THE SIEGE

Clank.

Conrad tapped the point of his zweihander to the metal plate covering his knee. They were dirtied, like the other bits of armour protecting his elbows, chest, forearms, and groin. Can't forget to protect the groin. How else would they breed more soldiers?

Clank. He tapped the plate on his other knee. Boredom was kicking in now.

The waiting, that made for the worst of the boredom. Though, Conrad supposed it was better to be waiting than taking the walls. Hot tar burning your skin, boulders lobbed at your head, you didn't really win if you were chosen to take the walls. Either you died climbing the walls, on top of them, or you got lucky and survived long enough to repeat the process. Waiting was a dull thing, though Conrad would always take dullness over being dead.

"Cannons loading!" boomed the piercing voice of Sir Johan Rynd. It was far too early for him to be this loud.

"Fuck, do you think he ever hears himself?" Conrad muttered.

"Don't know. Old Badger's probably lost his hearing by now. Shouts because he thinks we won't hear," Arten replied. The big man shoved a thick lock of hair behind his helmet before launching snot from his nose. It landed right on Conrad's greave.

"Really?" Conrad said.

"Sorry."

"Shut it you two," Biter replied, without turning his nearly bald head to the pair. "We're about to get to the good bit."

Among the cacophony of noise atop the walls – barely audible from the position of the Drevonish main force – four loud booms echoed in the air. They were the loudest noises Conrad had ever heard, and likely ever would. The cannonballs wheeled perfectly overhead, and all eyes seemed to be on them as they crashed into the city's stone walls. All but one wedged themselves into the stone, the one cannon shot that missed went slightly over, crashing atop the walls, shredding friend and foe alike.

"Stuff of beauty that is," Biter said. Conrad and Arten shared a look. He always took far too much pleasure in this.

A moment of silence. Well, silence except the cries of wounded, dying and fighting, but Conrad had learned to drown those out.

The first crack stretched along the wall like a wide, crooked smile. The wall seemed to cry out, letting out a long moan before it collapsed. The moan caused the earth underneath Conrad's feet to rumble. The waiting was nearly over.

"Wide open," Biter commented. "She's just asking to be taken." He gave his stubble-covered head a scratch before placing his sallet on top. Biter was not a man for general superstition, but he never fought a battle without scratching his head first. Perhaps it was a habit only Conrad noticed, perhaps something more. He'd never asked.

Agitated Zweihanders and restless knights held their breath, waiting for their release. Like well-trained hounds they stood in place, waiting for the word of their master. Like hounds too, the excitement was betrayed by the soldiers' eyes. There were a few fearful faces, of course, but most men outside the walls of Quenasses had been fighting for years; they knew battle, and they had learned to love it.

"Today," boomed a voice unfamiliar to Conrad. It was deep, echoing, like the voice of a god it seemed to reach every ear without effort. "We strike a fatal blow to Vovequia! Today, we march together, under Atoth's watchful eye, bringing his will to those who dare defy it. No more will the world look down on his loyal servants!"

It was a fine speech, one powerful enough to cause a roar among the ranks. A fine speech, indeed, though a little zealous for Conrad's ears.

The metallic ringing that accompanied each word let Conrad know the man who had spoken could be none other than the Patriarch himself. He turned to get a glimpse of He Without Equal.

It was a good thing there wasn't much sun today. Conrad thought he might have blinded himself by looking at the Patriarch in all his shining, reflective glory. Coated in heavy, silver plate, he was a sight to behold. Huge pauldrons stretched across his shoulders, giving the Patriarch an inhuman broadness. The rest of his armour was just as large, with enough space for two men to fit inside the metallic shell. In body, the Patriarch was an intimidating sight, but looking at the covering on his face was where Conrad felt the most fear. It was half a lion, half a man, a helmet of shining steel, almost moulded around the Patriarch's face. A mouth of metal teeth snarled at any man daring enough to meet the Patriarch's gaze.

Conrad was glad he was on their side.

"It's like he's asking to get stabbed," Conrad muttered. "You can see him from a mile away."

"Think about it this way," Arten countered. "The enemy sees him easily, yes, but so do we. He's ensuring all of us see him in all his glory. Do you not find it inspiring?"

"Not really. It's all fake, has to be. No one's that big."

"People follow big," Arten stated. "Our minds like things that are obvious."

"Surely, we're not that simple."

Both younger soldiers shared a look towards Biter.

"Fuck off," Biter scalded. He didn't bother looking back.

"What?"

"I don't know, but when both of you look at me, I know you're taking the piss. I can feel your eyes on my head."

"Silence yourself," ordered a man two rows in front of Arten and Conrad. "He has not finished speaking."

True enough, after trotting around his knights, proudly stood atop his silver chariot, the Patriarch marched himself to the front of the entire army.

"The cannons have done their work!" He spoke. "Now, my men, go forth. Make war, not bloodshed."

"I'm not sure if that's possible," Conrad whispered. "But I'll try for you, my dear."

The knights charged first. Of course they did; they were always the first to join the fun. Thunderous hooves announced their approach. Conrad barely saw any detail as they flashed past him. Reds, yellows, greens. On banners, on cloth, on shields and even armour, a brilliant mess of colours flew into the open wall of Quenasses, following the gleaming silver beacon that was their leader.

