The Brethren descended like a great wave breaking against the boulder that was Kelton. Spider's-bite was moving with such Unknown speed that the Brothers in front attempted to slow only to find themselves pushed forward and slipping to their backsides in the wet grasses. Kelton stood firm, his weight anchoring his feet as Filgot and Mannily leaked backward, pulling as many blades as possible with them.

Though Kelton possessed the advantage of skill and balance, it was only a moment before the option of retreat was removed from him. 'So be it,' he thought to himself, comfortable that further decisions had been removed off his plate. It was up to others now, and any faults would now fall upon them. Inside he sighed as the weight of command lifted, outside he screamed, and Spider's-bite exploded into action - a cornered beast whose fangs knew only hunger.

King Gregory drew four away from the reserve force of Brethren. They came at him with Knowing confidence. He ignored, as did Unyvon'ar, the obviousness of impending death. Perhaps if he had not dismissed Unyvon'ar desire to wield two blades, they could have taken more with them. Alas, the decision was made, so he lowered the tip of his great blade and charged as if it were a spear.

Unyvon'ar chose the Brother second from the left, a thin man running oddly as if the driving rain was dirt to be avoided. Gregory agreed, a decision made in an instant and better than the indecision that would have ruled. He and Unyvon'ar altered the direction of the blade's tip and added speed to his wet-season run.

It was comical how the Brother slid. The man had to know where the greatsword was headed by both sight and the Knowing. He attempted to stop and shift out of the way, and then his arms were thrown outward to maintain balance as his lead foot slipped and the trailing one forced its way sideways. The Brother would have lived a moment longer if he had let himself fall. Instead, he remained upright and caught the monstrous sword in the gut.

Gregory almost froze in shock at the success but was forced out of it by Unyvon'ar, who insisted that movement not cease - the idle perish quickly in battle. They dropped low, yanking the sword from the dying brother, and commenced a mighty knee-high swipe. The two Brethren on the right stepped backward with prescience ease, but Unyvon'ar kept the momentum of the spin going, forcing the blade to complete a full circle.

The two smiled as one, for the intent of the follow-through was broadcast too late to the Brother who had approached from on the far left. The man attempted to leap over the swipe but caught it in the ankles, the weight of the blade cutting deep through the boot and sending him to the ground sideways. Unfortunately, it also ceased the momentum of the sword.

There was an instant of internal discussion, a choice to be made. Leave the injured and attempt to protect the flank with the heavy blade, or end the crippled Brother. Unyvon'ar thought the outcome was predetermined against the two, who were now set and ready. Gregory thought two deaths were a better conclusion than he first envisioned.

The ankle-cut Brother screamed as the Knowing announced the decision. The man was wounded, prone, and unable to stop the greatsword from plunging into his chest, breaking through bone to find vital organs.

Gregory expected two swords in his back, yet only a groan grew from behind. Unyvon'ar, surprised as well, forced them upward, dragging the blade from the corpse to face the remaining combatants.

One of the Brothers dropped his sword and fell to the ground. The other Brother withdrew his blade from the man's side as he fell. Gregory stopped a confused Unyvon'ar from attacking as he examined the standing Brother, perhaps thirty winters his junior. Even with wet hair, the face was well seated in Gregory's memory.

"You have ended our name," the Brother accused, his bloody blade now idle at his side.

Gregory lowered the greatsword. "Not I, father," he said and flicked his eyes to the center of the battle. "It is the doing of your grandson."

Gregory's father's eyebrows rose, as did a smile. "Grandson?" He looked over at the battle. "The one who fights like a demon?"

"Aye," Gregory replied.

"Best if he does not perish then," the father said, his head gesturing toward Kelton. The motion and words were as Gregory remembered - an order structured like a choice though none really existed.

Gregory nodded, ignoring Unyvon'ar's confusion. "Die well, father," he said, then he and Unyvon'ar renewed their wet-striding toward the battle. Out of the corner of his eye, Gregory saw his father drop his sword and turn defenseless into the approaching left flank. Unyvon'ar saw only foolishness - Gregory saw a king.

