The sun had risen, marking a new day. Melodies were sung atop trees as vibrant summer rays began to pierce the cloudy veil. At an inn by a lake, standing outside was a tall boy near coming of age. He was quietly comforting the young lady that wept beneath his arms. They were leaving today, he and his companion, a plain-looking fellow pushing his mid-twenties. A horse was bought, bags were saddled with supplies, and farewells difficult like the one now had been said.
The young lady eventually extracted herself from his care. "I'm so sorry," Leondre uttered, his face remained cast down.
"Don't be," Sera straightened her posture, smiling. "It's not your fault."
"Yes." He nodded, but the word lacked conviction.
"Say it then." She lifted his chin, meeting his eye. The clear oceans of green were darker than usual.
"It-its not my fault." There was a hint of guilt in the boy's voice.
"You're a terrible liar, don't change that," She unlocked the door behind them, holding it. "I'll let his family know. Take care of yourself, okay?" Sera waved one last time before the door shut.
Leondre returned to his companion, who had waited. Cendric handed him the reins to Bete Noir from atop his horse, a calm looking grey courser. Leondre silently took them, slipping his foot through the stirrup as he launched himself, vaulting over Noir.
"Never liked it, informing them of the dead," Cendric said, turning his horse around in the direction of the town gate.
"Is it always the same, feeling so horrible?" Leondre rode beside him, maneuvering past an ox-pulled cart. He took care to avoid trampling the children running in front of him and even more precautions to keep Noir from biting them.
"Depends how well you knew the man, either way, it's a shite job."
"I pray I never have to do that again." Leondre exhaled, unfastening the collar of his black padded jacket. Although the season was reaching its end, the heat was barely tolerable. He missed the maroon cloak the drill instructors had given at the academy, the hood always provided shade and often sheltered him from the outside world. According to Cendric, 'Snowflake'(a nickname he bestowed upon the girl) had it on when she disappeared.
[He also said Nevra called herself a vrykolas.]
Leondre would have to find a library when they had the chance, there was a lot he needed to research. Why did she save him only to nearly kill him and order Cendric to save him once more? And the circle, someone had placed it there in the tower. But the question was, before or after the abomination came? Leondre only knew of Holy Maidens using wax circles to perform miracles. Were they not the only ones?
[Nevra-Dumahn-Gorsa, where do you come in all of this?]
Noir growled underneath him, 'You think too much' the sound came out somewhat high-pitched as if he was complaining. Leondre patted Noirs' massive neck.
"I know, I know. Thankfully, I have you to stop me."
The warhorse bared its teeth behind a serrated grin, 'Not if you're dead.'
"Maybe, but then there won't be anyone to rub your favorite spots," Leondre challenged as he rubbed Noirs' head from behind. "Or." He cupped the Rhoan's ear and murmured, "Feed you meat."
"Leondre!" Cendric barked, startling the rider and his mount.
"Y-yes?"
"Stop talking to the horse," He snapped, "It's creeping me out."
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The ride was slow-going with Cendric showing no sign of increasing the pace. As they traveled along the pockmarked gravel road, a few people walking by hailed the riders as they passed—good thing too. The fewer people who knew of them going this way, the better.
Several days went, and the countryside became wilder the farther they traveled from town. Flat empty fields gave way to rolling grass hills, while in the distance, jagged pine trees stood conically like moss-covered volcanoes.
"Cendric, if I may."
The Seeker twisted in his saddle, only to face a large sheet of paper substituting the top half of where Leondre's body should be. The young nobleman lowered the map. "Where are we going?"
Cendric shrugged as he stifled a yawn. "Thinking about it. What's that paper of yours say?" He had been attentive to their surroundings, the area was unfamiliar, and unlike Leondre, there was no map for reference. Finding river Ostwen was the next best thing; the same river that led them to the ruins near Crestwood. Most towns and cities were built alongside it, following the flow of the Ostwen from Malordun to the neighboring region.
Of course, now that the brat decided to reveal he had a map after three days of riding, Cendric wanted to strangle him. Suppressing the urge, he brought his horse over to Leondre's. The grey courser stamped its hooves nervously, in the presence of the 19 something hands black Rhoan.
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Leondre turned the map toward Cendric so that he might see the path on paper. "We are here," he pointed to a spot about a third of the way up Crestwood. "Up here," his finger trailed down the path, to an arch marked over a blue line, "is a bridge, the only crossing over the River Ostwen for forty leagues in either direction. If we are to find any settlements, it will be there."
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A series of granite arches carried itself over from the one low bank of the Ostwen to the higher. The roadway was curved, composed of wood planks, forming a U-shape inverted. Making the approach on the other side obscured. It was not until reaching the apex that they saw what awaited in-store.
Oxen, mules, and other draft animals lay butchered, stripped to a bone. Specks of black dots hovered over, droning, claiming what little rotted remains. More horrendous was the stench brought downwind, putrid like a festering wound, it grew pungent as they drew closer.
"Here, use this if you feel nauseous." Cendric discretely passed a sweet-smelling rag to Leondre, already having covered his face with a handkerchief. The boy gratefully took the perfumed cloth, placing it over his nose. Lavender overwhelmed Leondre's sense of smell, blotting out all other scents. Less than half a mile away on the road was an overturned carriage sandwiched between two hills. Its wheel broke, axles cracked, and canvas riddled with holes. "Weapons out," He said, muffled through the handkerchief. Leondre went for the iron shortsword at his waist, but Cendric shook his head. "Use the longer one."
