@Dynamo Frokane Andreyich. I didn't mean that there should be laws against saying such thing. I meant that there are some positions which are so vile that it would be best if people didn't believe in them.
The moment had finally come, as now the brigade Lycaon had assembled stood in formation, being one among many. They certainly stood out among the plethora of well-trained and heavily armored regiments, but overall it was not too odd. After all, it was often in the army that there was the militia, and it was often that they were the first ones to die. Lycaon’s brigade knew nothing of this sort; they only knew that they were in a place far away from home, among people that they did not know. They felt and looked like lost children, and for now they indeed were, especially those that were like Herona. Herona was nervous, and for the obvious reason. There was that fear that she would die. Until now she hadn’t really thought about it, but now it was hard to think of anything else. She was at least not in the front row, but in the third.
As she stood stationary, like everyone else, Herona saw at last Lycaon enter. She at first did not know who he was, but when he entered on his white horse, in his shining plate armor, and with his pale hair and skin she could have sworn that rays of light were emitting from him. But her eyes deceived her. From behind him came Sir Daeleth, Sir Glynda, and Sir Sayer, but it was Lycaon who occupied the attention the men and women of his force.
“Alright, men! Stand tall, and by the gods keep yourselves quiet, lest you want a good beating!” Sir Daeleth shouted. “Presenting Lord Lycaon, our Grandmaster of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor!”
“May grace be upon you, warriors of the Holy Order of Saint Elenor, our patron heaven-sent, bringer of wisdom and theology,” Lycaon said. “Hear me, children of Formath, and may peace reign over your gentle hearts, and your bodies be steady, for the gods themselves stand at your side. And what greater advantage can there be than that? Our enemies indeed are plentiful and – I shall not deny it – mighty, but there is no might which the gods cannot fell. Mountains they may destroy, kingdoms they may vanquish, and island they may sink; the mere army of a pretender is nothing to their grand providence. Now, the treacherous House of Manshrew has dared to assail against our great and gracious king, and attempts to seize the throne for himself. It is the aim of that man Andrew Manshrew, ever ignominious and ignoble as he is, to raze our homes, to enslave the young and old, and slay those in the prime of their lives. Yet because of your actions here, that destruction shall be averted, and ruin shall fall on his house. So march bravely, men of our Order, and see that the gods and fortune favor the bold.”
Such were the words of Lycaon. They were not words that were very easy for Lycaon to say, for if the world was truly fair and just he would have been on the opposing side, and would rather be praising Andrew. Many in Lycaon’s brigade were still nervous, but the nerves were not overwhelming. They had been told so many times of the glories of the war, and the honors that they would receive, that they had begun to believe it. That is not even including the anticipation they had knowing that they were soon to receive loot. As Herona heard her fellows cheer when Lycaon finished his words and an easiness reigned among them, there were as an easiness that reigned in herself as well. However, it was to be short-lived, for they were soon to see that nice and reassuring words would not prepare them for what lay ahead. Lycaon knew this, of course, and had no illusions about what would follow. Yet he needed morale among his militia. It was one of the strange things about the art of war, that men fought better when they were under the sways of illusions.
Then came the waiting. Lycaon stood upon his white horse at the front of his brigade, his face free from any signs of emotion. Then at last, when the nervousness was again beginning to return to his troops the battle properly began, and they all saw in the distance the great elephants of House Manshrew on the horizon. A sense of dread and fear once again was fully upon the soldiers of Lycaon’s brigade. They had never been in battle in all their lives, and now it seemed that their first enemies would be elephants, mighty beasts to them that looked like monsters which would trample them underfoot in an instant without a moment of hesitation, and Lycaon knew that such thoughts were not far wrong.
“Fear not, brave warriors of the divine,” Lycaon said. “And remember well this: that the gods watch over and guide the path we now tread upon. With right-guided direction and divine aid you will be delivered from this day victorious and clad with honors. And besides, you do not fight alone, my friends, and if you wish to see how these beasts will be slain, look no further than our allies.”
