Graves Family/Waldor

Description

To be added.

Equipment

Lord Tarkus' sword: a greatsword with a bejeweled pommel and silver-worked hilt, lost during the first landing on Panafau, but later returned by Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta just before the defeat during the second landing.

Nameless Nag: an old mare acquired on the road from Maraba to Fissoa; currently stabled at the Graves estate.

Archived Roleplay

Landing in Lugagun: One Graves Digs His Own; The Rise of A Mercenary

Night Before the Landing

"News from ashore, milord," the young man intoned solemnly, watching the blanket-wrapped man from a respectful distance away. Tarkus had been sitting there for some time watching the coast, insofar as the man could now given his limitations, and did not immediately stir to the boy's voice. So he tried again, prompting cautiously: "Milord, news by falcon." The night hung around them both, foggy and chill.

This time Tarkus shifted in his chair and turned at the hip, presenting a preternaturally aged face lit by a lantern's dim halo, lined by scars and the healed reminders of flayed skin. His eyes, what of them remained, were blissfully closed; he spared the boy that sight, at least. Then, just as quickly, he twisted back to face the sea and tucked his left arm beneath his blanket, hiding that mutilation from sight as well as the others. He rasped a noise that could have meant anything, thick and choked in his throat, but the boy took it for assent and continued quietly.

"Aurvandil has been declared upon by," a list of realms followed, "and has formed a new colony in Paisly, which too has been declared upon. We have reached the coast, and will make landing after the sunrise. It's to be a quick raid." The boy hesitated, then: "You will watch from the ships...?"

A harsh cough, followed by a vigorous shake of Tarkus's head. His face was coiled up in a fierce scowl and despite the frailness of his body, there was still that iron core of stubborn intent stiffening his spine. How the lord planned on making the landing with his troops was anyone's guess, but the boy knew better than to question it. Base-born folk had no right to counsel their betters.

Only usurp them.

"Very well," the boy whispered, his breath catching, then chanced a step closer to the lord and extended the sheet of parchment he'd been concealing under his arm all night, and wet at his lips in sudden anxiety. "There's just the formality of a signature, milord, and I'll leave you be. Regarding the ship captain's pay."

Tarkus Graves didn't - couldn't - even spare the paper a second, or first, glance. He took it and signed it clumsily, without hesitation, glad to be rid of the nattering voice in his ear, and sagged back in his chair to listen to the gulls overhead, and smell the salt tang in the air. Without eyes, the tears did not sting so much, but he could still feel them run tracks down his weathered face. After all this time - finally, action.

The young man retreated without a word, glad the nobleman could not see his face. He was shaking, grinning riotously, and wasn't shamed to admit he had nearly wet himself in terror. The paper he carried with him contained a future he could have never dreamt of before now:

'I, Tarkus Graves, declare henceforth that Waldor of Fissoa is my true-born heir and son. Upon my death, he is to inherit all my titles and lands and be welcomed into the House of Graves. Should I take ill or be rendered senseless, he is to act as my Regent until either I recover, or pass from this world.

Tarkus Graves

Knight of Fissoa Fields

Once Duke of Madina'

Captain Waldor, the youngest man by far to lead this company of mercenary bowmen since its inception during the colonization of Dwilight, privately thanked all the gods above and below for this good turn of fortune as he disappeared below deck to ready his men for morning.

The Next Morning

A hushed silence fell across the deck as the sun rose over the sea. Moments later, it was broken by shouted commands and nervous, whispered chatter.

"Into the boats!" The young captain directed, stabbing his finger at the series of longboats being lowered into the water, and men began to mill in that direction, holding tightly to their longbows and making last minute checks of their boiled leather armor.

Near the prow of the ship, bobbing in the water and pulling at its rope tethers, was a longboat already full of bowmen. Among them, Waldor was dismayed to see the nobleman Tarkus - hunched over and sweaty already under the dawning sun, his chain armor glinting dully in the light. A sword was strapped to his hip, and he clutched at it desperately with the hand he had left to him.

A wasted life, the boy thought somberly, and passed on last minute directions to his sergeants - every one of them older than him by at least ten years. Then he made for the prow of the ship and, reaching it, shimmied the length of a long rope into the boat Tarkus had claimed as his own. He checked over his own leather armor and brigandine jack after thumping down, checked his unstrung bow, then shouldered it in favour of his small stabbing sword.

"A good time to fight, milord. The weather is with us," the young man lied, watching that mutilated face turn toward him, searching him out blindly and by voice alone. Then the nobleman nodded once, blinking his empty eyes. "The men saw an albatross earlier. Those sailors claim it's good luck. Something about the souls of the drowned." Another lie, but a harmless one if it raised the morale of his men.

Tarkus made an unintelligible, guttural sound and spat.

Waldor sighed quietly and turned his attention to the coast.

Now it was just a matter of time.

"Row!"

Trouble Arises

Very few other longboats seemed to be launching, and Waldor was starting to get worried. He turned again to Tarkus and tapped the nobleman twice on the shoulder, whispering hoarsely, "Should we turn around, milord? The advance seems to have stalled. We should get a confirmation of orders. There could be spies in the army, miscommunication, worse..." Those bowmen in the boat who overheard him shifted uncomfortably, exchanging looks. Some muttered oaths, or prayers.

Tarkus rasped a word at him in reply, his good hand clenching tighter about his sword hilt, and even without a tongue it was painfully clear what he had said:

"No."

A Desperate Battle

They hadn't even stepped out of the longboats when the first arrows fell among them, causing the first line of rowers to buckle and scream and drop bleeding to the bottom of the boat. Bowmen lurched to take over for the downed sailors, but they too were shot at and fell in turn, pulling desperately at the oars in an attempt to beach themselves before the worst hit. Waldor watched one longboat alongside them tip over as panicked soldiers piled out of it, and of the twenty that went into the water, only nine came up again. Two in his own boat were dead, and there were already more injuries than he was comfortable with.

And then, with a crash and too-loud scrape of sand along the bottom of the hull, they were beached and he was first out of the boat, pulling the blind nobleman after him with a shout of encouragement to his men - though most were already charging up ahead to take up positions along the unprotected coast, trying futilely to string their damp bows and force the defenders back, thanks to his sergeants. His own leadership was a formality; those grizzled old men knew better than he did what to do in a situation like this.

An arrow whizzed past and he found himself pressed flat to the sand, sheltering behind an overturned boat one of the sergeants had seen fit to drag up onto the beach. The man's squad hunkered down there too, taking pot-shots from time to time, but it was obvious to the captain that the seawater had made a mess of their longbows. Too few of the men had back-up weapons of any value: a few daggers, a longknife, shortswords here and there and one lonely pike.

"Where's everyone?" The older man bawled at him, his face soaked in sweat, saltwater and blood, then jabbed a bare hand back savagely at the water behind them, and then at the coast to either side of them. "Where in the name of all that's good and right is everyone?"

Waldor chanced a look over his shoulder and felt his insides twist. Too few ships. There weren't enough ships. A few other units were off-loading further down the beach, but nowhere did the young captain see the numbers that suggested the army had landed in force. That wasn't something he could tell his men, though. That would seal their fate.

"They're coming! We need to clear some space, get these archers off our asses, then secure a portion of the beach for the main force to land along!" He shouted back at the sergeant, then peeked up over the bottom of the overturned boat. After a brief glance, he ducked low again, gesturing frantically with the tip of his shortsword, forgetting everything he had just said the moment before. "Brace! Cavalry incoming!"

Something heavy crashed against the side of the longboat, and a horse went down with a sickening crunch, throwing its rider. Arrows arced up from behind the squad of men and Waldor watched as they fell among the charging enemy. He let out a whoop and threw his own bow aside, useless as it was. "A round of drinks to the captain of the Harriers! Bless them -- Brace!" More horses came, leaping over the sprawled bodies of the first rank of the cavalry charge, bounding over or around their makeshift fortifications. Waldor twisted at the hip to watch the charge as it carried past them and into the bulk of his men, downing the first rank of startled, panicked archers with ease. Momentum left the horses as the wedge bogged down with the second and third ranks, however, and another horse went down, its rider impaled on the lone pike wielded by one of his men. The boy felt his heart swell with pride - and then horror.

Staggering blind among the carnage was Tarkus Graves, his sword still gripped in his remaining hand.

Everything slowed.

A horse and rider appeared as if out of nowhere, thundering down the beach, a lance couched and pointed at the hapless knight.

The lance tip punched into Tarkus's armor, splitting mail, and spun the man around as the horse galloped on past toward the longboats still arriving on the beach. The nobleman fell, and Waldor lost sight of him.

He had more pressing matters to worry about. The sergeant clasped his shoulder and pointed across at where another unit of men had bogged down, where heraldic banners still waved and bobbed uncertainly. Even as he watched, their side of the fight dissolved and the men turned and broke, running in vain back toward the boats - as if that could save them. A banner fell. The sergeant grunted, mouthed the word, "Rout."

More and more men were falling to the cavalry and the infantry that massed in their wake. Waldor drew his own shortsword and stabbed blindly at one riderless horse that wandered too close, watching helplessly as most of his men were cut to pieces as they tried to fight their way up out of the treacherous trap that the sand had become - soaked in blood and bile and gore, it was worse than mud.

"We can't hold here!" He shouted through the clamor at the sergeant, not realizing the man had taken an arrow to the face and was wheezing blood through both nostrils. "We have to push through them to the woods while their cavalry regroups. It's our only chance!"

He didn't wait for agreement. He leapt the splintered remains of their little barricade and was at a dead sprint through the startled enemy before he even really had time to second guess himself. Only the wheezing of the sergeant behind him reassured him that the squad had followed.

Time lost meaning and coherence. In one instant, he was ramming his shortsword into the face of a boy even younger than him, and in the next he was sitting back on the longboat, watching the surfers break. He fought for his life with every inch of his bruised, bleeding body, as did the men behind him. It was no longer men attacking him - only arms, legs, swords and horses. Sometimes arrows fell, and he would hear the agonized cry of someone dying behind him, or beside him.

Then, ahead of them, Waldor spotted another unit bearing the colours of Fissoa and felt an irrational surge of hope. He waved his men forward.

"They've got the same idea as us - to them! To the," his eyes searched out the banner held raggedly above those survivors, "Grand Duke! Our lives depend on it!"

---

Everything hurt. That was nothing new.

Tarkus Graves stared up at the night sky overhead and wondered distantly when he had fallen down, and where his sword had gone. Something wet fell across his face, and he tried to lift his hand to swat at it, but realized too late that he had no hand - only a scarred stump grazed his sand-gritty cheek.

Memories came flooding back - the sky overhead was no dark, cloudless sky at all but the blackness of blindness. He choked, coughing raggedly, and spat blood. It frothed on his lips, dribbled down his chin.

"He ain't dead," a voice above him noted in amusement, and Tarkus felt the tip of a sword probe harshly at his side. He screamed, a gagging noise, and writhed in agony as the tip dug in at the gory wound the broken lance had made. "Should we take him back to the Margrave?"

"Carmine?" Another voice broke in, and Tarkus felt his throat go dry. Tears started in the corners of his sockets, and he soiled himself. The nobleman, stripped of all dignity in the end, began to cry, making desperate, pleading noises with his ruined mouth - mewling, infantile sounds. He grasped weakly at the men above him, trying to beg for his life, or for death, or for anything but a return to that dungeon cell and that blood-stained slab.

A sword stabbed down through the meat and cartilage of his throat, choking off all attempts at words.

"Nah. Too much work."

One of the last sons of the House of Graves bled out onto the sand, and died.

