The world was in turmoil, everyone agreed, but what had ultimately brought it over the brink was a matter of contention.

The councillors at Gareth sat in their high chairs and argued fiercely over facts concerning what had transpired where and when and why, and whether or not errors had been made. Everyone had different aims, shaping the manifold ways in which they saw the world. Like coloured glass each faction was looking out through a different window and saw an entirely different truth. And within some factions at the Imperial Council table in Gareth, discord was almost equally as rife.

The Purge

The City of Light had called upon the Legion of the Sun to be assembled, and many able-bodied men and women followed suit, attaching themselves to the cause for reasons of faith. Initially called upon to deal with the threats of the two titanic demons, the number of their horns being unclear, their purpose soon became bastardized by the greedy, short-sighted pieties of the Praios Church.

The wizards had lost their power. Long dabbling at the edge of self-condemnation, the Order of the White Pentagram, commonly known the White Guild, had provided all rationale the Praios Church required to finally embark on its single greatest ambition: to eradicate the heresy of witchcraft.

Witches and druids, black warlocks, necromants, shamans and the like had always been hunted by the holy inquisition. The Grey Guild had chosen to be complaisant, apolitical, and was granted the right of existence in turn. This was all under the watchful eyes of the Ordo Defensores Lecturia, or the Grey Staffs for short, a censorious organ installed by the guild to prevent itself from causing controversy.

For the white guild, many of its members were so devout that they transferred into the echelons of priesthood seamlessly. The rest were put on trial and burned at the stake, provided they escaped the mob justice. Many mages went into hiding as a result, running for their lives oft only with the clothes upon their back that they soon learned to trade in for other garb.

For the Grey Guild, the option of priesthood was unattainable, so flight was their only escape. Outside of their academies they were less institutionalized, neither tied into armies nor government, so they had an easier time at that still. Only the ODL were put before the choice, and they chose to integrate into the forces of the inquisition rather than to burn with those they were formerly charged to protect from themselves, along with their books and scrolls.

The repurposing of the Legion of the Sun and the popular rise to action it instilled was one of the greatest pieces of contention in the Garethian council chamber. It meant that it was dispersed, going everywhere at once, and hunting men who now, godly or not, were rather mundane, if not valuable scholars, potent advisors or even administrators. The Praios church, however, did not relent. The other churches were split amongst the issue. The trade houses no longer sued desperately for peace to continue their money making, but rather for quick and swift resolving of the war. They also wanted to peddle arms.

And the mages seats, long a source for wisdom and prudence, were empty.

The Wars in the East

But the envoys of the nobility were rather split as well. Everyone was anxious of falling under the burning hammer of the righteous inquisition, killing critics as much as heretics as it was. Likewise, there were other issues to deal with.

The wars in the east against the diverse evils there had raged just a few years prior, rather inconclusively. Hordes of undead had been fought. A flying fortress, walls, soil and all, had attacked Wehrheim, been brought down by counter spells and crashed into the city, leaving it largely a ruin. Since then it had cooled down to the usual skirmishes and border wars, which most recently had been surprisingly successful, very suddenly. With magic failing there was little to keep the hordes of undead alive, outside of demons who were perilous to maintain. But the upswing for the forces of light had only lasted a fortnight. Ogres had been gathered and made to fight for the evil men, swinging the pendulum brutally back toward the middle.

The famous knight Sir Ugo Giantsbane had been dispatched to Darpatia to prevent any worse outcome there, but as resourceful as he was in battle he was only one man. The previous gains made by White Tobria against Transysilia had been all but reverted.

The Kingdom of Andergast

Andergast had suffered ogres as well. It was there that the pale king Albino had been spotted, although since then a different monster appeared to hold the reins. By all accounts did the titanesses' random destruction create a vacuum of power into which the ogres needed only to march. They stood to threaten Griffinsford, binding many forces there too.

The talk out of Andergast was conflicting. Some swore it an alliance between men and ogres had been forged by the new King Kraxl. Others claimed the ogres had taken the capital by threat, and that Queen Effine, the former and heirless King's widow, had been crushed to death by the ogre queen who had then married that same King Kraxl.

Such reports were disturbing and seemed confirm others concerning the encirclement and surrender of an entire host from Teshkal.

The Church of Travia also confirmed that its priests there had been made to bind in marriage ogresses and men. Such talk led to great fury at the table.

Thorwal

Thorwal had always been notoriously unreliable, and now, so reported the spies placed in Horasia, it was gone, destroyed by the giantesses.

This most unruly protectorate had been under the hetmanship of Olaf the Terrible, by all accounts one of the most cunning men on the continent. According to new reports, he was also dead, killed by the mighty giantess Janna who had defeated him and his fleet at sea, where he was supposedly most skill- and powerful.

Priorly he had embarked on a raid against Horasia, enriching himself under the pretext of hunting whalers. Meanwhile, Horas had deployed a large force in its own protectorate of Nostria to shield it from whatever happened in Andergast. Their supply ships came under vicious attack by the Thorwalsh raiding fleet, prompting the Horasians to draw him away by having the giantesses with whom they had allied most evilly lay waste to his homeland.

It worked. Who reined now in Thorwal, if there was anything left of it, and if there ever would be anything else all was unclear.

The Horasian Empire

The small Empire of Horas had been built from the ashes of the old Empire of Bosparan. It lay to the much larger and unequally more mighty Garethian Empire's south east. There had been frequent border conflicts and a period of devastating large-scale war, ending in an uneasy truce that had nothing but emboldened the arrogant Horasians to persist in their folly.

The Horasians had adapted their military to deal with the charge of Garethian knights by implementing the pike and crossbow doctrine, a most cowardly tactic relying on ranged weapons, including elaborate artillery, relatively little infantry manoeuvre and more swift, less armoured horsemen. This had proved devastatingly effective even when outnumbered, but could be outdone by light cavalry manoeuvres of larger scale, ambushes or superior men of foot, none of which was always a given.

Recently, the Horasian Empire had allied with the two frightening monsters first spotted in Andergast, leading to widespread discontent in its nobility. Thus, through its greed, the empire had stabbed itself in the foot. With some help of Garethian spies sowing discord as well as legitimate fears over the purge, Horasia now stood divided against its own emperor, Horasio the Third, who per state doctrine held supreme command over the military in person.

Civil war would be the best outcome. Nonetheless was the currently kingless Kingdom of Almada under orders to prepare for war. The Novadis stood close by, laying in waiting to join the winning side, hoping to reap some spoils in the process.

The Almadanians were a people very similar to the Horasians in their pride. It was agreed that this was an effect of excessive exposure to heat. The same was true of the Novadis who, clearly, had the least to be proud of.

In war, Almada fought more like the Novadis rather than the Horasians, favouring skirmishers, often mounted on light horses, lots of manoeuvre, harassment and more such un-Rondrian deeds. Who won a war was thus seldom determined in one single battle. When it was, it hinged upon whether the Horasian crossbowmen stood firm or routed under the hailstorm of arrows and javelins the Almadanians unleashed, for the violent heaps of pikemen stood no chance against so much manoeuvrability.

Almada was a force to be reckoned with, despite or perhaps because of its unconventional military. Unfortunately, it was politically unstable. Horas-backed rebels had taken hold of several baronies and the kingdom still had no king to unite and rule it. Under these circumstances, Nordmarken would have to come - as it often did - to its aid.

The Nostro-Albernian War

Albernia was so much of an unravelling disaster that no one really knew what was happening there. Informers swore Winhall had been attacked and destroyed just like Thorwal. Franka Salva Galahan, the Countess of Honingen, had evacuated her city and sent everyone south. She herself was too old to travel, so she remained in her palace with her Immen Knights.

There, however, she had come under a half-hearted siege by Duke Hagrobald Guntwin of the Big River, ruler of Nordmarken, who had entered the kingdom in order to stabilize it. He was a hothead, all agreed in the council chamber, even the Nordmarkener envoy, and administration bored him. He welcomed the war, but if he was really needed in Albernia was questionable, given that his forces might well be needed more in Almada, fighting the Horasians.

He had taken the empty city of Honingen for now, unsure where to march his troops next.

Whether both giantesses were still in Albernia, or just one, was another unknown. Clear was that in its heartlands great slaughter and destruction were taking place. The giantesses had been sent to destroy Havena, a treacherous city that had recently repented of its sins and returned into the Garethian fold.

Something had brought the monsters off their course, however, with at least one showing up back at Joborn shortly after, only to vanish again shortly after.

The King of Albernia was a young man by the name of Finnian ui Bennain, born from the seed of Romin Galahan of Kuslik, a most noble Horasian exile. All agreed that King Finnian was both cunning and capable. Upon receiving the news of the giantesses sent for his regained capital city, he had grasped the spear at the hilt and turned it around, thrusting its point at those who would do him harm.

The Nostrian capital had fallen to him easily and he had sacked it. All it took was one lucky rock flung from a Horasian trebuchet and his men were through the gates, putting the city's people and defenders equally to the sword. In the eyes of the council he had committed a grave error, however. Butchering a few thousand Nostrian townsfolk was one thing, but he had beheaded the Nostrian King Andarion the Second and flung his body to shatter against his own castle walls. This would undermine the moral justifications for the war, although the evil deeds of the Horasians had doubtlessly surpassed him.

And it were the Horasians he was after. From Nostria, the young king split his force, sending a part toward Joborn under the command of Arlan Stepahan, count of Bredenhag and a most capable military man. The rest he took back to Havena from where he dispatched the second part into his heartlands under the dark, fairy-worshipping Count Bragon Fenwasian to put an end to whatever was happening there. Whether each venture would be successful, however, the council knew not, neither why King Finnian did not join either expedition.

It was impossible to accurately determine the power of giantesses. Reports of their deaths had proved untrue, no matter how detailed the account of their injuries, and with regards to the question of how to stop them did only the Praios Church offer a definitive reply: divine intervention, certain to occur once witchcraft and heresy were overcome.

Or so they promised...

-

“In Albernia, Farindel reigns.”

Some man had offered these words as a warning to Laura at Aiwall Castle, where she went the next morning after crushing whatever fools were skulking for survivors in what she had left of Jasalinswall.

She had frowned down on him: “You think a fairy can stop me? She's probably even smaller than you.”

And then she had squished him, as she did anybody she didn't eat.

From that point onward she was nothing but a violent infliction upon the populace of Albernia.

There were castles, keeps, towers or simply villages, and everyone who couldn't hide ended up either beneath or in her. She was deeply in genocide mode, and even still took good care to learn who's people she was smashing. The politicking was still going on in her mind, despite everything.

That may or may not have been foolish. She could not shed it either way.

Neither did she possess the luxury of a map, of course, and there was no coastline to simply follow. Whenever she destroyed a place, she made sure to get directions on where to find the next. The people either told her or she quite literally squeezed it out of them. They all talked, eventually, although doing so never saved anyone.

In her reckless murderousness she took good care to get her fill in every way, too. She was poised kill thousands, but to let it become routine would not do. Her feet were always hungry and they liked to consume their prey in shoes, socked and bare. Or such was the was the icky, loneliness-driven contemplation forming in her mind, anyway. The simple truth was that change was refreshing, and so she swapped leisurely when she felt so inclined.

It was important not to forget oneself, she thought and determined to never let herself come short. Delving too deep into the medieval world surrounding her had slowly transformed her, altering her speech, her thoughts and ultimately her actions. There were times when she felt like a nerd, after standing back and reflecting upon herself.

That would not do, either.

When her belly was hungry, she filled it up with people. And then some more, until she could barely walk, just because she could. She might yet grow a little lumpy here, so she should perhaps also check upon her overeating.

And when her pussy craved attention, she let it consume people as well, only regretting that she had left her stone dildo behind at Iaun Cyll.

At Eradanswatch, a minuscule mountain castle that she loved at first sight even though it had a really weird triangular tower, there resided Sir Berwyn Belenduir. He was not of particular note, a fifty-three-year-old man who loved to breed hunting hounds that howled to no end in their kennels. The castle itself wasn't larger than Sir Ludwig's keep had been, meaning had Laura wanted to smash it and silence those dogs, all she would have had to do was sit on it and maybe wiggle a little.

But it was that time. When Laura dove with her hand through the tiled roof of the main house she quickly turned up Bellianore Belenduir, Sir Berwyn's tall but wispy daughter of twenty five.

When it was clear whom she had in her hand, and that she had already smashed the Thistle Knight husband of the girl near Jasalinswall on the previous day, she disarmed the father, undressed the daughter and took the both of them with her to have more privacy.

She was finally able to play that dragon game that had been popping up in her head, capturing and eating maidens and all that. It was only spoiled by the fact that Bellianore was probably not a maiden and eating her was not exactly on Laura's mind.

In a lonely mountain cleft, the wispy little lady went in her pussy, kicking and screaming, all under the tearful eyes of her father. A fairytale dragon would not have taken the father, Laura presumed, but it wouldn't be any good to let him live when she couldn't make him watch her devour his daughter. And although she did not eat her, devour her she did.

All the while Laura circled her hand on her clitoris, Berwyn Belenduir begged, cried and pleaded for his daughter's life. He was caught up in an absurd situation, one that brought his mind to its breaking point. Somehow, the tiny knight's grovelling made Laura orgasm so hard that she felt something go squish inside herself.

It was a fluke, she though at first, and hadn't even known that such a thing was physically possible without smashing her toy with a dildo, like she had done to Mathariel Swordsong.

But Bellianore was gone, all but for a few pink strips of her. Laura's pussy had eaten her, crushed her, turned her to goo, which was positively amazing.

“I should go wash.” She told the knight and father absent-mindedly before ending his suffering between her sole and the hard mountain valley floor.

'Did I even aim to step on him, or was that a reflex?'

The next place was Greenstone, an only marginally fortified and moss-overgrown manor amidst pastures and fields where part of her wanted to replicate what she had done. She was still aglow, however, sated, and the knight there had gone off with the king, taking most of his men in the bargain. He had a daughter, but she was fat, not to mention already thirty nine years old, hardly the tiny, tender morsel Laura needed. The husband of the daughter was gone to Havena too, the old lady told her between pleas for mercy.

The son of that knight's daughter was there, the third generation in the mix, but only thirteen. He might have served, as low as standards and morality had fallen, but he was bedridden with a fever. Laura ate a handful of the menial farmhands stupid enough to hide in a barn, stepped on a milk cow and left it at that, leaving the manor itself in one piece.

The experience was the low after the high of Eradanswatch and it left her feeling queerly empty inside.

Norstone, to the west of Greenstone, was going to feel the full brunt of her displeasure. It was a crammed, half round castle on a hill and had a square bergfried that was a staggeringly tall, even when not counting the hill on which it rested. That was rather insulting, since its roof reached almost to Laura's hip.

