《I am The Master》 "The Crypt" Iron sang throughout the old dungeon, armor clattered against the ancient steps, blood pooled beneath the cracks of doors. Men screamed and groaned to the beat of sword and shield. ¡®Twas the dungeon underneath the fortress of Mayamat, yea, but anybody who¡¯d spent a minute within called it ¡°The Crypt¡±. All manner of dead things ended up in ¡°The Crypt¡±: sorcerers, warlocks, mother-eaters, ogres, princesses. It was guarded by the greatest swordsmen in the western world, but now those swordsmen were falling like birds stricken by blue thunder. But this thunder was of a different sort; it had come on horseback, it had broken the unbreakable walls of Mayamat, had killed the unkillable warriors held within, and now The Crypt was silent but for the moans of the maddened and the clanking of sabatons. Torchlight flickered against the dark bricks. The torturer, who had fled into this cell, brandished his whip and trembled. With her arms chained and her feet pinned together by a wooden stake, Lysa could only grin. The door shuddered beneath the weight of a kick, and then another, and then it was coming down. Lysa flinched as the whip¡¯s tongue lashed, but ne¡¯er against would she be the stricken one. Instead, the tail met the tresspasser¡¯s shield, and was useless, and then the torturer gurgled because said trespasser had offered a meeting ¡®twixt his head and a mace. With the quiet thump of the torturer¡¯s corpse, six years of pain were relieved in an instant. She¡¯d no eye for violence, but some men deserved to be affected with it. Were she the trespasser, it¡¯d not be so quick; she¡¯d have repaid the lashes, aye, though perhaps not the questions. But who was this trespasser? Her vision was blurry (and perhaps irrevocably damaged by the years in the cell), but she could make him out. Chain mail, a tabard, a shield and bloodied mace, a houndskull helmet. And behind him was another man, dressed in iron plates and a brass crown. ¡°Only way to kill a snake is to crush its head,¡± said Houndskull, stepping over the corpse to look at Lysa, ¡°But what is this that the serpent guards? This is the cell we were sent to, Lord, but your daughter is nowhere; a stranger woman takes her place. I told you the hunchback¡¯s lie, no? That cretin was ne¡¯er to be trusted. Even your brother wouldn¡¯t keep a princess in this rank pit.¡± Brass-crown shook his head, joining Houndskull and letting his gaze fall onto her, ¡°You underestimate him - my brother and the hunchback both. The first is the lowest creature, and the second is the honorable heir.¡± Pausing, his eyes found hers. His eyes were dark and gray, his brow furrowed beneath his crown, his face clean shaven but slick with the sweat of battle. Lysa thought he looked burdened - perhaps by the importance of his mission, or perhaps the importance of himself. Behind him in the doorway, warriors marched past, down the spiraling staircase. They were going ahead, to scout and kill. Perhaps, if they were outmatched, they¡¯d even retreat. This thought was shaken from Lysa¡¯s head by Brass-crown¡¯s low, gravelly voice. ¡°Tell me what you know, would you? You¡¯ve been chained here long, I assume. What have you heard in the halls? And who was in this cell before you? Do you know of any deception that has taken place here?¡± ¡°Better not to ask, Lord,¡± said Houndskull, flipping his visor up to reveal a scarred, beard-ridden face, ¡°See not her bronze skin? She is of the south, lord, and southerners all have viper tongues.¡± Lysa knew better than to retort. Her limbs were trapped, and even if they weren¡¯t, she would be too weak to flee, and far too weak to work her art. She¡¯d be the eagle, coasting along the wind these men so enjoyed blowing. Brass-crown blew it next, giving Houndskull a glare. ¡°And what of your tongue, Alonso? For whom does it wag? Your thinking mind, or the mind of old Mistress Hate, that wretched dancer who found you in the south? The crusade has passed. The gold horns do not blare. We kill men of our own blood, now, under our own gods.¡± ¡°Aye, Lord. You speak truly. You follow that, woman. Tell us your name, and what you know of the Princess of House Velenzi.¡± She eyed the pair carefully, surmising that which should be told and that which should not be. Five years ago, her mind was quick and bright with all of the intelligence her mother had provided her. Now it was darkened by five years of slumber. Lysa had retreated from the waking world, suffered the whip and the pain and no other thought, and only just now woken, struggled to scheme so quickly. After a little while, she spoke the words, and told them what she had learned. ¡°Your hunchback told no lie, and your foe - my wardens - played no little trick. Aye, the Princess of House Velenzi was in this cell. She is the one with red hair, yes?¡± Brass-crown nodded, and Lysa continued her lie.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. ¡°They brought her down, yea, shrieking down the steps. That must have been months ago. She fought them, but she was armed with slippers and they were all warriors. Your Princess had a fancy for words, though. She used many of them, in creative ways, to describe her captors. This annoyed them greatly, so they tossed her in here with me.¡± Houndskull (who was called Alonso) motioned, with his mace, to the room, which was filled with nothing but dark implements and the voices of the living, ¡°She is not here, strange woman.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right. They told me to curse her, but I told them I could not curse an innocent, so they ravaged her and told me again to curse her, but I was too weak and too sorry to make the sorcery. They took her lower down, then, and punished me with a cut thigh. If you¡¯re so pressed about southern women, Sir Alonso, you may place your head ¡®tween my legs and see the scar - just be careful with your visor.¡± Alonso scoffed, stepped forward with his mace to crush Lysa, but Brass-crown held him back with a single disciplined arm. Brass-crown¡¯s face was grave and pale, his shoulders low, burdened newly by the news of the Princess. Lysa had only told him part of the truth; the Princess had been delivered to the chamber, sure, but only for a quick lashing. There were only so many torturers to pass around, after all. There had been no curse in demand, no innocence was plundered, and no thigh was cut. The scar was older than her stay here. ¡°You speak lies,¡± said Alonso. ¡°Yes, she speaks lies,¡± Brass-crown pretended to agree, but did not move his arm. The hound wouldn''t bite without the word of his master, ¡°You are a woman of curses? A sorceress?¡± She answered, ¡°I am Lysa of Carel. ¡®Twas I cast the First Army of Faith into the sandy pits, and it is my master, Baphosarex, who raised them again, who made them march to the tune of the Low One, and who led the death crusade. After that affair was brought to end, he bid me to hide beneath the sunsets of Loscancia. I was caught crossin¡¯ the south sea, though, and I was delivered here to be punished forever.¡± Alonso lurched forward again, but still wouldn''t strike, ¡°The wicked bitch herself! Gabriel, my Lord, loose your arm so I may loose my mace. Baphosarex was the worst man to ever live, and you let me slay him, now let me slay his daughter!¡± Lysa would have reacted quick, but she had not known Baphosarex was dead. Brass-crown (or rather, Gabriel), did not fill the silence, and so she had the moment to do it herself. ¡°My father was white, but I never met him,¡± she spoke, then paused, ¡°Baphosarex was my teacher, but I held no love for him. The men were the same, but were different men.