《Canto for the Fallen》


 The Long Dark

    <u>Canto for the Fallen</u>


    ¡°I will not. I tire of this story, tire of this life. I care not that our war with the Elves has left me a beggar-knight. I care that you were supposed to catch me as I fell. Did you not call me brother before? Does a brother leave his kin in the mud to bleed and rot after sending them toward inevitable death? You know you never claimed the bodies you left in that field of the Somme. I went there as I sought my soul, finding an old, bullet-riddled plate adhered to bones. You called us your knights, warriors superior to the soldiers of the state- the Volksturmtruppen. Equal to the Ordos¡¯ warriors. We were your Ritterdrache, and you abandoned us.


    Now, you want us to join your cause after these twenty years of miserable, unequal peace to fight in the Forever War? I will not be your slave soldier yet again. My son was executed in the colonies by your damn madmen. His crime? Questioning why we bow to Elves and let them enslave and consume our people. Why do we? Why do you suddenly want war with vampires and demonicka that have long been heeled when Elves, billions of them, are at our borders with weapons far beyond pike and shot? The true enemy builds itself up while we go to reclaim our masculinity. And you endorse this dalliance and ask the same of us?


    I defy you, Kaiser. This letter leads my accusations nailed to this cathedral of Melentale. You have forgotten your people and allowed us to falter. If you abandon the colonies, we shall abandon you.


    True brothers and sisters reading this, look upon these theses below and see what I see in our rotting Fatherland. The Lightborne shall rise again, and I will be with you when we scourage all Elves and free our kin. If the Kaiser denies this, then may his bones be crushed and join Arthur Eld¡¯s in infamy.¡°


    Prelude Letter to the 105 Accusations of Otto Von Falke


    3803 A.H.


    Last Knight-Commander of the Ritterdrache.


    He was drawn and quartered shortly after for his treasonous uprising in Zerbrochene K¨¹ste; his supporters (1,239) were burned at the stake in the resulting Confessions.


    -May Melentale preserve the Fatherland and smote all traitors-


    Note by Jan von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    <u>The Long Dark</u>


    Late Winter 3805 A.H.


    *********


    The Crusader, Sword-brother of the Red Line


    The Crusader held his bleeding chest as his blood steamed in the winter snow. His fingers traced the indent in his armor and the circular hole where that thunder lance had punched through plate and mail. He drew a sharp breath; he felt fragments of his chainmail tearing something inside him. He breathed again. It must be his right lung. He mouthed a prayer to All-Mother Melentale and raised his visor.


    Blood dripped from the frosted steel where he had coughed into it. He wiped the gore from his good eye and turned that eye to search for his weapon. There, his broadsword lay where it slipped from his hand. He retrieved it and wiped crimson and browned snow from it. His other eye throbbed, and in the mirror of his steel, he saw a blackened, oozing hole where it had once been. That vampire could¡¯ve just slammed that wispy blade of forwards, and he¡¯d have been a dead man.


    Instead, it just shot him and kicked him from the precipice.


    He recalled brief flashes of light behind his closed eyes as his head played music on the rocks, and his body became one with the snow below. The cliff rose nearly two hundred feet behind him with plenty of jutting rocks that spared him a deadly descent- only gifting a violent, mocking one.


    The Crusader steeled his resolve and buried the shame. He was a Lightborne, a descendant of humanity, and these wounds were nothing mortal. He could press on. He would bring ill tidings to the south. Yet that was enough victory in the Long War.


    The Crusader dropped his shoulders and looked up to find Otto¡¯s Eye in the starry sky¡ªa red star in the long dark. It shined to his right, and he started off in that direction. Southbound was his mission now. The crusade was shattered, and the dead were uncountable¡ªthe colonies must be warned.


    He grumbled as he noticed one of his arms hanging by threads of muscle at his elbow. Yellow-white bone shards peppered the dark red meat, and specks of shredded chainmail revealed how useless this armor had been. The memory flashed in his mind- a mailed fist striking his left arm and stealing all feeling from it except staggering agony. He released a long, misting breath as he stared at his maimed arm.


    A quick slash, and it plopped into the snow. The Crusader moved on. He marched toward a black abyss ahead between the skeletal trees, where the twisting woods sang a song of silence. The snow piled down in waves, and the Crusader dropped his visor with the hilt of his sword. He would endure¡ªfor the Fatherland.


    Greywraithe oaks rose steadily in their heights as he traveled, growing a handful of feet and then rising to tens of feet. The communal arboreal hive interlinked into nests of trees he couldn¡¯t fit his hand through, much less his body. These hives hummed in a strange language; their song became an increasing annoyance as he failed to find a path clear of these knotted families. Detour after detour was his fate. He sometimes found himself staggering and stumbling through a madness of roots, returning to where he started. Once, through the darkness, he saw a rolling highland of ice and shrubs. He stepped into a footprint half-removed from the snowfall.


    His eye inspected this trail, his chin rising to see a familiar, sheer cliff he had been kicked down. How? He turned around, seeing Otto¡¯s Eye leading him back through the dark.


    He stifled his roar of frustration into a sharp hiss of spite. He lost sight of Otto¡¯s Eye when the Greywraithe ticket rose too high. He was not so young a woodsman that this was an easy mistake. He grew up amongst the Nulwoods of the Rhineland; this was his life.


    He told all these things to himself, and all of them were lies to steal his confidence.


    He stomped off into the woods yet again, only looking back in contempt for a moment at how foolish he had been. He noticed the discarded arm was missing. The implication registered, but he narrowed his mind to press on.


    Hours passed by his assumption, his arm stump turning black from the cold was his clock in this dormant forest. Northland radiance danced in the cracks of the Greywraithe ticket, lines of dancing colors one could only see here. It was a reminder that All-Mother Melentale was still with him, even this far from home. He took the way of Sangarrus this time, a deliberate chain of thought to navigate this problem. Not just the woods but the plateau further south, the river lands below it, and the nearest colony loyal enough to the Fatherland to respond immediately. The last would be the hardest to find.


    The War made the colonials bitter. This crusade was meant to unite us and send that anger northwards to the Forever War. The Crusader was told these things by his chapter master, but colonial Lightborne were just a minority in their number when they came here, and they were first to break rank in the first battles with the vampires. Even if he survived this, what would he do if the local colonial authority sent him off as a vagrant? The nearest chapter house was the Rhinegard, an ocean and eight months travel to the west away. He wouldn¡¯t become like those beggar knights from the War. His kinsmen could go to the abyss if they tossed aside the warning he was bringing.


    There was a crack of wood. The Crusader spun to it, lowering into his stance. He stumbled. His lost arm threw off that balance. Another sound rattled through the woods. His thoughts made him miss the source. He judged where it was vaguely¡ªusing the tip of his broadsword to guide his blurry sight to spots across the woods. Where was it?


    He felt a shiver spread across his chilled skin. The tree beside him grew black and pockmarked as if it had aged rapidly. He heard the hum and spun around on his heel. He stumbled again, running into another tree. The bark broke off in a sludge on his armor.


    He locked his eyes on it. His arm was aloft in the air, and black sparks of light snapped between his spread fingers into green brilliance, which made him sick. That was a hex.


    The Crusader was sent flying. He splintered through necrotic trees, a bolt of energy tracing his chest to his hand. Reality screamed momentarily, the light splitting life and death into a black void where time slowed, accelerated, and erupted in a new, dying star. He tumbled end over end, down an incline, as he saw flashes of the light fade. His vision was filled with dancing stars as he collided with something hard.


    He coughed. It tasted like copper. Looking down, his chest plate smoldered. In between haggard breaths, he saw it rust, first in specks; then, entire handfuls came off as he checked for his flesh. He looked up; his hand was visible through black smote and ruin. Lights flickered.


    The Crusader rolled, another scream roared into where he was, and the power still sent him rolling. He stumbled up, his armor coming off in chunks as he rushed whatever horror was ahead. Another blast struck the ground before him, and a spread of stone pellets ventilated him. He doubled over, blood splashing snow.


