[M/IC] The Song of Excalibur

[Q]

East of the Red Fields, somewhere in central Grecca...

"Skipari!"

It was Hester's hoarse voice, weary of the long ride from their sanctuarium in the north to the plains east of the Red Fields and west of the statue of the Son. This was far from no-man's-land, but the wide plains and low hills proved cumbersome to traverse in the snowstorm. Finding a suitable place to sleep would be difficult.

It was solace that most of the Argentinians had broken from Quintilius' command. However heartbreaking it was, the smaller silver-plumed warband would ride far quicker than the full force of the Argent, who were now riding for the Red Fields under the command of Milos of Argentos and Sifra of Essarch.

Hester the Horsemistress continued her report. "The peasantry was frightened. It seems our esteemed king," the sarcasm was apparent, "marches on Latia's camelons somewhere near here." "Godfrey's scattered forces have retreated east, and I've heard whispers of another siege upon Skalagos from a traveler at the longhouse." Vitos, paired off with Hester for his keen pathfindingskills, raised an eyebrow at the mention of the traveler - Hester had bedded him for his information, even though the man was obviously of Camelotian descent. Regardless, he was not to judge. The women, Hester in particular, were aware that their adventurous life could be cut short any second and thus tried living it to the fullest, much like their wild-mannered captain.

Quintilius was smoking his pipe, absent of opium, with one foot on a rock and overlooking the steppes-transformed-to-tundra. "Mh." he turned his head. "I fear for Dame Godfrey. She might yet prove vital to the-" Hester rudely interrupted him; "Think not with your cock, Quintilius! Pff. She is some noble knight with no regard for anything beyond the seas." Quintilius sulked in acceptance. She was both right and still wearing the purple plumed helmet.

The Argent's captain continued. "We should find a place to rest. The eastern ridge should cover us from the blizzard." He padded Vitos on the shoulder, knowing his mind before he spoke. "Skalagos can wait. Before a Ghath fortress falls, it will be another week to the least." Quintilius turned to his Argentinians, a band of seven strong.

"Riders!" "We canter to the east, to cower from Axinius' wrath!"

The Argentinians crossed the river and rode for the first rocks east. The harsh weather made it difficult to navigate, but this was not the first time Quintilius, Brynn and Vitos traveled through the Greccan heartlands. With Æsa and Ætta's lances at the rear, the warband disappeared into the white winds.

__________________________________________________ ___________

The Argentinian's encampment at the Red Fields

"Brother!"

Milos dismounted his horse and hugged his elder brother. It had been almost a month since he rode out of the silver gates of Argentos. Whereas Milos was clothed in a practical attire, his brother, Ghalimas, only accepted the finest of silk. Ghalimas was a large man - both in length and width. Like the typical Argentinian he was spoiled by the riches from the mountains and a pompous fool at heart. His three-hundred men were from the periphery of Argentos, most of them peasant skirmishers, with only sixty-or-so men worthy of the Argentinian shield.

"Bring out the wine!" Ghalimas ordered one of his peasant warriors. The rest of Milos' argentinians arrived soon after, some fifty riders still recovering from the battle at Latia. Most of them knew eachother well. After all, Argentos was a small city. "Has the fool fallen in battle?" Ghalimas noted the absence of Quintilius and the Fraulanx, save for Sifra and her sworn sisters.

"Nay." Milos replied with a determined frown on his face. "Our lokhagos spits words of apocalypse. I fear the man has finally lost his mind. He rode for Aratos with his entourage, two nights past." "Preposterous!" Ghalimas decreed. He would press further, were it not for Milos' conflicted look. "Find rest, little brother. Meet us in our command tent for strategics before dawn."

At the same time, Sifra peered over the greccan army. Warriors from all regions, bearing flags she did not know. True loyalty to King Gaiseric was frowned upon in the foreign circles of Argentos, but it was inspiring to see so many men dedicated to preventing Camelot's destructive force. And unlike most of her sisters-in-arms, she knew how to traverse the political ladder. Perhaps it was wise to find the field marshal Rha'az the Whoreslayer, as her late lokhagos frequently called him, before the battle begun.



The Red Fields, Rha'az' command tent

Sifra's braided blonde hair shone in the fading sun as she approached the command tent. While Quintilius was fairly known throughout Grecca for his exploits on the coast of Essarch, Greccan nobility might look down on a foreign maiden representing a declining city-state that only offered three-hundred men for the battle to come. But she gave her word to her lokhagos to find Rha'az and tell discuss the prophecy, despite not believing in visions from the Pantheon herself.

Two guards crossed their spears to block her path. Rha'az elites, she deducted from their shields bearing the silver dragon on a green field. In near-perfect anglo-greccan, she courteously spoke; "I, Sifra of Essarch, plead for an audience with Rha'az the Dragonspear on behest of Quintilius of Argentos." Her longsword dangled from her hip while she patiently awaited response, her hands behind her back.

