Tragedy of Gold

"Just up and pulled out. Vanished into the holes they crawled from, took all of their dead with them. Just looked out and they were gone, like a fart in the wind." she said, then twitched her blind eye reflexively as she looked to Cithara.

"My pardons, Lady. Language," she said, and Cithara smiled.

"Understandable, but I believe I know where they have gone," she said, looking to Bart.

"Mihai did say there would be no further obstacles in our way," Bart agreed, Viconia's eyes flashed.

"Mihai, that dribbling arsehole," she spat, clenching her teeth. "Begging your pardon again, Lady. He has been particularly active, we see him now and again leading his pet monsters on all manners of horror. We've put good arrows into him, but he just laughs them off. Literally." she made a face like someone had replaced her morning coffee with lemon juice.

"He's holed up in the Cathedral, God-damned blaspheming cunt," she snarled... and then coughed once more, looking to Cithara again, who just bowed her head.

"Apologies I'm certain, I have been around soldiers my entire existence on this world, dear one. I am not so delicate that coarse words curl my mane," she reassured the woman. "However... you are very... creative with them."

"Occupational Hazard, Lady," the commander said in a bit of a clipped tone. "Thirty-nine years bullying around big, burly, hairy men puts a hard edge on a woman."

"So I've seen," Cithara murmured quietly.

"Will you be staying then, Ser?" Viconia asked — but her tone of voice made it clear she already knew the answer, Bart shook his head.

"No, I — we — have matters to settle with Mihai. Take our horses and the Spears," he said, turning back to look at his companions. "If we fail, you are to take the Spears and punch a hole through straight to Fairharbour. I'll brief you on what we know, and you will give it to the Lord Protector. God have mercy on us if that becomes necessary."

She nodded, and whistled sharply, calling for grooms. The transfer of the men was smooth, the soldiers did not initially want to part with their commander and Lady — but the needs of the many outweighed such concerns; during which Bart and Cithara related the relevant information about the Magistrate's goals and the events of the last three months, albeit in a reduced level of detail. The Commander however seemed to appreciate this fact-based approach, and paid rapt attention, nodding and asking pertinent questions where appropriate.

"Are you sure you want to proceed on foot, Ser?" she asked as Bart reclaimed some of his kit from his saddlebags. His belt and pouches, and the small one containing his family's tome. He felt... wrong being parted from it, tucking it away firmly.

"Mihai has made this personal, I won't throw away good, loyal steeds to give him additional targets," he answered, handing the reins to a groom. Viconia nodded, though her face was terse.

"It's a damned fool idea, Ser," she said, folding her arms behind her back. "Forgive the impertinence, Ser — but you're a boy. A boy with foolish ideas of heroism and an axe to grind."

She wasn't wrong.

Bart paused, he was more than a boy — though to Viconia's seasoned blue eyes, he likely looked barely out of the crib. She'd seen more battle than he had by orders of magnitude, and it was written in her flesh and bones. He folded his hands for a moment.

"This is something I have to do. My friends and I, the Lady and I," he said, looking at her with an implacable gaze. "I will not feed more good men and women to this monster, I will not allow evil to sup upon the souls of the good folk of this world for my protection," his voice was hard, and she frowned at him.

"We swore the same oaths, Ser," she argued, and he shook his head.

"I swore a different one, an Oath of Gold," he said, and there was no pomp or superiority in his tone or posture. "I am... held to a higher standard. An impossible one really. Yet a standard I must strive to meet." he said with a touch of quiet sadness in his voice.

"I see," she said, folding her arms behind her back as the two soldiers met eyes, openly and without preamble — he looked into her, and she into him. Each of their solitary blue eyes provided a mirror for the other to gaze upon. Something passed between them in that moment, somewhere between their mixed histories, their hurts, sacrifices — even matching injuries. He saw a woman made of a shell of iron wrapped around a heart of unalloyed gold.

"Permission to speak freely, Ser?" she asked after a moment, her voice quiet as the soldiers moved passed them. Bart raised an eyebrow at that, shaking his head as he bid her to continue.

"I understand, Bart... but you are just a boy," she said softly, her features losing the hardened visage of a military commander... and taking on the concerned softness of a mother. "It should not be that we old soldiers thrust such things upon you so young, and be forced to sit here and just... watch you march off to your death," she said, her face pale and wan. "We've already lost too many good lads, and here you are, with this gaggle of barely-grown firebrands ready to go off and fight Evil — actual, tangible Evil..." and her face fell, her teeth gritted into a snarl.