¡± A silence followed her voice. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and the screams in the distance were growing both quieter and less frequent. The fight was closing, the dungeon almost taken in full. Soon, they would find the Princess. Gabriel spoke, his voice darker than before, her words still stirring ¡®neath his eyes. ¡°You are an enemy of the temple. Through my rebellion against my brother, so too am I. In this sense, Lysa, we share a foe. They will use holy magicks against me, so I will arrange unholy magicks against them. These days, you can¡¯t win a war with steel and faith alone. Sorcery is always needed, and I happen to be lacking a sorcerer. And besides, I said I would find use for all the prisoners, no?¡± ¡°My Lord, think of-¡± ¡°Of the gods? They have offered me no boon. They gave me a war and ten thousand enemies. They handed my throne to a usurper. They fill my enemies with vigor and their weapons with light. Alonso, you are my greatest friend, my loyal sword-hand, and so your faith is of no issue with me. Will my apostasy be an issue with you?¡± ¡°The gods have not betrayed you, lord, it is their speaker, a mortal, who betrayed you-¡± ¡°Will you swear to be loyal, Alonso?¡± Alonso set his jaw, averted his gaze. A breathless moment passed, and seemed as though Gabriel would strike him, but the knight nodded and the oath was sworn again. ¡°Good. Lysa of Carel, will you agree to serve me, to enact my wishes, and to work your evil art for my cause?¡± ¡°If it¡¯d free me of these chains, Lord, I¡¯d be a dancer and a baker too,¡± she said, her voice dripping with the gratitude that northern lords so often expected of a woman who breathed their air. ¡°Then Alonso will smash them loose.¡± And that was his first mistake. He would make many in the weeks to come, but for now, Alonso was making them for him. The knight smashed the chains apart like they were twigs on a tree branch - Lysa winced whenever his arm rose and squeaked whenever it fell. She would criticize the method, but held her tongue. A few moments of anxiety was restitution enough for her freedom. When they were destroyed, she fell forward as she had been balancing on a fence - the stake through her feet saw to that. She cried out, fell onto her face, and then a sympathetic Gabriel pulled the thing out. Lysa shut her eyes. On her face or not, ¡®twas nice to lay down a moment - even if she could sense the eyes on her bare back. She was glad to have never been vain; a few dozen scars was nothing to a woman who didn''t need to look fair, she thought. Vanity aside, a matter of greater import was quickly brought into the audience of her mind: Her arms, her legs, were motionless, and not even her great will could compel them into action. With a sigh, she requested aid, and Alonso set her against a wall so that she could see the room and the corpse of the inflictor. Already did the crushed head fester. A dozen crawlies crawled about the ruined aspect; here was the feast of kings, who now were gathering ¡®round the table of the skull fragments. The torturer had been a fat man, with a strong grip. He had the breath of a pig and the tongue of a dog. But what was he like underneath all of that? Lysa found herself wondering about his bones. About the individual notches on his spinal column. About the joints ¡®twixt his arm and forearm. About the bits on the ground. She only remembered her company when Lord Gabriel kneeled beside her. ¡°You¡¯re a necromancer,¡± he stated plainly. ¡°As any student of Baphosarex would be. You¡¯ve unbound me, though my limbs are of a different want. If it¡¯s me you need risen, you¡¯ll best call a physician, but the dead will rise for me with but a word and a twist of my spirits - alongside some practical material, if you¡¯d grant me it.¡± ¡°When they find my daughter at the bottom of this place, she will be dead. You will rise her, else you¡¯ll join her. What materials need you?¡± Lysa told him what she needed - the life of a woman. There would be others in The Crypt, and it would be no issue. When Gabriel turned around, Lysa let her face speak truth, and so she grinned. A Different Sort of Healer The next few minutes were tense as a bowstring. Alonso was made to stand guard o¡¯er Lysa while Lord Gabriel sunk further down the corkscrew steps. Lysa found herself wondering about His Lordship, but when she told her curiosity to her watcher he would only command her to silence. Sitting and wondering was all she was permitted to do. In truth, for all the plots whirling ¡®round her head, she knew very little about Lordships and all the accompanying politics. Baphosarex had a special distaste for those matters. What use were the laws of the living, compared to the laws of the dead? He figured they would never need to be taught - especially not to a little girl in the lawless south. While she loved her teacher, she did hate him for a moment, then. She briefly thought up a joke to tell him about this, only to then remember that he was dead. He died while she suffered. How did it happen? It is one thing to slay a king but another to slay a necromancer. Especially one of her teacher¡¯s expertise. ¡°Baphosarex is dead,¡± she began, ¡°But who, goodly watcher, dealt him the death blow? I know it could be no sickness, for he was the lord of sickness, and I know it could not be age for he was ageless.¡± Alonso gave her silence. She would have to bargain or beg. ¡°Answer me, knight, and I¡¯ll offer you an answer too. Or do you have no questions for the bronze woman? The wicked bitch? Remember that I¡¯ve been given to the same lord who owns your hand.¡± Alonso was leaning against the doorway, and now turned her head to him, having removed his houndskull helmet. He was older than she, but younger than Gabriel, and yet Lysa thought his face was the face of a man wizened by the years. He had a thick, dark beard, which you could sometimes see threatening to escape his helm. His nose and eyes were flat, small things, and a harsh weight pinched his features and wrinkled them. ¡®Twas his eyes Lysa thought most peculiar; they were a plain gray, but were deep in his skull, and full of intellect which betrayed his zeal. The torchlight glinted off the studs in his brigandine. He was calm now, and his voice was like thunder rolling over distant mountaintops. ¡°Baphosarex was slain by the river called Gurod, down in the south, during the Battle of Gurod. We drove our lances against him, crushed the dead forces, and in doing so crushed his darker spirit. We had caught him crossing on a bridge of spines, pinned him between us and the hungry waters. His men, if the dead can be labelled such, stood against us, but not for long. Then the arch-apostate made his flight, screamin¡¯ like a coward, but the bridge fell and the waters took him, swept him away to the depths, where the gods drown him daily, and remunerate his wrongs.¡± Lysa furrowed her brow. She also tried to lean forward, but her body remained limp. It was no question that her nerves, her web of action, had been annihilated. Her sinews had been stretched, her joints roiled; aye, she¡¯d ne¡¯er be able to move again without a second spell. Healing was also her profession. Baphosarex had taught her that. Now he was dead at the hands of her new captors. She made a note to return to these thoughts later, when they could be more readily acted upon. Before the inner motivation is turned into outward change, the soul must hide ¡®neath the body, and the truth must be disguised by tongue-wagging and flippant gestures. ¡°You led the charge, then?¡± She asked next. ¡°No - but I was at the faithful''s side.