Robert Wisser, on the other hand, was experiencing no such joy. Even faced with bitter autumn winds sweat was still pouring over his face. Short, inconsistent breaths escaped his lungs as he continued to pace towards the Bastille, towards what he hoped would be refuge. He wasn't running now; his legs had commanded him to stop that some time ago, but Robert was still walking as quickly as he could, praying to whoever would listen that a shadow wearing the skull of a bear wouldn't pass over his head once more. His confidence had turned to ash as he pondered further what he had faced before his run. Over and over his mind showed him the images of Amal and Ola. Their bodies utterly destroyed; their faces twisted in all manner of horror. No matter how good Robert was with his blade, there wasn't much he could do against that kind of raw power. He remembered now why he had felt such unease at the appearance of this creature. This witch, magician, whatever they were exuded the same horrible presence as the Patriarch.
His warm breath creating a mist in front of him, Robert arrived at the Bastille. Without hesitation the guards let him in. Most Drevonish soldiers knew better than to question their superiors, especially when said superiors were dashing about frantically, their uniform stained with blood. That didn't stop them from staring though, and stare they did. Looks from both nobility and soldiers alike washed over Robert. Some judged him as he worked his way through the grand halls of Quenasses' Bastille, while others looked on fearfully, keeping their distance from him.
After a moment of staring, one woman Robert would've rather not had to deal with approached him. Lady Bruillant's youthful face was wracked with concern as she loomed towards Robert. A long garment the likes of which Robert was unfamiliar with decorated her torso and most of her lower half. It had long, loose sleeves and the cloth was made to look as though it were the same as a rhino's hide. A separate but equally dark purple skirt covered what the clothing above did not. At least, Robert thought it was a skirt.
Bruillant grabbed his arms in front of all those watching.
"My dear Robert!" she exclaimed. "What has happened to you?" Her thin, cold fingers caressed Robert's face. He shied away from the touch, knowing that with every moment he spent near Bruillant, a thousand more rumours would fill the ears of the Council.
"It is a little blood, my lady," Robert said, trying his best to retain his composure. "Nothing to worry yourself over. It's not even mine."
Lady Bruillant gasped. Perhaps that last bit was too much for her delicate ears. "My sweet knight, I have not seen you for over a week and you return covered in blood. Tell me if no one else what has troubled you so?"
"I am not your knight any more than I am a knight of the people," Robert replied. He felt that was a strong thing to say. Clear, but not too cold. "Please let me go, my lady, I must see my wife."
At the mention of Anne, Lady Bruillant's concerned face twisted into a scowl. That scowl annoyed Robert greatly. This youth wasn't his wife, wasn't anywhere near what one would consider competition, and yet she believed herself worthy of anger over the mere mention of Anne. If her husband wasn't quite so loud and wealthy, well Lady Bruillant would've been nothing more than another noblewoman. Another glorified broodmare. "My wife," Robert repeated, shaking his arms free of Bruillant's grasp. "I must see her. It is a matter of such import I cannot even begin to describe."
"Are you embarrassed by me?" Bruillant asked, her voice was barely a whisper. "You won't run away with me, you won't even see me and now you can't stand to be seen with me."
"This is ridiculous."
"Perhaps it's her, actually. I'd never thought there could be a man so brilliant controlled by a woman so foul."
"The only foul woman I see right now is in front of me," Robert declared. "She not only is so self-absorbed that she cannot imagine a reality where she is not the centre of attention, she also wishes to keep me in front of her so badly she would insult my wife, myself, and her entire country by not allowing me to pass."
Bruillant opened her mouth to speak again. Robert shouldered past her, hearing a pathetic squeak leave Bruillant's mouth as she was shoved ever so slightly. Ever the dramatist, Bruillant held her wrist to her forehead and collapsed to the floor. She lay there for a moment awkwardly, and it looked as though all noble souls nearby were too fearful of Robert to come to her aid. Eventually, a man – well, a lad barely older than a boy really – rushed over to save Bruillant from utter embarrassment. With gentle words he brought the lady to her feet, no doubt hoping this pathetic act of heroism would earn him her favour.
Poor boy, Robert thought. You'll get nothing, not even so much as a look after this moment. As are most men, you are but a pawn in her game to win another.
At no point did Robert look back to Bruillant, though he could feel her stare burning hot flames onto his back. No doubt the young man was staring too, muttering words he'd never dare say in front of Robert. Things that would make him appear the better man.
Soon enough Robert was away from the open spaces, filled with what Anne liked to call 'the flock.' Originally, 'the flock' consisted of lesser nobility, those who simply nodded and provided what little they could to Drevon. Now, it seemed pretty much everyone that wasn't either Robert, Anne or the Patriarch could be assumed to be a part of 'the flock.' It was a dismissive, narcissistic label, but not an entirely inaccurate one. Like a flock of sheep, the nobility of Drevon followed their shepherd, their Patriarch, without question, nodding along like sick dogs.
In front of Robert was a thin corridor. A brisk walk through that and then he would reach the stairs to Anne's office.
