“The issue of Theurgy, the summoning of God, has become an issue of national significance vital to the safety and security of the public and private domain. An item of agenda that is essential for public knowledge. Something that should be widely available.”

“For this, martyrs have died, their unwavering devotion given to this cause. Yet, they were killed by these very aristocrats before us that are scared and fearful of dissent. They refuse to accept that they will be officially recognised as the minority.”

“But this scenario is only true if the public are allowed to comprehend the enormity of this problem. Because of this, they keep them ignorant. The aristocrats refuse to acknowledge, or formerly open public discussion on, this topic. A free dialogue would enable the exchanging of ideas, the creation of an environment of religious, spiritual and intellectual advancement.”

“Yet, they continue to oppress the freedom of speech, the ability to argue within a free discourse. It should be a natural and basic human right, yet they prohibit it. It is time for God’s return. Even the Pontiff has given his assent. It is the aristocrats that stumble on this issue. After all, they believe that they have the most to lose: their abundant wealth of riches and power.” - An excerpt of a speech performed in Parliament by a youth of the Gentry, interrupting and delaying Article 5 of financing the war against Praeteritum, January 1263.

———

The rattling of pebbles and crushed debris against stone resounded on the plateau. It was provoked by an unconscious woman being dragged by her feet and arms, tied together by a chain of fire. Its links crackled in the air, though they did not burn the woman’s arms.

The chain drooped in the air, a loose arc which bowed downwards from a warhorse to the woman. It was unevenly wrapped around the black-haired man’s hand, which clenched it tightly. He intensely stared out in front of him, waiting for the next stone to rise from the polluted moat.

Red water parted as a stone floated from beneath its blighted tides. Corpses were swept away by the waves, arrows protruding from their backs. Some were caught by the stone and were lifted into the air as well. They lay unmoving in a scarce pool of watery blood, their limbs shaped in harrowing contortions.

Horseshoes carefully stepped over and between each body that impeded their path, later followed by the rider boots of man. An army was returning home after being sentenced to death by false officers. Their fates reversed by beings with more power, like chess pieces on a checkered board.

They all stopped once more, waiting for the last stone. The ruined exterior bulwarks stood stalwart before them, no less imposing than in pristine condition, defending the heart of the fortress. The plateau rose from the water, and the commander ordered everyone to move onto it. Man, and beast alike made the crossing. They densely populated the plateau.

A chained hand thrust upwards, yanking its enslaved victim onto her face. In response, the stone glowed. From atop, soldiers holding pikes leaned down to look below, watching as it ascended into the sky.

The stone traced the wall’s height until it reached its peak. They were level to the wall’s walkways and were greeted with cheers of triumph by the soldiers defending this wall. Raised pikes and arms pumped the air, excitement electrifying the atmosphere.

A group of war engineers ran out from the crowd of soldiers. They held a ladder between them, thrusting it forwards to bridge the ravine between the plateau and the walkway. Successive thunks of wood hitting stone resounded about, though it was muffled by the din of glory.

Rupert, their commander, took the lead, flicking out his reins. His warhorse agilely strode down the ladder with horseshoes carefully stepping onto each rung. His prisoner of war, the Berserker Earl, was dangled over the open air before being thrown into the crowding soldiers. They separated, letting the archer fall hard onto stone, landing on her back.

As she fell, the horse jumped down from the ladder and landed next to the prisoner, upheaving stony dust into the air. The chain still connected her to Rupert’s hand, and she was pulled forth once more, dragged anti-clockwise around the pathway to a staircase.

Behind them, further horseshoes and rider boots stepped down the wooden ladder rungs, finally returning to the bastion walls. They formed a human flood, and their endless wriggling weaved a stream. Their shouts formed a loud commotion.

Their job accomplished, they returned to defend their walls like distributaries branching from the delta. As they reached the walls, they greeted the officers that guarded it in their steed. Smiles and grins were plastered on all faces. They patted each other’s shoulders, basking in their feelings of success.

For the replacement officers, it was their brutal coup against their opposition, the scab officers, that they felt the sweet, joyous catharsis for. The soldiers joined in this celebration, too, particularly in the feeling of outliving their former dastardly and draconian officers.

Rupert descended the staircase which channelled him into an increasingly confined walkway. His horse’s shoes clopped against the cobblestone floor and were followed by that of another’s. They echoed outwards, cutting through muffled whispers. The fleshy impact of the snared Berserker resonated intermittently, providing a steady beat.

