[b][u][center] Adjutor Insula[/center][/u][/b]

[b][center]A Plotter's End[/center][/b]

"Many will die," First Captain Henrick muttered, breaking the silence. 

Horse Master Jacobs had grown increasingly inpatient with his so-called partner in crime, to perhaps a homicidal extent. Now was not the time for self-doubt, and the First Captain was smothering himself in the stuff.

"Yes, but much must be sacrificed in times of war," he said, not bothering to match Henrick's guilty gaze. 

A few moments passed, and the First Captain finally broke - as the Lord Defender imagined he would. Still, it was something the Horse Master was hoping would never come to pass; murder was an ugly business. He stifled a smile, as he thought about his journey from Guardian of the Weak, to Lord of War in a few short weeks. 

"I'm calling it off, Jacobs, Lord Defender be damned. I'm not going to have a thousand names curse me from the underworld," Henrick said, and he turned to leave. "If you follow me, then I will not report any of this. Let us be done with this evil." 

Jacobs nodded, his crow-like features twitching as if in thought. "Alas, my friend," he replied at last, "you're right."

Henrick did not see the dagger, but he felt it. He fell gurgling with a sliced throat; a dozen Sword Brothers looked on, unaffected by the slaughter of their second highest Commander. All men had a price, even Holy men, and the Horse Master had paid generously. 

Wiping Henrick's blood from his blade, Jacobs nodded at the large cage, where within five hundred Karkarthian prisoners stood cramped together. Half-starved, horribly beaten and defeated, they watched him with dull eyes. Their scaled hides had been broken in places, and their tails had been cut. It was a sickening affair, to torture so many in such a way, but the Horse Master needed them angry; he needed them willing enough to save his country from their King. 

"My people took you from your ships, though they denied it," Jacobs yelled at the prisoners; their expressions did not change, though they knew the language well enough. "Your King thinks you dead, yet here you are, shackled like whores. It does not have to remain this way." 

A few growls, but no eyes left the Horse Master. 

"I believe the Lord Defender has promised your freedom, once you have completed your task," Jacobs nodded at one of his attending Sword Brothers, and the man loosened the latch on the cage door. "Go now, and earn your way back into this bastard of a world." 

Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man in this instance, for three reasons. The first and undeniable one was that he was releasing five hundred or so tortured victims, and each of them held him responsible for both their captivity and treatment. The second reason, was that he had chosen to surround himself with ten warriors - though they were plated and well trained, they could not protect him against a tide of hundreds. The third reason, was that he believed the Lord Commander when he had told him that he and the Draconians had reached an agreement, and their interest was not in revenge. No, Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man all over, it would be fair to say.

A brief stampede, and a clatter of steel. 

Horse Master Jacob's head swiftly decorated a makeshift Karkarthian banner, and his men were flayed alive in an hour of savage gratification. Then, the lizards turned their gaze towards the beacon of lights high up above them. The City was undefended; this they had been told. Any other race may have fled, retreated to theri King to report the strange happenings on Adjutor Insula. These lizards however, were the Draconians of Karkarth, and their lust for revenge was tempered by their need to commit to conquest and glory. 

Each one reasoned that it was within them to claim this fragile island; to storm the Citadel, and put the inhabitants to the sword. They could get word out of their achievements to their King, and sit tight as the legions of Karkarth broke across the sea. Yes, they could turn the pitiful human Lord's plan against him, and dine on his flesh that same evening.

[b][center]Peace and War[/center][/b]

"Long live, Guide Charity IX, the last of a long and stupid line," Lord Defender Marcus Aticus said cheerfully.

The Guide's mangled form lay sprawled across the Council Chamber; the six corpses of the Order Guard were nearby. Above the crackling of the hundred or so candles that were littering the place, Marcus could hear the feint sound of bells. He knew why they tolled, and he knew who they tolled for. Without a further pause, he dropped the Karkarthian blade - a thing of jagged obsidian - onto the Guide's corpse, and departed. 

He was caked in gore from head to toe; his blonde hair matted in the stuff. He doubted anyone would recognise him - but there wouldn't be anyone around to do so. A hundred monks and scribes lay dead or dying elsewhere in the Palace, courtesy of his men. He chuckled aloud, as he realised how easy it had been to twist the minds of men devoted wholly to defence and protection of the innocent and the helpless. 

"Throw a few seeds here and there," he sneered, as he walked down the corridor from the Council Chamber to the Bath House. "Let them grow. Add some gold, and praise the Gods of Old, we're away with it." 

He paused briefly, to look through the stained glass window - one of many lining the corridor - and smiled broadly as he saw flames erupting from the dwellings just inside the walls. The Draconians had wasted no time, and they sure were determined; he knew they were looking for him, and more importantly, looking to win a war they couldn't hope to understand. 

Still, no Saviour of the City could play their part clad in the blood of the Guide. He let his robes drop to the floor, scooped them up, and chucked them into a brazier.