Even at this distance, Esmeree can see that the scouts are riding their epos hard.  Standing together on the dunum’s walls, she and Twrch exchange concerned looks.  Already they can tell the news won’t be good.

Esmeree paces impatiently from one merlon to the next as she waits for the riders to arrive.  These cai’on are new additions to the dunum’s walls.  All around them, citizens of the New Mill work on fortifying the dunum’s enceintes.  Such defenses have been their sole concern since the dark news began trickling in from Ceilbyrig and Ve’coDusios.

Melt Season came and went quickly, and now into Green Season, the hills of the Bracklands are flourishing with rich grasses and wildflowers.  The New Mill is surrounded with plowed fields where wheat and maize and squashes and countless other crops are growing.  The wounds of the rraakk invasion have healed, but the scars remain.  The dead have been buried, and while newcomers have replaced the voids made by their passing, their sacrifices are not forgotten.  The bodies of the dead, Myrdd’s included, were buried in a great mass grave in front of Gronw’s hall.  Esmeree planted an oak sapling over it—a tree known for its strength and spiritual potency—so that its roots would embrace the dead and its branches would shelter the living.

When Gronw heard news that Rixueramos Naw was mustering an army in Ve’coDusios, he didn’t delay in dispatching his swiftest cings to investigate.  The tales they related with were both disturbing and frightening.  Naw had sent word to all his vassal riges, and his dunum has swelled with the cings from the clans of Capt, Selua, Sego, and Cintus.

Only days ago, Gronw dispatched more riders to confirm rumors of the arrival of a Seven Kingdoms army into Ceilbyrig, and recently, many couriers have been spotted running between the city and Naw’s dunum.

And now Gronw’s scouts are returning with the news from Ceilbyrig.  Esmeree bites her lip and touches her ember for comfort.  If it is true that both powers are amassing armies—and assuming they are allied—there is only one possible conclusion.  They are coming to the New Mill.  The Medianists will be coming for Esmeree, and Naw comes for revenge.

Dirty and exhausted, the two cings bow to their rix.  “Yä have news,” Gronw growls.  “Speak!”

“Me lord,” the first begins apologetically.  “The rumors are true.  A host of boduus knights and their walkin’ dogs have landed in Ceilbyrig.”

“How many?”

“More than we could count, me Rix!  More than all the epos on the Bracklands!”

“Oh, be silent!” Gronw snaps.  “Exaggerations do us na good here!”

“Tell me,” Esmeree asks quietly from her place next to Gronw.  “Did you see their banners?  Did you see their standards?”

The cings glance at each other, and the first one nods.  “Yäh.  We saw many flags and shields and standards.”

She speaks slowly, clearly, “Of them, one would be most prominently featured.  It would be carried higher than the others and would be at the forefront of any march.”

The cing shrugs.  “It would be hard tä say if we saw such a thing.  There were sä many—”

“At the top would be an icon in silver or gold.  A lion?  A wolf’s head?  An eagle?  Perhaps a griffin?”

The second cing’s head snaps up.  “Eagle?  Yäh, I saw such a thing!  A pennant near the front of their ranks carried an eagle of gold.  It shone like the sun, it did.”

Esmeree’s face falls.  “What does this mean?” Gronw asks.

“An army of the Seven Kingdoms carries many banners,” she says sadly.  “Some are for communication or represent different detachments.  Most belong to the lesser knights and lords within the ranks.  The tallest bears the blazons of the commanding knight.  The icon at its top indicates the size of the knight’s command.”

“And this golden eagle?”

Esmeree sighs.  “The eagle means the soldiers come from Ehre.  The gold means it is a full brigade of soldiers, the largest host of knights that could be fielded without the personal command of the Dux Bellôrum.”

“And what does this brigade from Ehre mean fer us?” Twrch asks guardedly.

Esmeree looks away.  “One thousand men, my lords, including musketeers, cavalry, and cannon.”

“Esmeree,” Gronw states with urgency, “As it stands, there are but 200 of us, and not many are true cings.”

“I know that.”

“And not one rifle or cannon among us.”

“I know.”

“And we can expect Rixueramos Naw tä bring more than twice our number of his own cings.  That’s 400 additional men!”

Esmeree is silent, and Gronw sighs deeply.  He gestures towards his scouts.  “Go.  Clean yerselves, eat, and rest.  Yä’ve done well.  Thank yä.”

The cings bow to Esmeree and Gronw and then hurry away.

Esmeree stares at the floor.  “This is my fault,” she moans.  “If I hadn’t stayed here, protected in this dunum, they wouldn’t have sent a whole army against you to pry me out.”

“Yer fate is our fate,” Gronw reminds her.  “That was me pledge.  Don’t censure yerself any longer about it.”

“This invasion couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” mumbles Twrch.

“How is that?” she asks.

“Our crops are growin’ well,” Gronw answers, “and we are close tä our first harvest.  Our food reserves are at their lowest.  We won’t be able tä resist a siege fer very long.”

“Should we flee?” she asks.  “Abandon the dunum and take our chances in the Bracklands?”

Twrch sneers, and Gronw shakes his head.  “Nage.  I’ll not leave me lands tä invaders sä soon after becomin’ rix again.  Besides, me and me cings might be able tä flee, but the vassals and slugs couldn’t.  We’d leave them behind fer the slaughter.”

“What choices do we have?”

“Give the boduus Medianists a week, maybe two, tä march their army here.  Naw will time his arrival likewise.”

“And then what?”

“We will face them in battle,” declares Twrch, “and drive them from the field.”

Spathas against musket and cannon?  Esmeree grimaces.  “You realize each of your cings would have to kill more than five Medianists before the odds are evened?”

Twrch grunts.  “Sä few?  Then we have little tä worry about.”

“And Naw’s cings would still outnumber you two to one.”

“Nothin’ more than braidless mosacs,” the tall cing sneers.  “We’ll paddle their bare asses and send them home tä their tongueless mam’as.”

Esmeree appeals to Gronw.  “Truly, I hope you will work on a better plan than that?”

The Rix laughs.  “In truth, I do not know.  We have a fine dunum, Esmeree.  And in a fine dunum, 10 men could easily hold off an army.  We have 200.  And unlike our battle with the rraakks this past winter, we are prepared.  Our blades are sharp, our armor is strong, and our warriors are fierce.”

“Yes, but—”

“But we face the guns and cannon of the Seven Kingdoms, I know,” he nods.  “And spathas and armor does little good against such cowardly weapons.  We could hide in our dunum, but I fear we will run out of food and water quickly.”  He shrugs, “Eventually, we will be forced tä face them on the field lest we become too weak tä fight at all.”

“Could we appeal tä the boduus barons of Ymyl Gwland?” Twrch asks.  “Surely, some of them would object to Ehrech and EroBernac troops marchin’ on their soil?  There is na love lost between them and the Superbus Tyrannus.  That’s why they were exiled here in the first place!”

Gronw raises his eyebrows hopefully at Esmeree, but she can only shake her head.  “The barons of Ymyl Gwland are either impoverished or accused of sedition against Valven.  Either way, they and their courts were banished to Ymyl Gwland.  True, they have no love for the Superbus Tyrannus—many of these barons are Söderkarl from the Southern Territories—but this army will not be perceived as an EroBernac invasion.”

“Why not?” snaps Twrch.

She smiles sadly, “Because it has been dispatched on the behest of the Primate.  This is a holy war, Twrch, and while these barons may be traitors, they are still pious Medianists.”

“Why would the Primate send an army here?” Gronw demands of no one in particular.  It is a question he’s asked many times before.

“Because,” Esmeree sighs, “We know the truth about him, and he realizes the threat we represent.  We stand ready to choke off his primary supply of sorcerers.  For every stone-summoner that seeks shelter among us, it is one less for him to capture.  He gets weaker, and we get stronger.  This dunum—this army—must be eliminated.”

“But we have na stone-summoners yet!  None other than yä and yer pektus!”

“But we will, soon.”

“But our scouts said the army was Ehrech!  Don’t they already have a war tä fight with the alfs?”

“Yes.  The Primate must have called in a lot of favors to pull that many soldiers away from the alf war.  Superbus Tyrannus Valven agreed to the invasion because he is a pious man.  Duke Beaudous of Ehre agreed to send his men because he is a pious man.  And the barons of Ymyl Gwland will tolerate their presence because they are also pious men.”

“Are yä sayin’ none of these barons are heretics?” Gronw asks in astonishment.

“Oh, I’m sure there are some,” she agrees, “but in their cases, the lords would want to curry the favor of the Superbus Tyrannus…”

Gronw groans and buries his face in his hands.  “The best we could hope for, in my opinion,” finishes Esmeree, “is to convince them to stay out of this and not help either side.”

She looks sadly from Twrch to Gronw.  “What about other Brack riges?” she asks.  “Could they be persuaded?”

Gronw shakes his head.  “The same is true fer Rixueramos Naw.  The Brack riges and gwledigs may not join him, but they won’t help us either.  If only there was someone else we could appeal tä fer aid.”

“The Chroani?” Esmeree wonders.

“Nage.  They are too far away.  They are weak-willed and cowardly, and they have enough troubles with the rraakks as it is.”

Esmeree chews on a knuckle, deep in thought.

“Esmeree,” Gronw sighs.  “We have experience dealin’ with the tactics of the likes of Naw—catapults, ballistas, trebuchets—but these cannon…”  He shakes his head, “I fear there is little we can do against them.”

She glances up at him.  “We have your cings.  We have Llydaw and Koljo.  I know of some things we can do to prepare the dunum.  It isn’t much, but it may help…”

“Mol!” beams Gronw.  “Do not fret, lady.  We are not helpless pektus.  It is several days yet before the enemy arrives.  In the meantime, I suggest we work on preparin’ fer siege and battle.”

Esmeree frowns as she looks through a window at the dunum outside.  The knee-high grass within the enceintes bows and waves in the breeze.  Fry run and laugh in the sunshine, and not a worry or care creases their brows.

How much longer can this last?

* * *

While the dunum’s interior is relatively quiet, crews of cottars and slugs work tirelessly all around her as she walks through the gates.  Everyone who could ride a horse is gone, foraging the land for food and petitioning the neighbors for help—thus far, they have found precious little of either—just about everyone else is working on strengthening the walls and preparing for the siege.

Following Esmeree’s directions, crews are excavating a deep trench all around the dunum and piling the soil against the inside of the walls.  The trench will make it difficult for the enemy to get in close and sap the walls from below—ideally, it should be filled with water—and the earth they excavate adds far more strength to the walls than would another layer of wood or stone.  It is a difficult concept for Gronw and Twrch to grasp, and Esmeree has tried to explain how with earth supporting the walls from behind, cannon shot and boulders will be more likely to bounce off the brattices rather than damage them.  At least, that’s what Myrdd’s wisdom within her ember assures her will happen.  Frankly, it sounds like some kind of earth-elemental enchantment to her.  That’s also probably what the Bracks assume, so it is just as well.

Readjusting her bag on her shoulder, she walks further away from the dunum.