Cynical as this war had made him, Conrad would never tire of seeing two-thousand armed and armoured knights charging into battle. He dared not move as he watched the charge. Even if ordered, he would not move. It would ruin the awe, the moment. It was a boyish thing, to be fascinated by knights, yet it was not the knights themselves which Conrad found fascinating. No, as a man, he loved the pageantry, the brilliance of those colours crashing into each other. It made war an art, that. With powder, and all its useful creations, it had cursed the knight as a concept, fated it to become obsolescent, but it wouldn't be so today.

"Infantrymen!" barked Johan Rynd. "Forwards!" Conrad had otherwise forgotten about the Old Badger. He was no one's favourite commander, but Johan Rynd was capable, safe. Every battle that he should have won, he won, without risk, though he also lost every battle he was likely to lose. Simply put, he was no fun to fight under, never willing to put anything on the line for a great victory. Biter said history was kind to men like that, but they stood no chance at being one of the great names.

In unison, the Zweihanders followed Rynd's order. Boots stomped against the dirt underneath, creating a symphony of marching stomps. Horns and drums sounded from behind, letting anyone left in Quenasses who was willing to fight know they might as well give up.

Even with the knights already entering combat, there was no order for a quick march, it seemed Rynd was quite happy to let the Patriarch have his fun, and further his reputation as the most menacing thing on a Drevonish field.

"I know this one looks easy," Biter whispered. "But don't go acting like it is. Don't be one of the idiots who died in a battle that was already won."

"No battle's won until the enemy stop fighting," Arten said. He always got serious like this before the fighting started. Focus, he called it, but Conrad was convinced otherwise. He believed Arten was suppressing his fear. By becoming someone else in a fight, he didn't have to worry about being afraid. That was something another man did.

"Remember," Biter started again. He never did tire of spreading his 'wisdom'. "It's just as easy to be killed from behind nowadays." A glance at the Gunners behind.

Conrad still wasn't used to seeing men enter battle without armour. The Gunners were as well protected as civilians, yet they marched into battle just behind the Zweihanders, ready to face the same foes. Their rifles, Conrad supposed, would be the equalising factor for them. How powder worked, the footman dared not guess. All he needed to know was that it worked. He'd seen a unit of Gunners wipe out a hundred knights mid-charge. Their shots sounded like snaps, like a cane against stone, and they sent smoke into the sky. Unlike an arrow, you couldn't see the projectile arcing through the air. All that would be seen of a pellet was its effect. Smoke rose as men fell in the distance. A knight could wear as much armour as he pleased, a pellet ripped through it all.

"Why couldn't they put them up front?" Conrad protested.

"They tried that once," Biter said. "At Toujourn, I think. Enemy cavalry cut them to ribbons. They're practically naked out there."

"I know, I know. Makes me uneasy though. Nothing's stopping them from shooting us in the back."

"Just don't piss them off," Arten chimed. "Simple."

Conrad caught the gaze of a Gunner with a large black beard. The Gunner gave him a staunch nod before looking straight ahead, towards Quenasses. Making friends with the Gunners was easier said than done. They were smug bastards, each and every one of them. Smugger than even the knights, Conrad had found. A Gunner believed their weapon, and their use, to be the future of war, the future of Drevon. They looked down on any man brave enough to actually step into close quarters. Thanks to the Countess – the creator of their regiment – even the rules were lessened for a Gunner. Everything from the hair they grew to the things they said was unregulated.

That beard, Conrad steamed. He better count himself lucky he's even allowed that.

Each infantryman was still expected to keep a clean face. Hair below the shoulders was prohibited too. Conrad had always hated those rules, he'd always wanted to see what he'd look like with a moustache, a beard. With hair as thick as his he all but knew his facial hair would be glorious.

"First and Third regiment," howled Rynd. "Support the taking of the walls! On the left now, quickly!"

Two units of Zweihanders peeled from Conrad's left flank and began to march towards the undestroyed part of Quenasses' walls. Not as splendorous as the knights, but the march of the infantry was a glorious sight. Two-hundred men, their great broadswords leaned against their shoulders, steel armour glittering in what little sunlight pierced the clouds. The only thing unappealing about the Drevonish infantry was the colours of their uniform. Underneath the patches of armour were padded greens, deep and dark as moss, with only a few strips of white along the chest and arms to relieve one from an overload of dull green. Still, the dark green of infantry was still much more preferable in comparison to the grey blue of the Gunners. Conrad wondered how they didn't rip the coats from their bodies.

"Eighth!" Rynd ordered. "Through that hole. Steady now, don't rush!"

Conrad's ears pricked up like a dog's. The Eighth, the Pups, whatever people called them. He was one of them.

The walls of Quenasses must have been twenty feet thick at least. Conrad stumbled over the grey stone, shattered into rubble by iron balls the size of his chest. He moved slowly, so as not to fall on his own sword and die like an idiot, but also to marvel at the destruction around him. He couldn't decide if it was beautiful or terrifying that what took years to construct had been destroyed over two days. The Vovequians made their walls well. Tall, thick, grey, they were everything a wall could want to be, if a little basic.