______________________________________________

Back at Quintilius' warband, somewhere in central Grecca...

Under the rock they had found, Quintilius and his warriors slept in the midst of the blizzard. It must have been the only piece of cover for another mile, for the rest of their surroundings were but flat hills.

Quintilius dreamed of another time, at another place. His dreams started off like any man's dreams; about women and glory. After a while however, his mind drifted to the past...

Spoiler: Quintilius' seafaring memories 

Roughly one year past, on the Thretian Sea.

The conscripted islander in the crow's nest signaled: "Danger ahead!" The Argentinian trireme was underway back to her home port. The warship was decorated with large eyes at the front and an array of different shields on the sides. Most of them bearing a silver moon, of course.

Quintilius scrambled forth. He met Dahlos at the bow, monocular in hand. "Sunling pirates, lokhagos!" He nodded in agreement. The sampan rigs (their distinctive sails) and black flags made it undeniably so. Luckily, it were but two small junk vessels - no match for an argentinian trireme in open battle. "Full sails!" Quintilius shouted.

The first junker trailed off, their slaves rowing at full speed. The cracks of the Sunling whip could be heard aboard the trireme. The second had no time to raise its sails. Most of the Sunlings were still below deck when ship arrived within boarding range. Quintilius' boarding party comprised of the fraulanx and captured the rear, while Dahlos and his four loyal hoplites conquered the bow. Within a minute, pirates on deck were slaughtered and the Sunling captain demanded a parley. Her anglo-greccan was surprisingly good.

After Dahlos' insistence, the pirates threw their weapons overboard. There were but a dozen of them, all clad in black and red. Their captain, one Zuu Rang, came up to the deck. Her skin was like silk, and it was no wonder she held authority for her bloodlust conquered the hearts of most of the argentinian men; Dahlos, Vitos and Quintilius included. The fraulanx were unaffected by her charms, though. The argentinians would let the pirates go, requisition their haul and bring Zuu Rang to the Greccan coast for verdict.

[BumblingBee]

He scoffed at her remark, merely scoffed. This lady inquisitor fancied herself a sassy one apparently. Well, good for her then. She had the stature and lineage to be sassy and smart-mouthed. No punishment would dare befall her for a foul tongue, so why should he dare to bark back at her. So he just scoffed and continued his work. Her gaze was unrelenting. Presumably it was intended to be a asserting gesture, however The Black Sage regarded to gaze differently. For a Deer will watch a hunter with such intensity if it is fearful of him.

The promise of gold perked him up somewhat. Coin was never a saddening prospect, he could not deny that. However he did wish she would desist with all this jollification, and just tell him who needed murdering already. He rose to his feet slowly, an impatient sigh falling from his lips. The man stretched and yawned, trying to rouse his body in readiness for the commission. However he was rather quickly brought to attention by the sound of horses approaching from over yonder.

Brows furrowed in annoyance, and a hand wavered automatically over the hilt of a blade. He had been told of nobody else specifically, over than the lady inquisitor. So who the hell was this. A variety of possibilities made themselves known within his mind, mentally preparing him for any likelihood or solution he may have to come up with. But whatever Sage had been imagining in his head, he'd never really prepared himself for what came into view.

By the gods.

What were they.

Not in fear, but in sheer disbelief. Sage stood back, mouth agape in wondrous suspicion.

If these, things, fought as gruesomely as they appeared, then Sage better watch what he said and how he acted around these beings.

It was upon their arrival that they registered both the Lady Inquisitors presence as well as his own.


"The Shadow Walker may accompany us,"

Oh he may accompany them, how nice of them to allow such a thing. But this was a thought Sage concocted, not a audible statement. He daren't misbehave in front of these monsters, heavens no. He'd quite like to keep his life for the foreseeable future thank you. The Lady Inquisitor almost looked annoyed by the task, as if she had far better things to be doing. And she probably did honestly, but Sage was rather privately astonished at her casual nature towards the others. She even dared to question their motives.

They continued to talk about matters and affairs he was too unbothered by to care about for a time, nearly forgetting that he was in fact still there. However he had a feeling they would be off soon. To where exactly, or to do what he did not quite know. But Sage was aware of one thing. A chore he must undertake before he was on the move again, and he figured while they were still bickering that now was the best time to do it.

Kneeling, he emitted a toothy whistle. A bird, only a little larger than a dove but completely black in colour fluttered its was down from the tree tops. It hovered around him in the air for a time, before landing by his feet and pecking at the ground absent-mindedly. From a small pocket on his belt, The old Sage unveiled a pre-written letter. Already sealed and neatly rolled into a small bundle, tied with string in a neat little knot.

The bird was indifferent as he tied the parchment to its leg, clearly used to the routine. Sage didn't speak in a particularly over the top manner as he instructed the bird, however he spoke clearly and loudly enough to alert his soon-to-be employers that he wasn't doing anything devious or disloyal.