"And I just have to sit here and watch."

"Commander... dear one," Cithara was the one who spoke, stepping forward slowly to bring her close enough nigh to touch the Commander. "I understand your pain, I feel it keenly. I send so many, many good, good boys to graves far, far too early," she said, a mournful nature to her tone. "Would that I could spare even one that pain, I would rend heaven and earth... yet this is our role. The cosmos will settle for no less."

Tears threatened to spill from Viconia's eyes, but she set her jaw and took a breath.

"It isn't fair. War like this should be the province of the seasoned, the hardened — we should fight for this world, not... not..." She lost her words and her composure. One tear managed to fight past her steely forbearance, rolling down her cheek. The steely lady's mask cracked, for just a moment.

"Not boys. Not our boys."

Silence reigned in that moment, Cithara simply stepped forward and laid her cheek on the woman's armored shoulder. There was no further weeping, no sobs or wracking cries of release — nay, the iron-clad commander simply reached one hand up, and reverently touched Cithara's mane, stroking through it just once before drawing a deep breath, and meeting Bart's eyes once more.

"Come back alive, Ser. We have given too many good boys to this meat grinder. I would see it done," was all she said, drawing away and giving Bart a final salute, before turning and barking orders to nearby men — seeking solace in the order of work.

"Am I truly so young?" Bart asked Cithara in their momentary solitude, and she turned back to him with a sad smile.

"Yes my love, to women like us — we see the man, but also the boy. So new and fresh," she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek through his open visor. "It one day will happen to you as well, I am afraid. The curse of old soldiers. Fear not: I will be with you," she said, nuzzling him a moment; "To mend your heart when it breaks anew."

~ ~ ~

It took them little time overall to prepare, a quarter of an hour, perhaps a few minutes more. Everyone felt the oppressive pall of the place, the stale air and stagnant skies causing Bart's companions to sit on edge — and the defenders had not fared better in their near-year of isolation in the Queen's influence. The men on the wall's eyes were sunken, hollow. There was a worn-down quality to all of them, the effects of a siege doubled and doubled again in tolls of blood and madness. Bart murmured prayers for their souls and minds beneath his breath to God as he secured his remaining gear.

Around him, his companions finished similar preparations. Notably, Gram had not joined his Spears in the Order Militant fortress, currently checking his armor's buckles and weight, the wicked bec-de-corbin leaning nearby, and the Darrowmite saber already at his hip.

"Captain, I can't ask you to come with us on this," Bart said, trying to couch the request in more formal terms to take some edge from it, the tall man looked up and then continued tightening his straps before taking a long moment to pick up his polearm.

"None asked, in fact, you are the second person to demand I stay," he answered, helmet beneath one arm, polearm butt-down on the stones. "If she could not convince me, I fear you will have no better chances, Ser," he said pointedly, walking up to Bart directly.

"Am I to consider this insubordination?" he asked, his tone neutral as the two men faced off before the fortress. Gram raised his chin somewhat definitely.

"Ser," Gram stated steadily, eyes unblinking. "The woman I love is about to assault the gates of Hell, for that alone I will not be swayed. You can write a full report of censure to the Lord Protector if we survive, until then — I will be by her side," he said, his tone final. Bart's dual-colored gaze narrowed as the two men stared each other down.

"Is that your final decision?" he asked, Gram raised his chin a mite further in answer; "I am going. You will have to kill me to stop me."

"Good," Bart said, the tension suddenly breaking as he tugged on his gauntlets, flexing his fingers. "You'd be a poor match for Lidia if you were so easy to bully," he stated, hands on his hips, Gram's face barely changing, beyond a series of sudden, rapid blinks.

"Ser," Was again all he said, a military acknowledgment, but there was gratitude in his eyes as he stepped past Bart, stopping a pace just behind his shoulder, turning slightly.

"Why did you wish to stop me?"

Bart turned his head a bit, his mustached features impassive. "You were not of the group, Mihai's obsession is with us, singularly with me and The Lady. I would not blithely endanger a soul who isn't under that auspice of... immortal courtesy," he said plainly. Gram nodded, taking a moment to consider that.