¡± Lysa curled an eyebrow, tilting her head. Alonso did not seem like he wanted to answer this unspoken question, but did nonetheless - perhaps a courtesy. ¡°Raphael Velenzi led that effort, aye. It earned him the regency, and stole my lord¡¯s throne.¡± Lysa understood nothing about this. Regency? So the old king had died, and for some reason his heir could not rule, so now there was a regent - who Gabriel warred against. Lysa understood little about the schemes of the northmen, but it was not her place to declare one king false and another true. There was the king who had saved her, and the king who had chained her. ¡°Gabriel¡¯s brother, then?¡± ¡°Lord Gabriel¡¯s brother, heaven¡¯s sake. How long did the throne-takers chain you up down here, ignorant sorceress?¡± She nodded downward, dark hair falling over her face, ¡°My hands have not met this ground in five years.¡± That gave Alonso pause. His eyes trailed across the diminutive figure before him, and it seemed for a moment that both her threat and his had been destroyed. Here was the sympathetic knight, here was the wounded maiden. There was no fire in that gaze - just cold pity. Lysa wanted to squirm away from it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Alonso, as though he had lashed the whip, ¡°Should you do right by His Lordship, you¡¯ll ne¡¯er find another shackle ¡®round your wrist.¡± Before Lysa could respond (not that she would have), she was reminded of a lesson about demons which her master once told her. A demon is idle in the depths. He dances with the Low One, and the gurgles of the drowning join him. But speak his name and he shall rise to meet you. And, sure enough, His Lordship stepped into the dank chamber, followed by a host of chain-clad warriors - who held firm a shrieking woman. Clutched in His Lordship¡¯s arms was the dead princess. No words were shared then. Lord Gabriel approached the sorceress, clutching the body tighter still. Her red hair was unbound from the many braids which she had come with. Her blue, silken dress, replaced by rags - which was more than Lysa got, anyway. The blood still dripped fresh from the corpse, staining her pallor. Her eyes, dull and gray, stared at nothing, for now the girl was of a different sight. A sight which Lysa would again blind her to. It was the death sight, the afterlife. The second life taken, to restore one. The princess was set on the floor in front of Lysa. Then Gabriel stepped back and delivered his command. ¡°Warriors, leave this chamber at once, and do not return lest at my hest. Work the magic now or you¡¯re dead.¡±If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. ¡°I have been dead for five years. I will not die for another. Sir Alonso, grab the shrieker - Lord Gabriel, you shall be my hands.¡± She was not used to performing this ritual with company. Ordinarily, the sacrifice would be sedated and chained, and her own hands - agile and thin and used to the art - would perform the steps. Men such as these would be reduced, and put into positions more suited for their brutality. But without her arms and her legs, the thought was useless. Yes, she would need to get her nerves back, quick as she could. ¡°Hm¡­¡± She pretended to think, ¡°There is something I had not considered. Lord Gabriel, how much do you care for your daughter? If you love her, truly, I¡¯ll need a second woman. This one should be around my size.¡± Alonso¡¯s suspicion (or perhaps ¡°Mistress Hate¡±) had returned now, ¡°What does that matter any? First you need one corpse, now two?¡± At the mention of a corpse, the taken woman shrieked louder, twisted her wrists harder ¡®against Alonso¡¯s strong hands, flailing helplessly. Lysa found, throughout life, that women did not try as hard as men to hide their screams. It always disappointed her. ¡°Men!¡± Gabriel called to those outside the chamber, ¡°A second woman - shorter than the first, and not such a bloody loud one!¡± So the men left to retrieve her nerves. Lysa watched the dead princess, stared into her dead eyes. She was utterly beautiful, and even in death possessed the spirit of youth. No wonder her father was so fond of her; father¡¯s were always fond of pretty daughters. Pretty daughters marry well, and a lord stands upon his marriages. What darker art is there than love? It is what pushes such men to wage these wars. Lysa wondered what reason Lord Gabriel had for reclaiming his throne. Perhaps there was no reason. Was there ever, with men such as him? Baphosarex had always been honest in his desires, at least. He wanted to rule the world - ¡®till the river ruled him, per Alonso. Is it not true that parent over child is another sort of rule? ¡°The second woman, Lord, Lordsguard,¡± spoke a soldier, shoving forth the woman of which he spoke. She was thin, short, and silent, her eyes much like the Princess¡¯ but fixed on a different point. She swayed where she stood, as though she were standing on a great edifice, and then began to softly cry. Alonso gave both sacrifices a nervous glance (a feat, given how insistently one struggled in his arms). Lysa took a deep breath. She felt her own heart slamming. It had been long since she worked the spirits; she worried that her gift had atrophied like her limbs. Magic was a privilege, not a right, and it was the only privilege she was born to. Losing it¡­ Would not be sufferable. Nor would Lord Gabriel and his sword-hand let her suffer it. ¡°These two will serve me fine, aye. Your men have good eyes. Now, Lord, bring me a lock of the silent one¡¯s hair.¡± Magic was a force of comparisons, and the woman¡¯s hair was long, stringy, wet from dripping water. Like lines of nerves in the bloodstream. Her sallow face twitched as Lord Gabriel approached with the knife, and she sighed as he, with a cut and a yank, secured a clump of the stuff. Lysa instructed him to walk over. He stepped around his daughter, frowning. She had him put the hair beneath her own tongue. The texture was coarse and the taste undesirable - if one could believe it. Lord Gabriel shook his hand off as though he had touched hot coal. Now with the essence of nerves in place, the essence of life was needed. While the ritual called upon only one stream of the stuff, that would not complete her deception. Lysa met the silent woman¡¯s gaze, then frowned. A shame to waste a life, but perhaps it would also be a mercy. She nodded toward Lord Gabriel¡¯s sword, which had been resting in the scabbard, exhausted after the battling. He drew the tired blade, and the steel gleamed in the firelight. Lysa spoke quieter, now. ¡°Cut their throats - aim the spray for your daughter, aye. Don''t knick Alonso.¡± That knight spoke, ¡°My lord, think of the men. This art-¡± ¡°Is needed. The men will understand, or not. I am he who provides them their bounties, and they¡¯ll not be so quick to rush from my side. Speak no more of this.¡± So Lord Gabriel stepped first to the silent woman, held her still, and made use of his blade, and then clutching her hair as she fell aimed the life-blood at the corpse of his daughter. Lysa furrowed her brow. Stagnant blood, or softly flowing blood, she did not mind, but the spray got all over her legs and was cold. No matter, she needed to focus. She shut her eyes tight, and visible then to her was that which all sorcerers could see. Magick. It congregated like dust particles around the two corpses, swarmed like flies. Magick was as much an organism as any other, really. A moving, shimmering organism; one of many colors. Magick liked heat. Pyromancy was among the most popular practices for it - although that side of the art held naught but shows. It liked the heat of thermal vents. Liked the heat of the freshly dead. ¡°Now sever the next.