Bloodied Crown, Part 2 (Patreon)

The morning mist was cold, clinging to the ground and everything else like a creeping growth.  Hadrian sniffed, wrapping himself tighter in his once-lush silken-lined cloak.  The red brocade helped keep off most of the chill, but much like everything else here in this gods-forsaken minor country, it was impossible to keep the worst of its elements entirely away.  The stench of the nearby corpse-fields still hung in the morning air, and the oppressive weight that lay over the area had settled upon him and his retinue like a blanket, almost suffocating.  The only plus side to all of it was that after a while his senses had deadened themselves.  What once was nauseating and made it hard to think was now just another part of the daily experience, like sunlight or the breeze.  Still, he could not wait to put Bardon at his back forever.

He looked down on the three cloth-covered corpses before him.  Bloodstains marred the white covers upon them.  Two of them were the scouts, taken unawares by the Pyrlings the previous night, and thus why no alarm had been raised.  The third had just been the unluckiest soldier among them, swarmed by so many of the foul creatures that he had succumbed.  He didn't know their names, and once upon a time that would have made him feel horrible.  Now, it was like the fog, and the stench, and the sunlight, which blinded but did not warm.  Losing the only people left to him in the world was just another expected outcome.

Hadrian had not expected to be left to sleep all night, but in hindsight, he could not blame the men for it.  Truth be told, he was almost grateful to have been disobeyed.  While the previous evening's battle had rejuvenated them all somewhat, that night had taken them into dreamless sleep completely, one and all.  Even his personal retinue had not roused him for the report he had asked for.  It seemed all of them were just as tired, morose, and drained as he was.

Abelaard and Sergeant Harris stood nearby.  The Dark Elf's pitch-black skin looked wholly unnatural in the pale morning light streaming in through the thick mist, making him appear almost like a moving shadow, or a specter of the multitudes of dead all around them in the fields.  The Sergeant snorted heavily, coughing into his gloved hand.  There was a slight rattle to the sound of it, and the man's normally bushy mustache drooped at the corners.  The air and cold were getting to them all.

Turning to face his retainers, Hadrian gestured with a hand.  "Sergeant Harris," he commanded.

"Sir!" barked the man, in perhaps less than his usually baritone voice.

"Have the men burn the bodies.  I don't want to risk these men coming back as the Undead.  That is the proper term, right Abelaard?"

The Dark Elf nodded.  "Undead, Shamblers, Roving Dead, Zombies, Risen; there are many names for them, but your observation is a sound one.  Best not to take any chances, although the smell will be awful.  I'll have Yana speak over the bodies one last time before they're consigned to the pyre."

Sergeant Harris muttered darkly.  "Lads won't like it if you'll permit me saying so, my lord.  Morale's low enough as it is without having to burn their fellow soldiers."

Hadrian fixed the man with a flat, level gaze.  "Would their morale be bolstered at all if we did not take the necessary precautions and their brothers-in-arms returned as walking corpses?  I'll take no more chances in this Necromancer's garden than I have to.  See that it's done, Sergeant, and then have the camp roused and ready to march.  One hour, and I want the wagons lined up, horses strapped in, and the men at their stations."

The Sergeant glowered slightly but he snapped to attention.  "Sir!  It will be done, Sir!"  He pivoted on his heel, striding off with his usual swagger.  "Up you lazy dogs!" he bellowed.  "Rise and make ready!  The Lord fancies a hearty jaunt through the fields again this day, and you bright, sunshiny fellows will be ready, present, and sharpish!"  The men roused at his call, although none looked happy about it.  A squad of six men were assigned to carry away the bodies, each of them looking grim and haggard.

As the camp slowly rose and began packing itself away in the wagons, Hadrian turned to look at his personal bodyguard.  "What's the plan today?" he asked, gesturing with his head for the Dark Elf to follow him as he stalked off towards his personal tent.  This was always the last detail of the camp to be packed away, which left him time to put to rights his own personal effects before the men took it down.  He quickly unrolled the map of the local area again.

Abelaard leaned over the map, scanning it with his blank, white eyes, then pointed.  "My suggestion, my lord, is this field here.  Three miles down the road.  It will connect to the adjacent one and both are the largest in the local area.  Our fugitive may have been seen here, but from reputation, they are a wily sort and hard to pin down.  Once we have ascertained that they are in neither location, we branch out throughout the smaller fields and broaden the search."

