Kindly edited by @CollinHarrison4

Tillyen clucked softly at the horses and urged them forward. Never had she driven a wagon with such weight, a sluggish thing that added more burden to the beasts' drudgery. A wheel found a deep rut and shifted everything to the side. Kelton leaned hard into her before he caught himself and righted after the wheel found better purchase.

"My sorrows," Kelton whispered, soft as a breeze.

Tillyen smiled. Of all the things a mother of a nighthouse endured, this was the lightest of them - the beginning of the end. From the first time she had met Kelton, she had known in her heart that he was the Answer. He had lost his early misgivings and was now confident in his ways. The boy had become a man and carried the hope of all. She was so pleased to see that his shoulders were broad enough to bear such a burden.

They approached the building, an old smithy that had been empty for some time. The owner was taken by a sickness that caused blackened lips and slow suffocation - something contracted from a merchant no doubt, though it did not spread. Still, none risked reinhabiting the structure. The desire to breathe created a perfect hideaway for those who saw no risk. How it was located by the man called Fingers, she did not know. It was the Answer she trusted, and he trusted Fingers.

Kelton leaned back. "Nine down, five up," he whispered to the men lying prone in the bed of the wagon. It was a count of who he could sense, unfortunately not a count of those he could not. He turned back to Tillyen. "It is my time," he said.

Tillyen nodded as Kelton leaped silently off the buckboard. He reached into the lumbering wagon and retrieved a hewn trunk from a young fir tree about a man and a half high. Short stubs of branches lined the sides with a carved spear-point at the bottom. The other end was cut at an angle to lay flat against the side of a building - a climbing pole.

Kelton ran ahead and disappeared around the smithy's side as Tillyen brought her team to a halt in front. A tickle of anticipation ran through her old bones as she heard the second wagon slow on the other side of the building.

It was Tillyen's turn. She dismounted and gathered a basket of fresh bread from the back. Fear was what she thought would emerge, yet only excitement pumped in her veins. If she were younger, there would be a sword, not bread, in her hands.

Padden moved his chair closer to the open hearth. It was a large bowl of a thing in the center of the building, with four pillars holding a stone chimney in place. A ring of stone surrounded the flames with strategic holes that were once home to bellows. Soldiers were gathered on the other side in two groups - one set playing bones, the other sharing tales of women they claimed to have conquered. In truth, he would have enjoyed a game of bones. His current daughter, Facillia, relished the game, and Padden would have liked to try to win for once. Alas, Brethren and ordinary soldiers did not mix.

The boredom was better than the docks, where the winds blew incessantly. At least here, Padden was warm. Corleon was a good man to follow, but Padden wanted no part of the physical duty. Hunting commoners was a trivial thing, and blood tended to stain. Better to leave it to those who desired a stronger name. He was happy to live off Corleon's success and stay warm.

Padden shifted in his seat when he felt the approach of two. Floating intent, indicative of the mounted or wagon-bound. They stopped, one in front and the other along the road in the back. A curious thing at night, though their intent held no outright threat. The one in front moved toward the door, and the other moved away as if he meant to enter a building to the north.

"On guard," Padden said casually to the soldiers. It got their attention. "A visitor approaches." A moment later, a knock.

"Bread," a woman called. Old, if her rasped word was any guide.

"It is not the morn," the head of the guard shouted back. He returned to his game of bones thinking the matter done.

"The ovens are cooling to be ash-cleaned on the morrow," the old woman called back. "Bread now or wait a day."

Padden shrugged when the guard looked at him. He was not particularly hungry but knew he would be in the morning. If all went well, they would be on the road by midday. Better to leave with a happy belly than a sad one. Padden sighed and signaled with his fingers for the guard to answer the door as he donned a brown cloak to cover his white robes.

Kelton moved below the shuttered window, which was high on the wall. He stabbed his makeshift ladder into the ground and carefully leaned it against the smithy, just below the window. He dropped his cloak, exposing sheathed swords crossed on his bare back. He thought it better to reveal his scars and Nagada markings - fear as a tool. The climb was a quick one, reminding him of surmounting the Tarvakian wall not so long ago. At the top, he examined the shutters.

