Robert slumped against a wall, still clutching the wound at his side. The shot wasn't a great one. Instead of shredding his guts it had only taken a chunk out of the flesh at his side. He'd live, perhaps, if he could find help soon enough. Right now though, with the wounds from the Sommeliers, and the blood still pouring from the shot, he didn't feel like moving. He much preferred the idea of sitting for a while, perhaps even a sleep.
No, Robert told himself. Can't sleep. Don't sleep, please don't sleep.
He didn't know where he was, not exactly. Somewhere between the Bastille and Quenasses, closer to the former than the latter, but it must have been a quiet corner of the city, for he'd not seen many locals around him fleeing the giant tree looming over their city, or running from the Bastille in desperate escape attempts.
Overhead, grey clouds threatened to rain at any moment. Robert hoped they would burst and let their waters wash over him, the cold rain might wake him up. Sadly, the clouds didn't heed his wishes, and only a chill wind howled in the day. Looking to his hands, Robert raised a surprised brow at his sabre, which was still firmly gripped in his palm. He could've sworn he'd dropped that, but no, there it was. Stained with the blood of that boy.
The lad who couldn't die, now that was something strange, no matter how many stabs and slashes he took, his eyes were burning with that rage all the same.
Such a shame it had to be him with that gift, Robert thought. Had it been a man with talent, even one such as Biter, we might all be better off. I hope he doesn't think he beat me. That would be just embarrassing.
Robert tried to rise again, leaning on his sword this time. He got perhaps an inch off the floor before collapsing again. Bile rose from his stomach and threatened to stain his uniform, he let his head hang, and his amber hair fall in front of his eyes.
"Fine," he muttered to his weak, aching legs. "A moment more, then we move. We've a wife to find, you know."
"Robert?" asked a voice so soft, so unsure of itself Robert knew it could not be Anne. It was a woman though, and he dreaded that fact. Besides Anne, the only women who would ask after him like that were bound to be trouble now.
Unluckily for Drevon's finest knight, the person approaching was perhaps the last woman he'd want to see; the same one he'd shoved a few days ago, the one who hilariously believed she would replace Anne as his wife. The prospect didn't seem so funny now.
"It is you," Lady Bruillant chuckled with relief. "Oh, my dear Robert, what has happened to you?" She forced his head up, so that his eyes met hers. Bruillant looked as though she'd had a rather unfortunate morning and hadn't had time to ready herself properly. Her hair was a slight mess, and her lips were not their usual dark colour. Despite that, she was presentable, though not pretty. Something about her desperate stare looming over Robert made her look unattractive. He realised he'd never seen her looking down at him before.
"I'm fine," Robert panted. It didn't hurt to speak, though it did make him feel light-headed. He'd lost too much blood.
"No, you're not," Bruillant said. Robert didn't like her tone, it was sad, pitiful, though there was a hint of malice in all of that. She was only pretending to care for Robert; he could smell the scorn on her breath.
"Are you dying, my dear?" Bruillant asked.
"No," Robert said, trying his best to smile. "No, not dying, my love."
Lady Bruillant gripped Robert's cheeks. Her nails dug into his soft flesh, and her grip was like iron. "Love?" she cackled. "Oh, you're many things, Robert Wisser, but you are a poor liar."
"You think so? Considering how many women I've fooled over the years, how long you all believed the pretty lie, I think I got rather good at it."
That might have been a bit far, Robert knew that. It would've been best not to antagonise the woman, but he'd grown sick of Bruillant, of all those fucking idiotic girls. Each using him as much as he used them, all in that game of Anne's. He should hate Anne for it all, and he did, though he'd never been able to hate Anne for long.
"You're a hateful, wicked man," Bruillant said. "You and that bitch of a wife of yours deserve each other."
"I may be those things," Robert said. "But they're what make me interesting to so many of you."
She slapped him. "No, Robert. Women love you for your face, your body and nothing more. If any woman can look you in the eye and tell you she'd let you inside her for anything other than your looks, she should seek a life on the stage, for she'd be the best actress in the world."
Bruillant sat down, her slim legs interlocking with Robert's. Through her thin dress, he could feel the warmth of her skin.
