Anne watched as the sun peered coyly over the rolling hills outside Quenasses. She hated how late dawn would break as the year dragged itself to a close, how cowardly the sun became as the air got cold and the wind howled. She could never get anything done as soon as it went dark. Too much noise, too many people seeing the moon as their signal to drink themselves silly, take off their clothes and make a general nuisance of themselves.
She pulled herself away from the window. With the sun finally showing itself, she had no excuses not to be working. There was a witch, likely lurking somewhere in or around the city, and an increasingly infuriated Patriarch who wanted nothing more than to smash open the skull of said witch. Both were pressing issues, and both would be dealt with sooner rather than later.
Nodding to her guards – the ever-present and professional Elga and Imis – Anne took her usual seat at her desk, and began to organise her day.
First, she'd organise a meeting with Vulg. That slimy weasel had eyes and ears in every corner of Quenasses. If the witch was in the city, he knew about it. So far, he'd been feigning an inability to come up with information. Should he arrive again today with nothing, he would have to be dealt with as well. At best, he was a liar, with ambitions far beyond himself. At worst, he was inefficient.
Next, Anne would have to delve away from her tower and down into the Bastille and beyond to see how her defences were holding. Both the Bellows and the Organ had been deployed in this all-out defence, and Anne would rather not lose either of her most prized creations. There would be others soon, but the originals needed to be kept functional, for comparisons if nothing else.
Distant footsteps scuffed against the stairs towards Anne's office. She heard them when they were about halfway towards her, but as usual she kept her nose to her work. By the sounds of it there was about half a dozen people, all making their way up towards her. The group was likely made up of dissenters, protesting against Anne's deployment of her Gunners. Every time she showed the forces of Uttoll in full, it created unease among the other military branches. It wasn't Anne's fault, nor that of her soldiers, that knights and swords would soon be rendered entirely useless, yet they still knocked on her door as if as the sound of their pleas she would destroy her gunnery and make her vow never again to craft a powder weapon.
There was a weak knock at the door, Elga tilted her head down towards Anne. "Should I open it? You have no scheduled meetings at this time."
"Lady Courtesy," said an older, male voice. "May I come in? There's a matter most urgent."
Vulg, Anne thought. Impeccable timing. You're half an hour early, and I hadn't even summoned you yet.
"Open the door," Anne said after a moment of hesitation. Something in her belly was telling her to keep the door shut, yet her mind told her she'd no reason to fear an old man and his retinue of peasant spies.
Elga opened the door and as suspected, the head of the Sommeliers and two other men walked into Anne's office. There were more than three sets of footsteps, that much she knew, and so the rest must have been waiting, hiding behind the door or further down the steps. That may have caused some concern were it not for the fact that six extra guests simply wouldn't fit in Anne's office.
"Lady Courtesy," Vulg bowed. He was out of breath, and his body heaved every time he gulped in air. "There is news most dire."
"Go on," Anne said. She gestured to a seat. Vulg shook his head.
"Sir Robert," he said. "Your husband has come under attack."
Anne caught her mouth to show no sign of emotion. She set her eyes on him, matching his gaze with her own. In those beady, green peepers Vulg called eyes, she saw nothing that betrayed he was lying. It would've been a good effort, were Anne not able to see that behind the façade, was inquisitiveness. Vulg was anticipating her response, so desperate were his eyes in waiting to see what Anne would do, that she knew it was a test.
"Is he dead?" Anne asked, hoping to garner what elements of truth there were in Vulg's lie.
"I…" Vulg paused for dramatic effect. "I believe so."
Anne couldn't be sure if Robert was dead or not. Often, they'd both slept soundly without knowing where the other was, or if they were still alive. This was a detail about her marriage Anne knew Vulg didn't know. Even despite their time together, the head of the Sommeliers still thought her as nothing but the doting wife, who would crumble upon the news of her husband's demise. Vulg would die for that sin alone.
"And who killed him?" Anne said coldly.
"We do not know for certain," Vulg said. Another lie. "But I believe there are more agents of the witch than we first knew. Lady Courtesy, would you come with me? So that we can keep you safe?"
"No," Anne said. "I'm fine where I am."
Vulg's act broke with that. His thin, trembling lips curled into a smile. "Are you sure I can't tempt you downstairs, Lady Courtesy? It's the only way you survive today."
