Heroes, Chapter 15

Preface: Greetings, all! This is the fifteenth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.

As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.

Chapter 15 – Hubris

       Purifier-Errant Stefano Artale restrained a groan as he sank down onto the rough ground of the shallow valley.  He had luckily managed to find a decently-level patch of earth to bed down on for the night; the better real estate had all-but-immediately been claimed by more senior members of their force, after the inevitable squabbling between the various Orders represented in the army.  The officers had remained detached from the debate – they were still in a raw mood from the encounter with the dragon earlier, and they cared little about where the rank and file slept so long as they had the prime space for their own tents.  

     Not that there was much variation offered in the narrow high defile that their troops had chosen to set up camp in.  It had been picked for its defensive qualities rather than comfort; with the escape of the wyvern rider, fears that they would be set upon in the night were much greater.  The mounted Warders who had scouted to the edge of the mountains, not far from where they were now, had claimed to only see a single distant settlement maybe a day’s march away, but that didn’t mean that they had found everything.  There could be caves full of orcs and goblins, or dragon nests or hives of vicious hornet women, or any number of things.  After all, the forces that had spent the past weeks searching the mountains for the abandoned temple had endured hit-and-run attacks from gryphons and gargoyles, so there was no telling what could be out this far, deep into lands uninhabited by civilized folk.

      With only one route in and out of this valley, and since they hadn’t passed traversable offshoots in at least hours, it felt safe to say that they could detect any approaching monsters long before they arrived, if they came by foot.  Again, that was why the dragon was the topic of conversation among many of the soldiers, who kept a wary eye at the darkening sky as if afraid that they would be plucked from the ground just like that heretic had been.  Even the commanders of their force seemed animated and testy, which couldn’t escape the notice of the lower ranks.

     And that was why, when he was approached by a soldier that Stefano had known from his posting back in Goslar, the Purifier felt a cold lump settle in his stomach.  Crusader-Errant Felix wore his usual taciturn scowl, but a bit of relief spread there when he noticed Stefano, and he altered his course to track directly towards the campfire Stefano had settled near.  Felix’s relative good humor was little balm for the Purifier’s nerves, because he hadn’t known the man to be congenial on the best of occasions, and this time he had the air of one who had just been told that he had been skipped in line for the gallows.  Sure enough, Felix stopped just before he reached the other knight, and his lips curled in something distantly akin to a sharp smile.  “You’ve been summoned to the Lord-Guardian’s tent by Lord-Inquisitor Jimenes, Artale.  Better hurry – he looked to be in a worse mood than usual.”

     The ice in Stefano’s gut was only partly due to the officer’s foul humor – there were scant few reasons that anyone would eagerly anticipate a discussion with an Inquisitor, even among the members of the Orders.  Lord Jimenes had a reputation for ruthless efficiency and skill in loosening the tongues of the guilty, and whispers often attributed that to the swarthy man’s talents with hot pokers and invasive witchcraft.  Still, Stefano was convinced of his own innocence, and sprang to his feet, offering a sharp salute and nod to the other Errant, who responded with a similarly-sharp response, only tainted by the smirk that curled his lip.  Felix turned his back to Stefano, personally safe now that the message had been passed on, and made his way for his own campfire, leaving Stefano’s fate to their betters.

     Vanity was scowled upon by both the clergy and the leaders of the Holy Orders, but, despite his awareness of that, Stefano still checked his gear as he weaved through the encampment, tightening straps and brushing dust off buckles.  Good equipment maintenance was, on the other hand, requisite of all their brothers.  That excuse didn’t justify the horn comb that Stefano slid from a pocket in his belt, and he surreptitiously tended to the long lock of black hair that curled out over his right eye.  Such grooming wasn’t borne from a desire to impress his superiors, he told himself, but from old habit: he had spent his younger days among the idle sons of what had been the nobility of Palatine before the coming of the Orders, and had earned a reputation as a daring duelist.  It had been that renown (as well as a crisis stemming from an unfortunate duel that had ended very badly for an heir who had been considerably more important than himself) that had seen him inducted into the ranks of the Holy Orders as a Purifier.  Still, he wore his hair as he had back home, and had maintained his skills with the thinner blades preferred by his countrymen.

     Stefano had also never yet been bested in an official duel, even after becoming an Errant, so long as one did not count a certain incident with a drunken orc.  The memory of her porcine face tightened his fists, and his breathing grew ragged.  He couldn’t count the number of times he had fallen asleep dreaming of slitting her throat, and it was his greatest hope that she would be on the field of battle the next day, so he could finally avenge his bruised honor.  He only hoped he got to kill her before anyone else could beat him to it.

     Atop a grassy stretch and apart from the campfires, the simple canvas wedge tent did not look like sufficient lodging for the officers within, but the banners standing outside proclaimed their presence clearly enough, bedecked with the personal heraldry of both of the Lords.  Stefano slowed as he neared the flaps that led inside, noticing the Crusaders standing guard close by the entrance with spears planted on the ground.  They watched him come, eyes cool and bodies perfectly still as he stopped to announce himself. “Purifier-Errant Stef-”

     “You are expected,” interrupted one of the sentries, nodding briskly to the other, who turned and spoke quietly into the tent through the opening.  Stefano had no alternative but to stand rigidly at attention while he waited, awkwardly uncertain as to whether the officers would be stepping out or beckoning him inside, and his jaw tightened as he noticed the faint smirks on the faces of the two sentries.  He was held in that purgatory for over a minute before a gravelly voice from inside the tent commanded the guards to usher him in, and they parted the flaps smoothly as he stepped forward, chin held high and step crisp and neat.  The interior of the tent was lit by several lanterns hanging from the posts, and held only two men, neither of whom made use of the folding chairs that surrounded the table at its heart.  Clicking his heels, Stefano offered them a crisp salute, eyes trained on the back wall of the tent.

     “Purifier-Err-”

     “Right,” growled the Guardian Lord, leaning with hands planted onto the table, which looked ready to bow under his crushing gravity, “Artale.  Come on in.” Across the table, the sour face of Lord Jimenes turned momentarily in his direction, an eyebrow half-raising before he dismissed the newcomer as unworthy of attention, and the hulking Lord Walberg glared balefully at a paper spread over the surface between them.  Sefano still came to parade-ground attention a short distance from the table, choking down his anxiety with the aid of his annoyance at being so brusquely dismissed, and waited to be addressed.

     Rumbling a sigh that sounded vaguely volcanic, the brutish figure straightened from his slump, turning in Stefano’s direction, and somehow managing to loom over him despite the paces between them.  Wearing a scowl that further corrugated a face leathered by sun and lined by scars, the Guardian let his dark eyes take the Purifier’s measure in an instant, before turning to glance at the other Lord.  Flaring his anxiety, the Inquisitor Lord wore a thin smirk under his mustache, and when Walberg turned back to Stefano once more, his craggy, bearded visage was almost impassive – alarming, because the scowl had felt more natural there.

     But, if the bland expression felt out of place, the broad grin that opened the gap in Walberg’s bristling red beard was even more alarming. “I said, come on in, lad!” he bellowed, waving a meaty hand towards Stefano. “Stand easy – you’re not here for a dressing down.  Far from it!” Walberg guffawed, and somehow that scared Stefano even more, just as his muscles relaxed at the other man’s command. “We’ve been hearing tales about you, and we’ve decided to give you a special mission.”

     “R-really?” Stefano blurted, pride swelling in his roosterish breast. “I mean, thank you, sirs, I truly-!”

     “Of course, of course,” Walberg said, his gregarious voice still loud and shocking, especially as he drew nearer.  He came to Stefano’s side, and with fatherly gregariousness he dropped a heavy arm over the Purifier’s shoulders, the limb landing like a felled tree and nearly bowling the duelist over.  The Guardian manhandled Stefano effortlessly towards the table, turning a broad-toothed grin down on the slighter man. “After hearing of your exploits, you were the first to come to mind.”

     “I won’t let you down, sir,” Stefano promised, beaming up at the bald brute’s smile. “On my honor, I swear it.”

     “Your honor, yeah,” grinned Walberg, and he let Stefano stagger forward a step more, almost bumping into the table. “But-!  We haven’t even told you the mission yet.  See if it’s something you think you can handle, before you swear any oaths.” At this, he nodded to the Inquisitor Lord, whose expression could also technically be called a smile, although it was considerably less paternal.

     “We have managed to receive a message from agents who have infiltrated our enemies.  This missive,” Lord Jimenes held up a tightly-folded piece of paper, sealed with wax, “contains the information they have risked their lives and souls to send to us: the disposition of enemy forces, the identities and qualities of their leaders, and possible vulnerabilities we could exploit.  With the damage to the relay station in the mountains we discovered on our march here, we were only able to receive this message when we approached the next relay in line, and thus can only send it back to Crusader Lord Leopold physically.”