Rupert looked upwards, first tilting his head far back to look at the soldiers that lined the left wall of this kill zone. Some formed pairs while others huddled into small groups, pointing downwards towards Rupert, the beaten Berserker, and Cyffre.

These walls rose higher than those he just left, for they granted the interior legions free movement to the exterior defences. This was so they could have extra protection while they defended the inner star fort against a breached wall.

He rotated his head towards the right wall. The soldiers stood with back’s straight, pikes under their armpits. Though regimented, their eyes flickered to those who stood next to them on either side. In body they were disciplined, in mind they reflected the soldiers opposite them.

The horse’s shoes continued to clop against the cobble, and the deeper he walked, the louder and more distinct the whispers grew.

“…They were betrayed...”

“…The damned scabs...”

“…Parasites fattened themselves…”

“…From what was not theirs…”

“…Support of Arian, though his punishment is due.”

“…Traitor…”

“…Cythraul and that cripple…”

Their words tickled his ear, though he missed the vast majority of what each of them said. Yet, he grasped what their hushed conversations spoke about. The Draig legion, that had been defending the interior walls for this skirmish, had found out about the scab officer’s betrayal.

Though, he was not certain that they knew their fate. This was in part because he couldn’t hear their conversations anymore. Their whispers had faded out. The soldiers on the left walls had rotated sequentially to face away from Rupert, towards the interior bastion walls. Those on the right had titled the bodies slightly towards the same direction. Rupert’s destination.

He could not see what they saw, for he needed to ascend a staircase first. The height of the walls gave them additional sight. His warhorse trotted a steady rhythm, which was initially matched by his companion, though the horse behind broke it. Its rider flicked her reins and saddled in beside Rupert.

Their prisoner of war was dragged along the floor between them, being bumped and jerked by the cobblestone. She had been stripped of her lamellar armour, so she had no protection from the harsh ground save her clothes. They were dirtied by mud, dust, and blood, and had slowly been tattered to ribbons from the rough terrain.

They rode in silence, save for the infrequent and muted whispers, and the groans of pain from their prisoner. Eventually Cyffre broke their silence.

“What do you intend to do?” She asked.

“I mentioned this once before in our meeting yesterday. Cythraul told me that he wouldn’t intervene within our army, that it was our House’s jurisdiction. Yet, he’s involved himself in it far more than he ought to. I am going to question him, and everyone else involved! I will investigate whether his involvement was necessary. And depending on the outcome, I will have very different responses. However, I want to give him a piece of my mind, and beat him, crush him under my authority!”

“Why?” Cyffre asked, confused.

“Because he’s done something he shouldn’t! This is my army. It’s under my rule, my authority. My power! He shouldn’t intervene to this extent. How our soldiers are punished should be under our House’s control, and it should follow our lawful procedures! It shouldn’t be stripped away by outsiders.” Rupert responded.

“What happens if he did you a favour, though?” Cyffre questioned.

“This is what he calls a favour? It certainly doesn’t feel like one. I’m convinced he’s done what he has always done! After all, he’s told me a many of times that those with power don’t have to follow proper order. I feel like that its exactly what he’s done here! Yes, the scab officers deserved to die, I would have done it myself. But he’s taken control of punishing them and done everything so far behind my back…” Rupert was increasing in fury but was interrupted by Cyffre before he could get more irate.

“Are you certain that this is what he’s done, though?” Cyffre asked.

“Yes, I’m sure of it...” Rupert replied, opening his mouth to continue, but was stopped.

“Have you thought about it this way, though? It isn’t a well-kept secret that you don’t like to involve yourself in politics,” Cyffre waved him into silence. “From the beginning it’s been deeply political, and he might have realised that you were out of your depth. While he might be abrasive, especially in how he uses power, he isn’t a fool. I think he’s been pragmatic about this situation, to help you.”

“What are you implying?” Rupert questioned, frowning slightly.

“That he’s not done anything outside of army regulations, precisely because he knows how you feel about it.” Cyffre looked into his eyes, showing him her sincerity.

“Can you be sure?” Rupert returned her question.

“Obviously I can’t be certain about this. But, if he did all of this without legal justification, think about how many more problems he would have created. There would be a furious uproar centred around a Blodyn that had unjustly killed 96 Honnen aristocrats. The very officers of the Honnen levied army that is defending the Frontier, and Cymorth. Once it gets back to Pentref, it would fracture our families’ alliance, possibly resulting in a war of Houses, and among Houses of the Sword for that matter.” She explained to Rupert.

