Book 2: Chapter 26: -At the End of the Day

Book 2: Chapter 26: -At the End of the Day

They talk of the separation between her Church and State! Utter nonsense, I say! The Church without her knights would be like the goddess without her blades.

- Attributed to Cardinal Mauros.

Cordelia moved like swift-loosed lightning, her blade flashing in the late morning sun as it arced in descent. It struck Mistevan’s shield with a greater force than could be expected for such a slim weapon, biting deep and gouging a great rent in the metal and wood. Unperturbed, the Knight-Sergeant struck back with a businesslike chop of his axe.

I saw another caravan guard, a jovial fellow named Timur, fending off two soldiers equipped with swords and shields. He was a dab hand at cards, and rather pleasant to game with, so I rushed to his aid. The tabarded soldiers, the features of their heavy helms reminiscent of faceless metal monsters, would make short work of Timur, unless I stopped them.

Charging in with a Shield Bash, I caught the soldier to Timur’s left unawares, almost bringing him to the ground with the force of my assault. They were certainly a cut above the rest of the fodder, as the soldier to the right broke off for a moment to cover his ally. The guard gave me a quick nod of thanks, appreciation that the odds were now evened.

On the other side of the fight, the woman was fighting well, parrying or avoiding attacks, and letting her elegant armor absorb the blows when she had to. It was an education in fighting in heavy armor. Her fighting style was strange, to say the least, favoring downward circling strikes that hit with the strength of an ogre, crushing through guards and shields. Only the Knight-Sergeant Mistevan, it seemed, could repel those downward strikes to some degree. For all this, she was still hard-pressed. Either exhaustion or the sheer press of numbers would wear her down, eventually.

The caravan guards were slowly mopping up the remaining zealots, viciously finishing them off whenever they had a chance. The end was in sight, our victory all but certain. All that was left were the last gasps of this bloody drama.

Something about seeing a beautiful woman fighting off a group of armed men pulled at me. The part of me that dared called itself a man pushed me to rush to her assistance. Her noble struggle was a cry to direct and immediate action and, throwing caution to the wind, I charged in to aid her. This was simply the protective instinct, born from the time when men still rutted in caves like animals. Or simple vainglory. Nonetheless, it felt right. It felt just.

What happened next was a brutal flurry of heavy steel, punches, and kicks. The other guards, drawn by my charge, followed me and crashed into the confused enemy. In the heat of the melee, there was no time for the subtle manipulation of magic or clever strategies, only the call of battle that thrummed through my limbs and commanded me to fight with rabid viciousness. I could only vaguely remember Mistevan’s last moments. For my mind painted them all in the impressionist hues of a crimson song as he was pulled down by our coordinated assault.

A flurry of notifications passed me, heavy with the weight of my actions.

You have slain a human 7 experience gained. You have slain a human 7 experience gained. You have slain a human 3 experience gained. You have slain a human 3 experience gained. You have slain a human 7 experience gained. You have slain a human 7 experience gained. You have slain a human 3 experience gained.

Finally, as the storm of violence passed, there was only the red-headed woman left. She was surrounded by the wounded and the fallen. Taking off her helm, she looked upon me with a face filled with complete and utter adulation and went down on bended knee before me.

I could only look back at her in horror, thankful that my reaction was hidden by my helm.