Grand Duchy of Midlanor

  Succession timeline

  Theun Est Ravn ‘Allqwacar’ –reigned to 21 NC

  Rudolf Est Ravn ‘the Blind’ -22 to 45 NC

  Hendrik Est Ravn -45 to 59 NC

  Mark Est Ravn ‘the Lorian’ -59 to 90 NC

  Wilhelm Est Ravn ‘the Cursed’ –90 to 99 NC

  Theun II ‘the Architect’ -99 to 125 NC

  Sven ‘the Fat’ -125 to 140 NC

  Anker ‘the Unkind’ -140 to 160 NC

  Thor Est Ravn ‘the Sick’ -160 to 162 NC

  Rudolf II, ‘the Old’, or ‘the Devout’ -162 to 170 NC

  Anker II ‘the Earnest’ -170 to?

  The Est Ravn family

  High Regent Anker II Est Ravn, the ‘Earnest, also the Black Duke.

  Lady Margaret ‘Estai’ Ravn (Sister of Baron Wilt Estai of Trinir, an old cadet house of the Van De Aesst of Caspo O’ Bor.)

  Sir Mark II Est Ravn (KIA at 3Raods. Married to Juliet Grote. Commander of the 2nd Foot.)

  Sir Thor II Est Ravn (KIA at 2nd Battle of Crimson Forest. Engaged to Dora Sloot aka Dora of Hardwood. Former Commander of the 3rd Foot.)

  Sir Shane Est Ravn (Presumed dead. Killed defending Queen Nienke. The Priest Knight of Midlanor. Former Commander of the Golden Spears.)

  Lady Klara Est Ravn, ‘Black Lily of the Forests’.

  Wilhelm II Est Ravn (Mark’s son with Juliet)

  Justen ‘Hardwood’ Est Ravn (Thor’s son with Dora)

  Tiana Est Ravn (Mark’s daughter with Juliet)

  The AredRavn

  (A Cadet house of the Est Ravn)

  Baron Dan AredRavn, the Unscathed (Farvor)

  Sir Luke AredRavn (Probably murdered by ‘Thirteen’ outside Colle in 193 NC, but killed officially a year later not that far away.)

  Sir Joost AredRavn (KIA near West Porch by Sakir, 2nd Battle of Crimson Forest.)

  Leonel AredRavn (Dan’s teenager son)

  Lady Gabriela AredRavn

  The Tellman

  (Distant cousins to the AredRavn and an old branch of the Est Ravn of Sessi. High Issir Common for ‘descendant of Tello’ a moniker for Dietrich. The old story went that Dietrich ‘Tello’ Est Ravn had been disinherited for some transgression or other, but managed to win a title in a ‘skills tourney’ held in Old Sessi. When asked to provide a surname by the local Marquise he used Tellman.)

  Sir Reinir Tellman, the Iron Griffin (KIA at Gray Beech Treeline which is a part of Gray Beech Copse at West Coast Wilderness during the 2nd battle of Crimson Forest. His grave is marked with a mausoleum.)

  Sir Rupert Tellman (Died from his wounds a day after his father less than a kilometer away fighting Kaphiri Sepa. His grave is marked with a mausoleum and is located north of Griffin’s Meadow.)

  Sir Walter Tellman (KIA by King Lucius III near Krakenfort.)

  Rupert II Tellman (Rupert’s son)

  Dame Siske Tellman (Late Sir Evert Pek’s widow. Siske was only three months married in 188 NC when Sir Evert left with the 3rd Foot for Eplas and never saw him again.)

  -

  An old soul shall stand on Uher’s Seat…

  Klara Est Ravn

  Around 194 NC

  -

  Lord Anker Est Ravn

  High Regent of Kaltha

  Duke of Midlanor

  The ‘Earnest’

  Red Bridge | the old soul

  Large map depicting early evening hours (around sunset and just after)

  right click on image to open in new page if it's too-difficult to read

  -

  ACT I

  Lord Anker’s Headquarters

  Waterhole near willow trees copse

  Crimson Forest Main Road

  The swan's mournful call had pierced the clamor created by Tyfon’s elephants and all other dins of battle. It caught Anker’s attention. Kaltha’s High Regent leaned forward on his saddle, prompting his horse to take a few steps closer to the others. This brought him alongside Lieutenant Oliver Svane’s mount. The naval officer from Caspo O’ Bor was raptly using a powerful pair of field glasses to observe the scene unfolding before them, and at regular intervals relayed any new developments to Lord Anker’s group.

  “Sir Hedrick scattered the Horse Archers my Lord,” Svane reported lowering the cumbersome field glasses. “Sir Vulg has an open path to Wasser.”

  “Eh, Vulg needs to get moving soon. The crews are running and I don’t think the older Grote has much left.”

  “A poor display milord!” Harm Cruse commented harshly.

  “Not many can survive a Cataphract charge. Be that as it may, we need those machines working Lieutenant,” Anker rustled crooking his mouth and noticed his old squire had turned his body on the saddle in order to look back towards their tents. “Is my tent on fire lad?”

  Cruse was just a couple of years younger than Anker now, but the Duke always called him that since the first day he’d started squiring for him. Anker, now fifty-five winters to Cruse’s fifty-three, was about sixteen then and both men had a lot more hair on their heads.

  “Caught sight of that fool Govert yer grace,” Cruse explained. Govert was Sibren Hiestand’s firstborn son. Sibren, Midlanor’s Castle castellan, had escorted Lady Margaret to Trinir to visit her ailing mother Lady Eline Estai of Trinir. Anker’s wife needed a change in scenery, so the trip was more an order in a brief letter, than Margaret’s own idea.

  Whatever spirit his wife possessed was slowly dying away these past years. First Shane’s and then Mark’s passing had taken a huge toll on her. Anker had no idea how to help. He knew praying hadn’t done much for her and Midlanor’s cold seasons even during the summer months made it even worse.

  “Govert is no fool,” Anker grunted, and despite being accustomed to Cruse’s coarse humor, he’d no patience for any folly at this moment. Not with everything on the line.

  “Around pretty lasses he is,” Cruse insisted and an annoyed Anker turned his head to glare at the sergeant-at-arms, caught the latter dragging that former slave girl about near their tents.

  “See to it,” Anker ordered curtly and Harm Cruse clicked his tongue to get his horse going.

  Lord Anker breathed out and then grimaced, his back protesting when he moved on the leather saddle. The girl’s blue eyes had a nervousness in them, not present afore, her comely face distracting to the Duke. Govert looked flustered for some reason.

  “Where was she going?” He asked, not wanting to spent time on the matter, as the battle had turned on them and his mind was on Thor’s men that nobody could locate on the battlefield. With Wasser’s machines under attack, it didn’t look good for his son, but Anker couldn’t allow his worry to poison the men’s minds at this point with everything on the line.

  “Quarterport, your grace,” Govert replied. “She got scared the Horselords might come here.”