Nodding as Abelaard spoke, Hadrian stroked his chin.  "This person, do you know much about them?  Skill, strength, anything?"

Abelaard took a few moments as if considering how best to answer.  There was a harshness to his expression that Hadrian rarely saw.  "The only details I know for certain, your lordship, are that they belong to an order of warriors known as Dread Knights.  They are famed for their cruelty, their monstrous strength, and their cunning.  Their order was hunted down to obscurity with the fall of Malig's armies over a hundred years ago, but remnants still remain, like cancerous cells, waiting in the shadows and less populated areas for their chance to rise and proclaim themselves the Flayed King's next heir.  By themselves, they are a formidable opponent, but in a place like this, who knows what they are capable of.  Some of them were reputed to be Necromancers, and others Demonic summoners.  I've only seen one of their ilk in my life, and the sight of the carnage they wrought has hardened me to this day."

Hadrian couldn't help feeling a cold chill travel down his spine.   It had nothing to do with the ever-present mist of the morning, currently swirling around their feet.  "Do we have enough men to subdue such a creature?" he asked, looking the Elf dead in the eye.

Abelaard paused again, and that moment of silence cast a shadow of dread over the pair of them.  "I cannot say, for certain," he said eventually.  "I am adept with the sword, as are you.  We have over a score of seasoned soldiers, a Cleric of the Lotus-Flame and her deadly brother.  We have your cousin and his magical prowess.  Would that I still owed fealty to the Order, that my once pious powers were still at my disposal.  A trained Paladin would ease the combat greatly.  As we are, we have a chance, so long as the Dread Knight is alone.  We may lose men if we are not careful, and since we have to transport the fugitive back alive to receive the full bounty, the risk is that much greater.  The men will quail and flee were they to know truthfully what we are after."

"So what you're saying is..." continued Hadrian darkly.  "Is that we stand a better chance if the men have no idea what they're marching towards, because if they knew, they might, yes, be able to prepare..."

"But how do you prepare for a warrior reputed to slay men by the dozens with ease?" finished Abelaard.  "Terror might well be our undoing.  You and I know the target.  The others...might benefit from such knowledge, at least if they can keep it to themselves.  Your cousin, however..."

They let that hang in the air.  Hadrian grimaced.  Jericho was naive to the ways of the world.  Stories about Dread Knights were told like cautionary tales, mentioned in the same breath as legendary heroes, often as the villains of those very same epics.  He had talent in magic, a keen eye for all manner of impressive skills and trades, not to mention his inventions, but would he stand a chance, knowing what he was going up against if he were told the harsh truth?  He was not impetuous by nature, so he would probably not rush in like a Fighter in his first dungeon, but he was also kind, soft, and gentle.  Then Hadrian thought about it more.

Jericho had always been an oddity amongst the family.  One of the only Half-Elves in the Draytn line, his father had been a wandering sage who a noblewoman had taken a fancy to and then left to continue his pilgrimage, or so his Aunt had said.  He was eclectic, purposeful, and driven when he wanted to be.  With more experience, Jericho might even have made a skilled tactician or campaigner.  And as far as being impetuous, how better to describe an up-and-coming Sorcerer in the Academy, to whom magic came as easily as breathing, just up and abandoning a life of splendor, talent, and ease, to go chasing after a disgraced cousin on a whim?  Others might have called him an utter fool for throwing away so much opportunity and station, all for a life of uncertainty and danger.  It indebted Hadrian to him, and he felt that he owed his cousin at least a warning of what was to come.

"Go find Yana and her brother, tell them what to expect," Hadrian ordered, to which Abelaard's eyes sparkled with perhaps approval.  "Both have seen much of the wide world and might have an insight of how to tackle this challenge based on their experiences.  Plus, with Yana's divine powers, maybe she can think of something to combat the potential for Risen dead or Demons, if this Dread Knight can do such things.  I need to go speak to Jericho.  Maybe I won't tell him everything, but he has a right to know."

