‘I have transcribed a list of people who are, or have the potential to be, amenable within the organisation. It can be found within the Codex Amiatinus at the pious convent library. Heledd knows its location. I have accounted for different negotiation tactics that should be used depending on who we attempt to convert next. Some will be more receptive to persuasion; others will require donations. God be with you.’ - Excerpt from a letter sent by Fadyn Lafant, newly hired civil servant of the Intelligence Service, January 1263.
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The beating of horseshoes against the earth slowed down as the Berserker’s neared the monastery ruins. Whines of protest erupted throughout the warhorses, raising their front legs into the air. The Berserker’s whipped their reins against them, but the beasts did not acquiesce.
Once the monastery stabilised, and the boulders stopped falling from the sky, the horses settled. Their riders pressured them into a slow trot. They took nervous steps into the dust cloud, their vision turning into a brown hue that blurred any distance farther than an extended arm.
The rider at the helm of the group unsheathed their spear. Though he wouldn’t be able to see, the spear’s length extended deep into the dust cloud. He patiently listened for any signs of movement, carefully thrusting in directions which he was suspicious of.
The sound of a stone scraping the earth emanated from his left. Reacting quickly, he slashed down upon it with his weapon’s bladed tip. He felt the metal embed itself into flesh, or what he thought was flesh, as it had the familiar sense of frail, bodily resistance.
He pulled back on his weapon, expecting to feel the resistance fade along with the human’s life. However, his spear did not come back. It was stuck inside whatever he had stabbed. Panicked, removing one hand from the wooden staff, he pulled the horses reins in the direction of the supposed corpse.
As the warhorse turned to move, it lurched uncontrollably forwards. It gave a grotesque cry in pain, trying to stabilise itself. It was impossible. It collapsed face first into the ground, its body falling onto its side. The rider was in a terrible position and tried to vault off the horse before he fell with it.
Stuck with one of his legs struggling beneath the weight of the warhorse, he stamped down with his free leg on the beast’s stomach to free it. He yanked it free when a fellow rider grabbed his arm to pull him away.
As the Berserker thought himself lucky escaping his accident, the flash of metal passed cleanly through the centre of his neck. Surprise flickered in his eyes, before an unwillingness and resentment took over.
He struggled, pulling on the rider for help, dripping blood down his lamellar armour. His strength slowly receded as his life was scattered to the wind. The living rider channelled Malevolency, immediately alert of the potential danger that lurked nearby.
Unwilling to die like his companion, he barked out a chant, ‘Wind’, that shot out at the nearby dust cloud. A strong, roiling gust collected around his curved sabre, before whipping the dust into the distance. A pocket of sight appeared once more within the centre of the cloud.
He no longer saw it a waste to use Malevolency against the billowed dust. Sight would keep them alive. His companion was proof of that, dying at the hands of Rupert’s surprise attack.
Realising that he was on his own, separated from his group of Berserkers, he called out a command in Tereum.
“Come! The dust has settled over here, we should reform.”
“Not yet, we’ve got him cornered.” A voice shouted a response.
The rider shook his head angrily. If they reformed here, they could see; anywhere else they would be blind fools. Remaining vigilant, he kept watch over the ring of dust which surrounded him. He rode his warhorse in a small circle around the centre of his pocket of sight.
He patiently waited for a response to inform him whether they had killed the Cymorthian knight. But he got none.
A scream emerged, and he spun around to the direction it came from. He gently shook the reins of his warhorse and trotted carefully towards that half of the ring.
“Did you kill him?” The rider asked. There was no response, just silence.
The horse gently whined, making its fear know. The rider let the horse retreat back to the centre of the ring, carefully observing all sides. A thump emanated from behind him. He turned in time to see a Berserker on horseback push through that viscous-like wall of dust.
Finally, they understood common sense, coming to fight in a location with sight. Yet, as he opened his mouth into a soundless gape, the horse stumbled and fell to the ground before he could voice out his thoughts for action.
It crumpled to the floor, headfirst, burying into the earth. The horseman sagged forwards in the saddle, unresponsive, then joined the horse on his front.
“Bataar! What happened?” The Berserker rode over to the unresponsive man. As he got close, he caught a glimpse of his unfortunate fate.
The sight was horrifying. His back was burnt straight to bone, and his remaining flesh charred. Part of his corpse was still on fire; the flames forked his back. It smelt noxious, plain awful. He wanted to gag.
He dropped the reins, and the beast started to walk in reverse. It took him a while before he picked it back up, taking command of his warhorse. His right hand clenched the hilt of his curved sabre, turning white from the pressure.
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The rider heard the whisper of a voice from behind, mumbling distinct words in an alien language. In response he furiously channelled Malevolent energy into his sabre and chanted a spell.
“Whirlwind.” A beating wind buffeted the direction of where the voice emerged, pushing the dust away. Though, there was nothing inside. He shot out repeated bursts of wind all around him in a circle, extending his vision. Still, there was nothing nearby save crumpled Praeteritum corpses that marked the aftermath of each encounter with that Cymorthian knight. A deathly silence descended once more.
The rider shook the reins of the horse, directing it to where he last heard his group’s voices. As the warhorse took nervous steps, the silence was broken. He turned his head and saw a thick black cloud burst out of the top of the monastery.
It chattered and hissed but stayed still for a time. Then it moved. The now black fog dispersed in all directions, flying across the grasslands. It whistled overhead, soaring past the billowed dust, out of his sight.