"I thank you for your forbearance, however — you know the sort of man I am," he said, and Bart nodded again.

"I do," was all Bart said, the two men turned back to their tasks then. Nothing else needed to be said. They knew who they were.

The party gathered some minutes afterward, the drawbridge raising behind them, from the walls they saw men beginning to line them, armed with bows and shining armor, they stood a vigil.

"We never gave them a signal for if we won or lost," Bart mused, Cithara gave a terse little laugh.

"The whole world will know if we succeed or fail, beloved. In this, you can trust." The omen in that answer was not lost on any of them, Bart moved to the head of his dear friends, iron singing its shrill song as he drew his blade, carrying it loosely at the end of his arm. A staccato of steely accompaniment rang out behind him as all of his dear companions drew arms, all ready for this final confrontation.

"Very well, here. Everyone who isn't a divine being or directly empowered by one, take these. I had time before we left and lean means — but what is an alchemist who cannot improvise?" Naima called out, moving between the more mundane of their group, handing them small, corked earthenware bottles, two per person.

"Healing draughts?" Nazir asked, and Naima nodded as he tucked them carefully away in his belt pouches.

"I had to weaken their potency to make enough, but they will still stave off even most lethal wounds for a time — I also found stouter bottles, so accidents are less likely," she said, passing Lidia two of the bottles from her satchel — but looking squarely at Bart, who merely shrugged.

"A reasonable precaution," Gram agreed, taking his two and stowing them similarly. "I would suggest the obvious, however."

"Dinnae get hurt?" Lidia ventured, and Rashid barked a bit of laughter.

"Indeed," Gram noted, crossing his polearm along his shoulders; he'd also vested his full panoply, and his heavy riding boots were now armored with greaves and sabatons, and his helm was open-visored and in place. "Better to have it and not need it."

"One would think such advice unneeded — but I have found myself in the company of truly stubborn men, verily it is instead quite astute," Cithara sniffed a bit, giving Bart another pointed look, and the big Paladin sighed dramatically.

"You act like I enjoy being battered about."

"You might," Naima shot back, handing a small lidded pot to Lidia.

"What's this?" the changeling ventured, Naima raised an eyebrow.

"More of the mint oil poultice. We are doubtlessly going to encounter more fell beasts and carnage," she said, Lidia's eyes widened a bit, and she took it with a nod.

"Ye're a saint," she said quietly, Naima merely smiled.

"The rest of you are hardy, durable, and powered by Godhome, so I trust you can take care of yourselves?" She said, putting her satchel away, Rashid put his arm around her.

"I have faith and love, I need little else dear Wife," he said and bent low — crushing her in his massive, brawny arms and pressing his mouth to hers in a hot, passionate kiss. Bart and Nazir both blinked at that — it may have been the first time the couple had been openly amorous in public, but truly — was there any better time?

Bart heard a gentle cough at his side and found Cithara looking up at him expectantly, her golden eyes smug and knowing. Bart colored brightly and she stepped forward, leaning her muzzle up towards his open visor.

"Do I need to spell it out?" she challenged, and Bart laughed, raising a hand to cup her cheek — he devoured her mouth with his, the kiss hot as divine flame, full of need, fear, longing, and a promise — a promise to return.

"Oh well, that sure is a sight, innit?" Lidia breathed, and Gram simply smiled and took her hand in his, kissing her knuckles. Lidia blushed brightly, and then threw herself up into his arms, all but climbing him for her own final intimate touch, murmurs passing inaudibly between them as the three couples came apart, Nazir gazing at them all with a rueful smile.

"Don't look at me, I think you're all fair and handsome folk — but I am hardly in the mood for a kiss."

The couples broke up with a much-needed laugh, Bart putting his arm around the slight Southerner and pulling him into a hug as they proceeded forward. Falling into a loose wedge shape, they marched down into the cathedral district, boldly into whatever may come.

CHAPTER 4

The march was quiet but for the crackle of flames and creak of ruins, Bart and Rashid had fallen into a position as leading edge, with Gram bringing up the rear. Lidia and Nazir took turns ranging ahead to scout but quickly tapered off to simply hanging back as it became all the more clear that nothing awaited them in the shadows — Mihai's deal held strong.

"A sword, now?" Rashid asked as they walked together. Bart turned his head, his visor locked open — quiet as it was, none of them were yet comfortable uncovering their heads or sheathing weapons.