"Wise, my lord."  Abelaard bowed his head.  "You have never steered us wrong, and I follow your word.  Just a request, from this lowly retainer, if you will permit me."  Hadrian chuckled but waved his hand, giving his permission.  "Perhaps for our next job, we select a place less fraught with imminent doom.  And sunnier.  Definitely someplace sunnier."  They both shared a sardonic grin and the Elf turned to go.  Hadrian rolled up the map, tucked it into his travel chest, and exited the tent.  The camp was almost fully taken down by this point, and a squad of soldiers had been waiting patiently outside for his order to proceed with his own.  He nodded, and they set to disassembling the large tent with trained care and attention to detail.

He stalked over to Jericho's wagon, knocking on the doorway.  He heard Jericho call out, "Enter," and he did so, closing the flaps behind him.  He took his usual seat in the comfy armchair, looking over at his cousin.  The slender Half-Elf was shirtless, seated at his desk and fiddling with another one of those spherical devices.  An array of alchemical compounds lay near at hand: powders, fluids, and unsettling reagents of various colors.

Hadrian watched as Jericho studiously measured out a tiny amount of something silvery into the sphere, followed by a pair of different colored vials, both still in tiny glass tubes.  He wrapped the whole interior device in wire and left some of it leading out of the top, which he then capped, sealed with a touch, and lifted to inspect.  Wincing softly, he shook it with one hand, then flinched at the soft rattle that came from within.  Hadrian winced as well.   Sighing in relief when it apparently didn’t do what it was designed not to, Jericho visibly relaxed and set the orb down in a prepared holster, before turning to inspect who had come to visit.

"Ah, cousin!" he remarked with joy, turning quickly and pulling back on his white linen shirt.  Hadrian started to see various scars and even an unsightly dark, indented blemish on Jericho's otherwise slender and hairless chest.  "Apologies for my disheveled appearance, Yana was just here dealing with my cold.  She performed some tests, or so I think, and gave me some salve that is supposed to clear my lungs."

"Does she have an idea as to what ails you?" Hadrian asked, leaning forward in the chair and steepling his fingers together.  He tried not to think about what could have caused his sheltered cousin such injuries.  The scars looked very old but that bruise was fresher if faded somewhat.  It couldn't have been from last night, and while they had been on the road for weeks or more, it wasn't entirely healed.

Wincing slightly, Jericho sighed, redoing the ties of his shirt front.  "She thinks it is actually something from this direct area.  Ghoulrot, or something like that.  It does havoc on your lungs and if untreated can quickly spiral out of control.  She has me well settled, although she did warn me that side effects, unrelated to just the physical cough, tiredness, and spells of vertigo, could become a reality.  Ghouls apparently love to target those afflicted with it.  Fascinating that an ailment of the body could make it more desirable to a Corpse Eater."

Hadrian palmed his face.  "Once again, cousin, I've put you in vast amounts of danger without ever meaning to.  Your choice to follow me has led to seriously unforeseen and terrible potential consequences.  I never should have..."

"What, allowed me to come?" challenged Jericho haughtily.  "Since when does a Dratyn ask permission?  You owe me no apology for my frailer constitution-making me susceptible to such things.  I'm not even the only one with it, and Yana's seeing to those men as well.  I won't slow us down, that is my promise.  And now that I've had a chance to restock my munitions," he gestured to the wrack where fully six new grenades rested, "I'm well equipped to help deal with any more altercations."

"Well you stay the hells back from any," ordered Hadrian, eyes glinting.  "I won't have my only worthwhile cousin lost because of my predicament to some Corpse Eater."

"Oh darn, and here I'd hoped to go toe-to-toe with a Ghoul," Jericho sighed  dramatically.   "At least their paralyzing touch wouldn't affect me, as it would you.  Elven blood does have its perks."

"Ghouls can paralyze with their touch?" asked Hadrian, arching an eyebrow.

Jericho brightened.  "Oh yes!  Their claws carry a sort of venom that can cause a state much akin to Rigor Mortis, and their tongues have a much more concentrated amount.  You can read all about it in Manuelle's Bestiary.  I have a copy, for light reading, if you ever wanted to borrow it."  He pointed at a bookshelf.  The largest of the tomes there all bore that same title, arrayed in volumes one through ten.  "The Monster Manual, by Manuel Monstre, scholar and researcher extraordinaire of all things monstrous!"

