Lykourgos IX: By the Light of the Moon

The Third Day of the Eleventh Moon, 872 AD.

The Woodsroad, Southern Teleytaios, Klironomea.

The prince watched, amused, as the soldiers sang while they marched. The air was frigid, and the cold winds were starting to pick up. They would likely only grow stronger as the days grew shorter and the nights longer, but the armsmen marched along, caring little about 'cold' and 'wind'.

"And there he stood with sword in hand,

above a hundred men.

Red was the grass beneath his feet

And red was the burning fen!"

The soldiers' voices were rough at best, but that didn't seem to deter them as they sang.

"Red was the bloodlust in his eyes

And red was his memory of them,

'Come one, come all' the young lord cried

'Come give me a proper end!'"

Elikoidi rode up beside him, looking as regal as ever despite the scarring on his face.

"At least they picked out a good song this time."

Lykourgos snorted.

"I think Symon might have been right; Derry's Ten might be the only song they know. It's all they seem to sing."

Elikoidi shrugged.

"To be honest you could have told me it was the Two Grey Hounds and I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference. They're some of the shittiest singers I've ever heard."

Lykourgos chuckled mirthfully.

"You should hear them when they're drunk. Actually you'll be in the war-camp with us tonight, you will hear them drunk!"

"Dear Saints help me."

Lykourgos burst out laughing at his friend's deadpan statement, and Elikoidi soon joined him.

"Angels, that's good. You come here to tell me anything or are you just enjoying my company?"

His friend snorted in mock derision.

"As if. No, I do bring news I'm afraid."

"News from whom?"

"Well, from your dear sweet family."

He grimaced and turned away, but nodded to show his attention was on his friend even as he watched the column of men continue onwards.

"Roma sits the throne now, de-facto if not de-jure. Rhema's gone missing somewhere. Best bet is the north of the city, since that's where most of his loyalists lie at the moment."

He nodded. He was concerned for his little brother, of course he was, but there was little to be gained dwelling on it here. Last time he went missing...

Perhaps it was best not to think on that too much.

"Anything else?"

"Not much substantial. Apparently his court faction finally has a name that sticks in with the Roses and Violets."

"Oh? Isn't it normally either the Thorns or Hemlocks?"

He saw Elikoidi nod from the corner of his vision.

"Indeed, but nothing universally accepted. Now Hemlock seems to have stuck however."

"Why's that?"

"Well... I'm not quite sure on the specifics; the rats in the castle couldn't rustle up many more details than simply the entire inner council of your dear sweet sister was found dead. They say the physician's note read they had all succumbed to paralysis of the lungs, which effectively means something they ingested stopped them from being able to breath."

"Poison, then."

"Yes. Hemlock, given the stench in the room apparently. Though given the number of corpses I'm not entirely sure how one would tell, but then it's not my job I suppose."

"Well, the death of the council would certainly explain why we've been allowed this rest with little more than disconnected skirmishes to challenge us. There's likely paralysis at the capital with the power vacuum."

Elikoidi nodded while grinning, the teeth on the scarred side of his face peeking past his lips like fangs.

"Likely. There is some talk of strange people coming and going from the palace as of late, though the increase in guards has made it hard for my agents and rats to enter. She's becoming paranoid. She think's she's always being watched."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm watching her, pay attention. I never said she was wrong to think she was being watched."

They chuckled quietly between themselves for a moment, enjoying the levity in such a serious time.

"I hope Rhema's doing alright. Any details we do know on these 'strange men'?"

"Not much, but a little. They're almost always men of the cloth, at the very least purporting to be members of the New Church. Their leader seems to have had a seat on the Conclave of Patriarchs for a while now, but I have no details to know which Patriarch it is."

His friend handed him a sheet of parchment nonchalantly as he spoke.

It simply read "False Patriarch. Unsanctioned Cult. Rats Assigned. Rats Missing. No Further Knowledge. Dispose of Parchment."