As quick as Anne would've expected, Elga and Imis took their shots. Elga took out the man to Vulg's left, while Imis aimed for the old man himself. Vulg lunged away, but still took a bullet through his chest. The only man left standing in the office charged Anne with a knife. Elga cracked him over the head with the butt of her rifle, before smashing his skull in twice more for good measure.
"At them!" Vulg roared, coughing and sputtering. "Kill the bitch!"
The bitch? Anne pondered, as four more armed men and women burst into her office. Each of them wore ragged armour, with at least a single piece of red cloth tied around their waist or neck. Elga and Imis were elite warriors, but in this tight space, and the numbers against them, they could fall. 'Could' was not a word Anne ever liked to hear, and she liked it even less when it popped into her head. Elga nodded to Anne as they both heard more footsteps cantering towards the office.
"Off you go, Lady Courtesy," Elga said. Her perfect hair bounced as she smacked the head of a Sommelier with the end of a rifle. Anne had never wanted for much in her own physicality, she knew she was no match for Robert, but her face was strong, and pretty. If she'd have been able to wish for anything though, it would've been Elga's hair. The vitality of those locks was unmatched, and though Anne would never admit it, Elga's hair was one of the reasons why she'd become a favourite of the Countess.
"I should have put blades on those," Anne said, gesturing to Elga's rifle. More Sommeliers were coming now, like a stinking red tide. One swung a dagger out at Anne; she turned the blade on the man and plunged it into his chest.
"No," Elga said. "It would throw off the balance." With one thick arm she swung Anne over to the window of her office. Anne watched with a silent sadness as Imis took a sword in the gut, and then a mace to the head.
Opening the window, Anne found the rope she'd placed on the day they'd taken Quenasses. With only one way in and out of the tower, a secondary escape attempt was always necessary, she just never knew she'd have need of it so soon.
"Do you need a hand getting down?" Elga asked, batting another Sommelier away.
"No," Anne said, already beginning her descent. It was a long way down to the walls surrounding the Bastille, and then she'd need to find a way down from them. "Thank you Elga. For everything."
It was said that men and women from Uttoll never smiled, for if they did it would crack the grey stone of their faces. Elga grinned as wide as she could as she looked back at Anne. Without another word, she charged the Sommeliers, hoping to buy her Countess some time.
It wasn't the noblest thing she'd ever done, shimmying down a rope first thing in the morning, though Anne was glad there would be few to see her. Also, she wasn't climbing down the rope for long. After a few moments of her hasty descent, Anne saw the leering grin of a Sommelier. His face was stained with blood, and he laughed as he cut the rope above Anne. As he leaned out and hacked at the thick rope, Anne allowed her grip to loosen, and she slid down the rope by about thirty feet before catching herself. Her arms screamed, her shoulders nearly dislocated, but she was alive. The Sommelier hacked at the rope again and Anne began to tumble. She didn't fall far, but her shoulder hit the ground awkwardly. The medals on her uniform dig into her arm and chest.
"She's on the walls," Anne heard in the distance before pulling herself to her feet. She ran along the outer walls of the Bastille, looking for a way down to safer ground before finally finding a set of stairs leading down into the main courtyard.
The towering Bastille at her back, and an empty, open space in front of her, Anne listened out for any more approaching footsteps. A few moments later and they came, a dozen Sommeliers trundling out into the morning chill. At their rear was Vulg. His hand clutched at the hole in his chest, though he walked briskly despite his wound and age.
"Countess," his voice was like the growl of a mutt, low and grizzly. "I thought you might have found a better place to hide."
Anne leaned against the door to the Bastille. Shut, of course it was shut.
I should have anticipated this, she thought. Robert was right. Even so, I'll eat shit before I let someone like this kill me.
"Will you do it yourself?" Anne asked, readying herself for an assault. "Or do you lack the bravery to cut down a wounded woman?"
"I lack the bravery to face you, Countess Dreor. You're as formidable as they say, but you were overconfident. Locking yourself in a tower like the princesses of old, you set yourself up for failure."
"And where does it go from here?" Anne asked. While she had Vulg's attention, she counted the Sommeliers surrounding him. Seven, in total. Not too many, but still could she take them all? Surely more would be coming soon as well.