    Another blast. He was sent further down the incline. He checked himself after he struck another tree. His wounds were rock shards that split through his chain. It wasn¡¯t a direct hit.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    He couldn¡¯t fight it. He rolled away and sprinted, still holding his broadsword, as another scream sounded and decaying wood splinters rained on him. He was sent stumbling and staggering. The ground fell out from under him- it was a cliff.


    He roared as he fell, striking the peaks of another Greywraithe tickets. His helmet ripped free. His body splintered branches as he tumbled, and he cratered the snow below.


    Piles of snow dropped from weakened branches that snapped in an irregular melody. A broadsword, buried into a tree, reflected the long night and the still Crusader lying below. Silence came back to these northern woods, and the specks of snow began to pepper the Crusader¡¯s bleeding wound.


    He grunted. First, he dragged himself forward, a streak of reddish-brown snow left in his wake. Then, he came to his shaking feet, his first step filling his body with pain and dropping him back to the snow. He lay there, softly breathing.


    He was back home for a moment when he heard a cry of ¡°Father.¡± Faces stared down. He wanted to recognize them.


    ******


    The Crusader rose to his feet, the dark edges of his vision creeping in as snow fell from his body in waves. He looked at his empty hand, unsure where his blade went. His arm stump was black as coal, and the skin around it was a tingling ghost white. It was hard to his touch- as if frozen. The same tingle was radiating across his face. His lips, his nose, his eyelids. His flesh felt rigid and numb wherever it was exposed. His helmet was gone. What remained of his armor was pitted in rust.


    That hex¡­ it must have been necrotic, the entropic energy of it so powerful it aged what it struck. Perhaps he looked decades older now.


    Ahead, the woods thinned. He must proceed even if those who heard him ignored it. They must know an army was coming south.


    He dragged his feet and pressed on.


    As he exited the woods, shadows were everywhere, but not for long. The plateau had a distant view now, as well as the two rising, white suns in the west, drawing orange and red across the horizon. This was day five of his plight. He met that vampire on day four. Eighteen more days, he would reach the northernmost colonies south of the plateau. The vampires would stay busy with the remaining colonies here. Eventually, they might even run into the Elves on the eastern half of this land and endure the same horror as the Lightborne during the War.


    He could make it.


    He stopped. Motion caught the edge of his vision. On a hill, he saw a tattered, familiar banner. A red line crosses black fabric, holding back a thousand gold falling spears from a maiden and babe engraved in white embroidery. His banner. A figure was seated at the bottom of the pole.


    It rose from a chair of mist that dissipated.


    Fine, aristocratic clothes, dyed in black with red highlights and trimmed in silver-hued finery, with a golden chain clasp holding a sigil of a red-haired Valkyrie hung from a pale, white neck.


    The figure was familiar, though it had been armored before. It smiled, revealing barbed fangs behind pale lips under a razor-thin mustache and goatee. Its black hair was parted at the side and grown thick and long down to the neck- a mockery of Lightborne nobility and poets. Black hair, the mark of the arch-traitors of Arthur Eld¡¯s people. Even battered and busted, the sight of it filled the Crusader with rage.


    Another pair of figures joined it. One freakishly tall, in weathered plate armor with a T-visor helm that hid its features, though the armor had the same Valkyrie motif across it like an art piece. A thick fur cloak wrapped around this figure¡¯s shoulders, adding to his hulking shape.


    The other, a beheaded Lightborne- in his master¡¯s armor.


    ¡°I thought you died of the cold. That would have been a shame,¡± The pompous animal said to him in a soft tone with the Arthurian accent so common to these wretches. It reached down into the snow and grabbed something, tossing it over to the Crusader before it rested its hand on one of the twin swords on its belt.


    The object struck the snow. It was his arm, though he only recognized it because of his personalized gauntlet, now defaced with rust. The flesh was rotten, black and grey, and necrotic bone showed.


    ¡°It was good at finding you, though the flesh was weak. It did not survive my ministration,¡± it continued.


    ¡°Leech, I will see you burn,¡± the Crusader hissed back.


    ¡°Sheep, you¡¯ve not the shepherd to start that pyre,¡± the vampire answered.


    It marched forward, walking down the hill while the headless corpse took the banner and followed. The armored figure stayed where it was, crossing its arms. The Crusader responded by widening his stance and balling his fist for a fight.


    It started to circle the Crusader, and the Lightborne followed it, shifting his stance. He caught a closer look at that corpse following the vampire, it did indeed wear Chapter-Master Gustav¡¯s armor. ¡°If you¡¯re wondering- yes,¡± said the beast. ¡°He was an adequate swordsman, but nothing like the crusaders of old- or even close to the Ordos¡¯ warriors of today. He fell for a thrust faint and didn¡¯t guard his neck. It could¡¯ve been stopped if he had worn a coif and helm,¡± The vampire stopped, and the corpse heeded some unspoken command and drove the banner pole into the snow. ¡°O¡¯ Lord, he could¡¯ve just ducked. Even just catch the blade barehanded. I¡¯ve seen that before. More than once. Lightborne are truly savage when you get fire in their eyes. So, what happened?¡± The vampire asked as it grasped the fabric of their sacred banner and inspected the art. ¡°Did the Elves geld you?¡±


    ¡°Nothing happened,¡± The Crusader dismissed it.


    ¡°No, something did. Two hundred years ago I was in Northlands crossing blades with a sword-brother from Our Martyred Lady- if you know that chapter. I was the young count of the Valkanweald then. Nearly met my final death then. A damn Guardian from the Ordo Malleus came at me while my blade was still buried in that man¡¯s brain,¡± it released the banner and clapped its hands together, ¡°I dropped corpse and sword and ran for my life, scared the taint right out of me that bastard did-¡±


    ¡°Draw your sword,¡± the Crusader interrupted.


    The vampire smirked. ¡°I mean,¡± he started and cast a hand at the Lightborne. ¡°Do I even need to?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I¡¯ll fight you to the end.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re but two pages from that.¡±


    ¡°Which ends with my hand around your throat.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t strangle a vampire,¡± it said with a huff of air, ¡°I don¡¯t need to breathe; I just do it to feel alive,¡± it pulled one of its swords free and tossed the blade and sheath to the Crusader¡¯s feet. It was similar to the blade he used earlier. The size of a long sword with a blade that was only two fingers in width. Steam crept out from the sheath, where it met the sword¡¯s hilt. ¡°Here, on me, let¡¯s make it fair,¡± it said.


    The Crusader spat on it. ¡°I won¡¯t degrade myself touching a corrupt blade.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s silvered, dumbass,¡± it shot back.


    The Crusader¡¯s breath caught in his throat as he realized it. That was the truth. Sacred silver. Melentale¡¯s metal, dispeller of demon and vampire alike. Just one cut could sear through evil. Why did it have this sword?


    ¡°Dumbstruck?¡± it asked. ¡°That crusader I fought all that time ago. His armor was fully silvered, along with his weapon. Just standing near him scorched my hair and scarred my skin for decades. A simple sword-brother. Just a step above a spearman in your Volksturmtruppen.¡±


    ¡°Lies.¡±


    The vampire made a motion with its hand, the bone-inlaid hilt hummed, and the sword withdrew as if commanded. The sword presented itself hilt-first to the Crusader, the point aimed at the vampire.


    ¡°Of all the crusaders here, only this¡­ chapter master had a silver blade. Is it not a rite of passage? The Ordos¡¯ warriors have them. Even now, in this rotting age.¡±


    The Crusader remained silent.


    ¡°What does that make me then?¡± the vampire asked with a growing smile. ¡°Am I your equal? Mayhaps not. You had but a steel broadsword and this banner, when I saw you first.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re nothing-¡±


    ¡°But I have a silver sword. Am I sword-brother? A Sargeant-at-arms?¡± The vampire drew its other sword, the same make though it looked like steel- steel tainted by something that made it appear like a liquid as the air touched it. ¡°Maybe I¡¯m your chapter master¡­¡±


    ¡°Shut up!¡± He snatched the silver sword before him. ¡°I will take you with me.¡±


    The vampire marched forward. ¡°Of course, brother.¡±


    The Crusader charged.