'I can't destroy everything.' A familiar voice said in her head.

But she ignored it. She had left Greenstone more or less in tact already and Norstone was a Fenwasian place that begged for trampling.

As usual, she had been so fast that no one expected her or had had much time to flee, let alone mount a defence. This part of the world didn't get too many memos, it seemed as well. It lay along the track that peasants used to get around, no major road.

The peasants on the pastures outside the castle hid in their hovels, collateral damage if they so happened to be in one she decided stood in her way. In the castle itself were a total of eighteen or so people and two easily identifiable Fenwasians, one who was clearly too old and sickly to travel, and presumably his grandson, whom Laura snatched up and ate through some misplaced fear that he might get away.

She hadn't thought about it as she probably should have. He was just a boy. She ate a little, defenceless boy because of his name. The old man had already started dying when he laid eyes on her, suggesting that they had not even heard so much as rumours. Judging from the way he clutched his chest it was probably a heart attack.

When his cooks, grooms and servants saw, they dropped the weapons they taken a hold of, running inside the bergfried, that large enormous tower.

'Such a high thing.' She thought. 'And they didn't even put a watchman on it.'

While trying to decide how best to topple it she found herself constantly licking her lips. The taste of the Fenwasian boy's clothes still stuck to it, and the guilt it entailed. Her stomach rumbled, called upon to digest another hapless little thing. She had had breakfast at Ahawarsground, next to the old ruin of Ahawarswatch, somewhere near Aiwall Castle.

'So many castles. So many god-damn castles.'

Suddenly, the sight of the grey granite stone sickened her. Her stomach churned, no doubt slushing the tiny young lordling around like a hamster in a wheel that was going too quickly. She had swallowed him whole in a moment of unbridled hatred. That had been dumb, indeed.

A burp escaped her, his air gone.

'So dumb.'

She had to turn away.

“Oh, god.” Laura grumbled involuntarily, falling to her knees with her back to the castle.

Her hands went to her mouth and she leaned forward, puking into her palms. It was just one squall and came with all the water she had drunk at the fresh, clear stream she had found in the mountains near Eradanswatch.

She couldn't have said why she moved her hands up, but she was violently sick. And then, the boy she had eaten was in her palms.

“Aaaaah!” He screamed like a maddened girl, scrambling and kicking away from a half digested woman with chestnut hair.

Laura's breakfast was on the ground in front of her and partially on her hands and fingers, the sight alone almost making her retch up another squall. She had chewed most of them, but as ever when eating so many there were a few who had gotten through her mouth without so much as ever touching a tooth. Others had been partially mauled, like that woman the boy was disentangling himself from. Laura was a greedy eater, something Janna often admonished her for.

The handful of farmhands from Greenstone were fresher, only them she had chewed quite thoroughly.

The boy, though, looked relatively unharmed, physically anyway.

“Can you see?” She asked, guiltily thinking of her stomach acid. “I haven't digested your eyes, have I?”

She bit her lip.

“You ate me!” He spat up at her accusingly.

It sounded absurd, half childish and half teen-ish, that terrible age when boys had voice break, pimples and presumably grew the first hairs on their sack. He was clearly looking at her, though, which was sufficient answer for her question.

Laura had to close her eyes and take a moment, during which she could feel him scramble and stand on her hand.

“Why did you spit me out?!”

She opened her eyes, looking at him. It was disgusting, as he knew too, shielding his mouth and nose with a hand.

“Urgh.”

“Answer me!”

Her eyes shifted around involuntarily and her shoulders moved into a guilty shrug.

“I apologise. Normally, I give children a quick death. I eat a great many people, as I dare say...you've noticed. You just taste good, is all.”

The taste was still sweet and savoury, but except when she was famished this aspect paled in comparison to how powerful simply eating them made her feel.

“That was not my question!” His tiny eyes blinked accusingly.

She couldn't even make out their colour. His hair was black, his clothes simple Fenwasian colours and all was drenched in vomit.

“Huh?”

“Why did you spit me out!”

Arrogance laced his voice, which as far as she could tell was a very Fenwasian trait, if ever there was one.

“Because you're just a child!”

“I am not!” He spat. “I am a man grown, almost fourteen now! I was a page for my uncle and soon I will squire for the mystery knight who fought in the Mercy Tourney at Weyringen!”

This boy was proud more than anything, she thought, and not even being eaten alive and puked out in a torrent of half-digested corpses had changed that. Fourteen was a fair age for eating, even without the mercy of a quick death. Such was the way this world. It wasn't Earth.

He only looked so damnably young with his narrow shoulders and youthful face. He didn't have a single blemish upon his skin, no visible beard growth, nothing other than maybe his voice that would have given it away.

“Well, you wouldn't if I hadn't coughed you up!” She spoke down on him sharply. “If I hadn't done that you would've ended up like the others, sludge in my belly until at some point I would've shat you out!”

Laura had never been very good with kids.

He spat onto her palm and shrugged: “Well, so be it! Send me back down!” Then he shook his head as a lordling might at a blundering peasant. “I have never heard of a monster that retched up its prey! Are you certain you are not an embarrassingly big wench after all?!”

'That's just what I am, you fucking idiot,' she though in reply, but words failed her when trying to frame a real response.

“Well,” she finally managed, “you certainly make me wish I hadn't!”

Then he laughed, reminding her of Thorgun, the evil Swafnir priest from Thorwal. Eating him a second time was out of the question and perhaps it was girlish and vain but she didn't want puke on her shoes, even though the soles of her sneakers had certainly seen much worse.

“Is there a stream or a lake somewhere here where I can get you clean?” She asked sternly.

'Just so that I can squish you, you measly bug.'

“Are you going to bathe me?” He sneered. “What sort of monster are you, exactly, you sound like Tilla, my old wet nurse!”

Laura had it with this little runt. Fuming she rose, stomped over to and through the castle the wall  and shoved him at the old man's corpse.

“Here!” She spat. “Look! Your uncle died as soon as he laid eyes on me! Show a little respect before I crush you!”

“That's not my uncle,” the boy used his chance to hop off her hand to the ground, “that's my grandfather and he was two and seventy! His heart gave out, see?! He's still clutching it.”

Laura moved her foot over the old man's body, forcing the boy to scurry out of the way. Then she crushed it, twisting her foot in hope of leaving a memorable lesson.

“What use is it to crush a dead man, exactly?” The boy asked her. “Are you stupid?!”

Her sole rose, edging toward him, but he had already turned around to wash himself in the nearby trough.

'Just one crunch and he's gone.' She thought, biting her lip again.

But she couldn't do it.

“Are all Fenwasians such insufferable, little...wrng!”

“Such what?” He turned. “What's wrng, exactly?”

Laura had never been bullied. She had always been pretty, even in kindergarten as a little girl. She had done her fair share of bullying, but whatever regrettable things she had inflicted on others – eating, trampling and fucking people to death notwithstanding – this boy was a natural master of the art.

She was fascinated with him, which was all wrong on so many levels.

“I resolved not to get carried away again.” She reminded herself, speaking loudly and slowly. “I cannot linger everywhere, discover everything and fucking keep gathering things. I have to destroy; smash, crush and grind beneath beneath my heel...and I can't keep talking like a fucking nerd!”

She went to rub her eyes, only to discover that her hands well still drenched in vomit. She should never have spat this boy out.

“What stupid tongue is that, are you speaking to yourself?” He asked in a tone that was hardly even a question. “Only fools and beggars speak to themselves aloud, grandfather always said. I bet if there was a guild of monsters they would kick you out for being such an embarrassment to them. You're not even sc-”

Crunch.

Laura breathed hard, slowly raising her foot. The water of the trough mixed with the blood from the young man's broken body. That's what he was, according to this world. A young man, fit to be sent into battle, and old enough by half to be an arrogant cunt. But no longer, thanks to Laura's foot.

Two minutes later, the castle of Norstone was a smoking ruin. The smoke was actually dust, but it served well enough to complete the picture.

Trees served as towels for her hands until she found a stream to wash them in. Where to go she had forgotten to spare someone for asking, and the peasant's path ended here.

“You can go any which way!” A little mother in rough spun skirts swore, cowering protectively over her kids with half her house vanished under Laura's sole. “The nearest castle will be down Eradansground way! In the mountains it is, I swear it!”

“I did that.” Laura tapped her foot impatiently, displacing crushed straw that had been the roof. “Some other place, perhaps?”

“Arad Gemhar then, Efferd's way from there! I hear Anlair Crumold got himself a castle there too!”

Efferd's way meant west, even though it began with an E.

Laura had to think for a moment to remember her bearings: “So, that would mean Praios' way from here?”

She had to cut through the forest, but from her vantage point she could see tall buildings such as towers from far off and Arad Gemhar was motte and stone bailey easily visible from far away. Once she came around a large hill, it was suddenly there, actually quite an imposing thing amidst more farmsteads.

It looked rebuilt, relatively new even, with its walls naught but palisades but the castle itself one big, square stone tower.

True to her plan she did not linger long, which was to say she did not dwell too much on her exploits. The village and surrounding farms were amply peopled, and she crouch-walked behind and over them while picking up runners to refill her recently emptied gut. It was lunchtime anyway.

The Crumolds, so she remembered Branwyn and Reo had saying, ruled the county of Bredenhag which lay between Winhall and the lands surrounding the city of Havena. Where Arad Gemhar exactly was, she did not know. Graham's death had been a tragedy in more than one way.

The lord came on his black horse and with a handful of men, bearing his banner on a lance. It was some crooked tree on a white field, but not anything like those horribly misshapen oaks she had seen, and not red either.

“Don't bother.” She said before he could say or yell anything. “I'm just gonna eat and I'll be gone. You can shut up and I will let you live, or you can open your mouth and I will crush you.”

That turned out to be smart, but not his part because he took it for his cue for a foolish attack on her feet. He rode square at the side of her shoe, lance lowered in full gallop. She did not flinch. His helmet bore a flat, removable visor but he had lowered it from the start so she never saw his face. His men broke their charge but he did not.

To Laura's surprise, he managed to get the lance through the rubber. His horse was a big, heavy one and he was good at what he did. Nevertheless, to her into felt only like a prick with a needle.

The horse branded against her shoe screaming, throwing him off to fly over her shoes and coming to a rolling halt between her legs. From above, she looked down on this faceless oaf before shifting her feet to the side. He raised his hands before her jeans ass thundered into the ground where he lay.

That was the end of the lord of Arad Gemhar, or so she had thought. She was wrong. For one thing, it took sitting down on him a second time before she managed to thoroughly crush him, and then when she turned her attention to the bailey on the hill it turned out that he had only been the lord's son, a strapping knight of eighteen years old.

The actual lord, Annlair Crumold, knew he stood no chance, laying down his sword and kneeling to her instead. He had a crippled leg anyway. Laura had him bring out his family, a slim wife in her forties and three other children, a girl of sixteen being the oldest of them.

“She's the price.” Laura took the girl. “You're mine now. You serve Queen Branwyn and King Reo who are residing at Iaun Cyll. Is that understood?”

The girl wore a crème white dress with a green bodice that had brown lacing, matching the colours of the house. That had to get boring after a while, surely, always wearing those same colours, but at least it made the noble folk easy to pick out. Her name was Ardis Peranwyn Crumold Herlogan, Herlogan after her mother, Rahyalin Herlogan.

“Aye!” The beaten lord declared whimperingly, studying the toe of his own boot.

Again there was that brief hint of bewilderment at the mention of Reo's and Branwyn's names. Laura didn't want to dive into it.

“Good.” She said instead and went on to proceed as planned.

He seemed to think it a hostage situation, the taking of a ward, which was wrong. He learned that when Laura slurped Ardis into her mouth.

“Don't betray me,” she said to his wide-eyed face after swallowing, “or I'll come back and eat the others. And I'm sorry about your wife.”

They stood atop the bailey, dwarfed under her gaze. Their helplessness turned her on. Ardis was still struggling in her cheek, next to her molars and would soon help her to another orgasm. When she had swallowed it had only been spit, for show.

For a farewell she extended her hand, cocked her finger behind her thumb and flicked Lady Rahyalin Herlogan off the tower, giggling as she watched her fly.

For Ardis, she went behind the mountain again from where she had come for some quality rest in private. When it came to masturbating, however, Laura found that she was not yet in the mood.

“Please don't eat me!” The girl was dissolving in tears and drenched in Laura's saliva. “I am too young to die!”

Laura shrugged, then thought about it some more, dangling Ardis in front of her lips.

“You're totally not, though.” She shook her head. “Over at Norstone, I squashed that Fenwasian boy. He was three years younger than you. Besides, kids die all the time, at least here in your backwards world. Think about it. Disease, famine, war, bandits and such. Then there are the ogres now too. You should be grateful you lived this long in the first place.”

“Branwyr Fenwasian is dead?” The girl asked, context be damned.

It was the male version of the Princess' name, Laura took note.

“Yeah. And his grandfather too. Did I miss anyone? I smashed the castle, but if they were outside of it when I came, like on a hunt or something...”

The girl did not reply but cried again, big bitter tears.

Laura sighed, thoughts and memories rushing through her brain.

“I don't even really know where I am at this point.” She said, more to herself than the girl. “I mean, on the map I'm somewhere west of Ortis? But what good does that do me. I've just killed your mother of house Herlogan. I guess they're important because the name Crumold is important and yet you bear both of their names instead of only your father's. I mean, I could ask you, but if truth be told I do not really want to know. There are more noble families in this bloody kingdom than I can keep in my head.”

'So I have resolved to kill them all, and still I feel like I'm going about it all wrong.'

Reo's army grew too slowly. For the tinies to do anything, they required time more than Laura had or at least wanted to expend. She was woefully behind schedule on reuniting with Janna.

“I was happier in Thorwal.” She transferred the girl onto her palm. “Things were simpler there. I cared less. I enjoy destroying things but I think I really need this personal touch. But that on the other hand bogs me down everywhere I go, which is really dumb. I'm not good at this.”

“Let me live!” The girl suggested frantically. “You can marry me to someone! I'll marry them, I swear, and they'll be trustful vassals of whoever you want and you'll have their strength as well as the strength of my father!”

Laura scoffed sourly: “The strength of Arad Gemhar, yeah, and what a strength that is. I squashed your valiant brother under my butt, by the way. I sat on him and he died. If only there was something that would make it easier.”

She shrugged. It was no use dwelling. If she found a force that could conquer the kingdom for her while she had her fun it might feel less like work. But Reo's army was growing too slowly. Albernia was a tedious place to conquer indeed.

“You'd do that though?” She asked. “Marry someone and be my little vassal?”

'Holy hell, I'm grasping at straws now.'