---

Waldor slapped the flat of his sword against the hindquarters of a horse and watched as it spooked and lurched away from the fighting, carrying its rider with it. He felt a degree of satisfaction at denying that cavalryman his kill, but it was short-lived. A man-at-arms came at him from the side, and he had to twist away to avoid losing an arm to the better skilled swordsmen. His left arm was already numbed to uselessness by a clash with a shield earlier in the desperate fight, and he bled from half a dozen wounds. Most of the squad behind him were either dead or wounded, but those who could still fought on. Others hid among the dead, praying to whatever gods they had left for mercy.

He ducked another strike, then stumbled backwards over the prone body of the sergeant, snapping the arrow that still jutted from the man's blood-caked face. The sergeant groaned, and Waldor knew that for the time that man still lived --

-- and then suddenly he was lying face-first among the wounded and dying, something sharp and hot twisting in his shoulder. The pressure withdrew, but the pain remained, and he could distantly hear the sounds of new fighting as the defenders closed in on the Grand Duke's men. A booted foot slammed into his back, but the death blow never came.

He shut his eyes and let his weariness overtake him, and began to silently recite all the prayers his mother had taught him as a child, beseeching each and every god in turn to protect him.

And when he had run out of gods, he prayed to his dead mother.

The Grand Duke still fought, he thought. There was still some hope of rescue.

Waldor was not conscious to see the Grand Duke fall.

But nor was he dead.

Adrift

"Lord Graves is dead."

Something heavy thumped into his lap, and Waldor opened his eyes to the painful glare of torchlight and saw the sergeant, his face rag-wrapped and crusted in blood, looming over him. The man leaned back, then offered Waldor his hand. "I found his sword, I think. His or another's - hard to say. Thought you'd want it, what with your fancy papers and all. Not that it's business of mine."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Waldor replied, already uneasy, and tried to bring his hand up to grasp the one offered to him, but a stabbing pain in his shoulder caused him to groan and slump back, a knot twisting in his stomach. "The paper? It was our contract. Where are we?"

"Thought that was obvious," the man replied, then hunkered back down on the wooden bench he'd been sitting on. "We're on a boat. Not sure exactly where, though. Our coast or theirs - been drifting. But gods be good, it'll be ours." He nodded back over his shoulder where what looked to be a pile of corpses stirred, and Waldor realized what it actually was: injured men, some of them tended to, others struggling with broken oars, one-armed or with crude bandages hiding their eyes. His men. "Drug out who I could, left the worst. Managed to give them all the slip come night, you over a shoulder, Bret under my arm, and the rest staggering along after. Found a boat on the beach that still had its oars and we shoved off, but the fleet weren't there. Some current took us couple of hours ago, and we've been drifting since."

Flashes of the battle came back to Waldor - bloody fragments, screaming faces, the sound of arrows and snort of horses. He felt a surge of adrenaline, then exhaled raggedly and reached up with his good arm to probe around his shoulder, finding bandages and then crude stitches in place of a gaping wound. His other arm was splinted.

"Bret," he murmured, wincing again as he felt the crude work. "Good. That's... what's the total tally? You, me, him, the others?" The self-examination became too painful, coupled with the roll of the longboat in the water, and he dropped his arm across his lap, fingers tracing the pitted metal edge of the longsword lying across it. He wondered if noblemen really did name their swords, as he had heard in stories, and wondered if this blade had one - or if it was his to name.

"Eighteen, including you and me. And Bret. Most of the rest's the new bunch from the docks that we put on before leaving the city. One or two of us veterans left. Some of them ain't even ours, but they aren't enemy. The company's gone, Walt. Don't even know if we can bring it back." The sergeant - Ranulf, Waldor remembered, his name was Ranulf - cleared his throat noisily, then spat congealed blood and pus onto the bottom of the boat. Waldor noticed splinters and wadded cloth pooling down there in the waste water, but declined to comment on them. "All things considered, you did good though. Trying to break for the woods - it could have worked. But fate wasn't for us. Plain and simple."

"I don't want the new ones now," Waldor murmured, still tracing the contours of the sword with his numb fingers, "but I won't turn them away, either. Nor the fellows that didn't sign on with us. If they're willing to stay, they can. Nobody's pursuing us?" He could feel the rolled papers pressing against his chest, and hoped they hadn't gotten too bloody during the fight. They were his ticket to glory, and if those were ruined, he was ruined.

Ranulf shrugged, twisted at the hip to confer with a painfully thin young man, then faced his captain.

"Take who we take, I suppose," he echoed without much feeling. "You going to tell me what you're planning, boy, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?"

"Later." Waldor snapped, feeling his strength ebbing again, and slunk back against the bench boards of the boat, eyes lidding. He hooked his good arm around the sword and drug it closer, cradling it like a lover against his battered armor. "I promise - later. Let's get home first."

Sergeant Ranulf grunted and felt at his bandaged face, then lowered the torch he'd been carrying and snuffed it out unceremoniously in the waste water below. It hissed and stunk, but he smiled.

"Alright, boys, we sail by the light of the stars. First man to spot something that proves we're coming up on home, and not the 'kirks, gets ten silver and this fancy hat."

A dented pothelm was rusting beside the torch, upside down and full of puke.

Filched Pork and the Long Road Home

A surly man with bandages wound across his chest had won the pothelm in the end, shading his eyes as he pointed out Mount Mangai in the far distance, and then later the southern manor-houses off the coast, dotting the pristine beaches between small fishing villages. Waldor had no idea what his name had been before the battle, but everyone who could still speak had taken to calling him 'Puke.' That had been a whole day ago, and they had only stopped walking once since then to rest by a small stream, gorging on fresh water.

Now Puke trudged at the head of the column of men beside Ranulf and Waldor, as if having won the pothelm, he had also won with it the right of leadership and seniority over the men who were left. And why not? Waldor thought. He'd survived this far, and nobody had challenged him. Bret walked near the back of the men, where most of the injured had gathered - stumbling along, or carried on crude pallets fashioned from the remains of the longboat they'd scuttled yesterday.

They had passed through grassy fields, periodically leaving some of their worst wounded in the small villages they passed, and in time the plains had become wheat fields, and Waldor directed his men to stick to the muddy furrows rather than tramp along the ridges of newly turned earth. Spring wheat, if that was what the farmers had been planting, would have only just begun to sprout and he had no desire to tramp all over it, crushing it beneath his boots. The scenery had become a blur of wheat fields, orchards and vineyards.

"Well?" Ranulf spoke up suddenly, snapping Waldor out of his daze, and he nearly stumbled before Puke reached over and steadied him with a filthy hand. The boy winced at even that lightest touch to his shoulder, straightened, then shot Ranulf a warning look.

"Well?" He echoed warily, unable to gauge the sergeant's expression very well with all the bandages wrapped about it.

"Well," the grizzled man persisted doggedly, "those papers, for one. And that sword. And don't lie to me, Walt, and tell me it's contract papers. We're done out of that contract now, our employer's dead. And that sword, too. You ain't bat a single eye when I threw it your way, stolen property though that'd make it, and now you're wearing it like you're some lordling's own son himself. Are we bandits now? Wouldn't have left old Roteye back there with those villagers, if we were, not unless you've grown balls of steel or a heart of sludge, at least. So what is it?"

Puke stopped cleaning out that disgusting pothelm, tipped it back over his shaved pate, and squinted interestedly between Waldor and Ranulf. Mud splashed up from his boots and had coated his bare legs in plant matter, feces and stagnant water.

"Fine. Don't tell a damned soul, Ranulf," Waldor prefaced, taking in a deep breath, then added hushedly, "but I'd made a business proposition with the nobleman before we landed on the beach. He didn't have any heir, and couldn't with what they'd done to him. So he trusted me. He made me his heir, said everything he had was mine."

"Don't you gotta be a knight for that?" Puke spoke up suddenly, splashing over the bloated corpse of a rat floating in the muck.

"He did that, too," Waldor lied hurriedly, rolling his shoulders despite the stabbing pain there. "Knighted me on that boat, in his own cabin, with this own sword and gave me these papers, so the other lords would know to recognize me. That's where we're headed. Going to the capital and kneel in some lord's court, and not one of us will be a mercenary anymore."

"I like being a mercenary," Puke protested dimly, then sidestepped a hard cuff of Ranulf's ill-aimed hand.

"You, you gods-damned idiot. Do you even realize - that, how - what's to keep them from killing you as soon as you walk up to those gates? You're carrying his sword, but his body's rotting on that beach. You know how that looks, boy? The nobleman signs these papers and winds up dead in the next battle, and here you come set to make the most of it, and you don't think they'll think that looks the least bit suspicious? What you're doing is against nature." Ranulf broke into unintelligible cursing, stomping along savagely enough to raise a few eyebrows among the men behind them.

"My da always said - take what you can keep. This is mine, and I'm of Graves, now. You can expect I won't let it go lightly."

"Your father was hung for filching his neighbor's pig, you oaf!" Ranulf snarled back, waving his hands above his head.

"House Graves," Puke corrected absently. "Sir Waldor of the House Graves."

"Right," Waldor waved the smelly man off with his good hand, then reached down to touch the sword hilt that rested near his hip. "And you're Captain Ranulf, and Sergeant... Puke. My household guard. And if we pull this off, I swear to you both we'll sleep on beds of gold."

The other men fell silent, but Waldor wasn't sure if he had placated them or not. High walls rose up in the distance, and the gorge in his throat rose with them. Adrenaline and apprehension kick-started his heart to a hammering pace. He swallowed hard.

"I need you two to stand with me. We'll billet the men in a tavern somewhere, hire a proper priest and sawbones both to look to them, then strike out for the ducal estates. I'll explain what I need to, and you'll both attest to it as truth. Or we'll all hang."

Sergeant Ranulf stared at the walls in the distance and sighed heavily.

"At least it won't be for filched pork," he offered finally.

"That sounds delicious," Puke added.

Landing in Panafau: A Young Man's New Perspective

A Beautiful Country

The sun had set on a chaotic scene - troops landing in longboats and smaller skiffs, rushing ashore, sloshing the surf and churning up sand. But there had been little blood, and fewer deaths.

Acting-Captain Puke had crewed the longboat Waldor rode in with violence and apathy, barking low-toned orders at men and laying about with the flat of his scabbard - beating on shields, shoulders and helmets. The sailors were terrified him, and bent to the oars with manic desperation. Puke was as expressionless as a dead fish, mechanical, fearless because fear was something only thinking men felt. In a way, Waldor envied him. He could not stop thinking about the day Lord Tarkus had died. Ranulf had elected to stay behind in Fissoa, head of the household guard, and Waldor missed his company, his reassurances. Puke offered no such wisdom.

And then there was the Girl.

She had sat beside Waldor on the small craft, fussing with the leather straps of his baldric and the cinch of his belt. The shield - his shield, though he hadn't used it before - rested against her knee, as did another scabbarded sword, a hook-barbed spear and a smaller buckler. How she intended to carry it all was beyond him. When he had asked, she had shrugged and, with an angry set to her mouth, told him it was a squire's duty. He had left it at that. When he had been her age, he had gut-knifed a mercenary who had raped his mother.

Now he strode across the beach, kicking at arrows that had been fired in defense of the coast and still jutted, broken-shafted from the sand. Rumors were filtering up from the other companies that cavalry had been spotted a little further inland. Memories of the charge that had broke them - killed so many of his men - came back to him. The spear in his shoulder, the long wait, feigning death, while his soldiers had wept and cursed and bled out beside, above and beneath him. The heartfelt prayers and bitter screams. The agonized squeal of a horse impaled by a pike, crashing forward onto itself, the broken flop of its rider. The blood and bile that had churned the sand into sludge. His hand clutched at the hilt of the longsword that rode at his hip, taking comfort in the weapon, if not his own skill with it.