"And now," Lady Bruillant said, shuffling with her dress. "With all of our truths out in the open air, and you on death's door, I think I'd like to feel that body one more time."
"No," said Robert, as he heard the tinkle of his belt unbuckling. He barely felt it as it slid from his waist, his body was so dull with pain. His hands reached out in protest, though Bruillant grabbed them and shoved them back.
"See, Robert?" she said, as one hand moved to undo Robert's trousers. "You're already hard. You want this, you want to die with me fucking you, don't you Robert?"
Robert leaned back against the wall, his head tapping against the stone. He closed his eyes, feeling the faint patter of rain on his skin. He willed his cock to go soft, for Bruillant to stop her madness. Neither of those things happened though, and Robert winced as he felt himself enter Bruillant.
Back to home, he told himself. Go back to home.
Conjuring an image of Castle Rivenholme, Robert pictured a time from his youth. He was a boy, about eleven, living in a run-down relic that hadn't deserved the title of castle in centuries. Robert didn't care much for any of that though. It all faded away when he saw his father's smile. With hair glorious and long and the colour of gold, Julian Wisser was a sight to behold. His eyes burned like fire. His nose and chin had a strength that could not have been achieved were they sculpted from marble, and a great moustache curled along his lip.
"Rob," his father said, tussling the hair of his only son. "Is your mother ready?"
"I don't know," Robert replied. It had been his favourite phrase since he'd first learned it. The perfect answer to any adult's question.
"Well, it may just be us then, my boy. You know you're meeting a very special young lady today, don't you?"
Robert nodded. He smiled remembering how he'd nodded back then, shaking his head so hard it was a shock it didn't fall off.
"And you remember how to treat a lady?"
Again, Robert nodded.
Father looked out of the window in his chambers, and admired his surroundings. On the border between Zagravin and Uttoll, his lands weren't the finest or most fertile, nor was there much of them. Still, despite being poor, Robert's father had never seemed to care. He was a nobleman, even on the worst of days.
"No matter what happens, I'm so proud of you," Father said.
A warm splash woke Robert from his reminiscing. He'd disappeared from the real world for what could've been a minute, or an hour, though when he opened his eyes what he saw made him wish he were back at Rivenholme.
Bruillant was still next to him, though a good chunk of her head had been blown to bits, shredded alongside pieces of brain and skull that were dotted across her face. Robert shoved the body away squeamishly, and as Bruillant's face fell away a familiar gloved hand offered its aid.
"Hello, cousin," Anne said, a smoking pistol hanging from her free hand.
Robert took the hand but made no move to stand. "Hello, wife."
"Put your cock away, would you?"
Robert did as he was asked. "I didn't want… She just…"
Anne squeezed his hand. "I know, I wouldn't have shot her if I thought you were enjoying yourself. Can you walk?"
Behind Anne were the stoic faces of her personal guard. Each of their stony countenances regarded Robert with some sort of disdain, though the stares didn't seem as oppressive as they once had. He'd never known how many of them there were. How many well-trained women of Uttoll could there be after all? There were fewer of them now, Robert knew that. They were an imitation of what they'd been when the conquest of Vovequia began.
"Can you walk?" Anne asked again. Her voice had lost its caring tone now.
Robert shook his head. "Wounds aren't too bad, just a lot of them."
"I see. Well, you'll have to be carried then, until you can find help."
Before Robert could protest, he was hoisted into the air by two of Anne's Gunners, before being thrown over the strong shoulders of a stout, bullish woman. It was strangely comforting to be carried this way, and Robert didn't protest.
"Would you like a summary of today's events?" Anne asked. "It's quite the tale."
"I could tell you what happened to me," said Robert. "Though I'm guessing you've the more interesting story."
"As always, and I tell it better. No time for weaving a tale today though, there's important things to be done."
"Go on then," Robert said, struggling to keep bile down as his carrier moved down some stairs. "Trim the fat. Give me the details."
"The Patriarch is likely dead," Anne said coldly.
"Likely?" Robert asked. "I didn't think you'd ever leave that to chance."
"I didn't have a choice. The witch found him, while he was helping me deal with Vulg's men. I assume you had a similar interaction with the Sommeliers, by the way?"