Juno was not surprised when some of the trailing Brothers in the reserve force turned. Her intent was clear and reinforced by Farni. Five white robes had done an about-face from working their way to Kelton. They now faced six blades wielded by women, a sight that seemed to surprise the men.

Farni-Juno attacked too soon, for the Brethren were fresh and had little trouble deflecting the strikes with the Knowing. She increased the speed of her blades, though it felt as if she were fighting mirrors of herself, albeit facing only single swords.

Juno began to shift about and alter her strikes, Farni insisting that they force their opponents to move. She ducked low to swipe at feet, then rose and drifted into a side attack to force the man to lose his footing. It was in the middle of the maneuver when a blade was thrust from behind her and drove into her adversary. A deep growl of hatred accompanied it, the sword retrieved from the Brother's chest as quickly as it arrived.

"Keep them dancing," Rolic ordered. It was the voice of a King - an Unseen King. His strikes possessed no readable intent. He moved behind Serenity and repeated the procedure, and another Brother fell.

'Dead is dead,' Farni thought, though Juno could feel Farni's disappointment in the method. She did not like that they employed what she thought was an evil soul.

The women's success brought fear to the rear of the Brethren's unit. No longer was the Knowing an invulnerable shield, nor did the women need to surround. They were only required to engage and force the Brethren to commit to defense while Rolic moved to strike Unseen.

The Brethren found footing more difficult in retreat, shifting backward blindly on wet ground as the women pressed forward. They collided with their Brothers as they attempted to increase the distance from the twin-tails to allow them some visibility to Rolic's strikes. To Farni's glee, the Brethren began to get sloppy. Fear and wet grass were a slippery mix.

Juno heard, then saw Kelton's father charge into the melee at the right. Behind him, a hundred Aragonians wielding dual blades followed with war cries in two languages. She engaged another Brother, a slim man with panicked eyes and sword held for defense. She pressed him back with rapid strikes as Serenity and Audria moved on either side of her. The man slipped.

"Jutney," Audria yelled. The three struck at once. The Brother screamed, able to block only one blade before two others entered his torso. Farni did not hesitate to drive Juno's second blade through the man's throat to silence him forever. The women retracted as one and chose a new target.

Rolic did not seem disappointed as he moved to pick a new target for himself.

Kelton's arms were moving fast, the ends of spider's-bite even quicker. He twisted and turned to avoid attacks, most from those with weak skills and even poorer footing. It was the sheer number that kept him at bay and the dead that now surrounded him. Six Brethren lay around his feet, blocking their Brothers and hindering Kelton's footwork.

Twice, Kelton forced himself not to call the tribe into him. He could feel the All-Father and the Mother weakening significantly as the Goddess began to restore her domain with unbridled anger. The other power seemed indifferent now that the dice were cast. It remained, yet only at the peripherals as if other concerns were of more importance.

Kelton forced his mind to lie to his body, telling it that there were no cuts or bruises and the growing weight of the blades was a myth. He could sense help coming through the Knowing. The Sorrinians were approaching slowly in formation behind him, most likely at the command of the Queen, who forced a pace that would not falter in the rain. It was always better to arrive at a battle on one's feet.

Jutney's name rose above the din from a voice Kelton recognized - Audria. At first, he had thought the ones approaching the mayhem to his front were the scattered remnants of the horse force. If Audria was there, then so was Juno. He forced his Knowing outward and found her there, filled with the intent of getting to him. For an instant, he blamed Farni then realized Juno's intent was overpowering. He had sent her the tool and had no right to demand how she use it. Kelton's eyes narrowed as a new purpose was born. Better if he went to her.

Kelton did what he should not. He broke from a defensive delay and began to move forward, spider's-bite no longer constrained by survival but by sheer fear of a world without Juno. He placed his lead foot between the legs of a fallen Brother and let out a Nagada war cry as his blade cut deep into the sword arm of the white robe in front of him. The Brother panicked as he lost his grip on the only protection he possessed and forced himself back into his companions. The man found himself on his heels and slipped in the driving rain. Kelton wasted no time ending the Brother's breathing, for it allowed Kelton to cut another step forward toward Juno.