The wooden crossbar he expected was not there. The gap, illuminated by interior candles, showed rope looped about whatever a crossbar would be attached to. A crossbar could have been lifted with a blade, but the rope would need to be cut, and that would not be as quick as he hoped.

He tried to peer through the gap without pressing his face to it. He saw very little down the center, and still he sensed only five - three in the corner and two off to the left, both groups out of his line of sight. He was praying all was as he assumed from his reconnoiter earlier in the day. The two were his targets, the three his reason, and if there were any others, they would be wearing white.

Kelton stretched his neck and looked up at the night sky as he waited for Tillyan's signal. Stars were in abundance, unhindered by the light of the moon. The strange object, the small moon-like thing, was now well above the treeline and crawling toward an apex that neared center sky. An odd thing, looking to be running at a glance, yet standing still when fully observed. Perhaps it was farther away than first impressions lead him to believe. Another tool, for many thought it was the Goddess and she had come to aid him. After his conversations with Rolic, Kelton would prefer if she just stayed out of the way.

"Bread," Kelton heard Tillyen call. His stomach churned as the plan advanced. If any of his thinking was off, many would die. He wondered how Rolic had led armies without losing his stomach at the first sounds of battle. Swallowing hard, he drew half of Spider's-bite, his other hand securing steady purchase on the window's ledge.

This time, Kelton decided he would not allow the Nagada in of their own volition. He knew it was needful anger that brought them, so he would attempt to invite the tribe on his terms. He closed his eyes and thought of Joycelyn and the sight of Daphne hanging from chains. He imagined his men falling to knowing blades. When his mind moved to the scars on Juno's back, his anger flared and something inside, a seemingly softer part of him, moved aside willingly. An odd feeling, as if room was being made for an unwelcome necessity.

"We are here, my bonded one." It was a whisper that echoed in his mind. The unmistakable voice of Farni, filled with determination and shadowed with desire. Her presence was quickly overwhelmed by a flood of others. The tribe was in him. He was the tribe.

Padden watched as the old woman brought in a basket of bread and began to unload on the table that had been indicated. Her eyes were not solely on her duties; they traveled amongst all in the smithy in a curious manner, as if she were noting each person.

"Are you not of the nighthouse?" one of the guards asked. Padden saw a knowing smirk grow on the man as he studied the woman. "Mother, if my memory is not fogged."

"Mother?" Padden asked.

The woman looked at Padden and nodded, her eyes drifting toward his feet. He glanced down to see a wisp of white showing beneath his camouflage. She moved toward the door with her now empty basket.

"You have other duties," Padden said, rising. "Why does a nighthouse mother deliver bread?"

The woman turned at the door, her eyes stronger than her wrinkles portended. "I do not deliver bread." She took a step backward out of the smithy. "I deliver your end, demon." She turned and ran as she shouted, "one demon below!"

A wave of vicious intent burst from nowhere. It was not there, and then it was. A mass was running for the door, another exploding behind the smithy. There was no warning as if they had emerged from the ground itself. Padden drew his sword from beneath his cloak and moved to place his back to the wall. Fear, something he had not felt in a long time, filled his mind.

"Kill them," Padden shouted to the ladder that led to the loft. "Kill them all!" The soldiers around him were too slow to arm themselves as the door burst fully open and death flooded in. Padden's plan to avoid the docks now seemed ill-conceived.

The tribe heard Tillyan's cry and his blade sawed into the rope. It was as sturdy as it looked, denying his first attempt. A yell for death from below doubled his efforts. Inside, a young one screamed as the two moved toward the three. Kelton leaned back and the tribe swung downward at the tough cord, the blade finding the gap as if it meant to mate. The rope split, and Kelton tumbled through the window and into the room. His blade's sister found his free hand as his feet raised him upward, flowing unhindered as water moving over rock.