  “We haven’t lost yet and the win was at hand not so long ago!” Anker barked angrily and glared at the girl frustrated. “Give her ten lashes for stealing that horse. Don’t use the weights.”

  “Your grace,” a shocked Govert tried to protest.

  “I was lenient Hiestand!” Anker snapped and the flustered sergeant nodded.

  “Aye sire.”

  An old soul, Allqwacar whispered and Anker flinched, as the sword’s words always spooked him. Hearing horses’ approach, the Duke half-turned on the saddle to stare at Lt. Oliver Svane, but the commotion had come from the east, where the forest stood, and the Issir teenager responsible had just managed to finally control his dirty horse with the help of two guards.

  “Cruse, who’s the boy?” Anker asked brusquely turning his own mount around to gallop near the teenager.

  “Sir Pier-Jan Frances squire sire,” Cruse replied. “Nelis Cobb.”

  Anker felt acid burning in his stomach, but said nothing.

  “Sir Frances shall attack Cephas, your grace,” Nelis Cobb reported nervously, a red bruise growing over his left temple.

  “Where is Sir Thor?” A worried Cruse grunted and Nelis paled at his gruff tone. The squire failed to offer a reply despite opening and closing his mouth.

  Yeah.

  “Sir Isak?” The grim-faced Anker queried gravely, not wanting everyone paralyzed at the news. Nelis Cobb shook his young head right and left in a negative manner, a tremor plaguing his arms. The High Regent felt the lower part of his jaw turn numb as the news slowly seeped in and he stood back rigidly on the saddle in contemplative silence.

  “What about Luikens?” Cruse managed to say.

  “They got ambushed inside the Forrest path, but reached Rita’s Inn near early morning,” Nelis replied nervously, staring at the ground to avoid looking at the sober Lord Anker.

  “Fucking ruffians,” Cruse cursed. “Vile spies and Khan’s hidden lackeys,” he continued sounding angrier with each expletive. “How did they know about the Church’s plans? We learned about them after Luikens had started marching. Only unit leaders were informed and not all of them.”

  An old soul, the sword hummed and Anker remembered Klara’s cryptic words from that letter he’d shown to Mark. The memory of his elder -also late son, like a punch to the gut, since the High Regent realized that all of his boys were gone.

  “Was the girl present?” Anker asked hoarsely and pulled at the reins to guide his horse back towards Govert Hiestand and the former slave girl. She helped us with the Khanate’s army positions, he thought clenching his jaw, but the sword sings when she’s around and it’s never a good thing.

  “Milord, the girl slept outside the tent and had no access to birds,” Cruse noted as they both made their way to where Govert had ordered the girl to stand near the trunk of a willow tree and bare her back to receive the lashes.

  “She also tried to steal a horse and head to Quarterport,” Anker grunted and galloped near the sergeant-at-arms, where he quickly dismounted.

  “My Lord, I asked her to undress,” Govert started to explain, looking guilty and Anker shoved the sergeant away to reach Atae.

  “How did you do it?” He growled and she blinked once slowly, before replying in that strange accent.

  That’s what was bugging me, Anker thought furious with himself. That ain’t a capital jargon, or any jargon. She doesn’t even sound Lorian!

  “I can serve the Duke of Midlanor,” Atae had said and Anker’s backhand sent her to crash on the tree trunk. Atae bounced off of the hard bark and faltered towards him again, whilst Anker unsheathed the ancient sword with a snarl.

  “My Lord,” Govert said confused and Anker glanced at the sergeant-at-arms irate, Cruse barking a timely warning.

  “Dagger!”

  Atae came at Lord Anker with an army dagger, but missed her swing as Anker had stepped back and Govert who jumped between him and the murderous wench, got slashed with the dagger, when she swung with it again.

  Anker downed Allqwacar and opened a deep gash on Atae’s right forearm. She dropped the dagger and retreated, but Anker’s extending blade followed her. The sharp tip thudded on her ribcage, Anker heaved pushing her back onto the trunk and felt the sword punch between Atae’s ribs. Right through skin and flesh, before it came out of the back, and stabbed the trunk.

  “Ah, darn it,” Govert cursed holding the bleeding cut on his left cheek, starting just under his eye. “She cut me.”

  Atae sighed and tried to grab the blade, but Anker yanked it back and raised it, when she attempted to move, the sword’s bloody tip resting under her chin.

  She stopped moving and stood looking at the High Regent with those striking blue eyes. Bleeding profoundly down her forearm and the two wounds on her body.

  Damnation.

  “You,” Anker said hoarsely. “What are you?”

  “I wish to serve the Duke of Midlanor,” Atae said calmly as if she felt no pain from the injuries, or hiding it very well.

  Which was impossible.

  “Lad,” Anker grunted, lowering the sword to her heaving chest, not bothered for carving a red line down her neck.

  “Milord,” a rattled Cruse rustled.

  “Nail her on the trunk,” Anker ordered soberly and glared at the unruffled construct. “How did you warn the Aken?”

  “What I see, Tin can see, if he looks,” Atae replied and touched her bleeding wound with a hand. “Uhm. Not my fault.”

  Curse you.

  “Cruse, burn her eyes out with a hot iron,” Anker retorted brusquely.

  “No,” Atae protested politely. “I can help you. I’m free.”

  Go to hell screaming.

  Can you do that you unholy creature?

  “Use them steel spikes from the wagons. Hammer them in good,” a grim-faced Anker continued and hearing Lt. Svane’s elated bellow, he added hastily. “On every joint. Govert, you’ll help. Thank your father, for not joining her on the blasted tree! If she’s not dead in a couple of hours… skin her slowly.”

  That’ll hurt you, I bet.

  “Sir Frances won but got seriously injured,” the messenger repeated ten minutes later, what they had figured out themselves. Lord Anker was ready to ride near Grote and the 3rd Foot when the messenger arrived. “Wasser controls the machines. They’ll charge Tyfon to keep him away from the infantry lines sire!”

  “Vulg?”

  “No sire. The squire,” the young messenger had replied. “Your lordship’s…ahm, Sir Thor’s squire.”

  Anker furrowed his brows and reached to get the field glasses from Lt. Svane. It took a moment for him to spot the riders clash with the elephants in the semi-dark. Hard as he tried though, Anker couldn’t see much.

  “Was it Todd?”

  “No sire,” Anker grimaced at the messenger’s words. “The young one. I can’t recall the name. Apologies.”

  Is this a Khanate blade squire? He’d asked the skinny boy a while back.

  Aye, it is my Lord. I’ve lost mine.

  “Seb Oats,” the High Regent muttered and the young Issir nodded seemingly relieved. “Sebastos.”

  “Milord is correct.”

  -

  

  The High Regent personally approached the frontlines, right after the squire’s charge stopped Tyfon’s beasts from intervening elsewhere and Wasser’s machines finished off the rest of the war-elephants the beastmaster had managed to regroup. Elsewhere, Baron Sherman Grote’s reforming divisions of the 3rd Foot -mainly the 2nd and 3rd under Hospes and Clauberg- fought back heroically against the rampaging but now split up remaining beasts. One after the other the huge behemoths fell to the Issir soldiers as the coming dark sapped at their aggressiveness.

