Wymond held up his fist, stopping his small squad in the trench. Peeking through the gnarled roots of a birch tree, he could see three inquisitors and a Putrelis Order knight, their hounds slowly trotting past them, sniffing the air. Throwing up four fingers, Wymond held his hand flat and pointed upward. Quickly jumping out of his saddle, he quickly ran to where the trench evened out with the nearby hills. Looking back, he saw two men follow quickly behind, while another two jumped onto their saddles and over the trench. Thankfully not hearing any cracks, Wymond grabbed the hilt of his sword. Taking a deep breath, he waited. Heavy thumps slowly passed him, as the tired hounds edged his vision. Without even thinking about it, Wymond dashed forward, sinking his sword in between the ribs of one of the dogs. The two men behind him quickly stabbed into the sides of the other two dogs carrying inquisitors. As the inquisitors fell out of their saddles, Wymond glanced at the Putrelian knight, watching as he scoffed blood through his mask as a spear point extended out of his neck while another stuck itself deep into the bloodhound. In quick order, the inquisitors followed their knightly comrade. Wiping the blood on his blade on one of the cloaks, Wymond looked around. “Gather the corpses. Hide them in the trench. After that, we pivot west and return to camp.”

Each man gave a nod, quickly getting to work. Leaving them, Wymond quickly jumped on his spaniel, trotting him up on the hill beside the trench. He felt as the ‘sight’ slowly enveloped him. Carefully looking over the surrounding forest, he remembered the first time he used this strange power. It was still something he couldn’t fully comprehend – was it magic? A curse? Did it mean he was a descendant of a Divided? In truth, it didn’t matter. This power gave him an edge over his opponents, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to put it to use. Quickly analyzing the forest, he immediately noticed another patrol of two men slowly trotting east while another one seemed to be pivoting north. None were going anywhere near the west. That was good. It meant their camp had yet to be discovered. But it was also worrying. It had already been a few days since the encounter in their camp, yet the patrols into the forest were few and far between. This meant that the masked bastard's main aim was to comb the Marrel hills. That posed a problem. Even if he wanted to, Wymond couldn’t just blindly seek attention. Out of all the ones he sought after, only Murhen’s squad had turned up. They did find a few of Chile’s boys, but they were too few to be all of them. He needed those men if he wanted to do any sort of hindering to those damn Faithmen.

Riding west, he and his men soon reached the improvised camp, situated in a small clearing flanked by sudden and tall cliffs. Shabby tents which were basic drapes above sleeping bags stretched on one side along the cliff face, while the other side was used for grooming and taking care of the dogs. All in all, Wymond was able to gather around thirty men in this shithole of a clearing. Besides Murhen and his men, they had also found a few aimlessly wandering the forest. Most rejoined right away, though Wymond could feel dissent spreading. If these men didn’t get a victory soon, most will either desert or, worse, bring his head on a pike to those Faithmen only to get their heads added to his. But now wasn’t the time for that. Though the small number of patrols in the forest spelt bad news for Manguid, Cleo and anyone else hiding in the hills, it gave them a degree of freedom and much-needed breathing room. And he planned on seizing that as fast as possible as he walked towards his makeshift ‘command post’.

Leaning on the large rock used as a table was Murhen, already waiting for him. Tall and spindly in stature, his chiselled face was decorated with scars and a proud Allmani moustache, which he always kept well-trimmed. That couldn’t be said about his long, unwashed hair which was tied into a bun to the side in the traditional manner. All in all, the definition of an Allmanian – tall, regal and practical. Seeing Wymond approach, Murhen stood up and made a formal salute – a fist to the heart. With a smile on his face, he spoke in his light Allmanian accent. “Good evening, captain.”

“I guess it is good,” Wymond answered in a campy tone. Seeing Murhan cringe, he chuckled and took a breath. “It seems our friends in white have labelled us a none threat. Barely two or three patrols are currently in the forest.”

“That’s good then, no?” Asked Murhen, fidgeting with his dagger.

“…We need more men. Have your guys had any luck?”

Murhen shook his head in shame. “The only thing they found was an old campfire, though they couldn’t discern whether it was one of ours or some local hunters.”