    The vampire stepped to the side. There, once shielded by the vampire, was his chapter master¡¯s corpse. The corpse drew an elegant pistol from its belt. A sound of thunder struck him.


    The Crusader felt a new hole in his chest; he staggered, looking to his left to see a blade falling on him. It flashed past his head; he felt pain but pressed on. All he needed was one cut.


    An arm stump hit the vampire¡¯s chest; steaming blood sputtered on Northlander regalia.


    The Crusader pressed forward with a headbutt.


    Something struck his knee and dropped him. He looked down to see he was missing a leg with his missing arm. The vampire standing over him, tasting the blood that had splattered on his garb with a swish of its finger. A flick of its wrist and the blood on its blade splashed the Crusader¡¯s face.


    There was a pause then and a long stare from the vampire into Anton¡¯s blood dropping from its gloved finger. ¡°Well, I expected to be surprised, Ser Anton de Fayette,¡± the vampire broke its trance with these words. ¡°I¡¯m more surprised that you came here instead of going east. They have your daughter¡­¡±


    ¡°How do you know¡­¡± the Crusader breathed out. His wounds were setting now, sapping what strength he had.


    ¡°It¡¯s in the blood. I¡¯ll drink my fill after your death. I¡¯ve been aching to feel the twin suns on my skin again. Would you like my name?¡± the vampire asked as it sheathed its steel sword. After all, I know all of you now.¡±


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t remember it.¡±


    It was the first time he had seen the arrogance crack before it returned with a soft smile. ¡°I guess it¡¯s mutual. You¡¯re just a facsimile of what people believed the old days were like. Eight hundred thousand crusaders died to us, and you lived long enough to see my suns rise. Victory enough in the Forever War- right?¡±


    Anton de Fayette struggled enough to turn west to see the light spreading across the plateau and revealing the swamplands of the nearest colonies. They would have no warning. A weight dropped on his chest, drawing a grunt of pain from him. He looked back to see the vampire staring as well.


    ¡°I know where you were going. Hadroan is what it¡¯s called. Some shithole in the frontier dealing in swamp puppy pelts and mudfish, apparently.¡± It looked down on him. ¡°I spare you no victory here. You¡¯ll die knowing you failed everything, including Marie- of course.¡± It motioned with a hand, and the silver sword rose, adjusted, and aimed down at Anton¡¯s face. ¡°I wonder if she thought you¡¯d save her-¡±


    ¡°I go to Melentale, bastard. As will she. What waits for you?¡±


    ¡°Peace,¡± it answered.


    The sword surged down.

 The Oath Betwixt

    ¡°It has been said once, by degenerates, that the vampire plague upon us is a curse of our own doing. Do we say the same of rats or the that drugged cesspit of the Imperium of Demeter? No, of course. Reality reflects the truth at all times and the lies of demons and their sympathizers deserve nothing but a noose or the pyre. The answer to this is in our own mythology, Good Kinsmen.


    The vampires are Arthurian bastards all, the worst of that cursed bloodline. They willfully joined the defilement of All Mother Melentale by Arthur Eld and this curse of blood is wholly their unforgivable sins made manifest. Blame is but projection in this case, and since the collapse of the Old World till our escape to this one, we have suffered these projections for more than a millennium in wars from the heart of the Fatherland to the warped reality of the Northlands.


    Know that vampires are not but a misbegotten resignation of our species. They are seared by Melentale¡¯s metal and the mightier they become- the worse the effect. Their blood lust steals away their sensation of the world unless sated. Even their supposed immortality is not but a long death. Look at these failings and consider for this moment if this is anything else but a wretched punishment for their crimes against our All Mother.


    Remember the vampire is the demiurge of our world of blood. They are the demonicka and undead in one form. Trust not their visage, for they are an abomination of Noble Humanity¡¯s legacy and stain it with every moment of their existence. They burn all, they kill all. They will gladly lead the open-minded astray from the light of Melentale as well. They are the taint in our soil and the despoilers of our pure-blooded legacy.


    By the end of this century, we could see them all exterminated. It requires only diligence and a willingness to carry this challenge through the arduous moment that has, so often, dissuaded our weaker kinsmen from achieving victory. The Long War will end soon. Take these words to heart, for this is the Nation¡¯s will.¡°


    Excerpt from A Thesis on Abominations: The Vampiric Problem


    2932 A.H.


    Sonne von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    I have removed and rewrote mentions of ''dwarven'' or ''dwarf'' when referring to our under-mountain neighbors of the Imperium.


    She was, misguided perhaps, an avowed opponent of all non-Lightborne. It is a shame we don¡¯t have her alongside us today.


    -May Melentale preserve the Fatherland and smote all of our oppressors-


    Note by Jan von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    <u>The Oath Betwixt</u>


    ******


    Jericho Warshien, Count of the Valkanweald


    Jericho wiped his mouth on a cloth handkerchief and tossed the crusader''s head into the snow. The blood he imbibed settled in his core, and slowly, the concept of sensation returned to him. He once more felt the tundra air roiling into his lungs. Taste returned, and copper''s foul taste on his tongue signaled that he could enjoy tea and spices again. Then, the cold came to him with a wind gust, followed by the rising suns¡¯ warmth on his face.


    He closed his eyes and took a moment to relax, then opened them to see the full brilliance of nature¡¯s colors return to him. After decades, he could consume enough blood to feel the world again. He wiped his eyes; his fingers were wet from tears.


    He felt a presence beside him. It was the corpse he¡¯d puppeteer with his necromantic hexes. It offered him his pistol with a kneeling stance, though it followed a preset command more than executing its own will. He took it.


    With that, the corpse rotted into sludge, rusted armor, and slippery bone. It would be nothing more than a curiosity if he kept it past this moment. Better to let it waste.


    Jericho sheathed his weapons. The silvered sword hissed as it went into a protective scabbard. Now he could smell the steam the holy metal emitted near him, the smell of sulfur. He would have to get used to that again. He regarded the butchered crusader¡¯s corpse long enough to sign a prayer toward it.


    ¡°Your form was amateur, lord.¡± A distant and deep voice sounded above him.


    Jericho turned to it, to Talbert, one of his bannermen and the one he preferred to keep him company out here while they waited for the twin suns to rise. He still stood on the hill- arms crossed. His armor had not even accumulated a speck of snow in that stance. The fight ended so quickly.


    ¡°It was an amateur I fought,¡± Jericho said. ¡°I did not want to give him a good death.¡±


    ¡°A waste of energy. We could have killed it in the snow before. Then, we would have been able to enjoy this without that... embarrassment.¡±


    Jericho approached, ¡°You should imbibe blood, kinsman. You seem to lack joy today.¡±


    ¡°I wanted a fight,¡± he said.


    ¡°I offered this one to you-¡±


    ¡°A fight, not a pig to slaughter.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference with these Lightborne?¡±


    ¡°If no difference shows ahead, I¡¯m falling on my sword,¡± Talbert said. ¡°Fuck this, I didn¡¯t come from the Northlands for maypole games and circuses. I¡¯m trying to die out here.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t we all?¡± Jericho said as he moved up the hill. He joined Talbert there, both of them pausing to admire the suns slowly cresting above the foggy south. The skies were a soft blue with serpents of fluffy clouds looped across them. It was nothing like the madness of the Northlands and the creeping chaos that came naturally there.


    Jericho broke the silence. ¡°Has the seers spoken to your mind, Talbert?¡± There was still much to be done.


    ¡°Yes, Lord. The Count of Caucher and the Count of Lysander circled and ruined two separate armies of eight thousand and sixteen thousand each. Those should be the last stragglers. Even if some survived- they¡¯re pushing them eastward instead of south.¡±


    Jericho nodded at the report. ¡°The Lightborne will know within weeks what happened here. There¡¯ll be opposition before we hit our goal.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Talbert grumbled.