"To Janus now Rook, just to let her know I am safe and well."

And with that said he patted the bird on the head and off it flew. The old Sage watched it until it disappeared into the horizon. He prayed it did not have too far to fly.

---

The fighting was everywhere now. But then, that had been the aim of things she supposed.

Things were moving quickly though, possibly more quickly than she had initially expected. While all of her little sub-factions were doing relatively well, their motives and goals to achieve from this little riot they had going on were becoming increasingly distant from one another. For example, her Sneaks while managing to fend for themselves easily enough, were now rather intent on escaping and getting rid of this blasting prison than say, the Brutes now apparent desired goal of killing as many prison guards as they possibly could.

She had last seen Adoni back down in the ratway, where she and a dozen or so other sneaks were attempting to find a exit through there. Janus could not deny them the ambition for their freedom, yet to lose them so still relatively early on in the fight would be a setback. Therefore she told a slight fib in an attempt to shift things into her favour.

"The Courtyard. The North-Western tunnel has a vent up into it. There should be little resistance in that part of the prison by now. I suggest you go there and scale the wall while you can, the climb isn't that tricky as long as you're not being shot at."

He gaze was unfaltering, as was Adoni's. But she saw it, that slight flicker of apprehension that glimmered in her friends eyes. Adoni wasn't fully sure of her words, yet despite that, she chose to trust her. For the girl nodded and followed Janus,

"We are with you Fílos,"

Janny blinked, but nodded too, and led the way.

Through the relentless noise, it was somewhat difficult to decipher what was going on specifically where within the immensity of the prison. A endless roar of conflict and turmoil resounded and echoed off of every stone inch of the place. So perhaps that was why none of the Sneaks particularly picked up on the dramatic unfolding events that were taking place just a few feet above them. Perhaps foolishly, Janny had taken up the rear this time, not expecting that much of a resistance upon the surface.

She was severely mistaken.

About a dozen tired, desperate and unprepared sneak thieves emerged onto a scene of total necromantic horror. None of them gathered had ever witnessed anything of this like in their entire lives. And the sight terrified them. The group naturally huddled against the wall, clinging to the frosted stones of the prison. Her eyes widened in a instinctual childish fear her Father thought he had successfully coaxed out of her.

Gods. This was hell.

Adoni grabbed her hand, and the motion surprised her.

She had never seen her friend so afraid before.
And Janus had been the very one to lead them to such a fear.

She looked again upon the reanimated corpses of the twenty four guards.

Could you even kill someone that was already dead.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Janus looked at Adoni.

"Start climbing."

She hesitated, looked at her. But after a moment, she nodded, and hurried the others along in their escape.

Janus. very slowly began to walk towards the undead soldiers.

She steadied her breathing.
Calmed her heart.
Cleared her thoughts.
Thought rationally.

There were only twenty four of them, she had killed more before now. But they were tough, that much was obvious. She would need to have far more than just strength to down these men, although that would be handy here too in all honestly. Just...

One at a time Janny.

Only use weapons when you absolutely have to. For weapons are as valuable, and as useful as your own life. You want to waste none if them. Why dull a blade when a blunt blow to the head will finish the job just as easily.

The Warden in the middle was able to raise them. But he was concealed from her for now. Tucked up far away and right in the middle of his little brood of dummies. Therefore she'd have to go through them first to get to him. No small feet, but do-able all the same. As long as she was precise, and downed them as quickly as she could, then she had a chance.

Janus stood before them now, alone and clear. She had their full attention. Slowly, she raised a hand and unfastened her cloak, and let it fall to the ground. For it would only get in the way. Another deep breath. Her eyes closed, and her body stilled.

An arrow whistled past her ear, missing it's intended target of her neck as she dodged to the right before swooping forwards. She suddenly burst into a sprint, running quickly towards the similarly approaching mass of guards. Her steps were quick, but calculated. A small rocky mound in the earth served as her launchpad. She propelled herself forwards off of it. Her foot collided with the head of a guard in her upwards ascension. The gesture precise and forceful. One down.

She used that same guard to soften her landing. Not wasting a second or wanting to lose gathered momentum, she rolled forwards and again up onto her feet. Another dodge, this time avoiding a spear. She lunged down and to the right as the guard jabbed the spear in the direction he had hoped her spleen to be. Janus spun to the back of the guard, a simple knife plunged into his back through the movement. Don't hold back Janus, that wound must, stop him. And it did.

As the guard crumpled to the floor, she wrenched the knife free from his decaying flesh. Using the momentum of the gesture, the girl turned and transformed the movement into a high kick-spin. Her foot once again collided with another guards face, and through his stumble and blade was pushed into his throat. Janus took the speak he held within his hand as he fell backwards to the floor. The loud metallic clang of armour rattling through her skull as he collided with the ground.