"It ends here," Vulg said. "We both know without you the Patriarch doesn't stand a chance of bringing his vision to light. You brought destruction to Vovequia, with your powder and guns. Without those weapons, and the mind that made them, Drevon is just another country."
Anne stopped listening even as Vulg continued. She didn't care for his message, nor for anything else he said or did. He was just another stepping stone, and she refused to believe anything else. It annoyed her greatly to know he thought himself as her equal.
From her boot Anne pulled out a small dagger. With a skilled flick of the wrist, she sent the blade flying into the eye of a Sommelier. Though she would've liked to hit Vulg, the man she hit was the only one with a loaded crossbow, and so he needed dealing with first. After throwing away her last weapon, Anne rushed the Sommeliers. The first woman she met slashed wildly at Anne with a rusted dagger. Anne ducked the swing, turning around it before elbowing the Sommelier in the mouth. Another attacker came at her. She swept the leg out from under the man, letting him hit the stone floor hard.
Always watch their footing, Anne thought as she spun away from another stab. Thanks, Robert.
As she crushed another's nose under her palm, Anne could feel people behind her. As she'd predicted, more Sommeliers had come. Like wolves, they'd surrounded her, and once their circle was complete, they all lunged at once, grabbing hold of her arms and pinning her to the floor. She caught one of them in the face with a wild kick, but soon enough her legs were restrained too. Looking up, she could see Vulg's face leering over her, a foul, wicked shortsword in his hands.
"We could have worked together you know," Vulg chuckled. "Really, if you'd wanted. I think the Stag Queen would've found you to be an invaluable ally."
Anne huffed a lock of hair from her face. "Just be done with whatever you're going to do."
"As you wish, Lady Courtesy."
She watched as Vulg's hands gripped his sword tightly. Then the blade plunged downwards. Pinned in place, with a blade killing her so ceremoniously, Anne felt as though she was being sacrificed, like so many young girls she'd seen in her fight against magic.
Well, she thought. I suppose this makes it a fitting end.
Except, Anne wasn't to end there and then. As the blunt steel neared her heart, a glimmering piece of metal rushed towards Vulg's head. In a flash, Reckoning's hammer hit Vulg's face, and with its momentum the blunt forced ripped the Sommelier's head from his shoulders, bringing his spine out too. A shower of gore and blood washed over Anne, as the Patriarch's hulking frame came into view. She felt the grips on her limbs loosen as the leader of Drevon stepped closer.
With one giant hand he clutched Anne by the scruff of her uniform and hoisted her to her feet. The Patriarch then pushed her behind his massive back. All she could see was the glimmering silver of his armour.
"Are you unharmed, Dreor?" boomed the Patriarch's voice. From this closeness, his words were an assault on Anne's ears.
"I am," she replied. "Much to your dismay, I am sure."
The Patriarch scoffed. He planted down his wicked halberd, Reckoning, and leaned his elbow against the head of it. "Dreor, we both know that without you, not much would get done around here. I always thought we made quite the team. Despite your personality, and your attitude, you can be of some assistance."
Though it wasn't much, it may have been the kindest thing Anne had ever heard the Patriarch say. Well, the kindest thing that he hadn't said to some warrior after they'd cut the heads off enough Vovequians.
"Now," continued Atoth's chosen. "Stand back, and allow me to do what I do best."
In fairness to the Sommeliers, they did not run from the Patriarch. With their blades, cudgels, and maces they struck at Drevon's leader, though all of their weapons were like butter knives against his armour. While they spent their last moments uselessly, the Patriarch stood still, eyeing them up. He rose Reckoning, and the Sommeliers fell like flowers under its blows. With the axe part of its head, Reckoning spilled the guts of two Sommeliers with one swing. Then, following through on the same motion, the Patriarch twisted Reckoning to bludgeon another man with the hammer on the axe's backside. The remaining Sommeliers were wavering, when from behind Anne sounded a cacophony of war cries. Another dozen of the bastards were coming for the Patriarch, though Anne knew no matter how many men flung themselves at the behemoth, he would not fall.
With one hand the Patriarch snatched and broke the neck of a woman lunging towards him, before hurling her limp body into the newcomers. The corpse flew as fast as a cannonball, knocking multiple men from their feet. Then, the Patriarch walked towards the whole lot of them. With each strike of Reckoning, blood drenched the floor of the courtyard. Men and women barely had time to scream before they were hacked apart or smashed into the ground.