"Right..." Hadrian chuckled softly.  "You would consider that light reading..."  He sighed and leaned his head against both hands.  He combed one back through his short black hair.  "Speaking of battles, I needed to speak to you about our mission here."

"Really?" asked Jericho, just having finished doing up his shirt and now buttoning his cuffs and reaching for his jacket and breastplate.  "Do tell.  I'll admit I am frightfully curious as to what mission would bring us so far out to a place such as Bardon."

Hadrian paused, trying to think of the best way to broach the subject further.  "Are you familiar with...Dread Knights?" he asked carefully.

Jericho's grey eyes went wide.  He dropped his breastplate as he was trying to tie it onto himself, causing the metal to clatter on the floor.  He leaned down to retrieve it, hands shaking, although, from nervousness or excitement, Hadrian could not be sure.  "Surely you jest," the Sorcerer said softly.  "Before, you said that it was only a bounty, although a lucrative one."

"Lucrative, given the danger implied," confirmed Hadrian with a grim look.  "The rumors state that one has been sighted in this area, responsible for untold damages done to multiple kingdom states on the border of here.  Those same kingdoms have pooled together a reward for any who can subdue and bring back this Dread Knight to stand trial.  They're dangerous opponents, and Abelaard thinks it is best that this news is not relayed to the troops, so as to avoid undue panic and superstition."

Jericho paled.  "So you are marching these men into battle with an entity from fables, one which could very possibly overwhelm us all?" he demanded softly.  "Without telling them what they stand to face?  Why tell me then?"

"Because, given everything you sacrificed to come with me, I owe you that level of respect and explanation.  I by no means am asking you to do battle with it, leave that to me, Abelaard, and the soldiers.  We are hoping for as few casualties as possible, but that being said, this could easily go very badly.  If that should happen, I want you to rally the remaining men and tell them to flee."  He met his cousin's eyes flatly.

Swallowing hard, Jericho finished adjusting the straps to his segmented breastplate.  "Gods...a real Dread Knight."  He looked at his cousin again, his expression wary.  "I'll do as you say, but I do not understand the thinking.  This seems a foolhardy chance, lucrative, but the risk could very easily outweigh such."

"It could not be otherwise," sighed Hadrian.  "Thank you for not arguing.  Just follow my lead and things should..."  He trailed off, not wanting to give his cousin false hope.  Somehow, Jericho drew himself up, looking if anything offended.

"You do not need to doctor and censor your words, as if I am some lowly scribe you do not want to cause to panic.  I am fully capable of understanding the risks inherent here.  I came to support you, not be coddled.  I'm far more of a man than you give me credit for."

The flash of stormy-zeal in the Half-Elf's eyes took Hadrian aback slightly.  He smirked.  "I suppose that is true," he relented.  "While I was busy learning the ways of the court, you weren't exactly idle.  I apologize for assuming.  I think our whole family has underestimated you for far too long."

Smirking back, Jericho stood, pulling on his padded and plated coat, along with his bandolier of potions, fresh grenades, and his cane.  "Apology accepted cousin, but you need not lay it on so thick.  Let's just go bag this fugitive and work on getting you back in favor with the court."  He held out a gloved hand.  "I'm with you, cousin."

Standing, Hadrian took it firmly.  "And I am forever grateful."  They shook hands and then both exited the cart.  The soldiers had finished tearing down the camp, waiting in their rows awaiting orders.  Sergeant Harris was also there, sallet helm tucked under one arm and billhook held in one hand.  The sun was much brighter now, and the mist swirled all around them.  Yana and Yan sat on the back of a cart, all four wagons now lined up in a row and horses tied to the yokes.  Abelaard saluted.  "Column ready to march," proclaimed Hadrian, adjusting his gorget and collar.

"Column!" bellowed Harris.  "Ready to march!  Position of attention, move!"

The thirty or so soldiers snapped to attention, weapons held at their sides or hips.

"Left, face!" shouted Harris, and the column turned smartly as one to face the four wagons.  "Both squads line up alongside the wagon train!  Double-time, march!"  The guards hopped to take their positions, spread out fifteen men apiece on either flank of their charges.