“Tsk. Well, that just means we’ll have to keep going the way we’re going – you keep the trackers combing through the forest, while I keep those patrols off our tails.”

“Captain, don’t you think it wiser to just avoid the patrols altogether? The more of their number they lose, the more they might send at us.”

Wymond glanced at Murhen. The Allmanian had a good head on his shoulders. “I thought the same thing at first, but considering we have already taken out two patrols without any retaliation, I don’t see any reason to not use the opportunity to thin out their numbers.”

“Ah! A sound plan indeed, captain!” Murhen said, patting Wymond on the back. As he did though, he quickly leaned in closer, speaking in a voice that even he could barely hear. “It’s getting worse. Even one of my men deserted just this night. Wymond, if this continues…”

“I know. But we need more men! If we could just find one of them… Dammit, even Klyman could be useful.”

Murhen looked at Wymond for a long moment, his blue eyes searching for something. Tweaking the ends of his moustache, he smiled and patted him on the back again. “Never lose that quality of yours, captain! In any case, I and Greta will be joining your strike team tomorrow. I tire of sitting here all day and doing nothing. Fur Axt und Horn, Kapitan!”

“Yeah, yeah…” answered Wymond, not looking at the retreating Murhen. All of the squad leaders always said that: ‘Never lose that quality of yours, captain.’ He never understood it. But he was happy and thankful for the compliment. Still, who in their right mind ever named their dog?! Greta? That springy Swermian sheper must be the fifth one he has named that. Only fools name their weapons or mounts. ‘And it wasn’t even a girl!’

Wymond sighed. “I guess everyone needs something like that,” he thought out loud, retreating to his small tent. As he walked through the open field, Wymond heard droplets of rain falling on his armour and felt them on his head. Quickly getting inside, he watched as it suddenly started pouring like there was no tomorrow. Looking on at the blinding hail, Wymond felt déjà vu. He remembered that night of Storms – when the air smelt of burnt ash and spring rain when the wind carried the cheering and cursing of men.

‘Don’t.’

Turning away, he started taking off his armour, unbuckling his belt, carefully taking off his chest and neck plates along with his cape and finally shedding the long scale mail hauberk. He then carefully unbuckled the belts which held his heavy full-arm gauntlets. The moment he unbuttoned the last strap, the two gauntlets smoothly slipped off his arms, clattering to the grassy ground. Wymond did the same with his full leg greaves, carefully stepping out of both of them. Now, he looked just like any other relaxed mercenary, dressed in a tightly stitched gambeson and long pants. After putting the armour in a neat pile, Wymond laid down, resting his head on a saddle. Turning, he watched as the rain kept on pouring. It reminded him of home. Watching as the rain slowly ate out patches of grass, turning them into puddles of mud, he remembered watching the same thing occur over and over during the Storm months. He remembered playing in those puddles, throwing around handfuls of mud. He remembered kneading the watery ground with his feet as he learnt how to wield a blade. Memories of Sword-arm Poter, blacksmith Aerthing, his father’s hearthguards… of Adelada.

Suddenly, Wymond jumped up and stripped to his undergarments. He needed to forget. He couldn’t remember them now. Drawing his sword, he walked out into the rain. Grabbing his sword tightly with two hands, he assumed a middle stance, with his legs and arms slightly bent, his sword straight in front of him. Here, in the south, they called it ‘At the Ready’, but Livadia was a harsh place. No one had the time to colourfully name the stances you used to cut down other men. Taking one step back, he assumed a right hanging stance, ‘Hang Guard’ – his sword held just next to his head, its tip aimed at the ground. With another step, he took a close left stance, with both of his hands holding the hilt around his beltline, the sword's tip aimed upward, a ‘Belt Guard’. ‘Those are the three main motions of our art, lad! Drill them well!’ Wymond remembered Sword-arm Poter saying. Returning to the At the Ready, he took a step forward with a right-sided slash, using the momentum to move into a right Hang Guard. With an overhead slash, he came into a left Belt Guard. Stabbing upward, he quickly sidestepped, turned and returned to At the Ready. He had to go faster. Slash downward, left Belt. Stab upward, followed by a downward swing into right Hang. Taking a deep breath, he made a shell slice – slicing upward, he quickly changed his grip and circled the sword around to make a slice from right to left. Only then did he notice the snout and tongue of a tired dog in front of him, its matted grey fur seeped through by the rain.