"It was what I had on hand," he said lightly, bouncing the broad blade on his shoulder a few times, earning a grin from Rashid.

"You any good with it?"

"I manage, I am young yet," Bart said humbly. Rashid's beard bristled with a smile of fierce approval.

"There is much of that about these days," Rashid said, looking to Nazir and his own naked blade. Bart raised his chin slightly.

"I had noticed. Your teachings, I imagine."

"Naturally, he is blood."

Bart nodded, looking back at Nazir himself a moment, hardly felt proper to call him a dandy anymore with how he carried the blade, his easy grace having taken a hard edge to that of a striking snake. Nazir's wasn't the only new blade, and Bart turned his body, armor creaking a bit as his crowned helmet swung to look at Lidia.

"So if Rashid tutored Nazir, who taught you?" Bart asked the little changeling with a playful edge, who gave him an arch look, seemingly geared to respond to him with a bit of cheek before she was cut off by Gram, who simply leaned in and said.

"I did."

Bart raised his eyebrows at that, Rashid nodding his own confirmation. "I am hardly a schoolmaster, my talents lie in action more than teaching. I had my hands full putting Nazir into order, the Captain stepped up quite handily."

"It was only natural," Gram stated, "I already ministered to her spirit, it was easy enough to step from instruction of the soul to the sword arm."

"Everyone was already so tired an' busy," Lidia said, hefting her blade and peering at its unadorned surface. "Couldn't rightly ask 'em to spend all day fightin', dyin', scramblin' in the dark an' then come back and be all gentle-like teacher with me." she said, and shrugged, swinging the single-edged weapon easily at the end of one arm. She'd always been handy with a blade, and even still the difference was noticeable, she carried it with the wary confidence of someone who'd killed with it. He was passingly familiar.

"So I dinnae do that. I did it properly."

"I don't read Gram as particularly 'Gentle-like'," Bart mused, and Lidia colored a bit as Gram quite plainly chimed in:

"I was not."

That was more than enough for the assembled men at arms, two and two still made four after all — yet the little changeling's eyes turned up at the edges a bit with the barest hint of an impish grin.

"Ye were when I asked nicely," she said in a quiet voice, causing a reflexive smile to twitch the man's lips. The grim mood had taken its toll, everyone was thankful for small moments of levity. Lidia sat there a moment and sucked in a breath.

"We better not die, 'cause I'll be a right furious banshee iffin' I go out a virgin after all this." Bart froze at that, as did Gram — the tall Darrowmite's expression tactless and taken completely off guard, a contrary quality to the changeling's smug little grin as she stood up straight, stretching her limbs gamely. Cithara and Naima descended into giggling, and Lidia walked quite pointedly just a bit closer to Gram, looking up at him with raised eyebrows. That was a conversation in the making.

In spite of all attempts to push back against it, the pall of the place had settled firmly over everyone as they moved into the cathedral ward. Bart had subconsciously moved to the head of the group, his feet seemed to know where to go.

The cobbles gave way to the familiar fountain square before the cathedral. A massive basin set below the statuary of all three Holy Beasts in brilliant repose. A place of quiet contemplation beneath swaying trees to the ripple of waters and conversation.

It had been. No longer.

Blood was the color of the day, the greasy rust-red smudges of deep, vital life's blood. The whitewashed buildings and marble masonry stones alike were bathed in it, spatters rising up at hip height with such solid uniformity it was as if a tide of gore had washed through the square. The shopfronts and homes lining the courtyard's perimeter were burned out and flattened, the statuary all smashed — pointedly, deliberately. Not a single effigy of the First Paladin or the Triune stood unmarred, each defaced liberally — and from the smell, in a variety of ways beyond mere destruction.

Then, there came the bodies.

Everyone had known it was coming, feared it, dreaded it even — the empty ruins, carnage without a body count. They all knew they had to be somewhere. Each had built in their minds a rational explanation, a reasoning as to where the corpses that must be were, and how they'd been conveyed there. None among them was prepared truly for the reality.

Some of them were stacked, neatly. Like cordwood, in order by size and shape. In order of size. Bart felt his guts seize as he looked over many far-too-small forms stacked between the larger ones. Others hung, flayed apart into horrific standards, their bodies stretched and skinned for God only knows what ritualistic purposes.