A nervous chill crept up his back like growing frost. He whipped the reins, commanding the beast to speed up, to gallop, to where his group last was. He shot out bursts of wind to uncover the land which was burdened by the disturbed earth. He would not go without sight.
As he entered deeper, he extended the wind to cover his body like armour, with the rest acting as hands to sense the way forwards. He finally saw something. It was a corpse suited in lamellar armour, with a lance as a weapon. It was the attire of the Berserkers.
It, too, had fire dancing on its back. It burned the armour and flesh of the deceased Berserker. The rider forced the horse to go faster. There was no point in stopping for the deceased. His living companions needed him.
The beating of hooves against earth reflected the rider’s anxiety, only growing faster as time went on. He passed another corpse not too far away. Her death was signed by the signature of Rupert. Sabre wounds and fire.
There were finally gouges in the earth where battle had once taken place. The warhorse leaped over pits, weaved between shattered ruins, and finally stepped over charred corpses. He had seen another three of his companions as he passed by. Streaks of tears fell down his face, carried away by the gentle caress of his wind.
He could hear just before him the sound of metal against metal. Filled with anxiety, he cleaved down with his sabre, dispelling the cloud within his view. The gale hit it and the dust ballooned into the distant sky, granting him vision of the fight before him.
Two Berserkers lay slumped on the floor, dead. Their hollow eyes stared up into the sky, resentfully. The rider’s glance passed over them. He charged into the fight, aiding his last remaining ally.
Rupert found himself at a disadvantage, fighting two Berserkers at once. Up until now, he had been carefully picking off his opponents through subterfuge within the dust cloud. It had worked very effectively, killing seven of the nine Berserkers who had entered.
He employed this strategy due to being significantly weaker than he usually was. He was missing his prized longsword, and he couldn’t employ his usual battle strategies without it.
Rupert dodged left, sliding his feet against the ground, avoiding the wind coated sabre that severed down before him. The rider’s attack cut across his ally's positioning, pushing his first enemy, the Berserker, away.
He aimed his own sabre at the rider’s hand, though it was parried away by a gust of wind. Rupert ignited his sabre chanting, “Fire,” then followed up by sending a blade made of burning embers flying.
The rider responded, chanting in a foreign tongue, controlling the wind to wrap around the floating fire, smothering the flames. Rupert raised an eyebrow, then turned his attention to the initial Berserker.
The Berserker was drawing his horse around, moving out from behind the rider’s own. Rupert strafed towards the left, taking a wide angle, while shooting more blades of fire to keep the rider at bay. The Berserker charged, and Rupert made sure to keep the rider in his periphery while he met the attack.
A lance snaked towards Rupert, aiming at his neck, cutting across the rider’s angle of attack. Rupert slid his left foot forwards, rotating his torso away from the lance. The head of the lance sailed over his right shoulder.
He placed his sword against the lance’s shaft, forcefully distancing himself from a follow up strike. The Berserker barked out a rough chant, and his strength increased dramatically. They struggled against each other’s might, with sword and lance scraping against one another.
However, the equilibrium broke as Rupert slid forwards once more, drawing near the horse. The lance fell through, its power concentrated at its tip. It pushed past Rupert’s body into open space.
Rupert responded quickly, slashing out diagonally, aiming at the Berserker’s arm while he was defenceless. The Berserker tried to pull his lance back to block, only managing to redirect his shaft in time to protect his right arm. The sabre's blade rebounded from the wooden shaft within distance for a continued assault.
Rupert followed up, not missing the opportunity available to him, gouging the point of his sabre into the leg of the Berserker. He dragged the sword through the pelvis, and blood erupted from his thigh. He cried out in pain, loosening his grip on his lance.
Rupert took another step forward. He channelled his Malevolent energy through his sword and chanted “Sear.” The blade heated up, turning a molten red.
Rather than follow the strike up at the Berserker, he chose to sever the back right leg off the warhorse. It collapsed instantly, falling backwards onto the ground. The Berserker fell with it, landing heavily on the floor away from the horse.
The Berserker’s leg had separated from his body, the fall tearing the last tendons which kept attached. He was immobilised and defenceless. His lance too long to be useful at this distance, particularly with his immobile positioning on the floor. Rupert stabbed him through the neck, killing him instantly.
The rider was not waiting around while they duelled. He was bringing his horse around the front of the now dead Berserker, but had been delayed by its fall. On Rupert’s right, the rider cleaved down with his sabre on Rupert’s arm.
Rupert managed to defend himself in time by knocking the sabre off its course by a slim margin, and stepping his right foot backwards. This turned his body side-on to the sabre. The blade cut through the fabric of his doublet as it passed by.
This assault caused the head of the dead Berserker to be lopped off as it was within the sabre’s trajectory after Rupert’s evasion. This further enraged the rider.
The rider screamed a chant in a fit of anger, attempting to channel his Malevolent energy. However, nothing happened. He shrieked again and again, but no spells were released.
“You’ve run out of Malevolency, and your Wick has extinguished. Don’t be so wasteful.” Rupert whispered.
“Fire.” Rupert channelled his Malevolent energy through his sabre, then slashed into the open space. A tangible blade of fire erupted in before him, and shot out at the rider. The flames hit him face on, burning his whole body. The skin burst into bubbles and melted like the wax of a candle.
The skeleton jaw of his skull screamed soundless cries as the man burnt to death on his warhorse. The beast raised its legs, kicking the air and throwing the rider off its back. He landed with a dull sound, laying contorted on his back. He died, like the others. Hollow eyes staring into the sky.