The battle raged for longer than I had expected. Quickly, I felt the others join. They slipped into the camp from other sides, punching through the thinning ranks. Fetinja trailed straight to me, and kept close, hitting parties shooting at me or advancing grimly, spears in hand. She was faster, admittingly. Her mind was stronger, sharper. I saw her tetanize a man simply by staring into his eyes, before slapping his head such that his neck spun and broke. Michael and Caterina attacked together with merciless, efficient brutality, like they were hunting, one or two men at a time at first, but they grew bolder and more playful as the battle progressed.

We didn’t hang around much afterwards. Raymond and Fetinja, who the Sleep took first, had some three hours left, but we decided to go home. We walked out of the camp littered with dead and wounded, looking like corpses ourselves, with the pale and the blood, but we did so satiated, calm. Raymond whistled happily, though he had a deep gash in his thigh and many, small cuts. I refused to show weakness in front of the soldiers, who made wide circles around us and looked with horror, now that the fight was over, horror and fear. As long as we looked invincible, they wouldn’t dare even think of betrayal, however monstrous they thought us.

We reached the farmstead leisurely. Not a lot of talk, except for Raymond’s proud banter and mocking. My attention was mostly on the laceration in my shoulder. The arrow had bit the edge of the shoulder and ripped up skin and flesh. It ached, but it was tolerable. Warm, fresh blood was flowing in my veins its life was healing me.

Once in the locked manor’s wine cellar, safe and sound, we relaxed. Raymond stretched and smiled blissfully. “Archie, you fought like a lion!” He praised, “what a night! We were gods out there, weren’t we, Caterina?”

She smiled overbearingly. “Michael was the god, Raymond, but you were an angel, maybe.”

Michael scoffed, and Raymond laughed, “an angel of death! That’s brilliant.” Slowly, his light-hearted cheer won the two of them over. I mentally thanked him. This night could have just as easily shocked them, and maybe given them cold feet. Instead, it was a victory. Caterina too, had suffered a gash down her side, though a shallow one. It had made Michael see red for a time, he had torn apart the man, literally. By an arm and a leg, before biting through the neck.

“How are you?” I asked Fetinja, who had hidden herself away from the others in another part of the cellar. I sat in front of her, against empty wine shelves.

She shrugged. She wasn’t happy. “I hated it,” she said, “Amero wouldn’t like us doing this.”

“Really? We have killed no one who was not a killer,” I pointed out readily, having expected this from her.

“We have killed needlessly.” She shook her head, “we are making ourselves seen, We’re bringing attention on our kind. It’s only a matter of time before the hammer falls.”

“We need only a few days, and then we disappear,” I argued softly, “but it’s alright. You can go home. I won’t fault you.” I wanted to reach out for her shoulder… but it wouldn’t be good for either of us. It would tear down the protective wall we had erected, and the blood of our hearts would come gushing out.

“It’s much too late for that, you know,” she said, making a small, ironic smile, “I have committed.”

I bowed my head to that, feeling a rush of irritation. Why complain then? She was not the victim, it was her decision, as she said. I had forced her to do nothing. The irritation quickly faded again. She was here for me. She cared, but there was frustration. Of course. With her, there always was.

I ruminated on that when death’s sleep took her. They were all sleep, except for me and my fellow night… day owl. Bah. Michael tiringly plodded over, leaning against the wall some four steps away as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re good?” He asked, as I stood up in respect, though it was not needed.

“Fine,” I claimed and unconsciously mirrored his position, noticing it only right after, when it was too late. Except for my hand, which was brushing my throat. An old habit. “Don’t worry too much. We stick to the plan, there won’t be a second battle. Raymond is satisfied, he got the fight he dreamed of.”

“I fear he has only just had a taste, and that he liked it,” Michael mused darkly. I didn’t know what to say to that. Michael knew him better. “Another thing,” he said, “there’ll be a second battle, at least. Hopefully a third one too.”

I raised a brow. “How do you mean?”