Another dodge, she blocked an attack with the staff of the spear, then whack. The spear sunk into his back like hot butter. Another lunged at her from behind, she swooped under his attempted sword swing grabbing his arm as she went and raising it up to break the attack of another. The impact made an audible crack, and she felt the guards bone splinter beneath her grip. She dropped his arm and kicked back another potential attacker, grabbing his arm again and using his blade to stab his forerunner. Blood spurted from his chest, and she could taste iron upon her lips.

Another sidestep, again under a spear. The head of the weapon lunged itself onwards thought, locking it's wielder in the current of momentum. Janus swiftly rose up and with a firm hold, broke his neck with assistance from the opposite force and sway of movement. Not many left now.

The steady burst of snow burned her hands. Suddenly, hands from behind, twisting around her waist, trying to trap her. She thrust her head back and heard him grunt in pain. An additional harsh kick to the groin freed her from his grasp. Another attempted to stab her while thinking she was captured. She swerved away from the lunge and instead allowed the guard to kill her would-be capturer. He pulled himself to a hurried shocked stop, and in the process of doing so failed to notice her push a knife into the back of his neck.

Janus pushed him away, the body falling to the ground with a audible clang.

The Warden stood before her.

[Rha'az]

On the way to the Hollow Mountain,
Northern Regions of Grecca,
United Province of Grecca,

It's been three days and two nights since Theseus and Marcus left the Silver Shield camp, equipped with nothing more than their weapons and armor, supplemented with a few supplies that would last a week. But the cold winds would make their journey difficult and they would avoid fighting against one of the snow lions that loved to hunt within the forests.

"How much longer?" Theseus asked. His blue crested helm hanging on his hip as he pulled his cloak tight.

Marcus lifted his eyes and looked towards the Hollow Mountain. "Two days, if we keep up the pace." The sight of it still fascinates him. Even as a child, he heard stories of Camelot being built around the largest mountain in the Northern Kingdoms. Could it be larger than the homeland of the legendary Galehaut himself? Yet, his mind remained on the task at hand. To find the Giant Knight of the Round Table.

* * *

It was night and the moon watches over them in the sky. The winds were colder but were less violent than it was during the day. The two set up a small camp inside an abandoned cave. It would give them shelter for the night, from the nocturnal beasts that hunted in the woods or from the weather itself.

Theseus was fast asleep right after they ate a few breads from their supplies. Exhaustion had taken its toll on him. Walking for a few days has definitely drained him of his energy and would need time to replenish it. But Marcus remained awake for a few hours, his back against the cold stone walls of the cave and his eyes peered outside the entrance.

The forest would be dark if not for the moon that shines upon. Thank the goddess of the moon for her creation that hangs in the sky like a silent, but vigilant watcher of the world. His eyes felt heavy and his body could not move much longer. He was tired, just like Theseus. Fighting against the cold and the violent winds of the north is no easy task.

In the shadows of the trees, Marcus caught a glimpse of a large figure - no, several of them walked across the forests. They were large, perhaps slightly larger than that of a normal human. He could hear their voices, but not loud enough for the knight to get a clear grasp of their conversation. But Marcus is certain, that they speak of the Old Tongue - an ancient language that is said to have existed before the fall of the Empire, before the Great War began.

He gulped and he could feel his stomach jumped at the sight of these creatures. They looked like humans, yet larger than those he had seen before. Large clubs were in their hands, stained with blood and crimson drops left a trail behind as they walked through the snowy forests. Giants. He thought. He watched them passed in awe and terror, looking at them as if the stories of his childhood were realized in front of his very eyes.

One of them sniffed the air. A clear coat of brown beard hung from his chin. His eyes were like the cats of the night, gleamed like a pair of golden coins under the moon's pale light. On one shoulder he carried a dead snow lion and held a knife made for a giant's hand. "(Humans...)" he growled and looked towards his fellow brethren. "(Check your surroundings! We have a few of the little men scouring our area. Find them and bring them to the Mountain!)" he said again, in a language not known to Marcus nor Theseus. A language only spoken during a time before the Great War.

Ironshield gulped. His instincts told him to run and leave Theseus behind if he wished to save his skin. He rushed towards Theseus' side and shook him, "We have to get out of here!" He whispered. Marcus turned and a giant is at the entrance of the cave, wearing a thick cloak made of a snow lion's fur and a quiver of arrows behind his back. The shadows covered his face but his eyes. "Theseus!" Marcus bellowed and pulled out his sword.

The Skalagosi woke and as soon as he saw the looming giant that stood at the entrance, he sprung to his feet, picking up the round shield and his spear. "What in the world is that?!"

---

The Sovereign,
Off the coast of Rekigawa,
Kingdom of the Sun

A small ship was all he can buy with the few thousand amount of gold Androkles had left. It wasn’t as large as a man ‘o war or as durable as the galleons but it was more than enough to withstand the seas ahead. The Sovereign, he called it. As its captain, he’d have to recruit men to help him sail the ocean, to maneuver around the dangerous regions that lies between the shores of the Sun and the Fallen God’s Tomb. But one thing is sure about the Sovereign, it’s a rather ancient ship outfitted with the latest weapons made for seafaring vessels.

