Bloodied Crown, Ch. 1, Repost (Patreon)

Chapter 1: Bitter Employment

The fields of Bardon were littered with the dead. Old and new corpses lay everywhere upon the lifeless gray plains.  They had at one time been verdant farmlands, but now abandoned over the course of the latest war between the two kingdoms upon which borders they rested. Once a thriving small principality, Bardon had been assimilated into its neighbors, the same way an animal carcass was savaged by various scavengers.

The quaint towns, villages, and hamlets were nothing more than haunted ruins, their inhabitants having moved on, or piled together in corpse mounds overgrown with the only plant life too stubborn to die, a creeping leafy growth known as Strangler’s Vine. There was no rhyme or reason to fight here, save for that it was flat, open ground where armies could wage war for the sake of the men who commanded them to do so. The muddy ground swallowed one’s boots to the heel, the stench of rot and decomposing bodies deadening the senses, and the air veritably suffocating with decay and despair.

Hadrian's thumb rubbed slowly over the polished river stone he had collected nearby from the dried-up riverbed. The smooth, flat texture of the lustreless black rock was soothing beneath his ungloved hand. Haunted eyes stared out over the blank, featureless fields before him. Every so often, parts of the fields would stir with a sinister rustling, the source always just out of sight.

Crinkling his nose in distaste, he palmed the stone and chucked it away from him towards the nearest disturbance. No sooner had the rock fallen to earth than the air was rent with the sounds of savage cawing. The ground erupted with feathery bodies, whirling into the air on ragged wings, dark, glistening eyes shining in the gloom. Stained beaks voiced a chorus of displeasure down at the intruder to their feeding ground before the carrion birds landed further away, resuming their grisly meals. Where they had been was littered with yet more bodies, these stripped of their rotting flesh and various soft bits that such creatures loved to eat.

Clicking his tongue against his teeth in disgust, the tall man turned and shook his head. "Crows and carrion..." he muttered darkly.

His nearest companion, an equally tall man in exotic, flanged armor, sword resting at his hip, leaned on a broken signpost and the stone marker it had been mounted on, and munched on a piece of hardtack dispassionately. The man's ebony skin somehow remained glossy and reflective, like dark glass, despite the lack of much sunlight beneath the dreary, grey, ever-constant clouds overhead. White hair hung about a handsome if wan face, marred by long scars from temple to the opposite jaw. The pointed ears, angular eyes, and sharp cheekbones easily explained away the man's inhumanly beautiful if also alien and ageless appearance.  He was one of the Fomorians, the Under-Sidhe, or as they were more commonly known: the Dark Elves. Hadrian's blue eyes locked onto the bored, white orbs of his retainer.

"Are you cursing, or commenting, my lord?" Abelaard Elsys Montegraine asked, arching a pale, thin eyebrow sardonically.

"Does it matter?" quipped back Hadrian. "Our audiences are the dead and the feasting. I cannot imagine how you can even stomach the idea of food upon seeing this godless place. The stench alone..."

The Dark Elf shrugged, taking another nibble of the trail ration in his armored fingers. "After you've seen the things I have, you lose perspective for such, my young Kemen lord.  Also, I use this." He cracked a smile, thin lips crinkling like paper into a tight line. He reached into his side pouch and palmed a small canteen, tossing it to the lord.

Catching it wordlessly, Hadrian popped the tin and took a pinch of the medical powder within onto his opposing thumb, then sniffed a dose into each nostril. His eyes watered as the bitter medicine caused his nose to tingle, but it helped clear the stench of Bardon somewhat. He closed the tin and tossed it back to Abelaard. He did not thank the knight, but the Elf seemed not to care as he caught it without looking and returned it to his pouch.

"And you're sure the report was accurate?" the human asked, turning back to view the fields of the dead. He crossed his arms, armor rustling. Unlike Abelaard, who wore flanged platemail over a lithe form that barely seemed to feel the encumbrance, Hadrian was garbed in lighter fare. A red surcoat and mail adorned his chest, once grand and shining but now faded and rusting in places. Armored vambraces were on his forearms, connected to couters on his elbows, raised pauldrons on his shoulders with a gorget to protect his neck. His polished boots were muddied and stained. The scabbard of his own sword was strapped currently over his shoulder rather than risk the fine weapon hanging at his side and thus nearer the foulness of the earth he was forced to trudge across.