Hadrian nodded to Abelaard, who returned the gesture, marched to the front of the column, and raised a gauntleted hand.  "Forward, march," he commanded, flat voice still loud enough for all present to hear.  The wagon and guards set off in unison, the drivers clicking their tongues to get the horses going.  Lengthening his stride, Hadrian walked alongside Abelaard, with Jericho only slightly behind him.

*** A few hours later ***

The fields they searched were empty, save for the corpses that littered them.  They had inspected two by this point, vacant other than the feasting carrion birds or packs of wild dogs.  Both dispersed when approached by the armored column.  The sun had fully risen in the sky, and the cloud coverage less than what it had been the previous day.  The air was warmer, although that meant the stench was worse as well.

Tensions were low, but Hadrian could not shake the sense of unease that plagued him wherever they went.  With the two largest areas searched as fully as they could be, they had marched on towards the smaller, more isolated places.  These two were mostly abandoned, and he couldn't help but be a little grateful for this.  Dread had settled into his stomach at the idea of coming across their quarry.

The column was spread out rather thinly now.  The iron cage wagon was at the forefront, flanked by himself, Abelaard, Sergeant Harris, Jericho, and the twins who had decided to walk.  The guards marched on in loose formation, heads on a swivel but otherwise none too worried.  To them, this was just a search for a dangerous individual, so no terror existed for them.

A swirl of fog whipped past them in one field on their right, already discounted for its size.  Shadows moved in those misty shapes, the mind eagerly twisting them into nightmares.  Hadrian glanced at the nearest of the phantasms, seeing a lonely figure standing stock still and silent.  He looked away.  No earthly figure could be so unmoving.  Just another trick of the light and presence of the corpse-fields.  Something nagged at him though.  He looked back.  While the other shapes were quick to fade with the breeze, that one remained.  He narrowed his eyes, slowing his walk.

It was there.

"Column!" he shouted.  "Full halt!"

Everyone around him started in alarm, their heads whipping around rapidly before they all fixed their gazes on what he was looking at, without him even needing to point.  The iron cage clattered as the horses pulling it slowed to a stop, as did the other wagons.  The guards looked around confused, hands on their weapons.  Five hefted crossbows, as did Jericho, taking up firing positions facing the shadowy figure.  It was well over two-hundred paces away, still standing completely still.

Abelaard came quickly abreast of Hadrian.  His scarred face was set in a grim line, hand on his sword hilt.  He said nothing but the sheer tension of his posture conveyed exactly his thoughts without a word needed.  The twins warily took up positions beside the pair of swordsmen, and Jericho wound back his crossbow before securing a bolt to the stock.  Holding up a hand, Hadrian licked his lips.

"We five advance.  Sergeant Harris, stand by and make ready to charge if combat ensues.  We attempt this with as few casualties as possible.  If we elites cannot contain the fugitive quickly, order the men to move."

"Sir!" growled the veteran and he stepped back, passing on the orders in a hushed voice to those around him.  By then, the thirty guards had gotten into position.  Swords, spears, maces, and crossbows were trained on the distant figure.

Hadrian took a deep breath.  He stepped forward, over the low stone wall that separated the field from the main road.  The others followed him, all of them moving slow and purposefully.  Little more could be made out about the distant person, but as they closed, more and more details began to stand out.  Hadrian's sense of dread continued to build, tightening in his stomach.  This was it.  The Dread Knight.

The armored figure was tall, immensely so, most likely standing head and shoulders over he and Abelaard, and as broad across the shoulders as the slender twins standing side by side.  Clad from head to toe in the most massive set of full-plate that Hadrian had ever seen, it remained as silent and unmoving as a statue.  For a moment, he even allowed himself to believe that that was all it was.  But no sculptor on the earth could ever have created such a terrifying masterpiece as this.  Not an inch of flesh showed, the dark plates scuffed, scratched and dented from what had to be hundreds of blows, and yet they looked as strong as a fortress wall.

Spikes, ridges, etchings, and thorns accentuated the armor from full helmet to pointed sabatons.  A double pair of demonic horns dominated the helmet, nearly faceless save for a set of breathing holes, flanking a raised set of spikes like some demented metal crest.  One pair of horns swept back over the head, akin to a Dragon's, while the second curled in front and rested alongside the cheeks, almost like the mandibles of a huge beetle.