  Sir Hedrick Grote, the Baron and Shield’s son, led a force of knights and men-at-arms against Rumen-Kot’s exposed machines. The engineer had advanced to help Muda-Zeket, but panicked after Cephas and Tyfon got killed and probably fled with his small entourage. The young Grote overwhelmed the crews and some of the Cofol slaves left behind just as Luikens’ men destroyed Mid Bridge. He won a quick victory there and secured the Khanate machines for the most part. Sir Grote –who ignored an order from his father to return near the High Regent- then turned west and charged at the right flank of Taja’s Jang-Lu facing Clauberg causing extreme damages in the semi-dark.

  Clauberg’s men pushed ahead despite low visibility and in the light of torches until Muda-Zeket’s lines crumbled. Taja was seriously injured and separated from his command, while Muda-Zeket ordered the Khanate soldiers to retreat west forming two squares. Soon after that, the Khanate general realized there were Issirs (both infantry and Cavalry) in all directions. He told his masked soldiers, he was prepared to ‘die facing our enemy and honor my ancestors’, but would allow each of the men still breathing to decide their own fates.

  Inside the Maple Thickets, Krakauer’s, Kaasen’s and Joris Sloot’s forces got help from Siske Tellman’s men-at-arms and parts of Kroneberg’s 4th division (at least two units of the late Lucas Funke’s 1st Division had coalesced around the Captain of the 4th) and surrounded Muvelo’s rangers and scouts in a death trap. Kroneberg had been forced west (or led there by his horse) during Tyfon’s initial charge and his division had followed after him. There they fell first on Gika’s cut off group (they had also been hit by the charging behemoths and forced to retreat), crashed the worn-out Jang-Lu, killed Gika, and then marched on the flanks of the pressed rangers. Muvelo managed to slip away in the dark on horseback leaving Bastet behind. Not knowing what was going on at the center, but having witnessed Luikens lightshow earlier, Muvelo decided to head west during the night with his remaining scouts, but lost his way inside the woods.

  Early the next morning, the 1st of Septimus (2nd of summer), general Muvelo escorted by a small group of loyal scouts got attacked by Pastelor’s men-at-arms patrolling the area and despite putting up a dogged resistance Muvelo was killed. Trying to slip away while pursued from two Issir riders (his own mount had turned lame earlier) the famed Khanate rangers general got trampled under the hooves of their horses. Repeatedly, given the condition he was found two days later. A man belonging to Prince Atpa’s small gang of close friends and survivor of many battles during the war, Muvelo of Shao Na-Lan finally breathed his last at the age of thirty four.

  Sakir, who had ridden back to the Arid Plains camp during the night, got caught by the fleeing Rumen-Kot and his entourage at some point, or learned of the catastrophe some other way, and decided to head for the west coast to preserve his fairly large group of Horse Arches still with him. (Well over three hundred, but there were lancers and engineers with him amongst others.) Specifically, Sakir rode to a remote place called Gravel Shores at Chinos Delta in order to signal across the River for the patrolling Khanate navy to evacuate his men. It was a sound decision from a young, but very skilled officer, who should have been provided with more latitude during the battle. By acting proactively before the battle’s end, Sakir saved a lot of men and animals.

  Heavily influenced by what he’d experienced during the Khanate’s campaign on Jelin, Sakir ‘Coru-Rosg o’ Rhovan’, which translates as ‘wily vulpes of the wilds’, advocated for a return to some of the ancient Horselord traditions and a blend of unconventional warfare that adhered to none of them like the Forya-Rohir. ‘When your enemy expects you, stay away,’ Sakir preached some years later to those that flocked under his banner during the ‘Advisors Wars’* at the end of the turbulent nineties decade. ‘When they are near a river, poison their water, defecate in their ponds, or foul their grain. When they hide behind a tree, or wall, burn them, or smoke them out. Kill first the animal and your enemy’s spirit, then him. Use an arrow if you can, but secure it and never dismount without a sword in hand, if you can’t.’

  Two hours after midnight and without knowing all the details about the Church’s efforts kilometers away, the surely aggrieved Lord Anker (despite almost all Issir records speaking of the Black Duke’s restrained contact after the battle’s end) rode near the exhausted Sherman Grote well-aware he’d won a remarkable triumph against the Khan’s forces, at an exorbitant cost. Everyone believed -as the second month of summer of 195 NC started- that Burzin’s horde wouldn’t cross Chinos River, let alone the Red Bridge at Balworth. Ever, for it was no more.

  As all things, some parts of the above came true, but for different reasons.

  -

  His horse neighed in discomfort at the stench of blood and butchered flesh scattered all over the moonlit terrain. Their torches and oil lamps shedding even more light at regular intervals on the gruesome sight of disemboweled, or crashed bodies. Eviscerated soldiers from both sides, their remains unrecognizable but for their covered in gore armours. Huge carcasses, alike earth mounds, sprouting here and there. Tyfon’s beasts gutted open and worked with axes by the soldiers well-after they had expired. The buzzing of flies and night insects feasting on the rotting flesh so strong Lt. Svane looked sick and had a cloth over his mouth.

  Lord Anker stopped his horse fifty meters from the encircled Jang-Lu and perceived their officers talks for a moment, afore his red-rimmed eyes rested on a slain beast.

  “Is this an elephant then?” He asked, the query rhetoric. “They are ungainly, foul-smelling beasts.”

  “Aye, milord,” the bandaged Govert Hiestand replied and Harm Cruse just crooked his mouth with a curt nod, then gathered whatever moisture he could find and spat it all down stooping over his horse’s right side.

  “Baron Grote, your grace,” Lt. Oliver Svane informed the distracted Duke and Anker stared at the stout figure of Sherman approach them. The Baron of Greywood Castle and Midlanor’s Shield, sported a slight limp to his right leg and looked ten years older than what he did two days ago.

  Anker felt a decade older as well, but greeted his old friend in a warm manner.

  “Kaltha owes you a depth of gratitude Sherman,” he told him hoarsely. “For standing your ground, where most other men wouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t your grace. Not fully,” Baron Grote jested with a tired grimace, and he smiled seeing Anker’s face. “Almost lost my foot and my good horse turned into a sack of broken bones. I’ll take the trade though. Praised be Uher sire, I believe you won the field.”

  “Will they surrender?” Anker asked.

  “They are thinking about it. Reckon they’ll wait for the morning.”

  “Rest the men. We’ll move the machines closer and finish them off,” Anker instructed. “I’ll have Clauberg march towards Pines Road.”

  “What if they decide to surrender?” Grote asked, rubbing at his thick goatee.

  “They can do as they wish, but they’ll die either way,” Anker replied sternly. “Uher shall understand I’m not in a forgiving mood.”