Robert nodded. "I tried to find my way to you, but that bastard Zweihander stopped me, right before his friend shot me."
Anne curled her lips. Perhaps she pitied her husband, perhaps she didn't think that as good enough of an excuse for him not be at her side. "They told me you were dead."
"Oh no, I'm sorry, I bet that got your hopes up."
"Hmm. Most of our troops are scattered, I've sent word to everyone that I can that we're retreating from Quenasses."
"And where will we go?"
"Outside the walls, until we have ample food and supplies, then I'll likely have to strike a peace treaty with the Stag Queen so we can return safely home."
"You're already planting yourself as his successor?"
Anne made a pinching motion with her hands. "Stop interrupting. And yes, in my mind I have, though it'll take some convincing for the rest of the Counts and Countesses to accept me."
"Drevon may not even remain united without the Patriarch," Robert said. Although they'd planned it for a while, the Patriarch's death still didn't seem real to him.
"So what if it doesn't? Uttoll will thrive no matter if the world follows us or decides to remain where it is, bathing in its own shit. We can't predict any of what will come though, Robert. All I know is that now I must end this war."
Robert looked around at Quenasses, though most of the buildings were intact, and soldiers didn't run riot through the streets, he could tell that the city was lost, and that it had been changed irreparably.
Oh well, he thought. It's not my home, and at least with this they might finally get rid of those ugly paintings.
"Will you give them back Quenasses?" Robert asked.
Anne stood still for a moment, allowing a few civilians to rush past her in their flight. "I don't think either Drevon or Vovequia will want this city anymore. Might as well make it the border between Drevon's new lands and what's left of Vovequia."
"And the Stag Queen won't retake her lands?"
"She could," Anne shrugged. "When the snows melt, she'll likely march her little armies down from the North. With any luck she could even push us all the way to the Arch while we bicker over who can replace the Patriarch, but I don't really care. There's enough land in Drevon, and conquest always leads to biting off more than one can chew."
Robert nodded as his head lolled gently against the Gunner's shoulder. He didn't say anything else, though he watched Anne as she led the small march. Her back was broad, strong, and every step was made with great intent. Even though one of her arms seemed to be hanging rather limply by her side, Anne Dreor was a prideful woman. While a city fell around her, she seemed the one person who could get something done. All she needed to do was find the rest of the Drevonish, and order would be restored.
They came across a large group of infantry soon enough. Led by whatever nobility and knights had decided not to flee and save themselves, it was quite the aimless bunch. They'd turned an entire street into their makeshift fort, placing riflemen in the upper stories of buildings and lining pikemen along the entryways and alleys.
"Who's in charge?" Anne asked bluntly to a haggard looking pikeman. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks gaunt as though skin was just clinging to bone.
"Count Dyre, Lady Courtesy," the man answered sharply with a salute.
"Of course he is," Anne sighed. She looked to her Gunners. "Blind old fool probably thought he could hold here, make his last stand."
"We're under orders to collect as many of our own as we can here," the pikeman continued. "So far, we've been waiting here while sending messengers out to pockets of troops around the city, telling them to meet up. We've done alright too. Count Dyre says we can hold the Guilds District no matter how many of those bloody plants come our way."
"So, this is the Guilds District?" Anne said. "Seems a nice place."
"It was Lady Courtesy, until we were under attack. Honestly I'm not sure if any of our lads have even processed it yet. We've been fighting since the crack of dawn, watching our mates get plucked from the sky or smashed into mush."
The pikeman started to waver; Robert could see it in his eyes. There was a slight trembling in his hands.
"What's your name, lad?" Anne asked, in as caring of a voice as she could muster.
"Mikkel."
"Mikkel, would you take me to see Count Dyre. I don't think we need to make a defence of the city anymore, and hopefully soon enough we can put this nightmare behind us."
Mikkel looked to his fellow pikemen. One of them gave a harsh look to Anne and her retinue, though he gave Mikkel an approving nod and let them through. Soon Robert was being carried behind the lines, and into a tavern filled with the men of Ichabod Dyre, Count of The Arch and all-around pain in the backside.
