Church of Uher

  Various holdings, Military Orders & mentioned, or important characters

  Archmagister Rinus Kelholt (also High Inquisitor)

  Priest Marcel Flucht (Academy’s Instructor and Archivist)

  Grand Archivist Wim Luikens (Assayer)

  Magister Sande De Hove (also 3rd Brother)*

  Cardinal Werner Kelholt (Lord of Sessi Fort)

  Inquisitor Maas Vellers (2nd Brother)

  Priest Brukel

  Sir Albert Kosters (Commander of Golden Spears)

  Squire Raul Kosters (Albert’s cousin)

  Sir Iwan Dinter (Golden Spears Knight)

  Sir Milo Kirstein (Golden Spears Knight)

  Sir Aryan Verhagen (Master Templar)

  Sir Caspar Brack (Templar sergeant-at-arms)

  Inquisitor Reinhart Kelholt (Disciple)

  Inquisitor Martin Bauman

  Brother Dumont (Golden Spears sergeant)

  Brother Tanner (Golden Spears sergeant)

  Brother Falco

  Brother Calson

  Brother Sebastos (also Sir Thor’s squire)

  -

  Sessi Shrine (the largest of the Issir Shrines.)

  Sessi Fort (Castle and barracks near the town.)

  Grand Archive (in Midlanor. Inquisitors HQ.)

  Tower of Spears (Midlanor. Golden Spears HQ.)

  Seat of Uher (Midlanor. Templars of Chain HQ.)

  -

  *The Kelholt family lived in Sessi Shrine and ruled over Sessi Fort. At this point in time with Cardinal Werner Kelholt. With his brother Rinus holding the Archmagister’s title for twenty five years, since 170 NC, the Kelholt family also controlled the Church of Uher for the later part of the second century. The High Inquisitor title was purely ceremonial (used only in liturgies) with the Inquisitors rules forbidding it, although during Rinus’ reign it held considerable power through the ascension of the devotee Maas Vellers to the rank of 2nd Brother (Inquisitor), which was the highest rank within the Order.

  **Eelco Flucht’s descendants while usually employed and serving at the Grand Archive, didn’t hold another higher rank in the Church. Despite that, they always had the deciding vote in the archive’s key positions and were considered the 2nd head of the Church by written order of King Reinut. The long gone High King had shared a very long friendship with Eelco, with whom he’d shared the same dungeon in Uherfort, a castle town build on the road towards Ikete. The latter, Kaletha Triarchy’s great ancient city.

  -

  Red Bridge | don’t hurry the mule

  Part I

  -Better to see… in the dark-

  -

  

  Months earlier, winter of 194 NC

  Midlanor’s Grand Archive’s academy/auditorium

  The chilly walls, of the narrow and shaded outer corridor, clung to the east side of the imposing multi-story Grand Archive building, known as the auditorium wing or simply the ‘Academy’. The ancient brickwork was coated in a layer of blue, moldy paint, adding to the sense of age and subtle neglect.

  Similarly to the ‘archmagister’s always humble robes’ well-known axiom, the building’s state was a prerequisite of the faith and not a symptom of negligence. It was imposed and not natural. Kept cold and inhospitable by design.

  Those wanting to be near the gods must suffer.

  As the time was near noon, the day’s lessons were over and the majority of monks and students had retired, in order to briefly rest in prayer for the late night and early morning liturgies. Those were held in the nearby Seat of Uher temple. The two late night ‘and briefer’ ceremonies offered to Naossis and Luthos, listed here in order of less importance –or time spend on them- followed by psalms to Onas, paeans for Tyeus and finally songs to Uher. Now, Uher proclaimed to be the Gods-father in the hymns, but of course wasn’t. The Allfather was a different unnamed deity and the Five Gods real father… ahm. Well, in all honesty, there were more than one fathers, since the gods in general like to sleep around.

  Bless me Uher for I have sinned, Reinhart thought mockingly, with a nervous glance at the tall ceiling of the building. By speaking the truth.

  Ehem, to sum it up, there were liturgies for all Five Gods of the young pantheon.

  Of course, if one wanted to be even more meticulous, then a mention should be made for the three major gods of the Imperials and the Folk, where one could find our Five Gods ‘true’ mothers and fathers, but also the first pantheon of the Old Realms, an amalgamation of all known and unknown deities, or religions. No man could ever name all the gods contained in the latter.