Shit. Stairs. Robert looked to his legs. Almost in anticipation of the coming trial, they began to ache. From a lack of good rest, and the recent burst of running, Robert's legs were ready to give in. Twenty years ago, he could've run up the stairs and back down again without a bead of sweat making its way onto his forehead. Now, in his early forties Robert didn't feel much older, though he knew that age was catching up to him very quickly. His sword arm hadn't slowed, but a few other things certainly had.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Robert saw yet another person he rather wouldn't have encountered. Standing half a dozen steps above Robert, the head of the Sommeliers blocked his path. His wrinkles curled into a grin full of mischief as his cloudy eyes caught hold of Robert. He tucked his spotted, veiny hands safely into the loose sleeves of his robes.
They stood for a moment in silence. The Sommelier might've been waiting for Robert to acknowledge him. This was something that was never going to happen because Robert had forgotten his name. Perhaps the old man himself was remembering who Robert was or thinking of something to say. Both were equally likely.
"Ever the charmer, eh, Sir Robert?" The old man asked. A slight nod down the corridor let Robert know what he was talking about. There was no point in asking how the Sommelier had known about what he had not seen.
"Is my wife in her office?" Robert asked bluntly.
"Yes, but if you are too tired to reach her, I could always relay whatever it is you have to say."
"Vulg," that was the name. A horridly ugly one at that. "You are a person who is good with people, correct?"
"Yes, I believe that's why the Countess and I get on so well," Vulg said, his grin never leaving his face.
"Then you'll be able to tell that I'm in no mood for games. Let me pass."
"Why Sir Robert," Vulg said, clutching his hand to his chest. "Why would I ever stop you? Are we not merely enjoying a chat?"
Robert's hand wavered towards his sword. The movement was a momentary one, a slight rush of anger. Robert never would have cut down the old man there and then. He didn't want to, not at this moment anyway. As soon as his gloved hand reached down though, another hand reached out and caught Robert's wrist. Appearing from what seemed like nowhere was another person. A woman, with black hair cut short and a face like stone. She glared at him, her nostrils flaring.
"One of yours?" Robert asked, not taking his eyes away from the woman. There was a dagger at her hip, and though she hadn't drawn it, from her anger Robert could tell that it would take only one more sleight for the dagger to be in his chest.
Vulg nodded. "Of course she is, sir knight. None except those I permit are allowed within my presence."
"Bold claim," Robert noted. "Quite ridiculous also."
"So is your title of 'knight,'" the Sommelier said. "You ride no horse, wear no armour. You are not even noble of heart. How are you a knight?"
"The word knight is a title, and it has never been anything more. Soon enough they will come up with new ways of saying knight."
"If your wife has anything to do with it. What's the word she loves so much?"
"Meritocracy," Robert didn't need to think about that one. Anyone who had spent more than ten minutes with Anne would've heard that word at some point.
"That's it. What a novel idea."
Vulg stroked his scraggly beard, guiding his wrinkled old hand down from his chin to his chest. He was perhaps the frailest, oldest looking man Robert had ever met, yet he would've bet his sword arm that the appearance of frailty was a false one.
"Let me pass," Robert said.
"All this talk of knights reminds me of a funny man I once knew," Vulg said, staring out of a nearby window. In the darkness there wasn't much to see except for a sheet of grey clouds, covering the beauty of the stars. "He was a young fellow, bold and skilled with a lance like no other. In Vovequia, the use of a lance is like an art, you see. We host tournaments all throughout the country, testing the mettle of our strongest knights. Fine affairs all of them, I was lucky enough to see a few first-hand, even one where the Stag Queen attended, would you believe?"
"I don't think I would," Robert said.
"I only caught a glimpse of her, but oh my, how splendorous she was," Vulg paused, taking in the wonder of his own memory. "Anyway, back to the matter at hand. My friend was an expert with the lance. Many said he could not be beaten, so many in fact that he believed it himself. He thought he was the best in the world, though of course that was never true. Soon enough I watched him lose a bout, the wood of a splintered lance piercing his throat." Vulg gestured to his own sagging neck. "Quite a gory end, I must say. Would you like to know who killed my friend, Sir Robert?"
"I have a feeling as though you're going to tell me anyway."
"It was an unknown peasant, wearing the garb of a knight he'd killed in some other tournament. The best there was, beaten fairly by an unknown entity."
"You may want to be a bit less obvious with your metaphors," Robert said.
"No, I'd like you to know this: there are people in this world with untapped potential, the best and most skilled are lying far beneath your vision because you never think to look down. I, on the other hand, have made more than a life of finding these individuals and letting their talents reign freely. So, in knowing this I'd advise you no longer underestimate me or any other Sommelier, Sir Robert Wisser."
"And I'd like you to stop underestimating me," Robert said. "Peasant or Patriarch, no man can best me with a blade, and that is that."
With that, Vulg stepped down from his position of power, opening his arms to show Robert the way forwards. "I shan't keep you any loner, Robert Wisser. Have yourself a wonderful evening now, won't you?"
Robert shook his head. "You're in no position of power. Not here, you know. Anne's trust is a gamble on you, but as soon as you make one mistake, you'll be sorely reminded who holds the real power, and it's not peasants that you've dressed in red robes."
Vulg didn't say anything else. His thin smile returned to his face, and with a nod and bow as far as his old back would allow, he bid Robert a good evening.