     Stefano nodded, blinking, and reading his nearly-disguised confusion, Lord Walberg leaned closer once more. “He means that we need someone to carry it back,” he offered helpfully. “And that’s you.”

     “Of course, sir!  I would be proud-” Stefano paused, a cold rivulet draining into his stomach. “But, do you mean, returning before the battle…?”

     “No, no, of course not!” the hulking Lord assured him, stepping in front of him and clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You see, we also need someone to carry word back about how the battle goes for us – how much we bleed them, if we have any wounded or not, even if something happens that could turn us away from their hovel-camp further east.  And so, you’ll need to hang further back, on horse, and carry that information back too after the battle is done.”

     Panic rose in Stefano’s chest, and he desperately looked between the two men. “But, sirs, if I do that, I won’t get to fight in the battle.  You, you were just saying that you’d heard about my previous-”

     “Oh, yeah, we heard all about your fights before,” Walberg agreed, his mouth spread in a wide smile. “And that’s just it, you see?”

     Stefano stared at him, confused. “I-”

     “Why would we want a miserable fucking coward like you to have a share of our honor?” Walberg asked genially, his face still wearing the unnaturally-bright smile. “It’s absurd.” 

     Feeling like a fist-sized rock had lodged in his throat, Stefano gaped at the larger man. “I… sir, if you mean the landslide when we chased the monsters out of Goslar, it killed all of us but three.  And the thing with the orc-”

     “Oh, sure, maybe it’s not cowardice,” Walberg relented, his eyes opening wider. “Maybe it’s just… piss-poor luck.  Or maybe you’re a filthy traitor that they just keep letting go; I don’t really give a damn.” His smile was now something feral, like the flash of a wolf’s fangs before it bites, and he leaned closer to the Errant. “I just know that you are better at wetting yourself and running away than you should be, and so I’m going to let you… play to your talents.”

     “But-!”

     “Don’t speak,” Walberg cautioned him in a low voice, and the hand on his shoulder tightened enough that it felt like the bones there were grinding together. “Just… remember your orders, give me one of those real pretty salutes, just like before, and then…” Suddenly shouting, his face flushing crimson, Walberg leaned within spitting range of the terrified Errant. “Get the FUCK out of my tent!”

     Stefano’s salute was marred by his trembling, and he almost made it outside before a pointed and heated cough from the Inquisitor Lord sent him scurrying back to retrieve the missive.  Carefully not meeting the bloodshot eyes of the Guardian Lord, he quick-stepped his way back across the space to the flaps, and managed to recover from nearly tripping as he emerged back into the deepening night.  Still, the booming laughter coming from inside fell on his back like lashes, and he didn’t meet the eyes of the smirking sentries as he made his retreat, marching back towards his bedroll with pride in tatters.

     Back in the tent, Gunther Walberg offered a more genuine smile to the Inquisitor. “Never get tired of doing that,” he gloated, stepping back towards the table. “I hate smug little worms like him.  There was one, back during my campaign with Lord Leopold against the barbarians in the highlands north of Avalon, who thought he-”

     “Yes, yes,” Nasario cut him off, having learned that the bellicose Guardian’s favored pastime was reciting boring and brutal recountings of his exploits serving the ambitious Crusader Lord.  Quickly, he nodded towards the map spread across the table. “We still need to discuss how our plans are going to change, now that we know a dragon might be involved.”

     “Well, generally, I say we kill it,” Gunther offered, ignoring the resulting baleful glower from the other man. “But I think our strategy is still sound.  Especially considering the information from our Hospitalliers.” He tapped the map, a crude representation of a mostly-smooth plain with rolling rises to the south. “We set up a line: Guardians, Crusaders, then Purifiers on the edges, with our handful of Warders on horseback at our flanks.  We’ll almost certainly outnumber them considerably, so we can form horns around their line, or press forward if they overextend.  Meanwhile…” His finger stabbed at one of the higher hills. “Your Inquisitors need line of sight for most of your spells, so we give you the higher ground.  We know they don’t have cavalry, so you don’t have to worry about being charged – either they will have to come through us, or deal with a counter-charge from our own mounted troops, what few we have.” He leaned back, looking at the other man with a shrug. “Since almost all of our Warders are busy helping our Sacred Peace clerics deal with that hostile forest north of Goslar, we don’t have ranged troops aside from your brothers and our cavalry, but your delegation is a lot bigger than normal because of that.”

     Nasario nodded, inspecting the map critically. “I concur with the basics of the plan, but monsters don’t tend to obey the standard rules of warfare like human troops.  We could be dealing with harpies, or centaurs, or even sandworms for all we know.  We have to prepare for the unexpected – and that dragon.” His black eyes turned back to Walberg, who shrugged, his broad shoulders rising and chopping down

     “True enough, but that’s your specialty, not mine.” Walberg still stared at the map, rubbing his jaw through the bristles of his beard. “We know they have very few trained fighters, and none among the sorts you just named.  The Holy Relics are our real trump card, whether or not that whelp on the wyvern passes word to them – with their protection, we can outlast most surprises, and we all know monsters don’t have stomachs for bloody fights.”  He glanced up at the Inquisitor, who was still frowning. “But, if it would make you feel better, what say you that we post you here, in reserve,” motioning to a point behind the main line, yet far separate from the hill that would host the other Inquisitors, “just so our magical artillery will be protected from another angle.”

     Lord Jimenes considered that, staring down his nose at the point the other man had indicted. “A worthy suggestion, and I would trust Captain Edwards with the rest of our numbers.  He is competent enough.”

    “Good for that.  He seems like an overstarched priest to me,” grumbled Walberg, his eyes indolently seeking out his counterpart’s.  “Complete with a holy scepter up the backside.” The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow at the casual impiety, but allowed himself to smirk in response, the closest he routinely came to a smile.  Gunther’s casual belligerence was almost refreshing, as most men were prone to bowing and dissembling at the first sight of an Inquisitor Lord.  That did not mean, of course, that Nasario wasn’t taking a mental list of all the man’s offenses, which would be reported later to his superiors, but for now he could almost enjoy the man’s pugnacious grunting.  Later, he would be humbled – brought back down to earth from the arrogance granted him by his long association with the successful general he protected.  But, for now, the Inquisitor Lord let him growl unchided, and nodded in response.  

     Plus, when it came to Knight-Inquisitor Edwards, the man wasn’t wrong.  Edwards was sanctimonious even for an Inquisitor.

     “Which leaves only one matter,” the Lord Inquisitor insisted. “A rather large one.”

     At the prodding, Gunther straightened, spreading his hands in surrender. “I guess I have no choice.  I was hoping to save it for myself, but, since you insist… the dragon is all yours.” His tight grin was met with a raised eyebrow, but the larger man was undeterred. “Come on, do you think I didn’t know?” He nodded towards Nasario’s reagent pouch. “The medallions weren’t the only Holy Relics we were given.  If you have to, break it open.”

     Nasario paused, caught off-guard by the other man’s acknowledgement of something he had considered a secret.  Still, undeniably caught in the act, he reached into the pouch and pulled out the proof of Gunther’s words.  He delicately clutched the small wooden box, holding it before him as if it were one of the Martyr’s own sacred bones.  When he glanced up to see Gunther watching him with an expectant grin, Nasario nodded, and thumbed the reliquary’s latch.  The lid swung open easily, and he displayed the contents to the other man, who whistled low and placed two fingers to his heart, a surprisingly devout gesture from the brute.

     Inside, resting atop a silken cushion, reclined a single feather, immaculately perfect and shining from within with a pure golden light, like zeal given form, like irrefutable proof of divinity.  

     Both men stared at it in wordless wonder for a long moment, before Nasario reverently closed the container once more.  As if they had been given permission to breathe once more, both paused. Finally Walberg nodded, as if to himself. “Our victory is assured,” he declared, and his counterpart nodded.  When their gazes met, it was as if the sacred relic were still out in the open, because some of its glow lingered in their dark eyes. “We will bring the truth of the Holy Orders to these lands – there is no place for monsters in this world.” He paused, and, as if they pulled themselves from memory, spoke the words that the black-tabarded young knight had uttered when they had been given these relics.

     “No gods.  No monsters.  No heroes.” He met Nasario’s eyes, and their smiles were a mutual oath of violence. “Only man.”