“Yes! I'll do it! Let me go, I will speak to my father, I swear it on my life! If you let me go it will serve as a...a token...a token of...your good will!”

That made Laura laugh loudly: “Aw, but that would rob me of the pleasure of eating you. No. If you want me to let you live then you owe me a favour.”

There were different ways of having sex with the tiny people, and this one she had not used in a long while, even though she liked it a lot. Ardis would not be very experienced, of course, but innocent enough, which could make it sweet.

“Then I would rather you eat me,” was the solemn reply, however, after Laura proposed the idea.

Going on with Ardis in her belly, she found that she was leaving the land of bogs now and entered the world of hedges. It reminded her of pictures from Ireland she had seen, trees that were not very tall but thrust out their branches from a very low point upon their stems. There were fields and orchards some, but mostly meadows for grazing livestock, divided by wild bushy hedges or low, mossy walls of round grey stones. It was pretty, and the late autumn turned it even prettier, even though the weather turned wet.

The river that ran here, she learned from a terrified shepherd, was the Gemhar, lending its name to many places around such as Gemharswell and Gemharsmaw. Gemharswell was the next place she visited. And suddenly, she was confronted with an army.

-

Baldwick licked his lips watching the butter in the pan quickly become liquid. His fire was perfect, not too hot, not too cold. He had placed small rocks in a circle, so that he could rest the pan there while making his preparations. He had chopped an onion, a bushel of parsley, rosemerry and thyme and he had even brought four kernels of black pepper with him from the castle.

He was about to crush the pepper carefully with the flat of his dagger, but it was not yet time.

“The herbs.” He grumbled and smiled. “The herbs give the butter their flavour.”

He drizzled them in with care. The temperature had to be just right, or else the ingredients would burn, as would the butter. It would burn eventually, but only briefly and not quite yet.

“Mhh.”

He salted the fresh mutton the farmer had given him for his lord. They were ill-cut chops with sinews in them, but Wulfric Rondwyn ui Riunad, Baron of Gemhar and Lord of Nyallin, was not a squeamish eater, or a squeamish man. Just now he was throwing axes into a tree for practise with his friend and companion Aedan ui Mornad, who was not a knight but a warrior of fair renown.

“Rain's coming, Baldwick.” His lordship told the tree before being tossed another axe by Aedan. “If you don't hurry we'll be eating soup, I fear.”

“Oh, no, milord!” Baldwick replied, hollering. “I didn't bring a kettle for soup, just this pan here!”

Baldwick was captain of guard at Nyallin and keeping his lordship safe was his duty. Cooking, however, had always been his passion, not for the sake of eating but watching the faces of those he cooked for. In that capacity he liked cooking for his lordship the best, because Wulfric never minced his words and always gave an honest verdict. He did not like garlic very much, however.

'The chops have to go in now.' He thought. 'Or else the butter will burn.'

It was all about the butter and the herbs.

The meat sizzled in the pan and he gave it a few tosses, just to keep it from sticking on. It was smoking, but that was fine. The butter that touched the meat was only slowly turning brown, the temperature in the pan yet increasing.

'Oh, the pepper!' He thought. “Praios have mercy, where do I have my mind? The pepper!'

He crushed the corns hurriedly, each for its own, sprinkling the result of each on one mutton chop. Four chops, four peppercorns, as if made for one another. Then he gave the meat another toss.

'Hmm, a bit early, still.' He thought, fearing that the pepper might burn.

When the pan smoked so fiercely as it did not he always got a little anxious. The smell was marvellous, however.

“Will you leave them bloody on the inside?” His lordship asked, coming over on large, slow steps.

He was a tall man with a round head of dirty yellow hair, nothing fancy. Indeed, Lord Wulfric was never a fanciful man and his eyes told why. They had seen battle, those eyes, the Red Curse, the doings of the traitor Jast Irian Crumold, the Sword King's Rebellion and Invher ni Bennain's war. Wulfric had seen them all. He was five and thirty, but from his eyes and the deep lines on his face one might have thought him fifty just the same.

“I always do, milord.” Baldwick grinned.

The pan started steaming violently. This was the critical point, when the temperature was reaching its peak. The butter had to burn just a little to meet the taste that Baldwick was aiming for, a crisp, bitter sweetness, just what Lord Wulfric liked. It would have been better with a few hazel nuts and an oven, but here in the countryside, under some tree, they did not have that.

He tipped the pan slightly to let the boiling butter catch on to the flame.

“Oh!” His lordship jumped and shouted in alarm, but Baldwick had already tipped the pan back and let the flames burn down.

“Done, milord.” He grinned.

“Shenanigans like these are why my father made you captain of guard instead of putting you in the kitchens, Baldwick. Give you half a chance and you'd burn down the bloody castle!”

“Pardons, milord.” Baldwick grumbled and offered the meat to his lord who took a hot piece of mutton with two fingers, brought it to his mouth and blew. The meat steamed wonderfully in the cold.

“Bloody good mutton, though.” His lordship calmed after taking his first nibble. “Mh, bloody good mutton indeed. Aedan, come here and have a taste of this!”

“Good butter, is all, milord.” Baldwick added. “Half the meat's taste is the ingredients.”

Blood ran down into his lordship's stubbly, dark yellow beard.

Aedan ui Mornad was even taller than his lordship and a little bit older. Once he had looked like the image of a warrior, broad shouldered, muscled all over and with a handsome, imperturbable face. Years and war had done him in as well, however, his eyes sharing the same haunted look as Lord Wulfric's and there were hints of belly fat bulging beneath his mail.

His surcoat was yellow and green, with his field of clovers sigil upon it, violently fighting with his strawy hair. Wulfric was clad in a brown leather mantle, his sigil of three white axes on a blue field displayed on a broach that fastened his dark grey cloak.

The clover was about to go to war with the bloody thorns of house Hedgethorn, which was why the three of them were on the road, even though the feud was really between Hedgethorn and Riunad.

“If not for this bloody mutton we'd be there by now.” Aedan complained, fishing up a chop with his fingers. “And it's ill tidings to eat before a fight. Makes your sword arm slow.”

“They won't leave Gemharswell if they want to keep it.” Wulfric replied. “And I won't have no fighting either. Eat your meat and we'll go.”

Baldwick bowed out of the conversation and went to his saddlebag where he had kept an onion for himself. People called it the Hedge Feud, and said that who was in the wrong was woefully unclear. Where Baldwick's allegiances lay was out of the question, but that didn't mean he couldn't wonder.

Some rainy day, a hunting party under Aenwin of Hedgethorn, knight and Count Arlan Stepahan's own master of huntsmen, had been chanced upon by Kendrick ui Ruinad, lord of Fairy's Rest and steward of the Barony of Gemhar. Some said there had been rape and plunder going on, even murder, while others swore that Kendrick had simply taken to rage after one of Aenwin of Hedgethorn's jests.

There was another story that involved Kendrick's wife Ceriana, but Balwick did not pay heed to gossip like that.

Be that as it may, both men had retinue with them, Kendrick leading a party of woodsmen. It came to blows, leaving Aenwin of Hedgethorn dead on the bank of the river. There were no impartial witnesses and survivors of each side told an entirely different tale. That had been the beginning, but what had happened that day was hardly relevant any more. Everyone became involved, even people so far away as Turon Taladan, Arlan Stepahan's mighty steward governor of Tommeldomm in the north of the county as well as the county's chancellor. Each side used the feud to feed their personal ambitions.

What those ambitions were, Baldwick could not have said, but he had heard people talking about it in this fashion.

The onion was sweet, the raw juice running down his chin as he ate, watching Wulfric and Aedan devour the mutton with glee. It was bloody good mutton indeed. Maybe next time, he'd try a bit of honey on it, though that was tricky when he had no oven he could use. Honey burned too quickly in a pan.

'Mayhaps toward the end, but I might get trouble with the butter.'

Now, the Hedgethorns, perhaps in retribution or in order push things to ahead, had taken the village of Gemharswell as their own, robbing Aedan, Baron Wulfric ui Riunad's companion, of his fief and dragging him into the conflict.

Aedan was particularly vexed by this because he had been looking forward to retiring in his village after rebuilding the tower there that had been razed under Aeladan of Gemhar, an evil Nameless worshipper who had taken control of the Barony of Gemhar for a brief time during the Red Curse.

Then villagers had taken to use the tower's stone for their houses, and the rebuilding had only recently commenced. Nonetheless, Aedan was furious.

The further road was a slow ride next to the stream that they all enjoyed, even while the rain did come. It was a wet piece of quiet before undoubtedly fiery negotiations with the Hedgethorns. Hateful words would be exchanged, Baldwick guessed. Perhaps it would even come to blows, although that was to be avoided.

They arrived there within another hour, finding that the Hedgethorns had brought many men and even Count Arlan Stepahans sigil, even though the count himself had gone to Havena with the king.

“Bloody buggers!” Aedan cursed, and his lordship looked more grim than ever. “The guts they've got!”

It wasn't only the men waiting for them in the village. They had also erected gallows, two nooses dangling from a wooden beam, raindrops slowly tumbling down from the eerily slow-swinging things. The question was, was it meant to scare them, or meant to kill them both. But for killing them, surely there was no cause, not unless Count Arlan was somehow involved, which was impossible.

“We can't go there.” Aedan pulled on his reins. “They will hang us both!”

His lordship's face was dark: “We must. If we don't then they will say we did not take part in the negotiations and did nothing to contest their claim. What would you have me do, call the banners?”

Arlan Stepahan had already done that, taking many able-bodied men with him, especially from the Barony of Gemhar. It was safe to say, people said, that the count was not firmly on Nyallin's side.

“Bloody bastards.” Aedan cursed again, giving his mare the spurs.

“Raise my banner, Baldwick.” His lordship said before doing the same. “Let them see we come.”

Baldwick rode after them, queasy in his heart. Protecting his lordship was his duty, but he could not take on what looked to be several hundred men.

Riders saddled up when their small party was spotted in the rain and what unfolded afterwards had the appearance of a parley before battle was joined, although there would be no battle here.

No village folk were in evidence and there were some minor signs of pillage here and there. Doors and shutters in the village were closed and the construction site of the tower lay abandoned, but there was blood on a door frame by one house, an overturned basket soaking in the weather, spilled turnips and broken eggs.

There were levy bowmen amongst the Hedgethorn troops, a raggedy bunch of sellswords and a few men at arms from the baronies Tommeldomm and Bredenhag as well. Two headsmen were there, one for each noose, and Baldwick could see the tall old Steward of the county, Turon Taladan, atop a huge, splendid horse.

The riders closed off the road behind them when they were close.

“You have some nerve to bring an army into my village, Jaran!” Aedan ui Mornad hollered out to the head of House Hedgethorn, Jaran of Hedgethorn, Lord of the Hedgewatch.

Jaran of Hedgethorn was another old man, black-haired, balding and brutal-looking. Baldwick was scared of him, if truth be told. In his small, black, beetle-like eyes there was no mercy or even humanity to be found, only hatred, cold and dark as the night.

 His mouth was hard even though with his thick, black beard not much of it was visible.

“Your claim to this village is forfeit, murderer!” He hollered back. “You-”

Turon Taladan beside him raised a large hand for quiet. He was tall and old, good-looking, though, finely garbed and an air of sheer royal nobility about him, even though he was just a steward and chancellor, more nobility of office rather than blood. His chin and cheeks were shaven smoothly, but a moustache nestled atop his upper lip that looked like it could have swallowed half a kingdom and his amber-coloured eyes seemed to devour everything he saw.

“By Count Arlan's pleasure, I am still steward here, Jaran.” He said, loudly but with an amiable smile. “I will judge in this matter fairly and justly. And I will have no wanton vengeance here. This is not how we comport ourselves in this, our wonderful county.”

“Withdraw your men.” Lord Wulfric demanded in reply, calm but threatening. “Whatever my brother has done, or why, neither Aedan nor the people of Gemharswell had anything to do with it. I demand restitution in kind for any thing or coin stolen from this village, reparation for any damage done as well as the cock of every man who has committed a rape, and the head of anyone who has committed murder. You may hang them before you take their heads. I presume that's why you built that gibbet.”

“And I demand the head of your brother!” Jaran of Hedgethorn roared while Aedan, Wulfric and Baldwick reigned up in front of them, surrounded by Hedgethorn spears. “He is the murderer of my son!”

“Please.” Turon Taladan lifted his hand once more. “Your arrogance betrays your true motivations, Wulfric. You and Aedan, as well as your brother Kendrick in absence, stand accused of plotting Aenwin of Hedgethorn's murder, a true knight and loyal master of huntsmen to our good Count Arlan Stepahan. Climb off your horse and stand up to these accusations.”

Lord Wulfric's voice was full of spite: “A trial, here?! You demand the impossible! Is this how Arlan's steward dispenses justice?! Pah!”

He spat out, the wad landing in the mud between Turon's horse's hooves.

“That was an affront.” The steward gestured. “Help Lord Wulfric dismount.”

Hands came from all sides and pulled Aedan and Wulfric off their saddles. Baldwick sensed that there was no fair trial to be had here. The horses shied and if they kicked someone it would surely be interpreted as an attack, so he jumped off his small horse to grab the reigns of the others and calm them for now ere more ill could befall them.

Wulfric and Aedan were pushed down on their knees.

“We demand trial by battle!” Aedan spat where Wulfric had spat before him. “Best you and Jaran arm yourselves and we shall see with whom Rondra stands!”

Turon Taladan simply smiled: “Denied. I can see by your foolish request that you are guilty. I therefore condemn you both to hang by the neck until dead. In the name of Count Arlan Stepahan, may Boron have mercy on your souls.”

He gestured again and Wulfric and Aedan were yanked up, subdued and carried away to the gallows. This was nothing short of murder, a violation of their rights. Aedan was not a knight and could not claim a right of trial by battle, but even he should have received a fair hearing. Killing Wulfric like this was unspeakable.

'It can't be.' Baldwick convinced himself in his head. 'This is a ploy to scare them and make them relinquish the claim to Gemharswell. Hm, but his lordship will not yield, he never does.'

He could only watch helplessly, though, as Aedan and Wulfric were put on stools and the nooses were fastened around their necks. This had gone far enough.

“This is not right!” Baldwick protested. “By the King's own laws, you can't do this. Wulfric ui Mornad is Baron of Gemhar, you can't just hang him like some common man.”

Turon Taladan's head turned to him, raising a brow, rain pattering down all around them.

“Oh, yes.” The tall steward chortled, reaching into his lavish doublet and producing an important-looking parchment from within. “Wulfric ui Ruinad, I have here a decree, signed and sealed by his Countship Arlan Stepahan.” He unrolled the parchment. “You are hereby dispossessed of all your titles and lands, your castle and the Barony of Gemhar. In lack of heirs these will go to,” he laughed and shook his head, “well, that's naught to you now, is it.”

