He needed only follow the crescendo of trotting horse hooves and the crunch of plating to find the legion of houses marching through the city gates. Thalesia folk, old and young, men, women, and children, came to see them off. The young ones stared in awe, watching the house banners dance in the early winds as one. Just as it was depicted in the tales of old. Leor figured by the sour faces, the older folk did not share the same sentiment.
They traveled north on Champion’s Road at the first wink of light in the sky, past the subwall that stretched well beyond the horizon, up the slopes, and fenced along the base of Storm’s Crown. A fitting name for the ringed mountains plagued with endless dark clouds and flashes of lightning. He had not traveled these beaten roads since his mentor brought him to Tridon when the frontier was many leagues further north. The lands betwixt were a far cry from what he remembered. The air carried the scent of sour rot, much unlike the freshness of the inner greenlands. The once vibrant fields were now blemished with dying crops and animals and human corpses picked clean by the crows.
Though some things persisted. He saw himself in the south-bound villagers, seeking refuge behind the subwall. Farmers and merchants, mercenaries, and families eyed them with twisted faces as they dragged the weight of their homes on slumped shoulders and half-broken wheelbarrows. Some drove horse-pulled carts with their belongings stuffed tight to the brim, only fastened with rusted chains. Their feeble mules were thin to the bone and had knees that wobbled like a shot bowstring. One did collapse and its rider died crushed by his steed. Within a breath, armed travelers sprung and pillaged the clothes off the dead, the supplies, and the mule’s sparse flesh. When families screamed and shouted at the desecration, a pillager replied without a hint of remorse as if he had given the same response many times before. “The dead have no use for these. Best you take what you can, fools. Or you’ll be next.”
Rogue mercenaries observed the passing army with sunken eyes, their hands always hovering their tattered picks and hoes. They were a lowly lot, skinny and frail, unfit to be registered with the Guild. They were more akin to bandits than anything. Leor had heard a few beg to join the cause they knew nothing of in hopes of riches and glory. But the knights cast them aside with the blunt of steel and spat before them, ridding their mouths of the sour stench. The crazed ones stood far from the legion’s reach, hollering and snickering. They danced, all drunk-like, with their manhood swaying about. “You lot will die out there! Your women should stay with us! We’ll show ‘em a good time!”
Leor wondered who had more sense: the beggars daring for a beating or the drunken fools who kept their distance.
Amongst the mass of walking corpses, Leor spotted a few who sank to their knees at the sight of the joined banners and spouted prayers and thanks as they planted their foreheads to the ground. Their voices hoarse and to the point of tears. O’ seven lords of Syvernia. Vanquish the haze and bring an end to this accursed nightmare. Leor pitied the lost fools who prayed to the cause of their plight. He could almost see the strings puppeteering their kneel.
Even with all the pretty prayers, the legion paid them no mind and offered not a nod or the slightest of grins. Even the cries of a mother could not break through the cold wall of steel. She pleaded with the passing knights to save her child whose skin was spotted black and slashed with lesions as if she had crawled through a bush of thorns. The mother went as far as to grab a knight’s arm, but he swept her off as if she were nothing more than a stain on his shining armor. Leor had never seen someone look so disgusted.
The knights continued on. Not even the fleeing villagers cared to help. All except a lone knight in black armor who Leor had not seen before; the plating was laced with streaks of violet; gauntlets were clawed instead of fingered; a waterfall of blood silk flowed over a single arm; spiked shoulders and a horned full helm made his figure resemble that of a dragon; it was a menacing shadow that sucked the shine out of the Order’s gold. The Dragonknight knelt before the woman and her child, offering a vial of healing water. He brushed the child’s hair back sweetly and fed her a sip. Within moments, the girl’s skin became spotless and full of color. She awoke, and both the mother and daughter latched onto the knight in a sobbing mess. Others had taken notice and swarmed the knight with similar requests of healing.
Leor nodded at that. At last, a knight worth his title.
It was an hour long trek before he arrived at the Northern Front, the final frontier, a colossal wall only matched by its sister at the Western Front. Its height rivaled the low-hanging clouds, at least that’s what the rumors claim. Only Licht Order mages and archers on the rampart knew for certain. But today, scouts mounted on Runners joined them in the sky, the Order’s banner streaming behind them as they patrolled the air and squawked arrival horns like a flock of birds. Small wonder why the Stallions spat when the houses passed the gates.
Before the wall, tents and pavilions had been raised, and thousands of armed soldiers drummed up cheers and chanted war cries. Banners snapped in the wind and marked the division between the houses. The pool of knights and warriors Leor had seen at the summons was now as vast as the ocean. Dressed in all black, he was like the dark wraiths in his dreams, drifting through the crowd, hopefully unseen in the conglomerate of faces. Though it was much harder than he hoped, and Yoru hanging on his shoulder to avoid being trampled did not make things easier.