His grip on the blade only relaxed when he reached the scouts. He'd sent them on ahead to wait near where the beach met tangles of grass, vine and thornbrush. Both were hidden when he arrived, but a rustle of underbrush and a quiet, hissed call led him directly to where they crouched, their quilted armor decorated with thorns, leaves and smears of dirt. Waldor had shed his own chainmail back at their makeshift camp, and wore only his padded under-armor, too. He was more comfortable in it, anyway.

He crouched nearby after a mindful look about, then started to smear the cloth with dirt, leaves and rotted plant matter. It stunk, but he was used to it.

"Patrok," he whispered, greeting the elder of the scouts, a man nearly twice his age. "Gren." The younger, who could have easily passed as Waldor's twin in poor lighting. "I only need one of you tonight. The borderlands have most been canvassed, but I don't want surprises. There's rumor of cavalry hiding in the woods somewhere." He'd drilled these soldiers in use of the shortsword and pike, and they had all left their bows at home, but that changed little. A cavalry charge still set him on edge.

"Let me come with you," Gren spoke up suddenly, earnestly, and Waldor had to bite back the urge to clasp him on the shoulder as he may have once, to embrace him like a brother. He was no longer a sellsword captain. He was a knight, and there was distance between them that could never be broached. Instead, he looked questioningly at Patrok, and nodded when that older man nodded his own approval.

"Granted." Waldor murmured, lifting his head to stare about the thornbrush and scrub. "Patrok, keep patrolling about here, see if you can't get a bead on those horsemen. We'll be back before dawn. If you get the chance, pass back to Puke that I want the nearest village plundered. All the food they have, strip it. We'll need the provisions. Nothing else. I don't want a single serf harmed, or a single bit of gold taken. Not by my men." It would be cruel enough taking their harvest from them.

"Come on, Gren," he added softly, pushing past the two to creep further into the brush along the beach, skulking like no noble had a right to. The boy - his own age, he had to remind himself - followed with a pleased grin that quickly melted into professional seriousness. They did not speak during the entire patrol. They did not have to.

Night fell.

Waldor eventually returned, caked in dirt and debris, to where his men had set up under Puke's dull, watchful gaze. He stood near one of the pitched tents and stared at the forest that cropped up in the distance, cleaning mud from his hands.

"Your father's duchy," a soft voice said at his shoulder, and he turned to see the Girl staring out at the trees with a mixture of solemnity and expectancy. Clearly she wanted a response from him, but he had none to give. He nodded a little, returned his attention to the woods, and ran calculations in his head: stores of grain, injuries, the cost of hiring sailors to crew them back to the warships anchored off the coast. Logistics a captain should always worry over. But she was persistent. "You are home."

That gave him pause.

Home?

Waldor Graves thought of a stretch of coastline to the southwest, where bones bleached in the surf.

"It is a beautiful country."

Tigers

"You know," said the Girl, trotting at his heels, "it's your right - your duty - to press your father's claim. What when we reconquer the whole duchy and some other lord is elevated in your place? Or, even worse, what if we never reclaim it? What if the Falkirks hold it for the next hundred years? No honourable man could stand the shame, and the dishonour would sink House Graves. It's the whole reason we're at war, to defend your House's honour from brigands and thieves." She held her buckler on her arm, and her sword was strapped to her hip. A spear, and his shield, rode against her back. The lack of horses had not killed her dour devotion to duty. She would squire for him until she dropped dead of exhaustion, and she would nag him every step of the way, disapproving of his muddied blood to the grave.

It had bothered him once, but Waldor only nodded tiredly now, pacing alongside the one pack mule they'd brought on the expedition. Strapped to the animal's back were bags full of flour, bandages, casks of fresh water and salt beef. He strode at the front of the formation of men, and left Acting-Captain Puke to prowl the columns alone, silent and frog-faced in the muggy night air. He was not half as oppressive as the heat, though. This far from the coast, the woodlands bled moisture as fog and mist and everything smelled like dust and sap and pine. No one had the energy to cause trouble, or so he thought.

"You don't even care," the Girl accused hotly, abruptly, and Waldor faltered mid-step, caught himself, and continued to pace down the trail as if she hadn't spoken at all - ahead of him, the vanguard of the army, and behind him more marching soldiers. He could see their torches glistening in the dark like specks of starlight on lakewater, waving and hazy and almost as insubstantial. He could smell the smoke. The enemy would be able to, too. Farther still, along the horizon, stretched the lowlands of Panabuk. He thought he saw starlight there as well, and hoped he had not - campfires would look as small from this distance, but should not have been so numerous.

"Mind your tongue," he warned, and left it at that. He did not look at her; he strode on ahead and let his thoughts wander.

The Girl fell silent, as sullen as the day he had first met her on the road, travelling to the tournament in Morek, and for awhile all he could hear was the wheezing snort of the mule, the breathing of the men surrounding him, the stamp of their feet, and the jangle of his chain tunic.

She was right, of course. A true son of Graves would have raged at the injustice, and fought tooth and nail to secure the Duchy of Madina. A true son, and maybe even a bastard, too.

Inexplicably he thought of Skyndarbau Melphyrdd, of a practice match in the courts of Fissoa, and of familiar frustration and uncertain rage. He thought of cats - the large sort he had only heard described once before, with orange and black stripes, vicious claws, finger's length fangs. He could almost picture one stalking him now, just out of sight and crouched where the torchlight failed to fall, its lazy prowl a match for his own tired march.

"I will fight for my father's honour - but on my own terms," he growled at that shadow-cat, jaw tightening, and strode on ahead. His squire stared at his back in confusion, but did not pursue. Someone had to tend to the mule.

For the rest of the night, he could feel that silent spectre stalk him through the forest, the price of honour weighing heavily on his shoulders. He was not ready yet. Not yet.

Vanguard Ambushed

During the night march, in the indistinct gloom, they had overtaken the vanguard of the army and outpaced the Marshal's own men. Waldor didn't realize until it was too late; stalked by the heavy weight of his own moral responsibility to the dead - to the honour of the dead - he kept a punishing pace, and his men dutifully followed behind, oblivious to the tigers that lurked in the shadows of their liege-lord's thoughts.

It was only at sunrise, when the enemy encampment was painfully obvious stretched out across the plains, that Waldor realized his error - but by then it was too late. He could see troops massing, the dark smear of a cavalry wedge as it cut across the grasslands. His first impulse was to take cover back amongst the trees, but they were too far behind. On top of that, other companies hedged his men into formation. He could not move them without creating a gap in the line - and that would have meant death to anyone on his flanks. He couldn't, in good conscience, let that happen.

"Puke!" He shouted hoarsely, drawing the heavy longsword at his hip, "Puke! Get the pikes up front, brace for a charge!" The entire unit melted into a chaotic mob of soldiers as his men repositioned themselves, arming with what they could pull off the panicked mule, or what the had on hand. The Acting-Captain was nowhere in sight and his squire looked like she was going to be sick - he could hear her speaking, but didn't pay attention to the words. Instead, he grabbed his shield from her and the short spear, too, then pushed her back roughly toward the center of the company - third or fourth file would keep her safe.

He noticed other companies pulling back, arranging themselves behind his own unit, and cursed bitterly when he realized his mistake - it was too late to pull his own back. He demanded they hold fast, pacing up and down the first line of them, and watched the enemy break and charge. To his right, further down along the makeshift front line, he noticed a banner go up - just out of the corner of his eye. Aran Ivansen? What was he doing -

"Horsemen!" The cry went up, and he took a knee behind his shield, hunkering beside one of the pikemen at the front. He could feel the thunder of hooves on the ground, crashing through the grasses. Almost at the same time, arrows fell, piercing men from all sides. One grazed along his armored back, chipping against chain, and Waldor uttered a quiet prayer to gods he still only half understood.

Horseflesh met a solid wall of pikes, and the cavalry charge crumpled. Riders were thrown screaming, and then Waldor was among them, pushing past the bogged down spears, hacking and slashing with a longsword that flashed silver, and then red, as he cut. He saw a glint of metal armor, saw finery - a noble - and made for the man, scoring a long gash across the enemy knight's chest when he'd closed on him, and would have brought his sword down for a deeper cut but something punched into his side while his arm was lifted.

He looked down, saw a broken arrow jutting from his side, and felt more rage than fear. From the right, Ivansen's men had flanked the remaining cavalry and for those horsemen, at least, it was a bloodbath.

"Damnit," Waldor swore, backing toward the safety of his company's center, and saw that most of his front line had collapsed - not from lance wounds, after all, but arrows. The horsemen had barely touched him, and for that - at least - he felt a swell of pride. They had survived the charge, if nothing else. "Puke! Girl!" He didn't call her by name, but she appeared out of the thick of men, thirteen years old and terrified but still stubbornly sour toward him, gripping her own sword with a dull determination to prove herself. Puke did not appear, though he thought he saw the man weaving in and out among the men, silent save for the beatings his fists gave to those who feared to fight. "The arrows are chewing us to pieces, we need to fall back!"

Another hail of arrows from above, shredding his second and third ranks as men dropped screaming to the ground, clutching wounds that fountained great gouts of blood, or did not bleed at all. His earlier pride at breaking the cavalry faded. He understood now why noblemen hated archery so much, why they loathed and feared the men who practiced the art in war, and hated that he did not have his own bow with him. Killing from afar was dishonourable. It was also effective.

Fewer than ten of his own men were left standing when their men-at-arms closed. The fighting was brutal, and swift, and ended in a staggered retreat back behind the screen of friendly archers. His shield had been shattered by a maul, and he had left it behind. He'd even sheathed the longsword during the melee, and pulled a gutting knife, favoring that over the knightly sword in close quarters combat. And as he pulled wounded soldiers after him, his own side aching, Waldor knew the archers they retreated past would be slaughtered, but also knew that it would buy him valuable time to pull his own survivors to safety. His squire was there at his heels, her own sword bloody, her armor in tatters.

"Poor bastards," he whispered, wheezing for breath. His head swam.

The ground lurched toward him with startling speed.

The Price of Honour

"Cyabr Carmine has been spotted in the field," the Girl murmured softly, watching him as he struggled awake, his side on fire. Her arm was in a sling, but her face was hard. She was angry, he thought. "And there will be a battle at sunset, when the main force arrives. So they say, sir." He didn't understand why she was telling him this; he knew these things.

He was laying down on a blanket in a small tent, and in the distance he could hear the pathetic cries of wounded men. Blood and sweat clogged his nostrils; he cleared his throat, and there was blood in his spit, too. But his side was bandaged, soaked with ointment and oils. He sat up, winced as the interior of the tent seemed to shift and warp around him, then placed a steadying hand on the ground at his side.

"You must challenge him."

The words cut like steel.

He looked up sharply, meeting the gaze of that young girl, and he could see the accusation in her eyes. To her, honour was life. To all of them, perhaps. He could almost hear the sound of brush crunching underfoot, the lazy pad of a tiger, the guttural wail of its mocking, lonely greeting. He said nothing. He stared at the girl who had begged to be his squire, because no one else would have her, and then looked away. Wind made the tent flap snap, ruffled the walls of cloth around him. The storm that howled across the lowlands continued, spending its fury in impotent gusts.

"You must challenge him," she repeated, and he felt her eyes on his face, felt her disbelief at his reluctance growing, "or you will have no honour left at all. You must find him on the field today, and challenge him there."

You must.

The laughing chuff-chuff-chuff of a wildcat, half-remembered, dream-like, ghosting the edges of his vision.

Waldor closed his hand into a fist.

"I need to see to my men."