¡± More blood. A bit of gurgling. Lysa focused on the Magick of the second woman, located the individual cells. Then she whispered to them, spoke the tongue of the Ancient Ones, and commanded them to move. Instantly she felt her body grow heavy, her brain throbbing, her blood pulsing. The Magick took her energy - a bonus, for the colony¡¯s advantage - and the energy of the dead woman. Then it gave the princess a sort of life. Then it destroyed the bundle of hair beneath Lysa¡¯s tongue, and gave the sorceress her limbs. Lysa, feeling very tired, forced her own eyes to open. She could not rest among these strangers. There was a new sound; the rasp of a new breath. She cast her gaze downward, and saw Princess Velenzi sleeping in peace, though her skin was still pale. ¡°Wake up,¡± Lysa said. The Princess woke up with a gasp, clutching at herself and sobbing incoherently as Princesses are often wont to do. Then she shivered for a moment. Alonso stared, clutched his mace tight. Lysa did not blame him. For those without the gift, nothing was darker than the mystic force - and she would not feign ignorance to the taboo that would always follow sacrifice. But for now, Lord Gabriel was kneeling down, his eyes wide as dinner plates, and he was clutching his daughter. Lysa, shaking, got to her feet. ¡°For heaven¡¯s sake, Alonso, fetch the witch some rags,¡± said the Lord of House Velenzi, whose daughter was now burying her nose in his armored chest, ¡°The battle is won, my daughter is alive, and the sorceress is in my service. We must return topside - the sun must make itself bright upon my daughter. Tell the men to make ready their cups and their bellies - more victories are soon to come.¡± ¡°The thought of magick will disturb the men,¡± spoke Alonso, ¡°We¡¯ll say she¡¯s but a different sort of healer - the folk kind. Most of these warriors are used to witch doctors - they¡¯re common among the village folk. Perhaps she¡¯ll do good on the morale.¡± Lord Gabriel nodded. Lysa, wanting not to laugh, asked, ¡°And what of me, Lord? How may I serve you again?¡± ¡°For heaven¡¯s sake,¡± he repeated, clutching the weeper tightly still, ¡°You are a victor, too. Do as you will - but do not stray far.¡± A Conversation with a Frog The warband, which numbered about six hundred, now gathered at the site of their grand victory. Taking the The Crypt had been a slaughter, but the fortress above it had not been so pliant. Lysa would come to learn that it took Lord Gabriel¡¯s party ten weeks of siege to weaken the fort; and it could have lasted forty years if bread never spoiled. Fort Mayamat had sentinel over a large, flat stretch of land. Once, there was a score of houses on that land. They grew wheat on the fields and drank from a stone well. Children would play in the shadow of the citadel Now, those villages were smears of dust on the flat grass. To the back of the fortress was Mt. Mayamat, which could not be scaled but by the billy goat¡¯s hoof, and which was raised by Cothon¡¯s talon when the world was made. Cothon would be the eagle-god, the god of the land and sky. Or so said the priests of the north. No matter what the priests said, though, Fort Mayamat had been taken. The courtyard was huge, and men made camp among its flats. Four gigantic walls, still stained with blood, kept them inward. White tents, tinted gray by months of travel, thrust their peaks skyward. Smoke billowed out from a dozen camp fires, heavy with the scent of meat, before disappearing into the evening sky. Loot was being divided amongst the soldiers - plundered arms, newly-dented helms - and so the camp was alight with chatter and clatter and the clinking of mail. The rest of the men, Lysa gandered, were inside the halls of the fortress itself, singing the sword-song to those few enemies who had survived, or gathering whatever jewels and treasures the place hid. The foe¡¯s servants would be made into Lord Gabriel¡¯s servants. The foe¡¯s retainers would be made into prisoners, who for a sum would be ransomed back to their families, and who would fuel the first taxes of war: Food, water, and weapons. Everything the living needed to continue their wastefulness. The second tax of war was shared ¡®tween living and dead, though, and it was the tax of life. That evening, there was a show about paying it. At the time, Lysa had been sitting on the edge of the encampment, feeling the warmth of a campfire which was nothing like the heat of a poker. These plains were chilly at best, and the rags she had been given did little to defend her from its bite, so she stuck close to the tongues of fire. Her thin frame rattled with each gust of wind, and not for the first time, she regretted leaving her homeland. There, cold had been a solely nocturnal phenomenon. This evening, there was nothing she could demand but sleep. Guarding the sorceress was one of Lord Gabriel¡¯s most loyal warriors, whose name had already slipped her mind. Alonso the hound had followed his master. Here is what happened: The warrior pointed upward, toward the battlement, telling some dumb joke. Standing up there on the wall were three men a girl: Lord Gabriel, Sir Alonso (now brandishing a voulge, sharpened so that the sunset glinted off its edge), a stranger, and the Princess. At such a distance Lysa could not decipher much about the stranger but for his plate armor and his bloodied brow and his silvery beard. The Princess was latched to Lord Gabriel¡¯s side - but really, she was watching Lysa. The gaze was invisible but more intense than any other. An expectant, pliant gaze, it was. Good. The next few moments passed quick; Lord Gabriel announced that the fort¡¯s commander had been captured, but that the noble lord had escaped, but he wouldn¡¯t run for long because all traitors are cursed with the legs of pigs. Then he sent the stranger to his knees, and then the stranger said that the gods would ruin all of Lord Gabriel¡¯s men, then Alonso took a step back and raised his mighty arms and brought down the blade which decapitated him. His head fell over the battlements. Like the trail of a comet did that silver beard follow above. It landed in front of the entrance to ¡°The Crypt¡± - a pair of gigantic iron doors, engraved to depict wailing figures on torture devices. There were many myths surrounding the creation of The Crypt, and Lysa¡¯s torturer had spoken all of them. Some rumor that Lord Loretto I - the founder of Lorancia - had built them to punish the stoneskin tribes. Others say that the Old Thirteen themselves - the dark, unspeakable gods - had hewn The Crypt out of the wet earth, knowing that humans would use the space only to further each other¡¯s pain. The truth of it, Lysa did not know, and she did not want to think about that place any longer. Soldiers were scrambling to retrieve the fallen head. ¡°Such an ugly affair, isn¡¯t it?¡± Said a meek voice from nowhere. A glance around did not reveal the source of the sound - and Gabriel¡¯s warrior seemed similarly confused. It was though the shadows themselves had spoken. And perhaps they had, because a moment later, a new shape emerged before Lysa¡¯s humble fire: It was dark, swaddled like a babe in the essence of the night, its cloaks fluttering softly in the wind and smoke. Its face was pale and crooked - and crooked too was its back. One shoulder rose o¡¯er the other, and the head emerged from the cloaks at a tilted angle. Its hideous visage was partly brightened by a friendly smile and a whimsical cane (which was carved to depict woodland creatures). The strange shape sat down on the bare grass to Lysa¡¯s side. ¡°You are the hunchback,¡± spoke the necromancer, ¡°Lord Gabriel mentioned you; you told him the cell of the princess, but in truth the cell was mine. Accident or no, I thank you for freeing me. I am called Lysa of Carel. You?