Then he rolled his eyes and gestured to a man at arms next to Baldwick, drawing two fingers across his throat. It all happened in an instant, and yet it felt like a whole life in its own. Something cold touched Baldwick's neck ere there was a sharp pain, and the warmth of his life was streaming forth from his throat as it was opened.

He turned to assault his killer, a mean, one-eyed man with a crooked grin on his stubbly face. He wanted to choke him, but his fingers were only able to give a mere caress. The world jumped upwards all at once. A red blade hovered away from his face, dripping with blood and rain. It was cold.

'The sky.' He thought. 'I must see the sky.'

But there was only rain.

'At least, I made his lordship a last chop of mutton with the butter burning just right.'

A crisp, bitter sweetness. Was that death? If only it hadn't been so cold. His eyes found an opening to the vast beauty above and basked in it, a cleft in the clouds with Praois' wonderful rays shining through. A maiden stepped into the cleft, he saw, perhaps a goddess, although he could not have said which one. Praios' rays seemed to crown her hair and she was coming, growing, filling the very firmament with her presence. Her skin was browner than most but her face was of such utmost beauty that Baldwick could not help but smile.

Then all faded at once, accompanied by screaming, a slight tremor in the ground, and rain, rain all around him.

-

It was a rather strange scene that presented itself to Laura. Most banners at first glance looked like Ilaen Albenblood's, but on second did not display the three red trees with the bloody river but a red branch of thorn bush as well as three drops of blood on a black field. They had to be related somehow, though, she felt.

Their bigger standard was red, displaying a roaring white lion, all medieval-like.

It were three or four hundred men here, all running about in panic, half routing and half forming up to fight. The village itself was rather unremarkable, hovels, farms, pens, barns and all that stuff she had seen a bellyful of by now. On a nearby hill was a tower being built in the middle of wooden scaffolding. That was it.

The only thing that stood out were the gallows, a square construction of thick wooden beams with two nooses hanging from them, a man on a footstool under each with the rope around their necks. One wore brown and grey, the other green and yellow. It stood to wonder what was going on here.

'But I don't have any time.' She thought miserably.

It was important. She could not let herself get bogged down again.

“Archers, have at the darn thing!” Some man on a horse shouted, galloping in no immediately apparent direction. “Spearmen, form line!”

The idea crossed her mind that if she could win these men to Reo's cause that would be a bigger step in a better direction rather than smashing everything.

'But how will I make sure they do what I say?'

Arad Gemhar had been smooth in that regard. She had gotten her fair share of sex, kills and food and had still turned the place over to her side, albeit only by threat.

'Maybe I should have taken the girl hostage, after all.'

Only then Laura would have had to look after her, which she would certainly have mocked up somehow. Here, if there was a connection to Ilaen Albenblood, maybe she could set up something more reliable, albeit not quite as much fun.

“Um, well met?” She started from above, edging closer to the village. “I am with Ilaen Albenblood, the Baron of Niamor. Do you have ties with him, perchance?”

“Loose!”

A hail of arrows flew, only in was even less of a nuisance to Laura than the rain. She stomped the ground, frightening the horses and stating her question again. But there was no reply.

“Go!” Screamed the man on the horse, the bloody thorns boldly displayed on his cloak. “Hang the wretches and run! Back to the Hedgewatch!”

A horn was blown and the archers and spearmen dissolved, like an anthill of people. The men about to get hanged were trying to free themselves of the nooses, swaying dangerously on their stools.

It did not have the appearance that these soldiers were in any way connected to Albenblood, only the colours of their banners were somewhat similar.

Two men with hoods above their faces stepped forth and kicked out the stools, leaving the condemned to hang by their necks. There was some older man in a blue and white surcoat, sprawled in the village square with a red gash where his throat should have been.

“Hey!” Laura laughed, stepping forward and crunching the first few men under her feet. “No one here is to do any killing but me. Got that?!”

She walked straight over the running hundreds to the gibbet, lifting it easily off the ground with the dangling men still on.

“Do you have ties to Ilaen Albenblood, Reo Conchobair or Branwyn ni Bennain?” She eyed them hungrily.

They could neither reply nor breathe, and if truth be told it would have been a cool thing so suck them off the ropes and devour them. But their eyes were all haunted, terrified, their hands were bound and their heads were already turning purple. She broke the legs off the gibbet and put the cross beam down on her palm along with the men it carried, for now leaving them there.

“If you are with Ilaen Albenblood just say so and I will stop stepping on you.” She told the others while stomping and crushing soldier after soldier into a pulp.

For good measure she trampled some houses too, just for the fun of it and some soldiers got it into their heads to hide there. It occurred to her that she should flatten the riders, though, and so she went after them next, only they dispersed in all directions and she could only crush a handful of them with their mounts.

So, she went back to the village, now coming from the direction in which the footmen had initially wanted to flee. It was butcher's work. Crunch, crunch, crunch, her feet were greedy as ever, snuffing out any soul that came beneath. There were many to be had for once, but they did not stand a chance in hell, especially not while they were routing.

Finally there were only the cries and pleas of those she had only partially crushed into oblivion, as well as some old guy with luxurious salt and pepper hair and a moustache that would have been the envy of walruses. His eyes were dark yellow, not quite gold but more the colour of amber, like a hungry wolf's.

He was finely garbed, suggesting noble blood, even though he was a bit muddy and wet. Mud-soaked and wet as well was the white lion's banner by him.

He raised his hands when her sole came over him, shouting: “I am with Ilaen Albenblood!”

His voice was deeply smooth, well-sounding, a pleasure to listen to, like some talk radio guy.

“Oh?” Laura shifted her foot to look at him. “Are you really now, or are you just saying that because you don't want to end as a smudge?”

His leg was trapped beneath his horse, a grey heavy beast fighting against its own weight to get up and gallop away at which it finally succeeded. The man stayed on the ground, looking up.

“Uh, the latter, obviously. But hear me out! Whatever you want me to be, I can become! What information you need, I can give you! I am a well-revered man of great power! I am Turon Taladan, chancellor of Bredenhag and the steward governor of Tommeldomm!”

Laura considered for a moment, turning her eyes to the men in her hand.

“And who are you two?”

They half glowered, half stared at her in terror. She was not sure if they could talk yet, with the hempen ropes still about their necks.

“Well, on your feet, Turon Taladan.” She replied to the man below. “I want to know why you were hanging these two. Did they kill this guy?”

She hinted at the man with gash in his throat, wearing the blue surcoat with three white axes on his chest.

The bushy moustache moved under Turon Taladan's prominent nose. It was an uncomfortable question.

“Uh...yes? Why, they have! How clever of you to see it!”

“No!” The smaller man on Laura's hand croaked, sounding like wood grinding on wood. “I am Wulfric, Lord of Nyiallin, and these men are murderers!”

“What men?” Laura laughed, tilting her hand to let both of the men fall to the edge allowing them to see. “There's only the moustache left. What's your side of this story?”

It came slow, hateful and croaking, but she had heard three sentences before she knew that this was relatively big, another one of Albernia's plentiful intrigues and betrayals. This one, they called the Hedge Feud.

What the gist of it was was hard to decipher and she was conflicted on whether or not she wanted to be part of it. It seemed as though this could work greatly to her advantage, though, because wherever there was conflict she could just pick one side and squish the other.

“I'm in Bredenhag now?” She asked nonetheless like a clueless child when it was mentioned that the whole county was somehow involved. “Where is Bredenhag where that Jast Irian Crumold resides? I have to squish him!”

The men on her hand only looked irritably at her, but the man on the ground understood.

“Jast Irian is long dead!” He shouted up, explaining. “He betrayed the king and started a rebellion, unsuccessfully, as you might understand as per his death! Count Arlan Stepahan rules in Bredenhag now! Who told you otherwise?!”

'The two little bugs I want to heave into the throne.' Laura thought, bewildered.

“Branwyn ni Bennain did so, I think.” She said. “Or Reo Conchobair.”

The dawn of understanding lay eerily on his face. This was a clever one, she judged, albeit one with none too much of a spine. She did not know how much he knew, though, practically with regards to anything.

He shouted up at her again, slowly and very clearly: “If you mean to put your faith in Reo Conchobair and Branwyn ni Bennain then you are pledging your wager unto a dead horse! Reo is a bastard! Legitimized, aye, but he cannot be king! Branwyn, well...there's a name for the girl that shouldn't be used in the company of ladies...outside of a kennel!”

Laura knew immediately what he meant, and it described Princess Branwyn more accurately than any other word. The news of Reo were grave, too. She had been under the impression that the son of the Sword King was disliked, but nonetheless a guy of some renown, or repute, if only by virtue of his father and the prowess he undoubtedly possessed. If Reo was truly bastard-born then this might have deep implications. This wasn't the Viking-like Thorwal but a more Gaelic-like place. Blood counted more here, surely, even though medieval Ireland and Scotland did have their fair share of Viking influence from the raids and conquests. Somehow, she felt like she might find the same here. The three white axes on blue sure looked Thorwalsh, for instance.

For keeping this bit about the bastard birth from her, she felt like Branwyn and Reo had to die screaming. To add to that, Branwyn had turned out disappointing to say the least. Reo was better, somewhat, but probably only so down to earth because of his lowly birth.

The trouble was that she had no idea who to replace them with. It was all well and good to crush a nation. To redesign it in its working was an entirely different game.

'I need a foreman,' she thought, remembering her tiny, little village and how warm inside it made her feel to watch it function.

She crouched and picked Turon Taladan off the ground: “I interrupted you earlier. Wulfric here was going on about plots and such that frankly I did not comprehend a word of. He also accused you of having set up this farce in order to hang them under a pretext. Is that true?”

Turon was a very old man, despite his hair. He chose a considerate kneeling position on her right hand, his torso upright, displaying that he was still a tall man as well.

His moustachio shifted: “Mhh, that is true, I do not deny it. And whether or not his side or mine had the rights in this feud I cannot tell. The world is governed according to a very simple principle: power. In this instance, the side against Lord Wulfric simply wielded more. I will say I regret this role I played now that the balance is overturned.”

“I will rip the apple from your throat, you murderous liar!” The lord on Laura's left hand roared, reared and started to choke himself on the rope that was still around his neck, trying to jump over.

He and the other had not gotten it off, seeing as their hands were still tied behind their backs. The outburst showed Laura that their convictions were true. They were the moral side, the principled one. They were also the side with the lesser chances, or so she presumed, if any of it mattered any more here. She might as well just kill all three of them, shrug it off and continue ravaging places.

The cross beam bobbed on her hand until Wulfric fell onto his arse, head all purple again.

“Why my village?” The other man demanded, very tall, bright blond hair and wearing a green-yellow surcoat with loads and loads of clovers on his chest, rubbing in the local Irish flair a tad too obviously for Laura's liking. He had a windburnt face, too, and crooked teeth.

Despite his happy colours, there was something eerily sad about him and Lord Wulfric as well.

“It was reachable.” Turon shrugged. “It was easy to take. It was never the point, if that is your question, Aedan. I bear you no ill will.”

“We will all die here, Turon!” Wulfric growled out of breath. “But if I can, by Efferd's beard, I swear I will kill you myself!”

Laura chewed her lip, thinking. For now the exchange was entertaining enough.

“It mustn't be that way.” The steward of Tommeldomm's amber-coloured eyes looked up at Laura's. “I know what she is, what she does. I keep an avid exchange of letters with Lady Galahan, our fearsome, old Countess of Honingen.”

Laura almost winced at the name by now, even though she shouldn't have, given that she was already in Bredenhag, the next county, and had barely even noticed. Not dealing with that wretched woman had somehow turned her into the icon of a nemesis in her mind.

“She evacuated her city so as not to fall prey to this beastly maiden. Except, Nordmarkeners went there, even laying siege to her palace.” The address of his words suddenly fell to Laura. “You want Albernia for Horas? I give you Bredenhag and Honingen. All you need do is let me live. And crush a few more people.”

Laura's breath slowly escaped through her mouth. She wanted to laugh at the gall of this little worm, and so very unexpected too. It was almost too tempting to refuse, if she was honest about it. He was clearly a capable man, with words and wit if not anything else, and she had need of someone to show her who to turn into a stamp just now, more than anything.

There was a catch, though.

“You want me to trust you.” She asked. “Why would I do that? You've just betrayed...what's his name...Arlan Stepahan, the man who made you steward? Who tells me you wouldn't turn your cloak again?”

“Oh, nothing!” He chuckled under his beard. “Only, mayhaps the possibility of your return. Also, there is Wulfric to consider, the powerful Count of Bredenhag after having won the Hedge Feud despite everything and claiming the lands and title by right of conquest. He will watch closely my every move as I rule his county for him, ultimately with Horas' and your own graces.”

He finished the proposal with a little bow.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?!” Wulfric spat. “I'm Baron of Gemhar, not Count of bloody Bredenhag, you fool!”

'No, you fool.' Laura chuckled in her mind.

She just loved the idea immediately.

“We're gonna make you Count.” She explained, a smile splitting her face in half.

This would certainly save her a lot of work if she did it right, and she'd end up with Winhall, Honingen and Bredenhag in her pocket, all the kingdom except for Havena. Victory was in her grasp at last.

“Then I would hang you!” Wulfric replied to Turon on the other hand. “You had my man Baldwick killed. The man never harmed a fly!”

Turon sighed: “A captain of guard who does no harm is no good. Besides, he was trying to interfere with my judgement, you will recall. I deemed your man expendable, in light of things, but nevertheless I regret it. Does not saving your life do anything to remedy this?! You have no heirs, Wulfric. What of your young wife when you fall? And I mean to do doubly good by you, if our giant captor is inclined to indulge me.”

“Go on.” Laura beamed, having to keep herself from jumping as giddy as she was.

“Your brother Kendrick was captured.” Turon went on to explain. “Jaran keeps him at the Hedgewatch in a pen. He dared not have his head ere we had yours, meaning...”

“Is that so?!” Wulfric interrupted him. “And when did you plan to inform me of this, had this giant monster not thwarted your plans?!”

Kendrick had been at the heart of the issue, Laura remembered, the initial incident that had sparked the feud. He had slain Aenwin of Hedgethorn, Jaran of Hedgethorns only remaining son in a brief, bloody skirmish that had come to pass for one reason or another. Somehow, the fact that Wulfric did not have any heirs seemed to play into it, though, at least in the aftermath.

Turon shrugged again: “Never, I suppose? It was set in stone, whether you knew it or not. Now, I do not know if Jaran of Hedgethorn is still amongst the living, and what he might do to Kendrick when he gets back to his castle. He thinks you dead, and if this overthrow of events has changed anything in his mind is rather hard to know. If you ask me, he's ever been of a rather single one.”