"Yes, sir," retorted Abelaard, voice muffled slightly as he continued to chew on the hardtack. "The field officer who issued the warrant was quite clear that the last sighting was in this area."

"Area.”  The lord snorted derisively.  "As if that narrows it down at all. There must be miles of such farmland turned charnel house around here. How are we supposed to find a single fugitive in a place like this?"

He heard that ever-constant dry chuckling that his retainer was fond of using to voice his sardonic moods. "If the answer were so easy, and this person so simple to find, the officials would not have a bounty placed on them. Truly, this hardship is to our betterment, my lord. Who better to search than those desperate enough to do so?"

Snorting again, Hadrian glanced back at the Elf, who had adjusted his stance to lean more on the partially collapsed stone marker. "No one I know would peg you as an optimist, Abelaard," he commented dryly.

"Ever so, that is me," the Elf retorted. "Hark, I believe I see a rainbow." He pointed out across the fields, voice remaining monotone and dry. "Ah, my mistake, just another corpse."

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Hadrian turned his back to the gray heath and began trudging back through the mud towards the cobbled-stone road they had come down to reach here. "Unless you intend to dig in the corpses," he said in passing the tall Elf. "We move on from here. There are other places we can search for this fugitive."

Tossing the crust of his rations out into the fields, Abelaard flicked crumbs from his armored fingers and leaned back from the stone marker. "As you say, my lord Hadrian," he responded mechanically. Anyone else who spoke so to him would have made him suspect they were mocking him with such a tone. With Abelaard, the mocking was obvious but at least it was not done maliciously. The Dark Elf spoke that way to everyone: noble, commoner, or otherwise.

Hadrian grumbled as their boots trudged back up the stone path towards the trail of smoke that signaled where the others had set up camp farther back. Rounding the trail, they came into sight of their train; four covered wagons set up in a rough semi-circle on the side of the road. As they entered the campsite, the people all around them rose, straightened, or stood to attention from their various seats.

The majority of them, guardsmen still in Hadria’s service, saluted grimly out of respect or obedience born of their station.  Just like their master however, their faded surcoats and chainmail had been dirtied by weeks upon the road, weapons hanging ill at ease at waists or propped up within each reach. Their faces were haggard and grim, eyes sunken, and expressions harsh. They may salute, but he knew that their remaining loyalty hung by a thread. Only the protocol of their training kept them obedient, for now, that and Abelaard's ever-constant presence. He had personally trained every man present, and everyone knew of his skill with the blade.

Hadrian strode straight up to a more heavily armored man, wearing a dented breastplate with several straps loosened, and a chainmail coif over his receding head of hair. "Sergeant, report.” As ever, even displaced, the nobleman posed with trained ease, one hand on his hip and feet set wide apart, shoulders back and head cocked slightly as if looking down upon his subordinates, despite that the Sergeant was truthfully just as tall as he was.

Sergeant Harris grumbled, chewing on a stalk of grass that stuck out from the corner of his thick, unkempt beard before he spat it out and performed a half-hearted salute. "Sir!" he barked. "Column turned down for camp, sir! Scouts and sentries posted!"

"Very good, carry on," Hadrian commanded, whirling away for a dramatic step before he added, "At your ease." He thought he heard more grumbling but a glance over his shoulder had the Sergeant turning away quickly lest he be caught glaring. Narrowing his eyes, he decided to let it be, for now. Insubordination often started small but was quick to rage out of control like a bonfire if left unattended and not periodically tempered with discipline.

Together, he and Abelaard walked away, towards a raised tent set up in the flattest and driest piece of ground the column had been able to find. Other tents were located here and there, much smaller, less grand affairs that belonged to his soldiers. Decorated in yellow and red, even the thick cloth was looking worse for wear. The edges were stained gray with mud, tassels frayed, and his personal coat of arms, mounted on a shield hanging from a post, needed a fresh coat of paint. The Red Dragon and Chalice of Draytn had seen better days, much better days.

Waiting for Abelaard to dutifully open the flaps for him, Hadrian stalked inside and planted himself in the wooden chair already set up in the center. The Dark Elf followed him in, closing the tent behind him. Clicking his fingers, the magical sconces set up on the tent posts flashed to life with a dull, blue glow. Taking a seat directly across the miniature table that separated them, Abelaard pulled a roll of parchment from a chest nearby and spread it across the surface. He perused it for several seconds then pointed with an armored finger.

