Sir Harold
Walking with a small, separate detachment, Sir Harold watched as the Believers were escorted to the camp in groups of thirty or slightly more. They used the men’s own clothing to bind their hands, as cutting ropes into six hundred pieces was a luxury. Ropes were reserved only for high-profile captives. Still, with their numbers in the hundreds, precautions were necessary, especially knowing that they were not bound by honor and were prone to fanaticism.
The prisoners’ footsteps were weak. Their lips were dry, and many looked frightened. The women had been separated and escorted first, as many of them were in worse condition. It was unthinkable that, only that morning, they had tried to take the camp while being so out of shape.
Not all surrendered peacefully. There had been cases of suicide, men and women throwing themselves down the steep slopes, muttering their fear of the Black Demon, or crying out for salvation from the Living Saint in blind desperation.
Sir Harold's men had neither the resources nor the will to attempt rescues and thus left their fate to chance.
All in all, the counterattack, made possible by a concealed gate in the camp’s wall that Sir Harold had prepared beforehand and by Big Ben’s discovery of an alternate path uphill, was a success.
The camp’s concealed gate lay at the far end of the wall, no wider than several men abreast. From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than solid palisade. In allowed them to slip men through easily without being noticed.
Even so, with only a few dozen men, even heavily armed, they could not reliably halt the mass of retreating Believers. Worse, the Monastery behind them might send reinforcements. Thus, they had mustered the ducks.
Despite concerns that the route would be too difficult, the ducks climbed the narrow, mossy trail along the steep slope. Where the trees were not as closely packed together, they beat their powerful wings to help vault over steep sections. And, living up to their pedigree as race ducks, they marched fast.
Big Ben, who had expected to haul some of them up with ropes, watched in fascination. He had been friendly with the beasts, calling them his sweeties, and often nipping playfully at each other like siblings.
Sir Harold had heard that the ducks did not usually treat the other half-breeds this way. Only Big Ben.
Though they had only managed to bring nine, it proved to be enough. Only three were needed to block the widest part of the uphill path, and three rows of three were enough to convince most people not to fight.
Sir Harold received word that the ducks seemed pleased by the shenanigans and remained in a good mood for the entire climb. They were even spotted showing signs of delighted glee, far from their usual foul demeanor, almost like children given new toys. Not even a noisy honk was heard when secrecy was required.
In the end, Big Ben, who had fashioned a club from a thick, dried trunk he had found, never had the chance to use it. The ducks’ downhill charge had been simply too devastating.
"March in one line. We will process everyone fairly!"
Sir Harold heard his officers shouting at the groups of bound captives as they were formed into lines toward the camp. Nearby, horsemen patrolled the area.
Currently, they had withdrawn the war-ducks, as they were far too dangerous for such duties. Even the riders admitted that if a duck decided to taste human flesh, there were only a few methods to stop it, and most required striking the beast’s neck. No one wished to do that. Their bond with their mounts was precious, and none wanted to risk breaking it.
As Sir Harold climbed farther, he passed more groups of surrendering Believers. They shied away from his gaze and walked in silence, their hands bound tightly with their tunics.
Finding a good open spot, the knight commander stopped and turned toward the northern wall. There, he saw runaway stragglers being rounded up and searched. They could not afford to let anyone keep blades or even knives. Everything was confiscated. If they behaved, they were allowed to keep their shoes. Riskier captives, however, would spend the night without footwear to deter them from fleeing.
Most would be interned at several sites at the rear of the camp, with night guards posted. They could not afford to keep them inside the main camp for security reasons.
The medical team had reported that sedatives had been used on some of the prisoners they treated. Some showed clear withdrawal symptoms, which compounded their anxiety, nausea, restlessness, and agitation. That made them especially dangerous.
Sir Harold turned to his staff, who were observing the lines of captives from nearby. "Make no mistake, they still fear the Saint more than they fear us, so do not let the men lower their guard."
"Sir," the two esquires following him replied.
Sir Harold continued, "Tell the men to gather only good weapons and bolts. We can collect the rest another time."
"But there is still plenty of daylight left," one of them pointed out.
