War of the Feathers Part 8

XIII

Arrows whipped through the air. Maytoni soldiers along the north wall fell with cries of a new attack ringing out.

Sharp whisps burned through the air, those not stopped by soldiers on the wall arcing down into the north field and striking down line archers. Sheilds went up to cover the line archers, each arrow cracking the surface with the ring of hammers on anvil. Maytoni shields made use of a resin between the steel and wood, the magically qualities of which blunted armour piercing arrows, but only made the reverberations from impact greater.

Charging up the steps, Evander passed an archer tumbling down the steps, a shaft protruding from her throat. She was gone, and Evander had to keep moving to see what was happening. Across the north wall, archers were returning arrows from between the balustrades. Siege soldiers sat low in cover, holding their weapons close, and waiting. Shield bearers were not present this time as they would only get in the way, and there was a greater need of them within the grounds of the fort.

Evander tried to look around one of the balustrades as an arrow whipped by. The sharp thrash of wind cut across his broken nose. He nocked an arrow to the string of Sand Shade and leaned out cautiously by a few inches.

Now came the turn of the bow-knights it seemed. On large, galloping panthers, Xellcarrian archers stampeded towards the north wall, reaching with a hundred yards before circling around and race back up the field – even so, the riders turned in the saddle, shooting more arrows back at the fort. Such a manoeuvre was designed to ensure a ceaseless barrage of arrows. With their impressively crafted short, curved bows the knights loosed arrows at a lightning-fast rate. In other circumstances, this would have been a magnificent sight, and Evander would have marvelled at their skill.

High altitude meadow panthers were among the strongest, fastest, and most lethal of wild cats the world over. Living at altitudes barely capable of hosting sentient kind, meadow panthers had adapted to hunting colossal ram species across sheer cliffs. Swaths of muscle, like mountain peaks of their own comprised the shoulders, stretching down into huge supporting legs built to catapult its bulk across great lengths. The grey, subtly rufus fur on their backs was thicker, and coarser, blanketing a broad muscular back, running down to a long fluffy white tail, barred in red fur. Flat faces held small dark amber eyes over wide black noses. Their coats were a flat, coarse greyish, red fur, making them next to invisible against the rocks and among the few trees that grew where they resided naturally.

As the beasts galloped, they launched the whole of their bulk forward by at least several feet beyond their own length. To emphasise their strength, Xellcarrians were sitting on top of them, and their presence did nothing to slow the animals down or lessen their incredible strides.

The bow-knights wore sleeker, lighter armour. From the upper arms and thighs, ornate feathers had been sculpted into the armour, jutting out with dagger sharpness. These decorative accents ranged in colour, from subtle pastels to bright and garish, and were likely the most expensive items on their armour. Rising up their backs, fanning out like the feathers of a peacock, where their arrows, fitted into opulently designed wooden pocket quivers crafted from materials reclaimed from abandoned griffin nests.

Most of the rank-and-file Maytoni archers used longbows with two-finger draws coming back as far as their ears. Xellcarrian bow-knights with their shorter curved bows drew the strings with their thumbs held in place by their index fingers. Fitted to the thumb was a specialist ring to aid their draw, usually made from talon. Their maximum draw took the nock of the arrow beyond the ear of the archer.

Cracking into the taller balustrade next to Evander came another arrow, its momentum caught between the stones. A viciously barbed broadhead blocked his line of sight. On the rear of the arrow, where low profile, flat edged feathers, rufus along the tips with black, brown bars over beige barbs. Watery gold thread tied the feathers in place, glistening with a slithering glow.

“Everyone, stay down! Stay down!” Evander shouted. He began awkwardly crouch running and waddling as best as his knee would let him along the wall as arrows passed expertly through the gaps between the balustrades along the wall. “They’re trying to thin out our numbers on the wall! Just stay down and wait them out!” Of course, several more Maytoni archers, returning arrows, crumbled. Jutting from throats and faces where the flights of Xellcarrian arrows. “Don’t be friggin’ tempted! Stay the Chasm down, or I’ll toss you over the wall myself!”

Outside of the walls, the surging rumble of a landslide roared by as the large cats leapt and bounded around the field. This was clearly a prelude to something more. Between the nightly ambush and this, the Xellcarrians were trying to bleed the numbers of archers within the fort.

Evander waddled down the wall, passing ducking archers and soldiers. The rate of arrows did not cease, as the bow-knights began sending more their arrows over the wall now to target the line archers. He came to the furthest tower to the right flank and ran into the arch and up the circling steps halting at the top.

“Kellen?” He called out.

“Aye, haul on,” Kellen replied.

Evander peaked up to see the archer laying on his back by the furthest edge of the tower. Whilst there were high arching open windows, there was no proper cover, or any small walls to hide behind. Rapidly, Kellen pulled up his gait, drawing his short horn bow, and loosed an arrow before falling back again. “Got ‘em!”

“Don’t expose yourself!” Evander shouted from the base of the stairs, almost cursing the ork for his bravado.

“It’s no bother.” He sprang up again and loosed another arrow from the tower. “Got another. This takes me back.”

“What?”

“When I was a boy, we’d hunt ‘roos by lying in brush or ditches. When the animals came bounding along, we’d spring up and loose quickly from a sitting position before they had a chance to see us. You would lie there, eyes closed, and wait, listening, and feeling for the vibrations in the ground. By the time I was nine, I could discern a ‘roo’s footfall at forty yards.”

It was an impressive hunting methodology, Evander knew. He had tried it himself, with minimal success. Then again, Kellen’s poverty-stricken upbringing had forced him into these unconventional strategies in order to survive. Despite not entering a schooling system until twelve, and therefore not receiving any formal archery training until then, Kellen was arguably one of the best archers within the Summiteers, and Maytoni.

“Those cats leap like ‘roos,” Evander said, interrupted as an arrow clattered off an archway, and cartwheeled in his direction. He ducked back down into the stairwell as the arrow skittered over the gap and came to a halt with the slap of metal on stone. “You know, I’m afraid to look over the wall, in case I see someone I know.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not lost on me either, Evey,” Kellen replied, lying still. “I think I’d prefer the battle cats. Feels more like hunting, that.”

“How’d you hunt big cats?”

Kellen cackled. “It was rare to find one which wasn’t already aware of your presence.”

“Never hunted big cats.”

“The past few days have made me realise that giving Summiteer selection a go was the right decision,” Kellen continued. “This regular army stuff is dull, isn’t it?”

Taken aback, Evander popped his forehead and eyes above the threshold. “This is dull to you?”

“I’m not fond of this stationary, static warfare. We’re sitting around, waiting, and taking the enemy on when they decide it’s time to fight.”

In that respect, Kellen was correct. It was hardly the first, second, third, or hundredth time Evander thought about another raid on the Xellcarrian camp. Naturally the Xellcarrians, now aware of a Summiteer presence, and having been severely struck by a raid, would be ready for the next one.

“Settle in, Evey. They’re not going anywhere,” Kellen added with a grunt of dissatisfaction. “This a form of siege warfare, to wear us now physically and mentally, as much as in numbers.”

Evander feared as much. “I’ve got the wall defenders in cover, and shields over the line archers.”

“It’s not pleasant having to just wait whilst you take the hits, but we’ll get our chance to break a few jaws soon.”

“Between you and me, I wish captain Maddox was here,” Evander found himself saying aloud. It was likely Kellen’s surprising maturity which made it easy to bring such thoughts out into the world.

“Aye, me too,” Kellen replied with a chuckle.

“Do one.” Evander couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re doing a grand job, all things considered, Evey. But sometimes it doesn’t matter how sharp the arrow is, if the heart is hardened enough.”