"This is our current location," he explained as Hadrian sat back in his own chair, crossing his arms and making his armor rustle. The faded and scuffed parchment depicted a map of their surroundings. Bardon was not a large area, and the map showing its name meant that it was several years out of date. Abelaard was currently pointing at an illustrated copse of trees alongside the etched trail they had been traveling on. "The magistrate of Douhand states that the fugitive was last seen roughly here." The finger traveled a short distance, pointing at a section of farmlands, depicted by three pieces of wheat.

Hadrian nodded, allowing the Elf to continue his explanation. A clatter of noise outside made him glance up in annoyance. The flaps to the tent rustled, and a moment later a head of pale hair poked inside. The face, handsome but currently looking stretched and sickly, stared inside at the two of them. A pair of slightly pointed ears stuck up on either side of his face. A swirling tattoo decorated his head, disturbed only by a long scar over one of his storm-grey eyes that added some much-needed bravado and machismo to an otherwise too-handsome appearance. His usual leather coat and intricate breastplate were nowhere to be seen, most likely left back in his personal sleeping wagon.

"Hello!" he said, coughing a bit into a handkerchief clutched in a gloved hand. His slender shoulders trembled a bit as he did so, but it did not deter his youthful energy. "Permission to enter?"

Hadrian sighed. "What is it, Jericho?" he demanded, voice stern.

His cousin flinched a bit but hurried inside, closing the flaps behind him and shutting out the dreary gloom once again. "Er, I just wanted to...well I mean to..." he coughed again, grimacing. "Blast this cold. This fetid, humid air is doing havoc on my lungs." He took a noble stance, bowing at the hip slightly in deference to the two seated men. "I wanted to inquire as to how the scouting mission went, my lord cousin."

Rolling his eyes, Hadrian just shook his head. "You don't see a captive in tow, do you?" he asked dryly. "We are currently discussing such matters and attempting to decide on our best course of action."

Brightening slightly, the Half-Elf man eagerly stepped forward. "Would my aide be any assistance? It's dreadfully morose and boring out there, what with waiting in the wagons and all. The men aren't much for conversation."

Hadria was about to decline, when one of the magical sconces decided at that moment to begin sputtering as the spells wrought upon it faltered slightly. The blue glow it emitted began to fade and expand rapidly as the magic fluctuated wildly. Shadows expanded and contracted like living, breathing things before Hadrian's eyes.

Jericho leaped forwards immediately. "Blasted thing!" he said angrily, lifting a hand and weaving his fingers through the air. Swirls of arcane energy flickered to life around those long, slender digits and he pointed right at the torch. "Let me fix it." The torch glowed brighter and a droning magical ringing began to fill the tent. It hurt his ears, but Hadrian could only imagine how much worse it was for Abelaard, who clapped his armored hands over his own, pointed ones, his usual sardonic, morose expression now broken by a pained grimace, showing off his sharper than normal looking teeth.

"Jericho!" snarled Hadrian, ears ringing. "Turn it off!"

"No, no, I can do this!" his cousin stated, voice a bit higher-pitched from strain. "The air around here plays havoc with magical devices! My own instruments are behaving oddly too!" He waved his hand again, but nothing changed. "Oh gods take me," he muttered, and then suddenly doubled over, hacking heavily into his arm as another fit of coughing overtook him.

Whirling to his feet, Hadrian sprinted over, grabbed onto the torch, ripping it from its holder, and then strode out of the tent. The campsite reacted immediately to the ringing sound, the men all around wincing and flinching in surprise. Striding to the very edge of the camp, Hadrian hurled the torch as far away as he could into the woods nearby. It whirled away, the ringing sound fading slightly before it landed in an abrupt conflagration of bright, blue light as the delicate device burst to pieces. Shielding his eyes, Hadrian glowered with satisfaction to see the torch soon burn itself to cinders just before the metal frame sank into the bog it had landed in with a wet plop. Glaring after it, Hadrian turned to view the soldiers. "Carry on," he ordered, and then strode back inside the tent.

Abelaard was still rubbing his ears, and Jericho was only just then recovering from his latest spell. He met his cousin's eyes weakly, wiping at his lips with his handkerchief. "My...apologies..." he said, voice raspier and weaker. "My magic hasn't been wanting to behave lately..."

