[center][h2]The Knights[/h2][/center]

Lost for words, Amon cast a slow look back at Linus, contemplating the man’s dogma. Kolbe was akin to a sharpened blade, forged for nothing but battle in the name of its master. He spoke of evil as if it were an entity in and of itself, and perhaps it was, but he made his purpose sound so singular. What would he be without the evil he loathed? Was it valiance he spoke of, or hunger?

A sharpened blade did not grow dull when purposeless and unused. It was ready to cut whatever it was put to. Only its master retained the ability to discriminate.

Amon faced forward again, rubbing his stubbled chin with the heel of his thumb. Only Kolbe survived of the three men he had traveled with. Why had Magistrate Harking given Captain Serona the men that he did?

“I understand,” he finally answered after a lengthy span, and many steps in the sand. “And agree. Of course.” Amon’s silvery blue eyes gained a faraway look, losing focus on the ground in front of him. “Often the trouble is knowing what evil looks like.”

Poignant, considering the godawful state of Linus’s face. The added mumble was barely audible over the sound of the wind in his ears

 “… Particularly when looking it in the eyes…”

The sight of horses and water in the desert, though welcome, did not bring a drop of joy to either Knight. Amon could not help but feel that he was abandoning his men if he did not at least attempt to stay and look for them. He glanced once at the dusty banner to reassure himself of his duty and steel his resolve. The King [i]must[/i] be retrieved. He [i]must[/i] know of what had happened to this place and his men.

It wasn’t until Amon reached the sturdy, grassy bank that he was able to hurry his pace, tired of trudging through sand. The horses were still packed with saddles, bags, and water skins ready to be refilled in the fresh, cold Neratine. 

Still frightened from the earthquake, the horses nickered and edged away, forcing Amon to approach them more cautiously. There [i]were[/i] only two of them left. His own black stallion, which had been the wise old leader among them, was nowhere to be seen.

“What senseless deaths!” Amon muttered in frustration, referring perhaps more to the missing riders than their steeds. “If this is the work of elves, then they are [i]more[/i] than a nuisance, they are declaring war. Come, Sir Kolbe. We drink our fill and move on. The King must be made to understand what we face.”

The implication, of course, was that King Alonso didn’t understand much of anything.
[hr]
[center][h2]The Ytharien[/h2][/center]

While Annara punished the Knight for crimes only she could define, Aust’s beckoning pulled Lothren’s dark eyes reluctantly back to the Magus lying on the stony floor. Still and breathing shallowly. He was forced by his conscientious friend, rather against his liking, to reconsider what to do with the creature.

Mages were gods made mortal, given the power to shape the earth and suck the life out of creation. The Viceni Magi were lords among their ilk, and gluttons for a power they little understood. Though magic users themselves, elves were prone to fear and disdain them as much as any Aretan. For every drop of arcane arts sipped by the elven race, the Magi consumed entire seas.

This one in particular must have recently expended his the greater part of his strength, likely while subduing and imprisoning the Knight, or Lothren might not have gotten the upper hand.

“[i]He is a complication; he shouldn’t be here. Nor should the Knight,[/i]” Lothren relayed to Aust in his native tongue. “[i]Had we the Viceni Prime Minister as [b]well[/b] as the Aretan King in our midst, I would consider taking him along with our desert faring friend.[/i]” The elf returned his attention to Gawain and fortified his grip on his gun. “[i]But I have the safety of the Ytharien to consider. I would contemplate killing him if he still had the ability to defend himself.[/i]”

The jail was made of stone and dug underground. The fire and its choking cloud should not reach this place. If left here, all that awaited him was the same fate that would meet the rest of the village.

“Do what you feel is merciful,” he added in common tongue, for the benefit of all. “If he is left here, he may wake and flee before the sand lions arrive. His gods can decide what happens to him.” That still left the opportunity for the mage to track the Ytharien, but that risk sat better with Lothren than cold blooded murder.

The glint of a knife quickened the elven leader to a sense of urgency. They had lingered in this place long enough, and Sir Knight had received ample punishment for the moment. Dawn was coming, and it was best the Ytharien returned to camp so they could move onward. 

“Enough,” Lothren commanded after the second beating. “We’ve all suffered at the hands of Knights, but take care that we do not become the same savages they are. We’re to take him alive, and preferably not in pieces, to deliver him to his monarch in working order. Would you like that, Sir Knight?”

The elf unlocked his gun and released the match, which had gone out minutes ago. The arquebus had lost its ability to fire not long after he’d first aimed it, but humans were delightfully ignorant on elven machinery.

“I will gather our horses. Take him up above.” Lothren slung his gun over his shoulder. “The sun should be rising. Let us return to our friends.”

Trusting the Ytharien to their task, the elf turned and walked once again up the steps. Restoring the wretched Knight to his young King should suffice as an act of good faith. 
[hr]
[center][h2]The Knights and Alonso[/h2][/center]

The King would be found only a few hours into the early morning, perched on a high rock with a looking glass.

One of the only benefits to tracking any man through the open desert was a wide field of vision. The land occasionally rolled with hills or suffered jutting rocks, but a caravan was obligated the take the easiest, flattest roads made along the river. The sun was high and the dust kicked up by the earthquake had been left miles behind.

The wheel tracks and hoofprint had been aged by a few days of wind, but here the air had begun to smell of burning. Not like hamlet the Knights had come across the day before, but a from small fire with a tall, thin plume of smoke rising up above some short cliffs. Sunlight beat down over the yellow desert, exposing nearly everything to the searching eye. 

Sat lazily on his rock, clothed in bright red and gold, and grasping his gold plated scope was the sandy haired Alan of Marion Bay.

The caravan was hidden in the shade of the cliffs behind him. After waking up the dawn watch for the [i]third[/i] time on his way out to relieve himself, Alan had begrudgingly sent the stupid old dwarf to sleep with the other elves. If he couldn’t stay awake alert the caravan to incoming danger or the return of their fellows, then someone [i]else[/i] would have to.

Couldn’t sleep himself, anyway. Felt too ill in his head.

“Two horsemen?” he mumbled to himself, attempting to find them through the looking glass. “What are they doing out… is that a standard?” Found them. Oh [i]hell[/i]. “That’s [i]my[/i] standard!” 

When Alonso scrabbled off of his rock in a damn hurry—dropping his scope in the process and skidding as he had to pivot back to grab it—Amon knew. He almost laughed, but he was too angry.

“His Highness!” he declared, with as much scorn as he could without sounding traitorous. Kicking his horse, he rallied his comrade. “Sir Kolbe!” 

Not a few moments later, the King reappeared from around the squat cliff astride a white mare in full gallop. Hoofbeats left a dusty trail behind him as he headed for the river, as hard and fast as the horse would agree to. A short cape fluttered around his shoulders and back as the King leaned into the run. It was an old horse that would quickly tire. He could not hope to outrun his Knights, but he had to at least lead them away from the caravan if he could. 

No telling what they would do to each other.