It was gruelling, listening to the clatter or dull thuds of arrows as they all hunkered down and waited. It was a blessing that the fields north of the fort were not wide enough to allow the Xellcarrian’s to push their blade-knights forwards as well. As lethally strident, and preternaturally agile as the panthers were, their nimble nature would suffer profoundly from the weight and balance of a rider if they attempted to make use of the rockier, unstable ground boarding the fields outside of the fort. Broken legs, thrown riders, and their speed would suffer.

After a time, the tumult began to recede, pulling away into the distance to the easing of Evander’s ears, the rate of arrows decreasing. Kellen dared a tight glance over the edge of the tower and ducked back down. “They’re off,” he said.

“How many were there?” Evander sighed in relief.

“About a few thousand, you know, plus or minus.”

XIV

Faidh was sitting on the table in their cellar, as Kellen stitched up a neat laceration across her upper right arm.

“Am I the only one not getting wounded here?” Kellen added, to himself, focusing on the gash, and passing the thread through the flesh.

“I heard Evey fine, and I’m all for it,” Bunny said, sat against the wall, one leg over the other.

“Evey, there’s calculated risks, then there’s crazed actions born from impulsive decision making,” Ignatius began, sighing. “I can already tell you’ve been talking to Kellen. Also, I’ve yet to take a hit.”

“Desperation has worked well for me,” Kellen replied, still focused on stitching up Fiadh’s wound. “It’s all we had growing up.”

“Don’t knock it, I suppose. You’d never have a woman look at you otherwise,” Bunny sniggered, throwing a wry wink towards Kellen.

“Better than getting any out of pity,” Kellen returned.

“Well, that’s three in favour, against two,” Evander said, though his own voice was low, and unsure.

“Evey,” Juliet began. “Whatever the plan, I’ll follow it. I’ll follow you into the friggin’ Chasm. If you think this will place us in an advantageous position, then I’m confident it will.”

Ordinarily her words would have stoked Evander’s confidence and brought about a buzz of energy. But, given their predicament, what choice did they have?

“Do we have the ordinance for it?” Ignatius asked.

“Yes,” Kellen replied solidly.

“You know what? The Xellcarrians have been determining the time and rate of attack and that’s not something we Summiteers should be letting our enemy – if you can call them that – do. And it’s better than getting picked off by their bow-knights and cats I suppose.”

XV

Not long after the brief meeting, with the sun rolling into a noon-day position, the call came out along the north wall of another enemy sighting.

Evander ran along the north wall, shouting out affirmations and encouragement to the dwindling archers and siege soldiers present – a much wider gap between the postings now. He held Sand Shade and though could have switched to another longbow he possessed, decided to stick with the compact mobility of the shorter bow.

Across the northern horizon came the silhouetted ranks, not of the Men-at-Arms, but of the knights – finally. The din of their heavier, more ostentatious armour was substantial when compared to the Men-at-Arms, a thunderous emptying of rain compared to a drizzle.

These warriors would not be as easy to put down as the Men-at-Arms, Evander knew. Far greater quality armour, stronger materials better forged. Their arrows would still pierce the suits of course, but the odd glance here and there would now be a reality. And those with shields were being utilised to form blocky turtle formations. Deflection magic and again superior materials and forging techniques would blunt the ferocity of the Maytoni’s talent’s in weaving out the ferocity of dragon’s blood.

No two sets of armour appeared to be the same. Whilst they all retained a sheen or glimmer here and there of the watery platinum colours associated with Xellcarrian armed forces, many other wilder colours ornamented the suits of armour; blaze oranges cut through by jet stripes, golden rings scored over grainy, diamond flecked textures, indigo laced shadows replete with fading rings, strikes of dark brown over pearl whites, or spattered orange points over off-white, ornamental feathers of pearl, ruby, topaz orange and blue, jade, emerald covered pauldrons, vambraces, and plastrons. All the colours of every wild cat and bird of prey advanced over the horizon, set upon the tidal platinum of the Xellcarrian army.

“Once they cross the four-hundred-yard mark, open up,” Evander yelled as he ran back along to the centre position of the wall. Numerous officers relayed the order down to their opposites in the north field.

“That’s not their whole strength,” Juliet said. “They’re going to try and cover the advance with crossbows, I bet.”

“It doesn’t look like it, you’re right,” Evander muttered. “I think they know about the north gate – they’ll have a ram to finish it off. Then the crossbowers will rush the wall.” He was certain, watching the brutes in armour advance.

Whilst the eastern gate had received a hasty repair, and a new bar, the masons had decided to utilise the bodies of the two cave tigers, planting them against the refitted doors. This created a formidable mass, though one which left a tangy aroma prodding at the gag reflexes of the archers and shield bearers.

Along the north wall came the soft nudges of arrows being fitted to strings. Archers were doing final checks on strings and limb integrity and making comments on how they were looking forward to knocking down Xellcarrian knights this time.

“Be ready for more bow-knights. They may try to circle a few around, behind the knights – it’d be tight, but who knows.” Evander called out. He knocked at armour-piercing arrow and watched as the knights moved forward, bringing their shields about to form a mobile fortress of sorts.

As the knights clambered forward, reaching the furthest line of Xellcarrian fallen, Evander drew and loosed into the wide line of knights. The other archers followed suit. Arrows struck shields, most penetrating deeply. Other knights staggered, and the advancing line took on dents, and warps in places. However, the simple technique of holding the shields further out was helping to reduce their casualties.

Whilst every knight present hailed from differing families, they presented themselves as a unified front, taking on a phalanx like approach. If a knight fell, the gap was closed over instantly.

As they gained ground, Evander’s mind began to identify the vague, blurs of colours from flags set atop the backs of armour, or engraved upon the tall shields; white bird wings set to form a swirling circle, talons of red, blue, and black racking a slate pile, a bronze beak clutching a ram’s horn, a puffy sandy tail curling around a mace, a foot, the left side that of a lion and the right that of an eagle, stripes of black with hot blue accents covering a mountain, a bridge with wings set to either side and paws set at the base of its pillars, a hammer clutched by talons, to identify a few.

From within the ranks came the remains of the Men-at-Arms, the crossbowers. Rapidly they darted ahead of the knights, over the dead and planted their own shields – as best they could – into the ground, between the bodies of their own. Each shield was set at an angle to cover the crossbowers, two or three to a shield to ensure a steady rate of bolts.

“Brace for incoming bolts!” Evander yelled. “And begin loosing!”

Simultaneously the Maytoni wall archers and Xellcarrian crossbowers began launching their projectiles. Dragon’s blood arrows shattered the steel and wood of the crossbowers’ cover, however, given the size of the shield and positioning, the Xellcarrians could keep far enough behind it to avoid taking a hit. In response, their bolts struck down more Maytoni defenders and clattered into the balustrades.

Behind Evander the north field was sparser, almost emptied of line archers and shield bearers as he had ordered them into the main throughfare. The buildings on the other side of the fields were still holding groups of archers on their roofs, all waiting patiently. Xellcarrian bolts that missed both balustrade and defender thudded harmlessly into the thin dirt.

With more haste, driven by the illusion that the Maytoni had taken far more casualties than Evander was letting on, the knights moved over the grass, dirt, rock, and their own dead. Mounds of fallen Men-at-Arms did little to hamper their advance as whole ranks slowed to allow their fellow knights to step over, or atop, the dead, upholding their cohesion.

Staying ahead of the advance, the crossbowers, moved up, repositioning their shields. This invited the draw of the Maytoni archers, who took advantage of the need to carry the shield close. Numerous walls of steel collapsed, their reliefs and imagery torn through and obliterated by the volume of arrows, many sinking through to pierce the shield’s holder. Those taking cover became exposed and were set upon by more arrows to join their peers.

Even so, the crossbowers set up once more and from the safety of cover began throwing bolts back up at the defenders.

