Sorceress of the Second Sphere

1. The Knight of Terriers

Squelching onwards, the horse's hooves continued to progress forwards. The riders continued to look around to examine the various flora, but as far as they were concerned, they were alone in the forest.

"Archers," whispered Sir Peyton as Jefford signalled towards several men looking down towards the riders. With one quick motion, they stood and released their arrows. The riders, startled by the action, could not respond in time as several arrows rained down on them ferociously. Falling to the ground, they rolled around in the mud trying to grasp air, instead, they choked on the blood filling in their diaphragms desperately trying to cling to what life they had left.

"Well done," Sir Peyton said to his right-hand man Jeffords. "Send some men down to ensure they suffer no more, and then move their bodies out of sight. Take two more men, our best riders, to take the horses and ride back to the camp at Bleufontaine."

"Ride back, milord?" Jeffords asked, his gruff voice confused but alert.

"I don't want the convoy to suspect a thing. Hopefully, they will believe that their men are still scouting on ahead."

"Aye, milord." Like a machine, Jeffords stood up briskly and ran over to a group of men to fire off instructions. Before long, those men were performing their tasks, and Jeffords was once again beside his liege.

Sir Peyton revelled in his men's efficiency. Undesirables, from various outfits of the Imperial army, bought together by the grace of Sir Peyton Whitehill. His eyes scanned over the men, originally destined for death for their inappropriate actions. Thieves, murderers and deserters, given one last chance to fight in a war they did not care for and an Emperor they felt had failed them at every turn. When Peyton found them, he saved them from execution and gave them all a purpose. They did not need to fight for the Emperor who meant so little to them, they needed to fight for each man standing next to them.

As he heard the snort of the horses before they rode away through the forest, he turned to the worst man of them all. Jeffords. Raised as a thug and enforcer in the city of Ravenscourt before being pressganged into the army. After attempting desertion and killing his pursuers, he was caught and sentenced to execution by the wheel.

Just as he had then, Sir Peyton saw something of a leader in him, yet now, his temperament had been calmed and the soldier within him had flourished. If Sir Peyton Whitehill did not achieve anything else in this pointless war, that would be enough.

His stray thoughts returned to the road as the clunking sound of metallic armour could be heard in the distance. With each crack of iron on iron, the reverberations became more intense and it would not be long before the convoy would be passing through the area.

The sound of iron caused Sir Peyton to feel somewhat naked, as his decision to remain without his armour was necessary for the success of the mission. He needed to remain concealed, and the sight or sound of iron would undoubtedly put the enemy on edge. As it stood, they were marching directly into a trap.

Once again, peering around the tree, he examined the various soldiers and horsemen walking through the centre of the forest, surrounding at least ten carts and flanked by two Ruvian Chevaliers. His men were easily outnumbered two to one, however, the forest, steep slopes and soaked muddy ground would make the horsemen and soldiers incapable of traversing easily around the soon to be battlefield.

Sadness washed over him, whatever was about to happen, though, he would undoubtedly lose some of his men. Peyton took hold of a pendant, wrapped around his neck. Shaped as two semi-circles that intertwined with each other before splitting apart into a two-headed serpent staring directly at each other. Its metallic silver touch was cold and smooth in Peyton's hand and as he rubbed it carefully, it brought him a small sense of comfort. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on its small engravings and spoke softly "Khuthos, God of war, I ask you give my men the strength and courage to fight with ferocity and honour in this battle ahead. Austineth, Goddess of the hunt, I pray that my men all aim true. Igen Goddess of healing, I pray that you protect my men with your ever-watchful eye and Qhyagi God of Death, I ask that if this our last moment, that my men be worthy to dine in the greats halls of the honoured. Adverbial phrases mægden hîe bêon, so may it be!"