Michael exhaled deeply. We had no need to breathe, really, but our mannerisms remained. “We two have played a lot of chess. If you try one strategy, and lose, would you try the exact same in the next game?”

“You mean to say…” I stared, but was unable to finish, though I was beginning to see his point.

He shrugged. “Simply that we cannot expect another victory like this one, if they’re any kind of clever. They’re not defeated yet, not with the numbers back at the old monastery. They might hit us in the day, or gather more clerics… we haven’t seen any sign of the archbishop yet, have we?” He fixated me. “I fear most for you and Raymond. Hitting hard and fast works if it’s unexpected…”

“But they may expect it now.” I finished his thought, nodding, “I see your point. So, what do you propose?”

“The next bout, we stand back and observe, at first. We react to whatever they may have thought up. If there is any. And then we deal with it appropriately. If you and I agree, then Raymond will fall in line.” He paused. “And Caterina. She has my back, but Raymond is getting her worked up, which encourages him further.” He sighed again, gesturing hopelessly. See what I am dealing with? His eyes said.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

I cheered upliftingly. “We’ll be fine, Michael. You know what’s worth something too?” I started wryly, remembering a good story I had read.

“What?” He uttered cautiously, on-guard. He was too used to Raymond’s antics.

“The bonds we forge, over this journey,” I said gently, “you’ll have Fetinja’s trust, though she might not show it.”

First, he looked taken aback, then he huffed and his face split in a reluctant smile, “that’s a good one,” he attempted to say drily, but I could tell that I had gotten through to him, so I simply smiled meaningfully.

He shook his head, “good day, goodman,” he said in true Nightwalker manner.

The day passed in peace, for us. I woke up and contemplated my shoulder, which was half-closed, but the healing was slowing. I needed a fresh drink. Then I examined my sword, which I hadn’t cleaned properly, and which had many new chinks in its edge. It was a familiar blade, and I was reluctant to replace it, but I wouldn’t cry two tears over it either.

The night was similarly quiet. We spoke with the Viscount and his circle, who were possibly even more afraid now, and somehow awing. The profession and pride of Nobility was war and violence, and we had showed excellence in the last. Eight-seven men were lost, either dead or wounded or sick, which left the bulk of the army intact and victorious, with many rumours at the monsters on their side. It made for both confidence and doubt within the host.

They were marching on the old Monastery and planned to reach it the next night. We left them early to find a next hiding spot, which took so much time we split into three groups, Raymond being alone, before we found an old but solid hut in the forest and spent the rest of the night filling the windows and digging its floor out to build ourselves a nice, secure tomb. Only Raymond complained of the menial work, though Caterina and Fetinja found it distasteful also. I, for one… enjoyed the woodwork. It brought me back to simpler times.

I refused to think of my family. I had not returned to them yet, though I had promised. But letters had been sent. And pompous gifts.

On the third night since the battle, my shoulder had all but healed. We headed out from the hut prepared for war. Michael and Fetinja were grim, hard-faced, with a sharp, deadly look in their eyes. They were the oldest of us, and the most reluctant. Raymond was jubilant, his grin was dark and already fierce, he was rolling his shoulders and hopping around on his toes, barely able to contain his lust for blood and battle. Caterina’s excitement was quiet and sharp, her eyes were searching, as if hunting already. But, to be fair, her attention seemed evenly split between him and everything else.

I was somewhere in between, I preferred to think. In the right mood, I liked the rush of battle, the abandon to its ferocity, but as of now, I was preoccupied by our goal, which was more insidious than simply punching a hole in the opponent’s figure. So, I was probably more in Michael and Fetinja’s camp.

We moved quite fast through the evening’s forest, which was dark and thick and looming. Not long had passed before the scent of blood reached our nose, and a sudden fear took my heart as I remembered the first night when the Viscount had been defeated and chased off before dusk. I accelerated, and they followed suit.