The words had been capitalised to make sure the meaning was clear even on a first reading. Lykourgos finished reading and nodded once at his friend, crushing the paper into a ball and soaking it in his waterskin. When he pulled it back out the paper was sodden and unreadable. He handed the wet mass back to Elikoidi.

"Understood. Focus on making sure we're not at risk of sparking a religious war if we try and prosecute this Patriarch. I may not like some of the Minor C-"

"The New Church."

"Of course, the New Church, but that does not mean we can just ignore their own religious laws. The last thing we need are fanatics descending on all from all over the civilised world for overstepping our boundaries."

Elikoidi nodded. Judging by what Elikoidi had written this Patriarch was a member of one of the myriad minor cults simply pretending to be a member of the New Church, but he was right to correct Lykourgos when he did.

It would be safer to pretend they didn't know for now.

That still begged the question: To which cult did this man belong?

It couldn't be a member of the Dragon or Ichorian Churches, as they were still sworn to his brother. The Cult of the Deep Waves had seen their worshippers burned alive in the docks by Roma in Rhema's name, so it wouldn't be them, and the Old-Church were unlikely to work with someone who had spent most of her life decrying their pagan syncretism. But who else was there? The Silent Cult? Even the thought of them getting involved in politics seemed laughable.

A mystery for another time, he supposed.

"Well, if that's all then we should keep riding. We should reach the castle only a few hours now."

His friend grinned at him.

"Well then, my most gracious royal liege, please do lead the way!"

Lykourgos rolled his eyes and playfully nudged his old friend.

"Keep that up and my brother won't be the only one that goes missing."

----------------------------------------

There was a small commotion from the front of the column. He wasn't too far back, and it didn't take him long to make his way to the source.

"Have them cut down for the Angels' sakes! Bury them properly, his Grace shouldn't have to see this."

"See what, Lieutenant Isen?"

The man, appearing shocked by his sudden appearance, jolted upright in his saddle.

"Your Grace! My apologies, I did not mean to-"

Whatever Isen said next was drowned out by the sight in front of him. As his horse continued to walk forwards he saw them as clearly as he possibly could. He passed a dozen men and women strung up from trees, each with a meal-sack covering their face and a thin red line stretched across their necks just above the ropes. Their life's blood had mostly washed down the stream; what once must have been a torrent was now little more than stains on their clothes and the ground, its colour the brown of dried blood.

At least two of them were knights, judging by what little was left of the fine cloth they wore, the others seemed to be squires and servants.

The youngest wore a dirtied and bloodied uniform marking him as a chapterhouse menial. He was hardly even a child.

"-your Grace?"

The prince grimaced and came to a stop as he finished passing the display.

"Cut them down and give them their proper rites, as you were going to before I interrupted. Apologies."

Isen nodded.

"Of course your Grace. We live to serve."

He looked around to see who the closest member of his retinue was.

"Eros?"

"Your Grace?"

The squire had a serious expression on his face, marred only slightly by his apparent queasiness. Lykourgos couldn't hold it against him; to kill in combat was one thing, but this was little more than butchery.

He swallowed.

"Ride back to the rear of the column and get Nasos. He's an ordained presbyter, he can perform the last rites for these people. While you're doing that do you mind maybe talking with Ilias a bit? Try to keep him distracted for a while while this is sorted."

Eros nodded.

"Certainly, your Grace. Is that all?"

The prince nodded.

"Understood. By your leave, your Grace."

The squire trotted back down the column.

Men continued to march past the hanged dozen, tutting or shaking their heads. A few men prayed quietly as they walked past, and one small group even broke out into a rendition of "There's No Need For Tears".

Normally he'd hear it sung at a tavern, but he supposed the subject of the song was somewhat relevant here.

Everyone has their own way to pay respect, I suppose.

He turned back to the column as Nasos rode up to him, gasping softly at the sight. Dreamwulf was at the man's right, though he of course could not see the scene at the trees.

Better for him in that case.

"You're to perform the last rites on them, Nasos."

The young man swallowed, and attempted to focus himself on the task and not the bodies.