It is Gronw and Twrch’s job to worry about the armies of the enemy, but that will not be all the enemy will bring.  The Primate will send his wizards, and Naw will send his gwrach and sacardd.  These are the things for her to worry about.  Will she have to face that Aggteb a third time?  Will Hailoken come?  She robbed him of his stone, but he is still a sacardd.  She has heard Brackish priests have been able to call down the lightning of Johlpa upon their enemies.

On which side of the conflict will the Brack gods stand?  On which side does her God stand?

“Looking for something?”  Esmeree jumps at the sound of Llydaw’s voice.  The asp moves with the silence of a cat.

She wheels on him and shouts into his smiling mask, “Don’t DO that!”

She turns away and paces back and forth for a couple seconds as she calms down.  Taking a deep breath, she lets it out slowly.  “No, I wasn’t looking for anything.  I was just thinking.”

“Thinking?” he exclaims as he skips around her, now wearing his curious mask.  “Of what were you thinking so deeply?  Important things, it must be!”

She smiles and shakes her head.  “No.  I was only thinking about how we will survive when the armies come.  The future, the unknowable.  You know, foolish things like that.  I was committing the sin of planning.”

“Tsk, tsk!” he clucks, admonishing her with his happy mask.  “You may call yourself a fool, for that is what you are, but you may not call yourself foolish!”

“You calling me a fool?” she laughs.

Llydaw spins and dances around her, and she gasps when she suddenly finds herself in his strong embrace.  Automatically, she drops her bag and wraps her arms around his solid waist.  She can feel the sexuality exuding from the man, and her body responds to it without her consent.  Oh, God, she wonders, how long has it been since she had sex?  Since Maponos was taken from her, over 6 months ago.  So long!

“A fool is what you are, a Pure Fool is what you may become,” he whispers.

She blinks and laughing pushes him away from her.  “I’m a long way from a Pure Fool, you fool.  I still cannot live by the day.  Plan, I must.”

There is sweat on her brow—but not from the springtime heat—and her hands are shaking with her body’s desire.  Part of her is grateful that his arms no longer hold her.

“Do you see the solution to your troubles?”

“No,” she admits.

“Do you expect a solution before the armies come?”

She raises her hands and then drops them resignedly.  “No.”

God save us all if anyone else knew I felt this way, she thinks.

“Good!” Llydaw exclaims.

“Good?”

“Yes!  Then when the time comes, regardless of what presents itself to you, you will live for the moment.”  He laughs with joy, but Esmeree is hardly reassured.

“That will hardly be any consolation to the hundreds of villeins inside that dunum when they die because I’m living for the moment, Llydaw.”

He stops his dance and switches to his solemn mask.  “Is that what you believe?  That everyone will die?”

She nods.  “I fear it will be so, lest we think of some way to save them.”

He waggles a finger at her.  “Trust in Gokh, Esmeree.”

“God.”

“Gokh.”

“God!”

He laughs again, twirling around in his dance of joy.  “Gokh and God walk into a tavern.  ‘Barkeep!’ God bellows, ‘I’ll have seven courmi beers, but my friend here will have only water!’  And the bartender says…”

Esmeree shakes her head as she watches him spin and leap away.  To live in such oblivion, what would that be like?

She bends to pick up her dropped bag.  Opening it, she peers in at the soil the alfs gave her.  She might not be able to find a solution to their problems, that much is true, but she might be able to help the solution find her.  Isn’t that what Llydaw did?  She smiles.  The asp would be proud.

She closes her eyes and nods silently to her ember’s whispers.  Reaching into the bag, she pulls out a handful of soil.  Slowly, she lets it sift through her fingers as she begins to circle the dunum.  Her ember trembles.

* * *

The ranks of Ehrech infantry arrayed against the dunum are beautiful and terrible to behold.  Fresh spring sunlight gleams from polished armor and weapons.  Drums and fifes rattle and pipe from hilltop to hilltop.  Commanders shout orders, and columns of soldiers bark in reply.  Banners and pennants of every color fly from countless lances and staves.  Naw’s mounted cings provide a rougher mien as they race around and around the dunum, exchanging colorful insults and challenges with the defenders.

Esmeree and Twrch stand with Gronw in the hall’s tower and survey the scene around them.  They watch as footmen scramble to assemble the catapults and cannon the armies brought with them.  It is terrifying for Esmeree, as she comes to realize that these weapons will soon be fired in anger against her and her friends.  Many, many people will die soon.

“Is this everythin’ yä expected?” Gronw asks.

Esmeree shakes her head.  “It is more horrible than I could have ever imagined.”

Gronw laughs and points out something in the Medianist lines to Twrch.

She sighs and looks down into the dunum.  Llydaw is there, taking care of Koljo and making sure he keeps his head down.  No one’s sure if the enemy knows they have a cauaros with them, but he would be an excellent surprise to spring on them when the opportunity presents itself.  Those cings and Chroani that know how to use longbows crouch at their posts, the soil around them sprouting the shafts of countless arrows.  The cings beat their spathas against their painted astalch shields and roar their defiance to the invading army.

Esmeree watches as tents and camps begin to spring up throughout the Seven Kingdom’s lines.  As the afternoon progresses, the initial excitement of the army’s arrival begins to die down.  Esmeree watches as it begins to divide by battalion and company as each tent community raises its regimental colors.  By nightfall, two tents stand out among the ocean of canvas.

“The furthest one,” she observes out loud, suddenly breaking her long silence, “belongs to the Medianist wizard.  The closest belongs to this army’s commander.”

Gronw and Twrch move to stand behind her and strain to see where she indicates.  “How do yä know?” Gronw wonders.

“They are taller than the others.  The men who set them up are not staying within them.”  She sighs.  “Do you also see the black bar across the commander’s pennant?  That means he is a Raven, an elite knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“A Cathubodua, eh?” chuckles Gronw.  “Is that a good thing fer us?”

“The commander will be famous for his deeds and bravery.  He will bear the title of Vavasour.  His martial skill is second-to-none.  He is honorable to a fault, fair, and loyal.  He is also ruthless to the ememies of his state and God.  We can expect no mercy in the execution of his duties.”

Twrch laughs.  “All of that in a Cathubodua?  They’re all the same, uh?”

“No,” she shakes her head sadly.  A gust of wind rushes across the moors, temporarily catching and snapping the flags into full view.  Briefly, she can see the familiar blazons on the commander’s standard.  “I just happen to know this Raven.”

Sunrise finds a great white flag hanging from the walls of the dunum, across it is a hastily painted bisected circle.

In Guiromélans’s tent, the Brack and Seven Kingdoms commanders meet to discuss this new turn of events.

“There is really very little to discuss,” the Raven says.  “It is a request for palaver.  Truly, we should meet with them anyway before hostilities begin.”

Rixueramos Naw spits crudely on the floor.  “The leaders of the enemy want to talk, alone and unprotected, and there is nothing to discuss?  Haw!”

“What do you propose?” Guiromélans asks mildly.

“Take them!” Naw bellows, driving his fist into his palm.  “Cut off the head!  The rest of those mosacs in there will panic and die!”

“Typical behavior from an uncivilized Brack.”  The Medianist wizard shakes his head in disgust and strokes his oiled beard.  “Typical—”

Guiromélans quickly raises his hand for silence.  “The Rixueramos is merely offering us options.  However, certain practices and laws of warfare bind us.  Such an act would violate our codes of honor and chivalry, Rixueramos, and that we cannot do.”

“Ah!” Naw snorts, “So we gather here spill the blood of luct-marvos cowards and witches, but first we must make nice and courtesy?”

“It is not as easy as all that—”

“Yes!  Rather than finish this war quickly and easily on the first day, you’d rather drag it on with a siege?  Risk the lives of your men to combat and disease and rraakks, uh?  Yes, that’s civilized!”

He eyes the Raven closely and then gestures towards the mouth of the tent.  The antlered gwrach looks up.  “My witch Aggteb has the magical charms that rob the boduus whore of her power.  Carry a few in your pockets, yes?  See if they might help in your negotiations with her.”

The tent is silent for a long time.  The Seven Kingdoms wizard leans forward and touches Guiromélans on the shoulder.  “My lord, she knows you.  You could use these charms…”

“The Cathubodua knows her?” Naw explodes.

“Yes,” the knight nods.  “Not that it is any of your concern…”

Realization spreads across Naw’s face.  “Ah!  Yes, back when she was a sellâria, yes?  She played the little queen to your little king!  Tell me,” he leers as he leans closer, “did she cast her charms upon your cock and balls?”

“Enough!” a bodyguard bellows, but Guiromélans waves him off.

“Yes, I have associated with her in the past, and that is all you need know.  It may lend me some insight into her plans, and it may lend her insight into mine.  Only time will tell.  However—”

“WAIT!” Aggteb lurches to her feet.  She fishes the air with her hands.  “I sense… I sense…”

Most of the occupants of the tent frown in confusion, but then the wizard’s eyes narrow.  “Yes…  I too…”

Esmeree snaps back into her body.

“Success?” Llydaw asks hopefully.

She smiles.

Esmeree and Gronw sit on their horses as they wait for their men to take their places.  She suspects similar flurries of activity are occurring on the other side of the field.  Twrch rushes over and grabs the reins of their horses.

“Me lords!” he complains, the tone of his voice betraying the many times he’s raised this issue before.  “I just don’t understand why yä choose tä go through with this!  By the dewine’s own account, the walkin’ dogs’re plannin’ deceit!”

“No,” corrects Esmeree mildly, “I said Naw was proposing deceit.  I do not believe Vavasour Guiromélans will be swayed by those arguments.”

“Yer sure of that?”

Esmeree considers for a second before answering.  “Yes.”

“Yer positive?  Positive enough tä risk both yer lives?”

Esmeree sighs.  “No.  That’s why we are taking precautions.”

Twrch straightens with surprise.  “Precautions?  Sä!  Yä’ve agreed tä allow me tä accompany yä then?”

She smiles.  “I’m sorry Twrch, but that is not possible.  The rules of conduct on this issue are clear.  We must follow them to the letter, if anything, then to make sure our enemies don’t use the slight as an opportunity to take advantage of us.”  She inclines her head.  “Do you understand?”

The châtelain crosses his arms and glares.  “Yäh.  I understand the words.  But I do not believe Naw will honor this boduus custom.”

“And I believe Guiromélans will.”

“And sä what does that mean?”

“It means,” she sighs as she spurs her horse through the dunum’s gates, “that we will have a most interesting conversation.”

Esmeree and Gronw stop just outside the dunum and survey the scene before them.  The Seven Kingdoms army is arrayed in all its splendor, a sight intended to impress and intimidate.

“Sä, tell me,” Gronw asks wryly as he leans over in his saddle.  “What are yer plans fer this meetin’?  I admit I know nothin’ of these boduus customs.”

Esmeree smiles.  “Leave me to the understanding of the Medianists and their ways, and I will rely on you for your insight of Naw.  Together, perhaps, we shall have a chance.”