“So, Patrick,” Sir Daeleth said. “How will you handle this?”
After the elephants the multitude of forces of House Manshrew came into sight, and the closest of these was the light cavalry. The Manshrew elephants had gone charging into the battlefield, with the light cavalry charging not far behind them. Lycaon and his mounted knights stood in the front unflinching, while the knights who stood as officers among the common soldiers kept order as much as they could. Herona could not help herself from shaking. This tension, this feeling, it was the same as when her lord had was standing in front of her and holding the knife bloodied with her sister’s blood. Her breath, no matter how deep and steady she was breathing, felt thin, and every part of her was coursing with an unwelcome unnerving tension. Yet there would have been no use fleeing. She had already left home for good, and it seemed that the battlefield was her new home, even if it meant only a quick death. Not that she could flee now anyway.
Patrick had given the order for the archers to target the light cavalry, instead of the charging elephants in front of them. Lycaon had nearly lost hope in Patrick when this order had come. He could not see what the use was in focusing on an inferior threat, especially when the superior threat was one that threatened to trample over the vanguard and cut deep through their lines, perhaps all the way back to the rear. Then squadrons of mages quickly rose out, and before the elephants reached the lines of the lines of the de Reimer army, they rode in front of the barrels, and as the war elephants of Manshrew reached close the mages made their plans known. These barrels were filled with water, and so this water the mages drew out and froze, and created huge spikes of water which stabbed through the war elephants. So these great beasts were felled to the ground, and many in Lycaon’s brigade could not help but give a sigh of relief. Yet the battle was far from over, and their duty had not been lightened at all, as they were soon to learn.
“Ready yourselves!” Lycaon said. “Here is where the battle truly begins!”
As Herona saw the cavalry drawing near her she began to realize that she had no idea what she was doing. She was holding her spear in one hand and her shield in the other, and had begun to get a feel for them, but she had never been a real fighter, and she was not so sure she could stand her ground against an army of men whose bread depended on their skill in killing. She looked around to see if anyone was feeling the same, as if she were some greater reader of expressions. Rather inappropriately, she saw faces that showed fear, and realized that perhaps her own face was probably looking similar, though the feelings running through her now were far too complex merely to be encapsulated in that one, simple, vague word “fear.”
Elsewhere were Lycaon and his mounted knights, who were at the front. They served as the elite vanguard, and clad in their shining plate armor they stood out. They saw the light cavalry of the Manshrew Army coming, but it did not phase them, and their stares remained hard and resolute.
“Let them come!” Sir Sayer said. “They know not what terrors they now face. Whoever comes and faces me shall have their head thrust from their neck!”
“And looks like you’ll like you’ll have plenty of chances, Sayer,” Sir Daeleth said. “Look at that army. Don’t think there’s been a battle quite like it since the last war. Ah, imagine if old King John could see us now; it’s like the last war never happened.”
Lycaon and his mounted knights were in the front, and as the light cavalry charged towards them they gave their own counter-charge. Lycaon gave a slap of the reins, his steed charging ahead, and his mounted knights followed him closely. Holding his sword high, Lycaon struck one of the light cavalry in the foremost rank by the side of his torso, which sent him tumbling to the ground. To Lycaon’s right was Sir Daeleth, who shouted orders barely heard to his compatriots as he rose his sword, fleetly striking down two of the light cavalry. Sir Sayer’s energetic shouts were lost in the cries and clank of battle, but his sword, which he struck with rapidity and savage strength, struck Manshrew cavalrymen from their seats, as they tried to charge forward. He was struck in the shoulder, but he got through the pain, and the plate held strong, and with his blade both hewed through the flesh of horses and struck down the light cavalrymen from their steeds. Yet he no longer had the enthusiasm that he had in youth, and did not go running off thick into enemy lines, no matter how much he wished to. He was the one leading the counter-charge, and they seemed to have the advantage for a time. Yet their numbers were not great enough to stop the light cavalry from getting through.