 

******

 

     The tower at the heart of New Haven was quiet as the sun sank lower into the western mountains, but already several had gathered there for what promised to be a consequential meeting.  Inside John Foster’s office, the leader of New Haven’s ruling council spoke in a quiet rumble to the former Hero, her words punctuated with brief gravelly additions from Stu, her bailiff and mate.  Both Tara and her husband had arrived early, and, not wanting to interrupt their discussions, some of the later arrivals hovered instead in the study a level below John’s office.  Roger sat at his usual desk, hard at work with a small burner and glassware full of different-colored liquids, while Lacy and Priss spoke to each other quietly off to the side.  Simon was the last of this group to arrive, and he stood awkwardly apart for a moment, until he decided to draw closer to inspect what Roger was doing, hoping to distract himself from the matter that had brought them all together for this unplanned summit.

     “A new concoction?” Simon posited, pushing up his glasses and leaning forward as he inspected the bubbling beaker suspended over a small flame.  It did infuse the air with a certain odd musky scent that was simultaneously intriguing and oddly dizzying, and that made its pale milky hue all the more disturbing.

     “Indeed,” Roger nodded, carefully inspecting a thermometer that was immersed in the fluid. “One that I started earlier today, as a matter of fact – finally got the last ingredient I needed.” He wore a strange smile at that, and Simon decided not to ask where said ingredient had come from. “Unfortunately, it’s not something I could wait to finish until later.  You see, the potion itself is complete, but if I let it settle too long after it is finished, it is almost impossible to infuse it with mana.” At this, he motioned to a small rack, which held a collection of thin vials that were each nearly full of a shimmering, partially-translucent solution. “I have to keep it warm, and get it hot enough that the mana will diffuse throughout, instead of crystallizing into a gritty particulate.  If that happens, the potion doesn’t gain any increased effect.”

     Simon nodded, now inspecting the vials.  They reminded him of the purgation potions he had applied to John’s wrappings the day before, albeit considerably more cloudy.  Staring into that liquid brought questions to his mind, and a slowly growing notion that began to alarm him. “So, do you often add mana to your elixirs?  Like, say, the potions that you sent with John, when he helped to rescue us from Videre?”

     Roger nodded again, still watching the thermometer with a hawk’s intensity.  He reached past Simon, groping blindly for one of the vials, and pulled it free, popping the cork free with his thumb. “Hmm?  The stamina draught?” Watching the gauge carefully, Roger held the vial above the seething cream-colored mixture, not quite tipping it enough to pour the mana in just yet. “Yeah, that one was mana-infused.  Basic potions draw off of the mana of the ingredients for their effects.  That’s why ones made with monster components, like scales or nail clippings or hair, are especially effective: they draw from the natural mana of the monster it came from.” His eyes still trained ahead, Roger didn’t notice Simon blanch at his words. “But these vials contain some of my own mana, refined and processed for potency.  They can make the potions much, much more powerful, though they do the same with the side effects as well.”

     “Your own mana?” Simon asked, cautiously, his traitorous mind leading him towards ghastly conclusions against his will. “Mana transfer?  Does that mean… do those vials start from your, ah…” He swallowed, and Roger waited politely, smiling in distraction as the thermometer finally offered him the temperature he had been waiting for.  Simon watched as the shimmering fluid poured into the milky concoction, its gleam beginning to spread through the container. “You know.” Roger paused, shaking his head. “Well, I’ve been told that, ah, with men, most of our mana is in our blood, and in our… ah…”

     Roger tilted his head to the side, and glanced away from his potion to try to read his friend’s expression.  The pained, uncomfortable blush on Simon’s face finally brought him to the right conclusion. “Oh.  Oh, oh, gods no.” Roger shook his head violently. “No – don’t worry about that.” Lowering the emptied vial to the table, he reached to a different stand, pulling out something that looked like another thermometer, only much larger.  The head was a dull blue crystal, and, within the glass rod attached to it, a thin wire wound its way down from it towards the bottom, which featured an aperture that could slide open and closed. “This is a leycrystal mana infuser.  I fill this with a simple solvent that my mana can bond with, and hold onto the top for a while.  The crystal draws out my mana, which trickles down the wire.  The metal shines if it is exposed to mana for a while, and it settles downward, so I can see how much of the solution is actually useable, but it makes me feel as tired as if I were casting a spell, according to John.” He replaced the device, and grinned at his friend. “You wouldn’t catch me drinking them if I had to do what you were thinking of, let alone passing them around.”

     “Oh, thank goodness,” Simon breathed in relief. “I mean, I wouldn’t assume that of you, but when you said-”

     “No, I get it,” Roger chuckled, watching his mixture once more.  Carefully, he reached for another container, and when he poured it in the fluid began to turn a vibrant orange. “This is going to make a batch of potions for a mission that John-”

     Before Roger could finish his explanation, though, the door leading up from the lower floor opened, and Ceann stepped inside.  She paused to nod to each of them in turn: the alchemist, the priest, the guard captain, and the mercenary commander. “Am I the last?” she asked, her voice as precise as ever, and Simon nodded to her. “We should step inside.  John will want an update from us all.” She marched towards the opposite door, and the others fell in line, sharing glances of quiet concern.

      To Simon’s surprise, there was a fourth person already in John’s expansive office, beyond the former Hero, Tara, and Stu.  Lady Mephis was sitting in a chair off to the side, and as Simon climbed the stairs into view, she blushed and looked away.  He hid his smile at that – it seemed likely that Ceann and John had spent plenty of time lecturing her after the events in the Second Home – but when her eyes darted back towards him, he gave her a nod and an open smile, a silent forgiveness that immediately drew the tension from her shoulders.  All was well, so far as Simon and Mary were considered, and he knew that she would have ample opportunity to prove her good intentions, since she had offered to take the nascent succubus as a pupil in arcane studies.

     But those were thoughts of the future, and, as they all spaced themselves around the room, all minds turned towards the present.  The Holy Orders had found New Haven, and now they had to discuss what to do about it.

     “As you all know,” John began, his tone serious and his expression resolute, “we have spotted scouts from the Orders in the western mountains.  We don’t know if they are the vanguard of a larger force, or trackers sent to pursue us, or even mere explorers seeking resources.” The glances that passed around the room cast a dubious expectation on that final one, and John nodded his surrender. “All we can say for certain is that we have been found, and that they will do something about New Haven.  If it isn’t soon, then it will be sooner than we would like at the least.” He leaned back in his chair. “We had always known this was coming.  We planned on it.  With a solid foundation in place, we would be able to raise defenses, and to recruit support from our allies in the east.  We had already begun training fighters, both in the Company of the Forked Blade and through the martial artists training north of our town,” he nodded to Lacy, who returned the gesture, “and had hoped to draw some magical teachers in from the East as well.  Actually, even today we’ve had contact from more than one of the Sabbaths, inquiring about possible collaborations.” At this, John’s face twisted wryly, and Tara groaned audibly, while Mephis turned an exasperated frown at them both.

     “What are the Sabbaths?” Simon asked cautiously, glancing over to Roger, who shook his head.

     “Magical associations dedicated to specific spell schools,” noted Mephis, primly.

     “Youthcultists and magical mad scientists,” John scowled.

     “Horny halfpint goat witches,” grumbled Tara.

     Faced with various interpretations, Roger and Simon turned to the remaining trio of monster girls.  Ceann carefully looked away, while Priss and Lacy helpfully pointed towards Tara.

     “Most of them are Radicals, which we are trying to avoid association with,” John noted. “But some of them aren’t…” He paused, his mouth moving as if he were chewing his words to get them out. “As bad as the other ones,” he finally managed.

     “How bad could they be?” Roger asked, and Simon could tell he immediately regretted it.

     “Imagine having an erection that doesn’t go away for a week – no matter what.” John offered.  Simon noticed Lacy and Priss sharing contemplative glances, until John continued. “Now how about having three of them?”

     “…how would you even-?” the orc began, before John hastened onward.

     “The point is, after a certain incident yesterday,” John’s eyes locked onto Simon, “word is starting to spread that New Haven is the new home of heroes.  That we are the new frontier.” Simon paused at John’s implication, until he remembered what he had been told about his ‘waking’ of his mana in the tavern.  His outburst had let people know that men with especially powerful mana were in town, beyond just John… and had probably dragged Roger into the rumor mill as well. “And so, we have the interest of powerful factions, and we can get support.” He paused, his eyes meeting those of each of the others. “But not soon enough.  How we weather this storm will decide how many factions we will be able to call upon in the future.”

     This confirmation brought a heavy silence onto the group, and it was a while before anyone spoke further. “Should we start having people build defenses?” Roger asked, glancing around. “Most of the cities I visited out west had walls, at least around the core of the city.”

     “We don’t even have houses for everyone,” Stu pointed out, and his minotaur wife nodded beside him. “Even with monster laborers, a project like that would take…”

     “Too long,” John confirmed.

     “There’s more than that,” Simon added, similarly dissenting. “Those cities were made to defend against monsters, over centuries.  And most monster attacks are small in scope these days.  Meanwhile, the Orders have one whole organization that specializes in subduing human populations to bring them into their Empire.”

