Old Soldiers

First, there was just red--a dusky, autumn red that reminded her of home. Then, a scent, loamy and earthen, but warm and inviting. A gentle touch, soothing her aching body. This campaign is young, Siobhan thought, unsure of how she'd come to such a state. They took me alive, and I wasn't...

The corruption within her didn't leave without taking its toll, and it ran deep. The pain was exquisite, but brief, and a numbing warmth replaced each tendril of necrotic ruin within her. She'd seen the corpses (risen and otherwise) of those slain with such energy--they were beyond healing, save a miracle. Perhaps a master of both necrosis and healing could accomplish it. But her mind wasn't well enough to contemplate the possibility.

As her sight returned, the red yielded to a face, a beautiful woman ministrating to her. When did I pull this lot? she asked herself in confusion, but wasted no time, as was her way. She took the woman's long, supple neck in one hand, pulling her close, and kissed her plump, sensuous lips. She nearly jerked away, but surrendered to the passion, her hot breath mingling with Siobhan's, her taste rich like pumpkin spice. (Yeah, you know Siobhan's a PSL girl)

At last, she pulled apart, offering a smile and a raised eyebrow. "A simple thank you would have sufficed, but I appreciate the effort." Unfazed, she finished her work, now mostly complete. Her mind had been scoured as effectively as her body, on whose unclothed surface she could see the scars of black, necrotic tendrils that had recently covered her. Rapidly, her skin was rejecting the dead flesh, and regenerating, leaving puffy, swollen scars, which one hoped would too fade in time.

It was finally clear--what had happened, who this was. She started to recoil, to protect herself, to seek some avenue of escape, but the notion was foolish. She'd already been utterly defeated, and mortally wounded. If the woman had wanted her dead, she needn't have done anything at all. And it wasn't as if there was anything left for her to see.

But who? Red hair, thaumaturgy...she must be the daughter Melora. Her skill was legendary, and she'd have doubted it if not so thoroughly proven. A true master of life and death alike, each in their separate aspects, and their glorious union. She was envious, but more was her admiration. "Are you sure you don't want to join our faith? You could be an Abector, maybe a Prophetess. You might just be the most gifted practitioner since Erandis herself, blessed be her name."

"Friend of yours, was she?" her work complete, she went to retrieve some fresh clothes for her prisoner. The thought was as ludicrous as it was wistful; Erandis Vol died 2,500 years ago, an absurd age for any living elf.

"Do I look deathless to you? I've hardly known a woman more familiar with my inner warmth." She propped herself up as gracefully and seductively as possible, staring deeply into her savior's eyes, an offering.

"I certainly wouldn't mind getting deeper into it," she returned, drawing close to the fallen knight, prostrate before her. Then, unceremonially, handed her a stack of plain, utilitarian clothes. "But you're wanted by someone I dare not keep waiting." She left her with a suggestive wink and a gentle brush of the cheek.

Siobhan would be lying if she claimed not to be disappointed, so it was a good thing she cleaved to the Vow of Truth so dearly. At worst, they'd meet again in dreams. Assuming she survived whatever this fresh test was meant to be.

Surely they didn't resurrect me just to slay me again? she thought as she struggled with the rough-hewn cloth against her sharply-stinging wounds. Unless that's the whole idea, kill me however many times she can bring me back before I crumble to dust. Hardly fitting, but who knows what motives witches have?

As she finished comporting herself, she saw there was only one exit from the room, with stone walls all around, and Melora waited for her at the threshold. As a knight, she owed her captors obedience, and they in turn reasonable treatment--which she supposed they'd exceeded in spades at this point--but she was not bound to let pass an opportunity to return to her order. Freedom, the holiest of the Three Tenets, forbade indefinite imprisonment or slavery. Even the guiltiest sinners were entitled to choose trial by combat and risk death. Then again, what twisted religion did these witches and their minions follow? Have they any guidance but their own? Any Divinity without or within? Surely witches revere the Divine--or at least respect it--but in what strange ways? She wasn't optimistic they would see eye-to-eye.

She was escorted through some stone fortress, probably underground. The cold stone numbed her feet, but a nice pair of sturdy boots, she reckoned, would be a bit too valuable for an escapee in a savage land. At least she wasn't shackled.