For all the world, the visor appeared like a set of jaws set around where the face would be.  Intricate was not the word for how complex that armor was.  Flowing from underneath the helmet was a mane of long, greying strands of what might have been hair, colorless and occasionally swaying in the breeze.  The Dread Knight leaned on a long-handled weapon, the head of which appeared to be an intimidating hammer.  At the warrior's side was also a sheathed sword, so massive that Hadrian would probably have needed both hands to wield, but on that huge figure seemed only a single-handed affair.  Just like the armor, the weapons were a dark, lustreless grey, scuffed and spotted with tiny bits of rust and damage, but still as deadly looking as they probably still were.

And still the figure did not move.  It didn't even seem to acknowledge them despite that by now they were barely fifty feet away.  They were close enough to see the tattered rags of a tabard hanging around the waist, the cloth so faded that whatever color and regalia had once been there were lost to time.  Hadrian licked his lips, hand on his sword hilt.

"Dread Knight!" he called loudly.  His companions made ready as he opened up the challenge.  He drew his sword, taking a fighter's stance.  "You are wanted for crimes innumerable by the kingdoms Rost, Standia, and Kainen.  We intend to bring you to justice.  You may fight, but you are grossly outnumbered, Dread Knight though you may be.  Surrender now."

The knight did not respond immediately, almost as if lost in a daze.  The helmet turned slowly to face them all, mechanically, as if the semblance of life it obeyed was not quite fully functioning.  Hadrian had heard that in most cases Dread Knights were little more than the resurrected, long-dead champions of old knightly orders, brought back by the darkest of magic to serve diabolical masters of the Fell arts.  Some were little more than mindless engines of destruction, while the stories said that others were fully functioning commanders, with years of battle knowledge and no humanity to hold them back in the pursuit of victory.

The five of them held their breath.  How fast could the warrior cross those fifty feet to reach them?  Who would it target first?  What would its opening gambit be?

The answer came in the space of a breath.  Weapons trained with the armored figure, the feeling of eyes fell fully upon them all.  The air grew heavy, lights fading, and as one their shoulders tightened into knots.  Hadrian blinked.  The knight had turned to face them fully.  It had not moved more than that, but it was closer.  No.  It wasn't closer.  It was bigger.  He looked up in disbelief and shock.

The Dread Knight loomed above them like a giant, towering over them.  It looked down at them with all the compassion of stone.  Its armored hands were spread wide as if to envelop them, each fist big enough to crush the life from them in a heartbeat.  Dark shadows emanated from the armored plates, swirling shapes and sounds that played with every latent fear Hadrian had ever experienced.  The cloud of colorless hair flowed behind the figure as if caught in a furious gale.  He saw moaning faces, bleeding corpses, bare-boned skeletons.  He saw beasts of horrific countenance, howling monsters, fires burning bright.  He saw his rival, deep wound bleeding profusely from the cut that Hadrian had never intended to be lethal.

His feet took a wary step back, mind reeling at the size, the sheer presence of the warrior before them.  What hope did they have of fighting something like that?  There was no chance.  It was as big as a Dragon, leaning over them.  The air choked him, his lungs turning to ice.  There was no chance of victory here.  This thing, this Dread Knight, was terror, a pure personification of a term he had barely ever understood the true meaning of.  Howling voices filled his ears, telling him to run.  His hand gripped his sword as tightly as he ever had.  He readied himself to flee.  If it swung that hammer, he would die, without even a second chance to defend himself.  He blinked.  The hammer?

That giant monster held no hammer.  The hands were open, bare, spread wide as if to embrace him.  He steeled himself, forcing his eyes downward to where the knight had been standing.  He saw it there, still unmoving, arms down at its sides, hammer haft leaning on the ground.  He took a choking breath, and ground his teeth together.  "Apparition..." he growled, and he looked up at the nightmare image of the knight.  He took a step forward as those hands reached for him, slashing with his sword.

The image broke.  The titanic knight of terror vanished.  The five of them gasped for breath, choking and coughing.  The Dread Knight cocked their head to the side slightly as if surprised, but other than that it did not move.  Hadrian's heart hammered in his chest like a charging line of knights on horseback, and he attempted to rein in his nerves.  He felt as if he were soaked in his coat with sweat, and his hand shook where he clutched his sword.  A moment or more later, and he might have indeed turned tail and run.  All from a ghostly mirage.