    ¡°We¡¯ll need to throw that defense off center.¡±


    ¡°We could just smash through them.¡±


    Jericho shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s how we snatch defeat from this. Talbert, tell the seers we took casualties and will hold for reinforcements. We give the others our blessings.¡±


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Talbert turned his head to Jericho, his face obscured in darkness, which stank of rotten flesh. ¡°We deceive our kin with that- To what aim?¡±


    ¡°The Lightborne have built their colonies to contribute based on region. The swamplands past this plateau are their port of choice for supplies from their¡­ ¡°Fatherland¡±. The Kaiser needs those free for reinforcements, and these lands are the manpower reserve for a future war with those Elves to the east.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re here to burn their capital, not hunt yokels and play at conquest,¡± Talbert voiced his position.


    ¡°Exactly, we make them think it¡¯s the second. Any attack there provokes an overreaction. It¡¯s their soft underbelly. The Lightborne will surge regiments to defend the port cities while we burn some colonies. Then we march east and join the rest for a flank on the colonial capital.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re breaking with your lord¡¯s plan by doing this,¡± Talbert spoke with an edge to his voice. Saying too much might draw His eye here. Discipline, if it were deserved, would strike both of them.


    ¡°He¡¯d expect it. Why do you think I have no leash? The other counts will try at this game, too- and will be keener than I to backstab their rivals. Northlander brotherhood and all that. Let them pretend at glory while we win our own.¡± Jericho ended this conversation by looking at Talbert. He would not tolerate an open mind anymore on this issue.


    ¡°As you wish, lord,¡± he said.


    Jericho left Talbert on the hill, starting toward his encampment.


    ¡°My lord, a question,¡± Talbert called back to him. ¡°About a feeling we might share here.¡±


    Jericho turned, ¡°I gift you one answer.¡±


    ¡°Does disappointment greet you here, too?¡± he asked.


    Jericho now had memories of a daughter, Anton¡¯s daughter, being sold off to meat breeders in some Elven city. The news came to him at his retirement farm, delivered by a friend of a friend who was now dead in some field by Elven gunfire. He was then at some random Volksturmtruppen post, stewing in loathing for everyone beside him. Then, he was swearing oaths to join Melentale¡¯s holy crusade. He couldn¡¯t repurchase her, couldn¡¯t find her; he was terrified even to know what she became ten years after her enslavement. He could only hope he died in the Long War before he found out.


    Jericho boxed those memories away from his own. That was a scared failure of a man called Anton. Nothing he needed or wanted to experience was thrust into his brain. Such was the curse of bloodthirst¡ªto be welcomed by unwanted humanity naked from the mask of stoicism or glory.


    ¡°It greeted someone here or there, then or now- I know that,¡± Jericho answered.


    *******


    The corpse broke its rigor mortis in a hundred sick cracks and violent spasms. Its grey, frozen eyes filled with an ethereal light. Old emotions roiled inside a dead brain, failing to draw connections between topographies of memories, regrets, and rage. To be as this is to drown while blind, deaf, and stupefied. The corpse beheld everything and nothing. Around it were shapes it despised but also held no feelings toward. Some shapes lay in piles, which were brothers but also just flesh. It sought to kill that bastard vampire but also wanted to find a home.


    It lived in fog, a consuming grey. It found itself sinking into a hell unlike any other¡ªsnatching at memories and faces, each slipping away. There was nothing for it to gain. It had just ideas to lose that it didn¡¯t understand but suffered the loss of: the mother of its children, a father smiling down and helping it stand as a child, and brothers standing side by side, shields raised.


    Melentale saved me.


    Word ripped through the fog, so powerful they united its consciousness. For a moment, Amsel became whole again after hearing these words. ¡°Bourbon, one one-half-ounce, one sugar cube- muddled until dissolved in two dashes of bitters, garnish with an orange slice,¡± it said. ¡°Do this, and thou shall be saved.¡±


    Amsel felt himself slipping back when it began to question the command. There was only one answer: It obeyed wholly.


    The shapes of importance took note. A glass cup kept in a wreath of snow in a bucket- decorated in frost and chilled by the air. There was a table beside this, and before him was the familiar shape and style of an officer''s military tent. This tent was garnished with trophies and civilities well enough, though nothing like the Imperial lords of the Fatherland. There was a bottle of bitters labeled as such in Eisensprache on the table. The same goes for the bourbon. The orange sitting in a box with associated fruit, and the sugar cube is in an iron container with others.


    The thought came through. This was not a Lightborne military tent.


    The fog surged toward it, and for a moment, its name was stolen. It obeyed. A sugar cube mixed with muddled bitters joined with bourbon and garnished after a stir. It took this mixture and followed a new voice that begged its presence. The shape it despised most extended a hand for it.


    In humility, it knelt and offered the glass. The fog vanished, and for the briefest moment, it realized what had happened.


    Jericho took the glass as the risen crusader fell apart beside him, outside his tent, far enough from the entrance not to risk stains. He took a brief sip, enjoying the first bits of plunder they ripped from these Lightborne. He moved to a temporary table made from an overturned wagon. His ornate pistol was on it, disassembled on a white cloth with oils and brushes and laid off to the side.


    A vampiric woman sat across from him, her black hair loose in the wind and her grey eyes tracing from the right to the left on an old tome bound in the sigil of some, now dead, crusader order. She took to furs and heavy clothes for her dress, though she had not imbibed blood in some time. He could¡¯ve known that regardless since the burn scar across her narrow, pale neck was just as visible now as it had been when she was just a tiny girl- an old scar by silver. The stump of her missing ring finger tapped some phrase in that time she read.


    ¡°It¡¯s distasteful,¡± she said to him.


    ¡°Anneline, this is the best cocktail mankind developed before their extinction; it¡¯s quite tasteful,¡± he replied. ¡°Or is it my use of this?¡± he asked, casting a hand at the corpse carts loaded by fully armored vampires bearing the Valkyrie motifs of the Valkanweald on their armor.


    She looked over at the sight and shrugged. Her eyes were the same, upturned hooded shape as Jericho¡¯s- which no other vampires possessed. ¡°It¡¯s wasteful and disrespectful.¡±


    ¡°They would do worse to us. Worse to you than me,¡± he spoke and took a sip, pondering some of the things he knew. ¡°If you want to murder someone, you should start by being a better killer than them. It¡¯s the lesson the Lightborne seem stubborn to adopt.¡±


    ¡°Then just kill them. Playing a puppeteer,¡± she said as she returned to her tome. ¡°Such an act disappoints me.¡±


    Jericho downed the rest of his cocktail instead of responding. He started to clean his pistol, wiping off the gunk and residue as the Lightborne captive had told him to. He thought for a moment that these were his enemies'' supposed new tools and how few were among the crusaders. They were like miniaturized cannons. There could be formations with these things- with silver bullets. Terrifying.


    ¡°I see nothing of this Hadroan in any of these tomes they brought,¡± Anneline said. ¡°They talk of other colonies during this¡­ Elf War years ago.¡±


    Jericho started to reassemble his pistol. ¡°I doubt there would be. Even in the memories I imbibed, it¡¯s nothing of note¡­ at first glance. A trip-wire colony to warn the port of Averlann if Elves or we ever attacked from the north. It should be the perfect target.¡± He polished the assembled firearm. ¡°What do they say of Elves in there?¡±


    She looked up to him. ¡°Same as what they say about us. Looking for allies in this campaign?¡±


    ¡°They are the Lightborne writ small,¡± he answered as he holstered his pistol. ¡°There is nothing to ally with there.¡±


    ¡°What drives you to that belief?¡± Annline asked. ¡°I read nothing but a wronged people here with plenty of cause to take to the Lightborne.¡±


    ¡°You should imbibe some blood,¡± he answered. He felt a tear upon his back, like a rippled lash cracking skin. It was but a memory. Not his own.


