IV. Our Fortress is Burning…

Renata woke with a start as the carriage hit a rut in the road. Her eyes darted about the unfamiliar surroundings before her mind woke up enough to recall where she was. In the corner atop a cushioned bench, a bishop waved an ornate fan impotently against the stifling heat. Two other clergy and her personal assistant, Emarosa, occupied the spots next to him. All were oblivious to everything around them in the face of the heat and horrors they had seen in the past several days. She stifled a yawn and stretched in the confines of the caravan; her samite gown was drenched in sweat and clung uncomfortably to her back. The caravan hit another rut and toppled the spent hookah tucked away in the corner. The red tinted water spilled from is vase and mixed with the ash from the coals, no one made a move to clean it or even acknowledge it.

Renata wiped her brow on a silk scarf discarded on the heap of throw pillows, and turned her gaze to the reed mesh that was the window. With some effort, she was able to slide it open, allowing for a welcome breeze and unobstructed view of the countryside. All around her, a cavalcade of knights and clergymen urged their weary beasts on at a spirited trot. Intermingled with them were various townsfolk, displaced by Xanavien aggressions, hoping to find protection in the procession of eight thousand knights and clergy. In the distance, black smoke rose from the horizon, now synonymous with the black flags and black-hearted soldiers on the warpath. The smoke reminded her of a dream she had just awoken from, though she could not be sure what it represented.

It had been a ruined fort at the bottom of a hill. She did not know where she was or why she had undertaken the journey that led her there, but she was alone and without any sort of luggage or supplies. A windstorm blew in, and she attempted to take shelter in the ruins. She found a lone candle and lit it, but the fort had no roof and the walls were in shambles, offering no protection from the wind. The candle flickered and blew out soon after lighting.

She pondered the dream, as more and more of it slipped from her memory, but to no avail. A priest usually interpreted all of her dreams, unfortunately, no such person was present. The common belief is most dreams hold significance, either as portends of things to come, or subconscious messages of mental duress. As the High Priestess, her own dreams, for instance, always received a thorough analysis for prophetic wisdom or messages from the gods. While she herself could not make sense of them most of the time, she knew their power.

The crack of the driver’s whip and the horses’ whinny broke her from her reverie, and reminded her of the bleakness of the situation. She muttered a prayer for strength and turned to her attendants. They were either fast asleep in the muggy air or inordinately calm about the whole affair. She wondered if it was faith or arrogance that afforded them such luxuries.

“Bishop Lazio,” she queried, “where are we going?”

The Bishop continued to fan himself and stare out the back window. “To the Isle Therion my lady.”

“Therion…” She mouthed silently.

The temple at Therion was an ancient one, said to predate even the collapse, though scholars could only speculate as to what its original usage was. In recent centuries, it took on the role of a monastery for those taking vows of silence, and as a reliquary for ancient art and artifacts from the time of Renata the Savior, the very first of her name and founder of The Order of Dawn. Situated on the edge of the Sorrow between the Sorn Peninsula and the Cape of Forsworn Ambition in Eurithania, Therion was not a popular destination for visitors. She had visited it twice, maybe three times before, but could not recall anything particularly special about the location. For a temple of The Order, it was rather austere, the only thing of note was a large and rather queer mural hung up in the apse.

While she was no military commander, and would never dare to assume the role of one, such a move struck her as being ill advised. The island of Therion was far too small, and far too removed from the rest of the continent, especially since the sea was not traversable for all but a select few.

“Is it wise to flee to so remote a location? Should we be pursued by this madman, we would be trapped.”

The bishop set down his fan and smiled politely back at her. “My lady, some of the greatest Knights and commanders are tasked with the protection of the embodiment of our faith, you must have faith that they have taken every precaution to ensure your safety.”