"The last rites are normally performed at their home, your Grace. Do we know-"

"No, we do not. Anyone who knew are likely dead at Carthos or Ousdaal. We don't even know which of the castles they were in."

Nasos attempted a weak protest.

"There's likely someone out there who knows. If we can find someone who knew them we can-"

"We don't have time. That'll have to be their home now."

He nodded towards the graves being dug besides the tree. The words hurt to say, but they were the truth. These men and women could have come from anywhere in the kingdom, and there wasn't much left to identify them with.

Nasos sighed sadly and nodded.

"Yes, your Grace. Oblate Dreamwulf, would you care to help prepare the rites with me? I could use the extra set of hands."

"Of course. It would be my honour."

Lykourgos locked eyes with Nasos, and tried to force as much of an unspoken apology in them as possible.

The priest just sighed again, and nodded in acknowledgement before continuing.

"Thank you, Dreamwulf. Have we any oil? There should be a haversack somewhere. Are there-"

Nasos trotted off, speaking to the men working about the rites with Dreamwulf at his side.

The prince took one last look at the hanged dozen, then recommenced his ride to the front of the line.

This was why he was fighting. To stop things like this from happening.

It was justice. Justice for what the nobles had done to his brother, justice for what they'd done to the common people, justice for how their politicking had torn his family apart.

"Justice. That is as good a reason as any to fight."

"Indeed, Ser."

Lieutenant Isen was still at his side. Lykourgos hadn't noticed him there, lost in thought.

"Apologies, Lieutenant. I was unaware I was speaking aloud."

The man nodded in understanding.

"No need to worry, Ser. Things like that never quite sit right with anyone sane."

They were both silent for a little while as Lykourgos ruminated on the man to his left. Lieutenant Isen had been a good soldier these last few years. Originally he'd been a member of the old nobility, back before the rebellion, but instead of moping and complaining about lost power or whatever it was the rest of the noble sons complained about, Isen had instead devoted himself to helping the prince in matters of conflict, making himself useful and through merit, not birth right, had retained some power.

By being a competent and capable commander he had climbed through the ranks to command a thousand men in the royal army. Not bad for the son of a dispossessed traitor.

He was a relatively quiet man as well. Not overly so; he was easy to get along with and was fully capable of holding a pleasant conversation, but he always seemed to prefer to avoid meaningless small talk, as the prince had been happy to find out.

They both watched in silence as more men marched past, the sound of their boots on he road a continuous rhythm.

Lykourgos liked the comfortable silence, but as it stretched into its third minute and he made to speak, Isen spoke up.

"You know what I always admired about you, your Grace?"

He blinked a few times at the Lieutenant, who stared out over the men and far into the distance.

"Your tenacity. No matter what happens to you, you always get back up. No matter how much you need to struggle, you always pull through. That's admirable."

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The prince stammered as he spoke.

"Well, I- that's most kind of you, Lieutenant."

A smile played at the corner of the man's lips as he continued to stare far away.

"It's the truth, your Grace. I take it we are to arrive at the castle by nightfall?"

Lykourgos nodded.

"Indeed."

"Good, good."

Isen shook his head, seeming to break himself out of whatever staring contest he was having with the horizon, and smiled at the prince.

"I hope you know that if you need something done, your Grace, you can always ask me or the men under me. I know it's our duty anyway, but the men would die for you, Ser. Kill for you, as well. If something needs doing, it would be our honour if you would let us know. We'll see you on the throne you deserve."

Lykourgos was filled with a strange sense of gratitude and anxiety at that statement; gratitude that Lieutenant Isen and his men were willing, not just obligated, to do whatever he asked, but anxious because Isen was right.

Many of those men would die for him.

He stopped that train of thought as the Lieutenant rode away.

If he had a hundred men like that, he would surely sit atop the world.

He didn't have a hundred men like that, but he still had a good few.

And that by itself was something special.

----------------------------------------

He watched as the last of the siege engines was readied and loaded. They had arrived at Ousdaal four hours ago, and already the machines of war stood proud before him.

