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Chapter 5: Brother’s Blood

~ The City Of Belcross ~

Surveying his brother’s triumphant return from the balcony of the Reed Arms Tavern, Wolgraft’s gaze followed the organized chaos of the arrival. Belcross was alive with celebratory mirth; a flurry of petals and confetti descending over the city’s merry citizens. “He revels in this,” Wolgraft mused dryly, observing his brother Guildred’s parade. His sister, Ariest, stood at his side, cheering fervently, lauding her brother with joyful waves of her handkerchief. Wolgraft cut a sidelong look at Mayfare, Ariest’s reticent maid, sandwiched cautiously between them. Below, on horseback, Guildred held aloft the emblem of their rebellion; a royal blue flag painted with a braided cross nestled within a wreath of loris reeds, a symbol signifying the Azurian mainland.

“You see? He’s safe,” Ariest said with relief, her fingers lightly encasing Wolgraft’s bicep.

“True, but why wouldn’t he be?” Wolgraft replied dismissively as he tossed a half-hearted salute to Guildred. Noticing the gesture from the balcony, Guildred nodded in return, continuing his crowd-pleasing promenade amidst a shower of flowers decorating his mount’s path.

Bemused, Wolgraft turned to his sister and her maid, “Isn’t it peculiar? We’ve been painted as rebellious villains, yet they revere us.”

“We are hailed as liberators, not vilified as rebels. Pay heed to their outlook,” Mayfare offered.

Wolgraft shook his head, his mouth spread into an incredulous grin. “It just baffles me. Just a few years back, we advanced as invaders. We brought this city to its knees… Yet, when we stood against the oppression of the monarchy, we became their heroes? The logic escapes me.”

Ariest’s forward laughter echoed in his ears. “Wolgraft, you’ve always had a penchant for over-analysing. Try to empathize with our people,” she chided playfully. “The raiders were eradicated and they found solace in the peace that ensued. The crown oppressed them without delivering any aid. Even someone as taciturn as me can grasp that.”

A weary sigh escaped Wolgraft’s lips. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Mayfare, resting a comforting palm on Ariest’s back, asked, “Does this truly signify Guildred captured Ulfates?”

Ariest nodded, “Presumably. Guildred’s pride wouldn’t allow him to return from a unsuccessful mission.”

A sentiment of nostalgia washed over Wolgraft as he reminisced about the sprawling pastures and homesteads they once held sway over. “We’re inching closer to reclamation,” he murmured feelingly, only to be jolted back by Ariest’s high-pitched exclamation. “What is it!?”

“Guildred has returned with something remarkable,” Ariest gasped, her slender finger tracing a path through the jubilant crowd below.

Mayfare squinted through the multitude, her complexion paling. “I’ve seen something similar within the pages of Lasandra’s sketchbook…”

Wolgraft redirected his focus from the young women, peering into the teeming throng himself. His attention was seized by two sizeable hauls, shrouded in mystery. “What in the world…?” He muttered, absentmindedly stroking his chin, the crowd too enraptured by the warmth of their hero’s return to pay the ominous hauls any heed. Many sturdy equids grappled with the colossal weight of each monstrosity. Despite the joviality, a sense of unease began to creep over Wolgraft. “What kind of creature is that?”

With an air of fervor, Lasandra called out to Wolgraft. He loomed over the formidable contraption, unnerved by the hulking crab-like machine known as the Village Guard. “The concept that it’s dormant yet sentient is truly unsettling,” she confessed, her fingers tracing the contours of its earth-brown armor. “I’m not comfortable dealing with such entities.”

A look of bewilderment crossed Wolgraft’s face. “What is your purpose with these? Their armor appears tougher than mere stone.”

Nodding appreciatively, Lasandra concurred, “Exactly. Their resilience is surprising. You will not see such machines fall easily. Village Guards, bred for war, must transcend the toughness of mere rock. Only a potent Vistis cannon hit has a shot at triggering a downfall. At least, that’s what I surmise. There’s a possibility I may be mistaken.” Wolgraft felt a shudder snake up his spine at the mere thought of engaging these mechanical beasts. The hero Guildred, since returning from Ulfates, had become a man of few words. The rumors circling suggested Guildred had procured his grievous injuries in a victorious one-on-one duel with a Village Guard.

Lasandra’s assurance wrenched Wolgraft from his musings: “Guildred has tasked me with priming these two for battle. Lacking a codex, the reprogramming could take ages. In essence, I will detach their systems, allowing their innate instincts to take over. It’s a risky move, but commands are commands. The challenge lies in the system extraction, because if the blood thaws, we’ll have an irate Village Guard to deal with.” Lasandra’s laughter echoed through the chamber, her cerulean eyes gleaming as they skimmed over the hulking form.

His eyes widened in horror as he absorbed the implications of her words. “So, they’d…just run amok?” he half-yelled, half-asked her.

Drawing a shaky breath, Lasandra caressed the cold metallic frame. “Well, yes, that’s the idea. Well, not exactly. They won’t agitate without incentive, but typically, it doesn’t take much to push their buttons.”

Wolgraft crossed his arms tightly, anxiously glancing at Lasandra. “That sounds dangerously reckless.”

“So, are you implying I’m insane, Wol? Lasandra is executing given orders.” Before Wolgraft could react, their attention was drawn to the barn’s entrance as Guildred lumbered in. “Ordinarily, Village Guards are docile until provoked. They can prove to be efficient laborers. Using them for plowing fields could expedite crop cultivation.” Wolgraft frowned in confusion. He had assumed they were journeying back home. What’s this sudden talk of farming? He found himself staring at his brother, hesitant to voice his doubts.