It took a while for Robert to find his way up the stairs. Over and over, he cursed Anne's name, and her choosing of the top of a tower to be her office space. Eventually, he shoved himself into the office, not greeting Anne or her guards, and slumped against the door. His legs gave in, leaving him to sit with his back against the hard wood of the door. Anne's office was as it had been since Drevon had taken Quenasses. A small space, simple and pragmatic. Her desk in the centre, filled with stacks of books and papers so high that it was difficult to see anything of Anne except the top of her head. Behind her, there was just enough space for her two Gunners, and in front was room for one guest. Two, at most, with small chairs for them to sit on and an empty platter laid near the foot of one of the chairs. Empty shelves filled the rest of the room. Once they held trophies, gems, art and all else that Quenasses could pride itself on. Now all of those things had likely been sold or simply destroyed.
Anne cocked her head at her husband. No doubt she thought she was repeating the events of yesterday's evening. Robert knew he looked as weary as he had when he'd killed the Pale Boys, and was covered in about as much blood.
"Productive evening?" she asked.
"Depends what you count as productive. Your pet old man nearly had me killed, one of the women you've had me sleeping with sought to ruin me in front of the entire Bastille, and I think I have run so much that my legs will no longer work."
"You best tell those legs to keep working because I won't carry you," Anne replied. "Not any more than I already do. I imagine there's something else you need to tell me."
"Hmm?"
Anne sniffed the air, making a show of her petite nostrils flaring in the candlelight. "You reek, Robe-***rt."
The smoky, strange odour of magic began to ooze its way into Robert's nostrils. Combined with his own sweaty body odour, it was a less than pleasant smell to say the least.
Robert nodded, confirming he too could smell magic. "Yes, that's probably worth mentioning first. I believe I now know why two Zweihanders were able to evade our gaze and infiltrate the Bastille."
"They used magic?"
Robert shook his head. "Not them. There's a mage of some kind with them, assisting them."
Anne looked as though Robert had just informed her that her mother had died. Or, at least that's how Anne should've reacted when she'd heard her mother was dead. Instead – when the event had actually happened – Anne remained as calm and collected as ever. She didn't even shed a tear at the funeral.
"Drevonish?" Anne asked.
"I couldn't tell you," Robert shrugged. "It looked more like a creature than a person at first. A cloud of shadows, if you can believe it, with a bear's skull atop its head. I never saw one of the old wizards wearing something as brutish as that."
Anne shook her head. "Yes, that's good. It won't be one of Drevon's. They're all gone."
"Exiled or executed," Robert agreed.
"And Amal and Ola?" Anne asked. It seemed she'd only now remembered Robert should have returned with company.
"Dead. Killed by our new friend."
"They were good women, both."
Robert nodded. He disagreed with the statement but knew now was not the time. "What would you like to do, Anne?"
Anne stood from her desk and smoothed down the front of her buttoned coat. The dark navy of both her coat and trousers caused the light grey of her skin to stick out. The deep red makeup over her lips accentuated the pale grey further. Despite her reservedness, despite how little she liked to make noise, Anne always ensured she had a loud presence. Everyone noticed when she entered a room, their eyes drawn to either the colours she wore, or the lack of them over her flesh. Anne would have liked you to think that she cared very little for her appearance. In truth, she cared deeply for it. Both pride in her heritage and pride in her position were two things Anne took incredibly seriously. Robert had known that from the first moment they'd met. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen her without proper dress and makeup. One did have to look the part if they wanted to lead a country, after all.
"What would I like to do?" Anne repeated. Her thumb moved to her lower lip. She was gnawing slightly on the nail.
"We could inform the Patriarch," Anne said, beginning to pace around her desk. "No, no, there's no telling what he'd do. Then again, how else are we to ready the men? Only my own would listen to me, but then do we need more than guns and cannon to take one magician. There was only one, correct?" Her eyes demanded an answer from Robert.
"Yes," he nodded. "Only the one, that I saw."
"That I saw?" Anne mocked. "Why would you say that?"
"Alright there was only one then."
"But you're not sure of that."
"No, I'm not."
Anne kicked her desk. It groaned against the stone. She then proceeded to thump it with her fist. "Fuck's sake, Robert. Why are any of them still here? Can't they see the world's moved on? We've no need for rituals, sacrifices, spells, anymore."
"Stubborn creatures," Robert said. He stood as well, reaching a gloved hand to wrap around Anne's. She didn't recoil from the touch, which was nice, though Robert wasn't sure it was any comfort. Two leathery, gloved hands entwined wasn't exactly the most romantic image, and it didn't feel great either.
Still, it's the thought that counts, Robert told himself.
"No," Anne said. "Stubbornness is respectable. What they're doing is just clinging to life, pathetically grasping at what they've already lost. Barbarians, the lot of them, lost because the world became civilised."
"Has it?" Robert said. The question had come out of his mouth quicker than he could catch it.
Anne glared at Robert but didn't respond to the question. Instead, she called on one of her Gunners, and ordered a message sent to the Patriarch to inform him of what Robert had seen.