Before him were eight trebuchets, each a little under twenty metres tall, and in front of them were three times as many Onagers, each standing over twice the height of a man at around four meters tall, though still paling in comparison to their larger cousins arrayed behind them.

"Lieutenant Marren!"

"Aye, your Grace?"

"Hold fire on the siege engines for a moment and ensure that you've got a steady supply of ammunition for a constant bombardment. The men are tired and I would give them a day of rest before assaulting the castle, but that means your boys will be working in shifts through the night."

"Aye Ser. We'll likely need some extra hands to help if we're splitting into shifts."

Lykourgos nodded.

"Lieutenant Wulfstan, Lieutenant Ingfred!"

The two men trotted over on horseback, bowing as best they could in their saddles. Ingfred visibly struggled more, age finally starting to catch up with the old war-dog. The two of them chorused a deferential greeting.

"Your Grace."

"Your Grace."

"Marren, how many shifts would your boys be split into if they also need to make your 'special shot'."

Marren smiled, and the other two men grimaced. Almost every soldier despised what they would be making soon, but it was damn effective.

"Four, your Grace. One to fire the weapons, one to work on shot, and another two at rest. We can rotate every four hours, give the men two four hour jobs and an eight hour rest period each."

He nodded.

"Wulfstan, Ingfred, you each have a thousand levies under your command, yes?"

"Aye, your Grace," Ingfred nodded, "give or take a few stragglers we've a thousand each."

Ingfred looked to Wulfstan, the younger Lieutenant clearly uncomfortable, then continued.

"I'll volunteer my men and I to be seconded under Lieutenant Marren, if it please your Grace. I presume we're to split into four and pair with each of your shifts."

Marren nodded.

"If his Grace gives assent then this would be the most logical course of action."

There was a second of silence as Lykourgos realised they were waiting for an answer.

"Certainly, gentlemen. Wulfstan, ready your men to attack at dawn. You'll be a part of the first wave if you're not working on this."

Wulfstan gave a sigh of relief, and moved to leave.

"It says a lot about soldiers, I think."

Symon rode up to the prince, smirking all the while.

"They'd rather go over the top of those walls than make that foul shit."

Lykourgos sniffed, and turned to the Sellsword.

"I'd say it says more about the concoction itself."

Symon scoffed.

"Aye, you might be right on that one. Where's the blind dog then? He's barely left your side since we marched."

Lykourgos shrugged.

"Off tending to some of the retinue, I'd guess. That or training with the Men-at-Arms. Anyway, it's good you're here, I was going to come find you."

Symon raised an eyebrow, and Lykourgos continued.

"We'll be bombarding them all night, as you no doubt heard, and a thousand levies are set to go into the breach. I'm not stupid, I know they can't take it themselves. I'm sending in five-hundred knights on foot, led by Ser Romanos. I was wondering if an equal number of volunteers could be found amongst your ranks as well."

"What, five-hundred? Easily. So long as you don't try and stop battlefield looting there'll be no issue with that."

"Do you intend to go in?"

The man laughed.

"Fuck no. I'm not stupid. If you were fighting Marshal Harran then sure, but this bugger actually looks like he knows what he's doing. I'm willing to bet the second your men cross half that field the four onagers on the wall will be responding, and when the assault starts in force the dozen scorpions 'll be firing at us as well as any archers on the ramparts."

"So you're scared?"

Lykourgos smirked at the man, who laughed heartily in response.

"Tell you what pretty-boy, when you go in yourself, I'll follow. Till you do, I'm quite content to watch from back 'ere."

Lykourgos smiled and nodded.

"Very good. There are some two-hundred riders amongst you, aren't there?"

"Yeah, why?"

"I'd have them running patrols across our rear. I don't expect any other Rose forces to approach, but I'd rather not be caught like Harran if they do."

Symon laughed at the fate of his former 'superior', eyes crinkling in mirth.

"Angels help me, you might make it through this war yet your Grace. "

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The door-flaps of the tent rustled open in the dead of night.

It was a good thing he was a light sleeper.

A set of footsteps. Then another. Two more.