Well, Conrad thought as he clambered between two pieces of stone the height of a man. Perhaps next time they'll make the walls a little sturdier, and a little more stylish.

Clank. Conrad's boots echoed against the cobbled streets as he jumped from the rubble of the wall. Perhaps a hundred or so men were ahead of him, with about five hundred more behind. Those up front didn't seem like they were waiting to regroup. They removed their long, broad swords from their resting places – along the breast, so that the tip reached above the left shoulder – and readied for combat.

It was against orders, but they wouldn't be punished for it, nor could Conrad judge them for wanting to dive in. Quenasses was a small city, even from the edge of the walls any man with half decent eyes could see its central Bastille. Closer than that, Conrad could hear steel clashing, screams of horses and men. Any fighting would soon be over, and to most, fighting was the only fun part.

Biter and Arten were still making their way over the destroyed wall. Arten was being overly cautious with each step, while Biter prodded loose rocks before he even took a chance stepping on them. He'd never liked the idea of the ground beneath him being uncertain.

"Stupid superstitions," Conrad muttered. He set his sword down, leaning it against a nearby house. A pretty thing, like most of the buildings in Quenasses, it was short, squat, with just enough space for a small family. Atop the house, and the surrounding buildings, were the real treat of Vovequian architecture, the painted rooves. Each one a different colour, they were as diverse in pattern as the knights of Drevon. It was almost a shame a good portion of these pretty little houses would be burned down by the day's end.

"You didn't have to wait for us," Biter panted, finally dragging himself into the city.

"Well, I did anyway," Conrad said. He picked up his sword, left hand over right on its leather-bound hilt. "We ready boys?"

Biter nodded.

Conrad didn't bother waiting for anyone in the rest of the Eighth to get into Quenasses. Apart from Biter or Arten, he hadn't bothered to know anyone else in the regiment. There never seemed to be much point. Men died in wars, so Conrad had always considered the idea of making friends in one rather useless. Why go through the pain of burying a brother every other week? Biter and Arten were exceptions to the rule, if only because they'd sought him out.

Walking through Quenasses was an odd experience. Every other siege Conrad had suffered through had been a mess. Bodies littered the streets, men making their final stands in shitty alleys. Then there were the non-combatants. Poor things, penned up in their own homes were like cornered lambs. Almost too easy to slaughter. That didn't stop men taking out their lust, anger, and everything else on them.

Quenasses though, apart from the fights still going on at the walls and gates, was entirely quiet. No one except the invaders roamed the streets. The clash of steel in the distance was dying down, and the infantrymen eyed each other cautiously.

"Something's coming," Arten said. "They're not beaten."

Conrad wasn't a superstitious man, but he might've believed in that moment that Arten could predict the future.

There was barely a whistle as an arrow arced into a Zweihander's throat. Fingers reached up to protect that which had already been pierced. Another arrow hit the same man's eye. There was a small squelch, the last sound that soldier would ever make, before he fell to the floor.

The arrows came like rain after that. At the same time, doors of nearby houses were flung open. Enemies poured out from the small, pretty buildings. Some were fully armed and armoured, while others only carried a cleaver or long knife. It seems soldiers and civilians alike had been roped into this last chance at defending the city.

"Fuck," Biter said, slapping Conrad on the shoulder. "The roofs!" He gestured for Conrad to follow before rushing down an alley, away from the openness of the main street.

Conrad looked up. Clever, extremely clever. Each archer wore a cloak of coloured cloth to match the roof they stood on. They knew the walls wouldn't last, so they made the streets a death trap instead.

A swordsman rushed Conrad while he was ogling the rooves, announcing his surprise attack with a roar. Conrad stepped out of the way of the swordsman's charge, driving his two-handed sword down as the man passed. The greatsword cut through padded leathers like butter, and it carved through flesh as if it were air. The swordsman dropped his weapon to clutch at his opened back, dropping to his knees with a cry.

Idiot, Conrad thought. You ruined your own surprise.

Among the chaos of elite infantry clashing with desperate defenders, Conrad looked for Arten. He wanted to follow Biter to safety, but he couldn't until he knew all three of them would find shelter in the alley.

With each man wearing the same uniform, wielding the same weapon, their heads covered with the same helmet, it was near impossible to see Arten. The only useful thing to Conrad was that the lad was tall, taller than most by nearly half a foot.

An arrow clanked against the cobbled stone under Conrad's feet. It was perhaps two paces away from reaching him. Another man charged him, only to fall again after a fight that perhaps lasted two seconds.

Shit. Arten, where are you?

Finally, Conrad set his eyes on his giant, the man he was looking for, only to see him grappled to the floor.

A thick-armed brute was holding Arten's arms. He was covered by nothing more than a simple red shirt, brown trousers and a leather apron, blackened by years of closeness to a fire. A smith, he must've been, making good use of his strength while a slender soldier – Vovequian blues weaved around his breastplate and armour – tried to finish Arten off with a mace.

Conrad was impressed by his larger friend. He was proving much wrigglier than his size might suggest. Kicking wildly like a startled horse, he wasn't facing death with any sort of pride, but that would buy Conrad enough time to ensure he wouldn't die at all.