They slowly begin riding forward.  All around her, she sees the Seven Kingdoms army stirring.  “And if we guess wrong?” Gronw asks, “And we misjudge our enemies?”

“We are human,” Esmeree sighs, “and fallible.  God will forgive us.”

In the Medianist lines, she sees the Raven and the Brack Rixueramos in heated discussion.  As Esmeree and Gronw reach the midway point and stop, she can see Naw gesturing angrily at them.  Soldiers with muskets stand nearby, as do cannoneers.  It would take her and Gronw several long seconds of hard riding before they are out of range of those guns.

Naw argues with Guiromélans, obviously trying to cajole him into opening fire early.  The Raven ignores his pleas and silently climbs into his saddle.  Naw can only shake his head in disgust and mount up as well.  Seconds later, the two are slowly riding towards them.  Esmeree touches her ember and summons.  Her eyes narrow at what the spell discovers.

Even before they have arrived, Naw begins shouting insults.  “What kind of woman leads an army?” he mocks.  “Ungrateful bitch!  She should be at home, serving her husband and learning the healing arts!  Where is your tongue?  Still have you it?”

Esmeree ignores the Rixueramos and instead bows deeply to the Raven.  He is dressed much as she last saw him.  An elegantly curved cavalry saber hangs at his side, a jewel-encrusted wheel-lock pistol tucked into his sash.  His legs and torso are heavily armored in elegant plate—defense against the spathas and gæsum of dismounted cings—but only heavy velvet padding protects his arms.  Such garments allow him the freedom of movement necessary to wield his saber.  His steel breastplate shines brilliantly in the rising sunlight, as do the large buttons on the sleeves of his heavy quilted tunic.  Tall, black plumes rise from the crest of his helm, and a silver raven’s head clasps his ermine-lined cloak of deepest midnight to his throat.  Riding easily on his massive charger, he dwarfs Esmeree and her marka pony.

“My lord, Vavasour Guiromélans,” she says, “My heart soars to see you again.”

Guiromélans raises the mirrored facies of his visor and looks down at her.  “As does mine,” he murmurs, with only the tiniest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.  “And yet, at the same time, it plummets in sorrow that our reunion should be under these circumstances.”

“It doesn’t have to be, Guiromélans.”

“Of course it does,” sneers Naw.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “Here are our terms.  The presence of this place is ugly to the sight of his holiness Primate Klemm of Cærimonia.  You have been accused of heresy and witchcraft and the commission of black arts within this place.”  He looks at Gronw.  “You are hereby ordered to abandon this dunum and throw down your arms.  You, the lady, and the officials of your court are to turn yourselves over to our authority.  You will be transported to Cærimonia for trial and judgement.”

“Yä realize, of course,” Gronw answers, “That I do not recognize the authority of this Primate of yers, nor of yer God, nor of yer king.  I am rix here, and I rule.”

“Of course,” bows Guiromélans.  “This is why we are accompanied by the host behind me.  Their numbers will enforce our wishes.”

“Guiromélans,” Esmeree pleads.  “This is not necessary!  I left the Seven Kingdoms almost a year ago!  My presence in the Bracklands should no longer be offensive to Primate Klemm.  This conflict is pointless and wasteful!”

“I am not one to second-guess the wishes of my lord or my Primate,” answers Guiromélans.  “The severity of your crimes and the depth of your evil has driven them to these measures.  That is explanation enough for me.”

“My lord, you know my character.  I am not capable of such crimes as you imply.”

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “No, lady.  That was the discord that soured our previous meeting.  I thought I knew your character, but I realize I never have.”

“You have, Guiromélans!  If only you can see that!”  She surveys the endless ranks of his soldiery behind him.  “Guiromélans,” she says at last, “Know you the vows of chivalry?”

“Of course I do,” he snorts.  “I would not be knighted, much less a Raven, if I did not follow them precisely.”

“What were they again?  A knight must love God and be willing to spill his own blood for Him…”

“What is the purpose of this?” he asks.

“He must possess loyalty and justice,” she continues, “Protect the poor and the weak…”

“I must remain pure in flesh and spirit, be abstemious,” he growls, “and avoid the sin of lechery.”

“He must strive for candor, and he must flee from pride,” she finishes and then frowns in thought.  “What were the last vows?  Please remind me.”

Guiromélans stares at her for a long time.  At last he says flatly, “I must never witness false judgement or treason.”

She inclines her head as she looks up at him.  “That must be part of that ‘champion of justice’ pledge you claim to enforce.”  She settles her marka and asks, “And what was the last vow of the knight, oh mighty Raven?”

“The knight must never deny protection to a lady or maiden.”

“Ah,” she states and stares at him.  “Are you a good and proper knight, Guiromélans?  Do you enforce judgements you do not know to be deserved?  Are you the champion of ladies and maidens?”

He looks away.  “This discussion is moot.  You have heard our terms.  What is your reply?”

Esmeree looks down at her hands.  Gronw clears his throat.  “Of course, they are unacceptable.  Yä have na rights here, Cathubodua.  Yer invaders in me land.  Yer presence is unwanted, criminal, and dishonorable, and na amount of soldiery will change that fact.  However, I am prepared tä be magnanimous.  If yä choose, yä may leave now without prejudice or enmity.”

“Well said, Rix,” answers Guiromélans, “and here is my reply.  Our presence is just and honorable.  The Medianist church is the enemy of evil, and it goes anywhere evil festers.  If you are people of character and purity, you will submit to our just authority and judgement.”

“Unacceptable!” bellows Gronw.  “We—”

“Guiromélans,” Esmeree asks quietly, “If I were to turn myself over to you, would you leave these people in peace?”

“NAGE!” Gronw and Naw bellow in unison.

“My orders are clear, lady,” Guiromélans says sadly.  “This coven of witches is to be rooted out and destroyed.  Everyone within this dunum will either sail to Cærimonia or fall by the sword.”

“You’re a slippery one, yes?” Naw hisses to Esmeree, “but there’s no escaping now.”  He rides closer to her, and she feels the tension in Guiromélans and Gronw rise dramatically.  “You feeling scared, little girl?  You feeling weak?”

His hand snaps out and grabs her by the wrist.  Gronw snarls and draws his spatha.  “You release her NOW!”

“NO!” Esmeree yells.

The armies on both sides stir into action.  A bullet sings past her head.

“Hold!  HOLD!” Guiromélans bellows, standing in his stirrups and trying to wave down his men.  He turns back to Naw, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Ask her, Cathubodua,” he growls.  “She feels it now, yes?  Feeling weaker?  You feel your magic dribbling away like your life blood?  Those charms are bitches, uh?”

Esmeree looks up from his hand in shock.  Raising her free hand, she lashes out with her Hammer.  The Rixueramos is knocked from his saddle and lands on the ground with a gasp.  The Bracks in the army before her roar with anger.

“What is the meaning of this!” Guiromélans bellows.

Esmeree wheels her horse around as the air begins to fill with bullets.  She nods down towards the fallen Brack.  “Ask him, Vavasour,” she sneers.  “Ask him what he carries in that bag of his.  See for yourself and learn the character of the rogues you ally with.

As Esmeree and Gronw ride away, Guiromélans slides down from his saddle.

“That boduus whore!” Naw spits as he struggles to his feet.  “You see what she—”

His eyes widen as Guiromélans brandishes a narrow stiletto.  Naw takes several awkward steps back as the Raven approaches.  “What are you—”

Guiromélans’s hand snaps out, grabbing the leather bag hanging from Naw’s belt.  A slash from the blade cuts it free.  As the Brackish and Ehrech cavalry races around and past them in pursuit of their fleeing enemy, Guiromélans carefully opens the bag and empties its contents onto the ground.

Naw gasps at what he sees.  On the grass lay four wooden charms, each neatly snapped in two.

* * *

Aggteb glares into the darkness as her cings creep closer towards the hated dunum.  Her lord Naw made the mistake of underestimating the boduus witch thrice, and now it is up to her to restore his reputation.

Crouching within the shelter of the deep trench outside the dunum, she closes her eyes and concentrates.  The shrouds of darkness are still strong around her warriors.  The sentries upon the dunum’s walls remain oblivious to their approach.  In the belts of each of her raiders, they carry the last four of their cherished talismans.  Before the moon reaches its apex, the young dewines will once again be in Naw’s possession.

The gwrach jumps slightly.  The stirrings of the distant boduus army are the only sounds in the night, but something else disturbs her.  She casts about with her eyes and ears, but fails to detect the source of her concern.  It is a tremble in the air, an unfelt breeze, a sound heard only by her stone.  She felt it once before in the Raven cing’s tent, and ever since, she can’t help shake the feeling that she was being watched by it.

Muffled noises drift down from the walls as her cings quietly overwhelm the sentries.  It is all too easy, she wonders.  The boduus adgarios is powerful—more powerful than she’ll probably ever see again in her lifetime—but arrogant and immature.  Aggteb shakes her head as she fingers the fetters brought to restrain the girl.  The things she could do had she been rewarded with such a stone!  Truly, Johlpa has a strange sense of humor.  The girl is untrained—out of control—her power is a raging forest inferno.  To think of what she’d be capable of if she was properly guided.  All that power condensed down into lightning-like focus…

Aggteb flinches again.  The presence is back.  Reaching up, she touches the ember in her cheek and feels it tremble in its presence.  What could it be?

Silently, the gwrach rises to her feet and steps closer.  Could it be Fée?  Ysbryd?  Whatever it is, it was probably drawn here by the energy of the upcoming battle.  She just needs to make sure it doesn’t interfere with her lord’s plans.

As she slips closer, the presence backs away.  Now that she’s aware of it, it’s becoming easier for her to see.  The shimmering sphere hovers over the ground like a will-o'-the-wisp.  With each step she makes, it moves an equal distance away.  The gwrach sneers.  Damn vitchoor prankster spirits!

She begins summoning a potent spell—something appropriately lethal to the disembodied—but just as she is about to cast it, her magic inexplicably drains away.

With a gasp, Aggteb reaches up to touch the stone in her cheek, but it is unresponsive.

A warm breath blows against her neck, “Looking for these?”

She spins to meet a mask of leering naughtiness.  Dangling from the asp’s impossibly long, bloodied sword are four wooden talismans.

Esmeree sits cross-legged on the floor.  A roaring fire warms and illuminates her bare skin.  Her body is bathed in sweat, but it is not from the heat of the room.  She is only remotely aware of someone draping a blanket over her nakedness.  As soon as the garment touches her skin, the focus of her concentration is diminished, and she has to struggle to maintain the spell.

She is about to toss away the impediment when someone touches her shoulder.  Gronw says, “It’s OK, Esmeree.  We have her.”

She exhales explosively and sags, releasing the spell with relief.  When her eyes flutter open, she sees a group of cings triumphantly escort the feral gwrach into the hall.  Aggteb’s eyes widen when she sees Esmeree, and her toothless mouth falls open.  “You!” she sighs.  “It was you watching me?”

Llydaw skips in last, his beautiful sword glimmering in the firelight, despite the blood that covers it.  “A good trick, yes?” he giggles.  “Good trick!”