    ¡°Why would I do that?¡±


    Jericho turned to her and gently shut the tome in her hands. ¡°I need you to look more like a Lightborne. I want you to infiltrate Hadroan ahead of us, " he continued.


    Annline narrowed her eyes, grey pupils focusing on him. ¡°Jericho, you¡¯re sending me to the frog-eaters to play harmonicas and line-dance- it¡¯s a waste of our time. Just surround and shatter them.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m concerned about their militia, Anneline.¡±


    She stared at him.


    ¡°It¡¯s their commander,¡± he clarified. ¡°I learned from the blood of that crusader. Rumors of an interesting reputation.¡±


    ¡°Just one man.¡±


    ¡°One man who is a warrior of the Ordo Malleus, so those memories suppose, in a defensible spot, with an army that defies its nature- an army more loyal to him than the state,¡± Jericho added. ¡°The Lightborne have done more with less before.¡±


    ¡°Ordo Malleus?¡± Anneline smiled for the first time, showing her broken fangs. ¡°And you fucking entertain that? Ordo Malleus sitting around leading a militia? They¡¯d be under a headsman¡¯s axe before they even thought of leaving their ordo.¡±


    ¡°This one is,¡± Jericho whispered back. ¡°He owns a black reputation too.¡±


    ¡°All right,¡± Anneline read his feelings and set the tome on their table. ¡°What do I get out of this if I go?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll find out if this commander is Tarus von Reiner,¡± He offered.


    Anneline stared back, her eyes glossing over when the name reached her. She rubbed her neck briefly, then shook off whatever cloaked her. ¡°Only if we both kill him together.¡±


    Jericho offered one of his hands, which she took as a mark of their pact. ¡°I would not deny you that. We¡¯ll face him together when that time comes, sister.¡±

 A Place for Furtive Souls

    ¡°In the War against the Elven Enclave, the Ordo Malleus, Ordo Maleficarum, and Ordo Damnatus were the undoubted saviors of the K?nigreich. The ordos routed four Elven armies in the Fields of Angesia, The River Maguros, and into the Elven cities of Valencia, Creicia, and Ponti. They wrought following vengeance on ten million of the accused degenerates and their towns of corruption and slavery. Chief amongst those who won this glory were the Guardians carrying the legacy of Von Reiner in their names. Dumas, Alfred, Grant, and Gwenieve are heroes to the Lightborne people.


    It is said that the fields of impaled they left ran for dozens of miles and were so dense that the Elven armies that came through these ruins became separated and lost in these new, sacred woods. At that time, the necromancers of the Ordo Damnatus executed their grand ritual, and the titan of undeath rose from the combined dead, which wrecked eight months of destruction across the army and city alike. Without this delay, the Lightborne would have fallen at Havenrise and the Somme in the weeks after this glorious campaign.


    Though the Ordos lost many ancient warriors and scholars to these invaders, their survival in the peace talks speaks volumes of the genius of their strategists and the resilience of their warriors. The Ritterdrache and Volksturmtruppen, by contrast, earned deserved purges for their demonstrated weakness. Were the K?nigreich defended by the ordos alone, given proper resources and recruits, we would not have been forced to accept the indignities the Elves forced on us.


    The following record will detail the triumphs of their lightning campaign and how their enlightened leadership mended the faltering loyalty between the colonies and the Fatherland.¡°


    Excerpt from A Survivor¡®s Account of the Enclave War


    3798 A.H.


    I have removed references to some Von Reiner warriors.  As requested by the Ordo Malleus.


    -May Melentale preserve the Fatherland and smote all enemies of the Lightborne-


    Note by Jan von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    <u>A Place for Furtive Souls</u>


    Early Spring 3806 A.H.


    ******


    ¡°I¡¯d rather not entertain them,¡± spoke a crooked tooth fiend with blunted claws adjusting the reading lens over his baleful right eye. He held a delicate letter made from nalwood pulp between polished claws. The letter¡¯s gold filigree shimmered in the harsh light. He grumbled some curses as he regarded the imperial command¡¯s terms. Yet again he snorted, a puff of acrid smoke leaving his hellish, black teeth.


    The room¡¯s mechanical clock clicked steadily in the following silence. Sunlight shone through six windows, including a stained-glass relief of Melentale smiting her once-beloved Lord of Murder. The day¡¯s overcast tainted the light and gave a dull glow that cast harsh shadows here. It made the fiend behind this elegant desk into a dark horror with smoldering embers for eyes.


    The horror grumbled like an old man in protest over wrecked knees, trying to adjust an unsettled reading lens with an unwieldy hand of knives.


    Tarus, seated across, extended a gauntleted hand to the demonic creature, his palm opened. The dull metal of a well-worn and cheaply made militia gauntlet carried a luster just as unremarkable. Across the inner wrist was an inscription worn out and barely legible: Everything for the Fatherland.


    With a huff, the fiend removed his lenses and passed them to the Lightborne.


    Tarus brought the optical aide close, grasping the lens and bending it at an angle while reshaping the clasp that locked with his counterpart¡¯s gnarled horn. He inspected his handiwork with brown eyes forced dark by many sleepless nights. He made another adjustment, handling wire metal with the delicacy that defied the worn, scratched leather of his swordsman gauntlets.


    He offered the lens back with a soft smile. His mouth was a pale, chapped line in a black-bearded nest. An effigy cheek scar was barely visible, so thick was his beard¡ªthe scar shaped like the reversed hanged man- Pittura Infamante. Or so the Fatherland called it in Old Highgarian.


    ¡°It¡¯s fixed again, Martel,¡± Tarus said, waking the demon from his thoughts.  He rested a fist on his cheek, hiding the scar.


    The demon-kin took the lens. ¡°Someday, I¡¯ll have a pair custom-made,¡± he said as he donned them again. He looked down at the letter in his clawed hands, the manicured tips dull enough that they merely mangled the letter instead of tearing it.


    Tarus reached for his black tea. The rattlesnake blood and sage aroma bled together for a relaxing bitter taste. He wiped the tea from his dark, black mustache. ¡°We don¡¯t have a choice,¡± Tarus said with a huff, ¡°for both your reading lens and this imperial entourage.¡±


    ¡°This letter says there¡¯s a confessor in this party. Melentale¡¯s Ti--¡±


    ¡°He¡¯ll be a handful, Mantel,¡± Tarus said, ¡°But he will know you as Lightsworn, like any other demon in this town- suspicion won¡¯t be thrown around thoughtlessly,¡± he added with a sway of his hand. ¡°He knows we all still hold loyalties to the Fatherland and Melentale.¡±


    ¡°The world¡¯s changed past our sanctuary exile,¡± Mantel said, clicking his fangs. ¡°Old brotherhoods are being forgotten, and with that, eyes are looking for scapegoats. Lightsworn. We are but demons still to these new men, regardless of our beliefs,¡± His hoof foot gave a frustrated tap on the wooden floor.


    ¡°The betrayal you imply with that. I would not tolerate it.¡± Tarus answered. ¡°It would end in blood.¡±


    ¡°I know you will. But this confessor¡­ He will know something is off here,¡± Mantel retorted. He focused his eyes on Tarus. ¡°The trade loopholes we have. The people in leadership. Our tax records. We are a nail sticking out in the eyes of a hammer, Brother.¡±


    Tarus took a breath. He palmed his face to try to rip this headache out of his head, feeling the gnarled scar at the tip of his nose. ¡°I know,¡± he said.


    ¡°We should deny them, then,¡± Mantel stated. ¡°We are not ready.¡±


    ¡°Ponder what they think if a colony says they¡¯re ¡®unprepared to receive royal guests¡¯. The world can change a hundred times, what inspires suspicion doesn¡¯t. I know what the confessor will feel here, Mantel. It will be like standing beside a shite-pit. General unpleasantness everywhere. If he¡¯s some Eisenfaustian fanatic, he will see the greatest failure in an Arthurian commander,¡± Tarus placed a hand on his chest. ¡°He would see it¡¯s the Lightborne that failed.¡±


    ¡°You are the worst thing to make a target here,¡± Mantel stated as he returned the letter to Tarus. ¡°You were not to have any hidden secrets from the Fatherland. You risk what freedom you have here.¡±


    Tarus breathed in as he glanced at a painting in the office. It was a landscape of the Battle of the Somme, where mud and blood mixed and a light shone down from murky heavens on a solitary knight standing up from the corpse field of comrades shot dead by grapeshot. It was an exaggeration in all details. It was raining that day. There was little gunfire because of that.