     “The Crusaders,” Roger conceded, dourly. “You’re right.  I’ve heard about some of the siege engines they use – my friend Valerian works at a facility where many of them were designed.”

     “Useful information,” John noted blandly, looking away from Simon’s raised eyebrow. “But, yes, for now our defenses will have to be fighters, with less reliance on what we can build.”

     “Well, it’s good that our warriors are stronger on average than humans,” Ceann offered. “Monsters tend to have greater physical strength and magical control than humans, at least generally speaking.” She looked around at the others, but paused when she saw the dark cloud on John’s expression.

     “Maybe, but we don’t have enough of them,” Lacy countered. “My company is the majority of the trained warriors we have; the martial artists are about half our number, and they owe us no particular loyalty.  Many of them are likely to flee with the rest of the civilians, if it comes to a larger battle.”

     “Speaking of the civilians,” came Mephis’s smooth voice from beneath the veil of her hat, “is there a way that we could evacuate them quickly, if it came to that?  The plains here are fairly open, and we don’t have a magical means of sustaining a portal to any monster city further east.”

     Stu glanced towards John, his expression hopeful. “That abandoned chamber they found, northwest of the town?”

     John shook his head to the man, but turned to explain to the others. “It was a cavern that was turned into a community storage cellar.  It was also a hide-out, in case the Dark God’s armies came, since we were on the borders of his territory.”  The color leaked from his face as his gaze turned towards the desk in front of him, and he sagged in his seat. “When they did come, a lot of people did as they had been told, and made for the cellar as a hideout until the battle was over.  But the monsters razed the town, and we survivors that headed west never heard anything from them again.  We weren’t able to check, either – we barely escaped with our lives, and only because Adam and I took out the monster that was leading the pursuit.  We… we should have gone back to see if there was anyone to save.” His smile was tight and pained, and he barely glanced up as Mephis rose from her chair, crossing over to him and gently running her hand over his back. 

     “Darling, you two were, what, eleven years old?  And you two managed to kill a lieutenant that my grandmother had trained.  It was your first battle.  You can’t still feel guilty that-”

     “That’s just the thing,” John replied, his voice weighted with regret. “Yes, yes I can.  Every time I wonder if someone might have made it out, only to be run down by the monsters as they marched west.  Someone we might have saved.” Sighing and bringing his hands together in front of him, John turned his dull eyes on the others. “Other ideas?  Concerns?” The question hung in the air, tainted by the grim mood.

     “We need to set up a system to watch the passes through the western mountains,” Lacy suggested, her face composed as she brought them back towards action. “Even with watchposts, that will buy us a day’s warning at most, more if we find a better solution than just mounted messengers.  If we could have a magical way of warning the town, perhaps, or someone who could fly-”

     A knock at the door interrupted them, and a silent gaze passed amongst the group.

    With Ceann part of the meeting, security had been left in the charge of Lacy’s second, and it was Maggie Starscale’s voice that fought to penetrate the thick door walling the office off from the study below. “Lord Foster, there is someone here that brings news I believe you need to hear.  It is very, very important.”

     A scowl spread across the warlock’s visage, and he glanced to the side, giving Mephis a significant stare.  After a moment, and with an aggrieved huff, she flourished a hand, and with a shimmer disappeared from view, cloaked by an invisibility spell.  Lacy and Ceann both took up places alongside the stairs that ascended from below, hands on the hilts of their blades, and Priss planted herself between the stairs and the others. “Send them in,” John commanded, his eyes narrowed, and a moment later the screech of the hinges on the door announced that she had done so.

     The person that ascended the stairs, looking fairly bedraggled but resolute, was George Lambton.

     The sudden return of the questing Errant was enough to cause surprise on most of the faces in the room, but, as George reached the top of the stairs, he earned the dropped jaws of all present.  Alarm spread in an instant as he drew his sword, but before even the trained mercenary and dullahan bodyguard could move, he planted the tip of the blade on the ground, kneeling behind it. “Mister Foster,” George began, not noticing the former Hero’s befuddled expression, “I bring dire news from the west.  I have just flown here from those mountains, after a struggle against an army of knights from the Holy Orders, and have come to tell you-”

     “Whoa,” interrupted John, waving a hand to interrupt George’s proclamation, “start over.  You ‘flew’?  You fought an army?  There’s- what army?”

     George looked up, a chagrined expression on his face. “Well, I did fight them, briefly – not the whole army, but I did shoot one of them.  Well, at him.  But-”

     “Weren’t you just in the north, fighting the dragon, this afternoon?” Simon asked, grinning at his friend. “It looks like you got to keep your pants.”

     “Not much thanks to you,” George replied, his grin keeping any harshness from the reply, but his seriousness returned as he looked back to John Foster, who was still petrified by confusion. “Yes, after we subdued Venturi, the dragon of the northern mountains-”

     “You what?” John’s eyes were wide, and a feminine giggle emerged from the empty space beside him.

     “She has sworn not to bother the town any further, after her defeat,” George reiterated, and pressed on. “But that’s not what matters.”

     “Oh, of course not,” John agreed with a hollow voice, still lost in shock. “Please, continue.”

    George nodded, his expression grave. “Callie and I- Callie is the wyvern that helped me fight Venturi- we flew west, but were brought down by an Inquisitor’s spell.  He was an officer of an army marching in this direction.” That sentence quashed all levity in the room. “They were going to kill us both, but Venturi had been following us, and she rescued us before they could reach Callie.”

     Most of the others turned towards John, who templed his fingers before him, leaning onto his elbows. “Do you have any idea how many soldiers there were?” the former Hero asked intently.

     “Approximately one hundred.” With his left hand, George began to count off the numbers he had scanned as Venturi had lifted him into the air. “Two Lords, a Guardian and an Inquisitor.  No more than a dozen Warders on horseback, the rest of the men on foot.  I saw five Radiances, so that means at least one hundred, divided among Guardians, Crusaders, Purifiers – and Inquisitors.” At that, Simon hissed audibly, knowing how big of an expenditure that was.  The Orders tended to have fewer magically-inclined members, with most going for the priesthood instead, and thus the deployment of twenty Inquisitors was a serious move.  “They were experienced troops, too – Errants up for promotion at the youngest.”

     Simon noticed John glance towards him, and he inclined his head towards the other man, realizing it was a request for translation of the more technical elements. “Veteran troops, specialized in defense, conquest, monster hunting, and magic.  Five officers that will be very tough, and the Lords… they would be the equivalent of heroes from the last war, since that promotion is not one you can get through politics.”

     John nodded, grateful for the clarification, but his face grew even more grave. “One hundred, you say?” He glanced to the side, chewing on his lip. “Damn.”

     “That… doesn’t sound like that many,” Priss ventured cautiously. “We probably don’t have that many fighters ourselves, but-”

     “Yeah, but that’s the thing,” John countered. “It’s much too big for a scouting force, and I take it you didn’t see workers with them, like an expeditionary force to set up a base nearby.” George nodded in reply; if they had brought wagons and supplies, he would have been able to see them, unless they had been held back too far to be protected by the main army. “On the other hand, it’s not big enough to lay siege to the town, either.  They sent several times that number after Goslar.”

     Simon’s stomach clenched as he realized what John had concluded. “Which means that they are… a trap.”

     “Exactly,” John agreed. “Too small to run from, too big to ignore.  They want us to fight them, because they think they will win somehow.”

     “I… think I know something about that,” George offered hesitantly.  He seemed uncomfortable as the attention turned back in his direction, and stood from his kneeling, replacing his sword in its sheath as he spoke. “When I was trying to protect Callie, I shot an arrow at one of them.  I know- I know– that I didn’t miss.  There was this… weird flash of red light, and the shot went off in the wrong direction.” His hand came up to tap the center of his chest. “And they were each wearing these medallions, marked with a sunburst.  They had gems set in them, all the same red color as that light.” George glanced to Simon, who shook his head, just as confused as his friend was. “I’ve never seen them before in my life, but every soldier I saw was wearing one.”

     “Okay, that’s starting to make sense,” John mused, alone in thinking so among everyone in the room. “Wait- a red flash, just when your arrow would have hit?” Seeing George’s confirming nod, John looked around the room, searching for someone that could back up his epiphany, only to realize that no one else would have been around during the relevant time period. “The War God’s blessing,” he prompted, and at his side Mephis reappeared with a shimmer.

     “Of course!” the arch-succubus exclaimed, planting her hand on John’s back. “After Ares allied with mother shortly after her ascension, there was a period where she would protect warriors with a blessing.  It shielded them from fatal harm, so that monsters and men could fight without killing each other as often.  And it manifested as a flash of red light!”

     “‘She’?” John questioned. “Alex’s god was male.”