Bound by the fetters and talismans intended for Esmeree, Aggteb still possesses the presence to intimidate.  She collapses to the floor in hysterics, beating the ground with her hands and pointing at Esmeree as if she is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever seen.  Her cackling screech fills the hall.

Esmeree and Llydaw watch impassively, but she can see the display has unnerved the Bracks.  Even Gronw seems troubled.

“It is good to hear laughter in this halls, Aggteb,” Esmeree says at last.  “This is a place of joy, after all.”

“Joy?” Aggteb snarls, all jocularity sudden gone, “Yäh, there’s joy in me heart.  Joy that I’ll be wearin’ yer skins afore long!  Joy that me revenge’ll be hot and tangy, like yer blood when I drink it!”  She glares at the Bracks around the room.  “Braidless mosacs and filthy luct-marvos all o’ yä!” she spits.  “Pektus!  Kill me, and yä’ll witness me revenge, oh yes!  I’ll haunt yer dreams!  I’ll taint yer offspring!  And when yä dies, I’ll steal yer souls and NEVER will yä see the insides of Johlpa’s Hall!”

“No one ever said anything about killing you, Aggteb,” Esmeree says mildly.  “Not if you don’t make us.”

Something seems to deflate within the gwrach’s demeanor.  “What do yä mean?” she hisses, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.  “What’re yä takin’ me here fer then?”

“There’s no need for hostilities between us, Aggteb.”

Her eyes widen and her face softens.  “Ooh!” she coos hostilely, “Yä thinkin’ of bein’ kind to me?  O’ talkin’ tä me?  Shall we be makin’ friends?”

Esmeree nods as she rises to her feet.  “Something like that.”

“Oh yes!” she squeals in false enthusiasm, “Let’s!”

“Aggteb, as I told the Rixueramos before, I have no quarrel with him or his vassals.  Some time ago, I was forced to commit wrongs against him, and I have striven to make amends.  Twice I have submitted to his judgement.  Twice I was vindicated.  I am seeking resolution.”

“Resolution?” she mocks.  “Take a few steps outside yer fine dunum, and yä’ll have resolution!”

“I wish it was that easy, Aggteb,” Esmeree answers honestly.  “In fact, we tried, and as you probably know, your lord Naw attempted to betray us.”

The hag creeps up into a crouch.  “Betray yä?  Yä’ll not be speakin’ like that about me lord!” she snarls.

“No?  It wasn’t his idea to hide those charms on his person during our palaver?  I apologize.  I must have been mistaken.”

“Apologize?  Do me a boon, yä halogedig oainjyr.  Slit yer throat and tell yer Gock-damned apologies to Bàs!”

Esmeree looks at Gronw.  “This is going no where,” she sighs.  “I was hoping—”

With a shriek of fury, the gwrach leaps at Esmeree.  She can only assume Aggteb wants to inflict the charms’ influence on her—even if it is only for a few short moments—though she is clueless as to why.  With a gesture, Esmeree’s Hammer knocks the gwrach to the floor long before she gets close enough.

The hag’s face splits into a bitter grimace of fury.  “Sä now yer castin’ spells at me, uh?”  She shakes the fetters that bind her hands and feet.  “Deliver me from these chains and yer charms, and then we’ll have a true contest o’ magic, uh?”

Esmeree shakes her head sadly.  “We already had that contest.  Thrice, in fact.  Twice, you won, but this last time, I beat you.”

She looks back at Gronw.  “My lord, you were right.  She has proven intractable to reason.”  She shakes her head as she addresses Aggteb.  “You are a noble caragus, loyal to your rixueramos.  Unfortunately, in times like these, we cannot afford to allow loyal vassals of our enemies free reign in our homes.”

Aggteb pales as she hears the hiss of gully knives being drawn.  She shrieks in surprise and fear.  “Yä’ll not be killin’ me, yäh?” she wails.  “Sacardd Hailoken and the boduus stone-summoner are waitin’ fer me, uh?  They’ll chew yer fine young dewines up and spit out her bones!”

“No,” Esmeree sighs sadly.  “We’ll not kill you.  We’ll show you the same tenderness you and your lord showed me.”  She looks at Gronw.  “Cut out her tongue, as is the Brackish way.  And cut her stone from her face.  Should we survive this war, you can marry her off to whatever cing who will take her.  Else, she can beg for her food and shelter like any luct-marvos Brackish bna.”

Esmeree turns away as the cings fall upon the struggling gwrach.

“Me lady, Esmeree,” Gronw asks mildly as the cings’ steel do their work, “What should we do with those cursed charms?  Destroy them?”

Esmeree hesitates.  She must take Aggteb’s final threat very seriously.  The Medianist wizard is a problem.  He’ll be experienced and cautious, and Esmeree doubts he’ll underestimate her in the same way Aggteb did.  Hailoken is an unknown.  She’s never faced a true sacardd before, and though he’s lost his stone, his remaining power will be fueled by vengeance.

After a moment of consideration, she shakes her head.  “No.  Keep them.  There’s still one more stone-summoner on the field.”

* * *

Esmeree’s capture of the gwrach must have angered Guiromélans and Naw, because come sunrise, they unleash their rage upon the dunum.  Iron cannon shot shatter against the reinforced walls, and fused mortars explode within the relative safety of the courtyard and hall.  Soon, the interior of the dunum is littered with the shattered bodies and torn limbs of men and horse and livestock.  Rank after rank of musketeers slowly advance, laying down withering cover fire upon the brattices.  A cing is lucky to fire one or two arrows at the advancing lines before he has to withdraw again, his armor and clothes nicked and torn by the lead balls hissing through the air.  The unlucky cings fall dead upon earthworks.

The air fills with smoke and the smell of blood.  Wisps of burning paper and clothing fall like snow.

Already badly injured by a near miss with a mortar, Koljo howls and writhes in torment at the back of the dunum, as far away from the focus of the mortar attack as he can be.  Llydaw does his best to calm the cauaros, embracing that huge head and somehow managing to keep him in place.

Within the first couple hours of the attack, the Medianist’s plan becomes clear.  The cannon are focussing on a single portion of the Western wall, near the main gate.  They probably assume the gates are the most heavily defended and reinforced and are hence directing their primary attacks elsewhere—a fortunate assumption, seeing as reinforcing the gates was one of the tactics Gronw had to sacrifice in lieu of other measures.  Infantry is slowly advancing in flanking maneuvers on either side of this point in the wall.  Their fire, along with the mortars, is keeping the defenders’ heads down.  Behind them creep Naw’s foot soldiers, carrying equipment to bridge the trench and climb whatever is left of the wall.  Reserve units cover the remaining three sides of the dunum to prevent escape, and Naw’s mounted cings simply circle around and around and make nuisances of themselves.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Esmeree shouts over the roar of the exploding shells.  “They mean to knock down the wall and walk those cings right into the dunum!  Once they open our gates and that cavalry rides in, it’ll all be over!”

“Yäh,” Gronw agrees grimly.

“Then move up more men to defend the walls!” she yells in outrage.

“Nage,” he shakes his head firmly.  “Can’t do that.”

“Why not!”

With the tip of his spatha, he points at the simple map before him.  He indicates the semi-circle of Medianist reserves that cover the other three sides of the dunum.  “Because o’ them,” he grunts.  “At any time, they can come runnin’ up and try their hands at climbin’ our walls.  In fact, I expect they will soon.  When those boduus cannon get through chewin’ up our Western wall, and they’re ready tä try their final push…”  He nods.  “That’s when we’ll get it from all sides.  They’ll be hopin’ we’ll send everyone tä the front tä defend the hole.  Before we know what’s happenin’, they’ll have more men in this dunum than we do.  And if we do defend those walls, well, then that’s that many less men guardin’ the gates.”  He rests his chin on the pommel of this sword and stares down at the map.  “That’s what I’d do, anyway.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” Esmeree asks.

“Keep just enough men on the wall to keep those ard-vitchoors busy.  Keep the rest tä the back, tä keep them safe.”  He shrugs.  “And when the time comes, hopes we have enough men tä repel the attack, wherever it comes from.”

He smiles at Esmeree’s suddenly frightened expression.  “Don’t yä worry, inigena.  We have yä, we have Twrch and yer asp.  Best of all, we have that mighty cauaros of yers.  Pity the boduus that actually finds his way inside our walls.”

Esmeree wraps her arms around herself, not at all reassured.  “Whatever happened to that siege we worried about so much?”

Gronw chuckles.  “Yä only lay siege tä a dunum you can’t take by force.  Right now, it’s lookin’ tä yer Cathubodua like he can just walk up and push us over.  Just yä wait.  When he gets his nose bloodied, and he sees we’re more than just braidless mosacs, then he’ll settle in fer the siege.”

He frowns at the new expression on Esmeree’s face.  “Don’t be looking too relieved, inigena!  Just because yä and yer asp don’t need food, doesn’t mean we don’t either!  Give it a couple weeks, and yä’ll be wishin’ that yer Cathubodua would come in and finish us off!  At least right now, we can face our enemy man-tä-man.”  He looks down at the floor.  “Yä can’t stare starvation in the eye.”

Sudden explosions rock the hall.  Koljo howls anew outside.  Gronw immediately pulls Esmeree close to him, shielding her from the falling debris.  “What in the Hells was that?” she screams.

They run for the doors just as Twrch rushes in.  “Those damn mortars have shifted again!” he yells.  “The balls are landin’ too close tä the hall!”

“Gock damn those gunners!” spits Gronw.  “Their aim is buachar!  It ain’t like we’re movin’ around in here!”

Esmeree and the cings bolt from the hall and across the no-man’s land between it and the earthworks around the walls.  Gronw’s cings have dug deep trenches and tunnels to protect themselves from the cannon shells outside and the exploding mortars inside.  Inside, the warriors huddle and wait out the hourly bombardments.

Esmeree and the cings duck inside the bunker just as another stray mortar explodes uselessly against the wall of the dunum’s granary.  Taking a deep breath, she waits for the next volley to finish and then, before Gronw and Twrch can stop her, leaps from the trench.  She scrambles up the slope of the earthworks towards the stone battlements at the top of the wall.  Clods of dirt and stone rain down on her as she negotiates the crater-scarred rise.  Just as more mortars explode in the yard behind her, she collapses, coughing and gagging, into the trenches at the top of the walls.  The explosions around her brutally concuss her ears and disorientate her thinking.  What is she doing here?  She’s so close to the stone wall, she can feel the catapults and bombards hammering away at it outside.

She looks up to see the cings manning the shallow trenches at the top of the wall.  Clutching their long bows close and low, so as not to give away their positions, they stare at her with frightened surprise.  Yet, within those exhausted, haggard eyes, she sees a spark of pride and gratitude that their caragus has come to share the danger with them.

Grinning at her with a mouthful of soot-blackened teeth, one of them gestures to the others.  In unison, they all rise and fire their bows as fast as they can.  Just as they duck back, the air fills with the multitudinous sounds of bullets singing through the air and ricocheting off the stone brattices.

