Once, the world had been ruled by dogs. There were the first men, huddling ‘round fires in their caves and trembling against the cold. There was the stalwart mammoth, great beasts of strength and thunder, who dwell still in the furthest reaches of the furthest mountains. There were, of course, the terror birds - hateful creatures who made a living on killing, and who still are ridden by the warriors of Carel. But the rulers were dogs. Great hunting packs would turn the plains into slaughtering grounds, and running together like drops of rain, the dogs would fell even the mammoth. They would stalk the forest, would roam the hills, and all which they desired to eat would be eaten, and all that hoped to escape would be caught. This rule was short-lived, however, because mankind invented something which a dog could not comprehend or defend against: traps.
Lord Gabriel was, despite his position, not leading the march northward. He sat in the middle of the convoy of warriors, protected at all sides - as protected as one could be in this site, anyway. The Princess and the Frog were but a few horses behind, riding on a wagon: the former had never liked horses, and the latter had tried but failed due to the warping of his flesh. Surrounding the convoy now was a dense forest. The trees towered high above the dirty path, and were alive with soldiers who, lacking room on the path, instead walked through the forest itself. The forest welcomed them. Branches bent like open arms, and birds sang their greeting-songs. Shafts of sunlight only just pierced through the canopy; it was early morning. Rabbits and squirrels danced about the brush. Alonso, his visor raised, took a deep breath of this air, and Lysa imagined the freshness of it filling his lungs.
Indeed, the bodyguard of the rebel regent was brightened, if only a little, by this scenery. Lysa struggled to imagine his heart forged from no fire but the flame of war, but now a sunbeam was catching his face and his beard and he seemed content in its light. His eyes shone as though an old friend had just stumbled through the tavern doors. Lysa had never been in a forest before, though, and found the umbrage discomforting. There were so many scents and noises, and nothing to defend the convoy but the convoy itself. It was easy to place a thousand terrible beasts into vision when vision was so harshly diminished by tree trunks, leaves, and darkness. She spoke to make herself content, as though her voice could ward off the queer spirits which in the mystery places always gathered.
“It is the fey, I hear, that rule lands such as these,” she told Lord Gabriel, clutching him slightly, “But you are the ruler, too, no? I would like to know about these sprites. Especially if I’m to rest my head in these woods soon - I suppose that depends on their breadth, and our rate of travel. Its a discomforting thought, aye.”
“The fey are but the dreams of dreamers, and dreamers are liars all. Have no fear about the fey: they are invisible because they do not exist, and therefore their harm is invisible the same.”
Alonso shook his head, his coif clinking, “The fey are real as any other beast of the woodland. They’re not invisible, either: they lurk in hidden places, but if you’ve the sight for it, you can draw them out. Reckon you could, Lysa, if you were born of the druids. Its the kind of sight that passes only in blood.”
His horse snorted - perhaps in agreement? Lysa cocked an eyebrow at him and the horse both, “Druids? I have heard of them - they are the forest dwellers, aye? And, to knights such as you, no doubt are heretics in need of slaying.”
“I was born of the Druids, and I know they are fine. Heretics, sure, but they worship our gods. It's just a different way of going about it, that’s what they’ve got. There are lower creatures, forsooth, in more urgent need of my hammer. And besides, my crusading days are ended long - buried deep ‘neath the soil, yea.”
“You’re a very permissive paladin when you want to be.”
She meant the compliment - perhaps she had misread him as a zealot. All men were zealous in the north, Baphosarex once had told her. But then, had Baphosarex ever been to Jerefraine? He had told her a little bit about the land, about its rolling hills and luxurious wines, but it had all been common knowledge.
Gabriel piped in again, elbowing Lysa slightly, “He’s got what you lack, sorceress: An open mind, a heart of virtue, and a Druid woman to be sweet on.”
Now it was Alonso’s turn to raise an eyebrow, “That ‘Druid woman’ is my wife, Lord.”
Lysa leaned back from Gabriel, tilting her head at Alonso, “So you’re not sweet on her?”
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He frowned a little, and began to speak. Perhaps he would have said something amusing, or grumpy, or perhaps he would invoke an aspect of himself which Lysa had yet to spectate. Whatever the case, the next word spoken was the rustle of the brush and the gasp of a bolt parting air. Lord Gabriel groaned as the force met his shoulder, bone cracking ‘neath the weight of the bolt, and he wobbled upon horseback. Lysa blinked, realization came upon her, and then she screamed that an attack was upon them.
To credit the living, they are quicker to react than the dead. In the snapping of a twig Alonso had dismounted, and in another snap was he ripping His Lordship from his stirrups and taking him to cover - for the attack, Lysa could tell, was from one side. Bolts flew one way, and warriors looked one way. The horses shrieked their terror, reared on their legs, and then so did Gabriel’s horse which was now Lysa’s horse. The world flipped. The mud, the blanket of the earth, softened her fall - bolts whistled past her, interrupted only by the screams and gurgles of those who had not in time raised shields.