Within the hour, Anne's Gunner and a messenger from the Patriarch returned, the latter ordered both Robert and Anne to make their way to the Patriarch's chambers at once. Sadly for Robert, this meant again facing the stairs. His legs screamed as he made his way down towards the Patriarch, and his thoughts raced until he eventually reached a pair of gigantic oak doors – the only barrier between Anne, Robert, and Atoth's Chosen.
Without warning the Patriarch's messenger opened the doors, shoving them aside with an audible huff. Beyond the doors was one of the largest glorified bedrooms Robert had ever laid eyes on. Compared to Anne's office it was a mansion.
To Robert's right was a bed large enough for ten, covered in fine silks of all sorts of colours that the Patriarch was likely to despise. Grand bookshelves, chests and wardrobes littered the room like dog shit littered the nearby streets. Unlike the dog shit though, there was a method to the placement of each and every piece of furniture in this room, keeping the openness of the space, prioritising it above all else. In the centre was a large, circular table. Perhaps it was for dining and entertaining, or it might have simply been another desk. Robert couldn't tell. The only thing lying atop the table was a Strategem board; by the pieces Robert could see there was a game yet to be finished. The Patriarch was staring at the table, barely acknowledging Robert and Anne as they entered. Despite the low lighting of the room – nothing more than a few glum candles stopped the chamber from being enveloped in darkness – the gleam of the Patriarch's armour was as blinding as ever. For a moment, for one stupid second Robert had thought he might have been able to glimpse the Patriarch without that sodding armour. A foolish hope, really, but it was not the first time Robert had wondered what his glorious leader looked like underneath all that shining plate. Was he a young man, like all the tapestries depicted? Was he Robert's age, carrying the same weight and expectations of a man just beyond his prime? He could be older, even, hiding his ageing self beneath a glimmering surface.
"Dreor," the Patriarch said, his booming voice like thunder in the otherwise silent room. "Wisser."
"Your eminence," greeted Anne. She gifted the Patriarch with a slight bow, not dipping her head any further than her stomach. Anne bowed for no one else except the Patriarch, and even then, she never bowed proper.
The Patriarch approved Anne's bow with a nod, then his eyes found Robert. None had been able to explain the reddish glow that emanated from the eyes of the Patriarch's armour. Some said it was a gift from Atoth, a piece of his rage to give his perfect soldier strength. Robert wasn't sure about gods giving gifts, but he was sure it wasn't magic either. It didn't stink enough to be magic.
"I hope you don't mind but I won't be bowing, taking a knee or anything of the sort," Robert said, leaning against the table. "I've had quite the past couple of days."
The lion-like features of the Patriarch's helmet seemed to frown in their metallic solidity. "I won't force anything upon my subjects. Sit, if you will, or stand. I do not mind."
Robert sat. Anne stood, alongside the Patriarch. Robert swivelled his chair around so he could get a better look at the pair, and so they wouldn't be talking to his back.
"So, there's a magician in my city," the Patriarch said. "Dreor, how did this go unnoticed? You took on those red spies for a reason, did you not?"
"This one slipped under our guard," Anne said. "But I assure you their corpse will lie in this room soon enough. Magicians are a certain specialty of mine."
"I don't want it to be anywhere near me," said the Patriarch. "Robert, you saw dark robes and a bear's skull?"
Robert nodded.
"Then it is as I suspected. There was one left."
"You knew this magician?" Anne asked, genuinely surprised.
The Patriarch nodded. He clasped his hands together, letting his giant palms rub over one another in a slow rhythm. "We are dealing with a witch, and an extremely powerful one at that."
"Right," Robert said. "Anything else you can give us?"
The Patriarch glared at Robert, making the latter very glad Reckoning was nowhere to be seen. "I wasn't finished, Wisser."
"Apologies, your eminence," Robert said. Anne shot her husband a look, informing him he wasn't to speak again unless prompted.
"What I am about to tell you both is a personal story of mine," the Patriarch said. "I ask you to keep what I say in this room to yourselves, and not to judge the mistakes of a youth too harshly."
Robert couldn't remember the last time he had heard the Patriarch ask anyone for something. He demanded, and if his demands were not met, he took. The man was addicted to superiority. Every word he spoke, every move he made ensured you knew you were beneath him. Robert wished there were some way of memorialising this moment forever.
Anne was immediately enticed by the prospect of a secret known only to the Patriarch. Her eyes watched him intently, she was practically salivating with anticipation.
"You are aware of my bloodline," the Patriarch said. "The nobility from which I stem?"
Both Anne and Robert nodded.
"I had a large family once. Relatives that lived across borders, some even in Vovequia. When I was a youth I visited those relatives once, their manor was not far from Quenasses. Unfortunately for me, the summer I spent with my uncle and aunt quickly turned into a nightmare, for the entire house had been targeted by a coven of witches. In the night they killed what few guards we had around us and took us into the Low Wood. Men, women, and children all abducted by creatures wearing the heads of dead animals."
"Sounds horrible," Anne said in the most comforting voice she could muster. "If I may, why was a family of noblemen and women taken? From my experience, blood sacrifices are mostly done on the peasantry, so none notice when they disappear."