  “Nobody is sire. Pines Road?” Grote probed with a glance at the riders escorting Anker.

  “De Hove is there,” Anker replied. “Luikens blew up Mid Bridge.”

  His Shield nodded. “I figured something was up, when I heard thunders on a clear day.”

  “We’ll know more soon,” Anker rustled and realized the imperial blade stood silent. “Your son did well Sherman.”

  “Yeah, I told him to stay close to you,” Grote muttered, then sighed. “We saw the cavalry charge sire. It was something to remember for sure. Was Sir Thor leading them?”

  “Nay,” Anker replied and the Baron’s face relaxed believing the news were good. “Sir Frances brought the cavalry to Wasser, but Thor’s squire led them against Tyfon’s elephants. That’s all I know.”

  “What of Thor sire?” Grote asked carefully and Anker used his left hand to fix the thick leather glove he wore on his right in pensive silence.

  “Thor did all he could, I reckon,” Lord Anker replied, his gloved fist clenched so hard, the joints started hurting him. A welcoming pain.

  “Mother’s mercy,” Baron Grote rustled hoarsely. “My condolences my lord. Oh, my god,” the stout Baron grimaced visibly saddened. His daughter had been married to Mark for years and the Baron still felt Anker’s older son’s loss keenly inside his own family.

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

  Not more than Anker himself of course.

  “Dan AredRavn made it,” Anker said in an attempt to change subject. “Lucky bastard.”

  “There’s word Sir Joost was killed,” Grote said crooking his mouth. “The Iron Griffin as well. Sir Rupert, ah… I think I need a drink your grace.”

  “Uher’s light shall guide their souls through Oras Fields. Who is leading Pastelor’s men?” Anker asked.

  “Siske. Done a fine job also,” Grote murmured. “You wouldn’t think a woman could do it, but she’s Reinir Tellman’s daughter. So there’s that, I suppose.”

  “The squire. Where is he?” Anker said and turned on the saddle to examine the corpses’ littered battlefield. Several Issir medics already hard at work to locate any survivors.

  “About two hundred meters south of here sire,” Grote replied hoarsely. “I don’t see him, but I spotted earlier priest Brukel arrive.”

  “Was he alone?” Anker probed soberly with a signal for his entourage to follow him. Govert, Cruse and Oliver Svane were quick to respond. They came after the riding at a light trot High Regent, while Sherman Grote’s answer still lingered in Anker’s ears.

  “He’s with Dora Sloot sire.”

  Anker gave the reins of his horse to Cruse, and navigated the gory terrain of slain men and animals to approach a couple of medics, standing near the scowled Dora and the flushed Priest Brukel.

  “Black Duke,” Dora greeted hoarsely, using the moniker the Northmen had for Lord Anker and his father Duke Rudolf ‘the old’ –the second of his name, due to their brutal punishments to all those that raided their lands or committed crimes. Midlanor had a considerable border with the far North’s wilderness to the northeast.

  “Daughter in law,” Anker replied austerely after he regarded the bloody clothes and her dirty face rather appalled. “Lt. Svane, see that Lady Dora makes use of my tent to clean herself up properly.”

  “It’s not my blood,” Dora said with a crackling voice and Anker grimaced.

  “We shall speak in private,” he told her and the mixed blood woman stood back as if to challenge Anker’s order, but thankfully she didn’t.

  Anker watched for a moment as she headed to her horse escorted by the young naval officer –Oliver was also the adjutant to the Duke Caspo O’ Bor, and turned his gaze on the dirty priest and the medic trying to stabilize the bones in the squire’s leg. The young man had injuries to his face and body, cuts and bruises -some bandaged, others still bleeding, and at least a broken arm in addition to the left leg the drained medic had just offered to amputate with a small sawing blade.

  “No,” the squire said in a tomb-like voice.

  “The broken femur bone won’t mend properly. But for the stick and brace I tied it on, your leg is held up by skin,” the Issir medic insisted.

  “A beast landed on him. It’s a miracle he still breathes,” Brukel intervened austerely, then added. “Give it a day and another may occur.”

  The medic shook his head -initially not in agreement, but then bowed to the priest, asked for Uher’s blessing and then stood up and walked near another group of injured men, never realizing Lord Anker was standing a couple of meters away.

  “Brukel,” Anker started with rustle, but paused to watch as Govert went to look at the squire’s wounds more closely.

  “Sir, you’re injured,” the worn-out squire muttered looking at the sergeant-at-arms.

  “Ain’t the first yet,” Govert replied in jest. “But aye, I’m cut lad, not as bad as you.”

  “That’s enough Govert,” Anker admonished his Castellan’s son. “Brukel, are you too inebriated to speak?”

  Brukel crooked his mouth and pushing at his knees stood up. “I offer brief libation instead of a sermon to those lost. Lots of the latter tonight, your grace.” The priest breathed out and returned the Duke's stare. “You know about Thor.”

  Anker gave a slight nod with his head, and Brukel copied it. “Where is he?”

  “The edge of the maples,” Brukel replied. “Dora insisted.”

  “Why did you agree?” Anker asked hoarsely and the priest rubbed at his forehead, looking defeated.

  “He was flailed in the face, your grace,” the priest replied hoarsely and the Duke clenched his right fist on the pommel of his sword. “You could tell the head was Mark’s,” Brukel continued. “But Thor, you wouldn’t recognize.”

  Don’t bring him to his mother, was what the priest tried to say. Brukel was near the Est Ravn all of his life, especially Mark and Anker could be lenient with Brukel prying into their personal affairs.

  I have to give Margaret something, Anker thought, making considerable effort to keep the grief from his face.

  “Thor is going back to Midlanor’s crypt,” the Duke rustled in a hoarse rasp and eyed the sober-faced Govert. “Take Cruse with you. Find the grave and dig him out.”

  “Aye sire,” the scarred Govert replied stiffly and signed for the older Cruse to follow him.

  “Apologies,” Brukel offered after a pensive moment and Anker accepted his words with a grimace. The Duke knelt near the squire and touched his shoulder carefully.

  “Can he serve as a knight?” Anker asked the priest watching the scene. “Naught will be asked of him, but he’ll have a good annuity.”

  “It’s a nice thought, your grace,” Brukel said.

  “What do you say Sebastian?” Anker queried the young man that flinched recognizing the Duke of Midlanor standing over him.

  “Seb is dead,” the squire said hoarsely. “But Sebastos could still serve…”

  Anker pursed his mouth intrigued. “In what position?”

  “He’s delirious, your grace,” Brukel intervened.

  “The girl,” the feverish squire said, before the priest violently tried to check on his forehead as if for a fever, the large hand half-covering the squire’s face and mouth.

  “The medic drugged him,” Brukel explained to the frowned Duke that had witnessed the priest’s rough treatment of the injured man. “And speaks nonsense afore Uher.”

  Good grief.