The call of Jutney's name began to echo above the din behind Kelton. The Sorrinian's had arrived, though oddly, some of the warriors had broken off at the ends and moved smartly away in both directions. Kelton felt another front develop to his left that danced to Jutney's name. He had become the fire and the Brethren the moths. They gathered only to burn.

Kelton began to see fear grow in the Brothers, for the Knowing was no longer slowing the Aragonians or Sorinnians. He stepped over another body as spider's-bite sang through the air, cutting a white robe to his left. The man was more pushed into Kelton than purposely attacking. The feeling of being alone fled, allowing new strength to fill the void and an equal amount of ferocity with it.

A lucky blade scraped along the side of Kelton's waist, a weak strike from behind that would leave a scar at best. He turned with angry speed, his swords demanding dominion over new space. The tall Brother, whose rain-flattened hair obscured his face, attempted to retreat, his one visible eye showing surprised dread at Kelton's turn. 'One step back,' Kelton thought with frustration as he opened the man's belly, offering another corpse to the grasses. He turned back and forced his way forward to reclaim and then add to the step he had lost. Kelton had one purpose: to carve a path to Juno.

Brother Samual was once a king. Minor in the world, yet his claim on the throne had been absolute. There in Verisalo, he was powerful. Here in the rain and blood, he felt genuine fear for the first time. His fellow Brethren were falling quickly, far faster than any could have imagined. In truth, he cared for none of them, though he would miss the protection of their numbers.

Gorgia, Samual's recent daughter, was the only soul who meant anything to him. Samual shifted backward, worming his way away from the massing mortals - and their intent that screamed for death. The wet ground made it a tricky maneuver. Twice Samual had slipped, causing intense alarm that he might find himself prone with blades in his back. Now, he moved by forcing his weight to always center entirely upon a foot before moving the other. An uncomfortably slow process that expended thought needed for the Knowing.

It had been a hundred winters since Samual had held a sword. A mistake he now recognized, for the Knowing was being thwarted. At first, it was yanked from the world. Now it seemed only a hindrance to the mortals - a tree across the road that only needed to be stepped over. In the morning, he had felt indestructible. Now, he feared there would be no Brethren left to see his body brought to his daughter if need be. Samuel felt more like fodder he once ruled.

Samual was finally able to drift away from the bulk of the melee. He noticed other Brothers doing the same, the Knowing identifying a path to the south where there were few to oppose them. As he broke from the crowd, more of the battlefield became apparent to his eyes. The fire ignited at the beginning of the battle raged still, flames leaping high to seemingly boil away the rain before it was allowed to land. A shiver traveled through his bones, something more than a wet chill. The fire was meant to be his end, a permanent one that no daughter could circumvent. He turned and scampered as quickly as the wet grasses would allow.

The woods were Samual's target, the Knowing guiding him where only a scattered few stood between him and refuge. Once there, he would make his way in hiding to his precious Gorgia. Samual envisioned a bleaker future away from the temple, one where he would hide in plain sight as a mere mortal. Another daughter would be necessary in time, yet he knew the process well. Alone it would be difficult, but he would remain breathing nonetheless.

Samual moved away from the other white robes who saw as he did. Numbers were no longer the safety they once were - they were a beacon that attracted malice in abundance. Once he reached the forest and created some space, he would lose his white robes, and life would continue. One thing he was sure had not changed - the Unknowing could not detect the Knowing. It was only the robes that could give him away. He was thankful the demon had ignored the field's boundaries, leaving only a few between him and sanctuary. A necessity, he supposed, since the concentration of numbers was vital. Magna'est had grown stupid to allow such massing - Samual saw that now. He envisioned a more subtle approach in the future, something that did not draw attention.