Guildred addressed Lasandra in a stern tone. “How is the status of my armor?”

Lasandra let out a sigh of resignation. “It’s in shambles. It’ll take me a while to acquire the needed materials, not to mention fixing the internal damage. Severe damage has been done to the shoulder’s ligaments. The muscle sinew has been torn apart. It’ll be a slow recovery process, but rest assured, I can mend it.”

Guildred’s face visibly deflated as he responded with a simple, “I see,” his voice devoid of emotion. “That’s regrettable.”

Lasandra began, “The Talmian alicids are dwindling in numbers, hence…”

Guildred abruptly cut her off with a raise of his hand. “Spare me the lecture. I comprehend.”

Their attention drifted away as he retreated back up the stairs. “Wait,” Wolgraft called out, “How’s your shoulder?”

Guildred paused momentarily before he began to ascend the stairs again. As his silhouette became discernible against the setting sun, he echoed, “Soldat hasn’t shown up yet. We’d best vacate the premises before the townsfolk become suspicious.”

The hinges of the front door squealed, piercing the somber quiet and causing Ariest’s heart to jolt with anticipation. Without hesitation, she sprang towards the entrance, her lips curling into a radiant grin that belied the tension suffusing the air. As she arrived, she was met with the imposing profiles of Wolgraft and Guildred, both standing like stone gargoyles at the end of the chilly hallway. Guildred brushed past them without a word, his face was a sharp mask of indifference. His silence left bruises that words hoped to heal.

As she turned to welcome the pair with chirpy enthusiasm, Wolgraft’s gaze locked on to hers. His eyes ferried a silent plea she couldn’t ignore. He shook his head ever so slightly. As her smile started to crack, a tangible unease coiled around her spirit.

Meanwhile, unworldly delight was being served in the adjacent dining room. An aromatic symphony wafted through the manor’s atria, led by the briny perfume of ‘angels on horseback’ – plump oysters enveloped in crispy bacon, fresh from the harbour. The addictive scent was amplified by a golden loaf of yeast bread that Mayfare had just laid, piping hot, on the dining table.

“Good evening, Lord Guildred,” Mayfare curtsied, deferring to the patriarch as he traipsed his way to the table, his silence shrouding him under an austere veil. His very existence commanded attention, unhinging the rhythm of life around him.

The quartet ate their sunset meal amidst a veil of silence. Guildred dined with a muted grandeur, while the others partook tepidly, their appetite snuffed by the suffocating quietude. Wolgraft resisted the urge to pay due compliments to Mayfare’s culinary prowess, for fear of bearing his thoughts to their grim symposium.

Guildred appeared almost ragged, on the verge of a precipitous collapse. His stoic facade belied a roiling turmoil that caused hearts to flutter in distress. As he ate, his hands shivered subtly, the tremors a telltale sign of his internal struggle.

After an eternity trapped within this chilly tableau, Guildred’s gaze flitted to Mayfare and then Ariest. “This feast is delectable, Mayfare, Ariest,” he said, nodding thinly in their direction. While Mayfare responded with a half-smile, the rest curbed their tongues. The oppressive silence continued to reign over their feast. When Guildred finally motioned, Mayfare jolted up, eager to clear the battlefield of their feast.

“Wolgraft, assist your sister,” Guildred commanded, his voice echoing off the room’s high ceilings. Ariest’s gaze collided with Wolgraft’s. Mayfare’s hands froze in mid-air, hovering over the half-eaten plates. “Mayfare, you come with me,” Guildred voiced out once more before disappearing into the adjacent room.

The sudden turn of events left Mayfare bewildered, her pleas for clarification mirrored in her wide-eyed glance at Wolgraft. He looked back, his silent mouth forming an unknowing “I don’t know” that was both helpless and frightful.

Barefoot, Mayfare nimbly ascended from the third-story casement, her feet gingerly finding purchase on the moss-claimed wooden shingles crowning the arching roof. As she ventured further, a slight misstep made her foot skid over the verdant surface. Guildered lay back, feet braced against the fall bars, his body skirting the roof’s edge. His hand snaked out towards Mayfare.

“Trust me,” he assured her, stamping on the metal and creating a reverberating clatter. “Look, it’s strong. Stay with me.”

Mayfare tiptoed across the shingles, clutching the rail with a white-knuckled grip. Slipping on the loose strata, her foot found a solid footing, helping her regain her balance. Guildered, watching her struggle, offered steadying support, his hand resting on her side as she settled down.

“Why the roof?” Mayfare queried, a puzzled crease forming on her forehead.

A cryptic smile played on Guildered’s countenance. “This place is serenity incarnate, every sound, every scent is crystal clear up here. You can even unravel the moon’s dance in the star-studded sea above if you scrutinize closely.” He directed her gaze towards the celestial bodies, moons suspended mid-air, their glow dimming. “Isn’t it breathtaking when you think about it?”

Mayfare’s eyes initially traced his command, but something else grasped her gaze – the flurry of quotidian activities on the streets far below. The cheese seller haggling with a customer, a horse-drawn cart jittering along uneven cobblestones, groups of children playing marbles. “It truly is,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve been a beacon for us, Mayfare,” Guildered started, his voice shaking with a vague sentiment. “It feels like just yesterday that you were this little girl playing in the courtyard. It’s regretful you were not bestowed with nobility.”

A sudden ache lodged in Mayfare’s throat, a battalion of questions threatened to erupt in a torrent. Yet, her fear compelled her to employ the customary tactics to mollify the tension. “Thank you, sir.”