A vein in his temple had begun to throb, and Hadrian had to rein in his frustration and anger. "Go back to your wagon, please," he ordered. "If something comes up and I need your expertise with, I'll have a guard fetch you. You're sick, and need rest."

"But cousin!" objected Jericho.

Hadrian's blue eyes flashed. "Now!"

His shoulders slumping in defeat, Jericho turned and exited the tent. Fuming, Hadrian slumped back into his seat, head truly throbbing now. Abelaard shook himself rapidly as the young man left them, much like how a dog might, his long, white hair waving back and forth as if the ringing were still lingering. Those pale, featureless orbs fixed on his lord's ones, and he smiled sadly. "That cough is sounding much worse, as of late," he commented.

Rubbing at his temples, Hadrian grumbled. "You do not need to remind me. He has always been frailer than most in the family, and the atmosphere here would make even the heartiest man sickly for a time." He glared up at the remaining magical torches. "I should never have agreed to let him set these up." He didn't mean that. The impressively simple tools expedited and eased many things whilst on the road as long as they had been.

The Dark Elf shrugged. "Shall we return to the matter at hand?" he inquired, and at Hadrian's nod, they bent back over the map. "My suggestion is that we begin combing the fields here, and here." He pointed with a finger at two different areas. "Splitting the men would be unwise. Rumor has it that corpse-eaters have been seen in the area."

Grimacing, Hadrian nodded. "I agree with your suggestion. Have the men hunt for some food if they can, but anything they do bring down will need to be cleaned thoroughly."

"As you say," retorted the Elf, stood, and bowed at the waist to him. "I have your leave?" Hadrian nodded, and Abelaard turned to go.

"One last thing," the noble said as the Elf lifted the tent flap. "Have the twins set up some entertainment. It's been frightfully dreary and the men could use the distraction. Nothing too loud, no fireworks, and keep the spellcasting to a minimum." The Elf nodded and exited, leaving Hadrian to his own devices. He worked on getting out of his armor, divesting himself of the heavier plates and hanging them on the nearby wrack meant to store it. He left the surcoat on, reattached his sword to his waist, and then finally strode over to the vanity mirror near to his cott. His haggard face stared back at him. His close-cropped black hair needed a trim, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. He needed a shave as well. He would have Yana tend to that later.

He washed his face regardless in a basin of fresh water on the nightstand, dried his hands, and then turned to exit the tent as well. This life was a far cry from his previous one at court, and he could not help grimacing as once again he was forced to view the sorry dreariness of their most recent surroundings.

Evening was fast approaching, the men sitting at various fires, and from somewhere nearby, he could hear the tunes of Yana's exotic instrument being plucked with dextrous skill. It was a welcome sound to distract him from the various plops, creakings, and grumblings all around him.  The very notes evoked images of the far eastern land where he had first met the twins and enlisted their services.  The smells of cherry-blossoms, incense, and lacquer were a far cry finer than the foulness of this place.  He sighed, rubbing at his once-handsome face, and looked around. Jericho's wagon was set up at the very end of the train that marked their campgrounds, and he could see a soft glowing light shining from within. He strode over, knocking on the frame.

"Cousin," he said simply, and then poked his head inside. As usual, the interior of Jericho's sleeping wagon was a sight to behold: much bigger on the inside than it otherwise appeared. Even so, it still appeared cramped, sporting a small but actual bed, nightstand, dresser, and even a bookshelf. An armchair was set up at an oaken table, and a kettle of tea hung over a real fireplace. Everywhere Hadrian looked, he saw various, intricate devices, all clicking or whirling or bubbling away. There was even a very small alchemy table set up nearby. Seated at a desk, Jericho looked around, pale face catching the light.

"Ah, Hadrian!" he beamed, as if he had not been scolded and told to leave his cousin's tent only an hour or so ago. His smile was bright but tired. A stained cloth lay near at hand, which he hurried to shove out of sight. He closed his book and set down his quill. "I was just annotating our latest voyages. I figured if I couldn't help with the planning, I could at least do my best to chronicle your journey thus far.  It will make quite the exciting tale once we resolve your current...issues and return to a life of normalcy."

Climbing up and into the wagon, Hadrian sighed with some satisfaction as he settled into a plush if frayed armchair. It was soft and reminded him of his old home and lifestyle. What he wouldn't give for a glass of wine right now... "How are you feeling?" he asked, looking over at his cousin, ignoring the later comments he had made.