They found Dyre in an inn; he'd taken one of the rooms and made it his own private centre of command. The bed had been thrown out to create more space. Robert couldn't tell where it had been thrown, but he expected the window was open for more than just a bit of fresh air. It was exceedingly cold in the room, something Robert thought odd considering Dyre's age. He'd heard old people couldn't stand even the slightest breeze, and practically curled up and died every winter.
Ichabod Dyre turned his shrivelled, blind old head towards Anne as she entered the room. Robert hated how he could do that, how he could find someone with his eyes even though they were useless. His shaggy, dark grey hair fell around his face, almost melding with his beard. Were it not for his fine raiment, he would've looked like a hermit. He wore a huge black wolf's pelt around his shoulders and back, complimenting the black of his fine tunic and trousers. Crimson danced across the darkness of his wear, giving the old man an intimidating appearance, though such was the case with any man of the Arch. The province that tied Drevon to the rest of the world was used to fighting, either with the Vovequians or the neighbouring Fellanders. Men of the Arch valued the oldest traditions there were. Glory and bloodshed all took priority in their lives. Perhaps that was why they adored the Patriarch so.
"Dreor," croaked Ichabod Dyre. His hand flickered over a longsword tucked away at his hip. Robert was sure he was the only one who noticed the movement.
"Count Dyre," Anne said, letting her Gunners flood the room. They outnumbered Dyre's men in this room, though in half plate, padded leathers and armed with wicked, serrated blades, the men of the Arch would likely prevail in the room's close quarters, especially with Robert's current uselessness.
"Ah, so it was you," Dyre said, smiling with thin lips. "Seems my ears haven't gone quite yet."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
Ichabod Dyre tapped his ear with a shaking hand. "My ears, that's how I tell who is in a room with me. Not just voices, you see, footsteps too. Yours are soft, light, as though you don't want anyone to know you've entered a room. Quite strange, I think, considering your reputation of being the centre of attention, one would think you'd be stomping around like a mammoth. And…" he paused, holding up a thick finger. "You've brought along fourteen friends with you, is it?"
One of Dyre's men stepped over to the Count, whispering something in his ear.
"Is that right?" chuckled the old man. "Sir Robert Wisser, being carried by a woman."
"It is indeed," Robert said.
"Are you wounded?"
"Yes, Lord Courtesy. I've got a few wounds you see, perhaps there is a healer I could see?"
"Well of course," Dyre said with genuine concern. "Though it is worrying to know someone got the best of you, my lad."
Robert hummed a generic response. He was getting quite sick of being carried atop a woman's shoulders and had realised as Anne walked casually through the Guilds District that he'd been mostly forgotten about by his wife. With consciousness being something that came and went, Robert was becoming rather desperate to be in front of someone who knew how to stitch his flesh back together.
"Take him downstairs and into the kitchen of this foetid place," Dyre said. "There you'll find a sweaty man with small eyes. Quite the odd fellow, really, you cannot miss him, he might be dealing with some other wounded but just tell him I've ordered you to be our top priority. He'll see to whatever you need, Wisser. You are worth ten of our lot after all."
Quite the modest estimation, Robert thought as he was carried out of the room. He locked eyes with Anne as he passed, who mouthed an apology for leaving him to bleed. He'd return the favour in kind one day.
The doctor was exactly as Ichabod Dyre had described. Sweating as though he'd been left in the heat of Felland for a month, with eyes as small as a weasel's this man was an odd sight. Everything about him looked rather weaselly. His nose was short, stout and pointed, and it seemed to twitch at every new smell. Dark red hair – no doubt created by a dye of some kind – was in a damp messy mop atop his head. Black fuzz across his lips betrayed his true hair colour. Like Robert, the doctor's skin was on the lighter side, almost the colour of an olive. With the sweat coursing over his exposed forearms and neck, he looked as oily as an olive too.
"Oh, fabulous," the doctor said, wiping his hands on a bloodstained tunic. "Another one. I'm afraid there's a queue."
"Not for this one," said the woman carrying Robert. He regretted not getting her name; she'd need repaying for this at some point. No doubt her shoulders were beginning to ache; she'd carried him from the edge of the Bastille into Quenasses' depths without question.