“Sir? Even after all this while, I see,” Guildred chuckled. “I wished to speak privately for the course of action I propose might upset Ariest. I can see worry shadowing your face, but I do hope you’ll understand.” His features, highlighted by the dying daylight became sharper, his eyes throwing a soft light. “You already know hardships lurk on our path, don’t you?” Mayfare’s silent nod spoke volumes. “You’ve been my servant, true, but you’ve served my family with indomitable loyalty and dedication.”

Mayfare’s heartbeat echoed horrifyingly loud in her ears as her thoughts swirled in a tempest of dread. She wanted lashing out, scream out her fears but she held them back, swallowed down convulsively. “Do not dare, Guildered!” she wanted to scream but her voice failed her.

“And for that, I believe it’s time to release you from the bonds of servitude,” Guildred continued. “You may leave, if you choose to.”

“Leave!” His words felt like an invasion into her mind, each syllable violating her sanity. “But I…” she choked on her own words, heart-beat morphing into an unruly drum roll. Tears poured down her cheeks, her agonized sobs echoing into the quiet evening air. Guildered’s kindly gesture only intensified the physical pain she felt, tearing through her heart. Her loyalty to Lady Ariest has never wavered for a moment since she was a child. How could she abandon them now?

“I’m infinitely indebted to your loyalty and sincerity to our family, Mayfare. And it’s precisely why I’m offering a fresh lease of life to you. Do not think this journey is over,” Guildred explained. “On the contrary, it has merely begun. The situation is worsening; we’ve been harboring new recruits furiously. The truth remains that it’s not long before the Empire gets the wind of it and sends soldiers from the mainland. You know what that would mean for all related to us, don’t you?” Unsheathing a pouch from his calf hide belt, he tossed it her way. “Fifty gold pieces. Enough to exchange for a rich verdant plot and sufficient for your travels. You can even buy some pairs of hands to tame that land of yours.”

“No.” Her whisper carried a finality, an unwavering decision clinging to it.

“You will see the worst. If given a choice, I’d wish you to evacuate Ariest too, but that would only bring the Empire down upon her and in turn you,” he persisted. “But you being an outsider, they have no hold on you. You can easily escape this.”

“No, I will not abandon you,” Mayfare reiterated, facing him directly.

“This could be your only shot at freedom, Mayfare. Weigh your options carefully,” Guildred pleaded.

Her teardrops trickled down her cheeks, soaking her lap. “I will not run if it means leaving my family behind. You are my sole family.”

Guildred’s face split into a smile, perhaps the first genuine one today. “They might kill you. They might kill us all and you’d be left with nothing. Are you ready for that?”

Her breath hitched, her heart pounded against her ribcage, yet she stood solid. The thought that he could even suggest such a thing infuriated her. She had already weighed all possibilities, calculated all outcomes and always arrived at the same conclusion. The thought of deserting the family plagued her thoughts. Surely she would regret such a decision, especially if something happened to Ariest, whom she had looked after and loved as if she were her own. “I know, Guildered. That’s exactly why I cannot leave. All I can do is protect Ariest.”

He digested her words, drumming the roof wood thoughtfully. “In that case, you might turn into a liability to us if situations spiral out of control.” He stared down at her, sternness etching his features. “Have you taken that into consideration?”

“I can help,” she pled, tears chiseling paths on her face.

Wrapping his arms around Mayfare in a tight half-hug, Guildered sighed. “I’m relieved, to be honest. But remember, I should not regret this decision.” Guildred’s eyes scanned the horizon, a single horseman racing towards the mansion. He flicked the pouch towards her delicate feet. “This will be your last shot,” he voiced out his final offer, leaving her to mull over the decision on the solitary rooftop.

The rider halted before the gate, waving a parchment, but Mayfare barely registered his presence, her attention fixated on the pouch. Extracting a gold coin, she held it to the dying light. Letting out a long sigh, she slotted the coin within its leather confines, the metallic clink resonating in her ears.

The clash of two fabric-bound blades rang out in rapid cadence, faster than Wolgraft could visually track. Rivulets of sweat trickled down Wolgraft’s temple, marked with grit and raw exertion. In the secluded backdrop of the local tavern, Guildred and Wolgraft volleyed blows back and forth, their competition fierce. Surveying Guildred’s flawless posture, Wolgraft knew his brother was in peak shape and didn’t yet show signs of fatigue, in stark contrast to his own wearied state.

Guildred’s blade sliced through the air, closing the impending distance and thrusting the fabric-tip perilously close to Wolgraft’s face. The words flowed from him as steadily as his sword moved, “You must be faster than the blink of an eye. Each attack you make is a step into the jaws of death.”

Wolgraft found himself on the defensive, receding inch by inch spurred by the nearly tactile threat looming by his nose. Guildred was a tempest in motion, expressing his relentless expertise in weaponizsed artistry. In a single exchange, Guildred struck four or perhaps five times, repelling Wolgraft’s weapon in various directions, an unexpected onslaught of power. “You lack focus! Your pace is lethargic and your hold is too rigid.”

“Damn you!” Wolgraft roared back, mounting a counter-attack with his last reserves of strength. With a ferocious grunt, he sprang forward to strike at Guildred only to be strategically evaded.

Guildred retaliated with a powerful blow, the cloth-wrapped hilt of his sword making blunt contact with Wolgraft’s face and he staggered backward. The ache surged across his features and eclipsed his sight momentarily into a haze of painful darkness.

“An adversary wouldn’t dance in a polite duel,” Guildred schooled him as his vision blurred back into focus, finding his brother standing still with an inscrutable contemplation.