"Better!" Jericho lied. "The air is simply so wet around here that it gets into your lungs. Being as frail as myself, it is easy to become overwhelmed. It will pass, I swear it."

Glowering, Hadrian rubbed at his temples again. "I'll have Yana come take a look at you tomorrow then. I can't have my cousin falling over dead in front of the men."

"Of course."  Jericho tried to sound cheery but even so, his face fell a bit. "I am sorry about the torch earlier...I think this ailment is affecting..."

Hadrian waved a hand, cutting his cousin off. "Never mind that." He glanced up, letting a small smirk grace his features. "I shouldn't have exploded at you like that. The tension is getting to us all."

The Half-Elf blinked and then smiled wider. "Would you like some tea?" he asked. "I just made a fresh pot."

Nodding, Hadrian sat up straighter and accepted a steaming cup from Jericho. He sipped at it, letting the warmth soak into him. They sat in silence for a while. Hadrian could hear nothing from the outside, most likely thanks to yet another magical working of his talented cousin. Jericho had been the pride of the magical college back in the city, perhaps a bit of a black sheep of the Draytn name but Hadrian had always been fond of him, despite his social awkwardness, naivety, and endless enthusiasm.

"I never thanked you," he uttered softly, looking at his weathered and grim appearance reflected up at him in the tea.

"For what?" Jericho asked, genuinely sounding puzzled as he sipped at his own.

"Coming with me. You threw away a life of luxury and ease, acknowledgment of your abilities, even a career. All of that, just to come chasing after me after what happened. The Court wasn't your field, and my disgrace didn't even affect you. I never should have agreed to that bloody duel..."

They met one another's eyes, and Jericho's cheeks colored a bit. He looked away, ears glowing a bit and a not-so-subtle smile on his lips. "Well...that's what family is supposed to do, isn't it?" he asked as if playing it off. "Besides, all the reading of the world doesn't compare to actual fieldwork and experience. The stuffiness of the College was beginning to get to me anyway." He drew himself up haughtily, feigning an air that did not suit him. Then he broke, chuckling, and raised his teacup to Hadrian. "Mother shan't be pleased, but when was she ever?"

Hadrian winced. "Ah yes, Aunt Margaret. I suppose she'll have changed her name after my little debacle."

"Station is wholly important to some," agreed Jericho. "A rigged duel would cause quite a bit of a scandal. You couldn't have known."

"I should have," retorted Hadrian bitterly. He set down his half-finished tea. "I didn't ever intend to kill him. Never again will I accept any other blade than my own." He did not add that he suspected that he would probably never be in a position to accept a nobleman's duel again anyway. "I need to go check on the others and see what dinner they've managed to turn up."

"Would you like me to come?" asked Jericho. He set down his own cup as well. "My legs could use a stretch after being cooped up in here."

Sighing, Hadrian nodded. As he turned to leave, his foot snagged on something and he looked back curiously. The stock of an ornamented crossbow stuck up from the corner of the doorway. He glanced back at his cousin curiously. "Isn't that Uncle Falhart's?" he asked, actually smirking again. Jericho blushed and nodded. "Oh dear, maybe it won't just be me that Aunt Margeret is peeved at." Chuckling, he climbed down out of the wagon. Jericho followed behind.

As the sights, sounds, and smells of their campsite once more asserted themselves over their senses, Hadrian saw that the men had seemed to finally become more at ease.  Yana's playing was much more easily heard now, and small, merry fires blazed everywhere he could see.  Beyond, at the corner of the campsite, he even saw Abelaard, still in his armor, standing with his back against a wagon and watching a small crowd with that same impassive stare he always had.  Still, Hadrian knew the Dark Elf well enough to notice that he was actually smiling, in his own way.  The gloomy dryness of his thin lips was tucked up at the corners, and his eyes were lazily unfocused.

Looking beyond, to what the Elf knight and most of the guardsmen were looking at, Hadrian was not surprised at what he saw.  A pair of Tieflings, grey-blue skin painted in stripes of white, black, and red, were facing the crowd.  One wore an elaborate and exotic robe with overlong sleeves that concealed his hands, and his face was covered by a fox-like mask, although his short pair of dark horns still stuck out of the top.  He danced and capered from side to side in mechanical, jerky motions that lent an air of humor to the whole scene, acting out some scene to the music being played.  Yan was a mystery to them all, a mute, or so his sister said, and a deadlier blade other than Abelaard, Hadrian had never seen.  The hilts of his paired swords were nowhere to be seen, but the noble had no doubt the man still wore them, underneath that ridiculous get-up of his homeland.  His barbed, demon-like tail waved a fan from side to side, and his wrapped feet barely made a whisper on the packed earth.