Small arenas, enclosed by the shirtless and shouting Arindians, sprinkled the host. Fighters thrashed within the bloody, mutilated ring. The Arindians served as the arena walls that eagerly thrust contestants back into the fray. Even if the light in their eyes had been extinguished. A single shove sent ripples through the crowd. Leor noted Agnar seated atop a throne, overlooking the duels with a flagon in one hand and a woman in the other.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” the Arindians chanted, beating their chests and stomping their bare feet.
Leor followed their eyes and was surprised to see two fair-skinned men at the center of the ring; a hefty man with the build of a boulder and a much older and smaller warrior who had just as many scars as wrinkles. The boulder circled his opponent, his guard relaxed and open. The old man kept the boulder in his view, his fists readied. With a single glance, Leor knew the elder outclassed his opponent by leagues. It was written in his eyes. The thirst for victory.
“You got a deathwish old man?” taunted the boulder. “I suggest you retire and live your remaining years with your bones intact.”
The elder sighed. “How you lived this long without a shred of sense is nothing short of a miracle.”
The boulder roared and charged at him. The elder was light on his feet and slipped past the grapple with ease. Around the ring they twirled, the elder made his opponent look like a fumbling fool and the crowd howled with laughter. His face darkened and the boulder flailed his meaty fists. The elder danced through the wild swings and struck at his elbows. The joints popped in a queer position and made a nasty snap. The boulder staggered back, screaming. Then the old man’s fist flashed three quick blows; Gut, ribs, then chin. Each strike pounded like war drums. The boulder fell with a crash.
With the opposition felled, Agnar leapt from his seat and landed in the ring, all the while laughing with his drink still in hand. The earth trembled at his arrival. “Another champion!” He wrapped his thick arm around the old man. “The spirit of a warrior burns inside him! Lord Khalon welcomes your kind.”
The crowd exploded with cheer and welcomed the victor, but Leor could only pay attention to Yoru’s muffled snarl. He could feel the cause of his distress. An overwhelming pressure enveloped him like enclosing walls of a dark cavern; he suppressed the urge to reach for his blade. Through the crowd, Agnar had found him and smirked. Leor had no idea what scheme the barbaric warrior had in mind and he refused to stay to find out. He quickly turned heel and disappeared into the crowd.
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After some time, a bullhorn blared and the clamor ceased. Leor found Arthur mounted on a runner, hovering above.
“Tally your knights, your warriors, your barbarians!” He made sure to linger on that word and glance at the Arindians. “For you must state the size of your troop before you venture beyond the Northern Front. . . bring back more than you left with and your House will be bestowed proper judgment.”
And with that, the counting began. An invisible barrier parted the houses and Leor stood between the aisles, his journey already halted by his lack of fealty. No house would take him, he was sure of it. . . if he refused to align with one, would they grant him a return? He mulled his options when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.
“Leor, good to see you’ve made it.” The voice that called him sunk his brow into a dark valley. His ears burned at the sound of the snake spewing venom onto his name.
“You have some nerve calling me.” Leor turned to Afzal and reached where Inazuma would’ve been. He clicked his teeth at his empty hand and changed his grip to Gerald's greatsword resting in Ikazuchi’s place.
Afzal flinched. His hand hovered the Soul Arm at his waist. “Let’s not be too hasty now. No good will come from fighting before we depart. After all, you wouldn’t have known to come if it weren’t for my notice.”
Leor spat. “What do you want from me? My thanks? An apology?”
“No. Of course not. It’s too soon for that.” He relaxed his hand. “I’ve come to bring you to Lord Arthur.”
“Do you take me for a fool? I do not need your aid.”
Afzal shook his head and rubbed his brow like he was speaking with a fussing child. “I know I’ve wronged you in the past. I will make no excuses for that. But now, I truly seek to right my wrongs. What happened to the girl was —”
“Stop.” Leor barked through his clenched teeth. “You are walking on mighty thin ice.”
“Right. . . Of course. I expect no immediate forgiveness. . . But for now, suck it up and follow me. You want to traverse the Wall, right? You will not be granted passage if you are without sponsorship.”
Damn it. Damn you. Damn your lords. He saw no other options and cursed his reliance on the enemy. It’s all for Ceri, he repeated to himself. He ferociously thumbed the ring for strength to hold his tongue and the urge to cut the coy bastard.