"It is a poorly kept secret that the blood of nobility is more valuable than that of an average commoner," the Patriarch said. "We were taken as livestock, as pigs to be bled for some sick ritual."
Anne's lip curled slightly; her nose twitched. She'd smelled utter shite coming from the Patriarch and seemed uninterested in his story now.
"They killed the adults first, not even giving the children the mercy of a quick death. Then came my cousins, who were older, then they were supposed to kill me. It was a fairly painless death, but a brutal one nonetheless. Bled dry they were. Cut lengthways down the wrist, and horizontally across the throat. The whole ordeal frightened me to such degree I could not find the will to fight. I am ashamed that it took my own death being imminent for me to act. When the witch tried to grab me, I bit down on her thumb so hard I tore it off. Then with a headbutt I created some distance and ran. For whatever reason, they let me escape. I knew they were always close behind, always watching, for I heard their cackling, hideous laughter echo in the night until I found my way to safety."
"How did the coven die?" Anne asked without much sympathy.
"Hmm?" the Patriarch said.
"You said there was a coven, that means more than just the one witch we're now dealing with. So, how did the coven die?"
Though Robert couldn't see it, he knew the Patriarch was smiling. "By my hand," said the ruler of Drevon. "By my hand, by my blade, I returned to that land of heresy and cut them down. Soon after I became the man you see today."
"So why did this one live?" Anne said, unimpressed.
"Because like a coward she fled my blade, though now thinks she alone can take revenge for her wicked sisters."
"So she wants to kill you?" Robert asked.
"Hmm," the Patriarch replied. "And bring down all that I've built. Blood for blood, Atoth dooms revenge to become a cycle until one side is utterly destroyed. I only wish I'd have taken in his teachings sooner."
"How many men can you ready in ten minutes?" Anne asked. Her question was aimed for the Patriarch, though she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she stared at the floor, her eyes flicking back and forth. She was piecing together a plan.
"As many as I can find."
"A hundred?"
The Patriarch nodded. "At least."
"Good. Robert, could you find where you saw this witch again?"
Robert clasped his hands together. Now it was his turn to stare at the floor as his mind scrambled to remember the route he'd taken, what the house and street around it looked like. A moment after, his head rose again, amber locks parting perfectly in the way of his face. "I believe I could, yes."
"Very good," Anne said. She strolled out of the room, a curt smile working its way to her cheeks. "I shall prepare rifles," she called from the open doorway. "And a cannon, if I can find one."
Robert was now alone, left with the Patriarch. The messenger was there still, but he looked as pale as a ghost, and wasn't going to be much conversation. In the silence awkwardness was building quickly. Both men were looking around the room, hoping to find some point of discussion, or perhaps just to pretend as though the other wasn't there.
"She's a respectable woman," the Patriarch said eventually. "That wife of yours."
"Respectfully," Robert began.
"Do not say that to me when you know what comes after will be disrespectful," the Patriarch ordered. "If you are to correct or defy me, at least make it clear."
"Correcting," Robert clarified. "Anne is as much mine as I am hers."
The Patriarch raised a heavy, gauntleted hand. "You can cease that, right now. I care not for bedroom gossip."
Robert swallowed, nearly choking on his saliva. "No, I merely meant I do not see myself as owning her. Times are changing, your eminence."
"Indeed," the Patriarch said cautiously, still unsure as to what Robert was talking about. "Though I think my definition of the changing times and Countess Dreor's differ quite heavily."
"You'd be surprised," Robert lied. "You two have more in common than you think."
The Patriarch huffed. Maybe it was the beginning of a chuckle, perhaps he was clearing his throat. "Wisser?"
"Yes?"
"I understand Dreor is your wife, but do not forget who it was that knighted you, who has kept you close by even while disgusting rumours swelled. I would hate to see our friendship end."
Robert gulped, the sound betraying his slight fear. Did he know? Like Anne, did this brute have eyes and ears everywhere, waiting for even the slightest whiff of betrayal.
"Run along now," ordered the Patriarch. "Don't want to keep your mistress waiting."
With a bow and smile, Robert slinked away from the Patriarch's chambers. He could hear orders being barked to the messenger as soon as he was out the door.
Is that what this has been? Robert wondered. All those slight nods between crowds, the seat at the Council table. He thinks we're friends? I'm not sure if that's sad or sweet.
Anne was in the north courtyard of the Bastille. Two dozen of her Gunners were waiting in perfect formation. These weren't members of her personal guard, though that didn't mean they were much less skilled. With so many of them too, they were bound to get a good shot in at this witch, presuming she was still where Robert found her.
"You know," Robert said, sidling up to Anne. "If I were a witch who'd just been discovered, the last place I'd be is where I was just found."
"True enough," Anne replied, not bothering to look at Robert. Her eyes watched over her men like a cat toying with its prey. She wanted them to falter, to make a false move in their stillness, so she could unleash her rage upon them. Physically, Anne wasn't too intimidating. Most men were larger than her, and she refrained from beating men as much as she could. Still, all cowered under her presence. In her eyes, in her voice, she told all how formidable she was.
"So, we're storming a house on a gamble?" Robert asked.