It was a very good thing he was a light sleeper.

It was better still that there was a dirk under his pillow.

It was decidedly not a good thing he had sent Dreamwulf away so his uptight friend could 'blow off steam'.

He lay still in bed. The four who had entered his tent didn't seem to notice he was awake, so focused were they on staying silent.

Surprise is my best weapon here.

Moonlight from the opened tent-flaps glinted off their daggers, each of them holding a blade at least twice the length of the dirk gripped in his clammy palm.

I need to time this right. Any second...

Now!

He twisted himself out of bed, rolling to the floor and landing on the balls of his feet. He sprang and launched himself at the first man, embedding the dirk in his throat as far as it would go.

Their eyes are... missing something.

In his moment of ill-timed musing two others closed on on him, slashing with their daggers at his body, though they were clearly unskilled in combat.

Thank the Angels for small mercies.

He stumbled backwards, nearly tripping on an empty beaker.

For fuck's sake, if I survive I'm sleeping in my fucking armour from now on.

One of them slashed at his side, and as if on instinct he raised a hand to block the blade.

He tried to block a steel blade. With his hand.

As he realised what he was doing in his half-asleep mind, the blade seemed to pass just short of doing real damage, leaving a deep cut on his palm but nothing immediately serious.

Fuck, that was lucky.

"HELP! GUARDS!"

He didn't have time to see if anyone heard.

Using his own cries for help as a distraction, he deftly manoeuvred himself to pick up the beaker and slammed it down as hard as he could on the skull of one of the remaining assassins, who dropped to the floor like a stone.

Okay, two on one. I can do this. I just need my- my dirk!

His mind and heart both were racing, but they went into overdrive when he realised that he, being the stupid fucking idiot he was, had left the dirk embedded in the first man's throat. The remaining two continued to corner him, slashing and stabbing with reckless abandon.

They may have been unskilled, but the fact of the matter was there were two of them and only one of him.

And they had weapons.

There was a noise from the door of the tent, somewhere between a scream and a warcry, and neither Lykourgos nor his assailants had time to address the newcomer before the small figure barrelled into the assassin on the prince's left, pushing what seemed to be a dagger of his own into the mans leg.

The man fell with a cry, cut short as the dagger was pulled out and shoved through his chest.

"Your Grace!"

Ilias' voice cut through the sounds of the scuffle.

Ilias? It's Ilias! He's here? He's in danger!

He turned back to the final assassin, just in time to watch as her blade arced upwards towards his face.

He had no time for clever tricks or manoeuvres; all he had the time to even think to do was to physically throw himself backwards and out of the blade's path.

He got very, very lucky.

It bit into the skin of his right cheek, carrying on upwards only slightly too shallow to hit his eye.

Feeling and watching as the steel passed over the right of his face, he realised with a strange sense of clarity that had he been half an inch closer he would have almost certainly lost an eye.

Or his life.

He landed on his feet, the shallow wound to his hand stung, and it felt as though the tip of the blade had clipped his eyebrow on its way up his face.

He was extremely fucking lucky.

In two steps and a leap he tackled the woman to the floor, straddling her upper chest.

Almost without thought he punched the hand that held the dagger, loosening her grip and sending it sprawling across the tent.

His hands found their way to her throat, clenching as hard as they could.

Her dagger knocked from her and her compatriots slain or unconscious, she could do little but claw at him feverishly as he choked her. A particularly nasty swipe led him to begin throttling her, shaking the woman as she was choked, throwing off her coordination.

He didn't realise when she'd started crying. Nor when she'd stopped breathing.

He didn't have the luxury of knowing when to stop at the moment.

When he did come to from his adrenaline fuelled fight-or-flight, he felt almost boneless.

He slid off the dead woman, and sprawled to the side.

Blood ran into his eye, and his breathing was heavy from exertion.

Ilias was borderline catatonic, looking down at the man he had killed, and Lykourgos himself didn't feel much better. It was as though he was looking down at himself as he lay face-up on the hard ground, breathing in deep and heavy breaths.