"I do not want to risk it," Sir Harold stated firmly. "There may be Saint Candidate lurking nearby, and spreading our men too thin is unwise."
From the front, the Vice approached with a dozen of his men.
"Commander," they greeted.
"How's uphill?" Sir Harold asked.
"Big Ben helped a lot. Thanks to him, we managed to identify several Monastery Guards," the Vice responded.
Sir Harold nodded, amused by the half-kin. Big Ben had fought in the One Night Rebellion and had captured several important figures who later led to the demise of the Krakusa elites. That was how the Lord had rewarded him, with a monthly allowance of boar and goat. And now, he had earned further merit.
The Vice added, "At least one is willing to talk. He mentioned Inglesian mercenaries employed by the Monastery."
"Good. Hand him over to the Bailiff’s men," Sir Harold replied. "He can help us identify the wolves among the sheep."
"Gonna be a pain. There are so many of them," Gregory said, still in his full plate armor, gazing at the hundreds already captured. Then, realizing his comment had drawn the attention of the Vice and the Commander, he added, "So, uh, what are we going to do with them?"
The Vice snorted briefly. "What else, but to show them the might of the Shogunate?"
Inside the camp, the Bailiff’s men assigned to them had begun their preparations. Detention cells and field tents had been set up, and even a temporary court had been prepared. The kitchens were already at work, as they had to feed an extra six hundred mouths.
Riders were dispatched to carry messages. By the next day, officials from neighboring cities would arrive to take several dozen prisoners for temporary imprisonment, holding them for several weeks before assigning them to sentences of hard labor, mostly to build their cabins for the coming winter. They could request a retrial, and the city bailiff would grant it around wintertime.
Everything had been planned. When it came to organization, the House of Blue and Bronze was a juggernaut.
Sir Harold left the matter of the captives to his Vice and climbed uphill with a column of men. He wanted to see the walls of the Monastery for himself. With their answer given, his three-day demand was no longer needed, and he could launch his assault at any time.
***
Monastery, Caretaker's Chamber
A man sat quietly in his study, sighing and waiting nervously for the knocking on his door. He was large-framed, powerful for his age, possessed of a strong voice, and enjoyed holding the highest position in the Monastery. There was little he feared inside the walls, save a summons from the Living Saint. Even clad in the spring of youth, a mark of her success, he hated that abhorrent figure and had come to regret his decision to back the others in releasing her from the lowest pits of the complex.
He knew the woman had gone too far. The old accusation that had put her behind bars barely scratched the surface.
And now, they had nothing against her.
The first and second generations of Saint Candidates had still been powerful. Many were excellent mages and could have wrestled her back into the dungeon. But today’s generation was nearly pure healer, as they were intended to be. They had no safeguard against a powerful renegade.
Worse, Saint Nay had grown even more powerful than before and enjoyed complete support simply by virtue of her knowledge of the art of magic.
Nay was, after all, one of the founders of the Order. The very person who had found the soul vessel technique that greatly ease healing magic.
But as the internal records had shown, the invention had not been born out of compassion. It had come from the search for an ever-rejuvenating body. Immortality.
And as the Caretaker had now seen for himself, it had corrupted her.
Her apparent wisdom and patience while she was confined had been nothing but a veil. All the conspirators of the Monastery coup, including himself, had been thoroughly charmed, even blinded, by her success in restoring her youthfulness. It had been taken as a mark of a new level of healing, a path toward something greater. They had believed they were dealing with a level of magic that brought the Great Progenitor’s power within reach.
He drew a long, regretful sigh.
Instead of unlocking a new realm of healing magic, he had unleashed a monster. One that was unlikely to die of old age anytime soon.
All of the Monastery had now become her study, and all he could do was keep it running despite mounting reports of suspicious activity. It had reached the point where he confronted her about the missing persons on their grounds, but the Saint merely stated that further study of human anatomy required fresh cadavers, which could regretfully only be obtained through less innocent methods.
She assured him that all the victims had come from accidents, mostly from falls on the slippery slopes around the hill. If they waited to honor the family and perform the rites, then it would already be too late, as the body would decay.