¡± ¡°Oh, good Lysa of Carel, you really will find no use for my name, though I¡¯ll tell it besides. I am called the Frog, and always have been.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Lysa, still not entirely familiar with the northern tongues, raised an eyebrow, ¡°Are frogs not a sort of watery beast?¡± ¡°You¡¯re right, they are. His Lordship found me on the bank o¡¯ the river, a wailing babe. He was just a boy then, but his father gave me shelter, and so I am a servant - as are you, from what I have heard. The men whisper that you rose the princess from death - snatched her from the reaper¡¯s own hand. Is it so?¡± She clenched her jaw. Her practice was not one she would ere speak aloud in the years before the five. But things had shifted; the world spun the wrong way ¡®round. Baphosarex was dead, she was free (the sun was hitting her face, then, dancing in her curled locks), and a want-to-be-king had bid her to work the dark magicks. But the frog before her - she felt an air about him that lended itself well to secret words. ¡°Aye, it''s so. I¡¯ve not had a word with her since, she¡¯s been so ensnared in her father¡¯s love. Though, it is not thanks for which I perform. I, too, am Lord Gabriel¡¯s servant; he bid me so at the site of my rescue.¡± ¡°Your accent, Madam, you¡¯re from¡­?¡± ¡°The south.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯d guess as much to look at you. But where, thither? You''re not the shade of a Daji, aye, nor have you a hint of the dwarven stature, or the voice of a Myrinlander¡­ ¡° Another raised eyebrow did this earn from her - it seemed that very few northerners bothered to make a distinction between the southern empires, just as she rarely bothered to distinguish one northman fief from another. Perhaps this ¡°Frog¡± was not bad for conversation - which was more than could be said of Alonso. She found herself disarmed - and speaking much too easily. ¡°Me, and my voice, are from Dajia,¡± she told him, ¡°My shade is owed to your own kin, of this land. A merchant, or perhaps a pillaging warrior came seeking his gain, and stole into my mother¡¯s hut, and I am the result of his horribleness. You are among the few to ere learn such of me - be careful with your knowledge, Frog, for what else is there to be careful with?¡± Frog nodded, a grave weight upon his upjumped shoulder, ¡°You speak wisely, Madam; wiser than a man speaks. Although if a man speaks that you are wiser than he, and all men are compared to you a fool, then that fool would be wrong, which would therefore make him right, which would in turn make him wrong again-¡± ¡°Wrinkle not my brain. I have asked my question of your name, and you of my race. Knowledge needs caution, but so too does flattery. Do you seek another token? I cannot rise another life tonight - the ritual cannot always be done so quick.¡± That was a half-lie. She would not be able to cast another spell today - the two she earlier cast had, with the effort needed to draw upon the magick organism, exhausted her utterly. It would take some deal of mental exercise, she knew, to improve her casting. Once she had real power - once she had stolen it from the hands of her new captors - two spells a day would simply not suffice. One troop per sunset was a rate which even a novice would not abide by. Perhaps Lysa was a stranger woman, still, because Mistress Hate embraced her then, whispering sweet words in her ear. Look what they have done to you. Look at what they have deprived you of. The torturer stole what Baphosarex taught you. Alonso stole the life of the torturer - that life was yours to take. Mistress Hate fled at the sound of Frog¡¯s voice, ¡°I need nothing more of you. To be introduced to you - that will do nicely, at this time. I welcome you to this company - though I doubt you¡¯ll be a warrior, you''ll be a fine helper. You¡¯ve already helped Princess Lucia more than I can attest to having helped her, and I¡¯ve been her peon for years. Ah, and look, she ventures hither!¡± The Princess of House Velenzi (who was named Lucia, apparently), was approaching the campfire now, her gaze set the same as it had been on the battlement. In the midst of the previous conversation, she and her father had come down from there, while Alonso staked the body up to display. Her every motion drew looks; these men had been deprived of women for a long while, now, and very few would dare ogle a southerner (and a witch besides). But the Princess? Her beauty was utterly resplendent; her skin ghost-pale, her redhair braided like a single, dangling intestine, her nails freshly painted a poisonous purple. Lysa did not consider herself fond of women, but it was impossible to deny the approaching gemstone. Lysa turned to Frog, hoping to gauge his reaction, but found him absent. Sneaky blighter. Princess Lucia lingered on the edge of the firelight, ¡®till Lysa motioned her to sit. With a few measured steps, she did, rearranging her dirtied skirts. Then, she waited patiently, and looked rather clueless about much of anything. This automatic return to Lysa - it would have to be ironed out. The necromancer took a deep breath, and per the command of the Princess, Gabriel¡¯s warrior was dismissed. Once he had disappeared among the tents to seek ale, Lysa spoke plainly to the daughter of His Lordship: ¡°Tell me who your father is.¡± ¡°You are my father,¡± said the Princess, blinking with dull eyes. ¡°No, I am not. Think deeply - you¡¯ve still got the brain left for that, no? Tell me who raised you before you died. Who took you from the place of nothingness, and placed you in the womb of your birther?¡± Princess Lucia tilted her head, ¡°Lord Gabriel¡­?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Lysa nodded, a smile twitching on her lips, ¡°You¡¯re a clever one, aren¡¯t you? Now, tell me everything you can about this civil war - and how you think we¡¯ll make its victory our own.¡± The War ¡°The trouble began after the death crusade ¨C my father and uncle both fought in it, but the old King Cucoco stayed in his palace; his fighting days were over, they said. All of his sons had perished many years ago, but for one: a little boy yet to earn his name, and who was therefore called Ferret. Uncle and father both fought will against the forces of the high necromancer ¨C but it was Uncle who drove him into the river, and who claimed victory o¡¯er him and his forces.¡± ¡°So, upon Raphael Velenzi ¨C who was my uncle ¨C King Cucoco ¨C who was the king and the father of Ferret ¨C heaped treasures untold. I remember attending the reward ceremony ¨C they brought out wagons for the gold, and discussed matters such as marriage, such as Princess Lucia¡¯s marriage ¨C I am Princess Lucia, by the way ¨C and my father dined on jealousy that night.¡± ¡°A few months later, sickness claimed King Cucoco ¨C who was the king and the father of Ferret ¨C and so the noblemen of the kingdom of Jerefraine were called to elect a regent. Ferret is still a little boy ¨C he cannot be king! Anyway, they chose Raphael Velenzi, who was the second richest man in Jerefraine, and the single most respected.¡± Lysa listened idly to the Princess'' spiel. The woman had clearly been scrambled by the resurrecting spell, aye; it was usually unwise to bring back those who had just been made deceased. If Lysa did not have a cause which needed furthering forsoothly, she would not have made the magick move. Ultimately, though, there was nothing to regret, and a father would not quickly question the revival of his blood. ¡°Who is the first richest man in Jerefraine?