He closed his eyes, and waited for someone to find them all.

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It didn't take long for friendly faces to arrive. A troop of guards had come to investigate the scream they had heard, and found the prince lying face up in a small puddle of blood around what appeared to be four corpses and a crying child.

The alarm was raised. Elikoidi and Nasos arrived soon after.

The presbyter had vomited into his hands, and ran to wash them before he began tending to the prince's wounds.

"Lyk, what happened?"

He looked up at Elikoidi with bleary eyes. He was laying in his bed, having been moved back by a few of the guards at his friend's behest.

"Assassins. Fuck, Eli, they should have got me."

His friend's face turned even darker than it had been.

"Don't say that, for fuck's sake!"

"No, I don't mean it like that! Not in a self-deprecating way! No, Eli, I got lucky. Very, very lucky. If that woman had got her strike in about two inches closer I'd be dead. Their eyes Eli, they're... they're weird."

Panic flashed across Elikoidi's face, fear in his eyes.

"Fuck, it can't be... I thought..."

"Who are they?"

"My Prince, I..."

Lykourgos snapped, his fists slamming into the wooden bedframe.

"By the Angels, they tried to fucking kill me Eli! More than that, Ilias could have been killed as well! If you know something, tell me!"

His friend looked away, seeming almost uncomfortable with the conversation.

"I know Lyk, but my beliefs would sound so outlandish without any physical evidence, it's just- I think I know who these people are, but I just need a little time to prove it, even if it is a risk-"

"Eli. Tell me."

There was silence as his friend, never one to lack for words normally, was actually rendered speechless while looking at the bodies. He swallowed hard, and turned back to the prince.

"Okay, your Grace. Tell me, what do you know of the Cult of the Choir?"

The air was so thick with silence that Lykourgos felt he might suffocate.

"That's not possible, they've been dead for centuries."

"No, they've evidently been playing dead for centuries. Given your fascination with the occult I wouldn't be surprised if they've wanted to get their claws into you for quite some time."

"And you think... the mysterious Patriarch, do you-"

"Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'm jumping at shadows. Like I said, I need time to see if they're-"

"Fuckin' hell, you've kept yourself busy."

The newcomer swaggered into the room, unbothered by the four corpses or the bloodied prince.

The crying child in the corner gave him some pause, but a quick nod at Nasos tending to him was all the acknowledgement he gave to the situation moving forwards.

"What's happened then? Apart from an assassination attempt, obviously."

Symon moved to look at the bodies, recoiling at the sight of their eyes. His voice was

uncharacteristically serious when he spoke.

"Do you... does anyone else get headaches when looking at them?"

"Where is his Grace? Is he alive, unharmed, injured? Your Grace!"

"Here, Dreamwulf. I'm alright, took a cut across my face but nothing major or dangerous."

His friend relaxed, shoulders slumping.

"Thank the Angels. I knew I shouldn't have moved away from my post, I should have-"

"It's fine. I ordered you to take a break, anyway. This is my own fault."

The blind man nodded choppily.

"Alright. Do we know who sent them? Who they are?"

Elikoidi hissed through his teeth and nodded.

"We think, let me stress, we think, they're part of the Cult of the Choir."

The two newcomers immediately dropped what they were doing. Lykourgos noted that, as if on instinct, Symon's hand was already curled around the pommel of the sword at his belt.

Dreamwulf wasn't much different, seeming to vibrate in place, and the silence in the bivouac returned.

It lasted a full minute before there was a clatter at the other side of the tent. Nasos had knocked a beaker off of a table whilst tending to Ilias, but the sound still made the men jump a mile.

"Are you... sure."

"No. It's only a possibility, as I said."

Symon swallowed.

"But it is still a possibility."

"Yes."

"And it's your best bet so far."

Dreamwulf spoke up again, adding his voice to Symon's. He sounded more distressed than Lykourgos had ever heard him.

Do they know something I don't? The Choir have been little more than a myth for centuries, haven't they?