Eleven survivors out of forty-three. Eleven men, all of them wounded, all of them bristling with arrows like hedgehogs and Puke among them, sitting on his upended pothelm, his bald head glistening and bloody from a swordcut. It had taken off the majority of his ear. His dull eyes were dazed, but he grunted when he saw Waldor, acknowledging his presence like he acknowledged all things. None of the injuries, though, seemed life-threatening. There were many severe ones, gut wounds and punctured eyes, but Bret seemed confident - even happy. Eleven of forty-three, Waldor thought, and ran the math. Thirty-two of his men, some of them survivors from the carnage at Lugagun, killed.

The pack mule had been lost during the fight, and most of the supplies with it. The flour, the spare swords and pike, the billet-tents for his men, most of their medicinal herbs.

"Gods below," he murmured, wiping sweat from his face, and winced as the motion pulled at his side anew. First his shoulder, and now this. The squire had not followed him out of the tent, though, and for that he was glad. He couldn't handle her earnest nobility right now. He needed to mingle among the men and let his common blood bleed with theirs.

But her words chased him. You must challenge him. You must.

Always that word. Must.

"Who can stand?" He asked quietly, looking aside at Bret, and touched the bandages at his side. The walking hadn't helped, he thought, and felt blood bleeding through the tight fabric, staining his fingers. "And who can't? We'll need the best aiding the worst, we'll need pallets, splints. Retreat to the ships. There's no point to us continuing the fight here today. It'll just get more of us killed."

Bret gave him a look, an odd one, the bowed his head and limped off. He, too, was injured. No one had been spared from the arrows.

You must.

Waldor shook his head to clear it and limped on, passing hastily erected cots and pallets, rows of injured men. Those who he knew by name, he called out to, offered what encouragement he could, showed them his own injury and made light of it. It did not take long to make the rounds, and when he was finished, he crouched beside a man who had blood drying in his hair. No poultices or bandages had been made available to him, which suggested to Waldor that the wound - while not fatal - was disabling, as head wounds often were.

"I'm sorry, captain," the old man was babbling softly, "we ain't able to secure your heritage yet. When some of us heard that you was actually a lord's son, we wept for joy. It explained everything, though. We was so happy to know that you was our little lord. And a proper, good one. You never shirked us our pay not once, even when times was bad."

Waldor sat and listened, numb to most of what the man said, and watched as another man - a younger man, a courier, perhaps? - wove through the bodies of the wounded toward him. The boy bowed low when he reached Waldor, and then his soft, thready voice broke in over the older man's rambling.

"...have been ordered to rally and fight at sunset. None are excluded from these orders that can still fight."

Waldor nodded wearily and when the young man had departed to seek out another tent, gave the babbling old man at his side another look. He had stopped rambling by this point, and stared straight ahead with bleary, unfocused eyes. Waldor wasn't sure if he saw anything at all, anymore, and with all the subtlety he could muster, rose to his feet to take his leave.

The old man's hand clamped down on his arm with surprising strength, and Waldor felt pain shoot up his side. He winced, bent over to mitigate it, and the old soldier's breath hissed into his ear.

"Milord," the man said, "you must."

The pressure eased. The wounded man let go, and Waldor staggered upright, lurching away with a sudden queasiness he could not place roiling his gut.

I won't, he thought, I won't. I'll die if I do.

When the drums started, though, he was there with two volunteers, men who had known him as Captain, and advanced to the front rank with a dutiful fatalism.

Challenges

He couldn't remember their names, but he knew their faces. They advanced alongside him, surrounded on every side by companies of men in formation, with banners streaming overhead. But he couldn't remember their names. He limped, overtaken in the ranks by fast-marching men from different units, and his two volunteers followed him quietly, just as slowly. One had his arm splinted. The other had lost an ear. They might have been brothers.

The sound of drums changed, and a few trumpets blared. Ahead of him, Waldor watched as the ranks who had just previously overtaken him crashed into the enemy line, their marching dissolving into a short, sprinted charge for enemy swords and pikes. Cohesion vanished.

And then suddenly he was among them, pushing past people, elbowing at friendly soldiers in back ranks to make his way to the front. Something prowled at his back, shapeless and terrible, and he needed to escape it. It drove him relentlessly forward. A sword swung nearby, crashed into a shield, scraped and chipped along the bronze-studded rim. Waldor watched as if the world had slowed to nothing. A man at his side called out in warning.

And then a banner caught his attention wavering above the enemy ranks.

Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta, Margrave of Madina Gardens.

"There!" He called out hoarsely, pointing so that the men with him could see, then broke into a stumbling run. Tigers lashed at his heels, chasing him the whole way. "Get me close enough to challenge him, and we'll end this!" If he could just get close enough, just close enough to the nobleman he was sure served in that cluster of militia, he could issue a challenge and - win or lose - would be free.

Swords stabbed at him, shields and men threatened to trip him. He ran doggedly forward, grasping the shoulders of the men who ran with him, propelling them forward with raspy shouts of encouragement - or bitter curses. His side was bleeding again, soaking the bandage where the arrow had pierced him, and his breath came in short gasps. Black specks danced in his vision.

"Carmine Umpeta Perticta!" He shouted, but the name didn't carry. His throat constricted. The man to his left buckled, curling around a sword that had stabbed deeply into his belly, and Waldor's grip on his shoulder fell away as the man dropped, screaming, to the ground. "Carmine Umpeta Perticta!" He swung his clumsy longsword about and cleaved the arm from the man who had stabbed the volunteer, ran on oblivious to both of their fates. His other soldier disappeared, savaged by several blades at once, and a shield which sunk half of his head inwards.

"Carmine!"

Waldor screamed the name like a wounded animal, trying to get past the enemy soldiers and - each time - was driven back with a new wound, a new gash, some new torn link in his armor or pale scratch on his helmet. Rage welled up in him, suicidal and terrified violence.

You must. You must challenge him.

The words echoed, chasing him forward into the ranks of men again, where he slashed and cleaved with his sword. No one else dropped, though. Black spots danced everywhere, now, and his wounds wept. His swings were wide and clumsy, touching only air.

Then, another hand on his shoulder, wrenching him back. A faceless man shouting at him that the retreat had been called.

"Carmine Umpeta Perticta!" He howled again, the cry inarticulate and desperate, but he was being pulled backwards, and men around him were breaking to run for their encampments by the forest. He could feel something hot breathing against the back of his neck, could almost feel the rough rasp of fur against his thigh. The insidious, patient, watchful eyes of a predator.

Another man had grasped his arms, and was pulling him backwards, shouting into his ear. Waldor couldn't understand him. He didn't even try to. He struggled weakly, trying over and over to break free and rush toward that distant unit and that unbloodied banner.

The sword slipped from his hands, hit the ground and lay there, glinting with rubies and silver-work along the hilt.

Exhaustion claimed him, and he let himself be pulled away.

A Second Landing in Panafau: Desperation and Cowardice

During the Landing

Waldor watched as the longboats were prepared and lowered into the sea, and then reached aside again to take the spyglass from the captain one last time. He looked through it toward the coast of Panafau, wished he could see more than its harsh line cutting across the horizon, and then carefully handed the expensive instrument back to the ruddy, wind-weathered man. The captain acknowledged him with a nod, nothing more, and left to shout sailors into motion. A cat o' nine tails swung at the man's hip, tucked into his broad leather belt. Waldor noted it with a sympathetic wince for the men it was about to kiss, and wondered why in the void the captain had kept referring to it as his daughter.

A look to the side, at where Captain Reinolt was pushing a boy no older than thirteen into the boats - a straight shove and a several meter fall past the rope ladder hung on the ship's side - made him reconsider his curiosity. Some men were just mad enough to function, and it made them cruel. He supposed the ship's captain fell into that same category, too. He hoped he himself did not.

"Everyone's nearly into the boats now. The captain wants us in the second landing, so we'll be in the fourth boat. He's going ahead in the first wave - second boat. He would have me inform you that the first boat is crewed by cowards and deserters, so if we meet heavy opposition, the losses won't be as severe as they could be, and we'll have time to pull the rest of the company back." His squire was at his side, speaking quietly, with distaste and disbelief that he felt himself mirroring. Sacrificing men because they were afraid to die. It must have shown on his face, though, because his squire stepped away from his side and added: "And that if he calls a retreat, noble or not, he expects you will instruct your men to do the same."

"Ranulf managed to hire the most unprincipled asshole I've ever met," Waldor replied, rubbing at his neck, then unbunched the coif from under his arm and began to fit it over the padded cap he wore. It was heavier than he'd like, but the Girl had insisted. Grimy leathers and studded jacks did not suit true nobility, she had complained, and he'd taken it as a veiled warning. "You can pass that on, if you'd like. Tell Reinolt: 'you are an asshole.' But don't. This campaign means a lot, and we need his service."

"You shouldn't say that," the girl grumbled, her expression suddenly sour, and held her own half-helm beneath her arm. She was allowed to wear padded armor; she didn't have to worry about drowning if she fell off the boat. "It doesn't suit your position."

He shrugged in response.

"Get into the boat. I'll be down there shortly."

She turned and left, and he turned and faced the railing again.

Cowards in the first boat. He rubbed his hands together and wondered if he shouldn't be there with them, and felt a pang of guilt and shame rise like gorge in his throat. He was dreading the next battle, as he had come to dread all battles. That presence at his back, the shadow-cat that had given him some reprieve during his days in Fissoa, crept back behind him with all the dull expectancy of the dead. He could feel its phantom breath ghosting over the hairs on the back of his neck, muggy hot through the rings in his chainmail. Had she said they had stripes? He was certain now that, if he could only get a glimpse of the animal, there would be no stripes - just the khaki-tan, short fur of a lioness on the prowl.

A quiet prayer to the spirits of his ancestors, a heartfelt apology to the father he had forgotten to make his fortune, passionate curses on whatever god stalked him now and then he turned away and started for the ladder. He waited his turn in line, though this earned him a few confused looks from the men, and climbed down into the boat when it was his due. He sat quickly on the wooden slats, inhaled deeply, then looked about him. Men he did not know, and did not wish to know, crowded the small craft. His squire stood near the prow, all armored and with a small banner unfurled, tied to the spear she normally carried. A few sailors at the oars, arms already straining as the moorings were thrown off.

"Let's see if we can beat the sunrise."

Uneasy Waiting Before the Battle

"The men are antsy. We should be celebrating our victorious landing, as is our right." Reinolt stood at his side, staring out across the Fissoan encampment - tents massing along the coast, and men at work digging trenches and palisades, throwing up wooden spikes to ward against surprise cavalry charges, others carrying logging axes toward the distant trees. Companies marched off in formation toward the fishing villages, and he saw smoke curling from the tops of houses, drifting toward the horizon. It was not chimney smoke. That was a pyre, a burning house, grain, the shattered livelihoods of desperate farmers still - as he had heard - slavishly devoted to the ways of old Madina. Waldor wondered what they thought of this war, and if they even understood that it was no longer Madina that led them, but Madina that burned their crops. And even that was no longer quite true - Madina was dead. It had been dead for a long time, he gathered, even before it had fallen to rebels and thieves. Its name lived on, but names often did. Longevity alone did not a legacy make. And peasants did not care either way.

"No," he finally stated, coming back to the present, and glanced toward the man who stood at his side - not nearly as reliable as Ranulf had been, not nearly as personable, not nearly as sensible. "I don't care what the rest of the army is doing. I don't care if the High Marshal himself comes down and personally orders you - there is to be no rape, no lynchings, and no burning of grain. The buildings can go. If you're low on provisions, take only what you need and offer them a fair price in silver in return. But you won't harm a hair on any peasant girl's head, or anywhere else."

"Sentiment isn't strategic," the captain remarked idly, as if quoting someone, and Waldor shrugged in response. Memories of his mother drifted back to him, dying slowly, her face splotchy and breathing ragged. The wet coughing, and cloth spattered in blood. The smell of incense, decay, and sick.