The rate of bolts was tremendous. As the blocks of Xellcarrian knights made it to two hundred yards, the Maytoni archers were loosing arrows at a dozen a minute, largely into the upper parts or just over the shields of the crossbowers in a new strategy to hit the soldiers directly

To frustrate further advancement Oscar’s soldiers had built a zing-zagging wall of dead cats. This did not prevent a complication to the crossbowers as they stayed ahead of the knights, though it allowed the archers to shoot down many more of them as they clambered over the low wall – only four feet tall at it tallest points.

As the crossbowers set up, under a barrage of arrows, the knights moved to the wall. Lumpen, rotting, swollen carcasses gave way to the weight of armoured soldiers. Boots split swollen guts, knights’ purchase disappearing and throwing them off balance. Others slipped on fluids leaking down the furry embankment, whilst some struggled with the unevenness of the clambering required. Sheilds fell away, as knights staggered and tried to right their balance, exposing targets to the archers on the wall – who did not hesitate to draw on the opening. Dead Xellcarrians fell back into their own ranks, others collapsed forward, with the misshapen wall made it far more difficult for other knights to manoeuvre inwards or forwards and close the gaps.

Forcing the honoured knights to clamber over their dead cats was a disreputable act by the Maytoni and made Bronagh’s ire burn as hot as a chimera’s growl. An armoured boot burst through a welter of bile and Gods only knew what, and Bronagh almost toppled to her left. She kept her shield up, steadied by a knight to her right, who caught her arm.

The north gate was only a hundred yards ahead, the ram behind her, its dense tip packed with smaller concussive vessels ready to ignite and blow through what remained of the strength held in the steel portcullis.

As the crossbowers moved ahead of the knights, launching their bolts upwards to the defenders, the unrelenting din of the incoming arrows was slowing Bronagh and her knights. With shields held above and in front of her, she moved as if packed into an ill-fitting cauldron, whilst goblins pounded on the outside of it.

For all the good of the Maytoni’s knowledge of magic, their own honour forged shields were holding up. Bulges, like pale welts, broke out over the upper and lower parts of her shield, whilst only a few piles managed to penetrate, and even then, not nearly far enough to be of any danger.

This was far from a dignified advance, however Bronagh and the first line of knights clambered down the wall of dead cats and could move forward with greater ease. She looked over her shoulder, careful to keep her shield up, to make sure they did not move too far ahead of the other knights behind them.

Another vicious pile shook her shield, this one breaking through the steel and wood of her shield, coming to a halt only inches from her faceplate. The sight made Bronagh growl as adrenaline poured through her.

The accuracy and rate of the bolts kept the Maytoni defenders suppressed, well enough to give the first wave of knights the opportunity to clamber over the wall of rotting feline carcasses.

Sharp whips cut the air between the balustrades, chips striking out cut from the defences. There was no let-up in the rate of bolts assaulting the wall. Whilst a Maytoni archer could throw a dozen arrows a minute at the enemy, the crossbowers shot in volleys; one crossbower shot, whilst another stood behind them ready to shoot, with a third reloading, to ensure a ceaseless stream of bolts.

The final fusillade of chimera paws came out of the far left and far right towers, bounding along the forward most line of knights. Sheilds ignited, glowing hot as if their steel had only been removed from the forge forced open gaping holes in the knights’ advance. From atop the wall it looked as if the steel cover was being pried open as vividly burning shields were thrown away. The cries that followed could be heard up on the wall as the failing barriers were dropped or thrown away. With so few chimera paws left, and such a vast front to cover, the gaps were considerable.

Within these pockets opening up within the blocky formations, more knights suffocated from the toxins permeating the air around the arrows’ impact. Formations began to sheer apart as knights were forces to circumvent the poisonous pockets.

“Target the knights!” Evander roared, his orders passed down either side of the wall. As his words bounded along the wall, he began to draw from the titan’s fingers fitted into his pocket quiver fitted to his boot.

With the air about his rife with vicious whisps as bolts soared by, Evander began to launch these ground-shaking arrows across the ranks of knights, over as wide a range as he could manage. With the thumb-draw he found his arrows leaving the bow with greater ferocity, eager to strike the enemy.

Each of his arrows threw knights into the ground, collapsing them on their shields or leaving them on hands and knees unable to right themselves as the ground rattled. Of course, these never lasted as long as Evander wanted them too. Suddenly his quiver was empty. He only hoped that Fiadh further along the wall was getting the same results.

Staggering, fallen knights drew in arrows like carrion to a ripe body. Evander sighed in relief as the armour piercing piles punched easily through their armour.

Yet, the bodies of steel advanced, and more and more Maytoni fell to ccrossbow bolts. It was line loosing arrows into the sea for all the good it seemed to do.

The bolts only ceased as the crossbowers made it to the base of the wall, readying themselves to mount it. Beneath Evander the knights moved into the portcullis, shields raised and reformed. Siege infantry began hammering rocks and lead balls down upon them. The Xellcarrians formed a tight armoured unit, hiding their ram as it was moved into position.

Appearing between the balustrades came the top posts of wooden ladders as crossbowers were slinging their damnable devices and unsheathing daggers and short swords.

Sergeants and officers were shouting their throats raw for those on the wall to be ready.

A ladder clattered opposite Evander, and he drew his long dagger, the family heirloom. It felt far heavier in his hand, and colder, with every part smithed from a metal or metal composite of some sort.

As the first Xellcarrian came to the top of the ladder, Evander thrust the straight, double-edged blade into the gorget. The soldier brought a hand up, as his head was knocked back, to cover the wound. Evander shoved the man, or woman – it was impossible to tell through the armour and layers of cloth – back, and arms flailing, they fell away.

Immediately another appeared, a fresh, ruddy face glaring at Evander from behind a grill of animal teeth and feathers. Evander thrust the dagger between the slits of the grill. The soldier’s hand came up to arrest the attack, and Evander only managed to get the tip of the blade into the left eye. The soldier, a hardliner, was hardly fazed and thumped at Evander with his free hand. Despite the tenacity, Evander knew he had the advantage, and shoulder barged the warrior from the ladder. The third solider on the ladder was ready for Evander, and an axe head came hammering over the top of the wall. Though swung with blind abandon, it forced Evander back. He attempted to parry; however, the soldier swung their axe with overwhelming speed and took the rampart with ease. Evander attempted to shoulder barge the warrior, however, was met halfway by a tackle. It was like charging a fortress wall, and a numb shock ran through Evander’s shoulders and back. Using the Xellcarrian’s momentum against them, Evander rolled around their attack, and threw himself against their back, pushing them from the wall. By the time he turned back to the balustrade, a forth warrior had made it over the rampart, bringing a sword down towards Evander. Instinctively, he threw up his dagger to take the hit. Magic within the blade seized the downward momentum and took the brutality of the strike. Evander felt hardly a shudder from the dagger. He parried the sword, running his dagger down along its blade and thrust it into the throat of the stunned soldier.

“Withdraw from the wall!” Evander finally roared, heaving. He briefly turning to punch the exposed face of another soldier attempting to clamber over the ramparts. “Everyone, off the wall!”

Scorched, deformed metal fell apart as the black powder charges detonated against the portcullis. Bronagh had been determined to be the first into the fort. She needed to beat Cillian who was right behind her and so charged ahead into the thick, clammy clouds of dust and sour tasting ash. For a moment her vision was reduced to a few feet, and then the world opened up into an empty mud churned field.

She didn’t let the surprising emptiness halt her momentum, however, the anxious needed to get her knights out of the bottleneck that was the portcullis, driving her forward. As she continued into the fort, finally free to move at speed, her legs bursting with fury, another wall of dark shields emerged from between the buildings far ahead.

Finally, she would feel the heat of shed Maytoni blood. This sight only made Bronagh put more speed behind her charge, and fervour in her war cry. Raising her tall shield, Bronagh braced her body for the bone jarring impact she knew was coming.

Evander made it to the far buildings with the remains of the archers and siege infantry. He moved up onto the roof of a smaller building, joining the archers there. Before him he saw the dark, stone-dark armour of Maytoni shield bearers smash against the all-consuming steel wave of Xellcarrian knights.  