Elikoidi was lost, deep in thought, and jumped a mile when both men scrambled out of the tent, all but screaming orders at the closest officers and commanders they could see. So loud and clear were their voices that Lykourgos could hear them clearly even in his bloodied bed.

"I WANT THE GUARDS DOUBLED AT THE TENT OF EVERY COMMANDER. DOUBLED AGAIN FOR HIS GRACE!"

"WAKE THE CAMP! SCREEN EVERY MAN IN THE FUCKING COMPANY! NO ONE LEAVES BEFORE WE RIP OUT THE FUCKING WEEDS BY THE ROOTS!"

"I'LL NOT SEE A FUCKING THEOSARKA, A SEVEN TIMES DAMNED PRACTICER OF DEIPHAGY, THREATEN HIS GRACE."

"ANY MAN FOUND IN THAT FUCKING CULT NEEDS TO BE STRUNG UP RIGHT FUCKING NOW."

Elikoidi sighed, still shaken but regaining his composure.

"A wild goose chase. If there are any others in the camp they'll have fled as soon as the assassins entered the tent."

"Dreamwulf and Symon, they speak as if they knew the Cult of the Choir was real the whole time, but they've been gone for centuries at least, if they truly did exist in the same form they appear to be in now."

Elikoidi nodded.

"I was thinking over some reports of this sort of thing I heard years ago. In hindsight it should have been brought to your attention, but I put the isolated reports down to sensationalism and confusion."

"How could they know if we didn't?"

Nasos piped up, Ilias curled into them as a child would their parent.

"Oh, that's quite simple, I think. I didn't know of them being real either, truly, before now. The elders at my monastery claimed they were a simple faetale, but now we know they aren't. Maybe it's simply because we've lived in a very different world to Dreamwulf and Symon. They're lowborns, and have likely been exposed to the darker parts of the world far more than we have been."

Lykourgos nodded. It made some sense at least.

"I guess it's like you said, Eli."

His friend made a noise of confusion.

"What did I say?"

"The only time people like us look at the lives of the lowborn are times of war. Well, we're at war now, and it seems what we dismissed as a folk superstition and they called truth has made itself known."

Elikoidi sighed, and perched himself on an unbloodied corner of the prince's bed.

"Well, the world only seems to be getting stranger. At the very least this attempt failed, and even if any other would-be assassins are in the army then our resident hounds will sniff them out."

The presbyter raised his voice pointedly at the spymaster.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't refer to Dreamwulf as a dog, Master Elikoidi. It's impolite."

Nasos' objection seemed to surprise Elikoidi, but he quickly recovered.

"I meant no offence by it, it's simply a piece of flowery language, Presbyter."

Nasos crossed his arms and glared at Elikoidi, the action seeming somewhat comical given that Nasos was a good foot shorter than the scarred man.

"Last time you referred to him as such it wasn't particularly meant with kind intentions."

Elikoidi and Lykourgos both winced at the memory of that argument.

"I understand your point. If it makes you feel any better I won't refer to him as a dog, or a synonym thereof, unless he feels comfortable with being labelled as such. You know, since half of his name is 'Wolf'."

Nasos seemed to relent at the compromise, and moved back to comforting Ilias. Elikoidi remained silent at the foot of the bed, leaving the prince alone with his thoughts.

Something dangerous was afoot. More dangerous than arrows and swords. Old things were starting to re-emerge into the world, and it seemed what most of mankind had taken for the truth had been little more than a piece in the puzzle of the world.

Angels aid me in this hour. Help me protect my friends, my brother and my kingdom. Hold us safe in all of your arms. Keep us in your hearts.

He'd never much been one for prayer, but for once the words seemed to come to him as if he had learned it by rote.

"The Seven who watch and aid the One and the Hundreds, in your minds may we rest once we pass through this world. Keep us safe and warm in this mortal world before asking us to join you. By your will may we continue our lives. We offer you prayer, that you may gaze upon us. We offer you devotion, that you may smile upon us. We offer you our souls, that you may wrap your wings around us for a moment more. We ask only that today is not our last.

Protect us."