Why? Anne thought, as she watched the annihilation unfold before her. Why did I ever think I could kill this man?
The Patriarch looked as though he were among insects, his body easily two-feet taller than any of those trying to kill him. Soon enough, the insects stopped trying, and those that were left attempted to flee, only for the Patriarch to come after them. None of the Sommeliers lived long, even after they fled. By the end of it, only twitching bodies were left in the courtyard.
"Betrayed by your pets, were you?" the Patriarch asked. Despite all the blood he'd just spilled, his armour was entirely clean. There wasn't a spot of red among the silver.
"We all make mistakes," Anne admitted. Her shoulder was still aching, though it wasn't unbearable.
"I don't."
"No," she said. "Of course, you don't, Lord Patriarch."
A shadow flew overhead. It was much larger than a bird, and for a moment Anne was engulfed in darkness by its form, then she heard something hit the ground behind her, and spun to see a shadowy, amorphous shape by the grand doors to the Bastille. The thing rose, and Anne knew what it was instantly. Even with a bear's skull atop its head, and with its body disguised underneath the billowing cloak, Anne knew a magician when she smelled one. Or, in this case, a witch. Shadowy tendrils reached out from the witch, dancing around it.
"Thomas Nessel," the witch said. Its voice was rasping, vengeful. Loudened by some spell, no doubt. Its red eyes locked onto the Patriarch, ignoring Anne entirely.
The Patriarch sighed. He gestured to the bodies. "Your doing, witch?"
The witch shook its head.
"Lucky you, then. You stumbled upon the perfect distraction by pure coincidence. Come to take my life, have you?"
The witch nodded, and lunged forwards. Though she was far from her target, the shadowy tendrils around her closed the distance quickly. With speed greater than Anne could've imagined, she watched the hulk that was the Patriarch dive past the tendrils and raise his halberd high over his head, ready to bring down on the witch. As Reckoning crashed into the floor though, it smashed only stone, as the witch shifted her form, suddenly surrounding the Patriarch in a black mist before appearing behind him and lashing out with a sinister claw. The gleaming, silver armour of the Patriarch took the blow, but it did not do so without sacrifice. A chunk of metal clattered to the floor, losing its shine as it was separated from its wearer.
The Patriarch roared in anger and pain, lashing out at the witch, who flew around him with great agility. She ducked and dove around his strikes, chipping away at the armour where she could.
Anne instinctively took a step back as the fight neared her. She couldn't tell for sure who would win, but for the first time, it seemed as though the Patriarch was trying in a fight. There was a sinking feeling in Anne's stomach that the Patriarch could lose. And if he were to lose, she would undoubtedly be killed next.
The Countess of Dreor took another step back, then another, and soon she was walking away from the fight.
I can't do anything, she told herself. It's better that I leave.
She didn't believe either of those things, and yet still she ran from the courtyard, away from the Bastille and as far away from that witch as she could go. She'd never have admitted it, but Anne was terrified of that witch. Not because she stank of the rottenest magic imaginable, nor because she might want Anne's blood as well as the Patriarch's. No, Anne was scared of the witch because somehow, she could make an even fight with the Patriarch.
That is a battle of beasts, she thought. One I am best staying as far away from as possible.
*
Conrad watched Bearskull's battle with the Patriarch, sitting beside Arten atop a wall surrounding the Bastille's courtyard. Even now, Conrad could hear the distant sounds of destruction all over Quenasses. Men screamed as they were torn apart by the roots and vines around the giant tree, buildings groaned before they collapsed under the weight of the wood. Usually, Conrad had been too busy fighting for his life to hear a city dying around him. Now he could hear it though, he hated it. It was a horrible, desperate noise, and he wanted to be as far away from it as possible.
The grey clouds of the morning had opened up now, freeing a pattering of rain that ran over Conrad's sword, creating a tiny river through the centre of it.
This'll only make things worse for Drevon, Conrad thought. Gunners don't work in the rain.
That would have been a problem had Drevon pushed further into Vovequia during the winter. Crossbows and longbows could loose arrows and bolts throughout the year, but for some reason when powder got wet it made rifles little more than glorified cudgels.