     “Mother might have had something to do with that change,” Mephis admitted. “Ares had always had a fondness for men with gleaming pectorals and abs, and since she was also a god, Mother showed her how to take that in a new direction.”

     “Gods,” John scoffed irritably.

     “Well,” George rebutted the original idea carefully, “my shot wouldn’t have been fatal.  I aimed for his leg.”

     “Same concept,” Mephis dismissed the concern, but turned to face George more directly. “I’m Lady Mephistopheles, by the way, John’s beloved and future wife-”

     “Enough,” interrupted John, irked that she was blithely introducing herself to someone who had just recently been counted amongst their enemies.

     “Ahem!” coughed Ceann violently, for plausibly the same reason.

    “It still seems likely to be that sort of magic,” John wrangled the discussion, his eyes alive as he considered the implications. “That would mean they would be strongly protected in battle – almost invincible, until the mana contained in the medallion is spent.  And, if they had those, then they would be a match for a much larger force.  They could bleed us through underestimation, taking almost no casualties but wiping out every comparable force we sent to oppose them.” John leaned back in his seat, marvelling at the idea, but after a moment his gaze fell back onto George. “And… if it hadn’t been for you telling us, we might have fallen for it.  We… no, I… owe you an apology.  For judging you too harshly, and-”

     “No, you don’t,” George interrupted, shaking his head. “You were right.  I’m the one that was wrong about you, and everyone here.  It took Callie to show me the truth, and she’s why I’m here now.”

     “I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Simon said warmly, and George met his gaze with a smile that was almost shy.

     “If they were in the western mountains today, then that means they could reach us tomorrow, at least the mounted ones,” Lacy broke in. “On foot, maybe the day after, if they want to be fresh enough to fight.  If we want to meet them before they reach us here, we’ll have to muster our forces as soon as we can.”

     “And we’ll need all the fighters we can get,” Roger mused, glancing over to his orcish lover. “An ace up our sleeve, if possible.” Priss’s eyes widened slightly.

     “We can get supplies rounded up quick,” Tara suggested, looking to her brawny husband. “The council will sign off on whatever we need – this town has taken every bit of coin we all had, so people will fight to protect it.”

     “Yes, but here’s the thing,” John replied, his voice low and dangerous. “It will take two forces.” This drew everyone’s attention back to him. “One to sally out, and fight them in the plains, and one to stay here, and cover the civilians’ retreat if they have some trick we can’t foresee.” He avoided meeting the eyes of anyone but Simon and Roger. “I say that the men of the town comprise the force that marches out, while Lacy’s mercenaries and the martial artists stay behind to-”

     John wasn’t allowed to finish his suggestion, as a barrage of voices immediately overruled it. “John, there are far fewer men here than women, and the monsters are stronger, too,” insisted Tara, her bass voice deep enough to be heard over the others.

     “Maybe,” John replied, scowling, “but they’re coming here for the monsters.  And they are ready to kill.”

     “Do you think they care any more about killing a man on the side of monsters than any of us?” demanded Lacy, her eyes straying for a moment to Roger. “They won’t show mercy to any of us.”

     “She’s right,” Simon yielded, looking regretfully to John. “Lecter Themras was good proof of that.”

     “It doesn’t matter,” John insisted, planting his hand on his desk. “I still think that-!”      

     The conversation, such that it was, decayed further and faster from there.  Much of it was shouting, at and from John, and others broke into groups, hurriedly conspiring to make their own plans for their part in what was to come.  Simon felt relieved that none of the other townsfolk could see their leaders now, else the refugee trains would begin anew that very night.  But George’s presence at his side drew Simon’s attention out of himself, and he turned to regard his friend with a smile.

     “Hey, uh, I wanted to apologize,” George began, pointing at his back. “Those special arrows you made for me, the ones made with Order magic… I used pretty much all of them.  I hope they weren’t really expensive or hard to craft or anything, and if I can pay you back-”

     “I’m the one that owes you an apology,” Simon interjected, “because I lied to you.” When George raised an eyebrow at that, Simon winced in quiet shame. “It was based off of a suspicion I had… I thought that maybe you would be capable of infusing magic into your attacks, like the heroes in the past ages.  But you didn’t seem like you would believe me, that day you were leaving town, so I lied.” With a sheepish grin, Simon raised his palms. “The crystals in the arrowheads were just leycrystal chunks, made to help focus your mana.  Those arrows are pretty common around here, and I didn’t use any spells on them.  Any mana that they were infused with came from you.  If they didn’t work, I’m especially sorry-”

     “No,” George cut him off, frowning in thought. “No… that makes sense.  The mana was mine?” He nodded to himself, and then looked back to his friend. “Thank you.  Seriously.”

     Simon shrugged, but couldn’t keep the grin from his face. “I’m just happy we’re not on opposite sides of this anymore.”

     George’s smile was just as wide. “You’re right.  I’m done with the Orders.  Callie is the one I will be fighting for now… and, ah, Venturi.” Ignoring the shorter man’s inquisitive stare, George glanced back towards the door. “Speaking of that… Callie’s waiting for me, outside the tower.  She’s probably going crazy – I was pretty nervous about coming in here to warn you all.”

     Simon nodded, frowning sympathetically. “Go, take care of her – and yourself.  You’ve helped us an awful lot by telling us this – you’ve saved enough lives today that some would call you a hero.” Again they shared a brilliant smile, though on George’s side one flavored with a self-conscious chuckle, and Simon clapped him on the back. “When this is all over… we’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

     George nodded to his friend, but he glanced around the room at the bickering leaders. “When this is all over… right.”  His blue eyes returned to Simon. “Take care of yourself, okay?  I’m trusting you to come back from this.”

     “Of course,” Simon said, his mind jogged into motion by the phrase they had exchanged. “When I do, you get to tell me how you managed to beat a dragon, and I’ll tell you how we manage to beat this army.”  As transparently false as Simon’s grin was, George still nodded at it, and turned to leave.

    Simon watched him go, wondering if he had lied to his friend once more, or if there would even be anywhere to return to once this was all over – if New Haven was doomed to burn once more.  The arguing was still going on, and even beyond that would be a night’s worth of frantic planning and action… but Simon had faith that they could overcome this.  He had finally found a home for himself, and he had no intention of being chased from it – and he trusted in the people that would stand beside him.

     But he had his own role to play, and the idea that was germinating in his head filled him with a grim anticipation.  It was a scandalously audacious plan, but he was beginning to believe in its potential more and more.  Considering what marched towards them from the line of the sunset, hope was dangerous – and yet he clutched to it with fervor, already imagining the possibility of what was to come.  

    He just had to pay a visit to a certain monastery, first.

 

******

 

         Most of the participants in the emergency summit had headed out on their own objectives, having come up with their own plans and making ready to put them into swift motion, but inside the office at the top of New Haven’s tower, the argument raged on.

     “Darling, I just can’t understand why you are so insistent on not having monsters fight against this force!  Especially when we don’t have enough trained male fighters to-”

     “That doesn’t matter,” John insisted, frowning. “We will manage better without monsters enraging the Orders than we will with them fighting beside us.”

     “Again, darling,” Mephis sighed, frustrated to come to the same argument once more, John’s flimsy bulwark against their practical insistences, “the Orders won’t treat men on our side any differently than they will a monster they capture.  Dead is dead no matter who we lose, and we have many more monsters to spare than the scant few men we have here.”  

     “And, beyond that,” Ceann interjected, standing on John’s other side, “our best fighters are monsters.  Aside from a few caravan guards and a couple of former mercenaries like Charles Kramer, we don’t have many men who have experience in battle.  Most are hapless civilians, like the chef at the ‘Duck, or the farmers across the river.  Meanwhile, I understand your faith in Simon, but he hasn’t fought in a battle this big before, and I spoke with Lacy about Roger’s training – he’s only somewhat better than he was when he arrived here in New Haven.”

     “We hoped that we would have time to empower those two, and Simon has made great strides, but Roger isn’t an incubus, and probably won’t become one for a long time.  Simon has the blessings of being Godchosen and having the mana of three mates furthering his growth, but one man can’t stand against an army.” Mephis paused as she saw John’s eyebrow raise, and amended her statement. “At least not yet, and not without more training.” At this, John nodded sullenly, and the lilim continued, pacing by his desk. “More than that, it is clear that you intend to lead this force, and I need you to understand how risky that is for us.” John’s scoff announced the opening of his rebuttal, but Mephis pressed on forcefully. “John, we were only able to get the support to develop this town because of you.  If it weren’t for your arguments, Mother and Father would be perfectly content encouraging monsters to stay in the demon realms on the other side of the Great Veil, regardless of what the Orders are planning or how close they come.  Between the Orders and the Radical monsters pushing for conflict, a war would be inevitable, and not one that would end well for anyone no matter who won – either all monsters would be hunted down, or all men would be forcefully taken and coerced into subservience.  If we don’t have you leading us-”

     “Then you’ll find someone else,” John interjected coldly, and his tone made Mephis look at him with a crestfallen expression. “Maybe someone who would be able to do more for the cause than a broken warlock who can’t even use magic.”