"You're not afraid of me? Even without my sword I could probably throttle you. These sleeves are pretty sturdy." Her tone was playful, even suggestive. Neither did she want to spoil her chances with her, nor test her ability to turn healing to harm.

Concordantly, Melora smirked sideways at her. "I already said we didn't have time."

Siobhan actually blushed, just a bit, but Melora continued, "I believe you will cleave to your oaths. And I know I can put you in the ground if I must."

Okay, that shouldn't have made her feel what it did. The threat was real, and believable. And while every Blood Knight craves a worthy death, the witch-druid had her thinking only of little ones. She cleared her throat, gathering composure as she was nearing some sort of secure door, guarded by armored beast-men. Between their foul musk, ugly faces, and thirsty eyes, her blood quickly flowed back to her brain, as she prepared to meet whichever witch was surely due to pronounce sentence upon her. Thanks for that, I guess, she thought at the beast-men, and prayed it would be the last she had to think of them.

The door opened. And judgment awaited her.

If it was a witch, it was in a form she did not expect. It appeared to be a tall humanoid male--anything more was impossible to discern through what must have been 200 pounds of plate armor, and a barbute with enough horns and skull imagery to outfit a dozen Death Knights.

He wasn't the only Death Knight present. She recognized his companion, Ser Maksim of the Deathguard, and no sooner had her mind recognized his stupid face, than she summoned as much mucus as she could to spit on him. There was a little clotted blood in there. Foolish, but worth it.

"Bootlicker," she cursed, and turned to the other one. Could it Rygar of the Bone Knights? Or maybe some knight-captain from Rekkenmark? It wouldn't be any of the forbidden orders, they'd sooner die than stand alongside a knee-bender.

The man in black removed his helmet--an impressive feat, it must have weighed eight or nine stone itself--and set it down beside him with a thud. And her heart seemed to drop into her gut, as if taking flight and hoping the inevitable savaging of her body would delay its own capture.

The King? What the fuck is he doing here? This is still Droaam, right? Surely the dungeon in Korth doesn't employ furry monsters as guards. The druid can teleport, maybe she-

"Dame Siobhan," he addressed, and whatever lingering doubt she may have had vanished. That voice, like a pipe organ resounding in a stone cathedral, couldn't be anyone else's. "What was your purpose coming to Droaam?"

She leveled her gaze--as much as possible, he was at least a foot taller than she--and tried to find the exact right amount of snark as she replied, "obeying orders, your majesty."

She took the opportunity to scan the room. It was a war room of some kind, perhaps an alternate meeting room in a bunker, or maybe this is what passed for a primary one in Droaam. A broad table stood between them, etched and burned into a rather realistic geographic map, but no pieces stood upon it to give away any intelligence. Melora was still here, silently watching, and there was someone else--someone who'd always been there, she realized, probably from the first moments of her consciousness. Invisible, and silent as the grave. She'd only glimpsed her briefly in battle, but it could only be Elise, the Weaver, their deadliest assassin.

Oh, you like to watch, do you? Careful honey, my dance card's getting awfully full. There was time for snark, but no time for fantasy--this was a very dangerous place. No others could be seen, but surely magic was at work to allow the witches to reign over their own domain. It was time for the Sight.

Thanks to the Vow of Truth, her eyes could see no lie, no facade. The Divinity Within was plain to her, and in turn made plain the animating force, the character, and to some extent, the abilities of all she saw. The two knights were suffused with necrotic energy, but retained beating hearts. That didn't necessary qualify them as "alive", as not all undead are still within. But while both were stained with the indelible red of lives taken and blood spilled (the King much more than his knight), it didn't have the taint of injustice. They had bested men in combat, and ordered executions, but the Truth can distinguish between murder and justice. The King, it seemed, had also tasted of the forbidden fruit, for the blood stained his lips and throat as much as his hands. A vampire, then. I'll finally be collecting my winnings from the undead pool.

The aura of the Rose was fittingly magnificent and morbid, her necrotic power stronger still than the animus of the vampire, mixed insolubly yet beautifully with her radiant vitae. Her heart beat strongly, full of hot blood and vigor. Her carnal sins were plenty, but according to her own faith, at least, she was unstained by true evil.