  The irony!

  Reinhart could talk, or philosophize about religion for days, since he’d been privy to many of his father’s and his extended family’s gatherings throughout the first twenty years of his life. He had skirted away from the matter as much as he could, dodged politics –after also been force-fed a ton of it, and while mildly interested in religious orders and the church’s positions -readily available because of his uncle’s rank and general family connections, Reinhart found them… too-restricting for his restless soul. Of course the Gods –some, or all of them- had conspired against him and he now stood trapped into this role.

  Sir Caspar Brack, one the ‘Templars of Chain’ standing guard outside the auditorium’s doors, a member of the religious Order of the ‘Keepers of the Grand Archivist’s Keychain’ dating back to the days of Kaletha Triarchy, greeted Reinhart with a curt of nod of his coif-covered head, the man’s heavy metal helm placed on the small table next to him. Uher’s ankh prominently carved on the dark metal.

  “Walk under Uher’s Light young lord,” the ever-stiff Sir Brack rustled, as much a wish, as a blasted warning and then opened the door for him.

  “I read about another God of Light lately. This one reigns to the west beyond Eplas shores,” Reinhart started, pausing next to the taller armoured man.

  “Nothing to the west, or to the east, but lewd heathens, bathing in shit cinaedus and flesh-eaters of the dark arts,” Sir Brack replied soberly, dispersing with formalities. “Nothing to the north, or to the south also.”

  Eh. We both know that’s not true.

  “You’re a learned man Sir Brack.”

  “A monk feeds on faith, befriends the sword and sleeps next to his good books, young lord,” Caspar Brack droned.

  “No food,” Reinhart attempted a taunt. Or women.

  Good grief.

  “Thou should try to pray more. Nourish thy soul rather than yer belly,” Brack warned, not liking his tone.

  “I’ll ask for Uher’s blessings and sacraments right after, Sir Brack. Is the dean inside?”

  “Brother Flucht, is on his break.”

  “He’ll always be a tutor to me. I won’t bother him,” Reinhart retorted smartly.

  Too much.

  Technically a lie, since he’d come to the academy to do just that. A lie was of course a sin until it was ‘washed away’ by a priest’s words of advice, which was weird in Reinhart’s mind, since the lie would still be standing in theory, even after it was confessed to a priest.

  -

  Brother Marcel Flucht, a man of medium height and thin complexion, stood near one of the half-domed auditorium’s large windows, on the third level of the empty lecture hall’s east-facing side. He could see beyond the roofed outer corridor from his position, a big part of the barbican that was called the Seat of Uher and a good portion of the houses around Midlanor’s central square.

  The monk, but also academic and astronomer, had a strange heavily inscribed and engraved metallic disk in his hands, filled with copper spokes, wires and perforations. It bore a passing resemblance to the sextant, a classified maritime triangulating device for measuring altitude and latitude, used by the Issir navy.

  “Is this an astrolabe, professor? Pondering on sea routes in your breaks?” Reinhart queried, after he climbed the stairs to reach Brother Flucht.

  “Young Reinhart,” Marcel Flucht said, turning to look at his smiling old pupil. “You are correct of course. But it is best used on land, for more accuracy, or over calm waters. This is but an old relic we recently found inside the boxes.”

  “Anything more useful, given the current situation?” Reinhart probed, with a glance at the black skies outside the large window. Flucht had it opened and a lot of northern cold breeze was blowing inside the auditorium.

  And Reinhart’s face.

  “A fisherman should visit the river and generals should fight wars. Neither politicians, nor scientists. Neither merchants, nor priests,” Flucht reminded him. “The least of all evils doesn’t hide behind a benign title, or profession. The best man for a job, more often than not, is the man familiar with the subject matter. If you want to take something, hire a thief, or a plunderer. It’s better to use a soldier to defend your crops, than the farmer working them.”

  “It would be nice if one could name an occasion where the first notion stood beneficial for a whole society, master Flucht,” Reinhart argued.

  “The Great Armada’s story,” Flucht replied without hesitation and signaled for Reinhart to follow him to a nearby wall bench, quite afar from the open window. “Reinut fought for himself and his selfish struggles carved out a future for our ancestors. In the process much was lost, but his personal motives now stand irrelevant. It’s how the gods work. Despite what you believe, there are many examples like this, hidden in plain sight.”