Five seconds. Five seconds was all Conrad needed. He didn't engage with the other enemies, or save any of his fellow soldiers, instead choosing to run past both. He might not have been as quick as Biter, but Conrad was quick enough to dodge and dance around an untrained peasant mob. A few swiped for his back, one even managed to stab at his wrist. Unfortunately for that brave soul, he'd accomplished nothing thanks to a simple plate of steel guarding the space between Conrad's wrists and forearms.

He almost felt a pang of guilt for the other men, the other Zweihanders, that Conrad could've saved. It might have taken a few seconds to save some, it only would've taken his presence to help even more. These men were random faces though, people that may as well be dolls to Conrad. None of them were Arten, and so Arten was who he'd be saving.

The smith, the one pinning Arten down, didn't have the chance to turn around, to see how he'd die. Planting his feet firmly on the floor, rotating his hips with the swing, Conrad cut the man into two pieces. It wasn't a clean kill; the sword cut the smith halfway through his face, rather than at the neck. Still, it was a kill all the same.

Blood spewed into the air; Conrad closed his mouth as red spattered all over his face. He could not stand the metallic taste of blood. Both Arten and the Vovequian soldier looked on in shock. By the plume of his helm, and the half-cloak covering his left shoulder, the latter was a man of at least some rank.

Two leaps. The first over Arten, to ensure Conrad was in between his friend and the soldier. The second was a hopeful attempt to end this fight quickly, with a powerful, if obvious, downward swing, Conrad struck nothing but the ground beneath him. The sword rang against stone, rattling against his grasp for a moment. The soldier simply stepped to one side, raising his mace overhead.

Conrad brought his right foot behind him, and thrusted forwards, forcing the soldier back with a stab. It was nothing more than a distraction, so that when pulling his sword back, Conrad could place his left hand near the tip of the blade, while his right remined on the hilt. Keeping both hands on the hilt was good when you wanted a pike, but a weapon so long wouldn't be as useful for Conrad, he needed something else here.

The soldier seemed to be missing his shield, which helped settle the rest of the fight rather quickly. Again, the soldier aimed for the head with his mace.

What is it with every mace-wielding fucker? Conrad thought as he batted the mace away with the hilt of his blade. They see nothing but crushing skulls. With his hand further up the sword, Conrad followed through, practically pushing the zweihander through the soldier, cutting his arm off cleanly. Another gush of blood washed over Conrad's clothes and armour as the soldier wailed his last breaths away, clutching at the stump where his arm used to be.

That was a good fight, the best Conrad had had in a while in the confines of a battle. Sweet, but short. It could've gone either way, but it still didn't match up to the duels he'd had in the training yard. Still, it was better than most 'proper' fights, where all any zweihander really did was poke their sword over the backs of pikemen, hoping to strike a lucky stab and not be hit by one. Hours and hours passed sometimes with those blobs of infantry, scuffling without good form, without the space to swing their sword around proper. It was just stab, stab, stab, all the time.

"Could you at least finish him off?" Arten asked as he helped himself to his feet.

Conrad shrugged his shoulders before stabbing down at the soldier's chest. "Quite kind of you, to give the man who nearly crushed your skull mercy."

"Would you not want the same?"

"I try not to think about death, otherwise I'll have to actually entertain the idea of dying."

Arten opened his mouth.

"Speak while we walk," Conrad interrupted, noticing the arrows hadn't stopped falling yet. "We need to meet up with Biter." He pointed in the direction of the alley Biter had ducked into.

"The old bugger didn't think about coming to help?" Arten asked.

"No. Nearly left you for dead myself, but then I thought I might as well get some swinging practise in."

"It looked like you needed it," Arten smiled. "Your little show of heroism nearly had us both killed."

They reached Biter quick enough. Luckily, he'd been waiting for them, though it seemed like he hadn't been alone. Three bodies were piled at his feet and blood dripped from the edge of his sword. As usual, Biter had taken his helmet off. Either as soon as he got into melee, or when he just got bored, he'd remove it from his head, often citing itching as the reason.

"Been busy?" Conrad asked. He couldn't stop himself from smiling as he saw the look of irritation in Biter. It was so easy to get him riled.

"I have, actually," Biter replied. "Bastards wouldn't have found me if I wasn't waiting for you here, stuck like a potato in the fucking ground."

"Apologies I didn't follow you like a lost pup. I had to save the big one from having his face caved in."

"Oh," Biter said, looking apologetically at Arten. "Sorry mate, thought I'd let you know."

"No," Arten said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "No, you were right next to me when the arrows started flying, then next thing I know you grabbed some other lad and ran off."

"Oh shit," Biter whispered. He pinched his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger.

Conrad couldn't help but laugh. "You idiot. You really are getting old, either that or you've taken one too many hits to that exposed noggin of yours."

"They were both tall alright!" Biter protested. "If yous had your helmets off like I do it'd be easier to tell."

"Right, we should expose our heads, just so you can see easier?"

"Might be worth a try."

"Why are we here?" Arten interjected. He spoke a bit too urgently, too loudly. "Sorry, just, people are dying while we're bickering over Biter's shite eyes."

"We're here for a very simple reason," Biter said. "Survival." He paused, allowing time for the other two simpletons to catch up. At least, that's what Biter thought he was doing. In reality, Conrad and Arten kept quiet merely to let their elder have his moment, to keep his dramatic pauses.