  “Uher doesn’t stand over young Sebastos priest. The Duke of Midlanor is and I’m not offended by his ramblings,” the Duke admonished the scowling Brukel, then added warningly. “Mother’s mercy, just get your affairs in order priest, your drinking is getting embarrassing and have the lad moved to my headquarters. I’ll have my personal dottore look at him.”

  -

  Hours later

  Very early morning

  1st of Septimus

  (The Issir 2nd month of summer)

  Lord Anker’s headquarters near the Waterhole

  The boy will have copper hair, Anker thought staring the cleaned-up Dora mending her leather vest with a long needle. She was wrapped in one of the Duke’s robes, and had fought with the Duke’s servants to keep her pants and leather garbs from getting tossed away.

  Thor’s taste in women had always been exotic, Anker decided with a grimace.

  “You’re taking the body back to Midlanor,” he finally said and stood up from his chair with a groan of discomfort after hours on the saddle. “I need to stay here for a while, until the situation is clearer.”

  “You’ll cross Chinos River?” Dora asked looking up. The robes had parted down her neck, revealing the swell of her breasts and Anker walked near her with a frown, grabbed the loose parts and buttoned them up to her neck.

  “It’s hotter than hell,” Dora protested, but Anker stopped the half-breed with an angry gesture.

  “Justen needs you and so does my wife,” he told her and Dora returned his glare with one of her own. “You’ll do what you’re told girl.”

  “I want vengeance,” Dora hissed and Anker grimaced, then walked to a small table to get a bloody pendant they had brought him. Thor’s unearthed body was in the next room, but Anker had delayed a visit to his slain son for practical reasons and not out of indifference. The Duke loved all his children and his wife but knew all too well that once he laid eyes on Thor, no amount of restrain could keep him functional and the battle wasn’t over yet. It had happened with Mark’s head, but then anger and the promise of revenge had helped him steer himself in the right direction. After bearing witness to the casualties they had suffered in person, the Duke knew that allowing his anger to get the best of him wasn’t the correct way to navigate the country’s situation.

  Anker took the pendant in his hands and worked on the silver chain for a while with his fingers. The Duke then walked to the half-breed and offered it to her.

  “This was Thor’s,” Dora said hoarsely and Anker nodded.

  We all have one.

  “Yours to wear and Justen’s,” Anker replied. “The five-headed Ashen Hydra is our family’s crest. You’re a member of the family Dora Sloot through marriage. Hardwood, just the place you came from. I know Joris never tried to make you do anything you were not in agreement. But henceforth, you’ll listen to the head of the family and do as I tell you. The boy will be raised to become an Est Ravn and so will you.”

  “They won’t let a half-breed be the next Jarl of Midlanor,” Dora said, some of her defiance cracking and Anker stilled his stern greyish eyes on her comely face afore replying.

  “Wilhelm is the heir,” Lord Anker said in a rasping manner. “Then Justen. The Duke makes that call and this Duke has spoken daughter. Will you do what I ask of you?”

  Dora stood back with a pout, her still wet red hair framing her dark Issir face and green eyes. For a moment Anker thought he saw the vile construct’s face there, but quickly remembered the larger and smaller differences in color, also the different facial features and breathed out.

  Allqwacar, the ancient Imperial sword, had also remained silent.

  “My main concern is my wife,” he told the carefully listening to his words Dora. “I failed her in that regard,” the Duke admitted. “The boys I gave her, I took them away, aye.” Anker scratched at his week-old stubble with two fingers thoughtfully. “But you can bring her grandkid to her.”

  “Have the boy raised in Midlanor?” Dora asked unsure. “Juliet took Wilhelm to Trinir.”

  “She will bring him back eventually. Her own mother Eline is sick, and I always offer Lady Juliet some leeway since she has always valued my input and advice.”

  Dora furrowed her red brows. “I want to still visit the North.”

  “Not on your own,” Anker countered.

  “Can I at least hunt in my mother’s woods?”

  “We’ll do that together,” Anker proposed tiredly and Dora raised a taunting brow, too-much wild in her blood.

  “What if I take a lover?” She asked and the Duke’s face hardened as if it had turned to stone. His voice left no wiggle room, and while the well-behaved Juliet Grote hadn’t asked him –or even thought of doing it, Anker had told the still young Lady Juliet the same thing. You don’t introduce other men’s offspring into a noble house.

  The glowering Duke’s answer leaving little room for discussion. “You most certainly shall not.”

  -

  

  Over 8500 Horselords (4000 Jang-Lu, 600+ charioteers, 100 elephant warriors, 3000+ horse and 500 Cataphracts) perished in the 2nd Battle of Crimson Forest. Fought in the forest itself, the main road’s plains and the west coast’s wilderness, on, or very near Mid Bridge and its pontoons, the number represented the bulk of the Khan’s main army. When the sun came up the next day, the Khan’s cadre of officers and leaders had been decimated. Besa Nafi (an influential advisor) had been brutally killed. The same fate shared by the Slavers Bedas and Hamadi, Scout General Muvelo, (Bastet surrendered and then promptly executed alongside the remaining rangers on orders from Krakauer, who had lost a lot of Farvor friends and family the previous day) Infantry General Muda-Zeket (committed suicide during the night), Gida and Taja, Chariot Leader Lord Sin Ota-Kmet and Tar Ota-Kmet, his son. Cavalry General Kaphiri Sepa, Rim-Sepa, Tekem-Dhouti (Lamar made it out with Sakir’s horse archers) were also lost. Master Ishino Tyfon and Rumu the mercenary leader. Cephas Mirpur (Lord Mirpur had lost all his sons in the campaign), Tika Phanti (Chief Advisor’s Sam Phanti’s firstborn. Phanti was in charge of the Khanate’s affairs in Burzin’s absence), Anebos, Hurbasa and Senet (was crossing the Mid-Bridge when it exploded) some of the prominent Cataphracts that also perished in the battle.

  The Issirs lost around 500 men-at-arms and knights, 1200 soldiers from the 3rd Foot, 250 Northmen, and 300 militia (100 from Farvor and about 200 from Midlanor) for a total of 1750+ infantry. Also 140 crossbows, 550 squires, pages and 200 artillery crews (with Brother Wasser). The Church lost 14 Deliverers, 80 Inquisitors, 200 engineers, 300 Golden Spears (close to 200 killed and a 100 injured) and about twenty knights, or Templars for a total of about six hundred. This made Anker’s losses rise to around 3400, but the Issirs were aggrieved with another 5000+ civilians killed (former slaves that fought against the Khanate, Chinos Turn citizens and Rita’s Inn residents) mainly due to Wim Luikens indiscriminate shelling and the Khan’s brutal reprisals against Sonnenfeld’s slave revolt.

  With over 17000 people killed horrifically in two straight days (the final tally around twenty thousand, after the blind Khan ordered all the Issir slaves slaughtered in a fit of uncontrollable rage, an order later superseded by the surviving advisors present. Mainly Tahu-Nefer* and Osase*) the battle was especially bloody.