  Aha. Like Gods and church, love keeping stuff from the populace, Reinhart thought mockingly. Those who know how the realm works, hold all the power and can fashion with it all answers.

  Leave it be, he decided.

  “We might need help,” Reinhart said next with a sigh.

  “This is the Grand Archivist’s role. Luikens is working on it.”

  “Sande De Hove thinks he’s in over his head,” Reinhart insisted pursing his mouth.

  “Luikens is smarter than Rosier and a survivor. A crafty scientist,” Flucht said thoughtfully. “His motives might not align with the common good, perhaps because he’s aware… he’s naught but your uncle’s tool. A tool must work, or it will be discarded.”

  “You need to talk with him,” Reinhart argued. “Luikens. He’s a creepy… eh, he’s given too much leeway.”

  “Given our current situation,” Flucht added, using Reinhart’s earlier words. “Perhaps this is what’s needed?” The academic got up, after carefully placing the astrolabe on the bench and walked to the level corridor’s wooden rails. He stared at the vacant auditorium under them and breathed out slowly. “The classes are empty,” his old tutor admitted sadly. “Young men seek not the gods, or knowledge these days. They think of war and our church is just another way to get near it. What good shall a win against the Khan’s army do, if the High Regent waste’s away all of Midlanor’s youth in order to attain it?”

  “The Khan won’t spare the priests,” Reinhart said hoarsely. “He’ll make slaves of us all and burn our cities to the ground.”

  “Eh,” Flucht grunted and cast an austere stare on him. “The Khan won’t rule over ruins, or burned churches and while I don’t argue we should fight him, this is not why De Hove is worried. The Inquisitors fear that the Khan might spare some of us, if he wins, but the Aken won’t.”

  Reinhart nodded, since this was the reason he’d come to see Brother Flucht. Despite his family’s station in Kaltha’s lore after the great exodus, Marcel Flucht abhorred high positions and his family had lived a withdrawn life in the centuries that followed. Eelco Flucht’s children had settled near Sessi along the church’s priests, far removed from the capital.

  “I heard Sir Thor talk about it,” Reinhart started, but Flucht cut him off with a curt gesture.

  “The young Est Ravn heard it from Brukel. A sentimental fool our reverend is, but his heart is in the right place. Either way it’s impossible to keep a secret if that which you’re trying to hide isn’t dead, or far away,” the mid-aged Issir academic surmised.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Brill wasn’t the same. De Hove said,” Reinhart repeated what the Inquisitor had told him. “He made mistakes.”

  “It’s not easy for them to fool someone that knows them from afore, or if they are young still. Given enough time they get better alike normal people. Time stands a tricky variant in all equations, here working in their favor. For there shall come a time, when you meet one and would never know it, or even offered the opportunity to ponder on its minutiae and peculiarities,” Flucht replied with a deep grimace. He ran a shaking hand over his short-cut white hair, down to the shirt collar he wore under his robes. “It’s nightmare material to read lad, those old stories. The world Reinut and our ancestors came from, was a much different place. Aken, Zilan, and all them other alien creatures. Aye, the Old Realms are infinite and stand full of monstrosities.”

  The fact Brother Flucht had used present tense not escaping the alert Reinhart.

  “How’s the Cardinal?” Flucht asked after a moment of silent contemplation, with Reinhart’s sides slowly freezing from the strong icy current and the auditorium’s cold interior. For a man of mediocre faith, nowhere near eager to partake in the god’s company, the young Inquisitor was strangely already been subjected to a hefty amount of hardship.

  “He’s better now,” a numb Reinhart replied and looked away.

  “Esther?” Flucht inquired about his cousin and Reinhart’s mother.

  “Stays in her room most days.”

  Barely communicates with the environment more like.

  The thought of his poor suffering mother crushing his soul.

  “Any word about your siblings?” Flucht probed calmly.

  “They are still dead,” a sullen Reinhart retorted crooking his mouth. Bodo, his older brother and Ernesta his sister, had both perished trying to escape from Colle. They had travelled there from the capital in order to provide humanitarian relief to Rida refugee families and were caught by the Khan’s invading force. “We have informed the authorities about their fate. It’s on every public square’s boards,” he added with a croak. “It was my uncle’s order.”

  “We can’t have a Kelholt fall in the hands of the Aken,” Flucht told him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Get fooled, if he does.”