Intent exploded in front of Samual. His first thought was the impossibility of it. His memories of tactics told him bows did not work well in heavy rain; certainly, arrows could not travel such distances in a downpour. Yet, the intent of those at the edge of the field said otherwise. He tried to slow too quickly, his feet slipping as he wheeled his hands to stay standing. Remaining upright was a foolish decision, he thought as the first shaft buried itself in his shoulder. The pain had barely begun when a second slammed into his chest. Samual fell in agony - the beauty of Gorgia became a fading dream as the light left his eyes.

Magna'est moved toward the edge of the field. The battle had shifted again, and Brethren were running. The Knowing was no longer feared, perhaps not even respected. He had underestimated the red-haired menace all along, though he placed most of the blame on the weak Brethren themselves - good riddance to the foolish men who were too feeble to execute his plans. He would start anew, create something more extraordinary. Two thousand winters were only the beginning. His daughter awaited him, and she was glorious. Other daughters would follow, and he loved each new one more than the last. There was no reason to worry over fools.

A shout, an unrecognized challenge, came from one of the scattered mortals that circled the field. It was spoken in Sorrininan, he suspected. The words were unknown, but the intent was clear. He smiled, though the rain and distance probably concealed it. Calling back in his friendliest voice, he continued to walk forward with the hood of his stolen cloak over his head. It was not difficult to say 'I am on your side' with posture. He held his hands out to his sides, empty palms forward.

The challenge, whatever its true meaning, was repeated. Then, the man raised a notched bow, and the Knowing announced others further to the side doing the same. The message was clear - none will be leaving the field. Once again, the demon had proved wiser than Magna'est had anticipated.

Magna'est knew he was only breathing because of the foresight of removing his robes. He nodded his understanding to the sentries and added a friendly wave as he turned back to the battle. Best if he switched sides, he thought - what better disguise than a sword marked with Brethren blood. Eternal life had costs, and he was always willing to pay them.

Striker cursed himself as he ran, or more hopped, to Rolic's aid. The battle had turned, white robes running or retreating to their detriment. Still, pockets of skirmishes remained, and Rolic had attracted his own. Perhaps his old Brothers saw the betrayal as reason enough to forgo self-preservation. Revenge was a powerful motive, one Striker knew well. He should just let Rolic fall, yet there was the fact that the attacking Brethren still breathed.

Rolic must have sensed Striker's arrival, for he shifted to the left to allow Striker's blades to enter the mayhem. Four against one turned to four blades against three. The Nagada in Striker ignited in the passion of the battle, granting skills Striker could only have dreamed of. The Knowing had returned, weakening attacks but doing nothing to limit distraction.

Striker's twin-tails pulled two Brethren away from Rolic. The blades moved with beauty and speed, disallowing the Brothers to do much more than defend. Striker owned the ground as his opponents struggled to stay standing as they moved poorly across the wet ground. He pushed them backward and heard a loud groan from Rolic's skirmish. A wound to be sure, though Striker could not afford a glance away from his actions, not against the Knowing. Be it Rolic or another Brother, it mattered not, though the idea of Rolic falling felt less desirable.

A pained scream behind Striker caused his opponents to retreat further, sliding about as they struggled to keep their blades operating as shields. Striker pushed harder, and one of the Brothers split off as if he meant to run. The man only took two steps when Rolic struck, his unknowing sword finding an opening not given to Striker. A moment later, the other Brother fell to Rolic as Striker's twin-tails forced the Brother to keep his concentration fixed.

Bloodied, wet, and exhausted, Rolic smiled. "Together," he said and moved toward other white robes, most now attempting to break away from the melee.

"I distract - you kill," Striker said, moving next to Rolic.

"Aye," Rolic said. "But do forget your promise. Friends we can not be."

Striker nodded, though he now prayed that Rolic would die in battle. It would be better if it were someone else's blade, an enemy that could offer some sense of an honorable death. Rolic did not deserve it, but then again, he somehow no longer deserved dishonor.

Together, the not-friends returned to the bloodshed as a team.