“Ah see ya remembaring tha good ol’ days, eh Captain?”

Kozer got off his dog, smiling at Wymond with that toothless smile of his. Of similar build to his, though taller and with less pronounced shoulders, Kozer was a Hyberian, clearly distinguished by those blue tattoos of his. Encased in a wet cape, his silver-grey hair peeking out and holding that feathered spear of his, he almost reminded Wymond of old tales of Culathyth or Volfgird. Smiling at the oldest member of the band, Wymond embraced him in a great bear hug. Looking behind him, he saw more men piling into the clearing, though the ongoing hail almost masked their movements.

“How many with ya?” he asked, watching the men dismount.

“Oh, around 30 boys. Sum need takin a lookin to. We ran inta a patrol while gettin here.”

“Right. I’ll ask the Dox to take a look at ‘em. Ya meet up with any o’ the other squads?

Kozer nodded grimly. “Chile’s. He died in the scuffle with tha patrol.”

“…I see. In any case, ya and your boys go get some rest.”

“At once, Captain!”

Hearing Kozer greeting a sleepy Murhen, Wymond headed to Eliza’s tent. After their little talk in the woods, she had kept her distance, only coming out to make the food and tend to the wounded. Knocking on one of the polls next to her tent, he called out. “Eliza! There’are sum new boys who need a lookin to.”

No response.

“Eliza!?”

Again, nothing.

“Eliza!”

Storming into the tent, Wymond felt the sudden buildup of tension quickly dissipate, as he found the woman standing in front of him, her bleary eyes still shut.

“Keep it down, you wet goat!” she shouted into his face before hustling him out of her tent. “I heard you! I’ll go take a look at them once I’m done here!” looking at him through those bleary eyes, she sighed. “Go to bed before you catch a cold! We can’t have the captain getting cold fever in the middle of a war!”

Looking on as she disappeared into her tent, Wymond smiled weakly before heading to his tent. She was right. The sun was already setting, and he wanted to wake an hour before sunrise. Walking back through the rain, Wymond for Kozer and his soldiers. Each answered though some held back. Watching them walk away, probably grumbling about everything that went wrong recently, he felt a smile appear on his face. ‘Tomorrow,’ he thought. If they wanted something that would lift their spirits, he was willing to give it to them in ample supply. Walking into his makeshift tent, he huddled up in a small crevice between two moss-covered boulders. Wrapping himself tightly in his cloak and using his saddle for a pillow, he felt sleep slowly take him away, even while he held his sword tightly in his grip. ‘Tomorrow’ he thought.

Slowly trotting through the densely packed trees, Wymond noticed the rippling of white cloth in the corner of his eye. Stopping his spaniel, he peered behind the tree's trunk. Spanning a wide clearing which bordered a quickly flowing river, the Faithmen encampment was truly a thing to wonder at. Around a dozen pristine white tents stood arranged in a circle, with large, more haphazardly set up tents in the middle. While servants, grooms, valets and other personnel walked around in the protected circle, tending to their chores, groups of white-cloaked inquisitors patrolled the perimeter just outside the tents. Strangely though, Wymond didn’t see any sort of defensive fortifications, not even a simple ditch which was odd, considering that the large encampment didn’t seem like it was going to move any time soon. Large wagon goats bleated as they grazed in the open field, servants dressed in embroidered white coats or leather vests ran with buckets to the river, and dog handlers stood ready to saddle any dog if any inquisitor or Putrelis knight needed to head out. Still, besides the servants, Wymond didn’t notice that many soldiers, not even with his ‘sight’. It seemed like the camp could fit around 300 men's worth, but besides the patrols, the only few knights or inquisitors he glimpsed took strolls or spoke to their servants.

“Must be ‘unting down poor Cleo’n the hills,” Kozer remarked, looking down at the camp.

“This is our chance then!” excitedly said Murhen, his hand gripping the great handle of his large two-handed longsword. Wymond never figured out how such a seemingly lanky man could wield such a weapon. But now wasn’t the time for that. Turning, he kept analyzing the camp. ‘They must be pretty confident to not set up any sort of fortifications…’ still, this seemed a bit too good to be true. Counting with his ‘sight’, he deduced that, besides the hundred or so camp followers, around thirty Faithmen were in the camp, if the number of dogs, remounts included, were anything to go by.