  “Nor a Flucht,” Reinhart replied raspingly and his old tutor gave a nod of agreement with his head. “Will you meet with Luikens at least?”

  “I already have,” Marcel Flucht replied, raising a thick white eyebrow playfully to lift Reinhart’s spirits. “A Flucht is just way better in keeping secrets than a De Hove. It runs in our blood.”

  -

  Sebastian ‘Oats’

  Seb/Bastian

  ‘Squire’

  Brother Sebastos

  27th of Sextus 195 NC

  Deep inside the Crimson Forest

  (About fifteen kilometers east of the main road)

  The Issirs easternmost flank

  Wim Luikens’ artillery convoy

  Golden Spears foot soldiers controlled area

  An hour before noon

  The formidable ‘Templar of the Chain’ rode back toward them on his majestic steed, his white mantle billowing behind him. The striking ankh, embroidered in gold thread, adorned both his mantle and his large white shield, while his bucket-shaped helm gleamed in the light. He raised his armoured left arm, signaling the crews to intensify their efforts.

  Towering trees of the vast forest, primarily robust copper-leaved beeches and deep crimson-leaved old maples, framed a narrow path that sliced through the greenery to the south. Originally carved out by the forest’s black bears, this trail had been traversed by local hunters for years, and now Luikens’ engineers had expanded it threefold.

  They had cut a lot of trees from both sides of the path, working in secret for well over a month now, and used the timber to reinforce the muddier parts of the soft ground. The humidity inside the forest was strong, but despite the chill, the summer sun penetrated the canopy at enough spots to warm up those working the wagons.

  Wheeled platforms.

  Uher’s light show us the way.

  The moving flat beds, with the many stubby but stout, metallic wheels fashioned underneath them, moved slowly with the help of oxen and people. The cumbersome Deliverers –more than twice the size of heavy Scorpios and one time larger than catapults- were bolted down on the platforms, so as to move over the tricky terrain.

  “That’s Brother Flucht,” Brukel hummed on his back and Sebastian, who had gone to look at one of the metallic machines from up close, paused to look back. “Riding right behind Sir Brack and that brat Reinhart. Blessed tutor and old colleague, Uher’s Light shine upon you brother,” Brukel added and made a circle with his index finger over his hooded head to offer blessings.

  “We all stand equal under Uher, brother Brukel. I won’t fall for the pits of vanity,” Flucht replied humbly. He stopped his horse at the edge of the path to allow the crews and animals to pass by him. “A lively day, beautiful. It’s invigorating, yes?”

  “There’s fighting up ahead and AredRavn might have walked into a trap. It fixes to be a bloody affair,” Brukel retorted austerely and the academic nodded, not disputing the priest’s argument.

  “Even so, my assertion stands. The day is still beautiful,” he replied steadfastly and stared at the gawking Sebastian with growing interest. “Is this the boy?”

  “He is,” Brukel replied, slapping Sebastian’s shoulder to snap him out of his reverie. “Our young brother Sebastos was with Luikens. Sir Mart Luppe’s old squire. He serves Thor Est Ravn now.”

  Marcel Flucht lifted a monocle hanging from his neck to better examine Sebastian. “Brukel and myself studied together in the Academy for a while. A couple of years,” he said after a moment. “Brukel left soon after, as the Grand Archive’s walls can be oppressive for a former squire. I learned about Mark. Praised be the Five,” he added respectfully with a glance at the silent priest. “How is Lady Grote?”

  “Haven't spoken to her lately,” Brukel admitted hoarsely. “The priest in me wants to offer assistance to a dear friend’s inconsolable widow, but the same man’s old squire, can’t bear the shame of leaving her husband to die.”

  Flucht shook his head in understanding and breathed out. “You’ve seen the Aken, brother Sebastos?” He asked out of the blue in a serious voice and Sebastian flinched not expecting the query.

  “I don’t know what I saw,” Sebastian replied and Marcel Flucht tightened his mouth, the edges lowering displeased. “Because it moved like the wind. It came out of nothing and then it turned to nothing.”

  “Because of the explosion,” Flucht offered and Sebastian denied it with a shake of his head. “I see. It was tall then? Copper-skinned and snake-eyed?”

  “His skin was painted white,” Sebastian replied. “His arms and legs were very long. The leg joints bending both ways.”

  “MOVE THE RIGHT SIDE!” Someone yelled at the top of his lungs.