    ¡°Let me end this debate then. Suppose you see this as dangerous,¡± Tarus started, ¡°In the realm of protecting Hadroan¡¯s citizens, my order supersedes yours, Mantel,¡± Tarus folded the letter as he spoke. ¡°It¡¯s all a trip to see me after all.¡±


    Mantel retrieved a bottle of spirits from his desk and downed it before he spoke next. ¡°We¡¯ve cultivated a fragile home here, Tarus. Don¡¯t let the world take it from us.¡±


    Tarus took another swig of his black tea. ¡°It will outlast us both. I¡¯ll receive the entourage, I¡¯ll entertain them, and you keep the facade up,¡± he finished his drink. ¡°Our shire of yokels and drunks will keep the imperials at ease. Before they notice the off-color bricks, they¡¯ll be back on the road parading. The boy will see that I got a little fat and am unimpressed, and we won¡¯t hear from them or the capital until it¡¯s time to renew your mayoral certificate. I promise this.¡±


    Mantel gave that empty, goat-eyed gaze Tarus had learned to read as understanding. ¡°You¡¯ll use his title, right? Remember, he¡¯s not some youngling under your care.¡±


    ¡°Mantel, I¡¯ve orbited royal circles for three hundred years. I got this,¡± Tarus gave him a soft smile. ¡°The boy has seen stars around me since I first instructed him on holding a zweih?nder.¡±


    ¡°This is the heir to the colonial authority. He will be second only to the Kaiser in the Fatherland when he ascends the throne at Havenrise.¡±


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Tarus finished his tea. ¡°Listen, you want to fucking host him?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Then I will entertain the kid,¡± Tarus patted his plain, worn breastplate. ¡°We¡¯ll reminisce, I¡¯ll keep him from alcohol and ambitious maids, and he¡¯ll father neither bastards nor regrets here.¡±


    ¡°Please cut your hair at least. You¡¯re a proper captain; you should have the distinguished mustache and trimmed hair of one.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯ll be trimmed and parted as a gentleman¡¯s should be. The beard remains.¡±


    ¡°Can you dye it a shade browner, too? An Arthurian as a militia captain is unusual to royals--¡±


    ¡°Am I the host, or are you?¡± Tarus asked, leaning forward and waiting for the answer.


    Mantel answered with silence.


    Tarus rapped the mayoral desk with an armored fist. ¡°I¡¯ll send your regards, of course,¡± he said as he stood up. ¡°Mind the silver shipment on the ¡®morrow. It¡¯s not supposed to be here. I¡¯ll get the militia inspected and ready to receive. Draft a response. It will say we are honored to receive them.¡±


    ¡°I will let you know if business requires your discretion.¡± Mantel gave a flick of his beastly ears, the closest to a smile a Metzger demon could show.


    ******


    ¡°We really gotta wear this stuff?¡± heavily accented Highgarian resounded through the command ward. The seven-foot, three-inch Lucius swung about from his wall mirror, drawing a sharp laugh from lanky Klaus at how the dress uniform fabric fought a war with a chest three sizes too broad.


    ¡°Wear? Are we asking if you can do that in practice or theory?¡± Klaus added. His forked beard was extra oily today in the lantern light, as was expected, no matter the discomfort. His parade garb bore a yellow stash around his uniform¡¯s right, puffy shoulder.


    ¡°Your mouth looks like an excited queint, choir boy,¡± Lucius stated with a half-smile as he returned to his war. ¡°And these damn puffy shoulders, stuffy as a hog¡¯s ass in a bayou."


    ¡°Well,¡± Klaus said and smirked as he joined the slightly taller man at his mirror, ¡°My mouth does excite many a maid¡ª"


    ¡°In the company we¡¯ll keep, such talk is disgraceful,¡± Edel interrupted. She stood in full hand-gunner regalia; her breastplate scored with medals aligned in four rows welded by hexes. ¡°Give a good showing of Hadroan, sword sergeant.¡±


    Lucius looked at her armor using his mirror, at a medal of a broken lance. ¡°You didn¡¯t fight in the Somme, Edel.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t craft the medals, Lucius,¡± Klaus snapped at him as he donned his breastplate with just three medals. He was missing one. The score mark was still visible under what looked to be a messy polish attempt. ¡°You should mind yourself.¡±


    ¡°I mind much, apple-counter,¡± Lucius answered. ¡°Myself, I like to mind little of, for it''s in good, strong hands.¡± He smiled at Edel in the mirror. ¡°Edel, I disrespect your way of fighting at the Somme, not your presence there. You turned away from the sword and took up a- what was it- crossbow?¡±


    ¡°Pike,¡± she stated, checking her crown braid and a low bun in a hand mirror.


    ¡°I¡¯d believe that,¡± Lucius grumbled, taking a straight razor to one stubbly patch of his shaven face. ¡°You strike me as one that kills from a few feet back. Can¡¯t look at something in the eyes when you end it. The handgun is a fit for you¡ª"


    ¡°If she shoots you,¡± Klaus stopped him. ¡°I¡¯m not helping you hobble to the chirurgeon to patch you up.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how you tolerate him off-duty, Klaus. I¡¯d take to drink before I was out of my armor.¡±


    ¡°Who says I abstain around this man? His wit¡¯s as thick as Canterbury mustard.¡±


    The door to the command ward opened, and a figure entered wearing a full plate and a helmet decorated with the motif of a horned demon. He removed it as the humid, thick air of the outside flowed past him, carrying the stink of stagnant bogs into the room. The three recognized their commander, Edel being the first to snap to him, taking a parade stance and pounding a fist to her heart.


    ¡°Ser Tarus, Melentale¡¯s grace to you,¡± she beamed.


    Klaus had followed her example, though his fist made hardly a thud on his armor. ¡°Ser Tarus,¡± he said.


    Lucius turned, one of his uniform¡¯s buttons snapping at last. Silence followed.


    Tarus closed his eyes, taking a short, soft breath. ¡°Edel, Klaus, go to the Silberfeuer square. Lead the inspection of your cohorts. Lucius, stay behind.¡±


    Edel bowed and walked out, with Klaus following without a word. When the door shut, Tarus drew in a sharp breath. He regarded Lucius for a moment.


    ¡°It¡¯s been a decade and a half. Seems the barley and ale conquered me,¡± Lucius answered a question delivered in a stare.


    ¡°You¡¯re my sword sergeant,¡± Tarus released in a breath. ¡°The only person in my militia that¡¯s supposed to be fitter- is me.¡±


    ¡°Aye. And you¡¯re not wearing your armor from twenty years ago, good ser. I can still drive a zweih?nder through two nalwoods and the vampire behind them.¡±


    Tarus set down his helmet at a record table. He rested a hand on the hilt of a messer blade sheathed on his polished belt. He approached. His breastplate gleamed with eight rows of medals, some so ancient they were now tarnished and unrecognizable.  A true rustchest like any exceptional Lightborne warrior. ¡°Colonial authority is coming by summer, and you¡¯ll look like bagged potatoes slapped to a bull?¡± Tarus asked. ¡°Do you seriously think that? You want to be noticed like that?¡±


    Lucius swallowed and seemed to ponder his following words. ¡°I¡¯d rather not, ser,¡± he said.