"It's a risk. The people of Quenasses will surely be afeared, and as you say we may walk in on an empty house. Still, it is far riskier not to move. If we let this witch stew in her plotting, she could do anything."
"Why not send a smaller force?"
Now Anne looked at him, if only to patronise him with her cold glare. "You really must be tired, cousin."
Robert tutted.
"We will send enough might to kill this witch should we find her. No use sending a dozen to their deaths."
Thundering out of the Bastille came the Patriarch, mounted atop his gleaming silver chariot. Pulled by four huge horses, it was an immense feat of creation. The carriage was made of silvered steel, moulded into a roaring lion's head to match that on the Patriarch's helmet. Wheels as tall as a man had crushed foes innumerable under their weight, and whips that cracked like thunder signalled the end of any who faced Drevon in battle.
Trailing behind the Patriarch was a score of knights. Hailing from Dolpon, Felland, the Arch, and every other of Drevon's provinces, they were a rainbow of liveries trailing behind the gleaming silver. Banners fluttered in the night, carried by handsome young squires. Behind the knights were about fifty infantrymen. Halberds in the front, Zweihanders in the middle and swordsmen at the back. The whole display was quite magnificent, Robert would've almost believed these men were marching to battle, and not to kill a single, old crone. The Patriarch was the one who made the whole thing complete though. It almost saddened Robert to know that soon the most enchanting aspect of Drevon's military would be a mere memory. Anne would make a fine leader, but her want for majesty and style was lacking.
"Follow me Dreor," the Patriarch barked, ordering his horses into the streets of Quenasses.
"Robert's the only one who knows where he's going," Anne called back.
The Patriarch wheeled his chariot around. It was quite an awkward movement, a sleight against the gravitas of a moment ago.
"Where to then, Wisser?" the Patriarch asked. With a gesture, Robert and Anne were handed two horses, fully readied and saddled.
"Allow me to lead, your eminence," Robert said, mounting his steed. It was a grey mare, with a dark mane. Quite a pretty thing really.
Twenty minutes later and more than a few moments to stop so that Robert could remember the way, and the small army arrived at the quiet street.
"This is the place, Wisser?" asked the Patriarch. This was his twelfth time asking this question in as many minutes. It seemed patience was not one of the many great virtues bestowed by Atoth upon his chosen champion.
"I think it is," Robert said, entirely unsure. He dismounted and looked around. The bodies of Amal and Ola were nowhere to be found, but he could see a dark stain on a nearby wall. He turned to Anne and nodded.
"Which house?" Anne asked.
Robert pointed at the only house worthy of any notice. It was a huge thing, highly unlikely to belong to a witch. It had probably belonged to one of the noble families of Quenasses. Most of them had fled or been killed though, so it would've been easy enough to slip into the abandoned residence unnoticed.
With a whistle, Anne ordered her men to the house. They surrounded the door in a perfect semicircle, pointing their guns at any exits. The Patriarch followed suit, ordering half of his force to check for backdoors and routes by which the witch could have fled.
With his forces at the ready, the Patriarch wheeled his chariot in front of the house and attempted to summon his foe.
"Come out," he barked. "Come out, you madwoman of the woods, if you have any semblance of morality you will step to me and face justice."
Unsurprisingly, the witch didn't run out to meet her demise. She didn't even respond to the demands, leaving the Patriarch visibly irate. He waited for no more than a moment before striding towards the door. It was a simple wooden door, painted green with gold crosses. Something unnerved Robert in how still the door was, how perfectly silent it and everything around it was.
"Hold a little," Robert said. He walked out in front of the Patriarch, going so far as to place a hand to his chest. "You're not sure that you won't be walking into a trap."
"No mere trap can kill me."
"Are you sure?" Robert asked. "We are dealing with magic here. Magic that managed to escape you last time. Send in some of the infantry first. Five men, if you must."
The Patriarch looked around himself, then at his hands, and finally at Robert. The gleam in his armour seemed to dull a little. He nodded, and with a gesture of his giant hands, four brave Zweihanders stepped up to enter the house. They fastened their sallet helms and gripped tight their overly large swords before approaching the door. Without a moment of hesitation, they began to beat their way into the house. After the fine woodcraft was crushed and reduced to splinters, the Zweihanders looked back to the Patriarch, waiting for his approval.
"Bring me a witch," the Patriarch said.
"Aye sir," said the boldest of the bunch. He had a thin nose, stern eyes and a voice that sounded like he'd been chewing coal since the age of seven. A true lad's lad, as Robert would've called him. He pushed his way through the other three soldiers and entered the house. Through a nearby window, Robert could make out the four bulky shapes of the soldiers as they moved through the house. Despite their bravado, these men were slow and methodical in their search. They first aimed for the only visible source of light, a bright orange glow of a candle in the room to the right of the door. Either a lazy error betraying the fact that someone was in, or more likely, the bait to a trap that four young men were just about to spring.
From the small angle he had, Robert watched four tall, lean shadows enter the lit room. In moments, the human forms of the Zweihanders' shadows twisted into malignant mockeries of the human body. What was tall and lean became impossibly large and exceedingly thin. Hands twisted into claws and horns sprouted from the shadows' heads. Robert's mouth opened to warn the Zweihanders, but the shadows acted before the sound could pierce the air. There were a few short screams, and the squishing sounds of guts being pulled from their bodies.