Tears swam in Wolgraft’s eyes, mixing with the crimson trail marking its track from his nostrils. Resentment distorted his young face, “What in the heavens was that about?” His jaw taut with disbelief.

Guildred faced him firmly, “Sloppy performance like that could be your end.” Ignoring his objections, Wolgraft swiped at the blood smeared on his hand, grimly hoisting his weapon to point mockingly at Guildred. “Right on cue. Come at me.”

Gripping the hilt of his weapon, Wolgraft surged forward only to be caught off guard by Guildred. As their swords locked, Guildred twisted his blade, resulting in a precarious shift in Wolgraft’s hold. An opportunity revealed itself as the weapon slipped from Wolgraft’s grip. Mustering all his remaining strength, Wolgraft managed to wrench Guildred’s weapon away from him. Catching him off guard, Guildred’s vacant hand instinctively shot out landing a punch square on Wolgraft’s face, sending him sprawling onto the ground. A curtain of unconsciousness descended, and the next thing Wolgraft knew, his brother was looming over him. “You’re done for today.”

Wolgraft’s voice trembled, albeit defiant, “Why are you so rough on me?”, It wasn’t a rarity to find some leniency when practicing swordplay with his brother, despite the blatant skill gap.

Guildred’s face was etched with unwelcome news. Wolgraft’s gut churned, “What did the messenger relay?” The sudden somber air felt heavy, pressing onto his chest.

“Soldat hasn’t made return, neither have his scouts. It’s likely he won’t return soon. His Party may have been ambushed. Worst-case scenario, we lose everything. We are now on a path of no return, Wolgraft. I’ve been treating you as a child, it’s time I prepare you to hold your own on the battlefield.”

Anger flared up in Wolgraft, his young face hardened “My troops have already bled in several battles, I assure you, I fare well.”

“Can you?” Guildred’s frown deepened. “You’ve been fighting ragtag bandits and mercenaries, far from being seasoned warriors. Azurian soldiers could easily overrun them. Facing the Azurian knights and lords is on another level entirely. They are hardened by warfare.”

Suddenly, a chilling realization dawned on Wolgraft. “You’ve lost all faith in our cause, haven’t you? You think we are incapable of more?”

Guildred sighed, “It’s not for naught. If your training was futile, I wouldn’t bother. We fight because it’s our only shot at making it home, but what home is left for us? We’re exiles, Wolgraft, treasonous exiles. Our only leverage is numbers and these foreign cities are as they say, running out. Contemplating to ransom an entire nation for our ticket home, do you honestly think we can make it out alive?”

A silence hung heavily between them, interrupted only by Wolgraft’s meek inquiry, “What other choice did we have? Head east and face death against the Dalmaskans on some forsaken island?”

Guildred grimaced, “True, in order to send forth any correspondence to the Imperator, one must go through Grandor. Unless we have access to airships, but that seems out of reach. Grandor most likely yearns for a resolution to this conflict too. However, our outsized rebellion forced Grandor to retaliate. Thus, we’re condemned to this war, unwanted by all.”

Guilt sank in, constricting Wolgraft’s chest. “Is it really that grim?”

Guildred raked his boot across the dirt ground. “I’m afraid so. Seeing that Grandor might decide to wage a full-blown war where negotiation isn’t an option,” he sighed. “Though, I hope he won’t favor staining his legacy.”

In a low mumble, Wolgraft admit, “We’re walking on a tight rope.”

Guildred nodded gravely, “We are. Only one way out of this.” The clatter of hooves snapped the tension in the air. Turning, they spotted a mounted messenger galloping across the field, gripping a missive tightly. Guildred crossed his arms, watching the rider approach. “My Lord, Soldat awaits at Ziekden. He bears much-needed news.” A shared smirk fast passed over the brother’s faces.

A sprawling map lay poetically unfurled atop a sturdy table at which Wolgraft perched, immaculate in an Azurian uniform trimmed with gold. Dotted about the paper terrain, pins held strategic importance, whispering inaudible secrets of battle plans, filling him, unexpectedly, with an uncommon warmth. Guildred, with an imperturbable face poised for war, patrolled the room’s periphery, fingers restlessly dance through his facial hair, intermittently evaluating the tactical display.

Across Wolgraft, a certain elder, Soldat, sat with a crown of a freshly shaven head, putting his knife to good use less as a weapon and more as a tool for picking his teeth. This duo, armoured in Azure cloaks hemmed with gold and adorned with gold and silver griffons, radiated an aura worn down by the grating friction of dirt and grit, their gleam safeguarded rather than smudged by experience.

Soldat, an old reliable amongst Guildred’s inner sanctum, was, as Wolgraft correctly assumed, not particularly enthused about the role bestowed upon him by Guildred. His namelessness rankled the Ashnod within Wolgraft as he scanned the rustic yet charming confines of the old windmill farmhouse. His gaze landed upon the pair of guards ensnared in half-armour who stood stationed by two windows, painting an image of watchful hawks.

Guildred, with a nonchalant stroke of his fingers, dismantled the dishevelment of his golden mane, rearranging it into regimented strands. He turned to address Wolgraft, “In what state does your invasion army find themselves, Wolgraft?”

“Verge-ready to descend upon Verst; Just awaiting your orders, my Lord,” replied Wolgraft, his vision welded to the parchment in front of him. An unnerving realization was within his grasp – all of this, this labyrinth of strategizing may merely be a play, a performance. A web of lies weaved shabbily by Guildred to get his own way, a choice between a blade’s edge and an abyssal drop.