The clamour of steel against steel sounded in the forest, and the shouts and groans of men, of wounded and dying. They were fighting already. I swore, drawing steel, before I felt Michael’s mind against my own. Calm down, it impressed on me. His composure was infecting. That he could make such a precise mental nudge amid battle was a testament to his discipline and skill.

“But they are retreating,” Raymon said with surprise, referring to the archbishop’s forces.

We found the Viscount, who was on foot. Riding in the forest’s dense and treacherous underbrush would have been courting a hard and mortal fall, or a low branch.

“Milords,” he burst out, sweating even in the cold beneath his layers of cloth and leather and chainmail, “they surprised us this midday! But finally, we are pushing them back! The monastery should be half-a-league away, and they are retreating!” His voice was excited but tired.

Michael and I exchanged a look. Of course, they were retreating. The night had come. We had come. As he spoke, the last sounds of fighting died off, as stragglers were surrounded and cut down.

“Get the men in order!” He barked to his sergeants, “we advance! Let the Circle know!” Men ran off to the other Lords.

We accompanied him, filling everyone around with fear. Yet they marched with unhesitant vigilance, knowing they had a relentless power to release on the enemy. Ranks were formed as was possible in the forest. We were slowed, for the forest grabbed in everything it could and the men-at-arms constantly had to pull themselves free.

Finally, on a hill ahead cleared off trees, we saw fire. Many, many fires, littering the old monastery’s ruins. Only the chapel stood remotely solid, untouched by nature, as if even the vines did not dare touch it. Between the fire and the ruins, hundreds of men lied in wait, archers, crossbowmen, spearmen, swordsmen, axemen, and so on, and they were chanting Latin. Most had no faith, but the few that had gave the words power such that ut prickled at my skin and rose the hairs on my neck. I almost growled in irritation. Raymond actually did, it rolled off his throat and spread like a message of hunt and death. His knuckles whitened around the sword’s grip.

“Attack,” he hissed, “now!”

“Continue the advance,” I précised, nodding to the Viscount, he bowed his head.

Our forces were more numerous and slowly enveloping them while raining down arrows and spears on them, as they responded in kind. Soon, the air was filled with screams, smoke, the smell of blood, of metal and men’s bowels as they were gutted.

We assembled, pulling slightly away from the Viscount who was giving the last orders before preparing his own entering the battle with his best men.

“The crypt is beneath the chapel,” I reminded, before looking to Michael, “what’s our approach? We go around?”

Michael grimaced, “no, they have… minimum, guards there, I believe, but strong presences. Strong clerics. They’re waiting for us there.”

“So we go through?” Fetinja asked, shaking her head, thinking us mad. “Through that?” It was chaos. We stood on an opposing slope and had some view of the battle through the last, light forest. It was a storm of flying projectiles and two masses of fighting men. On the left of the ruins, the ground was too steep and rocky for an attack, so the battleline was spreading to the right as flanking attempts were defended.

Michael looked tightly wound and reluctant. “They won’t expect us to. And as far as I can observe, there are most clerics where their lines are thin or absent. Defended only by lookouts. And if we break their line, we can exploit the chaos. It will sweep their clerics from the grounds, they are non-combatants.” He tore his eyes from the battle and eyed us, one by one, dead-serious, “I propose that Raymond take point, as our chief warrior, Archibald and I will cover the flanks, Fetinja will watch your back, Archibald, and Caterina mine.” He exhaled, but his mind was cold as ice. “This is the play. I think it will work. Any comments?”

No one said anything. I liked the plan and trusted him. Fetinja bit her protests in, knowing she would be alone. And she was here to watch my back, which was exactly the position she had been assigned.

“Raymond,” Michael said, cold and focused, “there.” He gestured with his head, slightly on the left. “Not many clerics. They trust the steel too much.”

His Mind’s Eye really was something. Much sharper then Fetinja’s. More honed. He must really be older. We started moving, blowing past the Viscount’s company like a breeze. I sensed his excitement behind me, his wide eyes assuredly watching us beneath the nasal helmet.