Archers on the building roofs began launching arrows into the ranks of the knights breaking through the shattered portcullis to swell within the north field. Beyond them, it wrenched at Evander’s gut to see the north wall under occupation by the Xellcarrians. Crossbowers set up their tall protective shields and started pouring bolts into the Maytoni shield bearers.

“Target the wall! Knock that scum down!” Evander roared, picking out his own targets.

Behind Evander, holding within the main throughfare, the line archers began their volleys, loosing waves of arrows in high arcs to land further into the north field and thin the knights as best they could. With the shield bearers and buildings between them and the knights, Evander was hoping against hope that they could decimate the ranks.

Oscar led his shield bears against the invading force, presenting a containment wall of their own, with hexagonal shields, swords, and spears. Behind the shield bearers, the siege soldiers from the north wall had reformed to provide support however they could. Even so, it was a sliver of dark compared to the overwhelming tide of Xellcarrians ready to break over it as a tidal wave consumes a rocky shoreline.

High on the fervour of battle, led by the promise of recompense, the knights, threw themselves at the shield bearers, threatening to break through with their far superior numbers from the outset. Sheild bearers fell to tremendous strikes from gleaming swords and ornate maces. Evander willed the shield-bearers to hold but knew they wouldn’t, couldn’t, last.

At the crux of this assault came a familiar, menacing figure. Tall, stunning, griffin feathers rose from his helmet, setting him apart from the flamboyance of the other knights: The Bloodied Talon. Somehow his armour was spotless, untouched by the horrific grime of battle. His slab of a weapon came down, splitting a shield in two, carving effortlessly through the soldier holding it. Dark blood was slathered over the wood and obsidian teeth of the weapon. The knight brought the ferocious weapon around and cut into another shield bearer’s waist before shouldering the wailing man out of the way, breaking through the wall.

Evander loosed a Knight-Slayer at the figure, the gorgeous griffin feathers a great marker, and a surreal contrast to the horror around them. With another killing strike, The Bloodied Talon shifted his whole gait, and the arrow flew past, narrowing missing him – but at least striking another knight behind him. Still, this miss gnawed at Evander, and he watched as more shield-bearers poured forward against the knights. The Bloodied Talon smashed and slashed them away. Sheilds were made redundant against his gigantic, serrated cleaver. As Evander nocked another Knight-Slayer, however, Oscar moved into block his line of sight. Frustration at anyone getting in his line of sight was pushed aside by a deeper, colder concern. This was Ebrill’s brother. Evander sheathed his bow, drew his dagger, and shoved his way through the archers to clamber down the side of the building.

With his shoulder, Evander pushed through the Maytoni soldiers to get to the front line. Roars and howls whirled through the shrieking clang of steel against steel, and the ground shattering clatter of shields crashing into one and other. The tumult bore down on Evander’s head like a landslide of sharp and jagged rocks, teetering on the edge of overwhelming his senses.

Formidability forged into steel intercepted Evander, a knight with the hybridisation of a cat’s maw and bird of prey’s beak for a helm, swung a two-handed broad sword down towards him. Eclipsing the burning glare of the weapon, a shield came up to take the hit. Though it blocked out the knight, Evander was able to duck down and around the shield, to come up into the knight’s blind spot. He pushed the dagger through an exposed armpit, then shoulder barged the warrior to the ground and out of his way. Moving forward once more, a spear lunged at his chest, and Evander parried the shaft with his dagger. He grasped the wooden stave with his left hand and charged its holder. Stabbing the dagger through the helmet’s eye slit, meeting a hard, through squishy, resistance, the knight collapsed, gauntlets raised to their face.

A solider cried out, a Maytoni shield bearer, as they were cut down by The Bloodied Talon. It wasn’t Oscar, though Evander was still struck by the desperation of the cry. He saw Oscar lunge at the Xellcarrian, his attacked batted away as if he came at the knight with a toy sword. Evander stammered forward; his footing unstable due to the dead beneath him. His dagger looked ineffectual and feeble compared to the obsidian and wood cleaving instrument, but he pounced at the knight anyway. To Evander’s chagrin, The Bloodied Talon caught sight of ambush, and turned, bring up his weapon to block. Evander’s dagger tore a gouge into the relief strewn weapon, splitting away a sharp splinter and knocking loose an obsidian shard. He moved into shoulder barge the knight, however the Xellcarrian was thinking the same thing and came at Evander with far greater mass.

“Do you yield!?” Evander shouted mockingly, above the din of battle, even laughing.

The Bloodied Talon shouted back, “Get out of the way, serf, there are real warriors to slay!”

“As I said before,” Evander began, bringing up his dagger. “Piss off!”

He thrust the blade into a joint over the right hip. The knight roared and withdrew. Oscar came in from the flank, swinging his sword down towards the neck of The Bloodied Talon. The knight was fast enough to counter, however. Whilst his attacks were slower, they left a powerful wake with each swing. This threw Oscar into a defensive stance, keeping him back peddling as he wove deftly around the swing. Evander made to move; however, an axe came down on his left, forcing him to catch it with his dagger and toss it aside before slicing the blade along the warrior’s throat. Blood burst outward, spurting between the armour joints, lashing his face and arm. More bodies piled in between him and Oscar, and he saw the Maytoni knight bring his shield up in a desperate gambit. With a roar, Evander surged through bodies, extremities burning as his mind urgently willed a path to clear. The Bloodied Talon’s cleaver crashed into Oscar’s shield like a gale force wind through a forest of dead trees, shattering the hexagonal shield – and Oscar’s arm. Dread-fear burned in Evander’s chest. He tore through the mass of bodies before him, glimmering steel, and sprays of blood flashing about his periphery. With a searing, ragged cry of aguish, Oscar swung at the Xellcarrian, his stump of an arm pouring crimson arcs as he did so. The Bloodied Talon brought his own weapon up in defence, and Evander finally closed the distance, and jumped at him. A shuddering thud arrested his momentum as a Xellcarrian knight tackled him. Cold steel wrapped about his torso, and a burst of sheer reason-consuming hate exploded from within Evander. Who was this scum to put himself between him and Oscar? It didn’t trouble himself with the knowledge that he was on his back, strew over the dead. This scum bore down, ready to plant his sword into Evander’s chest, but the Summiteer knocked the blade aside, then followed with a thrust upward and into the neck seam above his attacker’s gorget. Clambering hastily to his feet, Evander threw the body aside.

Oscar brought his sword up, held almost horizontally as The Bloodied Talon’s cleaver came down. It shattered the blade, the momentum hardly scathed by the weapon. Whilst Oscar made to dodge, he was too slow, weakened by blood loss, and obsidian shards slashed into the shoulder pauldron of Oscar’s missing arm, renting and worrying the armour, borne down into his chest. Disbelief clashed with the reality before Evander. Immediately he his mind was flooded with thoughts of Ebrill. As Evander ran forward, forlornly assuming he could do something to save Oscar, the Maytoni warrior snarled a bloody grin, using his own mass to hold The Bloodied Talon’s weapon and keep the warrior before him. Blood launching from his roaring maw, Oscar’s cry of defiance merged with one of agonising strain as he managed to pull his sword around with a final burst of vicious force, the final time her would ever bring it to bear. The Bloodied Talon’s head jerked to the side, and the knight threatened to collapse. Oscar looked around, his pale eyes meeting Evander’s wide, startled expression. There was a weak smile, then Oscar slumped to the side. Yet, as he did, The Bloodied Talon fell with him, the knight’s head falling away from its body.

A shadow of the pain he knew would afflict Ebrill scoured across Evander. His shoulders weakened, and his legs threatened to fail him. She couldn’t see this. She couldn’t see the mess The Bloodied Talon had carved out of her brother. How the Chasm was he to tell her Oscar was dead? That he, a Summiteer, Maytoni’s best, failed to support him?