The swish of blades being drawn followed shortly. Apart from this and the incessant buzz, it was as if all sound had frozen momentarily. The riders weren't the only ones who sensed a shift in the atmosphere. Vapor escaped, curling to the side like chimney smoke, from flared nostrils of Noir's gargantuan sized nose. Giving him the appearance of a three-horned black daemon, ruby-eyed, sirred from the seven depths of Hell. Nearby, the gray courser stood vigilant and much like its rider, eerily calm; ready to give chase or retreat if need be.
Behind them, two trees fell crisscrossed, forming a chest-high barricade at the entrance of the bridge. Men drabbed in sheepskin and leather dress, sprung forth from the river bank. Rusted hatchets, long-shafted flails, and curved falchions protruded out the sawgrass, held by dirt-stained hands. Helmets ill-fitted, wrought with iron, gleamed atop one or two heads. Others were hatless, while the rest wore an assortment of hoods and arming caps.
If not to make matters direr, several figures fanned out of the crevice between the hills, forming a loose line near the carriage. Shields small and shaped like dinner plates hung from wrists, next to the shortswords they carried. Each weared a boiled leather vest over a bright yellow tunic, scales overlapping one another, were sewn in the armor. Among the line were two crossbowmen, already having placed their feet down, pulling the drawstrings back.
Leondre's knuckles turned white as he tightened the grip on Roi Soleil. Something tunneled through his veins, forcing itself into the brain. The men enclosing around them became exceedingly slow. Drums pounded in his ears at cadenced beats, like a call to arms. A haze of mist descended upon Leondre's field of vision, his pupils dilated, fixating on the men near the carriage.
Details he couldn't make out before were crisp now: A raven behind a yellow field with its claws outstretched, flapping against the wind. Particles of dust kicked up in the wake of a dozen pairs of boots treading against the ground. The ripple across strings as tension was released, and bolts were let loose.
Then it receded, like an hourglass reaching the last grain of sand Leondre felt his state of mind return.
"—you waiting for?" A blurry mass roughly tugged him by the neck, his vision cleared, and the mass took the form of a gloved hand. From left to right, voices accompanied by footsteps shouted for surrender, promising the most gruesome fates upon capturing those that ran. Leondre heard a hefty thwack as something fast, tipped with metal, passed by his head. He turned in time to see a cross-bolt bury itself in the throat of a hooded man next to him, before disappearing in a mist of blood.
The boy averted his eyes, swiveling to the mousey-haired knight shaking the daylight out of him. "I lost myself. What's the plan?" Leondre said quickly as more attackers, this time well-equipped and dressed in mottled forest wear, started streaming from the treelines. He counted eighteen in total.
[Bandits covered in sticks and leaves? And there's so many. The map indicated nothing about any large groups in this area.]
"Where the bolts are." Cendric snarled, letting go of the collar with a shove as he pointed to the crossbowmen reloading. The yellow armored men stood up and leveled the weapon to their chests. "Ride over there!" He spurred his horse and made for the carriage at full speed.
Whistling sounded in the air, cut-short by two belated screams. Leondre stiffened at the sight of the two bodies crumpling onto the grass but nodded nonetheless. He kept Roi Soleil close at hand and leaned forward, pressing his legs against Noir. The muscle-bulging horse raised his head, leveling eyes with Leondre, 'Finally,' he snorted.
Pebbles, rocks, and clumps of grass swirled up beneath the warhorses legs. A second later, the first men from the riverbank reached the road. Hurling obscenities and releasing throaty warcries, their mouths were left wide-open next to the recently formed cloud. Dust found its home up the nostrils and down into the throats of several men. Coughs and gagging ensued after.
Leondre would have continued watching their misfortune, if not the skirmish raging in front of him. Splotches, yellow and green like pastels on canvas, vied for control of the road pass. The crossbowmen had stopped firing now to join the melee, but their handiwork was present in four corpses scattered to the side. Still, for every man wearing yellow, there were at least two in green.
Despite the head start, it was a mere child's play for Noir as he caught up to Cendric's horse. Leondre reined in the hot-blooded rhoan, matching his pace with the coursers.
"Cendric there's only seven of them. I'm counting double for the people attacking, and we're about to ride into them!"
"If you practiced fighting on a horse," He brought his blade up, "Cut down or trample anything in your way!" Cendric roared at the top of his lungs. Leondre could only reaffirm the grip on his long-handled sword in reply—then they were upon them.
He never saw the face of the first person he killed. The man's back was turned, with his mace raised over a fallen opponent. Roi Soleil carved into him midway before the finishing blow. Leondre felt no resistance from the mottled green outfit or muscle underneath. It was the same for the second, except he managed to block, though it did no good. The sky-blessed steel combined with the momentum behind managed to slice through the weapon and its user.
The rest fell away as Bete Noir was possessed by a bloodthirst of his own volition, egged on by the fear reeking from their hapless opponents. Ironshod hooves smashed indiscriminately into any unlucky enough to be caught within range, plowing in skulls and ribcages like giant hammers. Rider and mount became connected, one machine solely purposed for killing. Together alongside Cendric, they carved a bloody path ahead, sowing chaos and death in their wake.