“I see.” Rupert’s anger and confusion seemed to fade slightly.

“Do you remember twenty-five years ago? That was the height of Cythraul’s power, just before King Brenin’s predecessor abdicated from the throne. It only came to light recently, but he’s now known among some as a political genius.” Cyffre stroked her horse’s mane gently. It snorted in response, its shoes tapping happily against the cobble.

“He used to be the King’s advisor. He’s navigated precarious situations like these countless times. This should be a minor problem to him. He’s in a class of his own in terms of politics.” Cyffre smiled.

She balanced herself between both horses, placing a hand on Rupert’s shoulder. He deflated slightly, though he received her touch.

“I understand how it feels, you’re meant to be in charge, yet all this change has happened outside of your control. However, this isn’t a lone precedent though. Think of Dinol yesterday. They manoeuvre in the shadows where you don’t look. You’ve now seen it because it’s been dragged to the surface to be played out before your eyes. For now, let’s just wait and see what happens. You might be surprised at how it ends.” She concluded. Afterwards, they rode in silence. Rupert had descended into contemplation.

Their horses had trotted the final distance to the staircase. They took gentle strides forwards as they ascended the stone steps, yet the prisoner still took painful hits. As they reached halfway up, Rupert looked towards Cyffre.

“Thank you… I mean it,” he gave her a nod. “I’ll reserve my judgment until after the questioning and investigation. I really am oblivious to what happens, and I overreacted.” Rupert shook his head with frustration.

“That’s quite alright, my Lord.” Cyffre smiled at him once more.

A scream interrupted them, resonating from above the staircase. They looked at each other and flicked their reins to make their horses climb faster. The warhorses charged up the stone stairs, which bruised the Berserker purple and black. Blood oozed from cuts on her skin.

“Let go of me this instant! How dare you! You have no authority to do this to me! Stop! Unhand me!” A man’s voice bellowed. Though, they could not see him yet. His voice was laced with fear, as well as panic and anxiety.

Rupert flicked his gaze upwards towards the left wall, looking at the reactions of the soldiers. They still whispered, gossiping towards each other, though he couldn’t hear their words. The distant screams dampened their already muted voices. Their eyes and body language spoke to him, though. They openly showed resentment, hatred, and schadenfreude

He turned his gaze to those on the right wall. The soldiers masked most of their feelings towards the events ahead, yet he could read what they were expressing and feeling. They had hardened since he last looked at them. More callous. More cold. Both sets of soldiers didn’t seem to oppose or care about the distant screams. Seemingly finding them deserved.

Finally, they topped the staircase and took in the sight before them. The cobble path continued to a portcullis, forming a dead end. The walls on either side ended, and begun once more with a horizontal walkway.

It rose slightly higher than the two of them, and connected both walls together, over the top of the portcullis. The winches to open it were stationed atop the walkway, beneath the parapets. There was a gathering of ranked officers and soldiers that were armed with pikes and suited with cuirass and cuisse. They formed a defensive shroud around a few men and women.

There were three prominent figures he recognised atop it. The first was the screaming man. He was Marquis Arian, the leader of the faction that supported nepotism. The second was another man. He stood straight backed and rigid, a cold and callous look on his face. It was Cythraul.

The third was a woman in a wheelchair, and she too was as cold as Cythraul. It was Hanabl Cadarn. That very woman who gave both trainee and fully ranked officers commands on the outpost to kill the scabbed officers and had been restored Malevolency in the northern trainee barracks.

Rupert watched as Marquis Arian was manhandled through the entrance of a wrought iron cage, its caged door wide open. He thrashed, lashing out at the soldiers and officers that shoved him inside. He screamed into their faces, spitting his saliva out at them.

“Let go! Who gave you permission to do this? Not even that pathetic Rupert could do this to me, what right do you think you have? Burn you, get your hands off me!” Arian screamed, his voice grating and hoarse.

The caged door was slammed into his face. He was confined within iron bars that extended only but a hand from his body. It curved around his frame to fit his height. His movement was constricted, so all he could do was grasp the iron bars and shake them with all his strength. They moaned weak screeches from his rattling.

“Do you think I don’t have supporters? I am more powerful than you imagine! If you do this, you will offend them, and their wrath will fall upon you! You will all be killed; it is only a matter of time.” Arian yelled in pompous desperation, trying to save himself.