  Lord Anker considered attempting to storm the capital using the remaining west pontoon and the ruins of Mid Bridge, but feared the Khan might have received reinforcements from General Pourem –the battle was in its third day- and ordered his battered army to regroup near Chinos River. He’s criticized for this inaction, considering he had overwhelming advantage in artillery pieces and Luikens Deliverers. The real reasons perhaps more complicated, as we are not aware whether the machines could be used after the Grand Archivist was killed, or vanished after the battle.

  They moved their camp east of the Pines Road, the same spot Rumen-Kot’s had stayed the previous day, and the Duke messaged Lord Rinus to dispatch the marines he’d trained the previous year to assist them in crossing the river.

  ‘If you aren’t using the men after all the effort we made to have them paid and trained, then I shall,’ the High Regent wrote to the Issir Admiral and fellow Duke, in a missive carried back by Lt. Oliver Svane, who had been with Anker during the battle.

  Burzin had received reinforcements as Pourem’s men arrived in the Capital on the 3rd of Septimus (with the remaining a thousand Jang-Lu) but the Khan slowly lost control of the situation inside his court. Burzin had suffered blindness to his good eye (the other wasn’t working for years due to an earlier stroke) either to another stroke suffered after the disaster, or the flash of the blast he personally witnessed as he had ridden very close to the Mid Bridge. He immediately ordered reprisals on the capital for the betrayal and an attack against Anker’s army slowly moving to Chinos’ River north banks.

  While well over two thousand Issir Eagle’s citizens were butchered by slavers and criminal gangs roaming the emptied capital, the Khan’s close circle intervened to put a stop to the bloodshed especially after Lord Knut Osahar’s fleet anchored at Eagleport and brought the survivors of the Khan’s army back. Rumen-Kot and Sakir gave their version of what had happened to the Master of Sea and General Pourem, with both men agreeing to bring the possibility of a truce to Burzin.

  Well, Burzin’s condition had taken a turn for the worse and couldn’t receive visitors, so Lord Knut Osahar refused to take responsibility for such a decision. Tahu-Nefer and Osase, the two remaining advisors after Besa-Nafi’s untimely demise, talked in private to the Khan, managed to convince him into suspending the attack across Chinos River and even changed his mind about butchering the locals for reprisals. The latter events are disputed. Not the orders, nullifying the secreted Burzin’s previous instructions, but whether the two advisors communicated with the ailing Khan.

  They also sent word to Sam Phanti in Rida (at that point the most senior official in Burzin’s close circle) and asked for advice. Nobody knows what Sam Phanti suggested, other than that he ordered Burzin, his heir Prince Nidar Radpour, his mother Mistress Vynia Letakin, Mistress Loes Valk and Prince Narmer, late Radin’s wives and sons, brought to Rida immediately.

  General Pourem was asked to come up with a plan that could give the Khanate time to replenish its losses, whilst they maintained control of the capital and Eagleport. Pourem, then in his late thirties, was a veteran general with a good record even on Jelin, where he had successfully stabilized the front against Legatus Merenda in the battle of Kaltha’s Great Lakes earlier that year. Pourem was asked by the remaining Khanate officials to hold the Capital, elevated to local Governor before he could offer an answer and promptly assured that he’d have everyone’s support for this task.

  Two weeks after the battle and with the two adversaries licking their wounds, Khan Burzin left the capital for Rida, and while he slowly recovered within months -despite his advanced years and disabilities, the Khan never returned to Jelin.

  -

  ACT II

  Brother Sebastos

  6th of Septimus 195 NC

  Lord Anker’s old headquarters

  Issir main field hospital (in the process of moving)

  “Bastian!” Reinhart’s yell was heard outside the burning tent and Sebastian groaned in the attempt to stand on his cane. Sweat covered his forehead immediately and hard as he tried to hide it, the agony got plastered all over his face.

  Reinhart burst inside the hospice tent, glanced at the injured boiling on their cheap cots and then stared at the grimacing Sebastian.

  “Ah,” Reinhart gasped and then pursed his mouth. He grabbed his bandaged arm and made a face to mirror Sebastian’s. “I know how you’re feeling, it hurts me—” Reinhart stopped when Sebastian moved towards him dragging his stiff leg behind. But for the braces the Dottore and nurses had used, the leg itself was flaccid for the most past, ballooned to a grotesque size. It hurt all hours of the day. “Perhaps not as much as yours,” Reinhart added blowing his cheeks out. “Mother’s mercy, what did you do?”

  “Jumped from an elephant, I think,” Sebastian groaned and Reinhart moved to stabilize him with a panicked grimace.

  “Why…? Well, was the height so great?” Reinhart asked curious and examined Sebastian’s battered body.

  “I couldn’t roll out of the way fast enough,” Sebastian explained and Reinhart flinched when Sebastian raised his arm, as it tilted uncontrollably. “Can’t use the arm.”

  “Just don’t,” Reinhart advised and helped him move with the cane towards a chair. “I was… well, De Hove is here and Brukel,” the young Inquisitor started, then stopped and started again. “Darn it, you need more rest Bastian.”

  “What does Magister De Hove want?” Sebastian asked, as he needed a lot more than another night’s rest before he could function like a normal person.

  “The Duke’s people killed a construct inside the headquarters,” Reinhart replied, pursing his mouth.

  “One of ours made it here?”

  “No… this one… well, she was that slave girl?”

  Sebastian furrowed his brows remembering the strangely exotic Issir female with the blond hair and blue eyes.

  “Her,” Reinhart said, reading his mind with a sly grin. “You dog. I have to caution you Bastian. You succumbed to dirty thoughts my friend.”

  “I didn’t. This was all you Reinhart,” Sebastian retorted with a moan, turned into a grunt of pain. “Uher’s mercy.”

  “Eh, anyways… De Hove asked me to check up on you. Vellers was killed, so he runs things now.”

  Sebastian gulped down, suddenly he felt dizzy from the heat.

  “You want a cup of water?” Reinhart asked.

  “It tastes like piss,” Sebastian grunted. “What did they say about Vellers?”

  “Who? What’s to say? We found him in a stable’s stall,” Reinhart replied with a frown. “Some mercenary ambushed him in there, left soon after.”

  “Who said that?” Sebastian asked.

  “Eh. I did. Checked around and everything,” Reinhart assured him. “That knave could have done it quickly and then slipped out of the back door. It was chaos. We found three of them hiding in them trees, but they of course denied any involvement initially.”

  “Initially?”

  “Well, De Hove told me to get a confession out of them and we did. Merkel and myself that is. It’s what we do. Alas that’s the job,” Reinhart puffed out. “Man, it was a nasty affair this. Had I been in their stead I would have spilled my guts out the moment Merkel grabbed them pliers. Aye,” Reinhart added and shivered at the memory.

  “I want to speak with De Hove,” Sebastian grunted, sweating and flustered both from the heat and from what Reinhart had just revealed.