Unable to hide from the Truth, the spider became clear in her sight. Her mask of shadow was ably crafted, but not enough to shield against the Divine. Her aura was dark--not necrotic energy, but the Void, a strange cousin whose devouring hunger could never be filled. The dead, Siobhan could trust, but the Void was the enemy of all life. And Elise seemed to fit the bill. Coated in blood red nearly from head to toe, she was an unabashed instrument of death. Yet, she was a warrior and loyal servant, and the laws of her morality transferred the bulk of the responsibility to her commanders, who would be the witches. Not inherently evil, but probably impossible to return to the light.

And there was certainly magic in this place, but no invisible watchers, no scry sensors, or any illusions covering anything visible. Could the witches really be counting on a secondhand account of this interrogation? No, stupid, this isn't about them. I'm more valuable to Kaius, so they traded me. I hope it was for something worthwhile.

"Who gave you your orders?" he continued, surely not expecting anything useful.

"My superiors," she answered truthfully. "I'm flattered you came all this way for little old me, but I'm hardly a member of the Crimson Covenant. I'm just a soldier--following orders is all I know."

He took his time, slowly advancing around far end of the table towards her. "Have you anything to say for yourself, in regards to your treachery?"

She managed to smile contemptuously. What a lovely opportunity he'd given her. "How much time do you have, majesty?" When he didn't immediately respond, she took it as a green flag. "You have no standing to disband my order, and your dear auntie certainly didn't. You can't just make up new laws, when your blood swore oaths. The Divine remembers."

"So too did yours," he chided, with more of a personal note than she expected from the boy king. "Ilmarrow was never a knight, but your captains took vows, and broke them." The wound sounded almost as fresh in his voice as it was in her heart. Truly, many of her brothers and sisters betrayed her, betrayed the Divine, and profaned their oaths. The Emerald Claw's name was befouled, perhaps irretrievably. But none of that changed her Truth, nor her oaths.

"I remain true. As ever." Her voice was steel--a challenge, a dare. She'd love a chance to show the boy king what a real warrior can do, and didn't need two hundred pounds of armor or a big phallic sword to do it.

To her surprise, he nodded in ascent. "Few can say the same, but aye."

Unnerved, uncertain what angle he was taking, she watched in silence as he strode slowly forth. His posture was ever-so-slightly muted, him fully aware how intimidating he could be if he wanted. His knight grew visibly tense, and the spider shifted in her corner, expecting treachery. Pots and kettles, she thought in her direction.

"For seventy-five years, you've served ably, and with dedication." He met her gaze. "You served my grandfather," he began, with an odd twinge to his words. Spoken lies buzzed in her ear, the ring of falsehood marking them plain. This wasn't a lie--of course it wasn't, she remembered her swearing-in, and the battles they fought together--but there was a tinge to his words that didn't make sense. "And fought our enemies bravely."

"And your auntie got self-conscious about what the Faithless said of our beliefs, and rather than keep her own conscience, she forced hers down our throats."

He'd finally reached melee range. Maybe should could swing the chair at his legs, but she doubted it was heavy enough to do more than bounce off. Maybe he'd come at her with his vampiric fangs, her meager fabric not even covering her neck like proper armor. But she'd killed more men in such close quarters than she could count. Even a couple vampires.

"Your order wasn't disbanded because of your Faith, but because of its unlawful actions." He was impassionate, cold, judgmental--exactly what she expected.

"My order wasn't disbanded," she countered, "because nobody with authority to do so ever did." She stood as tall and proud as she could, dwarfed by this man even without his ridiculous deathmail.

"This same, tired argument," came the voice of Maksim, who'd been incensed by her words, her disobedience. She insulted his pride as a proper lapdog. "Your oaths were broken!"

"Name the oath I broke, lickspittle!" she spat in return, but his inevitable reply was quashed when the king rose his hand and commanded the room.

"You are guilty of no such violation, Dame. You are still a Blood Knight, but your Order is false. It is folly to serve them. Others like you remain loyal and proud knights of the realm."

"Is he proud?" she indicated to Maksim, who desperately wanted to snap back, but the king pressed on.

"Which is why I ask what orders you were following. If there is an honorable knight outranking you yet wearing your colors, I don't know his name. And orders from terrorists and criminals have no weight of oath."

She fumed, but couldn't find the right words. She couldn't defend the honor of her superior, even if she strongly believed in her cause. In truth, her orders came from no knight, from someone who likely never swore any oaths to any king. "I serve my oath...according to my conscious. I accept the guilt of any action I undertake, in my own name. My superior is not a shield, just a guide, wiser and farther-seeing than I. If you consider her enemy, I will not betray her to you."