Sailing from Rekigawa is an easy task. A fortified harbor city, complemented with walls and dangerous armaments that would rip a mere schooner apart with extreme precision. But it was also defended with a fleet of ships carrying the Sun’s flags. At the time, Androkles felt safe when sailing across allied waters without the threats from pirates and other rogues that scoured the seas.

But as soon as they left the area that belonged to the Emperor, the Skalagosi knew that he would have to keep his eyes sharp and for his ears to listen to the sound of gushing wind. There are pirates in these waters. He told himself as he commandeered the ship, navigating through the open ocean and even managed to sink a few small pirate ships that dared to attack the Sovereign.

From the deck, he held the wheel in one hand and the two pronged spear slung on his back. His eyes forward as his cloak fluttered in the warm winds of the ocean. His quartermaster stood beside him, a young woman by the name Carla. A former legionnaire, from what he had heard of. But she is more than capable to assist him in the open seas.

“What’s our course, captain?” the redhead asked, lifting her cat-like eyes from the crew as she turned to Androkles. Even as a former soldier for Camelot, she carried a lot of their essence in the way she moved and how she prepared herself – two swords, one on each side. Several holsters for guns, looted from the corpses of Gunbearers who were hunting her down a few months before. Her belt carried a few pouches, herbs, mixtures, vials that could be of great assistance.

Androkles pointed to the direction of their destination. “The Fallen God’s Tomb. I believe there is something there,” he said before barking out orders to the crew to lower the sails to catch the gushing wind.

Carla tilted her head with her arms crossed. For a second, Androkles caught a glimpse of a smile on her face as if she is amused by his direction. “It seems that you adore danger and the prizes that comes with it,” she remarked. She fixes her gaze to the open seas once more, “That place is crawling with pirates with much larger ships than ours, captain. How are you going to get past them? It won’t be easy considering that a large number of them have man ‘o wars instead of mere frigates like us,”

She has a point. Androkles had never fought a fleet before as the war between Grecca and Camelot raged on land, but never on sea. Even if the forces of the United Province were to engage an enemy with their fleets, it would be against raiders and pirates that hailed from Essarch or even Moiairon. But the rules of warfare remained all the same to him, whether if it’s facing legions of trained soldiers or a fleet of ships – survive and live to fight another day.

The lightning cracked the sky open with its blinding light, followed by the deafening sound of thunder that echoed across the oceans. Dark clouds emerged from the horizon as the winds blew more violently than before. “Storm,” Androkles remarked and turned to his crew, “All hands on deck! Lower the sails and get up to speed, we need to get out of here before the bloody storm hits us!”

“Captain, look!” Carla shouted, pointing to a figure standing underneath the dark clouds.

Androkles narrowed his eyes as he attempted to steer the Sovereign away from the storm. Even from far away, he could see a glimpse of the mysterious man. His fingers curled around a bolt of lightning as he walked upon the waves, approaching the Sovereign. “By the gods, who is that man?”

The waves grew violent, the storm’s approaching as the figure draws closer. Bolts of pure lightning were thrown at the ship. Some missed, many made their marks as fragments of wood and metal flew off the sides of the ship. Even as Androkles made his best attempts to get away as fast as possible, the Sovereign was too slow to outrun this figure. Questions flooded his mind, each seeking answers.

Another one of the lightning bolt destroyed a large chunk of the ship as it landed directly on the deck. Androkles was thrown aside, barely managing to dodge the devastating attack. But his crew? They weren’t so lucky as him. Even Carla was incapacitated by the shock brought upon by this man’s terrifying power. The Skalagosi pushed himself up to stand, regaining his balance as he pulled the Spear of the Undying. He had a mission, a task given to him by the protector god himself to venture deep into the tomb of Urka’ath himself. The Skalagosi wished to see this true, and as a Greccan, he’d not fall as easily as those that preceded him.

The figure arrived on the Sovereign in a lightning strike from the clouds. Now, Androkles could finally see who he truly was. Muscular in nature, a coat of silver beard and hair as well as a circlet of gold around his forehead. Scars littered across his body, a testament to the man’s past experience in a conflict. But it was the way he stands courageously – perhaps arrogantly, that struck Androkles’ curiosity the most. And it was the man’s power made him question who is this man that dared to attack the Sovereign.

Androkles held the spear in one hand and pulled a sword with the other. Even in the face of death he showed no fear. Even as a mortal being standing up against the powerful of beings, it was fear that showed the least. He puts his left foot forward and rests his spear on his left forearm while gripping his weapons tight. “Who are you?!” he bellowed. His voice muffled down by the sound of the storm and the heavy rain.