“Oi, Captain. Aren’t those ours?” asked Kozer, pointing down at the camp. Wymond looked to where the old man's gnarled finger pointed. Neatly lined on the edge of the circle were four wagons which were slowly being unloaded by a group of workers.

“Aye, they sure are,” Wymond answered.

“Then we should try and get our supplies back while we still have the chance,” Murhen said, looking at the wagons. “Preferably without bloodshed, if possible. I wouldn’t want to kill a Sister or Slave of God…”

Some of the men behind them murmured agreement. Wymond stayed silent, but he felt a plan slowly bloom in his head.

Pino yawned as he headed toward the dogs. He could feel the excitement and adrenaline that had swooped up the camp not too long ago slowly dissipating. It was understandable though. After that short skirmish in the heretic’s camp, the scouting parties had been unlucky to find anything so far. Not to mention, a few of them hadn’t even returned from the forest. Those heretics must have some sort of Urian artefact on their side if they were able to take down TWO whole patrols of inquisitors and Putrelis knights. Sadly, no matter how much he wanted it to, that didn’t have anything to do with him. He was a simple groom, whose family had devoted themselves to service to the church. And his chance to become an inquisitor or knight had long since passed. Coming up on the rows of well-bred hounds and spaniels, Pino noticed two hooded men inspecting the dogs, with what seemed like their own held by one of the men by the reins. ‘Maybe some of the messengers?’ Pino thought as he approached them with a friendly wave.

“Good evening! May I help you with anything?”

The two men turned to him. One was a short man of tanned complexion and strong build. With a large scar which ran under his lips and piercings on his right eyebrow, he reminded Pino of the time he saw a Hisanard in the Great Market of Baye. The other man was taller and of similar build, his shoulders slightly sagged. Grey silvery hair framed an old pale man’s face with strange blue tattoos etched on like embroidery. Smiling in a toothless grin, he waved for Pino to come closer.

“We just’a wanted t’ tie our dogs. Could ye give us a hand, lad?” he asked in a strange accent that sounded slurred and rather rough. Pino felt something run down his spine but thought it might’ve been the chilly spring breeze. Smiling at the old man, he nodded, walking to grab the reins. As soon as he passed the old man, Pino heard the sound of steel rasping. He felt a sudden stab of pain in his neck, as a strong hand gripped his mouth like an iron vice. As he felt warm blood run down his body, he noticed the tanned man looking at him with sorrowful eyes. ‘What’s happening? What is this? Wha… What are you doing? Why…?

“Sleep, lad,” Kozer whispered, as he laid the boy down on the ground. Madid watched him, his brown eyes sorrowful. “…I guess it had to be done,” he said, still looking at the ginger-haired boy.

“Aye… Now come on. Let’s do this quick b’fore any’one else comes to take our bloody dogs.”

Madid nodded as he pulled his dagger, running to the large ropes the dogs were tied to. As he quickly cut them, Kozer grabbed the torch Wymond had given him. Quickly lighting it, he headed for the hounds and spaniels. Most dogs, especially those bred for war, were taught to stay calm and even get angry at anything that was to do them harm. But fire was something else. It was uncontrollable, chaotic. And if there was one thing even the most hardened war dog feared, it was a fire. As soon as Madid cut the lines, Kozer immediately ran up to the dogs, flailing his torch in front of their faces. Though some tried to bite or gnarl, most merely looked at the fire stunned. With one jab of the torch closer, every single dog, from dappled spaniel to furry hound yipped and whined as they started barreling in every possible direction. At that exact moment, Kozer heard the sound of alarm horns being sounded on the other side of the camp.