  “THEM WHEELS ARE SINKING DAMN IT!” Another bellowed in response.

  Flucht narrowed his eyes and glanced at the crews struggling with the last of the machines. The path getting worse with every ‘wagon’ rolling over it.

  “BRING SOME TIMBER TO SOAR IT UP FALCO!”

  “ME BACK IS SHOT YE CRETIN! YOU BRING THE TIMBER!” Falco snapped back, boots buried in the mud and heaving hard behind the platform to get it unstuck.

  “USE THAT MULE! TOSS THEM BAGS DOWN!” Someone suggested and the Assayer, riding behind Brother Dumont and holding on to him like a child, abruptly came alive at this.

  “HALT!” He roared in a half-panicked voice.

  “Don’t hurry the mule,” a sobered up –profusely sweating- Wim Luikens ordered next in a warning tone and everyone paused whatever they were doing to stare at him fearfully. “Never… hurry this mule,” the Alchemist repeated gravely and then pressed a finger at the mid of his thick glasses in order to guide them back up the bridge of his moist nose. His eyes looking huge behind the foggy round glasses and his dry voice now barely heard by his attentive audience. “Nor toss the leather bags.”

  “Fetid shites! You heard him. Leave the god-darn mule alone Falco!” One of the civilian crew leaders cursed with a grimace. “Pardon me Imperial, milord Luikens,” he quickly added turning to the disinterested Assayer that tapped brother Dumont’s shoulder once to get them going again.

  “Come along,” Flucht told the watching the scene Sebastian and Brukel, “Let’s speak to the Grand Archivist.”

  -

  

  Before the center of Lord Anker’s army, following the plains road between the coastal wilderness and the Crimson Forest, Sir Thor Est Ravn learned of Baron AredRavn’s actions at the west flank, but also received news from Vellers (or Sande De Hove) and the Inquisitors reconnoitering the trees afore Maple Grove –a Crimson Forest protrusion into the plains- that they had made contact with hostiles.

  While the message didn’t survive the battle, Sir Thor, who had been placed in charge of the Issir Heavy Cavalry in support to Baron Grote’s east flank, reacted fast and dispatched about fifty, or seventy riders under the local knight Sir Mart Isak to assist them. Baronet’s Emanuel Isak’s son, the lord of Edge Castle, had married Marjory Vosman of Quarterport, elderly Lord Remko Vosman’s younger daughter and was known to hunt in the area.

  Sir Mart Isak and his squire Mert ‘Greywood’ moved near the treeline to make contact with Maas Vellers’ men and while in discussion with a runner, they were informed that the Inquisitors had pushed a group of scouts deeper into the forest. Magister Sande De Hove, a high-ranking Inquisitor wanted to notify Wim Luikens convoy –moving through the forest further to the east- about potential enemies, but feared sending a man from the front near Luikens. Isak worried this could inform their opponents of his location. While Sir Isak was pondering on the best course of action, some of his men-at-arms spotted horses moving in the trees and a small scuffle started immediately.

  The men were Cataphracts under either Anebos, or Hurbasa, two of Cephas Mirpur’s lieutenants, though the Horselords just called them ‘leaders of men’ plus their name, since each Horselord’s name (better yet its prominence) justified their rank, as much as a formal title sometimes. It couldn’t have been Tika-Phanti, as he had been directed to head east towards Reb’s Trail twenty minutes earlier. Either way the scrap alerted both Sir Thor and Cephas Mirpur of more enemies moving near their flanks.

  Both commanders faced a dilemma at that point, since their groups were tasked with guarding their infantry’s east flank (both large bodies of soldiers were on the march on the nearby main road) and didn’t want to reveal themselves. Cephas sent word to his rear and asked for Rumen-Kot’s machines to move forward –it is possible he could see the Issir artillery’s advance behind Sir Thor’s men- and for Sin Ota-Kmet’s heavy war-chariots to move out of their stalls.

  ‘By the Steppe’s Spirits Ota-Kmet. Move your men,’ Mirpur wrote, addressing the Lord of distant Torbal. ‘Enemy horse is almost ten kilometers from the pines’.