¡± Asked she. ¡°My father. He owns most of the southern coast ¨C inherited it from my grandfather. He is older than Raphael, and a greater war-leader besides. Victory after victory we''ve had; though our enemy is greater in number, a host of noble lords rebelled with us. Only, we cannot take the north. Ally after ally have tried to make the crossing, and they all lost. So now father marches for it.¡± ¡°The crossing?¡± ¡°Mhm. There''s only two ways to reach the northern half of Jerefraine, thanks to the impassable River Rianne. There is the sea ¨C which, due to the sheer number of men needed for the conquest of the land, the price of ships, and the risk of storms, is unfeasible ¨C or there is Zeregazi. Its a mighty citadel, and it overlooks the only bridge north. Father will have to take it. My father is Lord Gabriel Velenzi, by the way. My uncle is Lord Raphael Velenzi¡­¡± And so babbled on the dead princess. Lysa had already extracted herself from the conversation, and had therefore turned her eyes to the crackling campfire in front of her. She felt the grass beneath her feet, and the wind cool against her skin. So much had happened here, while she¡¯d been gone. Five years seemed now to have passed in an instant; she had been brought into the depths of The Crypt, closed her eyes, and then appeared hither on the surface again. Somewhere between the glimpses of sunshine, there was a single instance: The lashing whip, the insults, the reeking laughter. That instance had repeated itself for one-thousand-eight-hundred and twenty-five days. During its expanse, there seemed to be nothing but the instance and its pain. Now, no matter how hard she tried, she could barely recall it. It had not even been a day since the instance last repeated. No memory lingered; just the ghost pain of capture and the relief of fresh escape. ¡°Daughter, go at once to Alonso,¡± came the voice of the Rebel King, his sabatons clinking quietly ¡®gainst the grass, ¡°And stop bothering the corpse-botherer.¡± ¡°Lady Lysa is a kind woman-¡± Lysa bit her tongue as a brief argument ¡®twixt father and spawn arose. Some part of her was bothered that the clueless princess had registered her so swiftly as the corpse-botherer, but found no need for correction in that matter. It was how the men of Gabriel¡¯s troop had doubtless come to know her. Sorcery must have seemed to them as the wicked act, the evil force, the antithesis of the godly rites; Lysa knew that those godly rites were born of the same creature. Magick was everywhere, and the only difference between holy and heretic spells were the subspecies they drew from. Whatever the case, Princess Lucia was sent away - bid so by a quiet nod of Lysa¡¯s head. Gabriel talked. ¡°You did me service, raising her, but mistake not my thanks for trust. Alonso is my friend, and I trust his word o¡¯er your sorceries. Remember you swore to me - and remember that even the darkest of gods have no love for oathbreakers. When Mor Karavon broke the trust of the Old Thirteen-¡± Lysa¡¯s heart pounded, her eyes widened, and at once did she act to shush her new master, pressing a hand to his mouth. He stared at her for several moments until she, realizing her impulse, pulled her hand away. The rush of panic made way for a brief ember of shame. Never show your fear. ¡°Speak not of them,¡± Lysa said, her voice shaking, ¡°Speak not of Mor Karavon or his masters. Doing so will only invite misfortunes. Please, tell me, was there anything else you had to tell me?¡± ¡°Yes. You, being oathbound, and having given my daughter life, and having wisdom which my countrymen do not possess - you are of special importance. Tonight, you will ride on my stallion. We leave ¡®fore the sunrise, and as we do so we¡¯ll leave but embers at our backs. We cannot stay here, for all that is here we¡¯ve plundered already, and we cannot leave the place to our foes, so we¡¯ll burn it.¡± Lysa was surprised at this, but did not show it. ¡°Very well. Anything else?¡± ¡°Should we take prisoners, and should they be of ignoble background, I¡¯ll lend them to you. Alonso will do any killing you need - that is my whim for him. The matter of his heart and the hearts of my troops, and their attachments to the proper rites - I shall handle.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°You take on much burden for the apprentice of Baphosarex.¡± ¡°If the apprentice places her foot where it should not go, or wags her tongue when it should be still, then I shall have a priest fill your lungs with the holiest water - which cannot drown - and your throat with holy hymns - which cannot by your pagan lips be sung; and you shall be consecrated, and given pure to soldiers who do not talk much but who desire many things of strange women.¡± Lysa scoffed and cocked her head, ¡°You should explain in greater depth this fantasy of yours, Lord. Your tales cure deafness and, no doubt, create fires in the loins of thy beloved who, hearing your command, is slave to the woman-urge, and no doubt imagines herself as the apprentice and the quiet soldier come to plunder her as yourself.¡± His expression became very grave. ¡°My wife is dead.¡± ¡°Oh. Well, if you bring me her body and three lives¡­¡± To her surprise, he chuckled at that, but it was hollow noise, ¡°Baphosarex should have taught you silence. I¡¯ll be off to attend my duties. Feel free to laze about until your sorcery next is needed.¡± Then, accepting no retort, Gabriel marched off to the tent of command (the largest of the tents, bearing the twin-eagled banner of House Velenzi, and the motto of the family: No rest in peace. Peace had long since fled Jerefraine, Lysa knew. First, the kingdom had been called to crusade. Then those same crusades were turned against it. Then Gabriel rebelled. And before the crusades? Lysa was young, and had never known such a world. Perhaps there was peace in those tiny years between her birth and Baphosarex¡¯s breaking of her shackles, but one could not even see those years if they were to squint. Like the memories of her torture, they had disintegrated - or at least were misplaced. The same could not be said of that man. Baphosarex had, even in her torture, dominated a place in her mind. He had done so before, as well. The memory of he was so fresh she could not even hope to repel it when it came. His skin, dark like coals, shimmering with sweat in the desert sun. His black robes flying in the wind. His hands, which were so thin, and always trembling ¡®neath the force of his own art, which once rose an army to rival an army of the gods. But what she remembered the most about him was his warmth. His voice like the fire set before her, the ashy scent which always accompanied his old tomes, the heat of his hands guiding hers through the most basic of incantations. And, of course, the hearth lit in his embrace, in his words. The words he told her at the site of their first meeting: For as long as I live, they will not hurt you. It made sense that he was dead, then, because Lysa suddenly felt an injury upon herself. She bandaged it with nothing more than a slight twitching in her face. Then she watched the fire. She watched the smoke lashing at the sky until the smoke could only be seen for the stars. Gabriel shared his plans to move on with a speech, but the men, not caring much about the virtues of the gods and caring a lot more about resting their legs, were not eager. Still, with a tumultuous grumbling and a great moving about, the war camp made ready for movement. It took a while. Men still had looting