The man raised his lightning bolt, pointing at Androkles as he turned. His eyes painted with rage as he saw the spear in the Skalagosi’s hand. “You do not deserve that spear, mortal. Your feeble mind cannot comprehend its true nature!” the man replied. In his had manifests a spear of silver, emanating powerful energy that surged from the man’s own body. “Relinquish the spear now, mortal!” he bellowed with a voice that demonstrates his authority over humans.

“Never!” Androkles stood his ground. His finger curled tightly around his spear and sword. His eyes remained on the figure, though now he finally knows who is he dealing with. That power, that arrogance flared with much rage and anger. There is no mistaking it, he is facing Maximus. Deep within his heart, he felt fear when facing a divine adversary even though he faced armies before. But to stand against a god that his people worshipped felt like a sacrilegious act.

“So be it,” Maximus growled. He charged at Androkles with a blinding speed, spear in hand and aimed for the mortal’s heart. The marks on his skin glows as the deity lunged forward.

Androkles barely managed to dodge the attack, only to clash his sword against the spear manifested by Maximus’ power. Sparks flew across the deck as the two fought. Even as the Skalagosi remained standing, he knew he could not keep up much longer. He was overpowered no doubt, for he faced the might of a powerful deity of the storms, the literal manifestation of rage and power.

His strikes were too fast that even Androkles could not keep up with the god’s tremendous speed. At one point, he even thought that he was attacked at multiple directions at once due to Maximus’ profound gifts as a god of lightning. He was driven backwards, only to dodge and to parry his attacks with his sword and the spear. But it was all for naught as every time Maximus pushed forward, Androkles could feel his energy wanes as the seconds passed.

The lightning god swung his spear down and shattered Androkles’ short sword in a single strike. He kicked the Skalagosi and sent him flying across the deck. But the mortal survived, coughing out blood as he dropped onto his knees but his grip on the spear never loosened. One more and I’ll be sent to the Plains. he thought to himself. He stood on his feet, only to stumble backwards and fell on his back, weakened.

He felt the weight of the god pressed onto his chest as Maximus pinned him down. His lightning spear raised, ready to end Androkles’ life with one strike. It seemed that he could not see the end of the day nor he could finish the task given to him by Valerios himself.

But the waves grew violent, shaking the ship as the storm began to rage. Even Maximus finds himself unable to control the weather. The violent waters then began to form a physical being, one that resembles a human as two bright dots appeared on its head, looking down at Maximus. The being’s fists clenched as it grabbed Maximus with one hand and pushed the ship away with another.

“You dare attack a sailor on my kingdom?!” the being bellowed. Its grip tightened around Maximus’ body despite having no actual physical form to hurt the god. He threw Maximus towards the depths below, followed by a large splash of water while the violent winds calmed down.

Androkles could only watch the next events unfold before his eyes with his back laid against the wooden railings of his broken ship. He was too weak to continue and the Sovereign had suffered enough damage to be pulled into the depths of the waters below. Even now, his ship had lost more than a quarter of its crew and suffered disastrous damages for it to continue to sail forward towards the Fallen God’s Tomb.

“Damn it all,” he growled, looking at the ensuing fight between the being and Maximus as the latter lunged for its heart, grabbing the physical form of a man from within the watery beast. It wasn’t long until he realized that it was Nuranor that pushed the ship and its remaining crew away from Maximus’ terrible rage. He prayed silently to the gods as a gesture of gratefulness. Even then, he doubt that he’ll survive after fighting against a deity of the Pantheon itself.

---

The Ruins of Dragonspire,
The Sovereignty of Camelot,

Aveline sensed an aura of dread whenever she gazed upon the Inquisitor of Wrath himself. His deep voice and his red eyes shadowed underneath the helm he wore, masked whatever signs of humanity he have buried underneath. Even so, she knew that the task of a Inquisitor is harsh and most were tasked to hunt down those who would bring the Sovereignty down. With Janus behind her, she felt as if she was surrounded by people shrouded in an air of mystery.

“Have you told him of the task yet, Inquisitor?” he queried, his eyes remained forward to the path that lies ahead.

His voice took Avelina’s gaze from the surrounding trees as the rays of the sun pierced through the canopy of the trees. “I have not, Wrath. I am about to until you abruptly interrupt the briefing between us,” she replied, keeping a emotionless tone to her words to remain calm. She looked at the surroundings once more.

She wasn’t looking for any signs of assassins that might lurk in the safety of the woods. After all, she knew that this is not one of the kingdoms of Moiairon where the famed Green Hood would rob the rich merchants and toss their gold for the poor. Instead, she was mesmerized by the serenity of the forests. Calm as if it was not touched by the war. She could hear the sound of leaves rustling as the winds blew, whispering like ghosts. The distant sound of birds chirping and the faint noise of a river splashing against the rocks.