One of the tribe, a man, stood guard over two. The stool he used as a shield had been whittled shorter by two soldiers who threatened the most precious of the tribe. Kelton shouted a Nagada challenge as Spider's-bite began to dance. The young one, cradled protectively by a woman fat with child, screamed again, this time seeing new terror in Kelton.

The soldiers turned from their easy prey, fear widening their eyes as one released his sword and backed away. Kelton moved forward as he voiced the tribe's objections to those who threatened the most precious - surrender would earn no reprieve. Kelton was unaware his words were spoken in Nagada. Spider's-bite swirled through the air, the tips invisible to the eye.

A feeble strike, one so slow the tribe wondered if the man was ill, slashed downward into space that Spider's-bite claimed as its own. Kelton stepped forward and to the left, allowing the strike to flow where a body once was, but now nothing resided. Ill or not, the story of Spider's-bite grew as it found warm blood in gut and chest.

Kelton spun, pulling the tribe's blades from the corpse of the most vile. Ignoring the pleas from the retreating fool who thought young ones were to be hunted, he drove a blade through the stomach, then growled as he opened the man's neck. The tribe turned and saw no other threats; a good sign, he thought.

Shouts from below reminded Kelton that many still battled. He kicked one of the fallen soldier's blades toward the man, thinking it was better than a stool. "Guard them," he commanded. Kelton smiled when the woman reached for it, standing as if it were death to approach her. A wolf, the tribe thought proudly. The unborn who rode in her belly had a worthy guardian.

Kelton turned to bring the tribe to where it was needed most.

Padden countered a slash with ease, then moved his sword in an arc to cut the arm of another who then withdrew with a groan. His soldiers had fallen far more quickly than he would have hoped. They were barely holding their own when the back door crashed in and more insurgents poured through the breach. Where they came from was still a mystery, but Padden had settled on the reality; surprise was theirs, though they had not brought enough.

He smiled. The knowing strengthened as it bathed in the single-minded targeted intents. Fear faded as Padden realized how many had come. If he kept his back to the wall, their numbers meant nothing. Padden's blade moved with purpose, as did his body. Two were already on the ground, bleeding. The others would soon follow, well before he tired. They should have called him out into the open and surrounded him. Fools.

Something odd was happening in the loft. Padden blocked another thrust, knocking the blade to the side and threatening a counter which forced a retreat. There were five in the loft a moment ago, and now there were three - it should be two, and they should not be hiding in the corner. Perhaps the idiots held a hostage in hopes of not meeting the fate of their comrades. He moved to the side to avoid a thrust, then parried away a feeble attempt at an ankle-level slice, sticking the man in his shoulder. It would have been better to follow it up with death, but to leave the wall would be a useless risk. Better to allow them to feed themselves to his blade, cull the herd one at time. The knowing made it too easy, nothing like the battles before his first rebirth. Here, there was no challenge.

Between simplistic evasions and counter strikes, Padden began to concentrate on how the rebels had gotten so close unseen. He should have felt their presence fifty paces away, yet they were within five when the knowing awoke. Skill of that nature was of genuine interest. It would allow for ambushes, and, in the open, it could be deadly. Add that the demon had taught them about fire and bows and the ramifications grew. He decided one or two would have to survive to be questioned. He sighed as he knocked another futile thrust aside. Ending such things was brutal, mindless work.

Words Padden did not understand boomed from where no one should be. He looked upward toward the opening to the loft where the ladder gave access. Fear returned with a vengeance, bursting from his gut and traveling to his extremities like lightning. A horror leaped from the loft, landing as if it were but a step and not two men high. The red-haired demon approached with dual blades spinning and swirls of green symbols pulsing on a horribly marred chest. The man's eyes glowed with a bluish light that ate into Padden's resolve. The rebels backed away, something Padden would have liked to do as well for the wall had turned from savior to prison. Death was coming, and the knowing was blind to it.

Striker tried to hide atop his crate. Magna'est's growing anger was marked by his pacing, leaden steps and mirrored by deep breathing. Striker began to think he would bear the brunt of any perceived failure.

"Where is this demon?" Magna'est asked, not desiring an answer.