and eating to do and were loathe to pause such tasks. Of course, such warriors were inferior to the one''s which Lysa could raise. Could. The fact that she could still use her gift at all was - not to credit the gods - a miracle. Only the usage of the gift could make clear its existence, and it withers if it is not exercised. Many sorcerers lived and died without ever realizing they had it at all. Lysa was around seven years old when Baphosarex showed her the powers she had, and it was a surprise that she, having never used them before, had retained them until that point. Now, a five year break - and the gift had not left her. What good fortunes! At the moment, however, she had no minions to prepare for travel, and no possessions to pack. The Frog, at least, did her a kindness in the meanwhile; he emerged from behind a tent and, after making several comments about the ruckus, offered Lysa a change of clothes. Or, clothes at all. The few stringy garments she had did little to protect her, so she took the dark (and somewhat scratchy) robes with nothing more than a nod of gratitude. So too did he give her a pair of straw sandals. They were peasant clothes - which blended in better, and which she could offer no complaint over. Then she walked among the horses until she found Lord Gabriel. His horse was, by all accounts, a noble stallion. Never had she seen one like it - there was no such breed in Carel or its surrounding crags. The beast was broad and tall, with fur so thick it was a wonder it could even see or move. Its eyes were nothing but yellow dots, and its tail flicked hard enough to bring her pause. ¡°She¡¯s a good girl,¡± said Gabriel from atop the beast. He had changed out of his plate mail, perhaps for the sake of the beast. It was too dark to see without fire, and so his face was cast in torchlight. He had sharp cheekbones and a heavy brow, his skin only barely beginning to reveal his age. Gabriel¡¯s eyes were of a deep sort, as though a hundred sorrows had pressed them. His shoulders were wide, his slender hands gripping tightly the reins, and as Lysa mounted up behind him, pressed against his broad back, she could not help but detect the scent of the forest. She was as fond of men as she was of women (see: not very), but it did surprise her very much that he had not taken a wife. A second one, from the sounds of it. He was old, but handsome, and also rich. Besides the warmongering and the apostasy, there seemed little wrong with him. ¡°Stop clinging,¡± he told her, ¡°We ride until midday.¡± Alonso, appearing from nowhere upon a black warhorse, stomped up beside His Lordship, ¡°Are you sure? The men are tired, and need rest.¡± ¡°Then we¡¯ll rest at midday. We need to be quick about this. Fort Geruosi stands strong between us and Zeregazi. We must cut the shield to break the sword - otherwise good Knight Jerefraine will reach around and smash the backs of our heads with the rim of the implement. Its a small fort, anyway. Can you take the walls?¡± ¡°I¡¯ll have to take a look at it - we build forts differently than the southerners, but if its got a wall, I can break it, yeah. But beware, Lord, for the road itself hides dangers: No doubt your brother, despite his holiness, will unleash snakes from the brush upon us.¡± ¡°Well spoken, Alonso. Let us be off!¡± So off they were let, a caravan of armor and swords. Princess Lucia with the Frog rode in the back, defended by the Household Guard - men of loyalty and strength which could be matched only by the dead. And perhaps Alonso was even better spoken than Lord Gabriel knew, because six hours later - just as the sun crested the hills and rose again - Lysa would survive her first battle since Baphosarex had gone. In the Woods Once, the world had been ruled by dogs. There were the first men, huddling ¡®round fires in their caves and trembling against the cold. There was the stalwart mammoth, great beasts of strength and thunder, who dwell still in the furthest reaches of the furthest mountains. There were, of course, the terror birds - hateful creatures who made a living on killing, and who still are ridden by the warriors of Carel. But the rulers were dogs. Great hunting packs would turn the plains into slaughtering grounds, and running together like drops of rain, the dogs would fell even the mammoth. They would stalk the forest, would roam the hills, and all which they desired to eat would be eaten, and all that hoped to escape would be caught. This rule was short-lived, however, because mankind invented something which a dog could not comprehend or defend against: traps. Lord Gabriel was, despite his position, not leading the march northward. He sat in the middle of the convoy of warriors, protected at all sides - as protected as one could be in this site, anyway. The Princess and the Frog were but a few horses behind, riding on a wagon: the former had never liked horses, and the latter had tried but failed due to the warping of his flesh. Surrounding the convoy now was a dense forest. The trees towered high above the dirty path, and were alive with soldiers who, lacking room on the path, instead walked through the forest itself. The forest welcomed them. Branches bent like open arms, and birds sang their greeting-songs. Shafts of sunlight only just pierced through the canopy; it was early morning. Rabbits and squirrels danced about the brush. Alonso, his visor raised, took a deep breath of this air, and Lysa imagined the freshness of it filling his lungs. Indeed, the bodyguard of the rebel regent was brightened, if only a little, by this scenery. Lysa struggled to imagine his heart forged from no fire but the flame of war, but now a sunbeam was catching his face and his beard and he seemed content in its light. His eyes shone as though an old friend had just stumbled through the tavern doors. Lysa had never been in a forest before, though, and found the umbrage discomforting. There were so many scents and noises, and nothing to defend the convoy but the convoy itself. It was easy to place a thousand terrible beasts into vision when vision was so harshly diminished by tree trunks, leaves, and darkness. She spoke to make herself content, as though her voice could ward off the queer spirits which in the mystery places always gathered. ¡°It is the fey, I hear, that rule lands such as these,¡± she told Lord Gabriel, clutching him slightly, ¡°But you are the ruler, too, no? I would like to know about these sprites. Especially if I¡¯m to rest my head in these woods soon - I suppose that depends on their breadth, and our rate of travel. Its a discomforting thought, aye.¡± ¡°The fey are but the dreams of dreamers, and dreamers are liars all. Have no fear about the fey: they are invisible because they do not exist, and therefore their harm is invisible the same.¡± Alonso shook his head, his coif clinking, ¡°The fey are real as any other beast of the woodland. They¡¯re not invisible, either: they lurk in hidden places, but if you¡¯ve the sight for it, you can draw them out. Reckon you could, Lysa, if you were born of the druids. Its the kind of sight that passes only in blood.¡± His horse snorted - perhaps in agreement? Lysa cocked an eyebrow at him and the horse both, ¡°Druids? I have heard of them - they are the forest dwellers, aye? And, to knights such as you, no doubt are heretics in need of slaying.¡± ¡°I was born of the Druids, and I know they are fine. Heretics, sure, but they worship our gods. It''s just a different way of going about it, that¡¯s what they¡¯ve got. There are lower creatures, forsooth, in more urgent need of my hammer. And besides, my crusading days are ended long - buried deep ¡®neath the soil, yea.