Bursting through the distressing haze, a roaring knight made to crush Evander’s head with a mace. Automated instinct had him ducking under the attack and thrusting in return at the figure. Everything felt numb, almost weightless as his arm glided towards his attacker. The dagger deflected away with the curve of the armour, its sharp clang and screeching tear, damped to an impotent sigh as the tumult of the battle plunged into a deep vacuum. Steel boots were caught among the bloodied dead, and the knight staggered, slumping to a knee to save himself from falling. A fury, borne of helpless rage welled within Evander’s heart and poured wrath into his veins. He stabbed down with his dagger into the face grill, catching the right eye, and the last terror twisted expression of the warrior.

Over the fort came another tumult to challenge that of the battle. Evander caught the cry of something truly formidable as his sense continued to douse the despairing acidity with bitter wrathfulness. It was a call which gave pause, something between the threshold of reverence, and true fear. He looked up, his dagger still embedded in the eye socket of the dead knight. A tremble rippled down his spine. From the vividness of the noon sky came the swift silhouettes of a pair of griffins. The God-Heads had returned.

Evander rose and battered his way back through the shield bearers, back towards the buildings. He wove between siege soldiers charging in to support the shield bearers, tripping and stumbling over the dead, his boots kicking up and spattering blood and other fluids about his legs. As he made it back to the main line of archers within the throughfare, he saw the leading beast overhead, circling and surveying the madness.

Banshee arrows, the wrath within him was yelling through his weary and broken mind. Evander fumbled for one as he continued between the archers. As he pulled one from his back quiver, the beast descended; wings spread wide to control its speed. Colour seeped into the animal as it fell; rufus wing feathers arced outwards for a wingspan of four metres. Dark, smouldering orange-brown run covered the body of the animal. Golden and black arcs, like lightening scars, ran over the individual pinions to accent the beauty of the rufus oranges. The head of the beast was dull silver, flecked with black, replete with a bright yellow beak curving down into a vicious hook, the tip of which smouldered black. The front legs were dull yellow, with dark grey, talons capable of impaling Evander with ease. At the back, the feline legs fell to a dark blonde, the talons of which shone jet black between the pads of white fur.

Evander knew the species: the ember hawk-griffin. Named for its flaming wings, which reminded people of a phoenix. It was as magnificent as it was terrifying.

Their focus fixed high, but ahead, loosing volleys over the buildings and their companions, the archers were caught off guard. A furrow opened in the lane, carving through the desperately needed volleys. Sergeants and officers cried out for cohesion, reminding the archers that the shield bearers needed their support

Evander drew on the swooping beast, and loosed, clamping down on any fretfulness. Don’t think, just act. Whilst there was a degree of deflection magic covering the beast, spilling out from the rider’s armour, the hyper-sonic wake of the arrow split the beast’s sensitive hearing with horrific and unrelenting agony. The arrow veered wide to the right, as if shot with too loose a spine, and disappeared. Rather than deterring the beast, it only brought it around towards Evander – the source of the pain – caught in the open and exposed like any lost wanderer in the Xellcarrian mountains. The griffin folded its wings back and straightened its body, rear legs disappearing beneath it. Its front talons sprang open.

Evander manged to nock and loose another banshee arrow directly at the swooping animal – an easy, uncomplicated shot, executed with grace and speed. Trained well, the beast rose to dodge the arrow, folding away its front talons. Deflection magic pushed the arrow off to the right again, and the griffin rose high and to the left, soaring away from Evander into a wide arc so as it could come around again. As the shadow of the beast slithered over Evander, he felt the brutal downwash of its wings, bitter cold and energy sapping.

Before he had a chance to look up and find the griffin again, an arrow whipped by, cutting though the silk of his shirt, leaving a wide, neat gash in his upper left arm. The rider was able to handle their bow effortlessly, in spite of the whirling, rising beast. Whilst the arrow had – more or less – missed him, the magic with in it became suddenly, chillingly, evident. Evander attempted to draw Sand Shade, but the string felt as sharp as a harp cord, and the limbs as dense as rock. He knew the arrow magic; if the arrow didn’t hit and kill the target, yet still drew blood, it would disable the archer’s draw.

A viciously esoteric barb of magic.

Cursing, Evander ran to the buildings on the south side of the lane, for cover, sheathing his bow. Another arrow whipped by, clattering over stony ground, as Evander made it within the cover of a wide ally. Thumps, like whooping tremors, hammered down the throughfare, shaking the ground under Evander’s feet. The cries and wails followed as archers were pulverised by organ burst pressure, and bone shattering force.

“We need that beast brought down!” It was Gay shouting as the tumult from beyond the buildings washed over them. The commander worked his way to Evander as archers all around him began to reform and pick themselves back up.

That was all good and well, Evander thought, wondering how long the wicked magic would hold him.

“Here!” Gay called out, tossing his beloved rockbark longbow towards Evander. Instinctively Evander caught it, the leather grip cool, though seemingly unsettled in his hand. “It’ll put up with you!”

If any bow could overthrow the magical curse, it would be one crafted from rockbark. Before Evander could say more, Gay was pulling Sand Shade from its sheath to get back in line and continue commanding his archers.

“Keep those twats off us, Evey!” He called back. “I won’t abuse it, don’t worry!”

The griffin’s rider was wise and staying far from the south wall. Whilst only a minimal force of archers was present, they still sent ceaseless volleys toward the griffin. But, like a shoal of fish parting around a larger predator, the arrows were deflected away.

This archer was a learned rider alright, having thrown some heavy magic into his craft.

Evander used the moment to run into a building on the far side of the lane and clamber up the battered steps and ladder to the roof. He had barely raised his head through the parapet before a skin-stripping shriek assailed him. Of course, the beast saw him and glided around for another talon-led attack. Awash with tingling vulnerability, Evander scrambled to his feet and brought the rockbark longbow around.

“Where the holy Chasm are you?” He found himself gasping, surveying the painfully bright sky. It was a huge beast after all. Even so, it surprised Evander when the beast swooped down from behind him, on top of him before he had a chance to draw. A dense, knotted texture wrapped around his arm, stealing it away from the bow’s string and Evander was snatched from the roof. As his feet were removed from the solidity of the roof, Evander found himself oddly thinking of all the different ways Gay might kill him should he lose or damage his bow.

Holding the bow in his left hand, Evander went for his dagger; however, the second clawed foot snatched his arm away from the sheath. Evander swung his legs back and forth as the beast rose, trying to kick it in the chest and gut. Coarse wind battered his face, nearly blinding him. For all Evander could initially make out, he could be a few feet off the ground, or a mile into the sky.

Through desperate tenacity, he managed to hook a boot into a leather strap from the bridle, granting him leverage – limited as it was. Before he thought about his options, the words of a training sergeant came to him, back in his first army days, “You’ve got teeth, haven’t you!”

Keeping Gay’s bow held tight and coming close to wrenching his left shoulder from its socket, Evander leaned across to the right leg of the griffin. He looked for the softest point, like looking for the joints between a knight’s armour. Between gnarled sinew like folds, he sank his teeth into a paler segment that looked as though it might yield to his teeth. It was still like biting into a too-well-done steak. Two of Evander teeth broke, and his own blood filled his mouth as a prelude to crippling agony. Motivated by the pain, Evander pulled his head back, taking gristle, sinew, and tendon with him.

A howl rose into a shriek, informing Evander that he had done some damage. The beast’s talons opened, and Evander caught the left one with his free hand, and finally looked down… What a mistake that was.