     “John-!”

     “My sword is the best thing I have to offer.  This is about more than just New Haven – this is about the threat the Orders pose to us all.  The threat they could pose to monsters on the other side of the Veil, too.  Even if I fall, then at least I can hope that maybe Adam and Lilith will start paying attention to that danger, and act.”

     “My beloved,” Mephis started, her voice soothing and sweet, stepping closer to John and running her lace-gloved hand up his back in a calming caress. “You know you are worth so much more than that to us.  You are a Hero still, and one that every monster owes a debt that none of us could manage to repay.  We are free because of you and Father.”

     “Sure, and then I helped cause the very danger that has killed so many of you,” John griped, looking away from the delicate gloved hand that rubbed his shoulder.

     “You didn’t know, John.  You had good reasons for what you did,” Ceann insisted, catching his gaze. “You wanted to protect humans – you couldn’t have known that they would use that power to endanger us.”

     “More than that, darling,” Ceann pressed, her stroking now more gentle as her fingertips wandered down his back again. “You mean a great deal to me.  Losing you would be devastating, and I can’t imagine how I would ever recover…” She paused, noticing the way his muscles tensed under her touch, and she withdrew slightly, her crimson eyes wide under her veil.

     “Listen,” John hissed, his voice as rigid as his shoulders, “I… understand what happened.  Adam explained how monsters imprint on a single man, and are entirely faithful to him alone.  I know that I was probably the first and only unclaimed man you saw while you were young and I was sealed in that crystal, considering how few humans there are in the capital.  And I know you both grew up listening to stories about me from Adam.  But…”  His gaze wandered over to Lilith, and it was impossible for her to read his expression clearly: pain shrouded what looked to be anger of a sort, and a quiet self-loathing or guilt set his teeth in a glum scowl. “Just because of a decision you made more than a decade ago, you don’t have to chase after someone who is worthless to you.  I can’t give you what you want, and I know how much grief you get from the others because you’ve decided to settle for me.” As he spoke, his volume crept louder, and he stood from his desk, leaning against its surface. “If I was out of the way you – you both – could find someone actually worth your time, and-”

     “Darling, please, you don’t understand-!”

     “I understand you are Lilith’s daughter, and I understand what that means,” John replied harshly. “But you shouldn’t pick someone who used to be a Hero just to outdo the sisters that tease you, and you should be smart enough to comprehend that you shouldn’t fall for someone physically incapable of giving you what you want!  Or do you like being called the Virgin Lilim?” His biting snarl made her quail back from him, her hand lowering, and he shook his head. “You need to just get over this stupid childhood crush and-!”

     The song of steel ringing out drew him up short, and he glanced in the other direction to see Ceann – ever-loyal, bumbling bodyguard Ceann – glaring at him with eyes ablaze with turquoise flame, her longsword held evenly before her in a fencing stance. “John Foster,” she pronounced, as if she were reading the name from a fatal warrant, “I challenge you to a duel, here and now, for your words besmirching the honor of Mephistopheles Milton… my sister.”

      Sighing as if the breath had been dragged out of him by chains, John sagged, giving Ceann a weary stare. “You cannot be serious about this.”

     The tip of the dullahan’s blade did not waver, and the flames in her eyes danced. “Draw your sword.”

     Blinking, Mephis gaped at the other woman. “Ceann, please, don’t make this-”

     “Now, John.”

     The former warlock stared impassively at the dullahan for another long moment.  Finally, he straightened, and nodded, reaching down beside his chair to draw the blade that, scabbarded, had been leaning there. “Fine, a spar, then.  Shall we do it here?” he asked blandly, crossing around the desk past Mephis, who watched him go in mute discomfort. “Is this space enough?” he motioned to the cleared area in front of the desk, moving to shift the chairs that Stu and Tara had occupied away from the space.  When she nodded, he shook his head in silent disbelief, and shifted into a dueling stance. “Whenever you are ready, then.” The wan smile he offered her failed to ascend to his eyes, but the tiredness there was absent from his body’s tension.

     Ceann faced him, lips pursed in a tight line, and nodded. “Ready.”

     For Mephis, what came next was a blur of motion and a din of ringing metal.  She was accustomed to seeing displays of fine blade-work: her father was the greatest swordsman in the world, and she was used to seeing him spar with other famous warriors of her mother’s retinue.  Likewise, Naamah, her mother’s bodyguard, frequently trained and tested her elite guards within the palace where the ladies of the court could watch.  Still, this duel lacked the easy levity or naked ambition of those battles, and the air was dense with sullen emotion.  Both combatants wore frowns, and beyond the crashing of sword on sword, the only sounds were grunts and labored breathing, and the crackle of the turquoise flames that coated Ceann’s blade.  Even for one so familiar with observing matches of this sort, it was tough to tell who was winning, and neither seemed inclined to call the duel as a draw.

     Time grated on the fragile patience of both warriors, and their feints and attacks became increasingly bold, their feet tracing circling paths across the office’s central open space as the blades sang in increasing tempo.  For a moment, there was an honest smile on John’s face: vicious, but genuine.  Ceann, though, frowned all the harder, and her voice rose in a full-throated cry as her blade swept wide, a broad swipe that climbed from near the floor towards the heavens as the dullahan leapt into the air.  John fell back, and his eyes narrowed as he tensed to take advantage of Ceann’s overextension, but the crackle of surging flames made him pause even as he started to lunge forward.  With a twist of her wrist, Ceann reversed the course of her swing and brought the blade down to earth once more as she fell down, landing hard on one knee as the tip of the sword stabbed against the stone floor of the chamber.  John had stayed far enough back to not be in danger from the plunging attack, but his eyes widened as he realized the blazing blade’s power had swelled to a crescendo, and it erupted in a wall of blue-green fire that knocked him from his feet, sending him sprawling back to slide a pace along the floor as his own sword scraped away in a different direction.  He blinked away the momentarily blindness from the explosion’s brilliant glare, shivering from the flame’s touch – the dullahan’s power was deathly chill, despite how it looked.  But before he could regain his feet completely, Ceann slammed into him, dazing him once more as his skull smacked back against the floor, and a moment later he realized her blade rested perpendicular to his throat.  

     Ceann’s blazing eyes hovered just above the cold fire of her sword, and it was them which chilled him more than the sharp edge a hairsbreadth from his neck. “You remember now who I am, John?” she challenged. “You trained under the greatest swordsman for a decade – I trained under him from the first day I could swing a stick.  You remember what my title means?  ‘The Lady of Blades’ belongs to the best swordfighter of the daughters of Adam Milton.  And still you underestimate me and think me weak!”

     For a second, as Mephis drew nearer, the two stared at each other, John with clear reappraisal, Ceann with simmering anger. “Alright, fine, I yield-” John began, but the blade did not withdraw, and his brow furrowed as he stared up at the eyes of his loyal bodyguard, shocked by the frustration he found there.

     “I know you.” The words were cold and precise, stabbing into him. “I know what you thought.  When you wanted the men to be the ones to fight the Orders, it wasn’t about us enraging the Orders, or even protecting us.  It wasn’t about who would defend New Haven better.” Her face lowered, and her eyes grasped his wrathfully. “It was about killing the Orders, John.  You wanted people who could slaughter them.”

     John didn’t reply, unable or unwilling.

     “This whole argument is because we monsters don’t kill.  You told me once that being reminded of that is part of what brought you back to our side.  But now, you want the men of the Orders to die for what they’ve done… to us, to the people you fought to save, to the legacy of your friends.  And…” Ceann’s face softened. “I can sympathize with that.  But just because the blood will be on your hands instead of ours doesn’t make this any better.  It breaks my heart to think of what you’ve had to do for us already.” For the first time, John’s morose expression thawed at the passionate tone of that confession. “The knights you killed at the Temple of Artemis to protect me, the men who died in the landslide you caused…”

     “The world is better off without them,” John replied coldly. “They’ve sworn themselves to a cause that would see every single monster dead-”

     “Just like Simon did.  Just like George.” Again, doubt flickered in John’s eyes, dancing with the reflection of the flames that simmered along the edge of the sword that rested at his throat.                   

