind in echo and tribute to the Prophet himself. No other man could so unite such forces of disparate strengths into so great and awesome a fighting force. For these things, I prayed with gratitude.

The clashing stopped, and a ragged cry lit forth from the bailey below. The smoke blew away, and torchlight penetrated the night, one after another, until all the gloom of the courtyard fell away. Of the forces of humanity, only a ragged squadron of huszars remained fully intact, sweating, soot covered and bloody, but every last heretic driven into darkness; their unholy master grown bored with its chosen slaves, and those that didn’t flee for their miserable lives lay dead in the charnel pit of that cursed clay. The dead were still being separated from the living; Sir Hezke was nowhere to be found. The secrets of the Red Abbey lay exposed, as the bowels of the fortress, clearly descending some great distance below the fortress proper, yawned ominously.

As the remaining horsemen rallied and reformed ranks around the fortress, hunting parties spread out to destroy any fleeing heretics that could be found, returning with godless hearts and heads on the tips of heavy halberds. The first light of dawn cracked over the sky, and as it did, a gentle snow began to fall on the fortress, sticking everywhere along the red stone, banishing the terrible past of this place in blessed recognition of the purity of those who had conquered here. What once was red now glistened with gentle white.

Those who returned with trophies reported that the survivors had fled South, to the Boneyard swamps, soon to meet the cruel answer of humanity for their unspeakable and innumerable treasons against God and His Throne.

I pray that God bless Stragosa and its heroes – and its righteous champion, Sir Reinhart von Sonnenheim, bearer of the Arbiter. God Bless the Throne, and God bless mankind.