In his haste to release himself, Evander hadn’t realised that the griffin was just as likely to let him go once they had risen high enough. Dangling like a helpless vole he saw the light house, the flat hexagonal roof holding the light source underneath it. Three hundred tall it was a sadistically intrusive thought decided to tell him. Even though it was only twenty feet beneath him – give or take – it may as well have been like aiming to land on a pin head. There wasn’t anything else to hope for, and Evander took his chances, letting go. Again, the coarse, skin stripping brutality of the wind shook his senses and threatened to steal his sight, however he clattered over the flat roof, bringing his knees down onto the slate, rolling just like he had been trained to – or managing something similar. The splitting pain cracking through his knees only encouraged a sense of relief that he had not landed on his head.

Panting, hardly able to stand, Evander looked over the rockbark longbow to make sure it was still functional. Then he looked around, watching the griffin, only fifty yards or so off, and ten or so high, arc around to come at him again. Breaking through the striking pains in his shoulders and back, Evander knocked another banshee arrow and drew the rockbark longbow before he even realised what he was doing. Then a thought broke through his foggy mind. The bow could nullify the deflection magic of the rider. Taking a risk, Evander drew on the beast as it turned in the air, fiery wings lit up by the bright sky behind it, glowing. The rider was hidden behind the griffin’s raised maw, behind the unshakable, snarling eyes.

Prior to reaching his maximum draw, the bow’s limbs seemed to stack for half a second, slightly jolting Evander’s bow arm. Breaking his focus, and therefore throwing his aim off, his fingers slipped from the string, along with a curse. The arrow went wide to the left and struck the frame of the griffin’s right wing. Brutal occultations of sound evaporated bone and cartilage and feathers pulverising the wing completely. Reeling to one side, the griffin dropped steeply, crying out with a call that struck Evander harder and deeper than any arrow could have. Bereft of a wing, the beast glided as best it could down and around the structure of the light house.

Evander put the shot out of his head, and dropped from the roof, onto the balcony to watch the faltering animal. It attempted to swoop around the lighthouse once more, the left wing beating flutily. Between the agony and the missing wing, it glided into the right edge of the tower, the rider hurled from the saddle and over the cliff side, out of sight. The rider’s cries were lost to the forlorn wailing from the griffin as it bounced from the hard slate and spun, wrapped up in the autumnal colours of its remaining wing, whilst falling the remaining hundred feet to the base of the lighthouse. Evander watched, wounded in his spirit, as the animal fell. Yet, its talons scrabbled, finding purchase, shrieking like banshee’s themselves as they carved out a series of scars into the rock.

Clinging to the side of the lighthouse, dark eyes shimmering with confusion, drawn by defeat, the beast scrabbled downward, its head looking back and forth over each shoulder. When it made it to the last fifty feet, it clambered around to the rear of the lighthouse and leapt down onto the cliffs, and climbed long the jagged rocks, in retreat.

XVI

Withdrawing the blade forced a welter of blood to splash across Bronagh’s armour, even splattering through her face grill.

She took to the far-right flank, close to the cliff, leading an assault that was forcing the Maytoni forces into tighter and tighter semi-circle. Maytoni shield bearers were no match for Xellcarrian knights. The knights were pushing the Maytoni shield bearers back with ease. Sheild walls smashed into each other, but her walls were stronger. They may have some of the best archers the world over, but their conventional fighting forces left much to be desired – too reliant on the bow, their imaginations constrained by the holy doctrine telling them to revere it.

Behind her, the lines of knights held their shields high to mitigate the volleys of arrows assailing them from beyond the buildings, and Bronagh knew that the remainder of the knights would be massing outside of the north wall now, ready to pour in once there was space.

The crush was incredible. She lived for it and knew nothing greater. To be swallowed up in a mass of steel, drowned in the scent of blood, her spirit invigorated by the wrathful roaring of her charges and the discordant wails of her enemies, only one way forward, the adversary set before her wrath – it was divine.

A poleaxe scraped against her shield with a shudder, its wielder not even a shield bearer, but some lowly regular. Bronagh lunged with her sword arm around her shield for an easy kill, plunging the steel into the woman’s torso beneath the ribs. A gurgle spurted from her mouth with a welter of blood too, and down the soldier went to be trampled over with the rest.

Halfway down the lighthouse Evander stepped out onto a balcony to survey the battle. Howling for attention came the sorrow hidden within Evander’s mind. With every jarring clang of weapons and thump of shields, the disparagement, the possessive feelings of helplessness rose in pulses, each wave sharper than the last.

Looking eagerly into the Maytoni left flank by the cliff’s edge Evander waited. He would have sooner been down there, however had not considered the God-Head singling him out. But it was up to Bunny either way. And if Evander could trust anyone to implement a plan to humiliate the so-called upper classes, it would be him.

A brief flare, rising hot white before settling into a steady ember glow, broke through the dank colours of the field.

A spark caught Bronagh’s attention, far to her right beyond more of her knights. She almost ignored it in her bloodlust, but its heat and brilliance refused to be ignored as it invaded her periphery. Before she had the chance to acknowledge what it was, the cries went up.

“It’s a trap!”

“It’s a fuse!”

“They’re going to blow the fields!”

“They’re going to blow the walls!”

She caught sight of the flare, between the shifting, grating steel of pauldrons and helmets. Tight apprehension seized her, faltering her advance. If one thing could spread as quickly as the furore of battle, it was panic. And already a considerable mass of her right flank was falling to it, shifting and trying to retreat.

Then, from the buildings closest to the cliff’s edge, by the base of the lighthouse, madness was unleashed. Sheild bearers and numerous others came crashing into the knight’s own flank with a wild abandon, thrusting and hacking. The ring of swords preceded the screaming of struck steel, and the wails of when those swords met flesh.

More cries went up.

“They’re insane!”

“They’re going to blow themselves up as well!”

Bronagh tried to reign in the alarmist calls with her own authoritative voice but could hardly hear herself. She squirmed on the spot, desperate to pull as many knights as she could out of their cowardice and break through to the fuse, to kick it out. Instead, the mass began pouring back over the ground they had claimed that she had claimed, and Bronagh was swept with it least she be trampled. Her divine experience was now twisted against her. Knights fell, run through their backs as they tried to flee. As the force of panic took command of her forces, the composure of the knights failed. Many removed their shields from atop themselves in their haste to flee and were instantly hammered by arrow. Of the few thousand knights in the north field, it was panic now that was leading them.

With hatred and raw, animalistic vitriol aimed at her own knights, Bronagh wailed as she was carried back over the Maytoni dead, her victories now bitterly in vain. The crush had turned on her, forcing her to join the flight. As she squirmed, twisting against the density of her knights, to look back towards the enemy, a jarring blow struck the general silent. Arms and legs were drained of feeling and her head seemed to float. Bronagh looked down with suddenly weary eyes, to see, embedded in her chest plate, the shaft, noting the faint beige flights coated with darker bars and wrapped up in green silk. Those feathers were from a tidal griffin, the knowledge coming to her automatically, the last coherent though produced by her mind. Bronagh Puga sunk beneath the roaring waves of steel into darkness.

They were wining. Evander thought for a moment he was delusional, between the sleep deprivation, physical pain, and his abused psyche. Yet from his vantage point the imagery was clear; the cohesion with which the knights had taken the northern parts of the fort had disintegrated, and in their flight, it was every man and woman for themselves as the fuse greedily ate its way along the trough filled with black powder, on towards the far-left tower.

From the left tower Bunny, leading Xiphos and many other shield bearers and siege infantry, threw themselves into the fortified front of knights to protect the fuse. What lunatics they must look to the Xellcarrians.

Atop the buildings the archers continued to loose arrows at will into the churning pit of Xellcarrians. Maytoni shield bearers pressed back, with the knights squeezed into a serpentine constriction, forcing the breath from their lungs, and bursting their fear ridden hearts.

The stone-grey Maytoni armour enveloped the watery Xellcarrian steel with its feline splashes of colour. Knights were falling rapidly to Maytoni swords, spears, and arrows faster than Evander could count. Other knights were trampled by their peers, disappearing beneath the turbulence to disappear forever. Very few knights were managing to get out through the portcullis.