"An impressive trick!" he shouted, pointing his sword at the armored figure.  "Useful for a coward who prefers to rout his enemies through intimidation alone.  We are made of stronger stuff than that, however, so do your worst.  I know you, demon, and I fear you no more than due caution should dictate."  He marched forward, glaring at the knight.  They were not some titan, a monster, and while large, nothing could compare to what he had almost fallen prey to.  Fear had given way to annoyance and recognition of valor.

The knight did not move, although its gauntlet tightened on the haft of that long pole-mounted hammer.  The weapon almost vaguely looked dwarven in design.  Gauging distances, Hadrian swung with his sword.  There was a ringing of steel and the hammer was suddenly knocked through the air.  It clattered to the ground a few feet away.  The Dread Knight looked down at its now empty hand, and then back to the point of the sword pointed right at its chest.

"Yield," he growled, suspicious for how easy that had been.  "Behind us, you will see an iron cage mounted on a wagon.  Climb in and no more harm will come to you from us.  We will take you to the nearest city, and you will then be their responsibility.  Your dark tricks of the mind have no effect on me nor my companions.  What say you?"

The knight stared down at him, and then, he felt, over his head towards the remaining members of the party.  It seemed to weigh its options.  Finally, there was a deep, rasping sound, as the Dread Knight took a breath.

"I yield," it said, voice echoing without any inflection, emotion, or discernable details about it within the full helmet.  Then the visor shifted, the faceless affair parting like a living thing and opening.  The fangs of the helmet's decorations shifted as well, jaws opening wider to reveal a face behind the dark steel.  Eyes, balefully green, stared down at Hadrian.  A thick curtain of hair the color of blood spilled out around it, contained by the helmet somewhat.  The woman's face was understandably pale, marred with scars along the cheeks, lips, and brow.  Her eyes were hooded and dark, face expressionless.  She was beautiful, hauntingly so, without a glimmer of humanity in her fell eyes.

She moved.  He skipped back a pace, sword held ready, in case she was trying to go for her own sword despite her apparent supposed surrender.  Instead, she just walked past him, armor clattering with each step, and kept going.  Abelaard and Yan stepped to the side, letting the huge figure pass them.  They all followed, most of their faces stunned at what they had just seen.

"Was that...?" asked Jericho, voice hushed and awed.  "Was the knight...?"

"It was a woman," growled Abelaard.  "Or it used to be.  Don't read too deeply into it, Master Jericho.  Dread Knights are no more their mortal appearing forms than a Dragon is simply an overgrown lizard with a penchant for gold."

Hadrian sheathed his sword, eyes watching the back of the Dread Knight as it stomped over the earth and bodies amassed there towards the column of the guards they had left behind.  The men all parted around that figure, eager to remain out of arms-reach as it stepped over the dividing wall, undid the sheathed sword at her waist, and dropped it on the earth with a clang reminiscent of a bell.

"It can't be that easy..." muttered the Dark Elf, having stooped to pick up the hammer from the ground as they followed.  He had grunted as he did so, struggling to bring along the fearsome weapon as the five of them rejoined Sergeant Harris, the Dread Knight, and the soldiers back in the convoy.

The iron cage clattered loudly as the Dread Knight climbed up, hunching her shoulders to fit through the door.  The huge armored frame had to twist and turn several times to get the flanged ridges and spikes to not catch on the doorway or steel bars.  Afterward, she sat down on the wooden floor, not saying a word or looking at any of them.   The knight's weapons were tossed into the back of a supply wagon and three soldiers assigned to guard them.

Hadrian, Sergeant Harris, Abelaard, Yan, and Yana stared up at the silent figure hunched over in the wagon.  They said nothing, gazing up disbelievingly as Jericho attached a keyless lock onto the cage door, latched it, and muttered a word.  The cage hummed with power, steel bars lighting up with runes of dimly glowing magic.  A single, solitary whoosh of energy came, and the air between and inside the cage thrummed as the containment spell was activated.  Jericho climbed down, still looking as stunned as any of them were.

Shaking his head, Hadrian glanced over at Abelaard, who more than any of them was seemingly unable to understand what he was seeing.  Surrendered, without more than a whisper of a fight.

"It's that easy."

***END OF PART 2***