Holding her breath—though she doesn’t know why—she slowly rises behind one of the chipped merlons and peers through a crenellation.  She gasps at how close the musketeers are.  Rank after rank of soldiers stand or kneel in orderly, colorful rows.  One line reloads while another takes aim.  Esmeree blinks as a new volley is fired.

Just as more mortars explode in the dunum’s yard, the nearest cing grabs her legs and violently pulls her back down into the trench.  She hears the searing hot shrapnel clatter against the inside of the battlements and sink itself deep into the mud of the trenches.  Esmeree gasps as she attempts to breathe through the mud and smoke.  This is what her cings have been enduring?

“T’ain’t a good idea tä be standin’ out there too long, yäh?” her savior mutters.

She pushes the cing away just as Gronw and Twrch leap into the trench with her.  “Gock damn yä, cuall!” Twrch shouts.  “What the Hells are yä doin’ up here?”

She waves him away, promising to be more careful, and again peers out at the advancing army.  The musketeers below are still about 50 yards from the dunum’s trench.  Ignoring the obvious danger and the warnings of the cings around her, she braves volley after volley of rifle shot and mortar as she watches these soldiers work.

Each of them is carrying a matchlock rifle—the older relatives to the wheel-lock or flintlock—and the whole field is swathed in the white smoke of their fuses.  She watches as each man cares for that ever-burning firebrand.  With each pull of the trigger, the serpentine hammer snaps its smoking tip down upon the pan, igniting the powder, and firing the weapon with a ferocious kick.  The soldier then removes the burning fuse, and in a careful ballet, holds it and the rifle in one hand as he pours fresh powder down the muzzle and rams home the ball.  The slightest mistake could ignite the gunpowder prematurely, inflicting serious injury or death to the soldier and anyone unlucky enough to be around him.

She looks past the musketeers to the mortars and then at the even more distant cannon.  The smoky weapons are little more than larger, louder relatives of the treacherous matchlocks.  Behind each cannon team are stacks of powder and ammunition.  The cannoneers work in a steady rhythm—fast-paced and precise—a dance that can only be perfected by endless teamwork and practice.  Even so, an officer sits astride his mount, saber drawn and shining in the sunlight, and berates the mortar teams to work faster.  Tall plumes of red and gold rise from his helmet, and despite the distance, Esmeree can see that his uniform is clean and perfect.

There are only two mortars, and their teams work non-stop, doing their best to ignore the officer.  Esmeree can’t tell what had happened to cause their aim to go awry, but she watches as with each volley, spotters report on their accuracy, and the gunners adjust their trajectory.  Soon, those mortars will be landing over these cings again.  She glances back and meets the sad eyes of the cing who had saved her before.

Looking back at the cannoneers, her eyes focus on the officer, and her hand rises to her ember.  At just the right moment, her Hammer lashes out, striking the officer’s stallion in its oversized genitals.  The horse rears and spins, tossing the pompous officer like a rag doll.  Cannoneers scramble for cover as man and horse tumble into their carefully stacked barrels of black powder.

All activity ceases near the mortars.  Nearby infantry turn and stare.  The mortar teams stand in mute shock, obviously wondering if it is OK to laugh.  With as much dignity as it can muster, the stallion finds its feet, and shaking clouds of powder from its mane, flees the field for its more comfortable tent stall.  Cannoneers rush forward to render aid to the officer.

And Esmeree strikes again with her Hammer.  The soldier manning the firebrand is thrown forward.  There is a brief flash and cloud of smoke, followed by a tremendous explosion.  Men and debris are sent skyward.

Esmeree ducks back into the safety and grins at the cings.  They stare at her blankly, but quickly they realize the hand she played in the accident.  The nearest cing barks a quick laugh and then orders his men back up.  They deliver a withering barrage of arrows upon the momentarily disorientated Medianists.

Esmeree moves further down the wall and takes another look.  As the smoke clears, she can see that the one mortar’s crew was injured or killed in the explosion—so it will be silenced until they can muster a new one—but the other continues to fire.  More officers surround them.  She can almost hear their screams as they browbeat the soldiers.  They hurriedly light the fuse on the ball, drop it in, and without aiming, fire the weapon.  They do it again and again, trying work faster, trying to cut corners.  One mortar is particularly poorly loaded and fired.  Its aim is terrible.  Esmeree follows the path of the spinning ball as it flies through the air.  It is low and fast, and at first it looks like it might even fly right over the entire dunum.  At just the last moment, it dips down, clearing the wall right over Esmeree’s head, and smashes into Gronw’s hall.  The ball must still have a long fuse on it, because it bounces off the hall’s hardened oak rafters and pinwheels towards the back of the dunum.

Esmeree is too terrified to scream.  The ball lands mere yards away from Llydaw and Koljo and explodes.  The asp is picked up and thrown away, and the cauaros howls as shrapnel tears into his flesh.  The giant staggers backwards, smashing into some barracks and clutching as his bleeding wounds.  He bellows over and over, his screams growing louder and louder, and the whole battlefield falls silent as he rises to his full height.  The giant towers over the dunum’s tallest walls, rage and pain blackening his already bestial face.  “Ašša!” he screams.  “Ašša bojngi!  Hurting stop!”

Esmeree screams, “Koljo, no!  Get down!”

A stray musket shot hits him in the cheek.  His paw slaps up to the wound, and then without warning, he takes two running strides and vaults over the dunum’s walls.  Esmeree leaps up to the brattices and screams, “Koljo, no!  Koljo!  Come back!”

The Ehrech army is sent into disarray as the cauaros drives through its ranks.  Men and beast are thrown aside, gored by his tusks, or crushed beneath his heavy hooves.  At first, Esmeree harbors hope that Koljo might actually break through, but a rampaging cauaros is nothing new to the Ehrech.  As he nears the second line of infantry guarding the cannon, the musketeers open fire.  Esmeree screams as the balls tear into him.  The second line fires, and Koljo falls backward.  Even as he struggles to get back to his feet, she sees them wheeling around a cannon.  The musketeers’ skirmish line close in with bayonets fixed.

Esmeree is crying freely when Koljo roars at last to his feet, scattering the soldiers in panic.  He turns just in time to face the cannon when it fires.  The sangrenel tears into him, the jagged shards of iron ripping him apart.  Koljo’s body falls to the ground in many pieces.

“No!” Esmeree screams.  “You ard-vitchoor sons-of-bitches!  NO!”

Fires ignite all across the battlefield.  Individual soldiers burst into flame as their powder horns explode.  The second mortar goes up in a mushroom cloud of smoke.  Suddenly, her screams are drawing a lot of attention.  The air begins to fill with snapping gunshots—bullets clip her hair and nick Guilder-sized circles from her clothes—but Esmeree hardly notices as she seeks new targets for her fury.

She sees Guiromélans watching the scene from his distant tent.  Standing with him is Naw and the man she assumes is the Medianist wizard.  She strains, but she can’t quite reach her flames that far.  Besides, she has no idea if there is any black powder for her to find among them.

Someone tackles her from behind, pulling her off the merlons and back into the trench.  She rolls over and lashes out blindly with her Hammer.  Llydaw is knocked backwards.  He quickly switches from his frightened mask to his happy mask.  “Well!” he exclaims brightly as he stands over her, “I guess I shouldn’t have worried about you!”

Esmeree abruptly stops crying and laughs.  The asp can always have that affect on her.  Despite his proximity to the mortar blast, his seems uninjured.

Among all the rifle shots ringing out around her, she swears she can hear the one that fells him.  In mid-laugh, the asp is struck in his side, sending him tumbling down the earthworks.

Esmeree screams in terror.  Leaping from the trench, she scrambles down to Llydaw’s body.  His mask is askew, and he struggles to fix it.

“Oh, God!  Oh, Kahedin!” she screams.  “Don’t move!  Don’t move!”

He straightens his happy mask and sits up.  “Don’t move?” he asks.

She slides to a stop next to him and drags him into a nearby bunker.  Under the careful scrutiny of the cings, she searches his body for injuries.  “Where were you hit?” she asks desperately, “Where were you hit?”

Llydaw offers her his hand.  In his palm is a rifle slug, flattened and crushed as if it was fired into something hard and unyielding.  “I think it hit me in the side,” he mutters nonchalantly.

Esmeree takes the ball with shaking hands and then looks up at the asp.  His happy mask tilts questioningly.  “You’re OK?” she whispers.  With a cry of joy, she tumbles into his arms.  “You’re OK!”

Once the Medianist army regains its order, the cannon and mortar assault increases in its ferocity.  The fusillade continues all day and into the night.  It isn’t until midnight that things quiet, and the men inside the trenches can relax.  Koljo’s loss was tragic, but he hardly died in vain.  The cings at the walls estimate he slew 20 soldiers in his charge, and nearly twice that were injured.  Not the mention the soldiers Esmeree managed to kill, though now the Medianists are more careful about where they keep their gunpowder.

It is small consolation to Gronw, who now has to plan for the defense of his dunum without the aid of the giant.  He stirs the cooking fire with a poker and grumbles.  The hall and its tower have become too tempting of a target to the artillery, and now everyone is taking shelter in the bunkers.  “The wall is nearly breached,” he growls.  “The attack will come soon.”

Twrch laughs and flexes the shrapnel wound in his shoulder.  “Not soon enough.  Some of me cings are threatenin’ tä knock the wall down for the cowardly boduuses.  They tire of waitin’ fer the walkin’ dogs.”

Several cings in the bunker grunt in agreement.

Gronw looks to Esmeree.  “What know yä?  What are they plannin’?”

She opens her eyes and shakes her head.  The trick of casting her awareness into a charm and sending it out scouting was useful at first, but the Medianist wizard seems to have picked up on it.  He dispels her almost as quickly as she finds him.  Guiromélans, Naw, and the other commanders remain guarded in their conversations whenever he is not around.  “I’m sorry, my Rix,” she sighs, “I know he is working on something big.  He is a clever one.  I’m sure we’ll find out about it soon.”

Iall trembles in her sleep, and Esmeree holds the little girl tighter in her arms.  The battle so far has terrified the fry, and the loss of her cauaros friend has broken her heart.  The women, the children, the elders, and the wounded—all those who cannot aid in the battle—have taken shelter in these bunkers ever since the other buildings of the dunum became unsafe.  Food, water, and the surviving livestock and horses are also in here.  By Gronw’s order, it is the up to the cings to find space of their own.

Twrch looks from Gronw, to Esmeree, to Llydaw.  “There are four of us,” he says.  “And the boduus army presents us with four fronts.  I suggest each of us leads the defense against one front.  I will guard the front at its weakest point—the western wall where the attack is most likely tä take place—Gronw can guard me right flank, Llydaw me left.  Caragus Esmeree, with respect, yä can guard the rear.”

Gronw and Llydaw grunt thoughtfully—Llydaw wears his contemplative mask—but something about the plan troubles Esmeree.  She looks at Llydaw.  For some reason, she isn’t sure she should be separated from him.