"Do go on," Conrad said after more than a moment in quiet.

"Don't you get it?" Biter said.

"I suppose," Arten replied. "If we're out in the open, we're almost asking for an arrow in the neck, but here there's cover."

Biter almost jumped with joy. "Exactly!"

"Hold on," Conrad said. "Surely there's more than that. If we wait here, we're just sitting ducks."

"You really do think I'm stupid, don't you?" Biter asked.

"Quite a bit, yeah."

"Arsehole. Of course, we're going to move. We're going to move up towards the cavalry, towards the Patriarch. Be safer there."

"And how do you know where they are?" Arten asked.

"All cities are the same," Biter said with confidence. "Alleys, streets, they all connect eventually, like how all rivers flow to the ocean. We just have to find our way around, and follow the noise of Vovequians dying."

"I don't like it," Arten said. His eyes kept darting back towards the fighting in the street behind. "We'd be leaving them to die."

Biter wasn't the quickest of fellows. An idiot, by many accounts. He rarely was able to set his mind on anything except a scrap or how to win one. Though he was by no means smart, he held some innate wisdom which carried had carried him through most of his later years. He knew men, sometimes more than they knew themselves. He could tell how angry someone was, how much they needed space, or someone to talk to. Biter had once stopped an assassination attempt of Old Johan Rynd by talking to the lad that was planning it from dusk until the dawn of the next day.

Putting his sole skill of wisdom to good use, Biter planted a soothing hand on Arten's soldier. "Listen mate," he said. "We're not leaving anyone to die. Listen now."

"I can't," Arten said. "I don't want to listen to men dying thanks."

"Not that, what do you think I am? Listen out, mate, what else do you hear?"

Arten strained himself in listening out for whatever Biter had been on about. Conrad could've sworn he saw a vein pop on the big lad's forehead.

"Footsteps?" Arten guessed.

"Yeah mate," Biter confirmed.

"Oh," Conrad realised. "I forgot they were behind us, to be honest."

Biter tapped two fingers to his forehead. "See what I mean? Soon enough the sounds of men dying is going to be replaced with the sweet noise of man-made thunder."

At first Conrad had thought Arten was the psychic, but now it seemed Biter had the ability to predict what was to come.

As Biter finished mentioning the sweet sound of thunder, so it appeared. Like a herald, he called the Gunners forth, their snapping shots echoing above the sound of the melee.

The first crack caused a man above the trio to cry out. Covered in a yellow cloak, a Vovequian archer fell from his vantage point, slamming into the uneven streets. His arms snapped as they were instinctively pulled out to protect him. Arten had had to dodge to the side to not be crushed beneath the weight of the archer.

"Hmm," Biter said. "That was sooner than I expected. Say what you will about the Gunners, but they have a great sense of timing."

"Indeed, they do," Conrad said as he finished off the fallen archer. The cracks were coming more frequently now. Conrad could smell the freshly spent powder. No doubt some of the shots were hitting the Zweihanders still left in the streets, but given the circumstances, these Gunners were unlikely to be penalised. They never were anyway.

"Satisfied?" Biter said, clapping his hand on Arten's shoulder. "The others will be fine."

Arten still looked unconvinced. He rubbed a gloved hand against his hairless, structured chin. "What do you think Conrad?"

"What do I think about what?"

"The Pups. They're ours, we trained with them."

"Doesn't mean we have to die with them," Conrad said. "Gunners are here now anyway. With or without us, they'll be fine."

"I suppose," Arten replied. He swirled his tongue in his mouth, still showing the signs of indecision.

A fleeing Vovequian found his way into the trio's alley looking for shelter. There was an awkward pause before Biter gave the man his end. That seemed to push Arten somewhat. Without saying anything else he took off, marching quickly through the web of interconnected streets and narrow alleys that made up Quenasses. Biter and Conrad went after him, though they didn't rush. It was hard to lose a lad as big as Arten.

They kept away from the open, cleaner streets. From those parts of the city, where the painted roofs and green gardens lay, one would have assumed Quenasses was a city of beauty. Indeed, it could be, but it could also be just as dirty as any other. In the side streets, the streets you didn't let the finer folk see, shit littered the floor, almost covering the uneven stones that paved it. The dissonant smells of a thousand shits from a thousand people offended Conrad's nose beyond comprehension. It had been years since he'd been this close to such a swath of dung, yet unlike Biter and Arten, the smell didn't make him gag, no matter how bad it got. He had lived in the countryside once. In the far fields and little villages, he'd always been able to smell shit. He always hated it, but over time he'd become numb to its effects.

Arten skidded to a halt, his ears perked up and his eyes scanning the streets. Conrad had heard it too; he was just hoping the big lad hadn't. A scream. A crash, the small slap of skin hitting skin. All it meant was trouble.

"No, no, no," Conrad said, his eyes meeting Arten's.

Arten's gaze turned quickly. It seemed something had caught his eyes, as well as his ears. He stared a moment through a window so murky Conrad was unsure how anyone could see anything through it.

"Look here," Arten said, his tone determined, serious. He grabbed Conrad by the ears and dragged him directly in front of the window.