Arten leaned over his rifle, letting the rain wash over his back rather than on it. It had been his idea to sit by and watch as Bearskull fought against the Patriarch. "It's her fight," he had said. "That's why she rushed ahead. We'll only intervene if we must."
So far, Bearskull had been doing well. Conrad had seen the Patriarch fight a handful of times, and on each of those occasions Atoth's chosen warrior had seemed a man immortal, cutting down waves of enemies by himself. Now, as Bearskull floated around each of his swings, he seemed almost a novice.
With lashing tendrils made of the shadowy mist that always surrounded Bearskull, and thick roots summoned from the ground, the Patriarch was being assaulted from all angles by blows that could match his strength, even penetrate his armour.
"Told you she'd be fine," Arten said. "Look around her, can you see the shadows? There's more than just Bearskull fighting right now."
Conrad looked to the shadows surrounding Bearskull. Along with her own meek shadow, barely standing without the sun's support, were over a dozen other forms. Some blended into each other, while others stood as strongly as though there were another person in the courtyard. Each had the wicked horns and demonic features Conrad had seen before, letting him know Bearskull's sisters were with her, whether they had wanted to be or not.
"So that's how she's doing it all," Conrad said. "The tree, this."
"Not bad, is it?" Arten replied. "Tell you what, I don't know about you, but I never thought I'd see a day where the Patriarch was flailing about like an arsehole."
Conrad shook his head. He couldn't quite believe it either. To every infantryman, to every man of Drevon the Patriarch was an immortal soul. He was no man, for none had ever seen him without the armour, he was only a warrior, and the best there was.
Watching Bearskull though, Conrad knew she was tiring. Her movements were getting slower, her attacks less powerful, and suddenly it was the Patriarch who was on the offensive. With one hand he snatched the witch from the air, and slammed her into the ground. Raising his halberd, he would've killed her then were it not for Bearskull's sisters springing to life. They took on forms of black mist and raked at the Patriarch's armour. Though they looked intimidating, in melee Bearskull's sisters stood no chance compared to the Patriarch. With each swipe he cut one of the demonic forms from this world, sending them howling into oblivion. With each one destroyed Bearskull screamed in pain, retreating across the courtyard as her sisters lunged away from the Patriarch.
Conrad willed himself to his feet. Arten grabbed his hand and shook his head. "A moment more," he said, though he pulled his rifle and stationed it on the balustrade of the wall.
Bearskull charged at the Patriarch once more. She was wearing a strange glove which had blades long and thin extending from the fingertips. With one slash she cut across the Patriarch's belly, sending chunks of silvery armour flying. Her second swipe was blocked by Reckoning's haft. With the butt of his weapon Atoth's chosen pinned the glove to the ground, and with a sickening headbutt the bear's skull Bearskull wore was broken. Conrad heard the smack of the headbutt from where he was standing, the noise churning his gut.
"There you are," the Patriarch boomed. With the hammer of Reckoning, he sent Bearskull flying back. Then in two great strides, he was on her again, axe now looming over her head.
"Now?" Conrad asked.
Arten nodded. "As good a time as any, isn't it?"
With a snap quieter than any other noise Conrad had heard so far in this battle, a shot from Arten's rifle rammed into the Patriarch's arm. It found its mark perfectly where Bearskull had ripped the pauldron from his shoulder and buried deep into his flesh. Conrad climbed down the wall as the Patriarch grunted with pain, searching for whoever had dared strike him. However excellent it was, Arten hadn't claimed the shot as his own, and so the first man the Patriarch locked eyes with, and the one who was going to face his wrath first, was Conrad.
"You," roared the leader of Drevon. "Wretch, you dare strike your Patriarch?"
"I haven't yet," Conrad said. "But I do intend to."
Conrad charged at the Patriarch, who readied himself for whatever the former Zweihander could bring. Conrad's legs ached; his sword felt much heavier than usual in his arms. Effects of his fight against Wisser were still coursing through him, leading to quite the pathetic start to his battle with the Patriarch. His first swing landed weakly, and was batted away by the Patriarch's gauntlet.