He seemed to brood on that, considering what clues she'd given, as if he could divine her name from a pronoun. At last, he continued, "in that case, be it upon you. What did you intend?"

"Does it matter? What did I do?"

He grunted in modest agreement. "Your allies, they weren't knights. Who were they to you? Mind, we know their identities, you betray nothing."

"Allies of convenience, recommended by a mutual acquaintance. Our mission--was personal in nature. Droaam isn't a recognized nation, and our actions were not an act of war, merely a police action in a barbaric land. We were well within our rights-"

"You had no right," came a cold voice from just behind her ear, as she felt cold void-steel against her neck, and another blade in the small of her back. The spider had woven her web, and revealed herself at last. "You are nothing to us but an invader."

"And we fought, and you won. Sore winners, these witches," she chuckled slightly, appealing to the King, as if their shared nationality could unite them against her would-be assassin.

"Elise, she's not yours to take," came Melora's voice, full of concern. She wanted to imagine the concern was for her personally, even if it was far more likely about the political ramifications of acting without the Warchief's blessing.

"If all this is true," Siobhan asked in some discomfort, as the razor edge was starting to draw blood, no matter how she contorted away from it, "then why am I not on trial before the Warchief? Is she still missing in action? Who overcome the mighty Troll Queen in battle? At least grant me that, it must be quite a story."

Kaius actually showed emotion, a shadow of some sort of self-satisfied grin. "The Warchief is quite well, and attends to far more important matters. She's given her blessing to me to handle you, in particular. A favor, to which you likely owe her your life."

Siobhan wrinkled her brow at him, still trying to puzzle out his motive. She'd never imagined the boy king to be a manipulator of this sort. She thought he was just a scared lad roleplaying as his grandfather, standing in a shadow he could never overtop. Was she going to live? Why? What is he planning?

At a glance from the king, Elise backed off, freeing her from the threat of instant death (instead, perhaps death after half a second). She was thankful, for what is was worth, but wondered if she'd regret not pushing the spider to finish her quickly, then and there.

"Dame Siobhan, you have loyally served the crown since the time of my grandfather. Your oaths are pure, and your deeds in stone. I have no doubt of your honor, or your capability, and I thee charge:"

Rain of Blood, he can't be serious.

"A deep corruption infects our home. My own departed wife was false, hollowed out by horrible, elder evil, made a vessel to a dark god in an effort to spread their blight. Many others in my court, esteemed priests and clergy, captains among the knights, nobles and merchants, even peasants, have proven tainted by this evil.

"Their faith is not ours, Blood Knight. It is a perversion, a corruption so vile, so anathema to the Divine, that we are obliged to stamp it out: from the earth, from the minds of all, and in the flesh, on its home plane, at last. The Black Blood is our greatest enemy, and I need your help to defeat it."

She was stunned. Did he just admit he still followed the faith? After all his rhetoric? She'd heard of the heresy of Black Blood, but it was a fairy story, a false flag to justify the silencing (or worse) of any faithful that stepped out of line. But his words were true, every one, at least in the truth of his heart. And if his faith was true, then he wouldn't have been able to speak lies in the first place.

"My...king...I don't-"

"You don't have to answer right away. There is much to tell. You deserve to know which of your--associates--have been profaning your faith." There was a warm, gentle hand at her shoulder. Melora was guiding her, inviting her to sit, and offering emotional support at the same time. And in truth, her mind was flooding with faces, with a hundred sideways glances, moments of doubt, unspoken anxieties. And of course the excuses--always, she could find a reason not to suspect, or a favorable interpretation of the truth, so she didn't have to question her path.

Somehow, in the king's face, she saw the same thing. She knew then that, impossibly, the boy king was no boy. He wasn't untouched by war, he was bathed in it from birth...no, not quite. Because he was older than the war.

He is Kaius the elder. Blood Within, it's true. He is my king.

Instead of taking her seat, she continued her descent, taking a knee before him. "Your majesty, you have called, and I answer. I swear on my blood, and the Divinity Within, I shall root this evil out of our lands, or else die in the effort, before all else, and with every ounce of my strength."

"And you will have help," he returned, offering her a hand, ungloved. Not the traditional words, just a helping hand from a fellow soldier.