But they were too few in number and could not hope to hold the whole line. That responsibility fell to Lycaon’s militia. Though they were only light cavalry, to these unexperienced men and women they appeared to be so much more, and Herona felt that she had never seen a more fearsome sight. Herona, her heart racing, held out her spear as far she could while still having a tight grip upon it, and held her spear up high. Her sigh of relief from when the elephants fell could not even be recalled now. One of the cavalry came straight for her, his lance aimed straight for. She rose her shield, and felt the strength of the spear coming against her. The blow was heavy, but Herona held strong. She had no choice, after all, for to fail here was to die. Then her spear plunged into the cavalryman’s horse. The horse made a great sound, and then fell down to the ground. She tried to pull it back out, but it would not come easily. She felt a rising urge to panic. “This is the end,” she thought, “I’ve done it now. Now I have no weapon, and I am just like a fly caught in a web.”
Sounder thoughts took the day, however. Fueled by an adrenaline Herona could only half understand that came from her furious fear, she quickly drew her axe. However, already a new charging cavalryman had come to replace the last. Thanks the ranks behind her, Herona survived the force of the charging horse, and quickly swung her axe, and killed the horse, half-cutting off its head, which still swung from its neck. A change was coming over Herona, though slowly, and was coming over her peers who had still survived. She saw that many had already fallen, mostly those who were on her side.
Yet the power of charge was weakening. It was then that Herona learned that a charge is very strong at first, but if it does not succeed very quickly it will probably fail if the other side is able to stay together. It did not matter if many were killed, for many of them had indeed been killed, but as long as they kept strong and kept the formation and kept their spears they indeed would have a chance. In that moment there was just an opening that allowed Herona to do something which, in her adrenaline-filled trance mind, gave her a great advantage, though it was only a minor thing. She picked up a spear, and its owner would not miss it, as he was dead. Herona that day proved that she was not a coward. She remained at the frontline. She felt like an eternity passed on the battlefield, but even so she never shrunk. The cavalrymen struck at her, but Herona kept her shield up. She thought to herself, “With this shield I am a turtle. As long as my shell is in the right place I shall be invincible, and I shan’t die.” And with her spear she thrust forward. Not as deep as last time, because she did not want to lose this spear too, but she did thrust deep enough. She saw many men, on her side and on the others, fall in the grime of the battle. Some of the men she felled herself, and some of the horses.
“Fight on, men!” Herona heard Lycaon shout, even over the sound of battle. He must have been near, and his voice was louder than she had previously thought. “Their momentum is gone! The day shall soon be ours! A holy warrior does not cower in the face of evil!”
Lycaon’s knights had held the line where they had been, and now moved to help the untrained militia. Their numbers were too small to make the final push, but the knights, charging through their ranks and hacking and piercing at the armor of the light cavalry with lances and swords, while their own plate were not so easily conquered. Lycaon rode with Sir Daeleth by his side. In the cramped and hurried battlefield Lycaon held one hand on his rein and the other on his sword. He charged towards the light cavalry, the weight of the pace of his knight’s horses pushing them back, and as he approached one of the cavalrymen struck him down from his horse and killed him by a swift strike to the neck. The knights were a welcome sight to the militia, at least the ones who were near them like Herona was, who even now had trouble with the cavalry, even if they could not make up the whole difference.