It was more trouble than Conrad had first thought. Two men, one almost as bald as Biter, held the girl down by her arms, pinning her to a modest dinner table. The other one was small, desperately trying to separate the girl's kicking legs. His face turned from view, Conrad could only see a thick black ponytail as a distinguishing feature of the small one. Thin, unruly, it was a tasteless thing.

"See that?" Arten asked.

"I do," Conrad admitted.

"You can't tell me we're just going to let that happen."

"I can."

"Aye, we're going to leave it," Biter said. Arten looked furious, Conrad stepped in between the two.

"We'll report it after," Biter said apologetically. "After we're alive mate. We have rules in the army, clear ones now. You rape, you get your nob chopped off. Simple as."

"Oh, piss off," Arten protested. "I'm not about to let this happen so we can report it later. No, mate. No."

Arten walked around Biter, shoving Conrad aside with a shoulder, nearly knocking him to the floor. He found his way to the back door of the house, and with another shove of his huge shoulder, Arten sent the door flying. Biter tutted but followed in behind, as did Conrad. They did things together, or not at all.

"Oi!" squealed the little one. "Piss off! Get your own."

Arten folded his arms and held his chin high. He had an air of superiority about him now, an air of a nobler cause. Or it could've just been because he was a rich boy from a rich family. That did tend to give men a sense of arrogance.

"As I see it," he said. "Try as you might you've not yet committed a crime against the Patriarch, so if you leave this house now and return to the battle, we will leave you be."

"Battle's won mate," the big one said. "And to the victor goes the spoils, innit."

"Battle's won?" Biter interjected. "Already?"

"Yeah."

Biter made a curious face. "That was quick."

"That doesn't change anything," Arten said. "This, is still a crime."

"Might be a crime for people like you," said the little one, gesturing to the armour of the Zweihanders. "You 'elites', but there's no law on the battlefield for us. We do the things you won't. We fight on the walls, taking on the worst, even being hit by your own cannons, just so you can take all the glory." He gave up on wrestling the girl under him and walked closer to Arten.

"Surely," he continued, stepping closer. "You can forgive us for something so little as this."

The girl did indeed seem little. Now Conrad was in the room proper, he could get a good look at her, and the little man with the scraggly ponytail. The little man's skin was tough and wrinkly, like old leather. His grey-blue eyes were cold and distant. If the little one had ever held a shred of empathy or compassion, it had long since disappeared.

The girl was just that, a girl. She turned her teary eyes to look rather distantly at the unfolding situation. She'd stopped screaming, but Conrad could tell she was still terrified. Three more men had just arrived, and she now had to hope they were there to help.

"It doesn't matter whether we could forgive you or not," Biter said. He was watching the little one as he continued to close the distance between himself and Arten. "Law is law, anyone finds out about this and your balls are gone. Might even get hanged, unless you walk away."

Biter's hands were wringing the hilt of his sword. Like a wet rag he squeezed the leather binding, letting Conrad know he was ready to swing. Arten seemed oblivious to the tension building around him. He kept himself leering over the little one, as if he could scare him and his bigger friend away just by being tall. That was the thing about Arten, despite how smart he was, he always wanted things to work out in the best way possible, with everyone going home happy.

"Was that a threat?" the little one asked.

"No," Biter said quickly.

"Good. Wouldn't want to be making things hostile now, especially when you lot haven't got nearly enough room to be swinging those great big blades of yours."

"You'd be surprised," Biter said. His relaxed posture from earlier had disappeared, his voice lower.

The little one took another step closer to Arten. Conrad now noticed what Biter must have seen already. The little one's hand was reaching near his belt, his fingers hovering awkwardly over a semi-concealed hilt.

"Actually, while I've got you boys here," the little one continued. "Might as well ask, why do you have those things? Bit stupid, aren't they? They're just big, weighty. Makes me wonder if you're compensating for something?"

Biter didn't respond, neither did Arten, nor Conrad. They'd all noticed what was going on now, what the little one was trying to do. They waited for the final step.

After a few more seconds, the little one made his move. He took another step forward, and his hand reached under his belt. Without Biter, Arten would've been dead. He'd let the little one get in far too close for his sword to be of any use. Standing a few paces behind Arten though, Biter had all the distance he needed. He stepped forwards, hunching low to put all of his weight behind the stab. The little man, with his skin like leather, was run through, the broad greatsword burying itself in his belly. About a foot of steel had gone through the entirety of the little one's guts and exited out of his back.

As Biter pushed the blade further, Conrad whirled round and swung at the larger of the two. The big one raised his arms to protect his face.

A stupid move. It saved his life, but only for a few seconds. His forearms had been cut to the bone. Blood gushed like a fountain from the wounds as a wail poured from the big one's mouth.

Conrad hated it when men did that before dying. They sounded no better than animals. He strode forwards and with another slice relieved the big one of his head, so that he may relieve the world of his noises.

The girl screamed at the bloody exchange. Conrad acted quickly, wrapping his protected forearm over her mouth. His frequent shushing and grappling of the girl by no means stopped the screaming, but it at least muffled the effect.

"Listen," Arten said, kneeling down so his kind eyes could meet the girl's. "We're not here to hurt you. It might not look like it," he sighed, looking at the bodies. "But we are. Conrad, would you let her go? You're not helping."