    “They are successes, sure, but we can’t risk everything just because of the few we might save.  And, even if we do manage to defeat them tomorrow, what are we to do with a hundred hostile combatants, until we can sort out which could be redeemed? ” John argued bitterly after a moment. “The fact that you monsters are determined not to kill means you will hold back, and against an enemy that will seize on any moment of weakness.  You are correct that monsters can be stronger than humans, but not when you check every blow. We are the only logical choice to-”

     Ceann’s frown grew, and her face lowered closer to John’s, her voice as sharp as the blade she left drift closer to his skin. “Then why are you underneath me, John?  If you are the stronger one, then throw me off.  Go ahead.” The flames in her eyes were no mere reflections, and the room seemed to darken around them.  She waited, and after a moment John obeyed, twisting and shifting underneath her weight, cautious of the blade – but she kept him trapped, her eyes never leaving his. “And if you want to argue that I had the advantage, that I used mana in our duel while you can’t, just remember: having such an advantage is what strength in battle is.  The loser doesn’t get to appeal that it wasn’t fair.”

     “That strength isn’t enough,” John rebutted, his face red from his futile efforts at freeing himself. “Not when you won’t use it when it matters.”

     “It seems you are suffering under a misunderstanding,” came the other chill voice, and John glanced past Ceann at the red eyes in the darkening room.  He shivered at the air’s sudden bite, and watched as Mephis began to circle him as she tugged off her gloves, her pale skin almost glowing through her veil and along her exposed hands. “You mistake our decisions, our resolutions, for weakness… when they are exactly the opposite.” John stared up at her, biting back his scoff, but his eyes widened as she knelt down beside him, her face descending.  Through the veil, it looked immaculate, perfect… inhuman.  For a moment, that face reminded him of a different one: not her mother’s, but her grandmother’s, the harsh, statuelike beauty of the Dark God’s Succubus Queen.

     “You see, darling… I envy you.” Her fingers reached out, sharp nails brushing against his cheek. “I envy all humans.  What… magnificence you possess.  The muscles of a young man.  The laughter of a baby.  The glow of a girl in love.  Your hearts, your minds, your bodies…” The smile she wore was sharp and irrefutably jealous. “It is all proof that the Creator of All loved you as he made you.  That he poured himself into your creation, and could do no better, held nothing back.  I know that he looked upon you, and was proud.  That’s why he gifted you with such potential, that even the gods were nervous.  That’s why he left this world to you.”

     John hissed as her nails left his face, thinking for an instant they had scratched him. Those crimson eyes fell on him, bereft of pity. “But we weren’t so lucky, you see.  We were shaped later by the Dark God as an answer to humanity’s capabilities.  You were made to love, to create… to sing and dance and play and couple, to work and build and to master all you saw.” The room grew darker still, and those glowing eyes pierced him, just as he was chilled by the burning gaze of the dullahan below. “But we were made only for one purpose: to kill.”

     That made John pause, and he glanced to the side, but she wouldn’t let him retreat.  Her words dragged him back to gaze at her face. “We monsters had no other mission.  No other life.  Our reason to exist was to despoil… to cut throats and to gouge flesh and to shatter smiling faces and hopeful hearts.  We were ruinbringers.  We painted the world behind us in blood, and that was good – because, for us, it was the only possible good.  We had no loving creator.  He hated us, just as much as he hated you.  We had no ambition, beyond ending every single one of you.  Even the swords our warriors wielded were more beautiful than us; they could at least be displayed and admired.  We only killed.”

     John’s eyes found hers, and he rediscovered his words. “You’re not like that anymore.  You two never were – you were born after the change.”

     “Correct… thanks to you.” Once more, the bladed caress, the almost-pain. “You hated my grandfather for what he took from you, and you killed him.  We all hate him still, and love you for freeing us.  Now, we can be… anything we want.  And what we want, is to overcome all that we were.  We want what you have always had.  We want the joy of love.  The sweet ecstasy of mating.  The unrestrained happiness of holding our children, and knowing they will be happy in turn.” Her face lowered close to his; her whispered voice loving, dangerous, cruel. “But we are monsters still.  Anathema to your kind.  We choose to love, and have made it our quintessential nature – but every confession, every shuddering orgasm, every heated kiss, every infant wailing its first breath… it’s all the most unforgivable blasphemy against our own creator.  The fulfillment we find in loving you is entirely genuine.  But, for those of us who care to even remember him… knowing it also spites him, erases any trace of his legacy, makes it that much sweeter.” Her face came closer still, and through the veil her lips brushed the edge of his cheekbone. “You see, my beloved, it is not that we cannot kill.  It is that we don’t have to.  We won’t, because that would please him, and that would sicken us.  But, at the end of the day… we are hunters, conquerors.  Monsters.”

     John looked up at the pale gleam of merciless heaven above, and down at the cold-burning flames of hell, and knew she was right.

     “I…” John closed his eyes, and let his head lean back against the stone.  He felt tired, even more than before, but that wasn’t the reason that he couldn’t refute their points.  He had regretted what he had said to them as soon as he had said it, but had thought it for the best – but they were right. “I’m sorry,” he confessed.  His eyes were still pressed closed, but he felt Ceann shift, felt the chill of her blade’s flames moving away. “I’ve watched enough good people die.  I’ve gotten tired of losing friends and people I love.  I-”

     “Does that mean- is this the first time you are confessing your love for me?” The glacial precision of her voice was gone, and when John opened his eyes to look up at Mephis, the room was bright once more, and he could see the heated glow in her cheeks. “Oh, my darling, I forgive you for your cruel words before.  I know you were looking out for me – I feared that you genuinely thought my love so simple as a crush, but now you must realize that I am the one meant for you-” Ceann’s protest was wordless, and the lilim turned her gaze on the dullahan wrathfully. “And as much as I appreciate you defending my honor, I would especially appreciate you getting off of him right now.”

     Ceann scoffed at the implication, still sitting astride John’s lap from where she had been pressing him down. “This was just to prove a point.”

     “Perhaps, but the point has already been proven,” Mephis retorted. “And you’re blushing.  And you are pressing your chest on his- are you rocking your hips?”

     “No!” claimed Ceann, and John wisely kept his lips closed.  But, despite her protestations of innocence and the lilim’s enraged squabbling, the dullahan was slow to rise from his lap, and John could only wait patiently for the pair to reacknowledge his presence.

     Finally, when the trio had each returned to their feet and their calms, John looked between the two once more.  Again, he found himself choking on his own humility, but finally he managed to press out the right words. “Thank you, both,” he stately clearly, taking a moment to meet their gazes. “I… needed that.  And…” Sighing and closing his eyes, he forced himself on. “And I probably will need that kind of push, again, in the future.  I’m used to being one of the people that solves everything myself.  I’ve done incredible things before, but… I’m past that now.”

     “No, John,” Ceann argued, reaching out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not true.  It’s just… before, the world needed Heroes.  And it still does.  But you…” He met her gaze, and his eyes widened as he found, not the pity he expected, but resolve. “We need you.  We need someone who can motivate the monsters of the east to action, and someone who can be a rallying point for those here in the west.  We need… a general.” At this, John paused, and then nodded.  His mind raced with the impact of her words, and he missed the quiet smile that passed between the girls.

     “Alright,” he said, finally, looking up at them both. “If that’s what I am to be, then… I guess I have to get used to delegating, right?” The pair nodded, their smiles growing, and he wore a determined frown as he let his mind run in different directions than before. “I’ll… leave the troop selection to you.  I’ll let you choose who you want to take to face the Orders… and I’ll plan for what comes next.”

     Even with the sting of the duel fresh on his mind and backside, John was quick to recover.  Strangely, despite having his perspective challenged, he felt invigorated, his mind teeming with possibilities once more.  As he turned, rubbing his chin as he started to muse on what they could do once the battle was won and how he could make sure that it was, the girls standing behind him shared one last triumphant smile, their personal bickering delayed as they celebrated what this meant for the cause.

     Even after they left to their own tasks, leaving John alone at the summit of the tower, his mind still turned.  Only once did he pause, glancing over at the marks on the stone where Ceann’s magic had blackened the surface, where he had been thrown onto his back and defeated.  And, strangely, that glance brought a slight smile to his lips, and he nodded, determined once more.

     He could believe in them, even if it wasn’t as much as they clearly believed in him, undeservedly.  He could have faith, in them at least.  And he could still fight – would fight, to preserve the happiness they still sought, and to be worthy of his own place in it.  

     To be worthy of them.

 

******

 

     The great doors at the front of the cathedral stood resolutely, unmoving and daunting.  The sky above swirled and mingled with colors and hazes, and the air itself gusted with scents of perfumes and other appealing odors, but the doors might as well as have been carved of the same stone as the rest of the edifice.  They had, not so long ago, seen the assault of an outraged zealot, and while they would see no such challenges deep within this divine realm, still they stood as sentries, ready for any who would defile this sacred ground.

     And yet, with a wave of his hand, the doors slid open as if weightless, opened by the barest gesture from Simon Hopkins, like hounds obeying the call of their master.