It was then that the Anjervine heavy cavalry joined, and it seemed now that a truly sufficient cavalry force arrived. And now the light cavalry of Manshrew could but only struggle, and many of them began to fall. Sir Sayer was at the front, barking orders. He was a warrior through and through, and his enthusiasm and energy had not even begun to fade. His detachment of the knights joined up with the men of Anjervine and charged at the light cavalry. Elsewhere, at the head of the militia was Sir Raeya. She had stood strong, and as their commander they had stayed together. Now at her very presence they seemed to rally, as if she was the cord holding them together. Anjervine would not be the only ones who would fight against the light cavalry. Lycaon’s forces kept their line. The knights stood as the vanguard and remained as a strong front, while the militia relied on strength in numbers and spears. And Herona stood strong. She remained a turtle, but was a turtle with a tusk. She simply kept her shield up, and she kept her spear ready.
Lycaon did not expect their newfound success to last long. Andrew he knew was a brilliant commander, and he would not allow the vanguard’s charge to be in vain. To allow such, Lycaon knew, would be a great loss and extraordinary setback. So he was not at all surprised when Manshrew’s infantry came as reinforcements to the light cavalry’s aid. Lycaon’s knights stood firm against the Lannistark soldiers as they came.
“At last they come!” Sir Sayer said. “Men, it is time to hew some necks from their heads! Come, they stand no chance against both Anjervine and us!”
Sir Sayer charged ahead with his section of the knights. The fighting of the Lannistarks was brutal and strange, their way of fighting chaotic. Sir Sayer was in the vanguard and charged ahead, trampling over one of the soldiers and then struck hard against the armor of another who was beside him and threw him down to the ground, but then was felled from his horse, a sword penetrating deep into the flesh of the horse’s side. Sir Sayer was thrown to the ground, but he quickly rose himself up. A sword went down towards him, but Sir Sayer deflected it by rising his left arm that had his buckler attached to it. Then Sir Sayer struck his sword hard against his opponent, knocking him to the ground, and then slid his sword into the slit in the Lannistark’s helmet.
“Bah! What sort of fighting is this?” Sir Sayer said. “Bastards, the lot of them!”
“Sir!” it was one of Sir Sayer’s knights. “Shall we withdraw?”
“Gods! No! Continue the charge, and pay heed to King Patrick and Lord Lycaon’s orders,” Sir Sayer said. “As for myself, I’ve no choice but to withdraw for now.”
Then Lycaon saw none other than Andrew before him, mounted on his horse, as he was charging forward. It had been many years since they had met, but it was a face that Lycaon knew well. He would not forget his commander, the ever dutiful fellow servant of the man who was once the rightful king. Yet he was now an enemy – the enemy – his nobility notwithstanding. So Lycaon struck the reins on his horse, and then charged ahead. He came against Lycaon, and his sword struck Andrew’s steed. For Lycaon it was a terrible sight, to strike down Andrew’s noble horse and throw him to the ground.
“It is a shame that we must meet again in such a fashion, my king,” Lycaon said. “Yet this is fate.”
An element that Lycaon certainly had not taken account of was the Grim Company, or the Company that served under Lady Grim. Lycaon was taken aback by the look of them. They had not completely fallen out of the earshot of his scouts, but all that Lycaon knew of this mercenary company was their devastatingly good looks. They look more like they belonged in the temple as statuaries than as soldiers on the battlefield. Nonetheless, Lycaon knew better than to underestimate a mercenary company. His face unchanging, he looked to Sir Daeleth and Sir Glynda, and saw that they were ready, and would do what was necessary. So the Knights of the Order of Saint Elenor began their charge. A man standing beside Lady Grim with a foreign but distinctly human face rushed forward, but Sir Daeleth rushed forward and met his strange sword with the flat, circular hand. Then as his companions rushed to his aid Sir Daeleth’s horse flattened them with his hooves, and with his sword Sir Daeleth struck two of them. Then he withdrew back. Lycaon looked straight at the leader of the company, the so-called Lady Grim, it seemed, and she stared back with venom he had rarely ever saw. It was not a venom of hate or some other dull thing – such things are reserved for the lowly – but of pure, unsullied ferocity. Lycaon’s horse charged forward at full speed, but Lady Grim without a pause in her demeanor struck a bolt of lightning at him, which struck the horse. Yet Lycaon was not going without a fight, and even as he was going down his sword skidded her helmet. Even as his horse went down he rose himself, and blocked a slash of her sword.