He could understand that reasoning, as it had been used a few times before, yet the growing number remained suspicious. Before Nay’s return, there had been so few accidents around the Monastery. Now, there were several each week. And only because of the large number of Believers on the grounds did nobody grow suspicious. A missing youth was merely assumed to have eloped with a lover. Others were said to have joined the Guard for patrol duty or with the smugglers.
If anyone persisted, they would simply blame the Lord’s men.
The Black Demon was such a convenient scapegoat.
And it gave him time. His vice and he had sought to undermine Nay’s influence over the Saint Candidates. Thus, they used bribes and their control of money to draw them into their camp. They had gained a few groups, but the problem persisted. Common men like them had no magic and enjoyed none of the special bonds usually shared among the Healers.
So there was always distrust on both sides. Bribes could only go so far.
And while they were busy cultivating trust, the supposedly dead man had sent an army to besiege the Monastery.
Against all odds, the Black Lord survived the costly and meticulously planned rebellion. They had sent their best, along with a force several times larger than the one they had raised against Bengrieve, and yet he not only survived but triumphed. The Caretaker still had a headache from how everyone blamed every figure of power for the failure.
Now, the Black Lord had come for vengeance, and his wrath was thorough. The Lords of Krakusa were all but purged. Many of them had been the strongest supporters of the Monastery.
Clearly, the Monastery would not survive this unscathed. With many Great Houses falling, they would be in great need of money in the coming year just to maintain what they had.
Ironically, if he had not been so deeply involved in the rebellion, recruiting and gathering people for that cause, he would have considered surrender. After all, he knew just how dangerous Nay was. Enough to seriously consider selling her out.
Deep inside, he shared the opinion that the Monastery could do without her.
Alas, he was waist deep in the rebellion to consider such an option. Even if he burned the records, his name would still appear in the suppliers’ ledgers. Proof that he had been buying arms and supplies for the past rebellion.
He had wondered whether he could pin the blame on Nay, but felt he could not risk it.
He did not wish to gamble his life. Not when he had achieved so much.
Moreover, he still needed to ensure that his child, hidden among the Candidates, would be able to thrive. The secrecy was meant to protect the boy from jealousy and intrigue. It was also because his mother had been a Saint Candidate. Healers were shunned from marrying. However, there were plenty of ways.
While it was a disappointment that his son was not gifted, he regretted nothing. Either the boy or one of his cousins would inherit the Monastery in time.
After all, their great-great-grandparents had also been among the founders of the Order. Their efforts had made the Healer Guild possible. And as such, it was only fair that their bloodline continue to control the Guild.
Just as they had insisted in their secret notes: What they had built must stay in the family.
Massaging his tired forehead, the Caretaker leaned back in his chair and found himself gazing at the painting of Heaven as depicted in the scriptures, filled with angelic beings with wings among the clouds. A golden kingdom in the sky.
Once, he had believed it to be true. But now, after all the lies of salvation he had uttered himself, he had grown numb. There was no retribution for his lies.
As he shifted in his seat, he felt discomfort in his stomach and let out a quiet burp.
After the fight in the refectory, it had grown harder to prepare food from his personal stash, even when it was only meager porridge with fat, dried anchovies, and bread for himself and his staff, nothing like the proper meals the Saint Candidates enjoyed.
Looking back, it felt naïve that so many had advised him that the Lord’s men would pack up and leave after a few weeks or a month, having burned rations and money for nothing. In reality, the Black Lord's army had persisted and had delivered a three-day ultimatum. Nobody had seriously thought that an army would dare try to attack such a fortress. Naturally, his advisors had called it a bluff.
But, personally, the Caretaker felt it was unwise to gamble against the victor of so many wars.
He did not wish to go against the Saint. He was hoping that the Lord might withdraw his forces this winter. But the food situation had become his downfall.
With so many Believers inside their walls, the Candidates’ stores would not last. And everyone feared that the Saint would refuse to share her reserves in the winter. If that were to happen, then everything would come far too late.