Having fled from the north wall after the fuse was lit, the crossbowers were no longer providing any cover. Knights clambered up the steep steps, steps not sculpted for ungainly suits of armour. Most slipped, clattering back into those behind them, creating avalanches of metal and vivid colours shot through with mud and blood. Those few who did make it to the walkway atop the wall took to the abandoned ladders, or in most cases, simply jumped.

It was horrifying Evander had to admit, now that the reassurances of victory had settled within him. His soul stirred, unsettled by the slaughter, as knights were run through or beaten down from behind by spears and swords. Those who had fallen, or were wounded, were set upon by siege soldiers and even archers, butchered with daggers.

Even Gay’s words, spoken only a day prior, failed to prevent the lamentations afflicting Evander. His hands tightened on the rails of the balcony as he let this happen. It had to. The Xellcarrians had had every chance to withdraw, he knew.

It didn’t matter how sharp the arrow was, if the heart was hardened enough, Kellen had said.

As the Maytoni shield bearers pushed into the final remnants of the knights, cutting them down as hands rose up in placating gestures. Evander could hear the pleas of yielding in his mind; shrill, wailing cries, the final words of so noble a warrior.

Archers retook the steps to the north wall, eagerly racing up them to set about launching their arrows into the fleeing knights beyond the walls as much as to reclaim the lost ground.

Perhaps it was just as well, Evander noted, that he had been thrown all the way back onto the lighthouse, disconnected from the battle. Had he been in there, amongst the chaos, he felt he may have too easily called for a cessation and let too many Xellcarrians withdraw, only for them to attempt another attack later.

A hard learned lesson, Evander heard Ebrill say, the sarcastic acid in voice as vividly real in his mind as if she was there in person. Even her scoff was sharp enough to make his cheeks bristle as she rolled her eyes at the idea of brutalising the Xellcarrians so much so that they could no longer even want to continue fighting.

Just what the Chasm was he going to tell Ebrill?

Newly promoted General Odhran Cannon staggered away through the fields north of the fort, his thigh cut through by a Maytoni arrow when he had tried to flee the wall. Blood spat and gurgled from the wound, leaking through his fingers as he clutched at it.

What a bitterly humiliating induction as a general, he seethed, whilst all round him Xellcarrian knights and his own crossbowers lurched and stumbled in away retreat like the wounded, downtrodden dogs they had become.

Outside of the Maytoni’s arrow range, Odhran turned to look back, anticipating the explosion that would render the fort all but useless to the Xellcarrians. At least the Maytoni would go up with it. Hardly a victory, hardly anything to praise, but given the circumstances, it was better to find crumbs when starving than nothing at all.

But first, something else assailed him. Denial preceded the profoundly deep horror.

How could there be so few? He thought in amazement, surveying the sparse ranks of Xellcarrians fleeing from the fort. Hundreds lay dead between those very few who remained standing. And blanketing everything, all of the fallen, were the jutting arrows of the Maytoni archers.

Through seething pants, the hot pain of his thigh cutting into his breathing to make it more ragged, Odhran now wondered, where the explosion was? The ignition of blinding brilliance, the shock wave of a God’s applause – their gods no doubt – and the tremors to shake the remaining balance from the retreating Xellcarrian forces?

In these absences, only one sound took to the air, washing up over the dead, to embitter then shatter Odhran’s heart.

Laughter.

The Maytoni where laughing, all along the walls and within the fort, as the north wall remained standing.

Of all the thoughts pouring through Evander’s mind, he kept the notions of victory at bay. It was not that he did not want to hope, he was not so cynical, prepared to die with vain hope in his heart, but rather was a realist. After the past few days, Evander had been comprehensively educated in both the tenacity and religious fervour of the Xellcarrians.

For the first time, he realised the charm of the lighthouse’s interior as he stammered down the spiral steps, burning with energy.

Surrounding Evander were colourful frescos of the Maytoni exodus, and imagery illustrating the the lighthouse’s construction. Bright, joy filled strokes of colour filled Evander’s eyes, culminating to form images of glee filled people being led through Hope Valley, once an unassailable mountain, carved through by an arrow shot by the then leading Seer. Another painting portrayed the honoured cremation of a dragon, shadowy figures bowed respectfully before it, and to one side arrow-smiths were varnishing arrows with the beast’s blood.

There was the Trial of Seth, one of Maytoni’s greatest archers, who was depicted standing upon a mound of rock, holding a golden bow with a string taken from a harp, at full draw. Back muscles held strenuously within them the wrath of a hurricane and glistened with power, as the archer held the impossibly strong bow at full draw. Under the deal made with the Count of Sehkib, so long as Seth could hold the bow fully drawn, the Mayonti people could pass unmolested through the Count’s land. The bow the Count had given Seth had been made from solid gold with a harp cord for a string, yet the Gods gave Seth the strength to defy the Count. In the bottom left corner, an unflattering image of the Count stood flabbergasted, a hand risen to his mouth as his face portrayed disbelieve at his scheme’s failure.

All simple tales in terms of their morality. The Maytoni were the innocents, overcoming the challenges before them, with their opposition’s evil intentions so unequivocally clear.

They didn’t make Evander feel lost, or even bitter at his current circumstances, but reminded him that this was Maytoni at its core, despite the situation it was now in. In a strange way he felt honoured, and closer to the Gods than he had in a long while. This ugliness had to be endured, to be taken head on, and if Evander had been chosen to be the person to do so, it was because he could manage it, and in doing so was saving the burden from being passed on to someone else.

Selflessness, an often-forgotten quality, Ebrill’s voice reminded him from inside his head.

Stepping from the warmth of the lighthouse’s ground floor, another warmth washed over Evander; the heat of rage, blood loosed in torrents, and bodies cut open. The fort was back in the hands of the Maytoni. Not a sliver of grass or soil was to be seen, as the dead of both sides sowed the furrows and ruts cut into the north field. Whilst archers took to reinforcing the walls, the shield bearers moved through the bodies, separating the Maytoni from the Xellcarrians and clearing space.

Evander could feel it more profoundly now, in his heart, that it was over.

“Sergeant Penrose!”

There it was. A final barb, acid hot, breaking into the skin of his spirit and flooding him with its venom.

Evander turned slowly, leaning Gay’s longbow against the outer wall of the lighthouse, and braced himself for this confrontation.

“Leave me alone,” Evander said, sighing heavily, barely glancing at the immaculately uniformed general.

“You are under my command, sergeant, and I say when I am done with you.” The voice was like that of a school master, patronising, and rife with assumed control and power.

Burning from the anger that this intrusion wouldn’t leave him be, Evander halted. “I’ve never been under your command, Dedrick. I don’t serve royalists, elitists, or scum like you.” He turned, slowly, and stepped in closer to the general.

That face, so gruesomely ugly, it was an offense to creation, and it snarled with all the ignorance of a man who thought himself above others.

“Get out there and get that mess organised! Get the archers together and move in on the retreating forces. I want them finished off! You hear me, sergeant? I want every Xellcarrian who defiled out land dead or captured! Get out there and lead!” A gauntleted fist was thrown in the direction of the north wall.

“They are broken!” Evander spat back, forcing himself into the general’s personal space. “We are broken! Can’t you see that? It’s over! They know it’s over, we know it’s over.”

“I’m giving you an order!” Dedrick roared. “If you won’t relay it, then I shall. This is my army after all, and those are my soldiers, and they must carry out my orders.” The general’s howling finally broke its way through Evander’s resolve.

Through a roar of his own, Evander struck the general, lightning hot energy igniting within him as his fist connected with soft flesh and hard bone. A tight crack told of a broken jaw, and suddenly Evander found himself on top of general Dedrick, wielding a chunk of stone in hand, fallen from the body of the lighthouse. With every thump, more the general’s hideous face disappeared beneath a flurry of blood and bone. Spurts of crimson spat up and over Evander’s hand to the sound of shattering bones.