Lycaon was impressed, and already her blade had taken him back to a time when he had been young, when he had truly believed in the Code of Chivalry as more than a useful charade, when kingship and honor went hand-and-hand, and when his face was more than a mask. Right now, however, he wore no mask and conjured no illusions. Lycaon expression changed, subtly, but enough for Lady Grim to take a notice, and for even a hint of surprise to be seen in her face; a look which was soon gone. They said no words. None were necessary, nor could they had hope to say any words that were appropriate. Before Lycaon had looked like a knight, perhaps, but not a warrior; yet now was different. Lycaon pushed their blades to the side, and they dislodged from each other, but Lady Grim did not take a step back, and gave a great shove as Lycaon tried to step forward, pushing him back. Lycaon did not retreat, rising his sword with the speed, strength, and suddenness of a lightning bolt, but Lady Grim was ready for him, and as soon as she parried was giving a strike of her own. So they struck and parried, struck and parried.
Then lightning, the bane of all men-at-arms, came from her hand, but before she had time Lycaon quickly dashed forward, tackling her, and the lightning went past him. Then he rose his sword and struck at Lady Grim, denting her armor. The pain was great, but then flames came from all directions from her, burning Lycaon and forcing to dash backwards, and then Lady Grim put her hand to her chest, healing it. Lycaon struck at Lady Grim, their swords meeting, and from her other hand she summoned fire. Rising her left hand the flames avoided his head, and with the strength of his plate traversed the flame. He saw that her magical power was draining quickly, and as long as he continued to hold out she would soon have nothing but her sword. She shot a bolt of lightning suddenly; he torpedoed ahead suddenly. Lycaon felt like he was cooking, but had still struck ahead. Sparks still flying, they both struck at each other ferociously. Then Lycaon saw an opening. He struck at her arm, so hard he was half certain he broke it, then disarmed her by swiping away her sword. And then he struck at her multiple times, wounding her, until at last one last spell of lightning came from her hands, throwing Lycaon back and wounding him. His men came to him and hers came to her. It seemed, however, in the end, that Lycaon was better off, and as Sir Glynda was helping him he raised himself up, and drew up his sword once again.
“I would say that that was hasty of you, milord,” Sir Glynda said. “But it seems they are withdrawing, now that their leader has been dealt with. But, milord, are you quite sure you are alright?”
“I’ve dealt with worse,” Lycaon said. “If you wish to help, lend me a horse.”
“At once, milord!” Sir Glynda said.
Elsewhere the militia stood strong. The fighting-style of the Lannistark was strange, and their strength was great. Yet with Sir Raeya at their head the militia stood strong. She stood at the front, shouting orders, and fighting alongside her men as though she was an equal among them. Her strength was unfading and as fearsome as that of a lion. She had slain already her fair share of the men of Manshrew, and now another of the Lannistark came for her. Before he had a time to strike Sir Raeya rose her Warhammer and hit against his helmet, the metal caving inwards from the power of the blow, and he fell down to the ground. The battle continued, and Sir Raeya was felled, a sword put through her neck. She gave one last strike of her Warhammer, crushing the skull of her assailant with a clash, before she went falling down to the ground. The militia might have retreated were they not so hemmed in by allies on one side and enemies on the other, and so they had no choice but to continue on in retribution for their fallen commander. As Sir Raeya’s body fell down to the ground, there was a fellow knight who drew up her body. She rose herself up, and as one of the Lannistark went to meet her she gave a clean strike, cutting through his neck. Another came, but she struck again with speed and precision, and he too fell. Sir Raeya was not yet dead, and looked to her forces, and gave them one last order.