“Is it far away?” Laura interjected, frowning.

“No.”

“Then perhaps I can save him.”

The steward and chancellor nodded. This was his plan.

Laura turned to Aedan and Lord Wulfric: “So, here is your choice. You can reign Bredenhag as count for Horas with Turon Taladan as your steward and chancellor, or you can die here. I won't lie to you and say that I don't care but...”

This was the moment that would decide whether or not the Hedge Feud would work out to her advantage or not. She bit her lip, leaving her sentence open.

Lord Wulfric did not ponder for very long before he gave a defiant sniff.

“I don't think I will.”

He didn't even sound very angry about it, just insolent, stubborn and convinced.

Laura sighed: “You dumb, stupid shit lord! This is a one in a thousand opportunity! Do you have any notion what I will do to this county if you refuse?!”

He shrugged: “One will be as unpleasant as the other, I suppose.”

'What different does it make.'

That was a tad too clever for Laura's taste, coming from such a dumb man, comparatively speaking. It also spoke of resignation, death to any plans that involved any sort of future whatsoever.

“So,” Laura started painfully, “you'll condemn yourself, Aedan, your brother Kendrick and even your little wife? I'll find her, wherever she is, and I will have more fun with her than you ever had. Is this what you want?”

He wasn't a selfish man, though, but a very principled one, and stubborn to boot if she was any judge.

“Don't be foolish, Wulfric.” Turon cautioned him from the other side.

The tall man who was called Aedan looked up at Laura with the noose around his neck and so much pain in his eyes that she almost wanted to hug him. He looked hideous and burned out besides, though, so she never would have done anything like that.

“How does this work then,” He said, “do you intend on living here with us begging and crawling under your heels or do you have other places you might stomp to?”

“Oh, other places!” Laura lied, thankful that he opened this door for her. “Plenty of them, actually. I'll only come when you need help. And once to show your beautiful kingdom to my friend. And maybe to pass some time, but never more than a few days, I promise.”

“Well, you already smashed my village, so I do not stand to lose much.” He turned to Wulfric, the real target of his words. “Except for my three little children, my lord and friend.”

Wulfric met his eyes for an iron moment. Then slowly he started to nod.

“On one condition.” He looked up at her. “You'll let me and Aedan go home. I'll have no part of your conquest or whatever you intend. I will raise spears and axes. I will fight whoever needs fighting. But I will not sit on your hand while you trample the helpless and innocent into the mud beneath your soles.”

That was good enough, Laura supposed.

She put all three of them down and Turon Taladan cut the ropes that bound Wulfric's and Aedan's wrists. Then they went, on foot, and never even looked back.

The rest would be rather a piece of cake for Laura. The Hedgewatch was not very far away and Turon could tell her where to go. Moreover, they found Jaran of Hedgethorn immediately when she stopped to examine if he was among the riders she had smashed.

His legs were pudding, literally so, and he dragged himself forward with his hands, inch by inch into the direction of his castle.

Laura could see immediately that he was a dark man. He had the big ears, bald spot and wrinkles that many old men had, and all powerful men were old, she felt, although that was not true for King Finnian. His hair was short, coarse and black, the ring on his head one with a fearsome beard.

She hovered her foot over him.

“Impenetrable!” He babbled, still crawling through one of Laura's earlier footprints. “Inclement! Indomitable!”

“Dead.” She chuckled, and squished him under the tip of her shoe.

That was all.

The castle called Hedgewatch was a well defended one, at least in terms of the botany that gave it its name. The small fortress, as large as a shoebox perhaps, stood atop a steep hill that had an enormous thorn bush growing on its slopes. There was a small, narrow path up to the gates, framed by thorns on either side. Other than making through this bottleneck, any attacker would have to climb uphill while slashing through thorn ranks that looked a hundred years old.

That was where they found Kendrick ui Ruinad, Wulfric's brother. The Hedgethorns simply had him in a stockade in the castle yard. After rescuing him, which he seemed to believe was an attempt at his life, Laura gave the castle to her bum. Her skin was too thick for thorns, but when she stood again the hole great thorny bush came with it, sticking in her jeans.

That was only after the stone walls and tiny towers broke and crumbled, tumbled and fell. She had seen two guardsmen before sitting down, but there was no way they or anyone else survived her butt resting on them for as long as it did, rolling from side to side again and again until everything was nice and plain.

Laura felt like since it was too late to start a body count, and counting every soul she squashed would be too bothersome anyhow, she should at least make sure to remember the castles she butt-crushed like this. Counting that outlaw-infested ruin in Niamor, that now made two, a number she planned to expand upon in the future. That would be awkward for the historians, no doubt.

'And then the giantess crushed another castle under her arse.'

Kendrick ui Riunad turned out to be a younger, prettier version of his brother, with shorter hair.

“What do I do with him?” She asked Turon Taladan.

“Let him go.”

And that was what Laura did, sending the tiny man running as naked as he was. Afterwards, she demolished the Hedgethorn's nearby village, Thornhag, albeit without evicting the inhabitants first. Then there was the question of how to proceed.

“Village and Castle Bredenhag are nearby.” The steward advised. “If we are to take this county, best start by taking the seat of its count.”

It was only the first of a long list of more visits, largely comprised of the seats of barons or other influential people. This took two whole more days. Turon knew what to do. He was a political animal. He was also a very old man, though, and could not sleep under a tree during the night. Laura lodged him in inns, half hollowed out and void of patrons because she had eaten them for supper.

Through their time together, Laura was uncomfortably aware that she might be playing with fire. What he offered sounded rather too good to be true. The people that were missing from all over Albernia were with a considerably large army which would one day come back. What Turon would do then was an open question. Laura did not want to enter a situation in which she had to run all over the place and stomp out rebellions in a sort of Guerilla war that she, like the mighty American Military in its hay day, would maybe even lose. She also did not know whom she could put in place to rule in her absence, since Turon's ambitions were limited to the county of Bredenhag and she did not trust him any farther than that to begin with.

He noticed that. In the beginning, here or there when she ate or just had her fun bulldozing people, he would try and convince her to spare some commoners he knew and liked such as a certain innkeep, a peddler, a blacksmith, a peasant and his big-bosomed wife. So that he did not forget his place, Laura made extra sure those people were dead, which either meant eating them or turning them into unrecognizable smears.

It wasn't long before he stopped asking.

“Do not fret mistrusting me.” He told her after she was done ingesting the patrons of an inn where he would spend the night. “The fact that you do speaks to your intelligence.”

Mistrusting him and still doing what he said seemed a conundrum to her, but nevertheless she took the compliment.

“I'm not very clever, though.” She admitted in a moment of self-reflection. “And I do not know a whole lot about your world, let alone this monumental dung heap of a kingdom. I have to conquer it, and I can, but I'm scared to death of having to rule it.”

It was one of these moments during which his eyes shun golden and the corners of his bushy moustache curved up: “Do you have any notion of with how little understanding the world is ruled?”

That made her feel better. These lands, by enlarge, were not rules by a meritocracy, except maybe in cases of robe nobility such as Turon was, but by blood, opening the door quite wide to heavy idiots into positions of power. Besides this realization, Turon also taught her a lot of other things. Old men oft knew much, but this one seemed a neigh inexhaustible fundus of wisdom, packaged in brainy quotes.

With regards to using threads, fear and terror in order to rule, for instance, and her doubts as to the effectiveness of this, he said: “Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is much safer and easier to be feared rather than loved.”

That very much settled the question of how exactly to create allegiance in people, which was a big rock off Laura's chest.

When she said that she had broken and would break yet more promises, he consoled her as well: “Those rulers who have done great deeds are those who have taken little account of their vows.”

That sounded like something a politician might say, but nonetheless she saw the truth of it.

Turon also said, however, that anyone who took a free town and did not demolish it set themselves up for being destroyed, which she found a tad excessive. She did not see why she should smash a town unless she felt like doing so for fun.

Then came the hammer. The greater area they had worked in during their two days had only been that around the castle of Bredenhag. The rest of the county was huge, but Turon Taladan had more pressing concerns.

“Honingen.” He said when Laura broached the subject of what to do next. “I will begin my part in dealing with the rest of it here. It won't be pretty, and there will be work left to do when you come back, but Honingen needs you now.”

He had dispatched a rider with a message from a place called Bockshag to take to his seat of Tommeldomm from where a homing pigeon would take it directly to Franka Salva Galahan's palace, surpassing the besiegers holding her under arrest. Turon and the countess had priorly used this method to play Garadan against each other, a board game that, like chess, resembled war.

“If you give Franka back her city and make it possible for her people to return, why, what other choice does she have than to embrace you?”

'She's got plenty of chances to betray me, as do you.' Laura thought sourly, but the tiny, tall, old man was nevertheless the best horse on which she could bet.

She had to hurry, though. King Finnian was reportedly at Havena and with him more forces than any people left in Winhall or Bredenhag could withstand on their own, especially after Laura had crushed and eaten so many of them so negligently.

Finally, though, she felt like she was on the right track. Victory was in her sights. She could almost smell it.

After leaving Turon Taladan she turned back around after a few steps and went back for him once more.

“Turon,” she said from above, “is there any way you might get a message to King Finnian ui Bennain?”

He looked unsure: “Mayhaps, yes. But it would be highly unorthodox, given our arrangement, no?”

“If you can, tell him I'm going to stick him between my foot and a hard place.”

'What do you think he will do?' That was the question she really meant to ask. 'Come on, ask it!'

But she didn't. They had all turned to avatars in her head, ghosts, caricatures, epitomes.

It was stupid, and somehow not. They were small, these little men and women, and she could crush them at a whim. But they had minds of their own as well, and Laura was just one, gigantic, gigantically stupid girl against them all – one stupid, giant girl against a kingdom she was only just beginning to know and did not the least bit understand.

“Aye,” Turon nodded thoughtfully, “that, I will.”

-

Garvin Blaithin watched anxiously from the top of a tower, cowering behind a wooden shield. It was just his cowardice. Even though the attackers possessed the vastly superior archers did the elevated position of the castle place the edge firmly in the hands of its defenders. The exchange of missiles had lasted for the better part of a day and cost more lives by half on side of the besiegers.

Bogai, captain of archers, had lost an eye to Yvain Belenduir's arrow, but the cocky bastard had been harrowed in turn, struck in the arm, leg and chest by crossbow bolts. That was a glimmer of light at least, Garvin kept thinking, even though it did not quite constitute hope.

Laura had not returned, but Cirdrian Belenduir, the other bastard, had. Everyone in the castle was worried near to madness, as if they were sitting on a nest of wasps that could take flight and begin stinging at any moment.

'Bumblebees in the bum,' king pretender Reo Conchobair had aptly named the state of overall restlessness in the castle.

It was an impossible situation. They all had seen Laura. They all knew of her might. But at the same time there was no doubt in their minds that the besieging army would be successful, if they got through the gate before Laura returned.

And get through they would, sooner or later. Since Iaun Cyll's gates were gone and had been replaced with large rocks and rubble, they had initially believed that a siege tower was their only option. Such an engine took long to build, however, so instead they settled for manpower and pickaxes, completed by a wooden roof on wheels with wet leather and pieces of metal nailed to it.

All the tools and resources they needed, they had found in the empty village of Ortis, conveniently beside. There was a quarry nearby, so the local people possessed everything necessary to break or move large quantities of stone as well, much to Garvin's disquiet. 

The roof was already in place from their first attempt yesterday. But since Laura had not returned in time, the faux king had ordered that pitch be boiled and the vicious, burning substance had driven the diggers out of their mobile hovel, even though the thing itself did not burn down.

It stood singed and blackened, made from wood too thick to punch through. Conchobair had had the crenels on the gatehouse above dislodged and toppled down on top of the thing, but Arthgal Fenwasian's contraption had withstood the falling rocks with only some minor cracks and damages.

The wall beneath Garvin's tower was full up with crossbowmen and archers, glorified peasants with weapons in their hands, poachers and hunters at best. The torches they had flung down during the night were guttering out. The attackers had used the darkness as a cloak to veil themselves in, all digging through the night.

Meanwhile, Conchobair's new plan had been to dump boiling excrements off the wall, and Garvin was thankful for the wind blowing the stench away from him. By the gate, the ground was stained yellow here or there where the diggers had retched.

To provide cover for the diggers, the enemy archers, primarily trained longbow men from Barnhill, were constantly engaging the walls. They meant to punish anyone foolish enough to show their head on the parapets and especially anyone who wanted to dump more boiling filth down below. Since the crenels atop the gates were now gone, that had become a whole lot easier, which wasn't any good tidings for the defenders.

Such was the nature of Reo Conchobair's ideas, if he ever had any. Some good, some bad.

Most of his work was inevitable in any case, like swearing in and training the welcome party for when the attackers would break through. They did not have any knights, though, and what forces remained would likely throw down their arms as soon as they had the chance.

Thus, Laura remained Garvin's only hope. She had gone to conquer the Barony of Niamor three days ago, and should have been back the same day. Perhaps she had died or suffered an injury. Perhaps the bogs had swallowed her alive. Perhaps she had just gotten carried away, thinking Iaun Cyll save and meaning to expand her position more than initially planned.

In any event, her crushing feet could not help while they weren't here.

Fretful of the archer battle in daylight, Garvin went down the tower in search of Cathal Ardwain, the squire who helped him with his new song. Since it seemed that there was now more time to complete it, he had begun thinking about adding a third verse to it. The men loved hearing 'man at arms,' but singing about soldiers' woes and death had begun to make Garvin shudder, which got in the ways of thinking about it too much.

'Singers need peace to make songs, as much as wars and heroic deeds to sing about.' He concluded.

That was a contradiction. And there was something else as well. Could there ever be a hero without evil? That was a disquieting thought.

But what were considerations of good and evil and much less heroes against such simple concerns as staying alive? Little and less, to be sure, at least as far as Garvin was concerned.

To his surprise, he found Cathal training at lance riding in the yard. The usurper had brought out a quintain as a gift to the Araner Lancers who had been released from the dungeons again. They were a well-trained militia force and it would be unwise not to try and reintegrate them into the defences. The yard was so large that if the attackers poured in from the gates the horsemen might well charge and ride down the first wave of them before going under, which might yet still give the defenders a chance.

The quintain was a wooden cross with the crossbar hanging loose in strings. On its one end was made fast a shield that had to be hit with the lance while on the other end hung a threshing flail, clobbering the rider over the head if he wasn't careful.

“Go again!” Reo Conchobair commanded the squire.