Conrad did as he was told. The girl didn't scream, but she was still scared. She trembled like a cornered rabbit.

"Here," Arten pulled a dagger from his side, passing it hilt-first to the girl.

'The Insignia of the Elite' the Patriarch called them. They were handed to Zweihaders, heavy cavalry, even some knights. They were gifts, proof that the men wielding them were at least more useful than any hired mercenary or peasant trained to hold a pike.

The steel was fine enough, simple leather bound the hilt, but the pommel was where these daggers differed. The pommel was made up of silver, shaped into a snarling hound's head. That hound, it reminded a man of what he was to Drevon. Little more than a dog, trained to bark and bite at the people his master didn't like. Some of the lads found it a tad degrading, but Conrad was fine enough with life as a dog. It paid well.

The girl snatched the dagger out of Arten's hand. Biter cringed as he watched the transaction take place. The bald man was a patriot at heart, he liked the idea of his dagger meaning something. It must've hurt to see Arten throw his away.

The girl stared at the dagger for a moment. Conrad was sure she'd try to stab Arten. She was scared, angry, and in front of her were three men who'd each taken part in the ruination of her city, her country.

"Go upstairs," Arten said, once again oblivious to the danger his life was in. "Hide somewhere until this is all over."

The girl lunged for Arten. The big lad caught her by her skinny, pale wrists, stopping the dagger before it was anywhere near him.

Conrad lowered his sword. He'd readied himself to split the girl in two. Now things seemed under some sort of control.

"Keep hold of that," Arten said with a smile. "You might need it."

He let the girl go. She looked around herself for a moment. Again, she was a rabbit, though now she was one freed from her trap, and unsure what to do with herself.

"Get lost," Biter ordered.

It seemed that was all the girl needed. She rushed off upstairs, her feet pounding against the wood. An uncomfortable silence filled the space then. Biter began immediately to drag the bodies out of the house, while Arten seemed entirely lost. He inspected the pots and pans in the kitchen, the dinner table in its centre.

"Looking to buy the place?" Conrad asked.

"They are nice," Arten said sombrely. "Simple, quaint, cosy. Couldn't ask for much more?"

"I could. Are you happy now?"

"Hmm?"

"You're the hero of her day," Conrad said. "Congratulations. All it cost you was your dagger. How are you going to pay for that one?"

"I'll just make something up. Say I dropped it in that shitstorm before."

"Yeah, alright. I guess that'll do," Conrad tried to rub some of the blood off of the tabletop with his sleeve. He swore under his breath as his efforts served only to smear the red over the table and stain his uniform. Not that it hadn't been stained before.

"Right," Biter huffed, clapping his hands together. "I chucked them in a gutter. Shouldn't be any worry."

"Shouldn't be your job to clean up his mess," Conrad commented, gesturing to Arten.

"No, but I'd do it anyway," Biter said. "And you'd do the same for me and you know it you prick."

"Thanks Biter," Arten said. "I-"

"Ah ah," Biter tutted. "None of that. Just because I helped you kill those lads, doesn't mean I liked it."

"We had to do something," Arten protested.

"No, we didn't," Conrad said. "Sorry Arten, but I'm taking Biter's side. There's a process to these things. Anyone finds out about this, we're dead men now."

"I'd rather be a dead man than one who stood by today."

"Ever the dramatic," Conrad said.

Arten didn't like that. He glared at Conrad, his fist even balling for a moment.

"Fuck off," Arten continued. "The both of you. You're not going to let anyone know, and neither am I."

"Terrible thing, isn't it?" Biter asked, disinterested in the current argument.

"What is?"

"War. Do you think farmers have these sorts of talks? Traders? Smiths? In kitchens that aren't theirs, surrounded by blood they spilled?"

"What are you on about mate?" Conrad laughed.

"Never you mind," Biter sighed, shaking his head. "Let's get away from here, push to the citadel, see if this fight is over."

"It's called a Bastille in Vovequia," Arten said.

"It's called shove it up your arse and get moving," Biter replied.

They'd not noticed the patters of rain while inside the house. There were more important things to be focusing on than the weather outside. Conrad was glad for the shower overhead as he stepped outside. He liked the rain, how it made him feel clean. Or, at least cleaner than he was.

He collected the cool water in cupped hands before throwing it over his face. There was no hope of getting the blood out of his uniform now it had sunk in, but blood, dirt and rubble washed away easily enough from Conrad's skin.

Among the light taps of rain against tightly packed, cobbled stone, Conrad could hear distant roars. Cheers and cries echoed throughout the city of Quenasses. Conrad recognised all of it, he'd been hearing it nonstop over the past few months. It was the men of Drevon revelling in yet another victory. There was something different this time though, the voices seemed quieter, and though they cheered for victory, there seemed to be a relief in the cries, one born out of surviving, and being thankful for it.

"Feels like we get luckier each time," Arten said. He too was getting some relief from the rain. He took off his helmet, flipping it upside down so the water could build up. Then, after a sufficient amount had pooled together, he put his helmet back on, letting the rain pour over his head and face, washing away the sweat. Arten always had been bad for sweating. Even though his hair was kept shorter than Conrad's, he seemed to keep in heat like a fireplace. Even after a day of nothing but light marching, he'd have enough sweat to make his own lake. It was both disgusting and impressive.