Behind Yan, seated on the head of the wagon, was his sister.  Yana Newfaith had her legs folded demurely, also wearing a similar robe, but hers was slung low on her shoulders, baring the tinted flesh slightly.  Her indigo hair was bound in a loose bun, and her horns ornamented with silver.  Hers was a beauty that entranced and enthralled the men, and even Hadrian had to admit she was a lovely creature.  Blue-skinned, like her brother, she plucked at her shamisen with her bizarre chisel-pick, weaving a haunting and yet comedic melody through the evening air.  Her tail was coiled at her side, and she weaved her shoulders every now and then, casting shadows upon her contours that were intriguing, to say the least.  A lotus-shaped medallion hung down around her neck, and while where it rested was a lovely sight, just barely visible above the modest swell of her chest, Hadrian knew that looks were all many would ever give her.  Clerics, especially those of Nigre, were fearsome and commanded respect, no matter how demure and lovely they might appear.

Hadrian glanced back behind him, noticing that Jericho similarly was enthralled watching the pair of performers.  His attentions however seemed much more innocent than the other onlookers, and that didn't surprise Hadrian in the least.  More interested in the twin's culture, Jericho could often be seen begging the two for details of their homeland, their goddess, weaponry, indeed anything the tight-lipped, mysterious pair would let slip.  They seemed to enjoy the attention immensely and played a sort of game with the mage, Yan playing the clueless mute while Yana just talked Jericho in circles in her riddlesque manner.  Jericho never seemed to pick up on that he was being toyed with, or if he did maybe he just didn't mind.

"You can go watch the show, if you're so inclined," Hadrian stated to his cousin, smirking at the Half-Elf.

Jericho started, his face coloring slightly, and then chuckled awkwardly.  "Sorry, cousin, those two are just so entertaining."

Waving him away, Hadrian feigned an aloof loftiness.  "By all means, allow the sense of professionalism and decorum to fade if for the evening.  Only the lord remains hard at work."  He began to walk off, and hid a smile as Jericho rushed after him.  He made sure to put his cousin to work, taking a catalog and inventory of their current supplies, troop count, and status of weaponry.  He also had Jericho relay what information the man had about their current area, including a supposed Woodland Sidhe village located deep within the forest.

"I can only wonder as to the Elves' fortitude, maintaining a hamlet so deep in these woods..." pondered Jericho, scribbling away at his notes.  By that time, they had circled back around to the rear of the wagon column again, joined by a small group of men clad in leather hauberks and carrying bows and quivers.  Their faces were dejected and tired from what Hadrian could see, but they still carried a few pieces of game, mostly birds and rabbits, from their hunting expedition in the woods.  Hadrian had Jericho catalog those as well so that the number of stocked rations would not be affected as much, and the men gave grateful smiles that he ordered them to clean and cook the meat themselves without needing to set aside a portion for him and his retinue.

Just then, a commotion tore through the camp.  Something had come bursting out of the undergrowth, darting past seated guardsmen and startling them.  Men grabbed for weapons and even the twins paused their performance.  A whirl of his sleeve and Yan had a knife in hand, while Yana reached for her short bow.  None of them were fast enough, and the shadowy creature hurtled right at Hadrian.  It resembled an overly large bat almost the size of a hunting dog, one that ran on all four limbs in an unearthly, cat-like manner.  Huge bulbous eyes stared at him, a slavering mouth of needle-like teeth, and sharp claws that glittered like pieces of black glass.

Hadrian had little more time than to curse and reach for his sword.  A man tried to block the thing's path, stabbing with a piece of wood in lieu of his out of reach spear.  The creature moved unnaturally swift, weaving around the clumsy strike and striking at the frantic guard.  The man screamed in panic and pain as sharp claws slashed at him through his armor and he went down, trying to hold the thing off.  A burst of motion and yet more of the things hurtled out of the shadowy treeline, falling upon the surprised men in a frenzy.  Their eyes caught the light of the campfires like luminous polished metal.  The camp was abruptly thrown into utter chaos.  There must have been fifty of the blighted creatures, savaging the unprepared men.