    Tarus stepped up to Lucius, looking at him eye to eye. ¡°Looks like a diet of running then, my lad. Now, you¡¯ll don for battle and start inspecting road security from the Belle gate to the southern Imperial watch post and back. I handle your cohort¡¯s inspection separately.¡±


    ¡°It will be done, but what of my duties? That¡¯s two weeks by foot.¡±


    ¡°One if you run. You know which I prefer. You¡¯ll leave with only pemmican in your ration bag and water in a skin. Deliver this,¡± Tarus pulled and pressed a sealed letter to Lucius¡¯ bare chest. ¡°I intended you to do it by mount on the ¡®morrow, but by foot and now will serve us both.¡±


    Lucius took the letter and slipped it between his fingers. He saluted with a resounding fist over the heart. ¡°By Melentale¡¯s grace, it¡¯ll be done.¡±


    ¡°Oh, by Her grace, many things are about to be done, lad,¡± He gave the burly man a pat on the shoulder. ¡°Show me you deserve your office.¡±


    Tarus turned and left Lucius, retrieving his helmet and donning it. ¡°I expect you back in a week,¡± Tarus stated before he opened the door and departed.


    *****


    The sloped roofs of Hadroan glistened under the twin suns as wisps of steam curled from the gaps between residences. It had not rained in a week, but the cobblestones were inundated with boggish muck. As a woman walked by, the air seemed to split in twine, waves of stagnant heat wisping around with the sharp, vanilla scent of Maynard flowers and smoky D¨¦tremp¨¦ trees that overran the swamps around Hadroan.


    In the near distance, a formation of five hundred in the square stood with handguns cradled and angled sharply. Red and black uniforms marked the majority, most of them sons and daughters of the first colonials with a few others speckled here and there donning the colors of a province in the Fatherland. The formation was leaving now at the tune of horn blasts, pikemen joined by sword and broad officers and zweih?nders flanked by Lightsworn Metzgers.


    Edel was inspecting the bannerman of the hand gunners now. The flag of St. Hadroan hung from the silvered pole. The image was that of the saint in his final hours, on a knee and facing the sun as a headsman of a traitorous lord readied a killing stroke.


    Tarus lowered his nalwood pipe, blowing out a puff of smoke as he pondered the banner for a spell. One hundred and twelve failed his inspection, double from the prior one five years ago. He built this militia for his gravesite instead of a coronation. It was a stupid mistake.


    He rubbed his brow, sweat pouring through the cracks of his fingers and pattering on his demon-faced helm resting on the railing beneath. He gripped that nalwood rail with his other hand, feeling how spongy the wood had become since last spring. He was just a shadow to the formations in the shade under this gazebo. It was still enough privacy to ponder this heavy hand on his shoulder.


    Why was it coming back? How far could he throw himself and not have old faces seek him out? If he was in the grave right now, would the boy still be coming here to dig him up?


    The questions came and went like pulses in a headache. He took another breath of his pipe to calm his nerves. It was noise in his mind. Since he took that letter from the Imperial¡¯s hands, seeing an ¡®envelope¡¯ for the first time instead of a leather satchel, it had just been noise in his thoughts. The letter cost more than the steel sword on his hip. It was never calming to receive something like that.


    Instead, it was the storm on the sea¡¯s horizon, bursting into life with tendrils of light all around, and he was in a rowboat.


    How was he to navigate this?


    The boy is just here to see you, his hope reminded him. No, you are the right man in the wrong place at the right time¡ªonly in death does duty end. His experience countered. There were two arguments in his rowboat, and neither one was helping him row.


    ¡°Dad? Everything alright?¡± A soft voice asked.


    Tarus looked to her, a woman half his height, with eyes that shined with a dim, eerie golden radiance and a mane of hair soaked by humidity. Absently, she slid a few locks to cover an ear that was exposed as she looked up to him. ¡°Hammer-flu again?¡± She asked, she laid a saucer and cup of tea on the railing. ¡°I figured you¡¯d want a drink.¡±


    ¡°You were correct,¡± he said as he took it. ¡°Not about mace-flu. That¡¯s just nonsense.¡±


    ¡°Getting hit in the head has no consequences?¡±


    ¡°Death is the only one I know. I¡¯m still breathing, right?¡± He asked. ¡°I was in my head with thoughts,¡± he said before she could speak. ¡°Pointless thoughts,¡± he answered the next unspoken question. ¡°We¡¯re entertaining a royal procession- led by an old friend.¡±


    ¡°How old is this one?¡± she said as she gripped the rails with hands half the size of his. Standing beside him, she still looked to be a child, but women younger than her towered over her, and she wasn¡¯t the young terror she once was. She watched Edel conduct herself, something of a trance in her glowing eyes.


    ¡°Thirty years back when I first met him. Ten before you- I¡¯d guess.¡± Tarus measured the course of his thoughts. He took a sip of vanilla scented tea and a dash of sharp whiskey mixed in. He was delaying himself, and the words he should pass to her now.


    ¡°Cara.¡± He said.


    The woman looked up to him.  ¡°You sure you¡¯re okay?¡± she asked.


    He chose a softer path over the true one. ¡°I need you to take something to heart. There may be a man with my friend when he comes. He will be called a confessor,¡± Tarus leaned in on the railing. ¡°You are not to be alone with that man at any time. Regardless of his kindness or forcefulness.¡±


    She moved a hand up to her auburn hair, adjusting it near her ear, which was still hidden. ¡°Would he be so different from the others here?¡± she asked, looking away.


    ¡°There can daggers in smiles,¡± he said, and old faces influenced his following words. ¡°Sometimes, there¡¯s nothing behind that smile: no warmth or malice. Just a line stretched across the skin in mimicry. Never mistake that for humanity.¡±


    Cara passed a soft nod as her eyes seemed to turn again upon the banner in the square, on St. Hadroan¡¯s meditations. As Tarus sipped his tea, she finally turned back to him. ¡°This doesn¡¯t sound like a friend,¡± she said. ¡°Why bring such a thing here?¡±


    ¡°The story of half your blood¡­¡± he breathed out, tapping his fingers on his helm. ¡°It is long and full of terror. From that terror came vigilance, sacrosanct devotion to safeguard against evil. Eventually, everyone¡¯s soul ended up in someone else¡¯s fist. Such a thing, Cara, it is a reminder that Lightborne remains bound in that concord: Everything for the Fatherland.¡±


    ¡°Even if we¡¯ve never seen it?¡±


    ¡°Never repeat those words to anyone else,¡± he told her. He leaned in on the railing. ¡°I¡¯ve seen much taken from people for saying far less.¡±


    <hr>

 Cracks in the Concord

    "In the arcane era before the Long War, when even Death had not joined us from the dark, Noble Humanity lived upon Terra Invicta. It is passed down through the line of our fathers that our human ancestors mastered this world through their unity and shared compassion. Yet, distant from Melentale''s light, no dominance of spirit or willful constitution allowed them to resist the corruption of the Lord of Murder when he came to them. He brought Death, strife, and hatred, as was his soul''s design.


    Noble Humanity degenerated into what we call the demonicka.


    In such tragedy, Melentale descended upon this demon-kin to war with the accused Lord of Murder. In her unseen light, some did not flee and- like steel under the blacksmith''s arm- were cleansed and shaped to appear as Noble Humanity once again.


    Arthur Eld and his thousand knights¡ª may their bones be crushed.


    Otto Eisenfaust, Father of the Forges and the Roads- the builder of our Fatherland and first martyr of us all.


    Sanguine Maid Agnes and her dire wolves, heralds of the Lightsworn to our concord.


    Silvered Pyre Lucius, first to wield Her metal in the dire days ahead.


    Malthusia the Aonaran Magi, sagely dragoman of Her voice.


    Skulleater Anri, the first necromancer and mother and father of hexes.


    All-Mother Chiara, whose eyes shined with gold and mercy.


    Know that when seven appear, one will be a traitor. This is the lesson of this red age.