Guildred lingered upon the wooden figurines signifying enemy encampments, the edges of his mouth pleasingly inclined upwards. He gestured towards the battle machinations on the table, “Isn’t it breathtaking?” he posed, his gaze on the parchment, “Even with the acquired support post occupying Verst, we could sink all naval trade from the south.” Wolgraft was aware – Guildred was exploiting a razor-thin margin that flirted with madness. The path to time was a minefield; they couldn’t traverse, and yet, they couldn’t give up either.

Soldat manoeuvred his hand across the map, drawing it to a halt at Elitus. His voice echoed Wolgraft’s thoughts, “If the Freeholds don’t side with us, we will be blockaded.”

Their noble cause wasn’t equally prized. Neither Lord Rasario nor the Lords of the Brave clan had rallied to their call. They had limited chances of wooing the Freelanders without them. They merely existed as a nomadic clan, refugees on the run from a war that spanned two years. They had neither riches nor resources to impress the Freeholds. Further, no one dared to shake the pillars of the Azure empire, provoking it out of slumber. As bluntly put forth by Guildred, their only alternative was to retain their positions, their fortitude reminded of a formidable fort.

From the corner of his eye, Wolgraft noticed Soldat scrutinizing the map, grappling with potential schemes. “Guildred,” he began, “You’re an Ashnod. Surely, that should amount to something?”

“Not to the Marions,” Guildred remarked, a layer of cynicism lining his tone, “Guildred holds a higher command there, and that too has won us no allies.” His gaze, however, swiftly shifted from the map to Wolgraft, his blue eyes reflecting a storm of queries.

Wolgraft, who was engrossed in his own thoughts, processed what Guildred had suggested earlier. It fell into place. The guards turned farmers, staking claim over an empire, every move on the battlefield indicated towards one revelation – they hadn’t planned on turning back. The once-palatial Grandor was now akin to rubble; they had nothing to go back to except for echoes of calamity. This new land, immune to the central political sways of the Azurian kingdom, was to be their newfound destiny. However, Guildred was bound by certain obligations that forbade him from professing such thoughts. Wolgraft found his purpose here.

He broke his silence, fingers idly skimming over the map to land atop the trinity of cities they were to acquire soon, “We may not find our way back. Why not stay here?” His gaze dared to meet Guildred’s, and the unwavering resolve in these blue orbs egged him on. “After we evolve into a sovereign state, we may lure the Freeholds into an alliance with us. Their disposition towards the Azurian expansion is far from welcoming. Golgotha would give rise to a rebellion.”

“But a larger chunk of our men would slink back into oblivion, retreating. They’d fight Dalmaska in the east,” countered Guildred, smashing the fragile understanding they had of his strategy.

Guildred’s face mirrored mountains of worry, and Wolgraft couldn’t help but infer that pressure had chiselled insanity out of his brother’s nerves. Guildred’s plan of trading cities for hostages and severing northern trade ties was a sign of initiation into an unending war of attrition. The attack on Verst was imminent, and the armies were on standby.

A smug curl embraced Soldat’s lips. Wolgraft envisaged that Soldat, a man of humble origins, would relish the prospect of leading a swarm of soldiers. “They are poised for battle,” he replied, “We’ve raised considerable numbers. In lieu of their contributions, many wish to become our squires. We have sieved the best from the rest. You’d be glad to know our forces have increased by a quarter.”

Despite a few setbacks, their will remained unbroken, “We’re prepared. The night saw us in fire and blood as wildlings slithered into our camp, ambushing us. We failed to light the fire as an alarm soon enough, yet we soldier forward. I intended on telling you upon your return from Ulfates, but alas.”

“Fair enough,” replied Guildred, his voice hardened by the revelation. He clapped twice in command, “Soldat, lead your forces North three days from now. Wolgraft, your forces march tonight. Attacking with full strength should be your only resort once you spot Soldat attacking from outside the city. My troops shall infiltrate the city by taking the riverways into the sewers on the fourth nightfall.”

Suddenly, a shrill alarm rang out, followed by a trembling pointing finger aimed towards the murkiness outside the window. “Azurians!” the guard bellowed, his marrow frozen by terror.

Guildred plunged into action, rushing to the window to scrutinize the ominous silhouette of the advancing troops. His strategic mind kicked into action, mentally arranging the enemy into four waves, composed of four ranks each. The chill of fear slithered up his spine as his eyes caught the grim sight of several imposing metal behemoths lurching on the flanks of the advancing army. They were tanks. Wolgraft’s eyes swam with dread, his gaze glued to the approaching monstrosities wrenching the tranquillity of the hillside. “There’s a traitor amongst us, brother,” stated Guildred with chilling composure that belied the vital information he’d revealed.

Wolgraft could feel the weight of his word echoing his trembling hands, “Tonight will be my night of sacrifice at the altar alone,” Guildred declared. “Soldat, gather your men and retreat to Belcross, mobilize your forces towards Ulfates.”

Soldat acknowledged the orders with a stoic nod, and a hastily uttered “Yes, my Lord,” before he descended the spiral staircase of the windmill hollering, “To Arms, men,” which echoed into the dimly-lit room.

Wolgraft shook off the paralysis and marched towards Guildred, who faced the window. “My brother, stand tall for our clan, for Ashnods.” Wolgraft planted seeds of affirmation in Guildred. “Take our sisters to safety and don’t forget Lasandra – she is irreplaceable.”

“Certainly,” Wolgraft managed a weak nod, his mind a whirlpool of unanswerable questions. Guildred, his gaze unwavering from the distant horizon, continued, “Head straight to an old roadhouse on your way. Look for a man named Bram. Apart from being well-versed with the wilderness, he is a seasoned fighter. Head North beyond Verst to Elitus… Soldat shall provide cover to the southern lands. Blend in with the locals and lay low until I return. Ensure the safety of our sisters. Assume the role of merchants if need be, but your safety is of the essence.”