"Doesn't matter. I'm the one paying you, and those are my orders."

Waldor turned and strode down the small hill, toward where the ground sloped toward the pitched tents of his men.

The Militia Holds The Village Still

"I don't like it," Waldor murmured, staring off into the distance - opposite where the Falkirk army approached slowly, throwing up dust in their wake.

"You should leave the commanding to me, sir Graves. It's not unusual for young knights like yourself to jump at shadows." Reinolt stood staring at the massing men, and did not pay attention to what it was the young man watched moving in the distance.

"Militia."

An arched eyebrow. Reinolt still did not turn.

"What?"

"There's militia out there."

"So?"

Waldor shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and unable to say why. The hairs on the back of his neck were up.

Chuff, chuff, chuff. Eyes in the dark, shadows striping a tan hide.

"It's probably nothing," he admitted, lacking sincerity. But it feels important.

A Letter Arrives

Sir Waldor Graves,

If you are reading this then I know you didn't burn the letter upon seeing my seal, and thus I trust I have the mark of your character and quality well.

You have no reason to like me I know, by contrast I have no reason to hate you. When we crossed blades att he Tournament I wondered of the kin of Tarkus, of how he would conduct himself, if it was possible for there to be a Knight cast from the line of a treasoneer. I admit I was skeptical, but then I always am, and was glad to be proved wrong. Tarkus was many things, an oath-breaker, but not a barbarian. He was a chevalier of Aurvandil for a time and that alone stands a man in good stead. Loyalty is transferable yet not always forgivable, honourable conduct has no such relativity, no such transient nature. Right action must prevail.

I cannot believe you would stand to serve amongst these murders and rapists, this fallen Fissoa, a hideously diminished shadow of its former self.

Don't let Fissoa take advantage of your name and your kin to pursue their war. They cite your claim as the reason for their fight as much as any other, yet have you any assurance you will be reinstated in title to Madina? If Fissoa prevails, which it won't, have you been granted the Dukedom as your father held? I can't imagine so. If I am wrong so be it, but even then I would not trust such a promise from such a sect of careerists and greed mongers as Fissoa. They are using you, using your father's legacy, to commit murder and thievery and war. Surely this si not something you can stand for? Surely the House of Graves does not bear this shame willingly?

I appeal to you: take up our offer. Come back to the lands you supposedly hold dear. It may not be with title but it shall be with good faith on our part. The crimes of the father do not transfer to the son. There can be reconciliation.

You may never forgive me for slaying your father. I shall never forgive him for his betrayal. That does not we must be enemies. Indeed, You are not mine.

If these words convey anything to you, if you feel your honour as true and heartfelt as I believe you do, meet me before the sun's rising at the Mill. It is scarely half a mile from your encampment, and this night burns still from the actions of the looters. I have something for you.

Carmine Umpeta Perticta

Cyabr of The Falkirkian Freestate

Margrave of Madina Gardens

Waldor read the letter again.

And again.

And again.

Then, very quietly, he folded it up and slid it under the thin mattress of the cot he'd had brought to his tent. He straightened, made sure that his armor was fitted, that his baldric was tight across his chest, and that the broadsword's hilt rested easily at his hip. He touched the rim of the shield at his back, then ducked and brushed the tent-flap aside, walking out into a night backlit by campfires, house fires, torchlight, the expectant hush of a thousand men waiting for the inevitable dawn. His squire spotted him, and she set aside her own weapons, approaching - but he waved her off, and kept walking.

Half a mile alone in the dark, toward a distant mill, with the sun already threatening to rise at his back.

Meeting With The Enemy

Waldor reached the mill and stood in silence under the dull glow of the moon, his hands crossed behind his back, standing at parade rest as he would have back when he was a company captain, under the watchful eye of his noble employers. His stomach churned, and adrenaline made the palms of his hands slick with sweat. The sword at his hip. The shield at his back. I could challenge him now, he thought. I could challenge him now and end it all. One way or another, his life or mine.

The anxious prowl of an animal in the dark, the ragged breathing of something wild, something insubstantial - his own breathing, not a cat's, he realized, and tried to quiet himself.

He rehearsed the words in his head.

Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta of House Perticta of the Freestate of Falkirk. I am Sir Waldor Graves, of the House Graves, of the Grand Duchy of Fissoa. For the honour of the House that has recognized me, I challenge you to a duel to the death, before the two armies meet, at sunrise.

He wondered if he'd have the nerve. His shoulder and side already hurt - phantom pain, the pain of failure. He wasn't ready yet.

Dying for a man who wasn't his father. For honour that wasn't his own.

His stomach twisted into knots.

--

“Man approaching sir, on foot, no horse in sight. Not a scout either, he’s too sure footed .. not trying to keep quiet, and heading straight for us.”

“Very good” The Lord stepped forward from the shadow of the Mill, blackened and smoky as it remained. He gave a sharp cough, muffled by the thickly padded leather gloves he wore. At was a cold night, sharp and piercing, that and the dusty air around the torched farmstead irritated his lungs. He mused how feeble age made a man. In the north it had been chillier still, with deep snow falls right through from Autumn to Spring, and back then he couldn’t even catch a cold if he tried. These days he was all wool and fur and he could still feel the ache of the night.

He rubbed his chest, the thinning and faded symbol of Averoth still woven into the mail he wore, and where his surcoat was cut clear to display it. On his left and from his waist swung his sabre, a cavalry man’s weapon really, but just as effective in the dismount. It too was a memento from times long gone by and a war that was lost. The long blue cloak hung down from his right shoulder, embroided as it was with his family’s crest and sigil, stark white even in the weak moonlight. It was a heavy sky, clouded for the most part, with only the occasional scattering of stars. A dark night indeed.

The footsteps grew nearer, the grass clearly rustling as a lone figure made his way through the gloom, becoming ever clearer. “Leave us” Carmine instructed the two soldiers, each of them hesitantly sliding their swords back into their scabbards and pacing off some distance. They had hastily buried the Miller and his family not more than an hour ago upon discovering their burned bodies, and both were visibly riled. He watched them retreat. He had arranged this encounter, he would have no foul play from his camp.

Carmine turned back, suddenly aware of the young knight’s presence, seeing him stood several yards distant at stiff attention. “Sir Waldor Graves, I am glad you could make it. I don’t think I could have lasted the night’s air much longer.”

He paused but the Fissoan made no reply, so Carmine took a casual step to the fore. “But tell me, why did you come here?” The Lord asked inquisitively. "I can't imagine it was simply because you were invited for a moonlit stroll to a runied Millery."

--

"I came to," Waldor began, but all those practiced words failed him. He felt tired, hunted, haunted by memories of blood and the mangled faces of fallen friends. He drew himself up, glanced to the side, and stared openly at Carmine. This man, this fragile creature, the engineer of so much destruction and despair? Men he had known for years, trampled on the beaches. Drowning in blood-thick surf. He shifted out of parade rest, sliding his left boot in closer to his right, letting his shoulders slump, and reached up, wiping wearily at his face. Then he rested his hand on the pommel of his basket-hilted sword. Why had he come? Why had he really?

"I came to respond to you in person," he said instead, looking off toward the Fissoan encampment. He kept his eyes averted from the butchery at the mill. He hadn't been there, but it was easy to make assumptions. Too easy, in fact. "I cannot join you. We may not be enemies, but I am sworn to this, and I... can't abandon it. Your offer was made in good faith, so I'll respond with a gesture of good faith, too. One day I am going to kill you, Cyabr Carmine Umpeta Perticta," at least the name came easily to his lips, "I will challenge you, and we will duel, and I will kill you, or I will die. That is the only way I can redeem myself short of sitting again in the old Graves estates in the Gardens." Again? He'd never seen the demesne Lord Tarkus had spoken of.

He fell silent afterward, then let out a muted sigh.

"You are not my enemy, but you are an enemy of my House."

But it was not House Graves he thought of when he thought of the failed assaults, the brutal ocean landings, the stab of grief twisting in his chest. His men, his common, baseborn men - himself, his common, baseborn soul savaged by the brutally of the upper classes.

"Do you still wish to talk now, knowing this?"

--

Carmine listened silently, watched as the young man uneasily twisted and twitched as he spoke. He was certainly pent with some sort of turmoil, some frustration, but not angrily or aggressively so.

“"Do you still wish to talk now, knowing this?"”

The Lord fixed the knight with a stare. “I expected it, so it changes little, and conversation is always worth pursuing especially against adversity” He exhaled, a plume of frosty breath circled before him. “You know I have never tasted the desire for revenge, .. or felt hatred; contempt yes, but not hatred. In all my years, fighting in the North against theocrats and in the South against republicans: nothing.” Carmine glanced away into the dark of night. “Personal ambitions, personal .. feelings, have no place in the Freestate. There is duty and right action .. and little else that matters. We are motivated by ideals not private aspirations.”

“Many men have tried to kill me, some came close. On the battlefield a fair few came close, though there were plenty of .. unluckier fellows too. I’ve seen much of death and it leaves it own torments.”

Carmine glanced behind him watching his two men stand off darkly, their hands on the hilts of their swords ready to draw.

“Torments and past memories, especially in the night, when every sound seems to the senses one of men in the dark coming to seize you, each noise one of impending capture, or during the day when the patrols ride past the barn you’re hiding in or the hedgerow ditch you’ve thrown yourself into.” Carmine shifted slightly as he fixed the Fissoan with a solemn look “I walked alone from Valkyrja to Candiels, a thousand miles or more, hundreds through enemy territory, a hundred more through the bandit wilds and rogue lands, wearing little more than I do now” The Lord paused for a moment, glancing down at the thick fur necked cloak. “Or indeed, a good deal less.” He straightened and continued. “I had watched my realm burned, our people massacred as the greatest army ever assembled came against our citadel and overwhelmed us. Each time we sallied out to fight despite the odds. A hopeless fight.”

He drew a sharp breath. “My sword you see here, Averothian Steel; that alone sustained me, that and nothing else but the will to survive, to escape, to be free once again” The man’s shoulders rocked slightly as he laughed quietly to himself. “And that is what you have before you now: A free man. You see, Sir Waldor, I’ve many a time in different ways, so pardon my .. stoicism, if I do not seem perturbed by your promise of death again. Oh, I take you at your word, but that is all the satisfaction I can give you for now. Death is just another freedom I have yet to experience.”

“You can’t kill me now, you know I’m the better swordsman, you saw that at the tourney, saw that in the field. You’re what, 18? 20?” he said, weighing the other man’s figure “Young, fit, fiery, but not yet quite good enough. No, of course you’ll wait. Wait until you’re better with the sword, wait til you've had some training, wait until the time is right to settle the honour of your House and your father” the Lord continued, oblivious to the way Waldor recoiled at those words “Wait until the terms are in your favour and then seek me out. I’m an old man, Sir Waldor, or getting there anyway. Give it a few more summers and I’ll be near Fifty and you’ll be in your prime. I’m sure you’ll decide that will be the right time for you to ‘challenge me’”

Carmine sighed “But very well”, he looked back to the knight, the moonlight just catching what seemed to be a smile, and cleared his cloak from his right side, revealing what he held in his grip. “Yours, I believe?” He held out the greatsword, tilting the pommel to show the distinctive handle. He could see Waldor recognised it. “I found it on the field in Panabuk, had I been a few moments earlier you might have had the chance to wield it against me.” Carmine watched Waldor tense. No doubt the young man was considering drawing his weapon, weighing up if he could take down his foe and reclaim what was his.