The Believers, many of them armed and assigned as guards, could mutiny against them if the food ran out. The situation was deeply unsettling and increasingly dangerous. Unlike the Saint Candidates in the Inner Sanctum, who remained detached, his Candidates understood what was at stake. At this rate, they would soon find themselves at the mercy not only of the enemy outside, but also of their own Sisters of the Cloth.
And when that happened, would the Saint Candidates lend a hand, or let them die alongside the Believers?
His Candidates saw the writing on the wall and forced him to act. Thus, this morning, they had given their answer. By sidelining the Saint, they had ousted the Believers. With a little luck, the Lord's men would not call it an attack, but merely the actions of hungry subjects.
Personally, he cared little for the Believers’ fate. To him, they were nothing but a burden.
Some said they were leverage, but he did not see it that way.
Soft knocking on the door was heard.
"Enter," he said after taking a deep breath.
"Master," one of his staff greeted him as he entered.
"Summons?" the Caretaker asked.
"No, Master. A report of the battle," he explained nervously.
"Battle?" The Caretaker raised a brow. He had been assured it would not turn into a skirmish. Had the Lord’s men gone mad and attacked the innocents? He forced himself to remain composed. "You mean news? Very well. Speak."
"The Believers…" The messenger hesitated, shifting his weight and lowering his gaze. His fingers tightened around the edge of his sleeve. "They have been defeated."
The Caretaker sprang to his feet. "What?"
"T-the entire force was wiped out. They tried to storm the gate and were repelled. It went so badly that they were forced to retreat." He paused, gathering himself, before adding, "And when they did, the Lord’s men found a path. They say one of the Half-Beasts discovered it and led them through. Our retreating force was trapped."
"T-they are all… all thousand of them?"
"Yes, Master." He nodded nervously. "Either dead or captured..."
The Caretaker sank back into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. His eyes remained wide, fixed on the wall, unable to comprehend what he had just heard.
"We’re finished…" he mumbled, stricken with despair.
Not only had the Believers foolishly chosen to fight, but they had lost as well. Now, the Monastery’s position was truly unsalvageable.
"Master, perhaps it is best to bring this to the Saint’s attention before the news reaches her on her own," his staff slowly suggested.
The Caretaker wanted to spit at the suggestion, but he knew it was correct. With heavy steps, he went to the drinks cabinet in the corner. Feeling the slightly cooler, drier air inside, he took out a finely cut glass bottle. He usually loosened the cork with care, but today he tore it hastily, poured the liquor into a silver goblet, and took a long sip of his trusted 4396 golden spirit. It warmed his throat and belly.
He would need the courage. He was about to hand over his fellow Candidates, the ones who had suggested this folly, to the Saint. It was not vengeance. It was a necessity. They would have done the same to him, if only to prolong their own lives.
"Yes. Let the Saint be their judge," he mumbled to himself, already building his case. He had only tried to prevent mutiny. It had not been he who sent the Believers out.
"Prepare my formal attire," he instructed.
His staff bowed low in acknowledgment and left the chamber.
A robe of lustrous black, accented with bright red, would serve well to remind everyone of his office. And if that failed, the Caretaker turned to a different desk beside his bed and opened a polished cherry-redwood box to reveal rings of gold and silver inside. Some were adorned with rubies, one with a sapphire, and others with lesser gemstones. Two were magical.
He took them and struggled to slide them onto his fingers, which were fat, almost swollen, and yellowing. A healer had once told him it was likely a symptom of deeper illness. That was why he had abandoned wearing rings. They no longer fit comfortably. But this time, he needed anything he could get.
The situation might become confrontational. And he had seen that the Saint cared not about truth or fairness, but only for those who could help her the most.
He planned to pit the loud, useless, and troublesome silver-hem Candidates against the Saint. If successful, it would buy him time to save the Monastery from everyone.
The Caretaker unconsciously flexed his fingers, and the rings bit painfully into his flesh. It reminded him that no plan was without risk. Images of the Saint’s face flashed through his mind. Even in memory, the pair of eyes set upon that innocent, youthful face gave him chills. It reminded him that Nay was likely not entirely human anymore.
...