“Forgive my intrusion. But the Shadow Walker’s task to assassinate Galahad in Dhûnwall has been…given to another assassin. He has someone else on the kill list,” Wrath said. His hand reached for his pouch and took out a rolled parchment sealed by the High Inquisitor himself. “The High Inquisitor issued an order to him to assassinate a soldier of the Greccans,”

She turned towards him, eyes looking at the Inquisitor's own. She was surprised to hear this, "A soldier? Why kill a mere soldier when you can take out a general? If I were the High Inquisitor, I'd hire assassins to kill Rha'az or even their king. But a soldier?" She questioned. One soldier could not possess such threatening power that even their leader wishes to see a dagger stabbed into his heart.

"The High Inquisitor has...suspicions about this one man. Survivors claim that he had Caliburn." Wrath continued, handing the parchment to Sage. The knight turned, his red eyes looking at the assassin. "You are to kill Marcus Ironshield, shadow walker. Kill him and your reward shall be granted to you by the king himself,"

She raised an eyebrow. Her arms crossed as she looked at Wrath, partly surprised and confused. "Caliburn? I thought it was destroyed," she remarked. Avelina remembered the story of how Arthur's first sword was destroyed in a battle long before the disbandment of the Round Table. She hadn't heard of any songs or tales about it being reforged or granted a new wielder. "If it's destroyed, it's almost impossible to reforged the blade from its shattered remains,"

Wrath turned to her, his blazing eyes gazed into her eyes. "Almost impossible," he repeated her words. "Have you forgotten about the king handed it over to the last Dragonstorm? The ruler of these lands?" He said, looking around as the sight of the ruined castle looms in the distance. "Percival has it and there's a chance that looters have gotten their hands on the lost sword,"

"Why did the king left the sword there if he knew that Caliburn may be the only one that could stand up against Excalibur?" She asked, knowing very well how Wrath would respond to her question. She was curious. About the power of the Twin Swords and about how many other weapons out there that possesses the divinity and the power of gods imbued within their steel.

Wrath remained silent. He lifted his gaze from Avelina and fixed his eyes on the path ahead. His grip on the reins tightened, "He still has honor. Even if he killed one of his former companions, he allowed them to keep what little shred of memory they have left of him."

---

Dhûnwall Prison,
Sovereignty of Camelot

The Warden watched her every move. Of how she gracefully dispatched his undead guards with ease. The moves of an assassin, no doubt. His guards fell dead once again by the swing of her blade, their heads fell and as the chaos grew more violent by each passing second, so does the power of death that flows within. "Little girl..." he hissed, looking at her.

A shadowy figure emerged behind the Warden as if it is trying to push itself away from the man. "Darkness flows within you, little one." the shadow grinned. That menacing smile mirrored the one shared by the Warden himself. The two lift their fingers, pointing at Janus. "Just like your father. Embrace it," he lunged forward for Janus, grabbing her by the arms and a cloud of darkness surrounds them.

Galahad rushed to the scene. Armed with a pair of shortswords forged for the legionnaires of Camelot, he made it past the brutal fighting and chaos that envelops the entire prison. The factions fought every bit of their energy, each strike filled with the intent of securing freedom for themselves. But as he reached the main courtyard, he was greeted by nothing more than a crowd of shocked men and women looking at the cloud of darkness that emerged out of nothingness.

Corpses of the Warden's guards were scattered across the place. They stopped fighting. As Galahad locked his eyes upon the darkness, he felt a sense of dread and despair as he gazed upon it. As if his soul was touched by the cold hands of death itself.

Meanwhile, the Warden and his shadowy counterpart had brought Janus to a realm of his own. A barren wasteland, with nothing more than an endless landscape of red sand littered with the bones of the dead. The stench of corpses lingered in the air as the sky cracks. He looked at her, smiling, "Little girl. You do not know your powers, do you?" he asked.

---

Westerstorm,
Sovereignty of Camelot

"Fuckin' hell," Farram groaned. His wounds treated by the apothecaries.

It's been several days since the attack orchestrated by the mysterious black knight. Farram is badly injured, but not enough to keep him away from the heat of battle. Reinforcements have arrived, all the way from Skalagos and from nearby Camelot outposts who were willing to spare a few hundred of their men to liberate the rebel town of Westerstorm.

Cassius is distraught at the thought of the identity of their attacker. Yet, he felt guilt for not being able to make it in time to save them. Even if his comrades are able to live to see another day, he could have been there to fight this black knight.

The Sword of the Night entered Farram's tent where he was treated. Putting aside Sorrow on a table and pulled a wooden chair, he sat down beside his friend. "How's your injury?" He asked.

"Nothing too bad, thank the Twelve." He replied, reaching for the herbal drink on the table. "Knocked out by the damned bastard earlier in the fight. Thankfully Calliope managed to live even when I'm down," he continued.