Come morning, the dunum is awakened to an unprecedented artillery assault.  Cannon, catapult, and mortar hammer the widening gap by the gates, driving the defending cings back into the bunkers and rubble of the hall.  In the night, the Medianist lines have advanced to just outside their trench.

Twrch eyes their formations and then turns to the others.  “The attack’ll be comin’ soon,” he mutters.

“They’ll hit the hardest last, to push us as far from the breach as possible,” Esmeree says, “and then they’ll stop.  That’s when the infantry will come in.  They won’t want to hit their own men.”

Gronw looks at Esmeree and Llydaw.  “Take yer posts.  Watch yer men.  If they’re goin’ tä attack by those sides, it’ll be soon.  But keep an eye fer us up here.  If we need help, we’ll be callin’ fer yä.”

Esmeree embraces Twrch and Gronw quickly and wishes the blessings of God upon them.  They accept the benediction and wish for her to fight and if necessary die well.  Gronw reminds her that glory only begins after death.  “Yer a mirain bna,” he says warmly, “Be sure tä leave such a fine corpse, sä yä may enjoy the cings in the afterlife.”

As they turn away, she passes charms upon each of them.

Esmeree and Llydaw hurry towards their corner of the ruined dunum.  He is wearing his solemn mask when he embraces her.  “He’s right, you know.  You are beautiful.”

Esmeree is surprised, unsure of how to take the compliment, especially considering the mask he wears.  Before she can respond, he switches to his happy mask.  “Now it’s off to battle!” he exclaims as he runs off.

Esmeree barely has time to pass a charm to him as well.

Even as her cings rise from their shelters to hear her first orders, she finds it difficult to move from her spot.  For some reason, Llydaw led her to Koljo’s empty nest.  No one has had the inclination or time to clean it since yesterday afternoon, and his scent is still strong here.  Bending over, she finds and picks up one of his long black hairs.  It is thick and wiry, almost like bowstring.

Tying her mane of hair back with the strand of Koljo’s, she slowly walks up the earthworks to join her men.

Koljo’s loss was terrible, but there was little she could have done to prevent it, right?  If this battle was a castles game, he would have been, what?  Artillery?  Asp?  Rukh?  Yes, most likely a siege tower, though the defenders in traditional castles games rarely have use for one.

She freezes in her tracks.  This is a castles game, and the Primate just took her only rukh.  Looking around, she sees the cings arrayed along the walls.  Most of them stand ready to defend the breach in their gates, taking cover and biding their time until the bombardment stops and the true battle begins.

She remembers her vision in the Orphan’s Bag.  This battle is a castles game.  The stakes of her first with Verole were for her life.  What are the stakes of this game?

Her cings are outnumbered and outmatched—her dunum is crumbling—the enemy sorcerer is clever, lethal, and experienced.  All she has are her sorcerers, and they are of little use.  Why?  Why are they of little use?

Looking up at her cings, she suddenly understands.  “Watch for the boduus stone-summoner!” she shouts.  “He’ll be with Naw’s sacardd!  Find them!  Spread the word all around the dunum!  FIND THEM!”

She falls to her knees and concentrates.  The attack will come soon.  She must be prepared!

Minutes later, she senses a cing run to her side, his breath comes in frightened gasps.  He is one of the few new Chroani cings.  His worried face is covered with dark war paint.  “Me lady!” he stammers, “They—”

She silently raises her hand without opening her eyes.  “Did you find them?”

“Yäh!  They’re north of the dunum, by the Cathubodua’s tent.”

A second cing arrives.  “Lady!  The armies are on the move!  On all sides!”

Distantly, she listens to the continuing bombardment against the western wall.  So long as it continues, the defenders will occupy the other three walls.  So long as it continues, the defenders would not expect an attack.  Hence, it is the perfect time for an attack.

She summons her charm and casts it, piggybacking her consciousness within its sphere of magic.  Her mind’s-eye soars out of the dunum, over the walls, and above the heads of the advancing army.  She finds Guiromélans’s tent unerringly—the blazons on his pennant flash proudly in the breeze—and she finds the wizard close by.

The Medianist sorcerer is deep in a summoning ritual.  Slowly, he circles Hailoken, carefully crafting and tuning his spell, the stone in his thigh blazing brightly.  At the center of his circle, the Brackish sacardd sits on the ground, his eyes closed, his lips moving minutely.  He sits at the center of the wizard’s circle, and as far as Esmeree can see, he prays.

What could they be doing together?

Slowly, her fears take form.  Around and above them, the air seems to darken, and a figure of mist begins to take shape.  An intricate hauberk of lamellar armor covers its body.  A mighty helm protects its head.  The figure is of a great, braided Brack, a heavy bwyell war ax held in one hand.

Esmeree’s eyes open wide, and she leaps to her feet.  “Get away!” she screams to the cings standing nearby.  “Get away from the walls!”

“What is it, me lady?” the Chroani cing asks.

She grabs him by the arms and shoves him back towards the center of the dunum.  “Get the cings, the bnas, the pektus, EVERYONE away from the walls!  NOW!  Get them out of the bunkers!”

“Where should they go?” the other cing asks.

“West!  As close to the gates as possible.”

The Bracks look shocked.  “But that’s—”

“Our only hope!” she screams.  Her scimitar flies from its scabbard and into her hand.  She presses the point against the Chroani cing’s throat.  “Tell Llydaw,” she hisses, “Tell Twrch, tell Gronw.  The dewines Esmeree has seen the plans of the boduus sorcerer.  If any man here wants to survive this day, you will do as I say!”

There is something about the girl’s demeanor—the way her ember blazes, the way her sword presses against the Chroani’s throat—that compels the cings to argue no longer.  Turning, they flee her presence, and she runs towards the center of the dunum, sending all she encounters back towards the main gates.  Closing her eyes, she can sense the fear and panic of the cings as they struggle to do her bidding, carrying word that they must take shelter beneath the bombardment—with shells exploding all around them—if they want to live.  It is only through the leadership of Gronw and Twrch and Llydaw that they would do something so foolhardy.  It is suicidal—and she fears scores will die—but she knows now in the core of her being that it is their only hope.

She can hear the screams of the men and women around her.  They are not screams of pain or terror, but of hopelessness.  Turning around and looking up, she sees what is spreading such despair among Gronw’s cings.

Towering hundreds of feet above the dunum, Hailoken’s misty avatar—the incarnation of Johlpa the Ax—stands ready to wreak vengeance upon the enemies of his sacardd.  With one mighty swing of his bwyell, he levels the northern and eastern battlements.  Clods of dirt the size of houses tumble across the dunum’s yard, smashing everything in their wake.  Anyone standing on or under those walls are killed instantly.  Another swing crushes the southern wall, but already the image of Johlpa is fading.  Magic of that magnitude cannot be maintained for long, and even as it moves towards Esmeree and the hall, it winks out of existence.  Only the western walls—the walls that had suffered so long beneath the ministrations of the Medianist cannon—are still standing.  Everyone who sought shelter beneath those cannon survived.

Suddenly, the impacts from artillery fire cease, and just as Esmeree expected, the armies on three sides roll forward.  Naw’s cings lay down ladders and planks to bridge the wide trench, and soldiers begin scrambling across.  She can hear Gronw order his men to move into the ruins of his walls.  The walls are down, but there is plenty of rubble everywhere for the cings to take cover in and hold.  The close conditions will help even the odds for his outnumbered, outgunned men.  Esmeree smiles.  Hailoken’s bri’ua invocation of Johlpa the Ax was clever—and it did destroy the walls—but it hardly touched Gronw’s cings.  The defenders have survived.  The Medianist soldiers will get an unpleasant surprise when they discover just how many furious ve’co berserks are left for them to face.

A cing skids to a halt next to her.  It is Twrch, and he carries his spatha in one hand, his longbow slung across his back.  “Me lady!” the châtelain barks, “The boduus army has leveled our walls!”

His shoulder wound has begun to bleed again, though he hardly notices.

“Yes, I know,” she says mildly as she surveys the evidence before her.

A roar surges all around the dunum as the Medianists charge the fallen walls and Gronw’s cings rise up to meet them.  Twrch laughs with bloodlust and runs forward, eager to join in the fight.  Esmeree sprints after him, trying to keep up, but she quickly looses him in the excitement of the melee.  All around her, she sees the uniforms of Seven Kingdoms soldiers darting through the ruins.  She summons her neo-invisibility spell, hoping it will persuade her enemy to ignore her just long enough for her to really do some damage.  She does her best to avoid direct conflicts.  Instead, she lays into Medianists who appear unprepared for her attack and aids cings who seem injured or hard-pressed.

Grinning and leering, ve’co berserks leap out from hiding to assail the approaching Medianists.  The musketeers barely have time to raise their rifles before they are cut down.  Elsewhere, she sees multiple soldiers pin down and repeatedly stab a cing with their bayonets.  They relish his slow death.

Finishing off an unfortunate Ehrech sergeant, she experiences a sudden wave of power throughout her entire body, as though a beam of magic was passed across her.  She freezes and looks for its source.

“Ah!  There you are.”

She turns to see Guiromélans’s sorcerer standing nearby.  She can feel the power of his stone.  It flows up through his body and out of his staff.  As he waves its tip, she can feel the magic pass over her.

He smiles.  “I was looking for your elusive asp, but you’ll do just as well.  Now, just stand still.”

A Chroani suddenly leaps between them, his bloody falx held high.  With a high-pitched battle-cry, he charges the unperturbed sorcerer.  His cut is intended to cleave the man in two, but when his blade makes contact, there is a silvery flash of light.  Esmeree gasps as she sees the warrior tumble to the ground, dazed and blinded.  The wizard smiles at her.  The bastard has formed some kind of magical shield around himself.

Almost casually, he drops the tip of his staff towards the fallen cing, and a bolt of blinding blue light arcs from it into his body.  When her eyes finally clear, she sees little left of the corpse.  Esmeree wastes no time in fleeing.

“Ah, you bitch,” the wizard sighs.

She flees through the battlefield, ducking past friend and foe alike, yet the wizard always seems to be one step behind her.  How can he keep finding her?  “It’s the power of my ember,” she thinks, “He’s tracking me with magic.  What else could it be?”

Someone hisses at her, and looking up, she sees Twrch crouching on a nearby pile of debris.  The spatha dangling casually in his hand is bathed in blood.  “I see the steel of yer blade, inigena!” he hisses.  “Methinks it needs tä drink the blood of more of these boduus whores’ sons!  The battle’s this way!”

She desperately tries to wave him off.  “No, Twrch!  Get away!  The sorcerer is out here, and he’ll kill you!”

Twrch scans the rocks around them.  “The boduus stone-summoner, uh?” he wonders, suddenly interested.  “Yäh, I’ve been lookin’ fer him.  Been killin’ many of me Rix’s cings with that graney blue spark of his.”

“Then you’ve found me.”  The sorcerer steps into view, his staff held loosely in his arms.  “Would you like to see that blue spark first hand?”