Wymond watched as his sword sliced through the neck of the inquisitor who blew the alarm, blood following his sword through the air as he returned it to his side. Behind him, 50 hardened men rode on fast running spaniels or robust shepherds, screaming and yelling at the top of their lungs as they stabbed at approaching inquisitors with their spears or halberds. He knew that most didn’t want to even think about killing people belonging to the Faith. Simple villagers, sure, but men and women who had devoted themselves to following the Lord were a different matter entirely. He sighed before joining in on the screaming. If they couldn’t just cut their way to the wagons, they might as well make as big of a ruckus as possible. Riding past the white tents, Wymond let his sword slice open tent walls or stand pole. ‘As much ruckus as possible,' with that thought, he saw a herd of wild-eyed hounds, some even larger than his spaniel, running as if Urians were behind them. That was good. It meant Kozer and Madid were successful.

“Murhen! Go!” he shouted. The lanky man riding on a robust shepherd nodded as his image darted in between the tents. The plan was truly simple. As Kozer and Madid made their dogs run wild, he and the rest would ride around the camp in a flurry, cutting down any living guard but sparring the ones who ran from them. While they did that, Kozer, Madid, Murhen and a few others would refill the wagons and get them out of here as fast as possible. There was only one slight problem. Turning, Wymond already saw a few men unsaddle as they ducked into one of the tents. He had ordered plundering to stay at a minimum, but some men just couldn’t help themselves. Still, as long as they didn’t overdo it…

Suddenly, the sound of men screaming and of wood shattering sounded behind him. Turning, he saw a Putrelis knight, a man as big as a bear, lumber out of the collapsed tent, his sword glistening with blood. ‘Dammit,’ Wymond thought as he rode away. That was why he had ordered looting to a minimum. You never knew who could be hiding inside those white canvased walls. Still, they could take a few losses. But only a few. Rearing his spaniel around, Wymond quickly snatched a hunting spear from a nearby weapons rack. Riding back, he aimed at the knight and, with a long exhale, let the spear fly. A “thunk!” was heard as the winged spear point embedded itself into the man’s chest, making him fall unceremoniously. ‘Good. One less to worry about.’ Calming his spaniel, Wymond looked around. Some of the tents were burning and the sound of screaming men had moved a bit further into the camp, but he couldn’t sense any of his men losing. Opening his ‘sight’ he made doubly sure. Three had piled on another Putrelis knight five tents from him and were able to grab anything of worth. Another pair was facing off a few inquisitors who were able to dismount them, but it seemed like they would make it. The camp followers had seemingly dispersed in the tumult, running to the woods or hiding in already sprawled tents. Suddenly, the sound of a branch cracking alerted him. Turning to the northeast, Wymond cursed. The patrol parties were returning. Riding deeper into the camp, towards the wagons, he grabbed a simple horn which hung from his saddle. Putting it to his lips, he made three short blares, the sign for everyone to regroup at the wagons. If his ‘sight’ hadn’t failed him, the closest patrol to them was around ten helosai away, so the blares shouldn’t have reached them. Still, they needed to hurry.

Galloping through the burning or collapsed tents, Wymond finally reached the wagons, which, he thanked the Lord, were almost ready. Kozer was already sitting on the front stool, whip in hand, while Murhen and Madid were saddling the last few goats on the other wagon. Most of the men were already coalescing around the wagons, a few throwing their collected booty into the wagons. One of the men, Hadrin, a short but burly galfrian, waved at him with a large pole in hand. Wymond recognized the distinct black linen immediately. He had completely forgotten about their banner. But, now that they had it, it would at least raise the men’s spirits. In his mind, it might’ve been better to just forget the damn thing.

“Good,” Wymond said out loud, waving to Kozer. As he did though, a strange, guttural voice barely murmured in his ear.

“Oh no, this won’t do at all…”

Turning his spaniel, Wymond looked around wild-eyed. He had definitely heard a man. A man in a strange lofty yet guttural accent. It sounded like he whispered, though not to Wymond, more to himself. Using his ‘sight’, he scanned the field. Besides the huddled followers in the trees and the concerned patrol which was already quickening its pace, he didn’t see anything. ‘What in the name of the Lord…’

As he thought that, an inhuman shriek echoed in the large clearing. Suddenly, his spaniel started frisking, a slight whine entering his snarl. He heard the same from the dogs of his men, while the readied goats started bleating, nervously digging the ground with their hoofs. Wymond looked around confused. And then he saw.