¡± ¡°You¡¯re a very permissive paladin when you want to be.¡± She meant the compliment - perhaps she had misread him as a zealot. All men were zealous in the north, Baphosarex once had told her. But then, had Baphosarex ever been to Jerefraine? He had told her a little bit about the land, about its rolling hills and luxurious wines, but it had all been common knowledge. Gabriel piped in again, elbowing Lysa slightly, ¡°He¡¯s got what you lack, sorceress: An open mind, a heart of virtue, and a Druid woman to be sweet on.¡± Now it was Alonso¡¯s turn to raise an eyebrow, ¡°That ¡®Druid woman¡¯ is my wife, Lord.¡± Lysa leaned back from Gabriel, tilting her head at Alonso, ¡°So you¡¯re not sweet on her?¡± If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. He frowned a little, and began to speak. Perhaps he would have said something amusing, or grumpy, or perhaps he would invoke an aspect of himself which Lysa had yet to spectate. Whatever the case, the next word spoken was the rustle of the brush and the gasp of a bolt parting air. Lord Gabriel groaned as the force met his shoulder, bone cracking ¡®neath the weight of the bolt, and he wobbled upon horseback. Lysa blinked, realization came upon her, and then she screamed that an attack was upon them. To credit the living, they are quicker to react than the dead. In the snapping of a twig Alonso had dismounted, and in another snap was he ripping His Lordship from his stirrups and taking him to cover - for the attack, Lysa could tell, was from one side. Bolts flew one way, and warriors looked one way. The horses shrieked their terror, reared on their legs, and then so did Gabriel¡¯s horse which was now Lysa¡¯s horse. The world flipped. The mud, the blanket of the earth, softened her fall - bolts whistled past her, interrupted only by the screams and gurgles of those who had not in time raised shields. Heart pounding, she scrambled, having no destination, as the men around her sought their weapons and each other and the trees on the other side of the path, iron clattering, war-cries filling the air, and then an impolite bolt saw it fit to fly for Lysa; she flinched and dodged it by accident. Then there was another cry, rougher, coming from the trees: The wave of bolts had crashed and now came the wave of men behind it. Lysa didn¡¯t see them, though, and instead crawled and then stood and then hid behind a mossy log on the edge of the treeline. Her lungs begged for air which would not come, and each breath was joined by a rasp: She had seen war before, but never without a guard, and never without her master¡¯s hand, and it was one thing to spectate and another to partake. Iron sang. Men screamed. She peered over the log, and saw the battle on the other side of the dusty road: The warriors of Gabriel were meeting the strangers in the brush, which was foolish, because their armor was heavy, their swings wide, and the trees hindered them more than the foe. And the foe? They were not Druids, or at least did not look like Druids: They dressed in hard leathers, used small blades and small shields, and each was trailed by a green cloak. The ambush had slain a good number of the rebel troops, and a good number had also fled - a number which Lysa had joined. It was then she spotted Alonso, or perhaps a thing which used to be Alonso, making war amongst the trees. His visor was down, the whole of his being reduced to a pair of black slits and a raised warhammer; whose spike he was now driving into the neck of a foe, and as another approached his side Alonso bashed him with a shield, then brought the hammer back around to crush his skull ¡®neath it''s weight. Blood and fragments splattered across the brush. Lord Gabriel was with his daughter, defended by the Houseguard - the elites of the army - but Alonso was with the battle-calm, or perhaps the battle-frenzy, and he moved between men like a creek-fish darting between water bugs, and each one he killed with ease. Men who had fled from the initial volley were now rallying, emerging from behind Lysa, charging into the opposite wood, their spears dropped and their swords drawn. Such hefty spears would be of no use among the close trees. Orders were being shouted now by the foe and the friend, but another bolt shot out from some unknown point and slammed into the log Lysa had sheltered behind - and the wooden crumbled. She shrieked like a babe and scrambled further back, her voyeurism unpermitted, the twigs and spiky bushes cutting at her bare ankles. The screams continued, louder and louder. She could barely breath, so she slumped against a tree trunk, clapped her hands over her ears, and shut her eyes tight. For as long as I live, they will not hurt you. She needed him there, now, needed him so badly that her bones shook for it. Could it have been that the river swept him away to safety? No. Impossible. If Baphosarex lived, he would have helped her long before Gabriel. And besides, she could his death in her bones. For the first time, a new lust gripped her, twisted her intestines about themselves in bloody coils: It was the bloodlust, the lust for revenge. If he had a corpse, he could be returned, but first she would kill northerners. She peeked out from behind the trunk and, perhaps foolishly, closed her eyes. The swarms were active as ever here, where life began at the bodyguards and ended at the edge of the trees. Magick fluttered about the branches and leaves, pulsed heavily with every death gained, with every blood spray as men slit each other¡¯s throats and stabbed each other¡¯s armpits. This was a battle of daggers. She focused on one swarm which congregated low to the ground, and took a deep breath. Besides the stench of her own sweat and the cries of the dying, there was calm. The forest was no stranger to these conflicts, and once this fight was over, it would be as though no fight occured at all. The corpses would be soil. She focused on the murder. On a blade being drawn across a green-cloak¡¯s neck. The magicks buzzed, and she focused on them, and she commanded them, and they swarmed to join the magicks of the corpse. Then, she bid them enter, and they did. This resurrection would be weaker than the Princess¡¯, the form weaker and dumber, but if it could hold a weapon it would be enough. A wave of exhaustion shuddered through her then - the suddenness of the spell wringing her dry. She slumped against the tree again, gasping for breath. A tight pain pressed against her ribs - she had overextended herself to work it so swiftly and passionately. Passion could be a bad thing for a sorceress. Limp, she barely kept her eyes open to watch her art prove its efficacy. The man-corpse rose, donned in chainmail and helmet. A crossbow bolt jutted from its throat, blood staining its blonde stubble. Distantly, she realized that this was the bodyguard who had watched over her and the Frog at the war camp. Its hollow eyes flitted about as it stood, weapons dangling loosely in pale hands. It looked to Lysa. She sighed and gestured toward a fighting green-cloak, whispering kill. And so the creature tried to kill. It was clumsy, unaccustomed to the weight of chain mail. Its knees buckled with every step. The green-cloak she had indicated was just finishing one of Gabriel¡¯s warriors when the creature approached. Rather than utilize its sword, it slammed the weight of an arm into the green-cloak, which did nothing. Surprised, the ambusher retaliated with a clumsy swing of his own. It caught the creature¡¯s cheek, carved through the flesh. This accomplished nothing. No matter. Even a dumb dog can learn with patience. The battle was not yet over.