“Take it.” The offer was sincere, Carmine stepping forward as he extended his arm with the sword outstretched. “House Graves considers me its enemy, and I have no interest in keeping trophies of my foes.”

"Take it, and if you so truly wish it, strike me down."

--

"You tortured Lord Tarkus Graves," not father. He would not call the man father now - it felt insincere. The formality fit better for this conversation. It gave him a distance from which to act reserved. "I saw all that you did to him. There was nothing left of the man when you had finished. What was that, if not hatred? The desire for revenge against a man who you claim slighted you? He had nothing left. His honour, his mind, his body, stripped from him. What was that, if not hatred?" He struggled to put his thoughts into words, struggled to break through to the heart of the matter: that this nobleman before him, who seemed so calm and fragile and quiet, had brutally tortured a fellow noble, a man, countless times in the dark, in dank places. That was not contempt. Contempt was crushing a rat under your heel, a cockroach, killing with the bow from afar - but killing it cleanly. He had spent his entire life as a peasant, a soldier, a camp follower behind his whore of a mother. He knew what contempt was, had experienced it many times.

Waldor reached forward though, reaching to accept the hilt of the greatsword, uncertain if it were really the late lord's old sword - but it seemed to be, and it felt more right in his hands now that he knew how to better use it. How he had improved since those tourneys, by leaps and bounds. But he wasn't certain, and it wouldn't be clean. Still, he was tempted. Strike the man down now, and end it. His hands tightened on the hilt, gripping the worn leather.

The gentle sound, chuff chuff chuff, of that lioness that plagued his thoughts, the watchful eyes. And, unbidden, he thought of the woman who hated him, Lady Norrel. A pang of stupid longing, followed by regret and shame. And the anger that briefly lent him strength faded. He stepped back, holding the greatsword, and rested it carefully across a chain-clad shoulder.

"I do not hate you." He repeated. "But I will see you on the field of battle."

What other choice did he have? He was crippled by honour.

"I wish you well, Lord Carmine Umpeta Perticta."

--

"Hatred? That was Duty." Carmine answered coldly.

...

"Very well, Sir Waldor," the Lord recovered his position and nodded his head in parting salute. "To Battle we must be."

Two Minor Characters Interact

The girl shivered violently in her fur-trimmed cloak, even though the winter was mild here compared to her childhood estates in the north, moderated by the coastal winds. She wasn't cold. Nearby, Captain Reinolt stood rousing his men, forming them up into lines and files, shouting at each of them, beating a few with his fists or a wooden cudgel. She shielded her eyes, staring across at a nearby village where she could see shadows, men with bows on rooftops.

"Militia," she remarked, surprised.

"Blood-oath," Reinolt snarled, "not you too. First the young lord, and now his girl squire. So there's militia, what of it?"

The girl shook her head, cowed by the crude man's words and cruel eyes.

Waldor had not yet returned from his long walk.

Grief and Rage

"I told you!" Waldor swore bitterly, shouting at the cold air that whipped at his face, charging up ahead at the enemy lines at the front of the company of men. He passed Reinolt, who was jogging near the mid-ranks. He sprinted beyond his squire, who was struggling to lift his shield and her own weapons too. The greatsword was strapped to his back, and his blood-rusted broadsword was held in his right hand. "You didn't listen!" He howled the words until he was hoarse. The chainmail tunic jangled as he ran, and the baldric pulled at him each step.

Somehow the militia had opened a gap in their lines. Instead of defending from their dug in positions, they had been forced to charge into the enemy lines, but the charge started too early - his legs burned as he ran across the uneven ground, muscles cramping, and he hadn't even crossed half the distance yet to the nearest soldier. It had been exactly as he had predicted.

And it could have been averted.

"Damn you!" He snarled, crashing the broadsword into the face of a man who stared at him, stupid with surprise, and he didn't stay to watch the man die. He ran on ahead, abandoning The Hanged Men, leaving them to get pinchered between two enemy companies, fighting desperately for their lives - and holding, and then losing ground. He couldn't think. He didn't care. Anger clouded his thoughts, made every motion jerky and violent. Still, it was easy to kill. Nothing could touch him.

So he killed with impunity.

Behind him, banners fell. The company he had paid to follow him retreated, bearing their wounded with them. His squire fled, a gash bleeding into her eyes. Waldor paused, killed another man, then started to retreat, swearing again, loudly, hatefully. And then he turned, taking to his heels, and ran.

But to his left, a company clustered around a drooping banner. Wounded? he wondered, and watched as the vanguard, surrounded on all sides, was cut down. His sprint slowed - he turned unconsciously toward that fight, only to watch them retreat, bearing a figure with them. He couldn't make them out.

He rammed his broadsword into the belly of an enemy who came too close, then returned to his retreat, following after the streaming backs of his bleeding men.

When he reached the safety of their tents, he collapsed panting to the ground, his rage spent, and felt hollow inside.

To his back, silence. No warm breath on his neck. No prowling cat beyond his shoulder, beyond his sight.

Alone.

Sailing Home in Defeat

"Just the four of you?" The old captain asked, hunched over and wary in the dim light cast by the ensconced torches in the coastal tavern's upstairs room. He had two of his sailors flanking him, impromptu guards during the clandestine meeting, and both the men were underfed - not a good sign among sailors, Waldor thought, but he wasn't exactly in a position to be choosey. Their ship, the Balefire's Lament, had been the only one willing to transport them back to Fissoa with the coast as inundated with soldiers as it was. He supposed, in a way, it was a miracle they had even found one crew willing to risk hanging to see them back to safety - for a price.

"The four," he confirmed, and felt a stab of guilt twist his stomach when he thought of the past few days - his reckless promise to maintain a rearguard so the rest of the army could embark, a night spent awake in the ruins of a burnt mill, listening while Reinolt and his men were hunted down like dogs only a few houses down in the village. His squire had huddled beside him, uncharacteristically silent, unusually afraid, her face wrapped in bandages and covered in dirt. He still wasn't sure how the scouts had made it back - but didn't question the two. They had survived, and that was all that mattered. He had not lost everyone. Not everyone, again. He was still alive.

The old man nodded, and rattled off his prices and departure times; Waldor, only half-listening, accepted and passed a pouch heavy with gold across the table he stood before, feeling the tension in the room bleed away as the money changed hands. The sailors were smiling and talking quietly to themselves. Even the captain seemed relieved. He held his hand out, and Waldor shook it. Then the sailors withdrew, leaving Waldor to sit alone. The scouts took up watch outside the door; his squire sat on the far side of the room, perched on the edge of a small bed. She had turned fourteen recently, he thought, but wasn't sure when it had happened. She had mentioned it after the battle, stiff with shock, her own blood pouring into her eyes: It's my nameday today. Or perhaps: It was my nameday yesterday.

Time had a habit of folding into itself in moments of chaos and grief.

Waldor pulled out a chair and took a seat, slumping forward, his elbows resting against the tabletop. There were still a few hours before their ship departed, and he didn't have anything he needed doing here - so there was nothing to do but wait until it was time to go, then sneak out of the village and to the docks. They had cloaks and dirty faces. He'd wrapped his two swords in linen and bundled them in bed sheets. He'd abandoned his shield. There wasn't much evidence to mark him out as a nobleman, and there was little risk of Falkirk soldiers patrolling the streets in search of him. His men were dead.

He crossed his arms, laid his head down against his forearm, then closed his dark eyes. He felt exhausted, as if something inside him had broken during the course of the battle and he had been forced to carry on despite it, shouldering burden after burden. Lord Tarkus' sword was a familiar, heavy weight against his back, coupled with the second sword bundled there. The only thing that rode at his hip was a dagger. He'd taken it from a dead man.

"You've..." His squire's voice, but with an odd inflection. Concern? Hell.

"Bring me some paper," he instructed, his voice cutting over whatever she had been about to say next, and added, "and some ink. I have letters to write before we leave."

But he hesitated when the quill was in his hands.

He didn't know how to ask for help.

Meira,

I am departing shortly on a ship bound for Fissoa. Your presence at my estate in the city would be appreciated, and your absence will be noted should I arrive and find you elsewhere.

Waldor Graves

Knight of Fissoa

Waldor ran a hand through his hair, staring at the half-written letter before him. Candle wax had dripped onto it, and a smudge of ink darkened the reddish-brown hairs of the patchy beard that had sprung up across his face - days without a shave, scruffy and unkempt. He sat in a small cabin of the sloop he'd chartered back to Fissoa, a bed and table bolted to the floor, the chair he sat on weighted heavily to keep it from moving too drastically in any one direction. His squire was nowhere to be seen; he suspected she was still somewhere above deck, chatting to the sailors. If there was one time when her age became painfully apparent, it was when they sailed - all her noble upbringing forgotten, as with horses, full of questions and giddiness.

"What am I doing?" He asked the empty room, still staring at the letter, then scrubbed at his face and exhaled slowly. He was treading on dangerous ground, that was what he was doing. It was stupid, but he couldn't help himself. He needed an outlet, a vent, some way to talk about what he was experiencing before he went mad from the nightmares of blood and battle -- and guilt. He couldn't talk to the other noblemen and women about it; he'd come to realize every exchange of letters was a political battle, a duel with quills, subtle jabs and always jockeying for position. He needed an equal, someone he could be frank with without fear of betrayal.

He dipped the quill in its inkwell and resumed writing. There were still several letters to go before he could sleep tonight.

Bad Decisions

It had been a long walk from the docks to the Graves estate, and Waldor had made it in silence. The two scouts had booked themselves a stay in the first tavern they had come upon, and he didn't dissuade them from it. They had survived; they would have their fun, drinking and whoring, and then drag themselves home to the barracks later when they'd emptied their coinpurses. He had been tempted to join them, but it wouldn't have been proper.

Ranulf met him at the gates to the manor, and brought his meaty palm up in what Waldor thought would be a salute - but turned out to be a rough cuff to the face. It startled the young man, who staggered back and stared at the older man in surprise and panic, though he was shocked out of his muteness by Ranulf's gruff bawling:

"You idiot boy!" The man shouted at him, "You gods-damned idiot! Inviting her here, and then I've got word that the lady is coming, too? I'm the captain of your household guard, not a steward! What did you expect I'd do? Entertain them both if you'd been late? Fine time that would have been, I'd warrant."

"What are you --" Waldor began, only to be cut off by a string of curses from Ranulf, and a thrown punch. He blocked it against his forearm, but winced, and backed a few steps away. His squire, watching the exchange, looked horrified and on the verge of drawing her shortsword. He waved her away hastily, keeping the bulk of his attention set on Ranulf, wary. " -- talking about?" He finished, holding his hands up placatingly. Ranulf stood there, head lowered, shoulders drawn up, bullishly set and breathing hard. Then he scowled, and his face scrunched up.

"I put her in a guest room. We've got maids in the servants' quarters, so there's no room there. God's blood, besides, do you know how they'd talk?"

"I'll handle it," Waldor murmured quietly, shooting his bemused squire a glance, then nodded toward her. "In the meantime, Ranulf, do you think you can see that she's squared up, and Brett gets a good look at the cut on her forehead? It was deep. I don't want it getting infected."

Ranulf nodded wearily, his bulldog stance relaxing, and stepped past Waldor to usher the confused girl away toward the barracks. He seemed grandfatherly there, if not for his armor and the cudgel belted to his hip.

Waldor rubbed at his face, then continued on toward the foyer doors.

--

He needed to bathe. He was painfully aware of that as he trod across the hallway's carpeted floor, his boots leaving mud streaks behind on the expensive rugs. His tunic was stained. His trousers were torn, and his armor was starting to rust from neglect. His face was still dirty and his upper arms were scratched and scabbed over in places from hiding in bushes and dragging himself through brambles. But he didn't head immediately to his quarters.