Evander only stopped when the stone in his hand struck the stone of the ground where the general’s head had been.

XVII

A pall of thin dust remained for the whole afternoon and lingered into the early evening. Dusk’s curtain was slow in coming, as daylight remained. It was as if the Gods were not allowing anyone to look away from the crimes committed here in the past few days.

As if Evander was ever going to forget this.

A once bright pilgrimage site, a beacon for the establishment of Maytoni and a signal fire of the accomplishment of his ancestor’s journey in finding the home their Gods wanted for them… Now a Chasm-like pit, rife with gnarled, mangled corpses reaching out from the ground and stone as if for absolution.

When the Maytoni first began their exodus, to find their home, the leading decree given to their Seer by the Gods, was that no bloodshed would precede the establishment of a Maytoni homeland. The land which they would call home would be unoccupied. It had been a significant criterion, and a clear, and hopeful means of knowing where their new home would be.

When the final Seer, leading a beautifully diverse exodus arrived in the land which was to become Maytoni, it was free of civilisation, though and rife with flora and fauna. The Xellcarrians in the north, the Jermirshians in the west, the Mudhonnel in the south-east, and the Bessians in the south had all avoided the land, thinking it was uninhabitable, and far too arid.

His ancestors, Juliet’s, Bunny’s, Ignatius’, Kellen’s, Fiadh’s, Gaylord’s, Xiphos’, and Ebrill’s too.

Evander closed his eyes, tears, thick and muggy swelling at the image of Ebrill cradling her brother, and weeping uncontrollably as she demanded, screaming, that the power that often flowed through her bring Oscar back to life.

The Gods, however, remained unmoved.

Evander had moved in, and placed a blanket over her, and held Ebrill as the Pastoral, his best friend and most beloved kin, wailed and screamed into his chest, her pain unmeasurable. Evander would have borne the agony and the heartbreak as his own if the Gods would only let him. Every muffled cry shook Evander, and he squeezed Ebrill tighter.

White, golden flashes continued to flare from the top of the lighthouse, and Evander look up to watch them, and to clear the oncoming tears from his eyes.

He stood beyond the north wall, amongst the Xellcarrian dead. Glorious sheens of indigo, black, silver, and violet wavered in his periphery, crows of many species hopping over the bodies, looking for exposed flesh to break their beaks into. Even they were surprisingly quiet, as if they did not want to disturb Evander’s meeting. Only a few grunts from the rooks, or magpies wafted by, subdued, like whispers in a library.

An archer on the wall had seen a single Xellcarrian figure, holding a white banner on the horizon. Evander had decided to meet them, wandering out from the blood-soaked portcullis, choaking on the acrid air, sharp copper and excrement cutting into the back of his throat.

This was the first time in a few days that he had left the fort.

General Aedion Teague, astride his glorious cat marched towards him. The beast wavered around the dead, almost reverentially. It sniffed at any bodies close enough and looked over the numerous species of crows with a baleful curiosity.

As the general came to a stop, he stabbed his spear into the dirt, the white banner wafting feebly from it, as if it too knew that surrender was too late.

“General, good evening, sir,” Evander began, nodding solemnly and swallowing another dry lump. His voice was weak, weary; his body having finally relented to all that had happened.

“Well met, sergeant Penrose,” Aedion replied, his own voice just as weak. “I’m sure you know that we use griffin feathers on our arrows, so as the beasts can continue to fly gloriously even in death.” Evander nodded. “I don’t think there has been anything glorious about their continued flight in the past few days, I have to say. Shame has been brought upon them. We may not share your egalitarian views in Xellcarr…”

“It’s more a social equality, sir,” Evander interjected, respectfully.

Aedion smirked and stifled a snigger. “Yes, it is. Well, we may hold to older notions of castes, but I’ve never considered myself above anyone – not because of my family name, or my rank, or even what I have achieved in my long military career… Too long a career it seems.” He cast a glance to one side, looking over the countless bodies of Xellcarrian soldiers beneath a field of sprouting staves decorated with griffin feathers. “I should have listened to you at the outset of this. We were so eager to begin shedding Maytoni blood… As if any amount of blood could measure up to the blood shed from a celestial. I don’t think anybody present here thought about shedding their own blood.”

“Few do, general,” Evander added.

“It’s funny how devout we think we are, but we often only seek to place our own desires above the Gods. Or how we convince ourselves, that our will is the same as the Gods’. I suppose you know all about that, with your royalist troubles… I’m sorry, Summiteer. I made remarks about your character, that I wish to take back.”

“I can’t even remember them, sir. It’s hard to concentrate with such a magnificent animal standing in front of me.” Evander smiled though his weary, dry, bloodshot eyes could not find the strength to match the warmth of it. Aedion cackled and moved the beast forward, closer to Evander. The cat leaned its head forward, the large nose bobbing up as it took in Evander’s scent. Then it thumped its head into Evander’s chest, rubbing whiskers and fur against him. Evander almost burst into tears at the softness and compassion behind the gesture.

“I call him Lonan, you know. His family’s line has been with mine for eight generations.”

Evander ruffled the thick fur behind Lonan’s ears, feeling something very close to real happiness for the first time, not just in the past few days, but for the first time in as long as he could recall.

“You’re a marvel, Lonan. I gorgeous boy.” Evander looked up to Aedion. “I have your Godhead under guard. Ignatius, one of my people is hosting vigil. I promise it will be unmolested, and returned to you, sir.”

“You’re word is good enough for me, sergeant. Thank you. Another hideous affair.”

As painful as it was, Evander needed to confess his part in its slaying, however, general Aedion spoke first. “It was my fault, Penrose. That burden is mine.” Evander didn’t feel any absolution from the words, likely he didn’t want to, but he nodded anyway.

“We recovered many wounded. They’re being seen to by our hospitallers, under the guard of our pastoral, Ebrill Glace.”

“Ah, pastoral Glace. I wise woman, who we’re both unworthy of. Your Gods don’t miss the mark, do They? From here on, I shall be happy to take anything she says as truth. If she tells me the sky is beneath my feet and the ground above my head, I will take it as irrefutable.”

“We have a few dozen unhurt prisoners, too. But none of them are willing to leave, not whilst the wounded are unable to travel – very noble of them. They are under the care of the Church too. We’ll return them once the wounded are well enough to travel. For now, they’re going through the dead, organising their lost for return to Xellcarr.”

“I appreciate that, sergeant. Thank you. I shall leave your land and petition my leaders until I weep and sweat blood, to find a peaceful solution. Though, I’m confident they will seek one, after… This…”

“I’m glad. I admire you, sir. I admire the Xellcarr nation, and how you wove your kingdom around the natural world. My childhood holidays were spent in the Xellcarrian mountains. Griffins are special, beautiful. I consider it an honour to use griffin flights on my arrows, and to wear arch griffin feathers on my dress cap.”

“You swell my heart, sergeant. Summiteers will be held in high esteem by us from here on. But, before I leave,” Aedion reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a piece of string. He tossed the item to Evander, who caught it more my reflex than anything else – surprised to that he had the energy to react even. His hand wrapped over something dense, and smooth. When he opened up his hand to see what it was, Evander was taken aback by a glossy, ebony coloured thumb ring tied to a white silk string. “It was sculpted from the paw bones of Lonan’s father and stained with his ashes.”

“General, I cannot…” Evander began, stammering.

“I would rather surrender it to a worthy archer, than see it smashed over an anvil once I return to Xellcarr. It would be a waste, and a crime, and I know you’d agree, sergeant.”

“I’ll bring it honour, sir. Thank you, it’s beautiful.”

Aedion nodded, a glum smile over his face. He pulled Lonan away to leave. “Perhaps we shall meet again, sergeant.”

“I hope so, sir.”