The Brother who had just returned from patrol with nothing to report shook his head. "I know not, your Eminence. Were not the sources more certain of the time?"

Magna'est ignored the query and looked up at battlements atop the temple. "Anything?" It was a booming demand, ignoring his previous rules of quiet.

"Nay," was the reply; it was also loud and echoing.

Striker was at a loss as well, though he found it more enjoyable than Magna'est. Perhaps the Answer had scouted ahead and saw the preparations, pulling back his forces for a better day. It would teach him to be quieter, and the forethought of scouting spoke well of the Answer's mind. A hope at best, but it was all Striker had to hang on to.

"Mayhap, this one was a scout, and his lack of return ended the plan," the Brother said, pointing at Striker.

Magna'est turned, the starlight reflecting the anger in his eyes.

"I have no love for the demon," Striker lied. "My loyalties are with King and Goddess, your Eminence." He sat straighter and decided if he were to die, then he would do it with eyes open.

"Mayhap you are who you say," Magna'est said, moving closer. "Mayhap not. A few have spoken for you, but your past is not your present. I find the timing of your endeavors odd, and my past speaks ill of such things." He grabbed Striker by his chin. "If this night remains silent, come morning, I will carve the truth from your skin." He pushed Striker's head backward, almost knocking him off the barrel, then turned and stormed away.

Kelton moved toward the demon in white as those of his tribe pulled their injured away. There was fear in the Brother as he looked left and right for an opening in the wall that did not exist. His mind seemed to settle, and then his sword steadied as he took a practiced stance.

The tribe smiled. This one would not shame himself by running or begging. There was some redemption in a good death, and the tribe would give him one. Spider's-bite danced, and the Brother countered with a pleasing maneuver, one with offensive purpose. Kelton thrust a sword flat against the offending blade, steering it to the left as he twisted his body along it, dipping low. The Brother was trained well but lacked the tribe's flow. He moved in jerks, committing as if only one attempt would be needed. The Brother's blade separated from one half of Spider's-bite in an effort to block its sister that was cutting ankle low. A weak maneuver that moved as if through mud.

The brother grunted as his leg absorbed a blade below the knee. Kelton twisted like a willow in the wind, one blade following the motion of the Brother's sword, the other riding upward against the hand that held it. The demon gasped as his bloodied fingers lost their grip, the sword flying away to clatter in the corner.

"It is over," Kelton said, though it was the tribe's words. The brother cradled his useless hand and backed against the wall favoring his good leg. There was no reprieve, not for the unforgivable. Spider's-bite drove forward, breaking ribs as it entered the chest. Odd, the Brother's eyes showed no surprise as life ebbed from them. The warrior knew his end.

The tribe turned to voices calling him. He began to scan for threats as Spider's-bite moved in a bloody dance.

"It is ended," a soft voice called. It repeated, this time louder and with a name the tribe remembered. "Kelton, it is ended."

The world shifted and returned with less clarity. Right and wrong lost their tribal lines and were replaced by something tinted in gray. Guilt of a sort erased what was once perfect. His stomach boiled, and he swallowed back what tried to emerge. Death, no matter its purpose, had a cost.

Kelton dropped Spider's-bite and closed his eyes. There were too many minds in the tribe, the combination of which swamped any thoughts of mercy. Empathy was moved aside when they took over, and their reasoning overwhelmed his own. A necessity, he told himself. He wondered if he believed it.

"The Goddess was in you," Tillyen said. Kelton opened his eyes to see her retrieving his blades and wiping them clean on the trousers of a fallen soldier. Many of the others, his army, were staring as if they were trying to decide if he was something to be feared. She handed him his blades, which he accepted and sheathed reluctantly, then steeled himself as he imagined a leader should.

"We must make haste," Kelton said. He looked over at a bloodied Hillbrand, though he was unsure whose blood coated his arm. He pointed at the loft. "They are unharmed. Gather them quickly." Hillbrand smiled and moved to climb the ladder.

"It worked?" Taggert asked, a slight wound along his cheek. A lot was risked to save three.