Cathal gave his horse the spurs and galloped forth, the point of his lance hovering about like a dragonfly in summer. His head was red from exertion, most likely because he was already drunk or still hungover from the day before. The subsequent display was shameful, as was to be expected. The point of the lance missed the shield high while the shaft bumped into it, causing the flail to swing more slowly towards the rider. But in trying to wrench the point onto the shield in the last instant Cathal had also inadvertently pulled on the reins, thereby causing his oblivious horse to stop abruptly.

It all came together at once. The sudden halt catapulted the young squire high in the saddle, his feet slipping out of the stirrups below. While he was at the highest point, just about to come back down, the flail hit him almost gently in the arse, just enough to complete both his fall and the accompanying opprobrium.

The lancers laughed but the false king did not.

“On your feet, boy, do it again!” He snapped, close to despair.

It was rather questionable why they were bothering.

The pimply squire pushed his face from the hoof-torn ground and scowled: “I told you, I don't want to! I'm no good at riding, you...king!”

He's speech was even more slurred than it had been yesterday. Garvin feared that the boy had been drinking all night.

“That's alright, your grace.” A friendly looking Araner intervened, riding by with his horse. “Sir always said what we need do is ride over the enemy, and bugger where that lance point goes. He isn't going no tourney's way, is he?”

The man sat bow-legged and sure in the saddle as if he had been born there, the mark of a knight's son, a lordling's bastard maybe, or perhaps a wealthier peasant. His lance's butt rested in a small leather pouch attached to his saddle so that he did not have to carry its burden all the time.

“Most likely not.” Conchobair judged dryly, balling his fists.

“I want to be a singer, like Garvin Blaithin!” The boy said. “His wife whipped your arse, king!”

“He's drunk, that one.” Another Lancer sauntered by, a deep cleft scarred in his jaw. “He ought to be put in fetters rather than a saddle, with the siege 'n all.”

Cathal spat onto the ground before the horses' feet, reached around himself and pulled his wineskin to his mouth.

“Drink is the curse of the land.” The first one commented with a laugh. “It makes you punch your neighbour until they bring the lord, and then you loose a quarrel at him.”

The first lancer looked from his brother in arms to the king.

“The quarrel isn't the problem.” He replied darkly before having his horse trod off. “It's the missing that gets you hanged.”

This was a sentiment Garvin had overheard many a time when strolling the castle to get his mind off things. Men would mutter about the false king and that he would get them all killed, hinting that they should kill him first. It was only fear of Laura that kept it all together, that, and the hostages who were now kept under arrest, including Garvin's children.

Princess Branwyn, if that was possible, had even fewer friends, albeit many questionable admirers. Garvin had even heard two drunk men trying to modify 'man at arms' to express their feelings.

“Princess' arse!”

“I haven't fucked for a week and a day and a night!”

“My cock is restless!”

“For there are no women!”

“Princess' arse!”

“I'm not the richest nor pretty but I sure yearn to put myself in her! Oi, oi, oi, where to, young lass? Come into my bed, and if you do then we'll make a sweet mess! Twist your pink nipples, kiss your pink cunny, and fuck your black bunghole?”

“Princess' arse!”

Garvin hoped Reo Conchobair would not hear this version of the song, or he'd come to associate the real one with it.

The princess did not have it easy. She was stupid, arrogant, vain and had been tasked with doing inventories. Whenever she walked about the castle from storehouse to storehouse, men leered at her. Anyone who dared make a comment or whistle at her had received a whipping from Reo Conchobair's men, but if that helped or made things worse Garvin did not know.

“Take him away.” The king gestured at the pimply squire. “Into a bed, not in irons! The singer needs him to do that song for Laura. Sometimes I think that man is the only sober person inside these walls.”

That was true as well, as Princess Branwyn had complained at breakfast. Wine, ale and mead were depleting rapidly. It was not too much of a problem because there was a stone well in the castle. Those who had been here before, however, swore that the water from that one tasted salty, not as sweet and fresh as the liquid that had poured infinitely from the stone Fairy's vessel while it still did, as if through magic.

“Let me have a go.” Conchobair picked up Cathal's lance and climbed on the horse. “You all know I'm no knight. But neither are you, and I could cut all of you in half if you weren't on horseback.”

Someone somewhere mumbled something about hidden daggers.

They were in the part of the yard that was close to the buildings, and between them and the gate was a field with arrow shafts for stalks. Closer to the gate, cunning men had already begun harvesting, gathering the arrows to shoot them straight back to whence they came. It was calm, horrid madness, and it weighed heavily on Garvin's gentle soul.

Singular arrows still hissed over, but they were ignored as normal, even though each one could have meant death.

“Hey there at the gate!” The king shouted when he was in position to charge. “How far have they come?!”

Three listeners in Conchobair surcoats were posted there.

One turned his head: “Half way, I'd say, Your Grace! They got through the next big one, somehow!”

That was even more ill news, Garvin thought.

“They got horses!” A man from the wall added, shouting. “Wrapped in blankets and quilts! They're pulling them out one after the other!”

“Damn them!” Conchobair spat and charged, his horse kicking up the dirt all the way past the quintain where his lance missed by a hand's breadth.

He flung it down in disgust.

“Have everyone form up!” He commanded. “Looks like we'll have to kill these rat arses ourselves!”

There should have been a cheer, only it didn't come. Everyone looked around, somewhat bedraggled. They all knew they'd yield as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The garrison did not stand a chance against the Thistle Knights.

“Look,” the king frowned, anxious, “If we can keep them at the gate long enough for the crossbowmen above, we'll win. We'll boil more filth and we'll bring rocks and other things atop so we can dump them down. Anyone who can show me a bloody blade at the end of the battle, I'll knight. You'll all receive land, and if you die then I swear I will hunt down your sons and give it to them, more than you can dream of!”

That at least seemed to convince some of the men present.

And so it was done. Even Garvin had to present himself, crossbow in hand and with a chainmail byrnie over his chest that had so many holes that it looked moth-eaten. To make matters worse, he was put on the walls from where he immediately made for his previous spot on the tower.

They loosed quarrel after quarrel at the diggers and their beasts of burden, but seldom hit anything. Down below, the progress was called, which was going quickly. Time was running fast. It seemed as though the hours were minutes as rock after rock was hauled from the gates.

The gateway was massive, though, and there was much rock to move. Horses screamed and died or tore loose, galloping off before being caught. Corpses were made as well, but the archers behind their siege shields did their part in robbing the defenders of sufficient aim.

It was near evening when further below at the siege camp a group of riders arrived.

“Those have to be scouts.” Garvin said to no one in particular. “The men Cirdrian Belenduir posted.”

“Does that mean the giantess is comin' after all?”

“Perhaps.”

Nevertheless, Garvin's heart fluttered at the thought, which was queer since it was Laura they were talking about. A trumped sounded with quick, short blasts, and at once the siege was abandoned.

“They're forming up down the road way, Sire!” A man shouted down at the king. “But we can't see Laura!”

Suddenly, Garvin knew what was happening. He wrenched away from the crenels and hasted over, leaning over the top there into the yard.

“Your Grace!” He shouted. “It's not Laura that's coming! It is the troops! Niamor!”

How it was possible that they arrived here before her, he did not know. Reo Conchobair sat atop his horse like a wet rag, putting his palm to his forehead. He did not know what to do.

Someone from the other side of the tower confirmed that Ilaen Albenblood's banner had been spotted as his army emerged from behind Ortis' walls.

The road took a western turn here and split, one of its arms running into the village and another going around it. Both roads had bridges over the canal. When Garvin went to look, he saw that Ilaen Albenblood was riding for Iaun Cyll, coming up the longer way around the village.

The Fenwasian army was in his path, however. They were forming up frantically, longbows out front, cavalry half behind and half in the hillside. There were trees on the hill, however, and soon enough the riders that had gone there returned to the others, the brush too thick to charge through. That meant that the battlefield would be a perilously narrow one.

“They look almost of a size.” Garvin noted to the men beside. “Will our man of Albenblood win?”

He held his breath for the answer before a hard-bitten crossbowman crushed his hopes.

“No. Not against them Thistle Knights.”

'Those damned knights.' He thought.

Their charge was the obligatory opening of any battle, and there were preciously few instances were footmen had withstood their charge. The Horasians reputedly had overhauled and standardized their entire military in order to deal with this tactic. Often even a vanguard of heavy horse was enough to crush an army into retreat before the main force even arrived on the battlefield.

“Ya, he has no heavy horse.” Another soldier confirmed. “Our lord of Albenblood is about to get ridden down like grass and all we have is a nice spot from where to watch it.”

“He's got the Moorwatch, though, look!” A younger man pointed out.

What he referred to was a ragged band of men with no standard, well armed and equipped but half on horseback and half not and not marching in anything resembling a formation. There were men with particularly long lances, though, only they were wearing quilts instead of britches and no armour to speak of. Their banner was a bloody tree, as if they fancied themselves a lance of knights.

Garvin chewed his lip, thinking. The Fenwasian force was formed up, parting to let the heavy cavalry to the front, the heavy hammer that would smash the enemy to pieces. Albenblood's force was still marching it seemed. They had not expected to find any sort of resistance here.

Finally, Ilaen bid his army form up as well on the road while he and two others rode forth to parley with Fenwasian, Wallwood and Jasalin. It still seemed like it would be an even battle, but the horses of the Thistle Knights with their deep yellow barding foretold that they were a different breed of foe.

Garvin had never understood how knights, who were very few people compared to the general soldiers, let alone the general population, could win an entire battle with their first move. But it happened, time and time again. There were many songs about it. The simple truth seemed to be that they were so much better armed and armoured, so much better trained and more motivated than the regular man that the latter broke and ran as soon as the horses with their riders in armour crashed into his ranks.

And once a man broke and ran he was lost, mostly. On the other hand, there was a song about a battle in which the Novadi's had won by routing, as well.

'They charged in our line, and turned on their heels, and elated we broke our formation. But the desert men turned, once more to the field, and spelled out our army's damnation,' went the refrain.

Something like this was not like to happen here, though. When Albernians broke, they broke, or at least they did so in all the songs.

The parley of six willed their horses about and galloped back to their armies. Albenblood had archers in front of his infantry centre, peasant conscripts by the looks of them. To their left were mounted archers with little room to manoeuvre, and on his right the absurd men in quilts.

Fenwasian's front was a large mass of horses on the forest side and longbows on the side against walls. Garvin thought that it was a lucky circumstance that they had not thought to man the walls of Ortis. If they had done so, then they might as well have blocked Ilaen from approaching Iaun Cyll altogether, unless he made through the Farindel, which was madness.

“This looks bad.” Reo Conchobair arrived next to Garvin, scowling. “I fear we are about to witness a massacre.”

'Again and again, they charged and they fled, and we knew not the caliph's design. Our King screamed in anguish, stop breaking formation, himself fifteen yards off the line.'

“Is there naught we can do, Your Grace?” Another crossbowman asked.

The king shook his head: “I shall have to weep bitterly over this.”

“There is, though, Your Grace.” Garvin said softly. It had come to him a moment ago, and once it had it seemed rather obvious. “They were almost through, below, were they not?”

The king looked at him with big eyes: “Singer, you...”

His words failed him. Instead, Conchobair grasped Garvin's head and planted a stubbly wet kiss on his brow.

“To the gate, with me!” The king rushed off the tower, his black cloak snapping in his haste.

Garvin remained, perplexed. It was a question of time, he supposed, whether it would work. He turned back towards the road, anxious to see what was transpiring.

Fenwasian bowmen had started to pelt Ilaen's immobile force with arrows, while the beleaguered in turn had raised their shields, if they had any. The riders with the overly long lances withdrew from the fire, a danger should the knights decide to charge. They had no shields, though. The mounted archers of House Albenblood rushed forward to get in range and return fire. Their bows were shorter to allow them to be used on horseback which meant that they could not match the longbow in strength.

Arrows fell to and fro, claiming horses and men amongst the archers, until it seemed that some knight had enough of it. Well armoured or not, there were always gaps, of course, and even barded horses did not appreciate being shot at. Nevertheless, the Fenwasians had the better marksmen and bows, and should have waited, but one man suddenly blew his horn and charged.

It was Corrin of Wallwood, the oaf with the half-closed eyes. Garvin could picture his sigil clearly, a white star over three white firs on a green field. The Garethian standard blew from his lance. That alone was fearsome to behold.

His own men followed immediately and the rest trickled after him, going in a big bulk after another trumpet blow. There were many horses.

They charged headlong down the road, leaving the infantry behind them. Someone must have forgotten to inform them of the charge because they seemed unsure whether or not to follow. The bowmen were confused as well, their next volley awfully thin.

Likely, it would not make much matter, though. There were far too few riders on Lord Ilaen's side to stop their charge.

The mounted archers turned and fled, seeking their gaps in the Albenblood line to vanish. On the other side, the men with the long lances re-emerged, riding straight in front of the Moorwatch as if to shield them with their bodies. That was ill-done, Garvin thought. At least, Ilaen could have sacrificed his peasants rather than these presumably precious troops.

To perplex the poor singer even more, the men dismounted, forming up a line out front.

He could see Ilaen behind them, gesturing frantically. He was injured, Garvin recalled. He would not be able to participate much in the fighting and encourage his men.

On the Fenwasian side only Cirdrian Belenduir seemed to linger behind, slowly turning his head. It was as if his and Garvin's eyes met, even over several hundred metres. He barked some command and raised his lance, leading the no longer useful bowmen through the infantry and back toward the castle.

'He knows. It is too obvious not to see.'

The others apparently had expected a quick victory, as well they might with knights and so many horses against so few, mostly armed peasants and militia.

But the charge halted, all but for Corrin of Wallwood's men. The men with the long lances had been mounted pikes, a thing that seemed to defy all logical sense. Their horses were already half off the battlefield and the Moorwatch had woven in between their ranks to slay anyone who got past their neatly aligned points.

It was an absurd display that Corrin of Wallwood produced when he and his band branded against the pike wall. Men were spit up like roasts. Horses had their throats torn out, or baulked, throwing their riders onto the hedgehog's thorns to die. The smart ones stopped and made to get away, but the mounted archers sat elevated over the footmen and were able to discharge their bows liberally into their backs.

'They do not even need us.' Garvin thought for a jubilant moment, but that was too early and false.

The Thistle Knights dismounted and waved all others to follow them, raising their shields and charging on foot into the fray.

“Albernia! Farindel! Fight and die!” Their battle cries came over on a gust of wind.

Cirdrian Belenduir, Lady Jocya's second bastard son from the village of Ahawar, was still making his way back on the road. He was a dark figure, quiet, queer and had a reputation for cruelty.

The battle next to Ortis' grey stone walls had turned into a blur of colours and flashing steel. Who had the upper hand was impossible to determine, and it turned out a glad tiding that the peasants were not out in front on the side of Ilaen Albenblood.