“Yäh,” the cing mutters as he takes up his bow.  “I got something fer yä first.”

The wizard smiles as he watches Twrch nock an arrow.  “You are brave, cing,” he mugs.  “Your reputation precedes you.  It’s too bad you allowed this little witch beat you in battle, yeah?”

“Twrch!” Esmeree yells, “He can’t be hurt!  He is protected by his magic!”

Twrch draws back the bowstring and takes aim.  “Yäh, sä I’ve heard.”

The wizard extends his arms, arrogantly offering his body to Twrch’s arrow.  “In the spirit of fairness and chivalry,” he says with humor, “I will allow you the first blow…  And then I will deliver mine.”

Esmeree frowns.  It is hard for her to see, but it looks like something is hanging from the arrow’s shaft.

Twrch smiles.  “Yäh, yä do that, yä boduus ard-vitchoor.”

He fires, and the wizard is rocked backwards by the blow.  Both he and Esmeree stare in disbelief at the shaft projecting painfully from his chest.  Bright red blood begins to foam up from his mouth.  Twrch casually loads another arrow and fires.  This one plunges to its fletches into his stomach.  A third splits his breastbone.

Twrch chuckles at the look of shock on the wizard’s face as he falls to his shaking knees.  “Now, there’s yer first blow,” he nods.

The sorcerer’s bloody hands fumble at the arrows and discover the small wooden talismans tied to their shafts.  With a cough, he falls backwards.

“Mol, Twrch!” Esmeree exhales with admiration.

He shakes his head as he slips his bow back over his shoulders and takes up his spatha again.  “Damn Seven Kingdoms snobs, always takin’ us fer fools.”

“Bratos, Twrch!”

He smiles and nods as he jumps down to her.  “Yer a fine bna, Esmeree.  Yä’ll make some cing a fine dona, tongue or na tongue.  I’d marry yä meself, but I think yer already taken, yäh?”

“Yäh!” she laughs.

Gronw suddenly runs up to them.  His face is bloodied, and he nurses a bullet wound in his side.  “We’re retreatin’!” he shouts.

“My lord!” gasps Esmeree, “You’re wounded!”

“Never mind that!” he snaps.

“What happened?” Twrch asks.

The Rix gestures back towards the ruins of his three walls.  Above the scream of fighting and dying men, Esmeree can hear the snap of rifles.  “Those damn guns!” he shouts.  “They’re tearin’ us apart!”

His face fills with sorrow as he shakes his head.  “I don’t know how much longer we can keep fightin’ like this.  Soon, we’ll all be with Johlpa, and our inigenas and pektus’ll have tä beg fer yer Cathubodua’s mercy.”

Esmeree presses her trembling lips together.  Even as Gronw’s men begin slipping past her in retreat, she looks back at the dunum’s only surviving earthworks.  Her eyes follow the lines of the wall, from its cai’on and bunker, to the rubble of Gronw’s hall, to the crushed granary, and back.  She realizes slowly that the three ruins combined make for a fairly enclosed, defensible bastion.  She knows the surviving villeins are already inside its bunkers.  “Gronw!” she shouts and points at the ruins.  “Order your men to retreat there!  To close on us, the Medianists would have to travel across a lot of open ground!”  She smiles, “and we still have our bows.”

“Bows against guns?” the Rix shakes his head.  “I’ll not wager much on that contest.”

She looks around, from the retreating, demoralized Bracks and Chroani, to the ruins, to the clear blue morning sky.  Her vision from the Orphan’s Bag returns to her.  She must bring her sorcerers together.

Has she spilled any water lately?

Her eyes brighten.  Of course!

She looks back at Gronw.  “Get your men to those ruins.  I’ll take care of the guns.”

Both Gronw and Twrch look surprised.  “Yäh?” the Rix asks.  “Yer sure?”

She smiles with confidence.  Looking to Twrch, she points at the ruined hall.  “As soon as you call the retreat, send Llydaw to me in there.”

“But if the attack is tä begin—” he stammers, only to be cut short by the look in her eye.  “Yäh.  Alright.”

“Send him there,” she says carefully.  “And if there is any uinom left in this dunum, bring it there as well.”

“Wine?” Gronw asks.  “Yä wants wine?”

“Bring it.”

The message of her vision is clear to her now.  She knows now exactly what she must do.  She only hopes she still has time.

Leaving the cings to orchestrate the retreat, Esmeree runs back to the fallen hall.  Clambering over a crushed wall, she slips inside.  Standing within its darkened confines, she immediately strips away her clothing and sits comfortably at its center.  She concentrates, trying to get her mind around what she is about to attempt.

A cing arrives shortly.  “Esmeree!” Twrch gasps when he sees her.

She hears him hurriedly drop a jug of uinom wine next to her.  “Llydaw says he will attend tä yä immediately,” he adds breathlessly.  “Though we have great need of his sword at this moment.  Matter of fact, yä might be thinkin’ of getting’ on yer clothes and joinin’ us!”

Without opening her eyes, she picks up the jug and drinks deeply.  The thick, spicy liquid runs down her throat.  Her ember begins to tremble.  “Esmeree!” Twrch shouts.

“I will finish with the asp as quickly as I can,” she says calmly, “and then you can have him back.”

She can sense Twrch’s baffled look as he backs out of the ruined hall.  She smiles.  “Buy us some time, Twrch.”

The châtelain curses as he runs away.

Esmeree picks up the jug and drinks again, opening her mind and body to the effects of the wine.

“A fine time to be drinking,” Llydaw mutters happily as he skips in.

She opens her eyes to see him standing before her.  His sword and body are streaked with blood, stark counter-points to the beautiful blue tattoos swirling across his skin.  Outside, gunfire rattles sporadically as Gronw leads his cings in a surprise counter-charge.  She can almost hear the collective sigh of dismay as the first lines of musketeers are overrun.

She smiles up at him and, dipping her hand into the jug, rubs the wine expansively across her breasts and ember.  Her breath comes out in a shuddering sigh.  In his presence, every sensation, every pleasure is magnified.  “We have unfinished business, you and I,” she says.

Llydaw switches to his surprised face.  “Really?  I’m pleased to hear it, but aren’t there better times than this?”

“There is no better time than this,” she answers, as though in a trance.  Her eyes follow the cut of the chiseled muscles running across his chest and stomach, to his powerful arms and legs, to his generous endowments.  She sees they have already begun to respond to her.  “It may be our last opportunity.  Our cings will fight bravely, but they will be forced back.  It will take them some time, but eventually, the Medianists will get their cannon and mortars into new positions.  With shells and bombs and rifles and sheer numbers, they will grind us up just like they did this dunum.  Even you, mighty asp, will eventually fall.  Sword or bullet may not kill you, but you really are just a man.  What of drowning?  Poison?  Suffocation?  Magic?  Even you will fall.  This time, now, is our only opportunity.”

He sits across from her and watches as she drinks again.  She runs her hands through her hair.  Already, she is feeling warm all over.  She can almost feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent filling her senses and firing her ember, making her most sensitive parts glow.

“And what of other opportunities?” he asks, suddenly wearing his solemn mask.  “I remember one particular opportunity, one night within the Locus Amoenus?”

“That moment wasn’t right,” she says quickly, not wanting him to spoil her mood.

“Why not?  At least then, we were quiet, close… and not in peril of immediate death.”

“I swore I would never be another man’s sellâria,” she mumbles.

“I never proposed you would be.”

“I was afraid then,” she says sadly.

“Ah.  ‘A true lover must fear only the one he loves and be emboldened against all else.’  The words of Saint Agape, himself.  It could be an axiom of your Court of Love.  Oh, mistress of the Court, why didn’t you see that?”

“Why do you assume I am master of my own heart, Llydaw?  I am just an afron girl, one who has had many lovers but loved little.  I don’t believe any man has made me feel the way you do.  No man before you has ever required nothing of me and yet has offered everything.”

“Myrdd has.”

“This is different, and you know it!”  She smiles.  “Clever man, you should be wearing your Trickster mask.”

“This is serious,” he replies.  “I need only understand why now is better than then.  Why you rejected me then and accept me now.”

She bows her head.  “Consider another axiom of the Court of Love, ‘A true lover lacks the wisdom and courage to reveal her love, even when she has the opportunity, place, and time.’  Please forgive my past foolishness.”

Llydaw pauses as he digests this.  Outside, the fighting grows closer, more desperate.

“Forgiven!” he shouts, switching to happiness, and the mask seems to grin all the broader.  “All past and future foolishness is forgiven!”

She drinks again, letting the wine fill her.  Her ember blazes in anticipation.  Its glow fills the shadowy corners of the wrecked hall and seems to wash out the blue coils wrapping around the asp’s body.  The air around them feels thick and difficult to breathe.

“So what is to happen now?” he asks, his voice a little more nervous than she would ever expect.  Could this be his first time?

Setting the jug down, she leans forward, kissing him on the breast and cupping his genitals.  “Ah,” he gasps quietly in realization as her teeth find his nipple.

Slowly, she pushes him over onto his back and climbs astride him.  Lightly, her hands touch and explore every part of him.  Pouring uinom across his body, she bends closer and kisses and licks his chest and neck, following the design of his tattoos with her tongue, relishing the taste of sweat and wine and blood.  She savors the moment, moving slow, and enjoys the way his body feels beneath her breasts and between her legs.  As their excitement grows, as does the power of her stone.  Their hair flies about, blown by unfelt winds, and the room becomes unnaturally hot.

Gently, she lifts his bandoleer of masks from his shoulders and shushes his half-hearted complaints.  “You won’t need anything but your mask of happiness, my asp,” she assures.

Sitting up, she feels his erection press against the small of her back.  His hands rise to caress her breasts and ember and face.  She sucks and bites at his fingers.  Her body rocks with tiny climaxes, but she knows they are building to something much larger, much more powerful.  As she lifts herself and then descends upon his manhood, she bends close to look into his eyes.  He slowly enters her, and in that long, delicious moment, they moan and shudder in unison.

On impulse, she reaches out and slips off his mask.  Before she can register what she just did, his hand gently covers her eyes.  She smiles and kisses his palm.  She understands his conditions.  So long as his mask is off, she will not look.

Keeping her eyes closed, she finds his lips and kisses him tenderly, deeply.  Linked together as such, their bodies move to the rhythm of their lovemaking, steadily increasing in speed and passion and power.  His hands caress at her hair, at her arms, and her thighs.  She desperately clutches his powerful shoulders and grinds against him, her nails digging in deeply and drawing blood.

Lovemaking between sorcerers is said to be intense—the larger their stones, the more powerful the summoning—and asps as said to be nothing but stone.  Never has she felt anything close to this.  Never has she summoned a spell of this magnitude.  As they rush towards orgasm, she slowly rises, arching her back and extending her arms skyward.