  The ‘Pines Road’ was a two kilometer stretch of tiled road adorned with pine trees –on the final approach to Mid Bridge. The Horselords had cut some of them down to make furniture, but a good portion still remained in two rows near the junction of the river road and the Grove. The cultured Forya-Rohir Sin Ota-Kmet became furious with Mirpur’s perceived insult and asked Advisor Besa Nafi -the Khan’s eyes on the north side of Chinos River- for permission to move the chariots after Muda-Zeket’s Jang-Lu. Besa Nafi ordered Ota-Kmet not to move unless the ‘other danger is removed’.

  Sir Thor Est Ravn had lost command of the 3rd Foot (although with Lord Grote holding a higher station and rank, this wasn’t out of the ordinary and leading the Heavy Horse was a big responsibility.) The 3rd Foot was the unit Sir Thor had led in Eplas alongside his now late friend Sir Ton Van De Aesst. There’s a rumor Dora of Hardwood (Joris Sloot’s daughter and mother of his child) was with Midlanor’s heir. Another rumor seems to suggest that Luthos intervened and placed two very pressured by other events in their personal lives knights (Cephas and Thor) very near to each other.

  While the two important mobile armoured units mused whether to strike at each other, or not, much further to their east Wim Luikens convoy made contact with yet another concealed enemy unit.

  Sir Albert Kosters Golden Spears men-at-arms, scouting the path well ahead of the slow-moving convoy, missed Brill ‘Three’ and his warriors. While it’s impossible to piece together truth from fiction, especially considering the current political debate on which the ‘good’, or ‘bad’ sides were in this long conflict, it appears that an Aken general was involved. This race of peoples didn’t hail from Jelin, or Eplas. They weren’t imported from Wetull. Their existence is hinted by Soteras and Gallio Veturius in their histories –the latter had read the Issir Armada logs- and referred to in passing by Sir Dominque Valwarin in ‘Beyond Elauthin’, a mostly fictitious account of himself and Ebenezer Framtond’s journeys to the edges of the realm.

  While other continents and islands do exist –the Sinking Isles come to mind- and other races of peoples, like the Folk (Dwarves, Gish, etc.) these Aken of Mistland practiced magic like the Zilan of the sunken island chain of Cydonia Cazan, some type of disturbing Necromancy focused on corpses’ bones. These ‘Bonemancers’ were long-standing enemies of the tight-lipped Imperials, who probably had also a presence inside the Crimson Forest, with unknown capabilities.

  This author believes both rumors to be true, but won’t disclose his sources. They are the connecting tissue that clarifies much of our times Imperial foreign policy doctrines, which most believe are just born out of bottomless self-indulgence and base voracious ambition.

  There is a lot of that obviously as I’ve written elsewhere and this next part may doom me in both continents. Dare I to scribble it down here, knowing what I know? Perhaps our queen mother should cast all wrath, or latent anguish, aside and seek the Sibyl’s assistance yet again. As the Grand Archivist Sebastos writes in his story of the battle. ‘In the end, the Old Realms are infinite and those distant lands stand full of monstrosities.’

  It is this humble author’s personal deep-rooted belief that in the battle of the east flank, deep inside the Crimson Forrest’s semi-dark dirt road and the thick brushwood hugging it, these monsters came out in force for the first time.

  First time in the open that is, for they have walked unobserved amidst our ranks many a times before.

  -

  “You need to be at the junction before noon,” Flucht advised Luikens, the Assayer watching the last of the Deliverers getting out of the muddy part of the path. “Then the road gets better on Reb’s Trail and we’ll make better time.”

  “They’ll have men posted at the junction,” Luikens said and Flucht nodded.

  “Vily Reb will notify us with smoke if army appears.”

  “What if they don’t use the road?”

  “Sir Kosters is hurrying there to secure the path,” Flucht reassured him and Luikens pursed his mouth. His pale, sweaty face, appearing constipated. “Are you certain we can take out their camps?”

  “A camp… more, if our men hold and the center doesn’t collapse,” Luikens replied and Sebastian breathed out, then walked across the ruined dirt road stepping on the placed -now cracked at different spots- timber floor in order to reach Brukel, who had returned to their horses ten minutes earlier to have a drink.

  “Get our horses ready young Sebastos,” Flucht called behind his back. “Reinhart, help him out.”

  Sebastian grimaced, as he didn’t need help to get the horses ready and the young Issir approaching him –he’d also come with Priest Flucht earlier- smiled in understanding. Reinhart had an expensive fiercely purple and black cloak with a red satin interior, over a same-colored armoured leather waistcoat. He had an Inquisitor’s platinum pendant hanging from his neck. Uher’s Ankh fashioned into a long dagger with a pointy end and with five spokes coming out of the droplet-shaped loop at its top, depicting a distorted sun.