"They're getting smarter," Conrad agreed. "Archers on the rooftops was clever. Soon enough they might even work out a way around the Gunners."

"Soon enough we might not have the guns," Biter added, pointing above his head. "Rain like this makes them useless. We'd be fucked."

"Nah, we'd be alright, so long as you're willing to get your gnashers out mate," Conrad joked.

"Oi you can't be making jokes about that. You weren't even there."

Biter smiled, though Conrad knew he was trying not to. He gestured for the men to walk, rather than remain near the house where they'd murdered their own comrades.

"If I were you," Conrad said. "I'd want the word to get out. Tearing a man's throat out with your teeth, now that's a proper war story."

"I thought so too," Biter replied. "Then people stopped going anywhere near me. No one wants to be mates with a savage, they're just scared of you."

"Still, I'd take that."

"You think you would," Arten said. "But you still stick around us like flies to shit."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Conrad asked.

Before Arten could throw out a condescending reply, Conrad held up an arm. Hooves clopped along the streets behind the trio. There were perhaps a dozen sets all moving at pace.

The small company rounded a corner, coming into view. Unarmoured, wearing only their saddles and brown, boring hoods atop their heads, these horses carried no knights, nor were they made for battle. They carried the most powerful woman in Drevon and any she deemed worthy to be in her retinue.

Conrad had seen Countess Dreor before, often when he glanced towards the back of the battlefield. Either she'd have her head down, deeply studying battlefield maps and strategies, or she'd be in personal command of her Shatterers; the cannons that by her design, had brought ruin to any wall they set their sights on. It was usually a good day ono the battlefield when the Countess stepped up to command, her knowledge of powder was second to none and it showed.

Today was the closest Conrad had ever been to Countess Dreor though, the closest he'd ever been to a member of the Council, for that matter. He'd never been one for politics, even so, he couldn't help feeling somewhat impressed. Dressed in a short coat that hung just below her waist, the Countess was adorned with pins and badges aplenty. Gold buttons sealed the jacket, and three white stripes ran along the sleeves. A woman of achievement, and one who wanted everyone to know. She exuded authority like Arten exuded sweat.

Her eyes, like cold dark pits, locked onto Conrad as she approached. Her lips, painted red in contrast to her grey skin, curled in what almost seemed to be disgust. Her retinue noticed what had caught their master's eye, and looked towards Conrad too. He felt nervous in the grip of their gaze. It seemed the whole pack of them were from Uttoll, the Northernmost province of Drevon. Grey skin, hair of either the lightest platinum or deepest shade of black, they differed greatly from most citizens of Drevon. Arten said there were many myths as to why the skin of an Uttoll differed. Biter said it was because they lived up North, where the cold temperatures and high elevations of a mountainous environment had caused their skin to pale and their hearts to grow cold. Conrad hadn't settled on an explanation of his own.

"Soldier," said the Countess, in a voice so low Conrad leaned forwards so he could hear her proper. "Where is the rest of your unit?"

"We're from the Eighth, ma'am," Biter said in Conrad's place.

"Ah, the Pups," Countess Dreor said with an imitation of a smile.

A man trotted out from behind the Countess. He sat well in his horse, his back as straight as an arrow. "Heard you lot got into a right mess," he said. "Actually, I saw the mess you got into. Wasn't pretty."

Conrad hadn't seen this man at first; he'd blended in amongst the surrounding sea of grey. He wore the same deep blues as the others, but he lacked their aura, their coldness. He had some colour in his cheeks, which were a more natural olive colour. No makeup, no paint was hiding grey in his skin. Amber hair, long and lustrous was restrained in a neat ponytail. Were he to fall from his horse, his chin might have cracked the ground beneath it, it was structured and pointed so. Bluntly, shortly, he was a pretty man. Too fucking pretty.

"Shouldn't have happened like that," the pretty man said. "It's the infantry's job, to be storming shitholes like that."

"We are the infantry, sir," Arten said.

"Aye, you are, but you're not the poor fuckers we send in first. Should be the mercenaries doing that, the ones fighting for coin, not country."

"Enough," ordered the Countess. "We stopped for information, not a chat. If these men have been through what you say, they've earned themselves a rest."

She turned her lifeless, almost reptilian eyes back to Biter. "Find the old badger, Rynd. I believe he's sorting out food and beds for the Zweihanders."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Not ma'am," the Countess corrected. She drew in a whistling breath through pursed lips "Lady Courtesy, when speaking to a Countess."

Biter looked to the floor. Even he seemed to shrink under Dreor's presence. "Aye, Lady Courtesy."

"Better," said the Countess before kicking her horse into a trot. Her group followed dutifully behind.

"Not to worry lads," the pretty man said as he rode off. "She's like that with everyone. Rest well now."

Conrad leant on his sword, letting out a deep breath. He hadn't realised he'd been holding it in.

"Old badger," Arten pondered, looking at Biter. "You said you came up with that."

"Not the time," Biter huffed. "Atoth give me strength, never had a woman make me feel I was at death's door like that."