  “Can you walk on that thing?” Reinhart asked unsure.

  “The leg? No.”

  “I meant the cane. You’re moving it about like you’re a blind man looking for water,” Reinhart grinned. “Just plant it down Bastian. Use it properly.”

  “I can use it on yer head?”

  “There,” Reinhart admonished, taking a step back to avoid a swing of the cane. “I can see why you desperately need more time to heal. You’re speaking like a crazy person!”

  Sande De Hove was standing near two large wagons dragged by four draft horses per, slowly being loaded with the Duke’s disassembled headquarters possessions. He was staring at a cluster of large willow trees that grew around the small muddy pond, about ten meters away. Brukel was at his side and the priest looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Sebastian felt guilty that he had, although he had been too-drugged in poppy seeds to have a say in that.

  Sebastian limped near the two older men, De Hove standing a head taller than Brukel and wider, as the priest had lost some of his bulk lately. They stopped their talk and looked at the soaked in sweat, heavily bandaged Sebastian approach with the help of Reinhart.

  “Kelholt,” De Hove said before they could speak. “Merkel has gone to take care of the construct. Over there. Go and help him and wipe that stupid grin from your face.”

  “I’m trying to lighten up the general mood, your holiness,” Reinhart said and De Hove’s beefy arm pointed towards the Copse stopping him. “This is just great. I hate constructs.”

  “I’m sure they hate you as well,” De Hove retorted. “Get going Inquisitor.”

  “You should return to the hospice,” Brukel told Sebastian, who grimaced in the attempt to shift the weight on his good leg.

  “It’s unhealthy to stay in the furnace for much longer priest,” Sebastian replied. “Apologies. Reinhart’s attitude rubbed off on me.”

  “He’s right Brukel. Those tents are nasty,” De Hove said and sucked at his gums, pondering on one thing, or other. Sebastian made to ask him about the construct, or the matter with Vellers, remembered Brukel didn’t know about it and by the time he figured out what to say, De Hove had asked him something he missed. “Forgive me Magister, I was distracted.”

  “I reminded you that Lord Anker’s offer still stands,” De Hove said. “A Knighthood.”

  “I should have been with Sir Thor,” Sebastian started and Brukel snorted. “Sir Luppe is dead and now Sir Thor. I’m not fit to be a squire, more so a knight.”

  “Hmm.” De Hove murmured with a glance at the scowled Brukel. “The priest thought you might say that. You do realize, most of us did much less than you during the battle right?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’ll call the 2nd Brother a liar?”

  Yes. Because you lied about Vellers. I understand why, but it is a lie none-the-less.

  “Sebastian. The Church wants to make a saint out of you,” Brukel said and Sebastian stepped back horrified.

  “No.”

  “Sebastian, the lowly squire, charged against Tyfon’s elephants, riding on one leg and with ruined armour,” De Hove started and the getting sick Sebastian croaked in an attempt to stop him.

  “Anyone could have done what I did!”

  “No one offered as fervently,” De Hove continued, not minding his objections. “Didn’t rest for two days. Fought the Constructs, charged against Cataphracts and mercenaries. Returned to the main battle, when he could have stayed with Sir Kosters and tended to his wounds. Reached Sir Thor’s men, and galvanized them by example. When no one offered to take the mantle and lead a suicide charge against the beasts… Seb Oats volunteered.”

  “Seb is dead,” the young man croaked. “He should have died then and there!”

  “But he didn’t,” De Hove insisted. “Uher plucked him from harm and shielded him from evil. Perhaps Sebastian the bastard is dead, but Brother Sebastos still draws breath. Uher kept you, because you are needed in these dark times. The Church sees the value of your story and your character. Are you going to refuse the call?” He added austerely and put a hand on Sebastian’s shaking shoulder. “What kind of man, can close his eyes and ears, when Uher is calling him Sebastos?”

  “You worked with Luikens,” Brukel said, while the heavy-breathing Sebastian tried to gather his wits.

  “For a few months,” he croaked. “Why?”

  “Did he ever talk about leaving the Order?” De Hove asked casually and Sebastian licked his cracked lips unsure.

  “The Assayer wasn’t much of a believer.”

  To any gods.

  “We knew that,” De Hove said with a grimace. “You are a smart lad, I’m told. Uher’s light shines upon you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Can you figure out what Luikens was doing?”

  “Luna can and Benedict Stam,” Sebastian offered.

  “Say, you had to… dig into their work,” De Hove continued. “You could do it eh?”

  “I have no idea what Luikens was saying half the time,” Sebastian protested.

  “All you need is a breakthrough.”

  “Brother Flucht is the one to probe on this—”

  “Marcel Flucht was killed at the bridge,” De Hove cut him off abruptly. “You’ll fill the void he left. Serve as an Archivist. Decent pay, not very demanding work and you’ll get to live in Midlanor. Uher’s Seat within arm’s reach.”

  “I don’t want to… I want nothing to do with Luikens research.”

  “Uher’s Light is a miracle,” Brukel said and De Hove nodded although Sebastian doubted the Magister believed it. “The Holy Archmagister said so himself.”

  “The Church shall protect you Sebastos. Give you a new life,” De Hove insisted. “If you refuse the Duke and refuse the Church, what will you do then? A man that turns away from Uher… alas… he’s on a highway to Oras Hells.”

  “I won’t… it’s not what I said,” Sebastian protested. “I just don’t want to get involved with Luikens’ research!”

  “I see,” De Hove said, looking disappointed.

  “I’ll speak to Sister Rita,” Brukel offered looking relieved. “She’ll take him in. Help with the injured. Work miracles there with Uher’s help.”

  “Hmm. Yeah,” De Hove murmured and glanced at Merkel and Reinhart that dragged a blanket with Atae’s half-naked mutilated body near them. The woman had her eyes burned, the face skin distorted where the hot iron had touched her, and the skin on her back had been scrapped off down to her buttocks. Not a gentle job and plenty of flesh had been gouged out in the process. It had left a gory mess behind, the flies feasted on.

  For days now.

  “Why torture her?” Brukel asked and De Hove grimaced, his boot giving a brutal kick on Atae’s bloody head that popped one of her rotting eyeballs out, the other staying as it wasn’t as badly burned or rotted.

  Sebastian felt his stomach turn at the gruesome sight.

  “The Duke caught her spying,” De Hove replied. “And she tried to attack him.”

  “What time was it?” Sebastian asked with a croak.

  “Late on the second day. Why?” De Hove asked.

  “They stopped on that first night,” Sebastian explained. “After the Zilan killed Brill?”

  “The Zilan… killed Brill,” De Hove repeated slowly, not privy on the incident.

  “Reinhart was there. And Luikens,” Sebastian said.

  “There was a woman,” Reinhart started, then sucked as much air in his lungs as he could and let it all out. “Was she a Zilan? Eh, I can’t say for sure.”

  “Reinhart!” Sebastian growled.

  “They stopped fighting?” De Hove probed on the other detail, looking at both of them with suspicion.