Slowly, an inquisitor stood up from in between the tents, shaded by the raging fire behind him. His body contorted and spasmed as his bones creaked and broke. Looking at them, the man tried mouthing something, tears rolling down his face. Suddenly, spurts of blood dyed his white cloak. Black bones the shape of horns suddenly grew through his skin, as it started to stretch. A grey-skinned hand the size of a gryphlions claw suddenly sprouted from his hand, as a large maw tore apart the white cloak and coat, only leaving tatters. The man hunched, his other arm seemingly splitting apart, turning into long tendrils of muscle which ended with long, hooked claws. Wymond barely held in his vomit, as the creature turned to them. The man’s face was still there, though its skin was stretched so thin that Wymond thought he saw the skull. Suddenly, the maw which gaped on his body shrieked a blood boiling shriek as the body itself charged them. Men yelled and cursed as their dogs whined and reared, the goats already taking matters into their hoofs as they started pulling the wagons away from the creature. Wymond watched, as the forsaken creature hobbled toward him at an alarming speed. Turning his spaniel, he dug in his heels. He did not want to know what that thing looked like up close.

As he galloped up to the men following the wagons, which deftly crossed through the dense forest, Wymond heard one of the men behind him scream. Turning with the others, he saw the creature use his long tendrils like a whip, hacking the dog in half! The man screamed as he fell, breaking his neck on some branch. The thing seemed to be getting closer.

“Captain!”

Wymond turned to Ulmo, an arbalest in his hand. Nodding, he watched as the man turned around, aiming the large weapon. Without a second’s delay, he shouted:

“FIRE!!!”

The bolt loosed, zipping through the air and thudding as it hit its target. Who seemingly didn’t even notice the bolt and continued to catch up to them. Cursing, Wymond watched the creature. That gaping maw seemed like a black abyss. Looking around, he thought of a way, any way to combat that creature. Suddenly, he noticed a shield, hanging from one of the saddles of his men. Wetting his lips, he pointed.

“Give it to me!”

The man deftly unhung the shield and handed it to Wymond. Looking around, he cursed.

“Ulmo, Hadrin, with me! The rest of you, don’t stop, whatever you do!”

The men stayed silent for a moment. Then, as he turned, every single man who rode behind the first wagon, four in total, turned in synch, each baring his weapon. ‘The fools…’. Sighing, Wymond charged forward at the creature. As it shrieked, launching its tendrils in a wide swing, Wymond blocked them with the shield. The large claws splintered the wood, but that was enough. As he stabbed his sword into the face of the man, the five men around him stabbed with their spears or slashed with their axes or maces. For a moment, it seemed like everything stayed still. Then suddenly, a mouth appeared where Wymond had stabbed, slowly eating the blade. As it did that, the large grey hand strangled the nearby dog, making the rider fall to the ground. At the same time, the tendrils sliced the other two men on its side into small pieces, whirling so fast Wymond could barely see it. ‘Fuck!’ he cursed, grabbing his sword with both hands and plunging it deeper. He felt the blade touch something hard. Pressing harder, he felt as it slowly gave way, before finally splitting. The creature stopped at that exact moment. Whimpering, it made a loud gurgling noise, as its body started to seemingly swell up. Wymond quickly pulled out his sword, as the creature staggered back. In an instant, the sound of popping rang in the forest, as the creature fell sprawling on the ground, blood flowing from its eyes and maw.

Wymond felt himself hurl off his saddle. Besides the creature, which looked even more terrifying up close, with bulbous zits and eyes dotting its skin, the maw lined with thousands of small razor-sharp teeth, all that was left of Ignio and Han was a mushy red paste, while Ulmo slowly stood with the help of Hadrin, his stout blacksmith shoulders visibly shaking. Looking at the thing, the two men exchanged glances. Ulmo, a blonde-haired, dark-eyed Anjevin looked at Wymond.

“Captain… *wheeze* what in the Scarlet Hells was that?!”

Wymond turned from his vomit on the forest floor to him. Wiping his mouth with his gauntleted hand, took a few deep breaths.

“Even I don’t want to know. Now come on, we have to catch up with the others.”

As he rode away, Wymond couldn’t help but think of the dark abyss he saw in that thing's mouth. ‘Maybe I should’ve just given up those boys,’ he thought wryly, as the sight of the camp entered his ‘sight’.