Cassius nodded in response. The memories of the old stories told to him by the storyteller when he was a child returned to his thoughts as he looked at the apothecaries leaving the tent. Of course, the ones told about the Round Table were his favorites. Gwayne and the Green Knight, Percival and the Lord of Dragons, even the famed Sacred Chalice. But none of those were as dreadful and terrifying about a vengeful knight that rose from the ashes of the dead to slay their traitorous kin. Clad in black armor, a large sword in hand and eyes that burned with crimson flames. "Do you think Percival's actually dead?" He asked Farram.

He raised an eyebrow, looking at Cassius. "What do you mean? The news about his death spread through out the whole kingdom like wildfire, there's no - "

"Do you think he's dead?" Cassius interrupted. His eyes looking at Farram, painted with fear and partly with anger. The thought of facing a seemingly undead knight is an alien concept to him, even if the world that he lives is filled with such insanity.

Farram remained silent. The whole kingdom knew that Arthur had slain the famous Black Knight at Kaldir twenty years ago. It was his death that sparked the war, it was Percival's demise that marked the beginning of an era of conflict. Even Farram could not deny its truth, "Even if there's a slight chance of him surviving, it's still impossible," He replied. Only then he realized the meaning behind his question, "Oh you bastard. The way that the knight fights is nothing like Percival. What makes you think of that?"

"You said it before don't you? Black flames, black armor. Fights like a vengeful man and continued to do so even if he takes a blow that would kill a man," Cassius remarked. "If he is still alive, that could only mean one thing,"

“That he’s not going to live long,” a familiar voice spoke out.

Cassius turned to Calliope as she entered the tent, knowing very well that she had overheard a part of their conversation. Farram took another sip of the herbal drink and had his eyes on the Savoy, “You hit him, don’t you?” the veteran soldier asked, finishing the drink as he puts aside his cup on a wooden tray. “Poison, maybe?” he wondered.

Calliope shook her head in denial. “Even you knew that my shots wouldn’t be able to scratch the damned knight’s armor. I could only incapacitate him, even for a few precious seconds,” she replied. The memories of their encounter rushed into her mind, of how she threw the flash grenade to escape from the knight’s sights made her heart pumped faster. “Yet, if that is truly Percival himself. He’ll die by my own hand,” her fists clenched.

Cassius watched Calliope’s eyes and some part of him was terrified to see such rage painted within it. No, it wasn’t just rage, but vengeance and the determination to do whatever it takes to see it through. Yet, Cassius understands her glare. Her brothers and father died by the knight’s hand, it is understandable that she wanted revenge. “You’ll get your revenge soon enough,”

“This isn’t just about revenge, Sword of the Night. This is about Camelot. It’s always been about our kingdom.”

* * *

It’s been a few weeks since the three Ironhearts arrived near Westerstorm. Calliope had sent crows to Lord Eli to keep him informed of their progress, Farram is progressively getting better and had his injuries healed thanks to the expertise of the apothecaries. Cassius watched the arriving soldiers who set up camp just a few kilometers away from the rebel town.

He counted the banners the fluttered in the wind, most of which carried the colors of the 32nd Legion while the rest are from a few others, stationed in the nearest outpost. By this time, the entire rebel Legion had gathered within the town fortifications and made preparations to withstand an assault from this hastily formed army.

“Five hundred,” he murmured. “Just five hundred men ready to stand against a full Legion,” Cassius said, pacing back and forth in front of the commander’s tent. It’s suicide he told himself. Hiring mercenary companies won’t be enough to make up for the lack of men, considering how little money they have kept within their own treasuries.

The distinct plume of Farram’s newly designed armor and helmet can be seen as the veteran legionnaire approached Cassius. He wore an ornate plate armor, shaped like the muscles of a man’s body. He took off his helm and tucked it under one arm, “We’ll stand a chance, I’m sure of it,” he said to Cassius.

Cassius looked at him with a confused look, “What makes you think of that? Against a full legion, we can’t – “

“Zachariah isn’t like Lucius, Cassius. He’s different. Unlike his uncle, the boy knows not to pull his forces into a single spot. It draws attention,” Farram interrupted. It was clear enough that he knew Zachariah, even more than the stories told about the newly appointed Legion-Commander. “It’s all just a ruse to trick us. To make us think that an entire legion would come here and defeat our small army. The boy knew that a small town is not worth five thousand men,” he continued.

Cassius is surprised to hear those words. As terrifying Lucius is as a formidable opponent, he heard the tales spoken by the commoners about Zachariah – a terrifying commander, armed with a bow and arrow and a skill unmatched by any other. “Then we march for Westerstorm,” he says. “We’ll reach the town in just a few short days. If they fall, we’ll send them to Dhûnwall,”

* * *

Meanwhile, within the safety of Westerstorm itself, Zachariah had managed to gather a small portion of his legion. Dozens of yellow banners he counted. Three hundred men. He estimated. Three hundred men is more than enough to hold the town. If the situation is dire, retreat would be his last option even if he knows that his men won’t take it easily.