The men and women around him ignored his cries, continuing with their duties. Rupert saw them attach a metal chain to the cage. Its looped links hooked around a ring atop of it. With the cage attached to a winch by the metal chain, they turned to face their prisoner, pushing him off the wall.

The cage fell, suspended before the portcullis, Arian inside. He screamed, as he descended. So too did the cage. The wrought iron rattled and shrieked as metal scraped metal.

Its momentum thrust it around like a pendulum. It ringed a sonorous cry as it crashed into the portcullis gate. The man inside was jerked uncontrollably, bashing into his confined walls. Arian’s face hit the metal bars, and his nose was bloodied. His right leg slipped, nearly getting stuck between the bars beneath him.

“We know where your loyalties lie, Arian. No need to hide them, say it with pride. Use your chest! Show your soldiers and officers how you betrayed them and their House. Tell them how you profited with the deaths of their brothers-in-arms!” Cythraul shouted for all to hear.

Rupert whipped his reins, forcing his warhorse to run faster. Cyffre did the same. They ran along the cobblestone path towards the portcullis. As they ran, Arian fought back against Cythraul’s accusations.

“You! You have no right to do this to me, Cythraul! You aren’t even of House Honnen. How dare you get involved in our House’s politics!” Arian screamed resentfully.

“Silence wretch! I do this on behalf of others who are lacking in the strength and power to undertake this. That is reason enough,” Cythraul cursed. “Surely, you can’t be embarrassed by your backers. Why bring them up if you won’t even name them? You’re just a coward! A pathetic rat.”

“Shut up! House Aethnenni will kill you for this…” Arian’s face had turned red in anger, but he was interrupted before he could continue his cries.

“Good! That’s more than enough proof for you now, right? Execute him.” Cythraul ordered, pointing towards the officers behind him.

With a final leap, traveling above metres of cobblestone, Rupert’s warhorse skidded to a stop. As he fumbled with his saddle, preparing to descend from his horse, a hand was put onto his shoulder.

He turned and saw another set of eyes staring into his own. They contained a firm message. He knew what they said, they told him to wait. To remember the words, he had just spoken. He moved to look away, but the grip on his shoulder tightened. He acquiesced, relaxing his muscles, but gave a vocal protest.

“If you’re wrong, this can’t be undone.” Rupert whispered.

“Then punish me as well. Punish everyone involved,” Cyffre responded. “But you won’t need to. Just watch.”

Rupert set his gaze atop of the portcullis. Towards the officers that deliberated on the walkway. The hung cage that contained a man on death’s row. To the soldiers on the left wall, their expressions filled with bitter resentment, but joy in justice. To the soldiers on the right, whose body language was exceptionally callous, were accepting of the outcome before them.

“Line up!” A voice broke the silent deadlock. Officers dressed in standard military uniform stepped out, separating from the human shroud that surrounded Cythraul and Hanabl. They formed a line, each ranked officer stood in between the open section of the parapets.

“Fire.” They chanted in unison. Swords, sabres, and pikes were raised into the skies above. At first red ribbons of fire extended from their channeler’s weapons, snaking towards the centre of the line. They each formed a branch in a stream that flowed off the walkway and down before the hung cage.

“Don’t do this, please!” Its prisoner screamed bitterly, tears in his eyes. “The Aethnenni will kill you all! Stop! Just stop!”

The living flames writhed, taking shape of an instrument. It contorted, forming a branding iron of molten fire. The brand hovered before the cage, slowly descending onto the convicted.

“No! No! No!” He screamed. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

The molten fire was pushed through the iron bars, streaming into the cage. The convict stumbled back, though he could only move so far. He pressed his back against the rails behind him with all his strength. His face was turned away towards the left, his eyes scrunched closed.

The flames reformed inside, returning to the brand shape. It floated above his head and thrust down. They roared, man and flames alike.

A wretched scream burst from his mouth. His fingers and body twisted in agony tearing at his clothing. He bit down on his tongue and blood erupted inside his mouth, pouring down his lips and chin.

The brand was driven down further, burning the skin from his face. It first bubbled, blistering under the heat. Soon it melted away from his skull. Its forked tongue licked his head all over, incinerating his flesh.

Soon, his eyes burst. It made a sickening pop and it gurgled as the heat vapourised the remains. The flames took its chance, snaking through its sockets, boring its way to the brain. The prisoner’s consciousness and soul were burnt figuratively to ashes, which were scattered to the wind.