“I may have fallen…” Sir Raeya said. “But you must fight on! Do not falter, and force them to see your heart…This is my last order to you, keep formation, and do not withdraw until the order comes.”
And soon after the life drained completely from Sir Raeya, and that knight who had grabbed her body still held her. There soon came a dozen or so knights who were dismounted, led by Sir Sayer. They were hardly reinforcement, but they took the body of Sir Raeya away and to safety.
“Sir Raeya, I never thought this day would come,” Sir Sayer said, his tears only unseen because of his helmet. “You were honorable both in life and death. But enough! Gwladus, you and I, once again, my daughter, shall show them fear once again.
Even as the knights drew the body back, the battle had not ceased. Sir Sayer was now the one barking orders, though he kept to the commandment that Sir Raeya had stated. Sir Gwladus was no commander, but she, for what it was worth, was the mightiest one there, and struck faster and stronger than either Sir Raeya or Sir Sayer could. Sir Herona kept her shield up, and her spear ready. She felt the awesome force of some sword against her shield, but she kept strong. All around her she saw men and women falling to ground, dying or dead already. She put all her force into a strike of her spear. It struck the armor of one of the Lannistark infantryman in the knee. And soon she was striking again. Lycaon was with Sir Daeleth, mounted upon their horses, and brought their sword down upon those Manshrew infantrymen down below, striking again and again. It had not been years since Lycaon had been in such a battle, and took him back again to a time which now only survived only in his memory, to the time of the civil war.
Despite their intense effort they could not overcome the combined power of the Manshrew infantry and light cavalry. It seems that in the end, no matter how matter how much courage a militia could muster up, they were still only a militia. The battle was far from over, and many more would have to die for it to end, but Manshrew was gaining the advantage. Then there came the order from Patrick for the infantry to withdraw, and Lycaon gladly acquiesced. He gave the command, and his knights gladly gave the order. Then Lycaon’s brigade withdrew quickly, and allowed the Cawanor heavy infantry to take their place. Herona was glad to be gone. She now knew war, and to put simply, she wished she could un-know it. Yet Herona saw that they were still chasing her. She lifted her shield to block the blows, and struck her spear to get them to leave. She felt the spear draw true, and hit hard against steel plate, but the assault did not cease. She felt something sharp hit her leg, and saw that a blade had just cut through the leg. Herona thought that maybe this was it, and the time had finally come. Gods’ know that it had already come for plenty of others. She would fight until the end, at least. Yet that was when Herona saw again that knight, Sir Gwladus, coming to her aid. Herona thought she was moving quite fast for being in plate armor. Sir Gwladus brought up her sword, and struck down quickly two men, and pulled back Herona, holding her by her shoulder.
Their eyes met for a time, but even so, they said nothing to each other. Not that it would have mattered. Their words would have been lost in the din of battle. They did not linger together long, and soon Herona was retreating alone. She saw a familiar face as she was on the way. It was that strawberry-haired nobleman she had seen before. He looked injured and looked to be struggling to get along, so she drew him up, and put his arm around her, and carried him along in this way. He did not try to resist her, no matter how prideful he was. To be alive was better than to be dead.
Then Lycaon quickly withdrew from his spot, and continued the effort to cover his wavering force.
The Manshrew forces continued to give chase, even as they were withdrawing. “Quite an unchivalrous move,” Lycaon thought to himself. “But like a boar who smells blood, they can’t but charge forward, I suppose.” Some of the militia continued to die, as they were chased by the Manshrew forces, but most were able to get away safely, as Lycaon’s knights continued fighting until the militia started to gain some space and were able to retreat more safely. Atop of his armored white horse Lycaon gave a strike of his steel sword, its tip reaching slightly passed a Lannistark soldiers neck, his head thrown from his neck. Another charged forward, but Lycaon, careful at the reins, turned his horse at just the right time, and its hoofs went trampling over another one of the Lannistark. Soon his militia were out of the way, and the brigade now gladly took its place as the reserve. Lycaon retreated back with the rest of his knights, and in his unchanging smile there was the ever small hint of satisfaction, for as far as he was concerned he had won a great victory. They kept formation, but Lycaon knew that their purpose was now fulfilled in this battle, and now they were too reduced to be expected to rejoin the battle. Yet it was not this battle that was important for Lycaon, but the many later ones.