Instead, wearing Lord Tarkus' sword at his hip, he headed to the guest room that Meira had been allocated. He stopped before the bedroom door, grasped the sword's gemstone pommel in his hand, and brought his gloved right fist up, knocking. Baseborn, bastard or noble, a woman was always presented with a certain amount of courtesy.

"It's me," he stated, and then, feeling foolish, added: "Waldor."

--

Meira pulls herself out of a book she's reading as if chastised. The book's a great procrastination tool as the awkwardness of this situation strikes her. Do I ask him to come in? Do I open the door and let him in? Do I just open the door and bow?

It takes all of a few moments. She hops up and opens the door to Waldor, immediately bowing. She's dressed well nowadays, more than a nobody. The sword and leathers dumped on the table are looking clean. The sword's new, or at least its scabbard is.

"Sir. At your service."

Taking in Waldor's state properly now, she pales and looks uncomfortable, but that's as far as it goes. She waits for his lead.

--

"Waldor," he reminds her, and seems to hesitate a moment before drawing himself up, keeping his grip on the sword pommel tight. "I didn't mean to interrupt, if you were busy." It's a lie, and not even a sincere one, but he's noticed the book and her state of dress. Courtesy should take precedence here, even if it soon won't have a place anywhere in the estate, and he's too tired to argue with himself, or to be cruel. She was noble once, and had fallen. He had never been noble, but had clawed his way up to a pair of spurs and a title. There was irony in that, he thought, or some kind of humor.

"We'll need to move you out of these quarters when your - the Lady Aristilien arrives." A steady glance, gauging her reaction, before taking a step toward the doorway, into the room, and continuing: "But there are no open beds in the servants' quarters, and the barracks won't due for a woman. I have a proposition for you." Here the steady glance wavers; he glances down, at his right hand, and flexes the fingers of his glove.

--

At the mention of her... of Lady Aristilien rather, Meira is visibly relieved. She nods, stepping aside to give Waldor the room he needs.

Yes Sir... Waldor? I am happy to handle my own accommodation if that helps? You look..." she pauses to consider whether she should say so, and eventually opts on the side of saying too much, "... rough, Waldor. You need rest. A bath?"

As if forgetting - "I will hear your proposition of course, sorry."

--

"I could use a bath," he agrees readily, making his way into the room, and searches for a washtub, uncertain if there's even one in the guest room, or if that was an excess only his quarters provided. "And I feel like sh...it." Impolite, but she was common. He didn't have to guard his tongue around her - the exact reason he'd called her to his estates. He opened his mouth to say more, then shut it with a click of teeth and stared at the far wall, his nerve wavering.

Instead, he took a seat on the edge of the bed, trying to keep from getting too much grime on the sheets, and bowed his head forward.

"My shoulder's stiff," he said instead, and left it at that.

--

Meira is surprised to say the least. She checks outside the door both ways, then closes it.

Kneeling on the bed behind Waldor, she begins to undo the his armour. She focuses on the right shoulder until she remembers no shoulder got specified, so goes for both. She's not judgmental of Waldor, nor impatient. She finds this situation odd, if a little implicit, but she goes with it. She has to. She serves the man.

Making conversation, "How many did you come back with Waldor?" She pauses, before asking more quietly, "Are you all right?"

Exposing the young noble's shoulders, she awkwardly attempts some massage with her calloused hands. It's not exactly professional quality but at least it's got some firmness to it.

--

"Four, including myself and the girl." He means the squire, of course. That's the only girl he ever refers to like that, the only one who warrants that much annoyance and faux-brotherly angst. He keeps his head bowed forward, body tense - a hard body, but not brawny. Scarred along the right side and shoulder, scrapes on his upper arms, the dirty face. His eyes close, and he exhales slowly, but the tension doesn't let up. If anything, he ties himself further into knots at that awkward massage, rebelling against it, or at that touch, or maybe only at the consequences of it.

"The captain and his men were hunted to a man - ten or so of them, I think. The rest died in the battle, during the rout. All things considered, the marshal figures these were good odds and we've won a victory against them even in defeat." The memory of his father, twisting in the breeze. The sound of a rope snapping, a branch cracking, an agonized cry. His mother's hazy, dull eyes. And a sword, flashing from the side, arcing toward his head.

He winces, then tilts his head back, rolling it against his shoulders until his neck gives with a quiet crack.

"I'm tired."

--

Meira gives a startled little laugh, slowly beginning to unbuckle and remove the rest of Waldor's armour.

In silence for a few moments, she eventually apologises.

"I ah... assume you wish me to seek my own bed once you are to rest? I would not wish people to talk tales of you."

"How undressed do you need to be? Or can you handle that yourself?" She's not really nervous, just reflective. Unsure how to handle this particular situation.

--

"I'm tired," he echoes, surprised by her laugh, and shifts to allow her access to the rest of his armor. The tension fades for a few moments, caught up with straps and buckles as he is, then returns tenfold when she speaks again. Beds, rooms. The entire reason he'd come here to her room - to kick her out of it, not to be drawn into it. He draws in a deep breath, then sits straight. The bed makes a noise, some sort of protesting creak. I'm tired, he thinks, as if that's any excuse for what's running through his head. Cool air on skin too long bundled up in chainmail, padding, and that scratchy tunic. He kicks his boots off, listening to them thud against the stone floor.

"But not tired, if that - even makes sense." He goes back to staring at the far wall, the ceiling, anywhere but the woman kneeling behind him. "I can't stop thinking about it all. Every fight I'm in, I go a little more mad. The last one, I broke ranks and ran ahead of the unit. They tried to keep up. The one before that, I had to be dragged away screaming and frothing like a rabid dog. Before that, I don't know. I live, I survive. I spent a day buried under corpses, once. But I lived. Everyone else dies. I don't sleep well. And I can't talk to it with anyone - Sir Ivansen, Lady Norrel. There are some things you can't discuss with the nobility. If I told them even half of what ran through my head, I'd be exiled, committed, killed, I don't know. But it's not honourable to jump at shadows. It's godsdamn craven. And I never used to be like this. I used to be calm, smart. I never risked myself, or my men, without at least the promise of victory. And now, here I am, throwing their lives away like they're nothing."

He goes silent for a few moments, then twists suddenly to face her; it's an abrupt, violent motion. His expression is earnest, almost hopeful. His eyes, however, remain guarded. There's no violence in any of it - just in the turning. And, for awhile, his own age shows. He's still young, however old he feels at the moment. Young and confused and afraid. Well over his head. Younger than her, in fact, though still probably taller, too.

"My proposition is -- this: stay with me while I'm on Fissoan soil. Humor me. You can sleep in my quarters, but I won't demand your virtue if it's precious to you. And I won't pay you in coin unless you ask for it. But as long as you stay here, I'll provide you with books, clothing, whatever you require. And when I go back to the Isle to fight, you can wander as you please."

--

She laughs encouragingly, brushing Waldor's cheek with her finger.

"Aren't I lucky? Permission to keep my virtue - lost long ago I'm afraid, my dear Waldor - and I'm only a whore if I wish to be... " She's strongly amused by this, and not in a bad way. Waldor's young, but really, so is she.

She tilts her head forward to meet foreheads with the noble. Looking into his eyes, she smiles. It's a little curve of her lips. Comforting. Given some moments, she even speaks too - "You will learn to cope with the responsibility. Honour is, after all, a reason to not do what you want to do. Often right, sometimes wrong."

She steals a kiss on his cheek, then his lips. Swift. Confident. Not her first. "I accept your proposition. If a chance to speak without courtly facade is what you desire most, I am happy to oblige."

She takes a deep breath. Thinking. Considering. Not fazed. "I do not know exactly what happened. Just the rumours. Tell me. What bothers you so?"

--

Tell her? Tell her what? The body parts and guts, the wild eyes and gaping wounds? He recoiled at the thought, but not from her - and when she'd finished speaking, he grasped at her shoulder, attempted to press her back against the bed, to kiss her, to do all the things to one woman he'd wished to do to another, but couldn't. Restraint snapped, already frayed beyond salvaging. Responsibility? Honour? Damn it. He craved release of one kind or the other, and if he couldn't talk about fear, then at least he could experience lust. No words. His mouth on hers, or her throat, or against the fabric of her clothes. Happy to oblige. What did he desire most?

Who?

--

Waldor laid awake, staring up at the ceiling, an arm crossed behind his head. Dawn was still a few hours off, and the room was dimly lit. Quiet, too. He still hadn't bathed yet, though the sweat had dried and the dirt on his skin had rubbed off into the sheets for the most part. His clothing had ended up in a jumbled heap on the floor, piled atop his discarded armor. Lord Tarkus' sword had been thrown across one bedpost, hooked by the baldric, and hung with its tip digging against the stone floor. Outside, beyond the hallway and foyer of the manor, he thought he could hear rain. His other arm was hooked about the shoulders of the woman who laid against him, his fingers idly tracing the outside curve of her ear. He wasn't sure if she was still asleep or not. He didn't ask. It would ruin the moment; if he raised his voice now, he'd have to start thinking about all the consequences of his actions, and he wasn't ready to do that just yet.

He felt better, though. The war felt far away here, and that was what he'd wanted out of this deal. Peace.

--

Waldor had returned to his own quarters sometime during the early morning, bathed, and now sat clean-shaven at a cramped oak desk pushed up against the far wall of his room. He perched on a stool, bent over a flickering candle, and read by that light, as well as the light streaming in from the high window above him, a short letter. Then, with a strange expression, he leaned back. He traced the name written across the parchment - his name - with the rough pad of his thumb. He closed his hand into a fist. Then he exhaled slowly, tipped his head back, and shut his eyes. His shoulders sagged, and the part of him that hadn't relaxed since that first fateful battle grudgingly unwound. He reached for the quill resting in its dry inkwell.

He began to write, and for a time that scratching was all that echoed in the room.

Meira,

By the time you get this, I will be on the road to the Fissoan Fields. I expect to only be gone for a day at most, and afterward will be on standby in the city of Fissoa and back at the estate until I am called away to war. Before I return, I want to make sure things are clear between us. I am giving you full rein over my quarters, and a portion of my household staff, but expect you to be scarce when your sister, or other nobility, are present. I will not press your claims to House Aristilien, and I do not want any bastards. There is a horse or two in the stables, and if you can ride, you may ride either of them.

...I hope you are doing well.

Waldor Graves

Knight of Fissoa

--

Physically weary, from life, poor nutrition, wandering alone... the night itself... Meira wakes up late. And alone. She is confused about what happened. Not sure why her, not sure why she went along with it, but she recognizes at her core, she likes him. She gets dressed, tidies the bed, tidies. Gives her time to think. When the letter comes, once she's read it, processed the symbols, she's stunned. Fearful, confused, unsure, she throws on her armour, collects her sword and stalks out from the estate, ignoring the servants who question her. She needs time to think. She has a day or so.

Flashforward: A Military Man

Appointment to Marshal of the Privateers

"Sh*t!"

Waldor ducked behind the side of the beached ferry as a volley of arrows arced past, taking a small squad of men carrying rope unawares. They fell screaming, clutching at their arms, shoulders, faces or chests - wherever the arrows had punctured armor, or flesh. More men, stripped of armor to the waist, rushed out from behind the boat to drag the injured back to safety. The dead lay facedown in the shallow water, trailing blood and pink froth in the surf. Chaos surrounded the ship, people rushing back and forth between it and its smaller longboats, beached nearby.

The young man watched as soldiers ran more rope across the beach under the fire of those wall-bound archers, struggling to drag the ferry about and relaunch it in the treacherous sand. A part of him ached to join them, to abandon his chainmail and quilted surcoat and tie a rope about his waist, but better judgement prevailed in the end. He remained where he was, pressed up against the wooden planks of the shallow ship's hull, shield strapped to one arm and sword held in his other. He wasn't sure why he had his sword drawn; nobody had tried to assault their position yet. It had been instinctual, and they seemed content just taking potshots from afar.