    These seven united the furtive souls of the world and brought them to Melentale''s light. In this reforging, we created the Concord of Melentale and were bestowed the name Lightborne. By Her mandate, Arthur Eld led us. We armed for a crusade against our rallied enemies- demonicka still enthralled and rejecting their human nature. On Terra Invicta, the Long War began. When our home did shatter, by the sacrifice of six of our seven progenitors, the Lightborne escaped- with the wretched demonicka following us. "


    Excerpt from The Culling of Terra


    2258 A.H.


    Removed unwarranted praise of Arthur Eld. Added appropriate condemnation.


    Archivist Thori proposes that this passage was edited beyond my current note. His memory is that of a dog that can no longer bark. There have been no such edits.


    -May we purge all demon-kind. Everything for the Fatherland-


    Note by Sonne von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich


    Cracks in the Concord


    Early Spring 3806 A.H.


    ******


    Gerald von Eisenfaust, Second Son of the Kaiser


    The prince paused momentarily, standing beneath a gaslight''s pulsing, sunny radiance. The streetlight''s filigreed metal bore a dull shine where he saw only the runny reflections of the sword brothers in his guard. His eyes drifted back up to what caught his sight. Sturdy chain links held fast against the soft winter winds clinging to his brass city of Havenrise. Gerald unbuttoned and pulled down the leather collar of his greatcoat, revealing his scowl and shaken eyes.


    He removed the wide-brim hat, baring his princely visage to a fellow countryman.


    The stink of rot struck him. In the bars of the giblet before him, hanging from the crook of the towering gaslight, was the body of a Lightborne. A faded sign was still bound to the corpse in chains, coated in black and brown stains of decay and undignified rotting. The limbs were missing, with not but a head still attached by dangling strings of viscera still binding the vertebrae together. The mouth was agape.


    He saw screaming in that skull''s expression when his mind knew it was just the result of decay.


    He stared deeper. He saw the clothes his kinsman died in[CM1], those of the fool archetype in plays. Garish and pompous, they were meant to exude arrogance and unearned grace. The colors were black and red, as he had seen before when he ordered this never to be done again. His right hand trembled, and he moved it to his pistol hilt to hide it.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    A figure stepped beside him. Gerald did not turn his gaze from this crime. "Bring this down. See to it this person is buried before the suns rise."


    "It is the will of the Kaiser," a woman answered him. "Any who break the concord are to be white bones before it is deemed they can be emptied into a river."


    Gerald turned to the woman. She was a young knight, as noted by her Ritterdrache rune, a golden dragon inlaid into the flesh of her right cheek as a permanent ornament. Ice-blue eyes stared back at him like a leveled lance attached to a disarming maiden''s face that displayed not a twist of malice. Her silver blonde hair was slashed short, going no further than her jaw with fringed bangs and harsh edges, befitting an Agnesian woman and sword-maiden.


    "It is the will of his son to show mercy," Gerald answered, returning his embroidered hat over his brown curls. "That is a Lightborne to me and deserving of the entombment of one."


    "Your command will lead to the retinue being questioned," she replied, showing an unmoved stare as if his emotion was more chilled air blowing through the street. "What shall I say?" She spoke, even-keeled in her tone.


    Gerald looked over to his other guardsmen. Their helmet visors were down, even though they were watching him. He assumed they were judging as well. Some were perhaps burning in rage at his mere suggestion to give mercy. He believed most would stand beside what he would say. He raised a hand, drifting it in a motion as he spoke, "That I said this, Ser Melena: Forgiveness can be granted in times of reflection. When we see humans but no humanity, mercy should be given."


    Melena stepped forward, her words but a whisper. "I shall tell them, only, that it was your will. Words can birth horrid thoughts when pondered on."


    She turned to the retinue. "Old beards, the path is envisioned; procure tools and build it."


    All of them saluted back with a fist over their heart, but only some gave it the thunder the prince expected. They dispersed in groups, wordlessly breaking up the task. Gerald eyed them briefly, his mind searching his prior words for fault. Melena tapped his shoulder.


    "I will need to be present for the burial," she said. "To answer any inquiring minds from the garrison troops. I''ll see you to the keep."


    Gerald nodded, detaching his thoughts from darker places and toward this cold homecoming.


    ********


    Banners fluttered from iron chains that whipped against brass-woven masonry, tolling like bells. It evoked memories in him of better days and actual, celebrated returns. Not this farce of a dressed-down royal party using the night as some cloak. Melena followed at his side, her armor hidden by swaths of dusty, white cloths.


    He was dressed like a diplomat on a mission in a stately, weatherproof green greatcoat and white, wide-brim felt hat. Not a speck of purple or Fatherland red in his regalia. Such were the times that pride had been traded for subterfuge. It was wrong to hide from his people like this.


    The pair walked on Gwenieve Avenue, where the crushed bones of elves were inlaid in the concrete. Gerald knew they were there at least, for they had been covered with spot jobs a decade ago. That was after elven diplomats had finally come here. They were the first he ever saw of the people from the Goldenlands. Their eyes shined with a radiant dawn''s light, their words empty of humanity.


    The new terms they dictated included covering the bones. "This will be a cemetery; it should be treated as such," said one of the Enclave''s diplomats then.


    The words stabbed at Gerald''s heart even now. He looked at the unlit buildings of the upper districts. Even five years ago, some windows would''ve been glowing with lantern lights even after the witch''s hour. Now, he saw more doors than ever marked with auction sales or abandonment bills. Little by little, that statement was becoming a prophecy.


    One building his eyes passed over had been washed with quicklime, freshly done as the weathered states of others revealed. There, at the center of the strokes from a thick masonry brush, was a spotted resistance of dark colors of red and black barely rising through the pristine white of the limewash.


    Gerald stopped for a moment to ponder that sight. His breath came as a thick fog, further clouding what he saw. He knew this symbol would''ve been the black and red flag for those of colonial birth. Now, it was a pair of obscure colors rarely referenced by the lords of the Fatherland¡ªhis father and all who carried his dream. In times before his authority, a man had been burned for waving these colors in rebellion¡ªa crime now and forevermore.


    "It''s not right," he said to Ser Melena.


    She stopped and turned to it, though he was sure she had already seen it. "Inadequate job by the guild masons. It will be corrected," she stated.


    "I speak of how we treat such outbursts. They have a point. Those that say the Fatherland ignores the knives in the dark," he spoke the dangerous words tied to those waving the colors of red and black as a symbol. He knew he could say them- have the right others were wrongly denied. Even among his father, he could tell them without consequence.


    "You hear the words of dead men and assume the living still speak the same mantra with the same symbols," She stated. "You are the closest to those watching the dark. They see the knife ears there."


    "We should state that to the people. They should know we see the elves as the threat."


    "It was stated¡­ and yet," she motioned to the limewash. Those who feel wronged have not been forgiven," she explained. We should go, ''ere you miss your obligations to your ancestor-uncle.'' She started to turn.


    "It is not wrong to heed people who don''t see the necessary actions that must be done," he snapped at her.


    For a moment, only the clanking, hissing sounds of the nearby gaslights echoed between them.


    Melena turned. "An action? War with elves is a mere action?"


    "It is inevitable," her choice of words prodded him. "You are not in my¡­ meetings with my father. He sees this, too."


    Melena''s voice sang a bit harsher than before. "Inevitability requires no encouragement, my prince. It will come, and by you or your father''s judgment, it will come when we are ready." The woman turned back to the path ahead. "Come, Good Prince."


    The woman started off without him. "Then what would you tell them?" Gerald called back. "The people who have daughters and sons enslaved by elves. When we''re ready, we will return husks to them, right? What have we seen on our worldly journey in the colonies, but that story repeated into never-ending heartbreak?"


    Melena kept walking.


    Gerald thought of the body. "Are you telling me Melena von Falke agrees to that?"


    The woman stopped. He saw her sword hand clench. He did not fear her- he feared no friend.


    "The Fatherland is misled," he said. "Tell me what you really think. I know I am not alone."


    Melena turned her head back, a lancing eye staring back at him. "Everything for the Fatherland, my prince," she said with no hint of passion or drive. "Consider all that you see; you are amongst company¡­ Learn to fear it as much as you seem to adore it." With that, she turned her head forward and proceeded on.