Undisciplined soldiers broke easily. The trouble was that they had to go somewhere when they did, often destroying all order in the forces behind them and animating others to flee as well.

Strangely, it remained as it was for quite a long while. The pikes were largely gone now but the Moorwatch held its ground. Arthgal Fenwasian could not use his slightly superior numbers, it seemed, due to the narrowness of the battlefield. That was a glad tiding.

“Men at arms.” Garvin hummed softly, watching and trying to keep himself from chewing his lips to shreds.

The battle was a gruesome spectacle. There was no room for manoeuvre left, just men pressing against each other, killing each other with their weapons, with their shields and even with their bare hands.

Eventually, there was shouting at the gate below his tower and the first men broke through while others still made the way wider for the Araner Lancers.

'The Lancers!'

Garvin's heart jumped with joy when he though about what would happen when their horses slammed into the Fenwasian's backs. But there was Cirdrian Belenduir in their way, who at once willed his horse about and galloped for the battlefield, leaving his archers in place. Conchobair's footmen, once they were through the gate, seemed not to make any efforts to involve themselves in the battle, though. One third ran north, eager to get away from Iaun Cyll. The others made for the siege camp instead, populated with hastily fleeing camp followers, barber surgeons, wounded men and the like.

Somewhere in there they had Yvain Belenduir in a tent. He was wounded gravely. If they found him in their plundering fervour, he'd die. His brother, or half brother, no one knew even though both had the elven blood, was galloping for the battlefield instead of him.

Garvin saw Conchobair emerge from the gate, looking about and spitting.

“Form up!” He shouted, ignoring those who fled. “I do not know what gods you follow men, but if you want land and spoils then follow me now! Forward, and may Laura eat the hindmost!”

'Great wealth, they said, and glory you'll find.'

“Rah!”

The shout instilled such relief in Garvin that he had to weep. His vision blurred but when he blinked it back he saw that they were no moment too soon. Ilaen Albenblood's forces were hard-pressed. The entire battle had shifted into where his position had been.

“Lancers, ride down those archers!”

Cirdrian Belenduir was at the battlefield, dismounted with no regard for his horse and vanished in the press. His bowmen up the road loosed a volley at Reo Conchobair's storming riders that fell a staggering half of them. But Sir Aeneas, the huge, dead knight, had taught his men not to fear death. For this, they were infamous.

The bowmen dropped everything and made into the ditches, but not before the gross of them was hit. Garvin saw men loose the ground beneath their feet as they went flying. Others were impaled with broken shafts through their chests and bellies. Most simply fell, or threw themselves, only to be crushed under the hooves of the horses.

Reo Conchobair was on foot, leading his men from the camp that had now started burning. He would finish off any survivors that remained. Meanwhile, the Araner Lancers continued, throwing themselves into the battle from the foes' backside.

How many of them were left? Five and twenty? Fifteen? It was hard to tell. And yet, no sooner had they slammed into the Fenwasian rear did the press begin to dissolve. The outer ones ran first, then the ones behind them, and soon the whole army was routing. Such was the impact of knights. Only these were not knights.

If Reo ever was king in truth he could have made them so, Garvin thought. But that still seemed a long ways off, and the king himself was but a squire, and one who made no good figure on horseback at that.

Anyone foolish enough to flee up the road met Conchobair and was slaughtered. Garvin saw his wife Elia in her dark blue and white surcoat lead a section of Albenblood men into the wooded hill. Her sword ran red already and her battle cry echoed in his head.

He looked down. The gate was wide open. He was alone. This could all be over if he wanted it to. He might be a singer again, like he wanted, singing for normal people in normal wine sinks, boardinghouses and brothels.

He did not know if there were any horses left in the stables, though. And go off the road he could not. The Farindel was infamous for making men vanish from the earth. If Conchobair sent riders after him they would catch him. If he ran into Laura she would crush him or eat him. Brigands or outlaws might get him, or wolves or bears or maybe he would catch a cold on the road and die of fever.

'I didn't use to be so fretful.' He thought. 'What happened to me?'

If he went, perhaps he might have a chance to become himself again. He could go and get Cathal, and they could be bards together, making more songs and perhaps even earn a bit of coin with 'Man at Arms'.

But he couldn't run. He didn't have the stomach for it. Also, he could not abandon his wife. He loved her. If he ran now, he knew that he would never see his children again, even though they were in the care of a great lord now.

The gates were closed after all, he finally understood, even though they seemed to be so wide open.

-

“I think your secret admirer is not going to show.” Léon remarked with a smirk.

He wore nondescript garb for occasion, black britches, a white shirt with slashed sleeves, a black vest with silver buttons and a new rapier with gilded hand guards, nothing to give away too much of his affiliation with the armed forces of Horasia.

Also, of course, he had to wear gloves.

Dari was in plain brown servants' dress, which seemed the appropriate way for her to look if she wanted to be around without drawing too much attention. She also wore a washerwoman's cap, bound under her chin with strings, to divert attention from her shortened hair. Women commonly only wore their hair short when they were afflicted with lice or root worms, which was a stigma, whereas Dari wore it that way for practical purposes.

“I told you, you were stupid to come here.” She admonished Léon. “Besides, I do not think it is quite noon yet. What did the message say again?”

There were any number of better things they should have been doing instead of waiting here on this trifling matter, but whilst Janna had still not returned to the town they were dangerously stalled. Meanwhile, an army of ogres could be upon them any day now, but Dari had not been successful in her efforts of convincing Léon to leave. The Bloody Diffar, an invisible death, yet no less harrowing, was spreading in the city like Hylailer Fire as well, after an apparently mad Boron priest had proclaimed in the market square that anyone who ate and swallowed a fistful of dung would be warded against the disease for a fortnight.

Doing so had earned the priest the dungeons, but the damage had already been done. One after the other, people were falling sick. If the disease made it inside the castle and affected Master Furio, her efforts of saving him would surely have been for nought. The same was true if she herself got afflicted and died, of course.

Léon crammed in his vest for the parchment before pulling it out with a gloved hand and reading loudly: “Wretch! She is such a pretty girl and you are doing her much dishonour! If you care about honour, at all, come to the alley behind the Peace Cellar tomorrow at high noon when and where I shall teach you the true meaning of that word! If you refuse because you are a coward I will let it be known to everyone in Joborn and beyond! Bring her with you, if you would, so she can watch you die.”

The parchment had been shoved under their door in the night, likely while they had been fucking. There was no signature, because duels were forbidden in the Horasian military. That was also the reason for the locale, a small, dirty dead end, right behind the meanest establishment in Joborn full of whores, sots, gamblers and the like.

“I hate this town.” She tried her luck again. “Can't we just run away from here, maybe go look what happened to the capital?”

Sir Ruckus, upon hearing of the Albernian attack, had gathered hounds and bowmen and left to go deer hunting. He clearly had no love for his king. There were some Nostrian forces stationed at Salza with a certain Lord Ingvalion Salzarell, but Léon said that one was a schemer and would be more likely to work against the crown prince who was still somewhere in Nostria's vast woods, hunting Thorwalsh raiders, rather than to be helpful.

It was entirely an open question as to who would rebuild the city of Nostria, if that was ever to occur.

It was nought to Dari, of course, but being anywhere but here would be preferable.

“This is a bloody amateur.” Léon ignored her and gave the letter a dismissive slap with the back of his hand. “He even misspelled honour. I'll wager he has no idea what he is getting himself into.”

He was spoiling for a fight, drilling all morning to refresh his skills. Dari judged him quick yet rusty, and fighting a tad too prettily for her taste. That was show, though. Beneath his shirt he had donned a triangular metal plate that was held by leather straps over his heart, a minimum and easy-to-conceal mode of armour, which was not allowed in a duel of third blood so long as the other party did not wear armour as well.

And even while he was spoiling for it Dari could also sense that he was anxious. He strut around the alley like a peacock, had arrived way ahead of time to measure the ground he'd fight on, and had just already dismissed his opponent even though the bells of the Temple of Holy Dorlen were yet to ring for noon.

“Maybe we are at the wrong Peace Cellar?” She asked him, trying to lure him away.

She did not like the idea of a potential other lover dying. Léon was not half-bad between the sheets but if truth be told she yearned for someone stronger.

He looked at her and laughed: “Are you deaf or blind? Peace Cellar it says here, black on white.”

“Yes.” She allowed. “But there's the other Rahya temple as well, no?”

Joborn had two Rahya temples, Holy Dorlen, where the Light of Love, a holy relic and interest of many pilgrims in peace time was on display, and the other, also called Peace Cellar, where the light had formerly resided, bearing the same name as the unsavoury tavern.

“This very one.” Léon gestured at the wall. “You thought they were two different places with the same name?”

“Oh.”

Dari had never been much for visiting temples other than perhaps for stealing offerings. Recently, though, after her dream, she had visited a temple or shrine for every god Joborn had to offer to make sacrifice and light a candle. Well, all, except for the shrine of Kor, the half god patron saint of sellswords. For Rahya, she had gone to Holy Dorlen because it was more prominent and easier to find. Her bells were ringing now.

Léon drew his rapier and made a sudden lunge, slashing at the air three times in quick succession before ending with a mortal stab. Then he sheathed it again, visibly pleased with his performance.

Dari rolled her eyes, then froze when an all too familiar voice spoke from the entrance of the alley.

“The swing into the over-hand down cut takes too long. You open yourself to be opened unless you bring the hand guard forth to parry with it in the same instant.”

It was Sly.

He had donned Sir Ruckus' colours over padded gambeson, his face half hidden beneath a broad-rimmed kettle helm. He also carried a longbow and a quiver of arrows.

“You?!” Léon said aghast. “How did you get in here?”

Sly shrugged: “Much as most, I suppose. The gates are wide open and the peasants are in the fields, even while there are huge footprints and corpses in a few of them, or so I heard.”

'Does he mean to use that bow?' Dari wondered.

Seeing him hurt her more than she could previously have fathomed, and there was such a profound sadness on his face as he looked at them.

“Not like you can fault us for that, is it.” Léon retorted with a sneer. “What do you want? I have business here.”

'You fool.' Dari thought.

Overlooking the obvious was not like him. He really was anxious.

Sly sighed: “I wanted to see if what I heard was true. Sad to say it is. I really hoped you would stay with us.”

It was directed at Dari and she had to reply with something sensible. The truth, which was that her flight had simply happened in a moment of chaos, would not do.

“I really misliked that you wanted to kill off Thorsten.” She finally said. “He did not deserve that. So I ran.”

He looked wounded: “What? No. I knew he would conspire with Signor Hatchet here. In fact, I made it so that they would. I wasn't smart enough to use them to get you here, however. That was clever, indeed. I mean, why did you not kill that wretched wizard?”

Dari pressed her eyes together in awkward shame, knowing how adrift of mind she must sound.

“I had a dream.” She said. “The gods spoke to me. He is given another chance.”

He did not believe her, she could see it in his eyes. A look over to Léon showed complete and utter bewilderment.

“I had my reasons.” She reiterated what she said in the first place.

But that was already as much as she could answer. With Léon here, it was impossible to say that if Furio Montane proved evil she would immediately kill him. Of course, if Laura and Janna ended up fighting against Varg and Sly and were prevented from doing evil, somehow, by Master Furio then that was good – only not for Sly.

'If only we could kill them all.' She thought. 'All the monsters that are so much larger and more powerful than us.'

“Did you write that message yourself?” She asked in order to change the subject.

He shook his head: “You know I can't. The whores in the Peace Cellar can, though. Uh, some of them anyway. And the whores hear lots of stories. Seems like you have some trouble. Seems Nostria has some trouble as well.”

'Seems like Nostria is ripe for the taking.'

“Where is the Ogre Queen and her army?” Léon sensed the danger in Sly's words, the danger to his and Dari's person.

“Over these walls in a heartbeat should I not rejoin with her at midnight.” The trusty, old Brigand replied.

He had been Dari's friend, but she felt like she was only really certain of that now that he wasn't any longer.

He went on: “I see you are leaving. That is good. How much more time do you need?”

Léon narrowed his eyes and seemed to weigh his words carefully.

“Do you mean to take Joborn?” He asked. “Are we negotiating the town's surrender?”

“The kingdom's.” Sly corrected him. “But not to fear. Varg will give you ample time to withdraw your troops. No Horasian shall come to harm.”

Their tone was grim, Dari noted, even Sly's whereas before he had always spoken gentle and maintained a style of amiable vagueness.

Léon grimaced and studied the ground between them for a moment before he looked up again: “You can have it. But there is a fly swimming in your soup, a rather large one.”

Dari had no idea what he could mean and neither apparently did Sly.

“Janna the Giantess has gone missing in these parts.” He continued. “Like as not she is stomping around these woods somewhere. We have sent men on her trail, but until she is back and knows that she is needed elsewhere I dare say you would be wise to wait with your invasion.”

That took the brigand by surprise and it was not welcome news either. Likely it meant that he would have to organise provisions being brought up from Andergast while Varg had to somehow keep her army in order with no humans to send them against. It would also mean that if Gareth invaded Andergast, they were in a terrible position.

“I thought she was rather stomping through Albernia with the other?” He finally replied sullenly. “Urgh, this complicates things. However, we do still have the hostages. We found the men you sent to free them, if you care to know. Their ends were, shall we say, special. I hope you will not undertake any such foolishness again or Varg will have no choice but to see it as an act of aggression. Our coming war with Gareth demands her full attention, to be sure, but she is not one to forget anyone that's wronged her.”

Toward the end, he looked at Dari who understood that this was a test of how much of his plans she had divulged to Léon.

Léon proved that it hadn't been all that much: “And you think you can win that war?”

Sly shrugged again: “Gareth is in turmoil, much as Horas is. Praios fanatics are all about, busy burning wizards or those who helped them, or those they think helped them. There are ogres in the haunted lands now and only the Nameless knows who leads them, how they got there or how a pact was made betwixt them and the black wizards. Varg is not that greedy, though. She prefers living in peace much over dying in war.”

That last part was a blatant lie if Dari was any judge, but, as ever, Sly seemed entirely sincere. Varg certainly was not keen on dying, but she was very much a greedy monster intend on accumulating as much land and power in her grasp as she could. The question was how much she would eventually be able to hold on to, but then again, according to what Sly had confided in Dari, this talk of war with Gareth was only meant to lull the Horasians into a false sense of ease.

Dari's trouble was that the truths she had withheld were starting to catch up with her, making it impossible to be entirely truthful with anyone and always having to tread carefully, even with those she would otherwise consider on her side.

'I am too deep into this.' She thought. 'I ought to run far away and never look back.'

But then, she sensed, all this would somehow catch up with her too.