Monastery Guards
It was past midday when the last stragglers returned to the Monastery gates. They were in such a state that the Captain of the Monastery Guards allowed them entry out of pity, knowing it would make no difference. The plan to oust the thousand Believers had backfired. The silver-hem Candidates had trusted the Inglesians to lead, yet the mercenaries had seen an opportunity in victory and gambled on it. Now, everything had fallen apart.
The Captain sighed. Even nearing sixty, he still had the strength to wear ringmail in the midday heat. His hair was cut short, and he had a square jaw and battle scars that commanded respect. He had been a professional since his youth, serving House Bengrieve before being bound by oath and duty to protect these walls. Yet he increasingly sensed that this would be the death of him, his men, and the fanatics alike.
He had heard that the Baronet of Toruna, Sir Stan, was among the besiegers, and the thought of fleeing had occurred to him. Yet he was bound by a debt.
Long ago, he had sworn to defend the Monastery if his mother were cured. She had been, and later passed from natural causes many years afterward.
Many others in the Guard were like him. Despite the coup and the changing of leaders, their oaths had not faded. As long as their service was required, they would gladly put their lives on the line.
However, men like him were few and far between. He heard whispers of defection and flight among the younger guards. Only by reinforcing the ranks with the fanatics had they slowed the spread of doubt, for the younger men feared that the zealots might stab them in the back. The fanatics, after all, were utterly loyal to the Saint.
The sound of men in armor moving and murmuring behind him reached his ears, but the Captain kept his eyes fixed on the empty path downhill.
"Captain," the newcomer said, saluting.
"Yes?" he replied calmly.
"The scout from the woods has returned," the officer reported, his tone somber.
"And?"
"They saw the Lord’s men marching toward us. They will reach us in an hour."
Those within earshot exchanged worried glances.
The Captain remained composed. "No need to send out more scouts. Take ten men and bury the secret path. Make sure no one can use it."
Like most fortifications, the Monastery had hidden access routes for defensive purposes.
As his men carried out the order, the Captain began to make out dark figures marching uphill in the distance. They were partly concealed by trees and winding roads, but he knew the Lord’s men were coming. The opposing side had no reason left to delay.
The Monastery had lost most of its fighting force, including its only leverage for defense.
Now, the Lord’s three-day ultimatum was no longer in effect.
And to think that all of this had begun with the Candidates’ complaints about not having enough to eat.
Currently, they had nothing left to bargain. He personally doubted that even if they handed over the Saint, the Monastery would be spared. They had shown their true colors, and the Black Lord would most likely purge them indiscriminately.
Within the hour, as warned by the scouts, the troops bearing the banner of the Blue and Bronze were seen flooding the paths leading to the Monastery. Trumpets and shouted commands echoed from their direction as the vanguard poured out from the hill routes. Clad in a combination of plate armor, ringmail, and shields, the first column quickly formed a battle line, while the rest of the force spread out and surrounded the Monastery, leaving only the cliff side unoccupied.
Their crossbowmen deployed their pavises, forming a defensive screen. Meanwhile, behind them, others spread out and, in an efficient manner, began to carry out their assigned roles. Many chopped wood. Others erected tents or hauled forward the dreaded siege ladders, resting them against the trees, a sight that chilled the Monastery Guards, for the ladders truly reached the height of their walls.
Captivated by the near-frantic activity, before they fully realized it, field tents and simple fences had already been raised. The entire hillside outside the Monastery walls had come alive with hundreds of invaders, and their numbers continued to grow.
Only then did the Candidates seem to care about their defenses. Dozens in gray robes gathered alongside the guards to watch the siege unfold, whispering and murmuring among themselves. Everyone was sweating.
One whispered, "They cannot attack now. Not after fighting the Believers since morning."
"Maybe not now. But the night is long, Brother Candidates. Keep your blades close tonight. You may need them," the Captain replied in a tone loud enough to startle them. Then he raised his voice to address everyone around him. "Do not deceive yourselves. The fight has finally come for us."
***
PS: It seems many of you enjoyed the last chapter. 🤗
So, do you think Harold will attack at night? 🤔
There are many not-so-guilty characters on the Monastery side, but fate can be cruel to those who witness wrongs and do not act.
As always, big gratitude for your awesome support! 💎💖🦆