Renata returned his patronizing smile and quickly cast her gaze to the scene outside. She felt guilt for fleeing the capitol as she had, though was readily reminded that such was necessary for the well-being of the people. The Empress was likely dead, at least, that was what the Elysian soldiers had been spreading. Along the road, a weary band of Elysian infantrymen marched in the opposite direction, accompanied by several companies of mounted Knights of The Order. The Order knights saluted those in her own escort, who in turn conscripted several to her cause, adding to the vexation of the Elysian’s essentially marching to their deaths. Their eyes were downcast as their feet grudgingly carried them onward. Renata watched with dismay, wishing there was some other way, but their duty was to the nation of Elysia, not The Order.

Renata wondered if there was anything for them to go back to even. The horde of Xanavene had been in hot pursuit since the onset of the war, razing all in their path. Since the time of her grandfathers, Elysia had never been at war with anyone, let alone invaded. She sighed and hung her head out the window to watch the road underfoot. Her attendants generally did their best to keep her out of the loop, but she had heard snippets of intelligence from the frontlines via too chatty handmaidens. The story was generally bleak, entire divisions taken out in hours, cities burned and citizens slaughtered in the streets. She shuddered and blinked away the tears that began to form in her eyes. The hopes for Aichlan making it back to her were nonexistent.

She caught the curious gaze of a young knight lingering upon her and smiled wanly in his direction. He tipped his visor and spurred his horse on to meet her by her caravan. She looked up in surprise at this new arrival, unwilling to be rude but also not in any mood to chitchat.

He smiled again and handed her a canteen. He had bronzed skin and hair the color of wheat chaff. Her expression softened, his eyes held a friendliness and sincerity she had not seen in a while, so surrounded by the duplicitous and power hungry as her office entailed. He certainly was handsome, in the classical way knights were often portrayed, green eyed with a jaw that seemed to have been chiseled from marble.

She hesitantly took it, upon its side was a glowing symbol that represented ice, a mage had either constructed it or at least carved the rune on its side. It was certainly not standard issue for The Order, whoever the knight was; he came from a family of some wealth. She unscrewed the cap and took a long refreshing drink under the knight’s patient gaze.

“Thank you for that, Sir…?”

The knight did a half bow from his saddle. “Sir Vance Jung my lady.”

“Jung?” She asked; her interest piqued. “Of Duvachellé?”

The young man smiled proudly and straightened his posture. “My family has resided in Ophelia since the days of Renata’s second coming.”

“Your father is a man of some renown, and quite generous in his tithing. While it has been sometime since I’ve toured Duvachellé, I can look back with nothing but fond memories, particularly the beauty of the resort upon The Black Lake Niðstång.”

He placed his hand over his heart and smiled warmly. “You do me too much honor my lady.”

“Tell me then Sir Jung,” She pointed towards the sad formation of Elysian enlisted marching against her own procession. “To where do those men march?”

The young man’s smile abruptly faded. “They march to halt the enemy advance at Renoir.”

She perked up at the mention of her birthplace. It had been what seemed like a lifetime since she last visited her home. Her parents had forsworn all connection to her as was custom, though she still communicated with them via letter from time to time, she felt a longing for home all the same. The lands in the south were all so unfamiliar to her now; she did not even recognize that they had passed through the city. She wondered if her parents made it out alive, perhaps they mingled with the various refugees that traveled alongside her escort.

“How large is the enemy host?” She held out the canteen for him to take.

“It’s difficult to say my lady.” He took back the canteen and stowed it in his saddlebag. “They’ve split their forces, but current estimates are at around a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Absurd!” Bishop Lazio spat. “No force that size has existed on Silex since before the collapse, and certainly not from that wasteland Xanavene.”

Vance gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the reins. “Your Grace, many of us have fought on the frontlines at Nassica, we have seen firsthand how massive the Xanavien army is.”

The Bishop snorted in derision and took up his fan. “Twas a trick, you’ve all been fooled by the magician’s illusions.”

Renata turned to face the bishop, his offhanded mention of magicians and illusions was the first she had heard of the matter. Beside her, Vance took a drink of water between cursing the pomposity of Lazio. She stifled a giggle, for many of his words she had also attributed to the man in private.