  “They did,” Sebastian repeated. “Brukel you know this. Everyone does.”

  “I didn’t stop to discuss matters with them zombies,” the priest replied brusquely.

  “What does it mean?” De Hove asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she’s dead for sure,” Reinhart declared and Atae’s sole eye moved under the fused eyelid. She raised a bloody arm to grab at the tender skin and then ripped it away to reveal her swollen, veiny, but still half-intact right eye.

  Reinhart noticed that everyone was looking down, paying little attention to his words and glanced there himself, saw Atae stir on the dirty blanket and yelped in panic. He stumbled sideways on Merkel, who put an arm out to stop the young man from spiraling out of control.

  “I’m good,” a deathly pale Reinhart managed to say, a severe tick marring his face. “Shite, she still moves! Darn it, I’ll show you!” He added and unsheathed a mace to bash Atae on the head with it and make her stop. The battered woman tried to get away from him, desperately looking for help from the group of church’s men watching her coldly, but for Sebastian that is. The young man felt her anguished stare stay on him, and that flicker of recognition, or interest, an emotion Sebastian hadn’t observed in constructs afore. It made a grimace of pity appear on his face.

  “Please help me,” Atae begged noticing his reaction.

  “Magister, is this right?” Sebastian intervened.

  “What do you mean… right?” Reinhart grunted gawking his way.

  “We knew she was still alive somehow Sebastos. She’s rotting, but not fast enough. Now, Merkel cut her in pieces, and we’ll burn her on that blanket to make a proper job out of it,” Sande De Hove ordered.

  “Magister. I’ll need a good tool for that,” Merkel said with a curt bow and then went to pick up a wood axe from the large wagons. A foot of blade on it.

  “I’ll serve… Uher’s Magister,” Atae’s voice was heard and she tried to lift herself up, some of the many boils formed under her skin bursting to release foul yellow pus out.

  De Hove stared at her for a moment soberly and then glanced at the engrossed Sebastian. “What do you think Brother Sebastos?”

  “Can I talk to her?” Sebastian grunted, as his leg had started hurting him from standing.

  “Go ahead,” De Hove said, over Brukel’s objection and Hanno Merkel took a step back to allow Sebastian to limp near the construct. Atae tended her arm out, but Sebastian didn’t take it. She smelled of earth, rotting flesh and blood.

  Half-living, or half-dead.

  Dead, but coming back to life.

  Something in between.

  “Why did they stop?” Sebastian asked her and Atae’s reddish half-burned sclera teared up.

  “Tin is gone,” she replied.

  “The Aken,” Sebastian said remembering the Zilan Ranger rushing back inside the woods. “Is dead?”

  “Tin is gone,” Atae repeated and tried to sit on her bottom. “Or dead.”

  “Suharto,” Sebastian added.

  “Tin. He’s a construct, but not like me,” Atae replied. “Made out of the mancer’s bone. I know which bone.”

  “What is she saying Bastian? Goodness me, her tits our out!” Reinhart gasped still hefting the mace and looking over Sebastian’s shoulder with wild eyes.

  “Just stand back you fool,” Sebastian grunted, grimacing from a jolt of pain. He stooped with both hands resting on the cane to listen to her next words.

  “I can help Bastian,” Atae said, pressing a bloody hand on her half-exposed breast, a piece of flapping skin folding under it.

  “How? Can you mend bones?” Sebastian asked and she nodded. “Ah, you’ll lie about everything.”

  “I can read the Assayer’s work,” Atae offered.

  “How? It’s mostly numbers and coded words,” Sebastian shook his head.

  “Don’t let them kill me,” Atae pleaded. “Boy in the woods.”

  Sebastian furrowed his brows. Atae's tearing eye returned his stare. “I don’t know you.”

  “You do. You killed me once already. But I found new bones, Tin did the rest,” she explained and smiled a gory smile. “The day the second Brill died.”

  Brill Three.

  Brill Two.

  The naming scheme disturbing in its simplicity.

  Sebastian blinked remembering the Cofol girl standing next to the lanky Aken Bonemancer, and Sir Luppe sacrificing himself. “No…” he murmured with a shiver. “I saw her get blown away.”

  “I’m not easy to dispose of,” Atae whispered and snatched his arm to bring him closer to her gore-covered, badly scarred face. The bleeding gap in her eye covered with insects. “I can help you.”

  “You are the devil’s spawn weaving tales. A fake human. A foul construct. Evil.”

  “Aye, I’m fake, but also learned how to be a proper human. I’m no less evil than yer magister, just Atae,” she breathed on him, smelling foul, a mixture of ancient gore and freshly crushed insects. “I’ve been a Cofol girl for two centuries, but I was a Lorian for a millennia before that and an Issir for a moon. A whore and a farmhand, an assassin and a healer. I watched Thirteen for untold centuries cultivate his trade and I matured alongside him. All their secrets I know.”

  “How could it be?” Sebastian panted and tried to get away from her. The Issir-looking construct let him go with a sad smile.

  “I’m an old soul,” Atae had whispered as the shocked former squire stood up.

  Sande De Hove watched the grim-faced Sebastian limp his way near them and set his square jaw in anticipation of his reply.

  “I’ll take Flucht’s post,” Sebastian told him without hesitation. “Research what Luikens has left behind.”

  The Magister furrowed his brows, trying to hide his surprise. “A Flucht shall have Marcel’s post. But you’re welcomed. What changed your mind?”

  “Uher has a plan.”

  “Indeed,” De Hove murmured and glanced at the two Inquisitors standing over the sitting on the blanket Atae.

  “I’ll need help and a favor,” Sebastian continued and the Magister/Leader of Inquisitors pursed his mouth displeased.

  “How big a favor?” De Hove asked. “It’s not nice starting in a new post with a demand Brother Sebastos.”

  “You owe me,” Sebastian whispered. “Also you said the Church loves me?”

  “The Church thinks you a saint, but most saints are martyrs,” De Hove reminded him. “No martyr that I know off is still breathing.”

  “I need a big box and a wagon,” Sebastian said quickly. “When the Duke asks what happened to the construct, I want you to lie for me again Magister.”

  This big a favor.

  De Hove stood back impressed and a little angry. He reached with a beefy hand and grabbed Sebastian’s jaw, turned it one way, then the other. “You’re serious. Why?”

  “They didn’t know any of us more than the other,” Sebastos explained and removed De Hove’s hand from his face overcoming the bulky magister’s strength. “But they knew of the Assayer’s past work. Both the Zilan and the constructs.”

  “Ah,” Sande De Hove said and signed for Merkel to chop Atae’s head off with the axe. He stooped near the horrified Sebastian’s ear just as the blade connected with the construct’s neck and hissed gravely. “I’ll get you your blasted dog box, Archivist Sebastos. If she survives, you can have her. Lord Anker asked for her head to perceive one last time before we burn her and what the Black Duke wants, the Black Duke gets.”