And as they were riding back Sir Daeleth exclaimed, “What a battle! It’s been since we’ve seen anything like it, hasn’t it? Looks like we’ve lost a lot of our own though; a sorry thing that. Not that I could’ve expected anything else.”
“The tree withers in winter and blooms in spring, and so too shall our army,” Lycaon said. “And thus we shall return once again to the fields and cities of this kingdom, and harvest a new crop amidst the sons and daughters of our kingdom. And we shall return even mightier and more plentiful than before, now that ours have felt the sting of the frost of war. Yet we shall not be rejoining a battle anytime soon. I have fulfilled my promise to the King. I have made a brigade to help him in his battle. Now I have a brigade of my own, which belongs to the Order. And it shall be even larger the next time, if I can help it. Yet we will never again be a militia. This slaughter I shall never allow to happen again. No, when my brigade returns to the battlefield again we shall be among the great armies of this land.”
“Okay,” Sir Daeleth said. “But what do we do now? Besides get a drink. Gods know I could use one.”
“After today we no doubt will have earned it. Yet for now our army can only wait,” Lycaon said. “The Concord will be victorious. Now it is only a matter of time. One day Andrew’s soul will dwell among the gods while Duncan and Patrick’s will squander in hell, but virtue cannot bring happiness in ambition, even if it can bring happiness. Andrew may be a great commander, but the odds were against him today. Patrick I think is his equal, or more, as a general. I do not think he ever really had a chance, with his elephants being taken out so quickly, and with the aid of Blackwell.”
“Maybe,” Sir Daeleth said.
As the battle carried on, the men of Cawanor engaged in battle with the men of Lannistark, and Cawanor held firmly the advantage. And as the Anjervine Cavalry attacked from the sides and the Blackwell army came striking again and again against the forces of Manshrew. It seemed Andrew gave the order to retreat, as the Manshrew army soon gave a full-scale withdrawal. The Blackwell army stopped a quick retreat. Lycaon could tell that Andrew’s force was not quite as large and impressive when they finally broke through and managed to escape. Sir Glynda and Sir Sayer now approached Lycaon. Sir Glynda still had her horse, while Sir Sayer did not.
“Standing a little shorter, Sayer?” Sir Daeleth said.
“There is no shame in it,” Sir Sayer said. “It only means that I led as first among equal amongst my men, as the heroes of old did, though in this decadent age such courage is now a novelty. In battle my horse, an ever trustworthy company, was slain, though thankful I have returned but a little harmed myself. And alas, I bring also terrible news with me. Our dearest friend, Sir Raeya, perished in the fight as she led our new cubs into their first battle. At least she found an honorable end. Though, in truth, that does not comfort me, for the void of her absence is not filled at all.”
There was a silence for a moment.
“That is heavy news,” Sir Glynda said.
“Indeed it is,” Sir Sayer said. “Yet…I say we must do what we can to honor her memory.”
And they nodded in agreement.
“Were we on the other side I might curse the name of the de Reimers, maybe be spurred on by anger and hate,” Sir Daeleth said. “But now I can only mourn.”
“Just as Saint Elenor said, ‘To find the righteous is to seek a Ghost Orchid,’1 and Raeya will truly was our Ghost Orchid. She will have a ceremony and honors worthy of a person of her character and deeds. And our mourning, too shall be done in the proper way.” Lycaon said. “But the battle is not yet over, even if the fighting is.”
“Scavenging,” Sir Daeleth said. “It’s a dirty business, though a necessary one. Armies couldn’t very well function without it, though.”