Heart pounding, she scrambled, having no destination, as the men around her sought their weapons and each other and the trees on the other side of the path, iron clattering, war-cries filling the air, and then an impolite bolt saw it fit to fly for Lysa; she flinched and dodged it by accident.
Then there was another cry, rougher, coming from the trees: The wave of bolts had crashed and now came the wave of men behind it. Lysa didn’t see them, though, and instead crawled and then stood and then hid behind a mossy log on the edge of the treeline. Her lungs begged for air which would not come, and each breath was joined by a rasp: She had seen war before, but never without a guard, and never without her master’s hand, and it was one thing to spectate and another to partake.
Iron sang. Men screamed. She peered over the log, and saw the battle on the other side of the dusty road: The warriors of Gabriel were meeting the strangers in the brush, which was foolish, because their armor was heavy, their swings wide, and the trees hindered them more than the foe. And the foe? They were not Druids, or at least did not look like Druids: They dressed in hard leathers, used small blades and small shields, and each was trailed by a green cloak. The ambush had slain a good number of the rebel troops, and a good number had also fled - a number which Lysa had joined.
It was then she spotted Alonso, or perhaps a thing which used to be Alonso, making war amongst the trees. His visor was down, the whole of his being reduced to a pair of black slits and a raised warhammer; whose spike he was now driving into the neck of a foe, and as another approached his side Alonso bashed him with a shield, then brought the hammer back around to crush his skull ‘neath it's weight. Blood and fragments splattered across the brush. Lord Gabriel was with his daughter, defended by the Houseguard - the elites of the army - but Alonso was with the battle-calm, or perhaps the battle-frenzy, and he moved between men like a creek-fish darting between water bugs, and each one he killed with ease.
Men who had fled from the initial volley were now rallying, emerging from behind Lysa, charging into the opposite wood, their spears dropped and their swords drawn. Such hefty spears would be of no use among the close trees. Orders were being shouted now by the foe and the friend, but another bolt shot out from some unknown point and slammed into the log Lysa had sheltered behind - and the wooden crumbled. She shrieked like a babe and scrambled further back, her voyeurism unpermitted, the twigs and spiky bushes cutting at her bare ankles. The screams continued, louder and louder. She could barely breath, so she slumped against a tree trunk, clapped her hands over her ears, and shut her eyes tight.
For as long as I live, they will not hurt you.
She needed him there, now, needed him so badly that her bones shook for it. Could it have been that the river swept him away to safety? No. Impossible. If Baphosarex lived, he would have helped her long before Gabriel. And besides, she could his death in her bones. For the first time, a new lust gripped her, twisted her intestines about themselves in bloody coils: It was the bloodlust, the lust for revenge. If he had a corpse, he could be returned, but first she would kill northerners.
She peeked out from behind the trunk and, perhaps foolishly, closed her eyes. The swarms were active as ever here, where life began at the bodyguards and ended at the edge of the trees. Magick fluttered about the branches and leaves, pulsed heavily with every death gained, with every blood spray as men slit each other’s throats and stabbed each other’s armpits. This was a battle of daggers. She focused on one swarm which congregated low to the ground, and took a deep breath. Besides the stench of her own sweat and the cries of the dying, there was calm. The forest was no stranger to these conflicts, and once this fight was over, it would be as though no fight occured at all. The corpses would be soil.
She focused on the murder. On a blade being drawn across a green-cloak’s neck. The magicks buzzed, and she focused on them, and she commanded them, and they swarmed to join the magicks of the corpse. Then, she bid them enter, and they did. This resurrection would be weaker than the Princess’, the form weaker and dumber, but if it could hold a weapon it would be enough. A wave of exhaustion shuddered through her then - the suddenness of the spell wringing her dry. She slumped against the tree again, gasping for breath. A tight pain pressed against her ribs - she had overextended herself to work it so swiftly and passionately. Passion could be a bad thing for a sorceress.
Limp, she barely kept her eyes open to watch her art prove its efficacy. The man-corpse rose, donned in chainmail and helmet. A crossbow bolt jutted from its throat, blood staining its blonde stubble. Distantly, she realized that this was the bodyguard who had watched over her and the Frog at the war camp. Its hollow eyes flitted about as it stood, weapons dangling loosely in pale hands. It looked to Lysa. She sighed and gestured toward a fighting green-cloak, whispering kill. And so the creature tried to kill. It was clumsy, unaccustomed to the weight of chain mail. Its knees buckled with every step. The green-cloak she had indicated was just finishing one of Gabriel’s warriors when the creature approached. Rather than utilize its sword, it slammed the weight of an arm into the green-cloak, which did nothing. Surprised, the ambusher retaliated with a clumsy swing of his own. It caught the creature’s cheek, carved through the flesh. This accomplished nothing.
No matter. Even a dumb dog can learn with patience. The battle was not yet over.