Robert's feelings for the woman quickly soured as she dumped him unceremoniously onto the doctor's table. His head hit the wood harshly, and he barely feigned a smile as the doctor looked at him with mild shock.
"This is Robert Wisser," said the Gunner who'd carried Robert. "And he will die unless he is treated immediately."
"What's wrong with him?" the doctor asked, folding his arms. "That would be a good place to start."
"There's a cut along my back," Robert said faintly. "That's quite deep. Then a bullet passed through some flesh near my waist. On top of that there's a few other cuts and stabs that I can't really remember."
The doctor shared one glance at Robert, then to Anne's Gunner, then back to Robert. "Right, let's get that top off then."
Robert sighed, then he felt the coldness of steel against his chest, and the ripping of his shortcoat. Before he knew it, his clothes were being ripped from him and tossed to the floor. Hit metals clanged against the floorboards.
"This all will probably hurt," the doctor said. "I have nothing to dull the pain nor anything for you to bite down on."
"Perfect," Robert said. He wasn't given much time to prepare before a small blade started digging around in his flesh, looking for any remnants of the ball that passed through him less than an hour ago.
He gritted his teeth, and looked around him, catching the eyes of a few wounded men who'd had their treatment delayed by his sudden arrival.
I'm sorry, Robert thought as he looked at their sullen faces. But in fairness, I didn't approve of this either.
Robert Wisser knew that he'd gained many privileges by being born into nobility. Had he not been born a Wisser, he'd have likely never been able to reach the heights he had in swordsmanship, no matter his natural talent. He'd have not had the consistent comforts of a warm bed and hot meal every night. He'd also not have been able to marry Anne, though that may have been a benefit to his life. Even with all his benefits, he also had never chosen to be born as who he was, and so his benefits were entirely down to luck. Some men had more, most had less, but Robert cared little for any man who believed that he had somehow chosen to live and be who he was. Everything in this world, every person, was an accident in one way or another, and one couldn't be blamed for using the accident of their existence to their advantage.
Something burning hot seared Robert's flesh. He gritted his teeth, groaning through the pain as best he could. If he'd have had his way, Robert would have made no noise at all. Sadly, the pain he felt right now may have been some of the worst in his life. Though he knew Anne would hate him for saying it, he didn't half miss mages right now. They could bring back men from the brink of death, all without any pain for the patients. Right now, Robert was feeling his wounds as they were seared shut; he noted every time the cuts of his flesh were knitted together. The doctor treated his skin as though it were nothing more than a leather jerkin.
"Could we…" Robert spat, a mix of blood and saliva flew into the air and then back onto his cheeks. "Could we stop a moment?"
"No, not now we've started," The doctor said bluntly. "I did warn you."
Robert gripped the table he'd been laid on with both hands. His fingers strained with the force as he sought to alleviate the pain. His feet began to kick out unconsciously, desperately trying to help the body escape, even if it meant death. The woman that had carried Robert to this forsaken inn grabbed his legs and held him shut.
Great, Robert thought. Great. Great. Fucking great. No arms, no legs, nothing to dull the pain, nothing to stop it.
His thoughts shifted from whining about his own predicament to what was going on above him. At times he thought he could hear the growling, dull tones of Ichabod Dyre, though he never heard Anne's voice. Robert wondered what was going on up there. Had Anne told him the Patriarch was dead? Had she ordered him to withdraw from the city? Had she told him anything, or as usual had old Dyre acted as though he were her superior, and wasted both of their time regaling Anne with his tales of the wars between the Arch and Felland, how Uttoll has always had it easy.
Whatever they were discussing, whatever decisions were reached, Robert knew it would be Anne coming out of that room the victor. Her ambitions were so close now she could taste them. Like a dog who could sense a bitch in heat, nothing would be stopping Anne from reaching her ambitions. Perhaps Robert should have been scared, and part of him was, but another part of him was excited. For change, for something new, to stop sleeping with noblewomen to gain information. There'd be no hiding under the bedsheets very soon, and that was something that could put a smile on Robert's face. So long as he could fight, and so long as there was a fight to be had, things were about to become very, very interesting.