"Should we send in more?" the Patriarch asked.
"Hmm. No," Robert said, incredulous that the Patriarch would even ask such a question. "No, I don't think we should send any more men into their deaths." He turned to Anne. "Burn it down?"
Anne pursed her lips. "I'd rather not. Not yet at least. What if we burn the witch inside and destroy the body?"
"Then the witch is dead," muttered the Patriarch. "And that will be that."
"I've been dealing with mages for most of my adult life," Anne replied, her hands tightening around her horse's reins. "And I'm sure you'll agree actually seeing the body leads to much better sleep."
"Sleep is a luxury I cannot afford to have. Atoth may need me at any time of the day or night, and so I await his beck and call without sleep."
Robert nearly burst out laughing, though he kept his chuckles inside, if only to spare his own head. The Patriarch was an impossibly intimidating figure, a leader the likes of which Drevon had not seen in all its history, but by whatever powers there are above, the behemoth always had something stupidly pious to say. Whether he was trying to convince his people that he himself had never killed a man and that it was Atoth who guided his hammer to every kill, or attesting that at the age of fifteen, after his first conversation with his war-god, he'd been gifted his infamous armour, and had not removed it once since then. It was stories like those that reminded Robert beneath all that muscle and gleam was a man. As stupid and manipulatable as all those that kneeled at his feet, the Patriarch was a fine thing to look at and nothing more. Of course, the people loved a pretty sight, and perhaps they would love it more than peace, or an end to hunger. Only time would tell, but it would be telling all soon enough.
"Men!" Anne barked. "Fire!"
The Gunners were confused, though they barely showed it. They looked not to Anne, nor at each other. Only by their hesitation did they show their bewilderment.
"At the house?" asked a man of middle-age, a thick moustache hugging his upper lip.
"Wherever your rifle is aimed," Anne said. "Though I'd like it if we put some bloody holes in that house and hopefully through anyone hiding within. Is that clear?"
"Aye, Lady Courtesy," the man said. His words were more of a sigh than an enthusiastic roar, but Anne had never minded a slight amount of attitude in her men. So long as they did as they were told.
And Anne's men always did as they were told. In near perfect synchronisation, the Gunners unleashed their powder on the old house. Loud cracks echoed in the night, like a hundred stones were being thrown against the cobbles. A huge cloud of grey smoke rose over the Gunners and into the eyes, noses, and mouths of the knights behind them. There were a few instances of coughing and sputtering, though Robert was far too used to powder smoke by now to be doing any of that. He drank in the smoke, letting its coarseness rake down his throat, filling his nose with its odour. Being so far from Uttoll, where powder was as common as skin the colour of stone, the smell was a nice reminder of home.
Except for the sound of the guns discharging, there wasn't much else to be heard. The house was as perfectly silent as it had been since the small army had first arrived.
"Now burn it," the Patriarch ordered.
"Wait," said the only person alive who could tell the Patriarch to wait. "Let's at least try the cannon."
The Patriarch huffed but made no further protest. Anne had the cannon brought out, and after a few moments of awkward set up, the finest piece of artillery the world had belched out a ball the size of the Patriarch's head. Wood splintered as the cannonball tore through the house, but still there were no cries of anyone inside. Unplugging his ears, Robert could sense the disappointment of everyone around him. Throughout the war, the sounds of dying and wounded men always accompanied the sound of a cannon being fired.
"Alright Robert, you can set it on fire now," Anne said unceremoniously.
"Any one of you lads have a tinderbox to hand?" Robert asked, realising he had no way to set the house on fire.
"Course we do," a couple of Anne's Gunners said. "Got some powder too, help get the fire going."
"Now that is some grand initiative," Robert praised, clapping the Gunner on the back. The man stank of smoke, and Robert could've sworn a powdery dust was falling from the man's thick beard like grey sleet. "Let's send the enemies of the Patriarch into a fiery abyss!" Robert roared. Most of the knights cheered, and about half of the infantry joined in, but the Gunners stayed silent. They weren't the type to take part in revelry, especially when the other branches of Drevon's military were nearby.
"Hold on," one Zweihander said, raising his hand as though that were a prerequisite to raising a concern. "Can't we get our lads out of there? So they don't get charred."
"Of course," Robert said, having completely forgotten about the four dead infantrymen still in the house. "We never leave men behind now do we?"
The Zweihander didn't reply to that. Instead, he and a few others strode into the house. The dark, broken door was still open, now filled with holes created by Anne's Gunners. Robert had expected the men to meet the fate of their predecessors, but surprisingly, the Zweihanders returned with the corpses of their friends unmolested.
"Right," Robert said. "Let's get started."
Lighting the large house was twice as awkward as setting up the cannon. Multiple false starts, and a Patriarch whose patience was wearing thin didn't help Robert get the fire going, though eventually enough of the house caught light for Robert and his Gunner companions to stand back and watch the flames engulf the house.