In the shadow of the rampart, far from the gathered houses, Arthur was geared in a golden suit of armor, wings sprouting from his half helm. He commanded his knights away as he turned back to the Dragonknight beside him. The Dragonknight waved off his small band of Dragonknights but they did not move. Streaks of gray hair painted the knight’s head and soft wrinkles almost cracked his skin. Leor wondered which knight had met with the peasants. It was impossible to separate them on stature alone.
“Ah, here they are,” Arthur said, frowning, to the Dragonknight when he noticed their footsteps. His face was stiff and impatient.
Leor almost stumbled over his own foot when the Dragonknight ran at him and shouted his name. “Alden?” He managed to spit out. “What are you doing here?” His heart lightened. He did not expect to see the Pontiff so soon and found himself walking faster to greet him. The wolfling panted and wagged his tail at the sound of Alden’s call.
A black glint flashed between them and Leor froze in place just in time. An obsidian sword gleamed in the sun like a shard of stained glass. The tip of steel kissed his throat just enough for him to feel the point.
“Emilia, cease your hand at once!” Alden shouted. “That is him! The man I spoke of.”
The slits of her helm were fierce and shaded, her eyes shrouded in darkness. Out came a voice that was immediately hostile. “I know, lord Alden. The purblight.”
“Then put down the weapon!” After a short pause. the female knight did as commanded, reluctantly. Though Leor could not see her eyes, he felt her blade still aimed at his throat. Alden rolled his eyes then smiled. “My apologies for the crude welcoming. Don’t think much of her ill temperament. Miss Emilia is a proper knight. She. . . was a close friend with Ceri.”
Leor swallowed hard and tried his best not to show his weakness to the name. “No. . . I understand her anger, truly.” He rubbed his neck to check for a puncture. “Never mind me. What brings you here? I thought you’d be resting in Lightendale.”
“The Pontiff cannot rest while Tridon and the other realms embark on such a journey.” Alden muffled his small laugh and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow. His graying hair tangled and wild from wearing his helm, dark circles plumped the bottom of his eyes, and whiskers sprouted from his chin. The forced smile did not sit right with Leor. “House Ouranós will take no part in Lord Ludwig’s test. It is thought unfair by the queen. Instead, she has tasked me as trial proctor in her place.”
Leor counted the Dragonknights standing at firm attention behind Alden. “With only six knights at your side?”
“Rest assured, my friend. They are of the Kingsguard, the Dragonslayers. They rival the Seven Pillars in power.”
Emilia stomped forward. “Please, lord Alden. Do not flatter the Pillars simply for Arthur’s sake. We traverse the fog due to their failure.”
“Ah, yes. The mighty Emilia with her ever sharp tongue. A pity her face is ruined by her distasteful remarks,” Arthur said with the weight of his eyes looking down at her. “A shame the Kingsguard is a shell of its former glory. The old Dragonslayers were the true pride of Tridon.” His face did not change but there was a hint of mockery in his voice. “Do tell me where they are again?”
“Care to tell me where your brother is again? You should sense his presence by heart, Arthur. You live in his shadow after all.”
The Dragonslayers behind them let out a quiet chuckle and returned to being statues just as quick. Arthur’s face was still as stone but a dark glow seeped from his body. The hairs on Leor’s forearm rose and he stopped his hand from reaching for his weapon by clamping down on his coat. He glanced at the others but no one seemed to care.
Sighing, Alden raised his hand and Emilia fell back in line. “Enough of this squabble. Lord Arthur, do tell what Lord Gwyn has written for Leor.”
“Very well.” Sir Barmont handed him a rolled parchment. Unraveling the paper, Arthur cleared his throat. “By the Sovereign of Light’s decree, the purblight named Leor shall be kept as a prisoner for the murder of Sir Morgan Edris, a knight of the Licht Order. A life for a life. He is to be hung after imprisonment to atone for his sins.”
Arthur glanced from the paper. No one said a word. Leor expected as much and showed no fear of his predestined death. Arthur continued.
“Less he proves himself in the Trials of Light. He may be granted pardon if he one, presents a worthy trinket; two, demonstrates mastery of Storm’s Decree; and three, align solely with the Licht Order for the trials.” His eyes met Leor’s, and he offered him a dagger, hilt first. “If the purblight agrees to the terms, dab the parchment with your blood and the contract will be sealed. Let those gathered here witness your honorable words.”
The eyes and ears were on him again. He stared at the dagger and the spot where his blood was required. He knew signing the papers would surely mean his life. And yet, he snatched the dagger and slid his palm down its edge. No more will I be an idle fool as the lords take lives in their little games, he thought as his blood trickled onto the parchment. He could see the shock on their faces, to think he would agree without dispute. But it was all for show. He needed only for them to believe he was another one of their puppets.