“It is rather terrible that all of this is happening with winter upon us.” Léon said after a pause that smacked heavily of concession. “If only the demons that drive us could have waited till spring.”

Both their breaths were frosting in the air as their spoke. Dari's was not.

Sly nodded, even though he did not look nearly as troubled by this. Perhaps he did not expect the ogres to fare as bad in winter as human soldiers would. And perhaps he was right.

“I only came to tell you this.” He said. “Better make haste with your withdrawal. What did you do with Thorsten?”

“He's going home.” Dari replied. “He was speaking of rebuilding.”

Sly chortled at that: “Heh, I wish him joy in his endeavours. He will need the Gjalskers from the far north to succeed, though, and Fjarningers out of the Greater Olochtai. Hm, how long, you reckon, till he can build ships again?”

Léon's voice was cool: “By times his beard grows white, or so I am praying.”

“Ah, so you would.” Sly gave him a mocking glance. “Varg will take the lands of Kendrar which are very fertile but you have my word that she will not trouble him otherwise unless he gives her cause.”

Once again, Dari was not certain of Sly's truthfulness, accomplished liar that she knew he was. She wanted to believe it, though. If anything, Thorsten deserved a try to remake his people.

Léon seemed to agree: “He deserves as much.”

Thorsten had not really done a whole lot, other than apparently saving Léon. Nevertheless, the large, stupid oaf was so amiable that it was neigh impossible not to wish him well. Dari felt rather he was the only person she knew that was true of their convictions, which was much to say about mankind, if only the company she was in.

'Maybe I should be with him.' She thought.

Maybe things were more simple, up north. Maybe up north would be the best place to be in the near future.

'I should never have come here.'

Sly looked briefly at both of them individually: “Very well then, I will be on my way. Best of luck to you both.”

And with that he turned and strut around the corner, leaving Dari behind with a knot in her belly that hurt. Léon made haste to leave at once.

“We had best make our preparations in any case.” He said. “I would not trust this man with a single crosser.”

“We will be more vulnerable on the road.” Dari pointed out after hastening after him. “I think we only stand a chance if we stay here.”

“Aye.” He replied darkly. “Siege preparations are what I meant. We can't leave unless...Praios save us, where is Janna when you have need of her.”

At the castle they found that a war council was already in progress, which was strange and unsettling. Léon had been called for by General Scalia.

“Signor Hatchet.” The tall, old man greeted him curtly when he and Dari entered Sir Ruckus' solar. “How could this happen? Why is this happening?”

Léon froze where he stood, inclining his head: “Why is what happening, my Lord General?”

“The Albernians are marching on us.” The general replied. “They must have doubled back and around the capital. Outriders in search for Janna stumbled upon them, to our luck.”

He tossed at an icy glance at the officers surrounding him and a few of them visibly shrunk under his gaze.

Léon's hand went to the goat-like patch of beard at his chin, stroking it intently: “They are coming here?”

The top most map on the table was an outline of Joborn as well as the most prominent geographical features of its surroundings. Apparently, an ambush was being considered to pinch the approaching force between two fronts. Why with at least one giantess laying waste to his kingdom King Finnian would endeavour to undertake this risk was unfathomable to Dari.

“They are almost upon us.” Scalia confirmed. “We believe it best to sally forth from Joborn and meet them in the field, with forces crushing them from their rear and cutting off their escape. What say you?”

“Uh, a sturdy plan, my Lord General.” The other frowned. “Only, we cannot leave this town or take our eyes off the border, not for one moment. Varg the Impaler is waiting to crush us all.”

A murmur went up around the general from the officers in attendance, reminding Dari of a rather frightened swarm of bees.

Léon went on: “I have just spoken with an envoy. He assures me that we shall have free passage home if we abandon the town, but I rather think he just means to lure us out into the open, where we will perish. We must stay behind these walls and repel both threats at the same time.”

Major Emilio tugged at the absurdity of his moustache: “But, I hope you don't mind me saying so, Signor, if we draw all our strength behind these walls, the border is open, allowing the ogres to trap us here and starve us out. If we keep at defending the border the Albernians will take outpost for outpost, killing us divided while they are concentrated. If we leave now and beat the Albernians in the field, well, what you say would suggest the ogres might fall upon us and crush us on the march.”

Toward the end, there was a quaver in his voice that left no doubt of the fact that he had just realized a horrible fact while speaking.

A short officer with commonly features spoke it out loud: “We are bloody trapped. And there's a ravaging demon inside our cage, too.”

It was the Bloody Diffar he meant. It seemed that whatever they did they were doomed.

“I judged you all more capable at war than playing with children's toys on maps.” Scalia's gruff yet calm voice cut through the despair, hinting at the wooden figurines that they had used to draw up their battle plan. “It would appear, I was mistaken. Have you forgotten that you are Horasians? Fighting against the odds should elate you, for they are the only worthy enemy there is.”

He let it hang there, looking from face to face. Dari found it rather peculiar. The Horasian military had a fearsome reputation indeed – for the fact that it was so modern in its artillery and tactics. Horasians themselves, however, were not seen as warriors, at all, not in Gareth anyways.

“Yes.” Emilio nodded at once. “We are Horasians! We will fight the odds and win!”

Scalia shot him a glance that would have turned water to ice just as quickly as Emilio's fraud encouragement faltered.

“Our troops are less effective behind these walls.” The general turned around to the table and the map. “Break down the tents and artillery. Joborn is for the Joborners to defend. We will take to the field.”

He began to pull all the wooden figurines together to create one large army next to the town, one, after one, after one. He meant to march in battle formation, only it was not clear where to.

There were only a few straggling outposts to the north, Dari saw, and a few too many more to the south. They would have to make haste in abandoning their positions now. It stood to hope that any attack was not to occur during that time.

“The Joborners are notoriously uncaring as to who rules them.” Léon threw in. “And so is its lord. I think it doubtful that they will mount any meaningful resistance.”

Scalia turned back to him slowly, his green eyes shining as if they frosting, somehow, with gold: “You think the Joborners do not care whether they are ruled by monsters or men?”

“We know the Ogre Queen marries her beasts to landowners to give them legitimacy.” Léon replied. “I think Ruckus and the people of Joborn would much prefer this over seeing themselves slain.”

There was a brief pause during which Dari wondered what Joborn would be like under ogre rule. Probably very different. As the most central town in a soon united Andergast and Nostria, a Kingdom of Nostergast so to speak, it would stop being a border fortress and start becoming an important transit town of trade and pilgrimage. Perhaps it would even become the capital of the newly-forged kingdom because it lay so very much in the middle of it all. It had reasonably good defences too and was the one place where people did not resent the other people across the border because they were made up of both and understood that both were just too sides of the same coin.

In light of this, Joborn might turn out to become an exciting place to be, even, with lots of exchange, lots of things happening and lots of money to be made.

The general nodded: “Burn it down then. Let no one leave alive.”

It was just one sentence, spoken without the hint of wroth. But it meant the death of thousands. Dari's vision for the boring, little town popped like a soap bubble.

It was betrayal of the most wanton kind, and only feasible because Nostria was done for. Its king was dead, its capital and two major harbours destroyed. The fields were harvested or burnt and the villages had been sacked and destroyed by bands of raging Thorwallers that were still hiding in its woods. Joborn was the last place where things were relatively in order, notwithstanding the recent outbreak of disease.

Discussions of detail erupted immediately between the officers down the line. It all went rather quick now and nobody questioned the obscene plan General Scalia had laid out.

“Send word to Travian di Faffarallo. He will march north now and collect all other outposts on the way or the Bloody Brotherhood can find itself a bloody new employer.”

“Pikes should close off the gates and the harbour. Let the light infantry do the butchers' work, as ever.”

“Don't forget the crossbows. We had best put them on the walls.”

“No, no, no, we should have the Bloody Brotherhood put the town to the sword. Execute a few of their sergeants and we wash our hands of it, and the Bloody Diffar.”

“I just hope to get it done ere Ruckus returns. He will throw a bloody fit. You just know he will.”

“On the block with that one, I say.” 

Furio Montane had to be taken care of and the task fell to Léon and thereby Dari. They were to make sure he survived and they left immediately afterwards to make accommodations. Léon sought out a cartwright to transform a heavy-duty carriage into a small wheelhouse. The friendly, hard-haggling man would be dead as soon as Scalia's plan unfolded. Dari could not stand to look at him for long.

Janna and Laura would have crushed the town quickly under their feet and ate some inhabitants if they felt hungry, not to mention what they might have done if they so happened to be on one of their wanton fits. They were not here, and yet everyone of the people Dari saw on the streets going about their daily business would be slaughtered. It seemed gargantuan monsters were not needed to commit wanton evils after all, nor did overcoming them mean that evil be eradicated from the world. Perhaps balance was a good thing, after all.

Before her inner eye Dari could see Xardas looking at her sadly. She could hear Janna and Laura laughing at her as well.

Her feet led her back to the castle where a few armed men were frantically looking for someone, overturning barrels and carts and throwing hay from the stables out into the yard.

“Haven't you heard?!” A crossbowman gaped at her when she asked what it was that they were searching. “That Boron Priest which made everyone eat shit 's gone missing. Bloody jailer hanged himself in his cell. Can you believe it? You wanna know what Captain Terren said?” He started whispering behind his hand. “Captain Terren said, he bets five silvers this wasn't no bloody Boron priest at all, but a warlock or witcher or some such whatever them black wizards is called. Ask me, I don't wanna find 'em. I know he's not in this here hay stack, but Captain Terren don't know that, heh heh, and don't you go tell him now.”

Then he grinned at her and turned back to his hay.

Dari stopped for a moment, then ran for Master Furio's room.

The grizzled, broken wizard was still there, much to her relief, but when she burst in she almost killed him by accident, choking on the broth he was sipping.

“What...” he coughed and wreathed, “what is it you want?”

Tiny bits of brown mutton flaked his thin, greying beard, making him look like a dodderer. The rings beneath his eyes were still there and his cheeks were hollow, but a hint of colour seemed to have returned to his face.

“The black wizard,” she said, staring him down, “did he speak to you?”

“Uh, b-b-black, uh, black wizard, you say?”

His shifting eyes gave the lie away too easily. She took a seat by his bed.

'Is he really making common cause with an evil worshipper?' She thought. 'That would doom him in the eyes of the gods for certain.'

“What did he want of you?”

'Please tell me you did not share with him your spell.'

She had next to no information who the black wizard was, only that he had had a young face and grey hair, making it hard to determine his age. Reputedly, he had also been quite queer, even mad, everyone agreed.

“Mh, mh, hm,” the wizard's lips were shaking, “he asked after Master Hypperio.”

That was strange. Hypperio was a member of the White Guild, the die-hard enemies of black wizards. The man himself also struck Dari as one who would not risk his career on any questionable acquaintance.

Master Furio surrendered his charade and explained: “He said he got himself into the dungeons intentionally, hoping that Hypperio would be the one to put him to the question. I said that he ought to be lucky my colleague was not here, because the last man he questioned died under the procedure, and quite excruciatingly so.”

He handed the bowl of soup to Dari to put it away.

“The stranger in black robes then asked me whether that man's name had been Jindrich Welzelin. I was so surprised that he knew, I must say, I rather forgot how to lie, in that moment.”

“Jindrich Welzelin.” Dari echoed. “The court wizard from Andergast. I know...knew him. He went missing after a certain battle, a battle in which...”

“...in which magic itself was among the casualties.”

Furio Montane looked at her with a certain degree of understanding in his eyes, although Dari knew he could not imagine the things that had happened on that hill.

“He must have had some certain knowledge of something, something he might have revealed to Master Hypperio during the torture.” She said, thinking out loud. “Did the black wizard say anything to that effect?”

Master Furio pursed his lips and studied her for a moment.

Then he said: “I think it possible that Hypperio wanted to tell me, only he must have judged me untrustworthy. We were never the best of friends and I mistrusted him, and still do.”

“What is it, Master Furio?” Dari insisted, aware that this fell precisely into the field of her new profession as a confidant of Leonidas Hatchet and his spies. “Did he want your spell?”

“Hypperio, or the stranger?” The wizard sighed. “Who wouldn't want my spell. Why, everyone but  me, of course. It is a curse. Worse yet, it is my curse, but I know I must keep it that way. I dreamed of you, don't you know, before I even saw you.”

That robbed the spittle from Dari's mouth but there was a more pressing concern now: “What did the black wizard want from you?”

“I have told you.” His eyes shifted towards where his feet were beneath the blanket. “It was Hypperio he wanted, not me. He never so much as laid a hand on me. I told him Hypperio was chasing after Janna. He thinks Hypperio's knowledge might help him restore magic back to life.”

Dari sucked in her breath and bit her lip. Léon needed to hear this. He would no doubt hold it in Horas' interest that the black wizard succeeded, if such a thing was possible at all. Dari did not know, however, if it was in hers, too. She did not really know what she wanted. If truth be told, what Scalia and his lot meant to do to Joborn made her almost want to run back to Sly.

“Did he say anything else?”

The wizard scratched his chin: “A handful of things. He said the inquisition was burning people at a rate last seen under the Priest Emperors. He says the world was falling apart.”

“Did he offer a name for himself?”

Furio chuckled darkly: “I asked him that, too. He only said, if I was dead, but came back here from an earlier point in time, did I ever die? Make of that what you will.”

“Well, he might be some dead wizard?” She offered in an effort of being friendly, but he did not entertain her pondering.

She took a look at his wound beneath the blanket. The stitches held and things seemed to be healing normally. It would be a while, though, before he was back at full strength and out of danger.

“Drink your broth.” She handed him the bowl. “We will be travelling.”

He looked surprised: “Where?”

She pressed the bowl onto him emphatically, wondering how much of the recent events he had heard. It had been a veritable thunderstorm of new developments since she had come here, and Master Furio had been asleep for most of it. Part of her envied him for that.

“The Old Eagle wants to fly home.” She finally explained. “But as soon as we leave our nest here, there is an army of ogres across the river that can barely wait to pull off our hides and crush us into nice, flat cakes. Between us and the capital there is an army Albernians, as well. They did not appreciate that we sent Janna and Laura over to renegotiate the allegiance of Havena, and likely even less that it went so awry.”

“Hmm.” He took the bowl and drank, then licked his lips. “Scalia knows how to get us out of here, I trust? What of the townsfolk, though? We must save them. Have they been warned, at least?”

Dari knew that the look she gave him was a sad one. This man was not so bad, if he wasn't false. It was just that the world was bad. The gods ought to go bugger themselves.

“Drink your broth.” She replied quickly, rising while fighting tears welling up in her eyes. 

It burned abominably.

Before having to endure any response she turned and went straight out of the door in search for a lonely corner where she could cry.