Drawing his sword, Hadrian took a step forwards and swung at the one pinning his man to the ground.  The straight-bladed saber lopped off the thing's head as neatly as clipping the top off a rose.  The body convulsed and spasmed, sagging and allowing the soldier to throw it off of himself and stagger to his feet.  The man nodded his thanks, panting for breath and his armor stained with dark blood, before he turned and loped off for his spear to aide his fellows who were all likewise hacking at the mob of things assaulting them.

"Abelaard!" Hadrian called loudly, striking another from the air as it leaped at him.  The silvery blade cut through the creature easily, and it shrieked at it died, nearly cut in two.  The Dark Elf was immediately at his side, thin-bladed sword also stained with black.  "Oh, there you are.  What are these things?!"

"Haven't the foggiest, my lord!" retorted the Elf grimly, smirking as he ran another through.  He flicked the little body off the blade and then struck down another two as if batting away flies.  His sword made distinct buzzing sounds as it cut, so sharp and lethal that it almost sliced the air itself even as he hacked into the furry masses now teaming around them.  "They die as fouly as they look."

"Jericho!" shouted Hadrian then, glancing around for his cousin.  Seeing him having fallen back towards his wagon, he breathed a sigh of relief, then started to see the man retrieving a spherical device from inside his pocket.  "Wait, that isn't another one of your...?" he asked frantically.

"No worries!" called Jericho, voice high-pitched and excited.  He popped the top off the strange ceramic ball and igniting the wire at the same time that led down into the contents within.  "I worked the formula out properly.  I'm certain it won't explode prematurely this time!"  He took a solid stance and lobbed the little metal device away from him into a large concentration of the swarming creatures.

It struck one on the head and it turned to inspect what had hit it.  Its fellows turned as well as it chattered angrily and bit down onto the sphere as if it were another enemy.  A second later, a bloom of heat, noise, and force rocked the campsite.  Hadrian shielded his eyes from the explosion.  Pieces of grass, dirt, and firewood peppered everyone within the circle of wagons. When he looked back, a fully ten-foot area of the campsite had been blasted clean of the foul attackers, leaving behind nothing but ashes, a few charred bodies, and a huge hole in the ground.

The shockwave worked to disorient and confuse the creatures, and the guards were quick to seize the advantage.  No longer taken off guard, the men worked quickly to subdue as many as they could in rapid succession, stabbing with spears, hacking with axes, and crushing the foul little things with shields, boots, and maces alike.  Hadrian flicked the ink-like blood from his sword expertly, a good number of them lying dead at his feet.  "Secure the perimeter!" he barked commandingly.  "And someone find me the gods-damned sentries!  Does anyone know what the hell these things are?!"  Another surge of the creatures emerged then, some of them twice their fellows' size.  These ones proved to be much more troublesome than the smaller ones, bowling soldiers over and requiring many more than a single strike apiece to down them.

"Pyrlings!" supplied Jericho, still sounding excited, holding onto another one of his bizarre grenades.  "They must have been attracted to the camp by the cooking fires.  They're incredibly sensitive to light and fire!"

"Fire you say?" asked a sultry, accented voice nearby, and Hadrian looked over to see Yana and her brother standing there.  She had adjusted her robe, shoulders no longer exposed, and her curved bow held easily in her hand.  She toyed with the amulet around her throat, giving Hadrian a gleaming smile.  "I can dispose of the remainder of them easily, at your discretion, Lord Draytn."

Grimacing, Hadrian took a wary step back.  "See to it, Newfaith.  All men!  Disengage and watch yourselves!  Spellcast!"

"Spellcast!" echoed the men all around, focusing on extricating themselves from the still overwhelming number of their assailants.  The Pyrlings screeched and attempted to follow after the intruders to their territory, but a surge of light and heat distracted them.  They turned in unison, huge eyes flashing, as did the soldiers and assembled retainers.

Having sunken to her knees, Yana had placed her bow to the side and was clutching her lotus amulet in her hands.  She spoke in a flowing, foreign tongue, chanting a mantra to her goddess Nigre the Lotus-Tree Goddess of Flame and Renewal.  A mantle of shimmering flames, flowing like water, blossomed from her without seeming to affect her in the least, swirling over, around, and behind her like the feathers of some grand bird made entirely of fire.