      He had thrown back the cowl from the black cloak he wore, and his face was exposed to the dancing winds that combed through his hair.  As he stepped into the warm light inside the structure, his blond hair smoothed, only ruffled by the wind’s parting caress, and he walked into the structure’s narthex he paused to run his fingers over the familiar wooden carvings of owls that decorated the chamber.  Other carvings were now mixed among them, some of which made him blush even despite how much experience he had gained since he had last come to this place, and he braced himself for the other changes he would see as he entered the main nave of the building.  

     This time, as he made his way down the long chamber between the pews, he was left unescorted.  As if blind to his presence, priestesses dressed in exposing clothes and monster women and girls of all shapes moved through the room, inspecting the shapes appearing as if from within the wood of the pews, or marvelling at the glory of the looming stained glass windows, which had begun to show shapes far removed from what they had displayed before, mostly tending towards the profane and erotic.  Simon paused to look at one outlier, seeing that it depicted a single young man standing atop a green hilltop, while a faint yellow sheen spread across the blue heavens above.  Smiling and lowering his head in humble gratitude, he continued down the main course of the nave, making his way towards the raised pulpit, and the space that had once held the choir beyond.

     As he neared that extent, taking his first step up towards that higher ground, the two conversing figures at the end of his path both paused and turned in his direction.  One wore the robes of the high priestess, though considerably more practical than some outfits he had seen her take on, and she held before her a clipboard cluttered with papers, plans she had been discussing with the other.  The one upon the couch, though, was titanic and immaculate, like a godlike statue given life without losing a whit of divine potency, and as he met her gaze a single perfect eyebrow arched higher.

      “I did not summon you,” intoned the goddess, the faintest of smiles taking up her lips. “And yet you stand before me.  Bold, to think that I won’t simply keep you.”

     “You will not,” Simon informed her, bowing his head, “because you still have faith in me.”

     “Perhaps not in your judgment, however,” retorted Sophia, slowly descending the stairs to approach Simon.  Her face was held in its usual mask of inscrutable superiority, even as she tucked silver hair behind her ear and subtly smoothed her dress.  She was still several paces away when she paused, her nostrils flaring, and Simon wished he could look away from her face as emotions swelled and shifted in an instant.  Confusion gave way swiftly to outrage, which dominated her face, but betrayal and anguish quickly arrived to support her fury. “You… you, you reek of succubus!” she howled, her eyes ablaze.  Simon could only nod, unable to find words to answer her pain.

     “I see,” pronounced the goddess, straightening in her seat, her own eyes wide and showing the purples and oranges of Pandemonium. “You have chosen yet another mate.” She paused, her lips pursing, as Sophia stopped beside Simon, furious and wounded.  Athena waited for a long moment before nodding. “I still wish to have you here to lead my congregation.  If Sophia is insufficient as a partner, is not to your liking, then another among my priestesses can be found for your pleasure.”

     “M-mother-!” The single word wrung at Simon’s heart, and he dared not look over to Sophia, afraid of what he would see there.  Instead, he slowly shook his head, gathering his resolve.

     “You are mistaken, supposing that Sophia is insufficient,” Simon proclaimed, meeting the goddess’s eyes without wavering. “I have found another mate, yes – Mary Kramer.”

     “The human girl, from the village at the mountain’s base.  The one you risked your life to save,” Sophia murmured from beside him, quietly.  Simon nodded.

     “It is not a problem with Sophia.  She is beautiful, gifted in your wisdom – worthy.” He saw the priestess’s head lift to stare at him once more from his peripheral vision, yet did not face her. “But I do not love her.” His eyes were locked on Athena’s, and he saw them narrow. “Not as either of you would have of me.  But only… because I do not know her, not well enough to even begin to fall in love, to see if I even would.  I have not had time with her to do so.” Simon advanced another step, jaw set as he approached the goddess. “That would have to come first.  And perhaps it still will.” It may have been his imagination, but he thought he felt a ghostlike brush of fingertips against the back of his cloak. “But that is not why I have come to you today.”

     “Of course,” smirked the goddess, spreading a colossal hand in his direction. “You have come to ask a boon of me.  Is it power?  Wisdom?  Or…” Her eyes flicked to the side, where the worshippers had gathered, awestruck as they observed their goddess speaking so freely with this mortal man.  Two figures in particular were the target of her glance: an bespectacled man of middle years, light hair early in fading to grey, and a woman at his side, wearing a habit and a wimple over long, thick hair that coiled and writhed. “Something else that you would desire?”

     “None of those,” Simon declared, spreading his hands wide.  Though his head lowered respectfully, his blue eyes lifted to stare up at the goddess, and the challenge Athena found there made her smile grow.  “I have come to offer proof of my declaration that the world can yet be saved.” For an instant, unseen by Simon himself, his image wavered, and for a fraction of a moment he looked like a different person entirely, like the figure in the stained glass.

     “I see,” the goddess said, her eyebrow arching once more. “And where, then, is that proof?”

     “Oh, but, of course, I could not bring it with me, not into this world,” Simon explained, his expression meticulously innocent. “I have merely walked here from my dreams.  No, I admit – I will need help delivering it to you.  But, in the end, it will be a gift to you, one that you have dearly sought: new adherents.  They might, I fear, need a bit of… re-education, but I am sure your priestesses will be more than capable of giving them such instruction.”

     If the observing faithful had stared in wonder before, now they gaped as a broad smile split the goddess’s lips, and they fell to their knees in terror and marvel as a gale of laughter threatened to shake the entire cathedral.  Simon did not raise from his bow, watching the massive, perfect form of the goddess carefully, tensed for whatever might come.  She had welcomed his audacity, it seemed, but he couldn’t be sure just yet.  That was why he barely managed to hide his sigh of relief when she turned her grin down upon him once more.

     “You shall have your… educators, and I shall claim my new adherents.  Half of those you offer; the rest will be yours to deal with.” Her eyes blazed furiously with mirth as she leaned her cheek against one of her massive palms, beaming at him like a doting, permissive mother. “Live up to your promises, child, and perhaps – perhaps! – you truly will begin to win my favor for your absurd determination.  Even my hope.”

     Bowing even more deeply, Simon closed his eyes in gratitude. “That is all I could ask for.”

    “Of course it isn’t, and nor shall it be,” Athena gloated down at him. “But you may earn it yet.” She nodded towards the other end of the nave. “Go, with my permission.  With my blessing.  I eagerly await your… proof.” And, her will proclaimed, the goddess settled back onto her couch, watching as he turned to leave.

     Simon’s eyes, against his will, flicked over to where Sophia stood.  She, too, was watching him, but the anguish was gone from her face.  Instead, he found a frown of concentration there, a desperate plea for more.  He had only one thing to offer her, and it was not without cruelness of its own, but still he gave it to her: a smile, warm and understanding.  And he was rewarded with a gleam of hope in her eyes, and the first hints of her old haughty smile reclaiming her lips.

     And so, Simon walked away from his goddess, his faith in his own role in what was to come restored.  He wasn’t finished, but he had begun, just like the others.  He had taken his first steps towards defending his home.

     As the doors to the cathedral closed behind him, Simon knew that he would be ready for the battle on the horizon.

 

Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 16”

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Author’s Note: So, starting with the inevitable apology: this was supposed to come out at the end of September, not October, and I apologize for the delay.  Tragically, my position as sponsor for one of my (tiny) school’s larger clubs has been gnawing at my free time.  I’ve had to put together our plans for a local cultural festival, as well as a major three-day convention trip, on top of my usual panic related to the end of the grading period.  In short, a lot of work landed on my desk all at once, and left me scant time to work on my own projects – and while I may not be under contract to produce anything for this work, I still value those who invest time in reading it, and thus I bow my head in apology that this chapter took so long.

     Another reason for the delay was the content itself.  This chapter was hefty, longer than usual and dense with a lot of things I had to cover to set up the relatively easier chapters ahead.  Action, after all, flows – dialogue has to be steered.  Plus, while John’s growth is more episodic than the other characters, I had a lot to get done in this particular chapter, since he also will be getting less attention in the next story in line.  And, on that topic, I even squeezed in a bit more foreshadowing for that, as well, while also developing Simon’s storyline and giving characterization to our villains – this wasn’t an easy order to complete, but I feel reasonably content with how I pulled it off.  I wonder if you feel the same.

       I’ll sign off now – I am going to hasten to work on the next chapter, in the hopes of getting it out soon so I can prepare the next in line, which will be due around the time of that convention trip – but I conclude with my gratitude for you for reading, and for being willing to wait.  There’s not much left in this story, and the next few chapters will be action-packed, so ready yourselves for what is to come; hopefully I will be back soon with that for you as well.

     Finally, without a twinge of frustration, I can lay down to… sleep…

     ~Wynn Pendragon

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