The news gripped Wolgraft with a vice-like fear, “We shall leave together.”

Guildred shook Wolgraft firmly by the shoulders, his eyes pools of desperation reflecting moonlight, “I need you to obey me, without question, right now,” he pleaded. “Without me, our troops won’t last long, and neither will our window of opportunity for escape. I’ll hold this group back for a few hours.”

Wolgraft shrugged off his brother’s desperate plea, his hand shooting through the air in rebellious protest, “Then we fight together. Brothers, back-to-back. Soldat can ferry away our sisters!”

“Folly!” Guildred thundered, instantly silencing Wolgraft. “If we both fall here, who would carry on the torch of Ashnod? There’s no redemption for our souls in Naraka!” He strode to the window, taking in the approaching juggernaut of forces. “This lends at least some of us a fighting chance for survival. Now, you’re squandering time. Get Aerist. Get the hell out.”

And then, Guildred drew out a knife, tearing his gloves off. In a single, swift motion, he carved a line onto his palm, spilling blood onto the floor. Wolgraft’s heart pounded as he stared, captivated. It was a ritual typically associated with witches and dark magic. “Go. Now. That’s an order, brother.” He sharply sucked in air as the scent of iron filled the silent room. Wolgraft surmised Guildred must be feeling the pain shooting through his hand, though his demeanour never faltered. Glove back on, he left Wolgraft alone in the room, the footsteps of soldiers outside the only sound tickling their awareness.

“There is a family trait in you after all, Guildred, to sacrifice yourself like dad once did,” murmured Wolgraf once alone, glancing back to the door where his brother disappeared. “There’s no telling who will take over the rebellion if we fall.” He reflected as he prepared to leave the windmill, the ominous threat finally catching up with them.

The distant stillness was shattered by the rhythmic drumming of horse hooves against the tranquil backdrop of the expanse, like a symphony rooted in some archaic battle lore. The jade plains underfoot were brushed with tones of sunset-hued amber and raven-speckled gold, gently dancing under the touch of the roaming wind. From between columns of ripened grains, a multitude of farmhands began to emerge, shadowy figures unearthing themselves from this rustic tableau.

An aging tavern, its frame built from the gnarled skeleton of the surrounding forest, loomed closer on the horizon. Wolgraft, a touch of urgency in the kick of his boot against the stirrup, coaxed his steed to a halt. In a quick, fluid motion, he vaulted down from the saddle and negotiated a pathway of semi-buried cobbles, interrupting the day’s silent hymn with the crunching echo of his steps.

Innocuous tufts of verdant green tried to break free from the forgotten walkway, rising from the gaps in the long-sunken cobblestones. At the end of his journey stood an imposing structure, whose second story whispered tales from a time where stories mattered. To its side rested a modest stable, with oxen idly tethered to its wooden skeleton. The stern knock on the weathered pine door, carved by elements and time, sent ripples of warnings through the silence within.

The door creaked open to unveil a man whose face was prematurely aged by life’s daily grind. He spoke with a narrowing gaze, “Guildred I know, but you’re too raw around the edges to be him. You must be Wolgraft, his younger kin?”

“Time is a luxury we can’t afford.” Wolgraft replied, his voice a hardened rasp, “Gather every able-bodied man. The Azurians lurk on our threshold. If strangers approach from the northeast road, take no gambles, shoot to kill and flee without looking back.” The old man’s features contorted towards apprehension as Wolgraft continued, “Guildred himself passed this message and mentioned a man named Bram—a slayer—is he among you?”

Guildred hunched over the intricate rhythms of the battle plans, his gaze flickering in the low glow of the lamp. With an abrupt sweep of his arm, he sent the plans cascading to the stone floor, who still tried to capture their former positions in a futile dance. “It was all for naught. All for naught! ” His voice thundered vehemently through the rickety farmhouse, an echo of trepidation that trembled the timbers.

Straightening his broad shoulders, he strode over to the grimy window, his hands absentmindedly claiming the wooden sill as their territory. His gaze wandered, crystallising into hard recognition as he took in the figures that had appeared from the shadowed distance. At first glance were the greenest of the troops; faint-hearted, their expressions as naked as their unseasoned bodies. Dragging his gaze to the rear rows, he was met with a comforting sight: soldiers metamorphosing into venerated knights, an escalating gradient of battle-hardened durability.

Beside him, a cluster of soldiers coagulated, their hands almost lovingly holding onto their rifles. Guildred’s grim mouth bent into an obscure approximation of a smile; their long-barreled guns were a beacon of hope in the looming storm. “What’s our munition?”

A man, bones jutting out under his grizzled skin, retorted, “A mere 15 shots for us five.”

“Good. Expectation, then, is for 20 officers down. Understood?”, Guildred’s tone left no room for argument.

Their accord was tacit “Yes, sir.”

With precision of a hawk zeroing on a prey, Guildred singled out two of the men, “The rooftop is yours!” Then he pointed at another three, “You, windows.” As they peeled off to assume positions, he roared, “Prepare to give them hell!”

His gaze landed on a remaining soldier. “Go rally the men downstairs. Anyone bold enough to venture near the doors gets a spear in the throat. Today, we cease to be a mere farmhouse. Today, it transforms into my bloody fortress!”

The thin, quivering glow of a single candle stood as the lone sentinel against the oppressive shadows clawing at the corners of the dreary cellar where Wolgraft perched hunched over. Out of the penumbral abyss, a voice hardened by age and trials reverberated, “So it seems Guildred has deigned to request my assistance. Predictable! So you want me to play ferryman and shepherd you out of this cesspool, huh? Just my bloody luck. Dealing with them is never a simple task.” There was a gruff laugh underpinning the scorn.