  “He’s like that when he likes you,” Reinhart explained and then tended a hand. “Reinhart. You’re Sir Luppe’s old squire.”

  “Sebastian. What is an Inquisitor doing so far from his unit?” Sebastian replied grasping at his forearm in greeting.

  “Ah,” Reinhart said with a teasing smirk. He’d the cultured face of a knight. Very friendly for his profession. “You are smart. Are you good with the blade? I’ve had some excellent tutors myself.”

  “The horses Brother Kelholt. Uher’s Light,” Flucht protested from across the large dirt road. “I can hear the Golden Spears coming up.”

  Dumont’s foot soldiers, the rearguard of the convoy, were approaching.

  “I’ll take them,” Sebastian told the breathing out frustrated Reinhart and grabbed the reins to lead both horses across the dirt road. Brukel finished his long libation in the meantime and burped loudly, then quickly made Uher’s sign with one hand to ward off the bad spirits, whilst he hid the metal flask into his robes with the other.

  “Praised be the Five,” the Priest grunted and blinked with both eyes. “You hear that Sebastos?”

  Sebastian went to glance back at the flushed older priest, but three soldiers burst out of the brushwood and the trees on the east side of the widened path, two Issirs hunting down a Lorian. The Lorian had been wounded, a deep gush on his right shoulder that sprayed blood down his reinforced leather armour. An Issir Foot soldier’s armour worn by a Lorian.

  “Stop him!” The Golden Spear soldier leading the other bellowed hoarsely, breathing ruggedly from the heavy sprinting to catch their opponent. The Lorian was heading straight for Luikens and Flucht. The next moment Sebastian was running as well.

  “What…? Hey!” Reinhart yelled at his back, as Sebastian had already half-crossed the dirt road in order to return near the Grand Archivist and Flucht. The squire unsheathed the scimitar from his back, as he couldn’t properly draw the longsword whilst running. The latter a ‘loan’ from Sir Thor Est Ravn, ‘in order for Seb to carry a proper blade.’

  The determined Lorian had already halved the distance from the two high-ranking members of the Church, and Sebastian redoubled his effort to cut him off. One of the Golden Spears chucked his shortsword with a yelp, losing his footing in the process. The hurled blade thudded between the Lorian’s shoulder blades almost bringing him down. It didn’t somehow, but even so forced him to an abrupt halt, just as the rushing squire faltered with a grunt, before he came to an awkward pause before the critically injured stranger.

  “Bloody excellent toss brother. Praised be the Five,” Flucht applauded the soldier and the flushed Golden Spear stood up covered in mud.

  “Name’s Carlson yer holiness,” the soldier said and rushed after his still running partner. The latter barking incensed for the numb Sebastian to act. The squire was staring at the top of the Lorian’s head, while the bleeding stranger appeared to have stooped to examine the blade’s tip that now protruded from his chest.

  “CUT HIM DOWN YE DIMWIT!” The wild-eyed sweaty soldier roared. “HIT HIM AGAIN!”

  Eh.

  “Interesting,” Priest Flucht remarked, taking a forward step to approach Sebastian, who had his back turned to Flucht and Luikens, as he stood in front of the injured Lorian. The man had raised his head now, blond hair very short and a pair of expressionless eyes regarded the gawking Sebastian’s face.

  One eye was blue and that of a human, but the other was birdlike possibly that of an owl.

  Both eyes somehow worked.

  “WHAT ARE YE DOING?”

  “Why different?” Sebastian gasped curious and noticed a gaping wound just under the creepy Lorian’s gory chin.

  “I JUST SPEARED HIM RIGHT THROUGH THE NECK!” the Golden Spears soldier bellowed, still charging forward with a massive bastard sword raised high above his head. Despite the severe wounds he had sustained, the relentless construct lunged with his hand to seize the stunned Sebastian by the throat.

  “Better to see… in the dark,” the Lorian responded in a halting version of Common, his haunting voice carrying an unsettling yet familiar tone that acted as a catalyst to snap the squire out of his stupor. Just then, the alarm horns blared from the nearby woods and prompted the now snarling Sebastian to swing his drawn scimitar upward in a swift motion.