As the fire took over the bottom of the house, Robert looked in through the window once more. The dull glow of orange was still emanating from the house, though now it was difficult to see in competition with the roaring flames outside as they tore through dry, old wood. At first Robert thought his eyes were playing tricks. He could still see the grotesque shadows, dancing merrily in the blood of the fallen infantrymen. He then blinked, and watched as the shadows disappeared, engulfed by the fire that was now rapidly spreading over the house. A ball of heat and orange consumed the house, far too quickly than it should've. The fire was spreading at an unnatural pace.
Shit, Robert realised. The Shadows.
As the house groaned its death rattle, orange light washed over the surrounding infantrymen, Gunners and knights. Behind each man was a shadow of great size, a black mimicry of the soldier standing over it. Soon enough though, those mimicries devolved, becoming the twisted, maleficent demons Robert had seen hiding within the house a moment ago. A trap had been set, and he'd lead Drevon's most powerful people right into it.
The first shadow sprang up behind a knight of the Arch. Clad in a dull brown livery with splashes of white, it wasn't too much of a shame red spouted over the knight a moment later. Robert drew his blade as the man was cut from his horse and thrown to the floor. His armour was sliced through as though it were made of cake, and he made no sound as he died, the blow killing him long before he'd realised it.
Another shadow rose, and another man fell. A Zweihander this time, cut in half by claws the size of his overly large sword.
"What is happening?" Anne asked no one in particular. All around her men were thrown from their saddles, cut open in their necks and chest as more shadows began to rise. "What is fucking happening?"
Finally, a dire shadow rose to strike at the Patriarch. It was larger than the others, with a form almost as monstrous as the Patriarch's own.
Robert dug his heels into his beautiful horse, ready to charge in aid of the Patriarch. With only his sabre, for the first time Robert wasn't sure whether he could do anything. Still, best to at least look the part of the gallant knight.
The swiftness of the shadow was second to none. It slashed at the Patriarch long before Robert could have hoped to help. The blow was aimed at the Patriarch's shining back, and for a moment time itself seemed to slow, as if to let all the world watch on as the Patriarch fell.
Instead of falling though, the Patriarch stood as stalwart as ever. The blow of the shadow glanced off his gleaming armour, as every blow before had done. Turning quicker than any man his size had a right to, the Patriarch snatched the shadow by its foul, horned head before tossing it aside with a roar. His glower then turned to Robert, before he gave a booming order.
"Fall back!" the Patriarch shouted. "Back to the Bastille!"
Whips cracked like thunder, and the Patriarch wheeled himself away on his massive chariot. His knights followed quickly; their number still being thinned by the shadows. Some had tried fighting back against the foul beings, yet none except the Patriarch had been able to land a blow.
Anne dug her heels into her horse and followed the Patriarch's lead. "On me, men!"
Robert didn't need telling twice. Barely ducking a swipe that would've otherwise decapitated him, Robert quickly caught up to Anne. He could hear the desperate running of the infantrymen behind him. Poor, unfortunate things. Without a horse to carry them, the survival of the Gunners, halberdiers and Zweihanders would depend solely on luck.
"I'll ask you once," Anne panted. She was clutching a gash in her arm. It didn't look deep, but it was still bleeding heavily. "Had you any part in this?"
Robert scoffed. He was almost proud she thought of him as such a devious creature. She must have rubbed off on him in their time together. Robert couldn't help but feel slightly offended though, surely by now Anne should've known he always worked with his wife. At least, when he worked against her, he did so alone.
"No," Robert said flatly. "I had no part. If I'd planned to kill you, dear wife, I'd have not used such a quick method. I'd rather you feel pain unlike any other."
"I feel that every day I spend with you," Anne smiled.
Robert's face soured. He didn't say anything else to Anne as they rode back to the Bastille. They separated in the courtyard; Anne had to ready her forces alongside the Patriarch, keeping the image of unity, for now. Cannons were readied all through the city, guarding key chokepoints and readying to blast from what was left of the walls. For the first time since the Patriarch had united Drevon, Anne was using her contraptions in defence of a settlement, rather than in the destruction of it. She'd even brought out the artillery of her own design. The Bellows and the Organ, two prototypes of devastation. One could breathe a torrent of fire like the dragons of myth, while the other was an equally huge gun, stacked with six barrels and could decimate entire armies in half an hour. Robert could never remember which was which. With years of Anne's projects shoved into his head, Robert barely remembered the difference between a rifle and a pistol. He'd shied away from powder weaponry for as long as he could, always preferring a sword. Guns, they took away the personal aspect of killing a man. You didn't even need to look in his eyes as he died anymore.
While Anne barked her orders well into the morning, Robert retired to finally get some sleep. Two long days, both full of death had worn him out more than he'd have ever admitted.
There was a slight bit of guilt in Robert as he flopped onto his feather bed and wrapped himself in layers of furs, yet he couldn't do much to help. He was no leader, just a pretty face. Something nice for people to look at, and follow into battle if need, but strategy was something that had never come easy to Robert. Planning, he could do easy enough, but in the heat of the moment he knew best how to look after himself, not an army.
With enough excuses swirling within his thoughts, Robert pushed his guilt aside and found the little sleep that he could. He hoped that one day very soon he could shut his eyes without listening to the distant muffled barking of orders and marching men outside.
Some quiet, that would be nice.