Through the glowering eyes of Atoth's chosen, Conrad could feel himself being judged. He was being weighed, measured, and was already found wanting. The Patriarch swung his halberd, and Conrad ducked just in time to not be decapitated. He felt wind rush over his head before rising again and striking at the leg of the Patriarch. Steel bit into silver, and the Patriarch lost his footing slightly. Raising Reckoning, the Patriarch made to swing again, but tendrils of shadow and roots rose to grab hold of the weapon, allowing Conrad to get in another good blow, this time arcing his sword up, and ripping off a piece of the Patriarch's helmet.
Everyone in the courtyard stopped for a moment as even a portion of the Patriarch's enigmatic face revealed itself. At first, Atoth's chosen raised a hand to cover his face, though after a moment's consideration, he let his hand fall, and revealed what was behind it. A thick jaw and high cheekbones might have made a handsome face, were it not for the pulsing black veins spread across the Patriarch's countenance. A single, bloodshot eye stared at Conrad with more hate than even Bearskull's eyes had held when she spoke of her former experiment.
"See what she and her ilk did?" The Patriarch asked, his voice low. "Did she ever tell you how my family and her kin took a boy from his home and made him into a monster?"
"Your parents made the choice," Bearskull sputtered, rising from the ground. Blood was oozing from a wound on her head. Her eyes were so strained they looked as though they might pop. "We did the job, that's all."
"Silence," ordered the Patriarch. "Silence, please. Let's just be done with all this."
Conrad swung his sword towards the exposed face of the Patriarch. The latter caught the blade in one hand, and with sheer force snapped it as though it were a twig, separating a foot of steel from the main body of the zweihander. Then, with his improvised dagger, the Patriarch stabbed Conrad in the gut, raising him into the air before throwing him onto the ground. Conrad's head whipped against stone. His vision blurred, though he could hear the Patriarch walking away from him.
The smell of magic filled Conrad's nostrils as he heard the sounds of lashing vines and cruel shadows harrying the Patriarch. Atoth's chosen roared in pain a few more times before Conrad heard another scream from Bearskull.
She's losing, he thought. And when she loses, so do you.
Without thinking, with his vision barely returning, Conrad pushed himself to his feet. He could see a gleaming silver shape in front of him, and a dark mass lying flat on the floor. He threw himself between them both, and felt a shocking pain as something blunt shattered his ribs and sent him flying. He couldn't see it, but he knew the Patriarch's eyes were watching him again, with a similar disappointment.
A few moments after he'd risen, Conrad was on the floor again. His vision normalised as he stared at the clouds above. There were still faces etched into their forms, watching with malevolence as Quenasses died beneath them. His eyes moved to Bearskull, and he looked on in awe at the conclusion of her duel.
The stone from the beneath the Patriarch's feet had turned into a thick spear and skewered his gut. Atoth's chosen, with blood pouring from him like a fountain, held his stomach in disbelief before collapsing on the floor.
Bearskull crawled over to Conrad. Even with his blurred vision, the former Zweihander could see how wounded the witch was. Blood from the wound in her head had trickled across her face, causing one of her eyes to remain shut. Her fingers looked purple and swollen, and the one good eye she had was bloodshot and fatigued. She pressed a palm to Conrad, and he felt his vision restore.
"Thank you for jumping in there darling," Bearskull croaked. "Throwing your body to the wind. It was quite heroic."
"What's the point in having an immortal body if you don't get it killed every now and again?" Conrad coughed. Every word made his ribs ache. His stomach and chest felt soft and hollow, as though every bone within them had been crushed.
"Yes, dear, you were quite my needless knight in… well in no armour at all actually."
"Needless?"
Bearskull lay next to Conrad. She knocked her head into his playfully. "Yes, needless. I was waiting for Thomas to think he had me you see, so I could skewer him as I did so expertly just then. But each time he knocked me to the floor, some fool would throw himself at the bloody brute."
"You would've died," Conrad said bluntly. "Were it not for Arten and I, you'd have been crushed."
"Probably," Bearskull chuckled. "But let's not let that go to your little head. Now," she said, standing up and offering her hand to Conrad. "Shall we see if he'd dead?"
"A blow like that can't kill me witch," the Patriarch wheezed. Lying on the floor, his hulking frame entirely useless, he looked more comical than intimidating.
"It will, Thomas," Bearskull said. "In time. It will."
"Stop calling me that," the Patriarch said. He looked to Conrad. "Lad, I know you will not listen but if I may, I'd like to offer you one piece of advice. Run now, flee the witch while you still have some semblance of your humanity. The experiments of these creatures always go awry."