Enraged by the bright lights, a crowd of the creatures rushed at her, and as one sagged to the earth with screeches of pain.  Each had a long, slender knife sticking out of its skull, eye, throat, or chest, most embedded to the hiltless handle.  They shuddered and expired in moments.  Yan stood near to his sister, hands once again folded in the sleeves of his robes.  Even as they all watched, amazed as always at the outpouring of power, Yan plucked up the shamisen that his sister had put down, and struck a double-note.  Almost as if the bird-like shape had been waiting for that sound, it sprang from Yana's shoulders into the air and rushed a large group of the Pyrlings.  A screech of unearthly radiance and joy echoed around the campsite, falling upon the things.  The phoenix had but to touch the creatures before they burst into blue flames, shrieking shrilly before rapidly turning to ash and crumbling to the ground.  The smell was atrocious, even with the ever-present scent of cherry-blossoms that drifted through the air wherever the fire-bird soared.

Yana retrieved the instrument from her brother and repeated the double notes on the strings.  Again the summoned phoenix leaped into the air and sailed toward another group, and again they screamed as they were incinerated.  Even the larger ones proved to be easily susceptible to her powers.  The soldiers meanwhile were unharmed, even if the phoenix touched them.  In fact, several men who had been wounded watched their cuts and slashes heal before their very eyes as the summoned creature passed over them, although their skin remained raw, red, and sensitive to the touch.

The largest of the remaining creatures broke, turning on its foul claws and scrabbling into the air.  It flapped its foul wings, gaining altitude.  Hadrian watched it go with distaste, only to blink in surprise when it suddenly jerked, shrieking, and fell back to earth.  A projectile stuck out of the back of its head.  It crashed to the ground, shrieked again, and then Yan politely walked over and put it out of its misery with one of his single-edged, curved short swords.  The motion was so clean and swift that he returned the blade to its scabbard in the same motion that he drew and cut.

Hadrian turned around to see who had taken the shot, eyes wide.  Jericho lowered the ornamented crossbow, smirking confidently at the corpse, and met his cousin's startled expression.  "Father always told me it was mine anyway," he stated matter-of-factly, leaning the weapon against his shoulder.  The image was only spoiled as he jerked slightly, covering his mouth as another short fit of coughing overtook him.

By then, the phoenix had finished its work of mopping up the foul Pyrites, and returned to perch on Yana's shoulder.  It crooned as she petted its fiery chest, folding its grand wings and letting out a high-pitched sound of satisfaction.  Hadrian nodded at the Tiefling girl, and she returned the gesture.  She leaned up, smiling at her friend.  "You have our eternal gratitude, Honou" she said lovingly.  The phoenix keened again, seeming pleased with itself, and then folded its wings over its glowing body and disappeared in a swirl of flame.  Cherry blossoms drifted to the ground before they too turned to ash.

With the enemy gone, Hadrian turned to Abelaard.  "Take stock of the men and find me the scouts who were posted.  I'll have answers as to why these things were allowed to sneak up on us.  Sergeant Harris!" he called.  The Sergeant quickly stepped up, breastplate splattered with dark gore, billhook likewise stained.

"Sir!" he barked.

"Have the men burn the bodies of these things away from the camp, so that the smell does not get worse.  Open a cask of ale for the men to celebrate with, and make sure no one is grievously injured."

The Sergeant jumped to do his bidding, professionalism returned whilst they were all riding the high of adrenaline after the short, bloody conflict.  Strangely, despite the danger they had all been in, the men looked if anything revived somewhat as if the attack had helped to vent their frustrations a little.  No one glowered at him for the moment at least.

Hadrian turned lastly to Jericho, who was wiping his lips with a handkerchief.  "Have Yana take a look at you now," he ordered, and the Half-Elf reluctantly moved to do as he was bid.  "And Jericho," he continued, causing his cousin to turn and look at him curiously.  "Good work.  We will make a campaigner of you yet."  Jericho beamed in delight and nodded, then hurried off to find the Tieflings, wherever they had gotten to.

Hadrian returned to his tent, cleaning his sword on a rag before returning it to his sheath.  "What a day..." he muttered darkly once alone in his tent.  He poured himself a glass of his remaining bottles of wine and sat back in his chair.  "Tomorrow, we find that fugitive and bid Bardon a fond farewell...may I never smell your stink again..."

He toasted the empty tent then snorted in amusement.  "Right, as if my plans ever go the way I wished they would..."  He closed his and leaned back his head.  Just a few moments rest...

**END OF PART 1**