Power and ecstasy unlike anything she’s experienced before courses through her entire being, eclipsing even her moments with Maponos.  Her ember shines like the sun, their skins glow like the full moon.  Her vision distorts, and she can now see herself and Llydaw locked together in their pleasure as if she is watching from high above.  She sees the dunum in its entirety.  She sees the armies skirmishing desperately in the rubble.  In the sky, clouds begin to roll in from all directions like breakers on a beach, crashing together over the battlefield with a mighty thunderclap.  The air swirls and thickens.  Motes of light flash and circle their bodies.

Esmeree screams and pulls at her hair, and Llydaw bellows.  With their orgasm, she feels him fill her.  His seed surges through her body, filling her belly and chest and heart, pouring into her ember.  With a flash, the power rockets skyward, impregnating the clouds above.  They darken and blacken, and without warning, the sky splits and rain roars down in torrents.

Gasping, Esmeree collapses upon Llydaw.  Her hands explore the fine angles of his face as they gently kiss.  “I am yours, asp,” she sighs.

“As I am yours, enchantress.”

When her eyes open at last, he is already wearing his mask of joy.  Slowly, she pushes herself off him, and she gasps when she sees the bloody scratches across his chest.

“I scratched you!” she gasps.

He shrugs.  “That’s OK.  I hardly noticed.”

Together, they look at the downpour outside.  Not sure what kind of omens this rain portends, the warriors on both sides have hesitated and flagged in their fighting, but that won’t last for long.  The bark of gunfire is slowly replaced by the hiss of arrows.  The rain has extinguished the Medianist matchlocks’ fuses and ruined their powder.  She can hear Gronw urging his men to inflict as much damage as they can before the enemy regroups with bayonets.

She smiles.  Never had she imagined she was capable of something like this!  Truly the chalice was poured over the gwrach, and all was laid waste!

“Come,” he says as he helps her to her feet.  “Our friends need us.”

Esmeree tries to stand and suddenly sags to her knees.  She is spent and nearly exhausted.  Every ounce of power in her ember is gone.  “Hmmn,” Llydaw mumbles as he looks down at her.  “Perhaps you should stay here and rest.”

“No.  I have to help!”  She tries to rise again and fails.

Taking up his sword, he looks back at her.  “Stay here and hide.  When it’s safe, I’ll come for you.”

Sudden panic fills her.  She buries her face in her hands as he slips out of the hall.  This is terrible!  There must be something she can do!  Slowly, with shaking hands, she struggles slip her clothes back on.

“Esmeree!”

Esmeree’s head snaps up when she hears Iall’s cry.  Stumbling to her feet, she staggers half dressed to the hall’s entrance and looks out into the driving rain.  Ehrech soldiers are everywhere.  Almost nowhere does she see a living cing.  Only further back, near the last wall’s bunker, does she see the flurry of combat.  Everywhere else, the boduus invaders are looting bodies or dragging away captives.

All across the ground, the bodies of the dead lay like cordwood—stacked four and five high in places—and many partially buried in the fresh knee-deep mud.  Esmeree cannot tell whether they are Ehrech or Brack, but she fears the worst.  Truly, Gronw made the Medianists pay dearly for every foot they took.  The Medianists have driven Gronw back simply with sheer weight of numbers.

Without warning, Iall leaps into her arms.  She is filthy, covered with mud and blood, though it doesn’t look to Esmeree like she’s injured.

“Oh, child,” she whispers softly, “Don’t worry.  I’m here for you.”

“Take me away!” Iall pleads.  Esmeree smiles as the girl summons and casts her own small charm on her.

Hearing Iall’s cries, a musketeer spots Esmeree and points.  “Alarm!  Alarm!  Here’s another one!”

Esmeree doesn’t even bother to look.  Carrying Iall in one arm and her sword in another, she musters whatever strength she has left and bolts back into the ruins of the hall, the closest available shelter.  From every gap and doorway, soldiers spill in after her.

Ducking past some fallen rafters, she is nearly struck in the face by the butt of a rifle.  Spinning, she cuts the knees out from under the musketeer.

A second soldier approaches from behind, and she screams as she is bayoneted through the back.  She turns and lashes out with her Hammer, but her power is gone.  The spell merely rocks the soldier back on his heels.  She flees down the length of the hall, blood-thirsty soldiers and cings in hot pursuit.  She abandoned her scimitar when she was stabbed, and she uses her free hand to help keep her feet as she flees.

Seeing a break in the wall ahead of her, she tucks Iall’s head close to her breast and dives through.  Swords and bayonets plunge in after her, but she scurries out of their reach.  As she gasps through her pain and exhaustion, disturbingly familiar voices shout orders from within the hall and demand her capture.

Esmeree looks around.  She’s found her room!  Her few possessions lay scattered around the rubble, many of them crushed when the tower fell on them.  Laying in plain sight is the asp’s great sword.  Setting Iall down, she grabs the long sword and lifts it.  Its handle alone is nearly as long as her arm, but somehow the elegant blade feels good in her hands.

All around her, she hears the enemy close in on her.  The first of the soldiers leaps into her room, and with two easy cuts, she disembowels and beheads him.  She spins to meet the second soldier, cutting his rifle in two and running him through the throat.  She is raising the tip of the sword for a backward cut when an unexpected sword pommel strikes her in the temple.

She falls to the ground dazed and near blind from pain.  She hears men shouting and Iall’s screams, though she is helpless to do anything about it.

The earth beneath her hands trembles.  Outside, there are screams.  Part of her wonders why would it behave so?  She wonders at it, though she hardly dares to trust her perceptions right now.

“Me lord, she lives though I cannot say how.  Such a blow would have felled any man.”

“Mol!  That is good,” is the reply.  She knows that voice.  Looking up, she stares into the eyes of Naw.  “And the child witch?”

Esmeree claws at the soil.  “You’ll not touch her,” she snarls.

“Ah?” the Brack asks.  His eyes roam towards Iall and the cings holding her.  “Such a fair child,” he purrs.  “Would make a good wife to any man, yes?”

“Don’t you touch her,” Esmeree warns.  It is a hollow threat.  Right now, she couldn’t summon even the weakest of Hammers.

Naw chuckles.  “Perhaps we should break her in, uh?  No man other than a braidless Medianist would want a virgin as a bride.”  He gestures towards the cings standing around the room.  “These two ladies look lonely.”

“Nage!” Esmeree screams, but before she can try summoning, a cing kicks her in the stomach.

“We need not your damn magic charms to control a witch like you,” Naw snarls.  Looking from Esmeree to Iall, he laughs viciously.  “Fuck them.  Fuck them both.  Let them watch each other.”

“What is this?”  The voice is authoritative, powerful.

Her body knotted on the ground in pain, she looks up to see Guiromélans stalk into the room.  His glorious armor is streaked with mud and gore, but to Esmeree he seems the most beautiful creature in the world.

“We caught the boduus witch,” Naw hisses, somewhat deflated, “and her unholy offspring.”

Guiromélans looks surprised, and when he looks down at Esmeree, his eyes cloud with sadness.  “I had hoped you fled,” he says solemnly.

“No such luck,” she gasps.

Naw leans close to the Raven.  “We were about to have some sport with them, yes?”

Guiromélans’s face flinches slightly.  “Sport?”

“Please, Guiromélans,” Esmeree pleads.  “Don’t let them.  She’s my daughter!”

The Raven blinks and then turns to the Rixueramos.  “You will bind them both, and we will take them with the rest of the prisoners.”

“Nage!” Naw bellows.  “There will be no prisoners!  Take your fucking witch home to your Gock-damned Primate, but all the others must die!”  He levels a thick finger at Iall.  “This one especially!”

Guiromélans grabs the Brack and pulls his face close to his.  “You will not touch a hair on their heads.  I am commander of this army—they are mine to do with as I please—and I choose to take them with me!”

He shoves Naw away and turns to summon his soldiers.  The Rixueramos moves quickly, his spatha materializing in his hand.  Esmeree screams and leaps, though she knows not where she finds the strength.  The cut meant for the Raven’s throat slices deeply into her shoulder and neck.  She and Guiromélans tumble to the ground, and when the knight rises, his fine cavalry saber is in his hand.

He parries Naw’s second swing and engages the Brack in earnest.  His face of mask of fury, Naw swings mightily, wildly.  With each cut, Guiromélans parries and slips in closer, controling the fight and heightening his opponent’s frustration.  Suddenly, his sabre snakes in under Naw’s defenses, and with a simple, quick twist of his blade, cuts him across his wrist.  The Brack gasps as his spatha falls from his useless hand.  He raises his hands as Guiromélans slowly presses his sword against his belly.  “Honorable knight,” the Brack sneers.  “I yield to you.”

“I don’t accept.”

Naw’s cocky attitude fades.  “What?  You must!  You’re a knight!  You’re a Cathubodua!”

A small smile plays across his face.  “Perhaps.  But you are a traitor, a murderer, and a liar, and I’ve had enough of you.”

Naw gasps as Guiromélans runs him through.  The Brack sneers defiantly, clutching at the shining blade with his bare hands.  With one fluid motion, Guiromélans rips his sword from his body, spilling his black guts upon the floor.

The knight looks around him for his next opponent—the room was filled with Naw’s cings—but all he finds are dead bodies.  All the cings in the room are dead, shot down by arrows.  Outside, it is deathly quiet.  Only the falling rain can be heard.

“What is this?” Guiromélans yells as he looks around.  “What is this!”

Even as her life slowly leaks from her body, Esmeree stretches her hand out to her fry.  “Iall,” she whispers.

The child’s eyes are blank, her body laying limp like a doll’s.

“Nage!” Esmeree moans, scrambling across the ground towards the girl’s body.

“Esmeree!” Guiromélans tries to restrain her.  “Do not move!  You’re wounded!  You must be still!”

With Guiromélans’s help, she crawls to the fry’s body.  The child is untouched by arrows.  The injury in her throat came from the blade of a vengeful Brack.  His bloodied gully lays next to his arrow-riddled corpse.

“No!” she screams, cradling the girl’s head.  “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way!”

“There’s nothing you can do for her now,” Guiromélans whispers.  “The men in here and outside are all dead—we’re alone—and we have to get you help!”

Closing her eyes, she buries her face in the girl’s hair and weeps.  “Not you too,” she cries.

Even as she sobs, she senses Iall’s spirit slowly escaping from her body.  She senses her ember stir as it prepares to receive it.  Esmeree freezes.

No.  It’ll not take Iall’s anatlon.  Not hers.

“I must,” her ember whispers.  “It is meant to be.”

Esmeree feels her ember’s power rise in anticipation of Iall’s arrival.

“No,” she sneers out loud.  “You’ll not take her too.  NEVER!”

“What?” Guiromélans asks in surprise.

“There is nothing you can do,” her ember promises.

Esmeree feels helpless.  This is beyond her control, yet she fears her heart will break.  With nothing else for her to do, she closes her hands around Iall’s, bows her head, and prays.

“Oh dear God,” she pleads, “Please don’t let this child die.  So many others have been taken from me.  Not this one too.”

Her ember trembles.  “Very well, Esmeree,” it answers.  “Very well…”

As Iall’s eyes flutter open, Esmeree smiles and cries.  All around them, dark green shoots begin coiling up from the ground.