“There is more – myself, my sister, our serving girl and…the offspring of a mancer, Lasandra.” Wolgraft gulped, his words hesitant.

In the pitch black recesses, the grizzled voice sank into a contemplative silence. The owner’s gaze was seemingly lost to some unseen expanse extending far beyond the stone walls. A sigh, weary and resigned, sliced through the quietude, “Now that’s an intricate web you spin. Fine, gather your shadows and convene outside the northern fortifications of Belcross. Take with you only the bare necessities. Understood?”

Wolgraft’s head inclined affirmatively. “Your assistance is more valuable than you know, Bram.”

“Think nothing of it. Guildred once ventured his skin to save mine; I reckon I should repay that debt and save yours in turn,” Bram grumbled. He then shooed him off with an impatient wave, “Now make haste, boy. I’d prefer to seize a safe head-start before the Azures sniff us out. Pure malevolence courses through their damned arteries.” His wry eyes wandered again to Wolgraft, whose face resembled a despair-drawn caricature, etched in haggard lines and sunken features. An involuntary laugh bubbled out, bouncing the ridicule around the gloom-ridden cellar. “No offense intended, Sir Ashnod.”

Navigating the merchant route that wove like a thread through the veil of dense woods, Wolgraft dodged stoic trees and twisted trunks gracefully from his horse’s back. The weight of his brother’s fate oppressed him like a blanket of thorns, his mind ensnared by a gnawing worry. As he plunged deeper into the heart of the forest, the distant cacophony of warriors dulled, disappearing into the serenity of nature. His blade clattered tremulously against his side, a discordant melody to accompany the rhythmic crunching of deceased foliage beneath his horse’s determined hooves.

Greater vistas beyond the verdant threshold drew nearer as he transitioned from dense timberland to unobstructed fields. The imposing walls of Belcross projected their silhouette against the sky, a daunting behemoth that waited for him at the horizon. As he traversed vast swathes of agricultural terrain, the ephemeral whisper of his billowing cape was a serenade carried by the relentless wind. It didn’t take long for his striking presence to capture the undivided attention of the field workers, as he vibrated with palpable tension, a wave of unease rippling outwards in his wake. As he rode, generations-old watchtowers gave sentinels of the Honor Brotherhood reason to track his journey with vigilant eyes.

A mounted guard from the Brotherhood shaded him, his face etched with concern. Once he recognized the knight, he inquired, “It you, Sir Wolgraft? Is there trouble?”

“Indeed,” Wolgraft responded, his voice a grim shadow of its usual self, “Soldat is on the march gathering forces. He will be here soon. Go with him. Prepare yourselves immediately. You must travel to Ulfates. If the Empire breaches our camouflaged defenses, each life we fought for will be forfeit.” Amidst his dread, Wolgraft portrayed an island of pensiveness, though solemnity hung about his visage like a funeral veil. He added, “Ulfates, she must stand strong. If the fortress collapses, then our cause succumbs with her.”

The bleak terror projected from Wolgraft pierced the soldier’s guarded expression, his gaze grew sour with the bitter taste of despair. “We are not retreating to Azure, are we?” the guard’s voice hinted terrified confusion. The rest of the ride echoed with silence, punctuated only by the thud of hooves on the earth-encrusted path as Wolgraft’s convictions led them back towards the stone city.

The Reed Arms Tavern was a veritable palette of rustic hues; from whiskey-stained oak tables to the faded amber wall, it radiated an undeniably comfortable ambiance. The medieval-inspired furniture was scattered haphazardly about, populated by the usual patrons – a blend of seasoned regulars and transient strangers. Bottles of diverse liqueurs adorned the back wall behind the bar like aged trophies; they glittered faintly under the candlelight. The tavern hummed with conversation and laughter, a characteristic symphony drowned out by the clinking of glasses and echoing music.

The moment Wolgraft, a cloaked figure of notable presence, walked into the warm embrace of the pub, he bore the air of one intending mischief. His tall, angular form cut a path through the crowd, shielding a hidden door at the rear. His solitary movement drew the fleeting attention of two military men – the only ones perceptive enough to take notice. He didn’t need to orbit the crowd; he was the epicenter of their curiosity, quelling it as he entered through the door without uttering a word.

In pursuit, Wolgraft headed down the time-worn cellar stairs, their creaks cloaked by tavern noises above. He stepped into a modest hallway lined with nondescript wooden doors. Ignoring the first three, he paused before the fourth, his fingers tracing its worn edges before pushing it open.

The sight of his sister Ariest, along with Mayfare and Lasandra, greeted him. Their poised forms, lit in a skeletal manner by scant candlelight, bore a nonchalantly deadly grace. Each held a knife in their delicate hands, an unconscious testament to their inherent alertness.

Lasandra, with pearlescent copper hair cascading over her shoulders, was a severe contrast to the elemental simplicity of their surroundings. Her pointed nose and abnormally elongated ears hinted at an alien elegance – an elven attribute bestowed upon her by imaginative rumor mills. Those who dared to call her ‘Lasandra the Elf’ met her wrath, but Wolgraft, her trusted associate, would never dare. Her emerald-blue eyes, usually rich with intrigue, beamed in jovial recognition. Resting the knife flat on her chest, she let the shadows of the room play along the metallic surface. “It’s just you.”

Ariest, the radiant presence in the dingy room, with her braided golden hair capturing the dim light, broke the serenity. “Brother, what brings you here,” she questioned from her perch next to Mayfare, the girl’s lavender tresses falling around her face in a reverie of purple.