“Who leads the Xanavien army?” Renata asked.

“No one of consequence my lady.” He replied offhandedly.

“This no one cuts a path through Elysia Lazio, which seems consequential to me.”

The Bishop huffed and waved her off. “An Asketillian exile, some mad fool no doubt. We have little information, as far as we know, he’s never once taken the field.”

“Then how do we know that this, Osric was it? How do we know he is responsible for the illusions?” She asked, perplexed.

“It’s no trick my lady.” Vance interjected. “Illusions don’t kill five-thousand men and send The Knights of The Order in full retreat. Madman he may be, but this madman has rallied all of Xanavene to fight for him.”

Lazio scoffed and mopped the sweat from his bald head. “All the better! Untrained men should be as so much fodder.”

Vance shook his head. “Pile enough fodder on a man and it’ll kill him eventually, no matter how well trained he is.”

Lazio snorted and returned his gaze to the road behind them. “A soldier’s duty is to do his duty, not second guess those who command him. Leave us sir, you are troubling the Priestess.”

“It is no trouble.” She said with finality. “The conversation is a welcome distraction, and quite enlightening.”

“As you wish my lady.” Lazio grumbled and resumed fanning himself.

Vance smiled and tipped his helm to her once more. “It is my honor, Lady Renata.”

She returned the smile and cast her gaze to the horizon. The idea of so many soldiers was beyond her imagination, it was as if an entire city were to just decide to take up arms, it was inconceivable. So many people had died already for her sake, and it appeared that many more deaths were still to come. The idea of a life in exile, constantly fleeing the Xanavien horde sent a shiver up her spine.

“I am curious however, if this man is a mage, how has he done all this without once stepping on the field of battle?”

“He is not a mere mage Priestess.” Emarosa chimed in. “He uses black magic to curse us. He is a wretch of a man, disfigured and abandoned on the streets of Sarevon. It is said that he was found by a travelling sage who took the boy back to Asketill as a test subject for his vile practices. The process twisted him to the evil he is today.”

Renata laughed incredulously and turned to her advisors. “Is this the truth?”

“Partially, I suspect.” Lazio admitted begrudgingly. “While it can’t be confirmed, it certainly rings of truth.”

“So long as he bleeds when pierced by a blade, it matters not.” Vance spat defiantly.

Renata chewed on her thumbnail, and was subtly rebuked by Emarosa. “This doesn’t explain what he wants with Elysia though, or why he pursues us even now.”

“It is believed that the only way to counter black magic is with The Light of Dawn.” Emarosa said hopefully.

Renata looked to her hands, soft and delicate from a lifetime of pampering. While some had found a way to weaponize The Dawn, the power’s primary use was in healing. The mages of Asketill and the healers of The Order had not fought since around the first five hundred years of the current era, any residual animosity was explained away as a difference of philosophy. If a curse caused physical symptoms, then theoretically she or any other member of The Order could heal them, however she doubted that is what Emarosa meant.

“If we can fight him, why do we flee to Therion?” she asked.

“It would be folly my lady. We need to first rally our strength and mount an offensive.” Lazio said haughtily.

“From a deserted island?” Renata shot back tetchily.

“We only sail to Therion until Catharone arrives my lady.” Vance said at length. “With any luck the fool will try to cross the Sorrow and sink most of his forces.”

“Unless he has Aes Sidheans with him.” One of the women remarked. “It is said that you only need one to cross the cursed sea.”

“They’d sooner cast themselves to the depths than aid the Xanaviens, even assuming he did manage to capture some.” Lazio said dismissively. “They are a stubborn people.”

Renata rested her head on the window frame. Several plumes of black smoke now occluded the blue skies. On the distant horizon, the orange flicker of gigantic fires raged, the remnants of a village burned to the ground. The Elysian soldiers had long since passed them by, and she wondered if they would fight with the Xanaviens, or if they were simply a human roadblock meant to slow their inevitable approach. On the side of the road in the dilapidated ruins of an ancient fortress, an oblivious farmer burned his garbage.