"Get her turned around, and put the poles in!" Another voice, from somewhere to his left - either the captain of the Jackals, he thought, or the ferry captain. "Get us out of here!" More screams, passionate curses.

"Sir Graves!" A weedy voice, high-pitched and nasally, at his side. He looked down to see a young boy crouching by his leg, breathing hard. "I gotta message for you, mister sir. Word from the Grand Duke of all of Fissoa! You's Marshal now."

And just like that, the boy turned and vaulted back up onto the ferry, slithering like a snake on his belly across the deck until he could cower in safety among pigeon cages and crates.

Waldor blinked, stunned into abject confusion, then thumped the edge of his shield against the side of the boat.

"Get us moving again, godsdamnit!"

Frustration and Restlessness Before the March

The muggy summer heat had driven Waldor outside. He stood directly outside the Graves manor house, bent over a scarred stump that chewed up the front of the grassy yard, holding the edges of a detailed map of the southern half of Dwilight. The Isle of Madina, and the western half of the eastern island, had been centered on the thick parchment. Thick lines marked realm boundaries, and thinner ones separated regions and estates. Crude red marks X'd over the names of certain regions marked them as in contention - he drew his finger over Mangai, mimicking those marks, then let his attention wander: Panabuk, Lariabina, Lugagun. Then, lower: Madina Gardens. Madina. His finger paused there, caught between those carefully scratched names, and his hand balled into a loose fist.

He cursed, not for the first time that morning, and glanced toward another scrap of paper. On it, several noble names had been written in a careful hand - his own - and beside them numbers: troop strength, type, condition and ability to stay afield. The last column was full of question marks and slashes.

He could hear Ranulf yelling at several new recruits nearby, and saw out of the corner of his eye a few guardsmen rush past, no doubt jogging ahead to relieve the men stationed at the gates to the estate. A chicken ran around the yard further away, followed by a young, frustrated maid. He watched the chase for a few moments, then shut his eyes. Focus. A glance back at the map, followed by a sharp grimace.

Five troop-leaders. Maybe six. And most of them couldn't return home again if he ordered them to march. The rest of the army was silent, like some slumbering beast, harmless so long as it slept. And, he thought with a twinge, it slept. It left him with very little choice - order a one-way raid on the Isle, support the takeover of their allies... or wait. The last option felt the most sensible, the most safe, would cause the least amount of death and suffering and pain, and yet it was the option he most wanted to discard. He didn't want to wait. He wanted results. He wanted action.

He glowered, sweating under the sun, and ignored the odd looks sent his way by the various household staff and scullions as they scurried in and out of the servants' quarters nearby. He'd stripped to the waist earlier, and his chest was a patchwork assembly of muscle and scars. There were fewer scars than there could have been, though: a few ugly marks by his shoulder, along his upper arm, that puckered rent along his side. They'd stopped aching weeks ago. The rain didn't even faze them anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his squire stride past. She was carrying a bundle of wood in her arms, and wore her quilted surcoat and the arms of her own House with the same stubborn pride as ever. She said nothing to him; she took pains to avoid him, now, and he had no idea why. He didn't question it. Let Ranulf raise her, teach her to fight, and keep her far from the bloody battlefields of this miserable war. She was too young to die.

But.

He paused, recalled something the Girl had said to him once, then looked back down at the map. Five troop-leaders, a distinct lack of funds - his own inability to field his troops across the narrow strait of sea. Allies he could name, but had never seen. Reports he took on good faith. Pangs that threatened to distract him from all the fretting.

He slammed his fist down on the map-draped stump, winced as a splinter dug deeply into the meat of his palm, then tweezed it out using his teeth. He spat to the side, gathered up the papers, left his tunic, and strode straight back toward the broad double doors of his manor-house.

"Get me some fresh ink, a quill, some scrolls!"

Servants startled like birds put to flight to obey his orders.

Astrum and Fissoa Meet - Tragedy Ensues

The forces of Astrum and Fissoa met in Panabuk as allies, but when the Astrum forces started a takeover, Fissoan soldiers mistook it as a sign of aggression and attacked their unofficial allies, causing death and destruction on both sides.

--

Waldor stared at the ensuing chaos and felt the blood drain from his face.

He swore, bitterly.

A Camp in Lugagun

Waldor watched those little pigeons dip off through the air toward their respective camps, messages tied to their orange feet, then sagged back in his chair. It was a rickety thing taken from one of the abandoned farmsteads they'd taken over as central command, but the roof had been recently thatched and the wattle and daub walls kept out the draft. His men loafed outside near a small semi-circle of tents, many of them still bandaged or limping. Three were still lying unconscious on pallets his captain had drug out of the hovel when they'd first arrived, and their resident healer hovered over the trio attentively. Waldor saw this all through the open door of the hut, even if only in uneven glimpses. His scouts - those three, stone-faced men - sat crouched near the remains of a burnt out campfire, poking at the coals, stirring smoke into the air. It kept away the bugs, they said.

Waldor slapped at his arm, wiped a bug-smear off the palm of his hand, and shut his eyes. Balthasar stood near the open doorway, playing doorguard - or butler, Waldor wasn't quite sure. It wasn't that he still disliked the man, but that the man's quiet fawning made him incredibly uncomfortable. That, and the knowledge that his own failure of foresight had cost the captain personally - how many men, again? Thirty? Forty? Several hundred stinking bodies in the breezy autumn sun? - and the man had excused it with a hurried bow, and a ready smile. As if they had been nothing. Ready losses in a war winding down.

Well, Waldor thought with a heart-sick twinge, maybe they were.

He opened his eyes and pushed upright, then left the room without a backwards glance. In the shadows of the hovel he could see it again, that almost-phantom blur of fur and fangs, and hear the quiet, panting snarl of the large cat that had returned to haunt his dreams. It was probably nothing. Or, he reckoned, it was the guilt getting to him - first at his usurpation of the natural order, and now at the thought of a blood-salted, barren field in Panabuk. Or maybe it was the gods, haunting him. But he tried to push that from his mind. Later. He would grieve later. He would make the proper obsequies at the proper temples, bathe himself in pure water to cleanse his spirit, whatever the gods required.

Later.

Now, he had to function.

More than function, he had to organize.

He lifted his helmet and planted it over his head, the metal tarnished enough to not glint in the sunlight, and started away from the little farmstead, toward the larger army encampment to the east. His cloak was plain, and muddy. Only his shield, which he wore strapped across his back, gave any indication of his position in the Fissoan Privateers.

He walked toward where the D'harans were setting up camp, intent on a meeting.

And maybe a drink --

No. It was too early still to celebrate just yet.

--

A pair of Tandaros Corsairs patrolled the trails surrounding the camp of the Dragon Corps. It was quiet except for the birds. All the peasants in the area seemed to have boarded themselves up at home or joined the militia rallying in some secret meetingplace. The two corsairs were tall, bronzed, bearded, and absolutely filthy.

They came across a lone, cloaked Fissoan, whom they recognized from the colors of the shield and style of armor, but failed to recognize as Marshal Waldor. "Oy tha, Fissoan! 'Ow goes ye preparations fe war den? We hope we sailed all this way south fa some good blood-letting, aye!" The two corsairs roared in laughter, the portly one giving the Fissoan a vigorous pat on the back.

The other corsair continued, not waiting for the Fissoan's response, "Aye den, come back to the D'Haran camp, mate. Our patrol should be done by now den." The trio made their way a short distance east, and entered the camp of the Dragon Corps, passing by the bustling D'Haran soldiers, and headed for the tents of the Corsairs and Marshal Ismail.

--

Waldor surprised himself by laughing at the slap to his back, even though it jarred the shield up against his shoulders and against his mail shirt, and reached over without thinking, shoving back companionably at the portly corsair. The line between noble and commoner was always blurred on campaigns, but he'd forced himself to be more reserved among his own men, and hadn't really had the opportunity to mingle yet among the army at large. This was a refreshing change; more than that, it was cathartic.

"Gods be good, there'll be blood enough for the both of us. We wouldn't want you to have spent all that time puking over the railings for nothing, huh?"

He walked along with them easily, comfortable in his own anonymity.

"How's camp security? Nothing to report?"

--

"We've seen no trifles in our camp, mate, other than Fleugweiner's piss-poor cooking," remarked the hairier corsair, prompting a chortle from the portlier one. The laughter was interrupted abruptly by the horn of the watch - the Corsairs and the entire allied camp mustered.

Ismail appeared spontaneously on horseback, and rode up to the trio making their way back - "Oy, men, gear up! Armed peasants on the ridge mean to invite death! Hut-hut!" The marshal began to ride off and circled the trio, and almost started off to keep rallying the forces; he seized the reigns suddenly, noticing the shield bearing markings of the Privateers' Marshal.

"Ho!" Dismounting, Ismail bowed deeply before Waldor: "Hail, Marshal Waldor of the Fissoan Privateers!" The two gruff Corsairs choked with surprise and abruptly took a knee in submission before the allied war marshal. "It is an honor to finally meet you at last! Let us make an offering of peasant blood to commemorate this occasion! Remus, fetch my brother in arms here a horse! Let us lead the charge together, and then, on to the Gardens!"

A sergeant rushed over to the two marshals and offered Waldor a jet black stallion as a mount. "Worry not, brother," explained Ismail, "This great horse will treat you well. He bears more honor than a Vandal king!"

The two marshals took the reigns and mounted up with the assistant of the attendant Corsairs, riding off to join the Fissoan-D'Haran army under way to battle.

Returning to Fissoa from the Shores of Madina Isle

Well, Waldor thought to himself, staring across the deck and at the horizon, that was the last pigeon. The night sky was starting to lighten, bruisy purple smears washing an otherwise black sky with colour, and the stars were winking out one by one. A bird - barely visible as a dark speck among darker specks - dipped low over the waters, skimming the surface before rising higher on cooler winds, and was lost to sight. He watched the last message go out, then bowed his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose. It didn't matter if everything at that moment was peaceful. The army had its orders, messages had been dispatched to the other Marshals, his men were safely aboard the ship and in various states of idleness below deck - but that was all small consolation. He was helpless out in the middle of the Fissoan Strait. He was, both literally and figuratively, adrift.

Above him, swaying in the crow's nest in the dark, a sailor was singing, husky and low and off-key and earnest.

A full thousand miles behind us,

And a hun'dred miles before,

Old ocean waves to waft us

Where wives don't wait no more.

Waldor squinted into the blackness above his head, struggling to make out the sailor there, then gave up and turned his attention to the far off coast. He could see Fissoa rising up in the distance, a dark outline, sprawling across the coast. He crossed his arms over his chest and tensed, feeling a sudden panic seize hold of him - a quiet, creeping unease that made the roll of the ship nauseating.

"Touch sea-sick, milord?" A voice asked, and a man stepped up to Waldor's side, scarred and weathered and stinking of the salt air. He too had his hands crossed over his chest, but there was no tension in him. He was relaxed, staring off into the distance and not at the young nobleman who clenched at his own upper arms.

"That's it," Waldor agreed, lying readily - gratefully - and forced himself to relax, too. The episodes came and went, but no one needed to know he wrestled every day with cowardice and at nights he still woke up in cold sweats, shouting down old nightmares.

"A few more hours, maybe. And then a few more to unload all the men. We'll be back ashore any time, milord, you'll see."

Waldor nodded mutely, thinking of bloody beaches and dying men.

Overhead, that mournful song continued as the city drew steadily closer.