Yet, before Mayfare could respond, Wolgraft seized the narrative. He dabbed the panic out of his eyes and commanded, “Ladies, pack your possessions. We have to leave.” The subsequent patter of boots ascending the stairs forced Wolgraft to pivot towards the ominous arrival of the three soldiers.

A redhead among them blurted first. “Is there truth to the rumors? Are we under siege?”

Wolgraft shot him a penetrating gaze. “Attack?” Ariest echoed, as she gravitated towards Wolgraft’s aura of command. She looked lost, her brother her only compass.

Wolgraft shielded his clandestine expression as he steered the soldiers with his words, “Men, you have your orders! Gather what you can and rendezvous at Ulfates with Soldat.”

“And where will you be headed, sir?” A young soldier among them inquired, his voice barely a whisper.

The slight sigh that escaped Wolgraft was filled with a poised resolve. “You should know better than to probe now. A critical errand from my elder sibling, Guildred, rests upon my shoulders – our survival hangs by its success.”

At a distance, Ariest had silently hitched onto the conversation. She stepped forward, confusion lining her pretty face. “Brother, what is happening? Where is Guildred?” And before Wolgraft could dodge, she looked down the hallway and voiced the question gnawing at the back of everyone’s mind. “Where is our brother Guildred?”

Ziekden’s windmill came to Wolgraft’s mind. His eyes swiveled back and forth, highlighting the dread building within him. He hoped that Guildred was still alive, safe somewhere on the battleground. “Stop lingering and follow orders!” His voice broke through the muffled whispers, filling the room with a stern urgency. Cowed, the soldiers nodded and retreated, leaving Wolgraft alone with an apprehensive Ariest.

A teeming hive of humanity encircled Soldat as he made his sturdy path through the gateway of the town. Frantic cries volleyed through the air, a collective plea from the townsfolk begging him not to lead his regiments away. Yet Soldat, with an air of steel-cold resolution, only drew his gleaming blade from its scabbard, booming out in stern command, “Hands off me!” The crowd recoiled back, parting like the waves before a ship as Soldat rode on, their fear palpable in the silence.

Chaos spilled through the streets like a living, breathing creature, consuming all in its path as the soldiers fought back the waves of the desperate populace teetering on the brink of anarchy.

An elderly man, his face etched with lines of fear and age, grasped Soldat’s leg, pulling at him as he called out, “Don’t leave, they’ll slaughter us!”

“Orders are orders,” Soldat shot back, his voice as icy as a winter wind, cutting through the clamour while maintaining a rigid posture atop his horse.

Panic churned through the townsfolk, hastening their movements as they bolted their homes, fled the streets, mirroring the soldiers in their restlessness. Within the span of an hour, Soldat had mustered his men outside the city’s boundaries, standing at the helm of this formidable gathering of more than two thousand warriors.

“We’ve battled hard to pick our way to this moment,” he began, his voice rolling over the heads of his troops. “We fought with all our might yesterday, and tomorrow calls for graver fights. We are on the brink of facing an enemy unlike any before, an enemy we cannot defeat within these walls. Retreat is our only option, but that does not relegate us to cowards. Guildred is out there, engaged in brutal combat, buying time for us to congregate our armies. The enemy is exerting its influence far and wide in their desperate attempt to crush us. But we shall not cower; we shall regroup. To Ulfrates!”

But as he tried to rally his troops, the ripple of subdued mumblings that swept across the crowd caught him off guard, a boulder of fear lodged in his throat. He raised one armored hand in direction, his steed obediently turning toward the west. The soldiers, in spite of their initial hesitations, dutifully fell in line behind their commander.

Wolfgraft, steeled and somber, sat astride his mount, his sister nestled like a fragile bird in his lap. Both bore brown cloaks, a shield against the cruel wind. Nearby, Bram navigated the deadly terrain while two maidens shared the strained load of another horse. Arranged into a tight triangle, they spurred their horses into a brisk trot, their fleeting departure from the city dissolving into the yawning expanse of the ochre fields.

“Guildred! Where is Guildred?” Aerist’s voice pierced the air, a deafening echo spun into silence as she twisted round to gaze into her brother’s sunken eyes.

Wolfgraft’s retort emerged choked and hoarse, his body coiling in abrupt stiffness. His voice carried the echo of a stone falling into deep water. “He is gone, bound for the north. He decided to leave us behind, thinking our numbers would herald our capture.” Each word scraped past the lump forming in his throat, the unspoken truth that Guildraft might be battling for his life. Perhaps worse, he might lie stone-dead, a spear lodged within him as a gruesome lover’s token. The thought roiled in his gut, but he masked his disquiet behind a practiced smile.

“Northward? Then, where are we headed?” Mayfare’s soft inquiry just barely rose above the rhythmic staccato of horse hooves hammering against earth.

“We set our sights on Elitus. The south harbors no safety for our kind anymore,” Wolfgraft responded, his voice pillowing against the frigid air as his sister burrowed further into him for warmth.

Yet, his comforting pulse and soothing voice failed at quelling her brewing storm. “Safe? In Elitus? Have the both of you forsaken your sanity?” Ariest retorted, her fight for freedom from her brother’s hold bearing the hallmark of desperation.

His rejoin, however, rang with unwavering conviction. “Indeed, it is logical. The Azurians will not deign to examine their own doorstep. They’ll expect us to flee southwards. When they fail to find us in the southern reaches, they’ll presume we’ve found sanctuary in the Freeholds. They will not venture there. The Sparks Clan will make certain of it.”

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