"We made you what you wanted to be," Bearskull said.
"You did no such thing!" boomed the Patriarch. "You made me into a freak, a monster. I have had to hide my face, my body from the world in this shell. None ever loved me. Only feared or admired me. I have never felt the touch of a loved one on this skin, never have I had another look into my eyes with care, I have never even smiled since that night. In this stinking, gleaming shell you robbed me of anything I ever was and made a weapon out of me. Your only failure was in underestimating how good of a weapon I was, how much ecstasy I gained in battle."
Bearskull knelt down next to the Patriarch. She caressed his face, her anger dissipating. "It wasn't fair for you to turn your anger on us, child. We didn't deserve your hate."
"And did a small, crippled boy," the Patriarch said softly, a tear welling in his eye. "Did he deserve all of this?"
"I don't know, but what he'd become needed to die."
"Only in your mind, witch. If I promised to leave Drevon, throw off this armour and never return, would you let me live?"
Conrad had never expected to see the Patriarch plea for his life. Atoth's chosen was terrified. He feared whatever lied beyond. Perhaps he'd seen what Conrad had, perhaps just the thought of death scared him.
Bearskull shook her head, and before anything else could transpire, the gleam of silver flashed in the day, and sank into the Patriarch's exposed neck. One last breath, and he left this world.
"Well," Bearskull said cheerily, sliding a dagger back under her robes. "That's that, I suppose."
"I suppose," Conrad whispered.
"Where's Arten?"
"Here," sounded Arten's voice. Heavy footsteps approached, and the lad's tall frame was looming over Conrad swiftly. "So, the big bastard's dead, is he?"
"You too," Conrad said, flabbergasted.
"What?"
"Look at the corpse on the floor! That's the bloody leader of Drevon, the Patriarch, chosen of fucking Atoth on the ground, and you two are acting as though you're looking at a dead rat."
"I'd feel much more for a dead rat," Bearskull said. "But I see what you mean, darling, and let me tell you this: I knew the cripple, Thomas Nessel. What you may see and look upon with awe is still that same scared boy to me."
"And I," Arten chimed. "Lost all sense of pride in this man after his lot locked me in a coffin and tried to turn me into a freak."
"Fair enough," Conrad muttered. He could understand both Bearskull and Arten's sentiment, though he couldn't agree with it. He watched the Patriarch's body with observant eyes, waiting for it to rise again and smite his killers from the world. It seemed only right. Yet, the armour stayed dull and without its gleam. The fingers did not twitch, nor did Reckoning return to its master's grip.
The Patriarch was dead.
Though, it seemed he wouldn't be dying alone. Conrad heard a great groan, like that of a building before it would collapse, and looked up to see that at the gates of Quenasses, the great tree Bearskull had summoned was losing its grip on the world. The roots that had been summoned from the floor withered and died in a matter of seconds, all while Bearskull watched with a melancholy smile.
"The tree," Arten observed. "Bearskull. Are you alright?"
He caught her by the arm, though she showed no signs of collapsing. "I'm fine, darling," the witch said. "My friend, she is not. She's unlikely to die, but she has used all her strength, and so she'll soon be as dull as a normal tree, only a thousand times the size, and leaning over Quenasses."
"Won't it fall?" Conrad asked, looking at the way the tree was leaning over the city, as if it were watching over Quenasses. "It looks like it will fall."
"No. Viana and I, when we work together, we don't make mistakes like that."
"Viana," Arten said. "One of your sisters?"
Bearskull nodded. "A favourite of mine, I'm sure she won't mind me saying. Viana was the one who taught me everything I know, including how to raise a certain soldier from the dead." She winked at Conrad. He didn't return the gesture.
"Anyway," she continued, dusting her robes. "Shall we be off? I don't think we want to be here when the Drevonish arrive. Our distraction has indeed run out and I have a banging pain in my head."
"And how do we get out?" Arten asked. He readied his rifle, as if the three of them could fight their way out of Quenasses.
"I doubt anyone will care if we simply walk out," Bearskull said. "Too much chaos for anyone to notice." She left the courtyard, descending the stairs towards the Bastille's West exit. "Come now boys, I shan't be waiting for either of you."