"What do you know about the Culling?"
"Enough to solve this shortage of weaponry."
━━━━━━⚔︎━━━━━━
Gazes shifted, candles burned and flames flickered.
An eerie calm ruled the table when Xenro made his quiet way into the hall with some others, placing his bundle of firewood in one corner. He brushed the snow off the fur-lined cloak which Captain Walric had quite literally forced him to wear because: 'those rags won't do you no good 'round here. In case it has not gotten through your thick skull yet, winters are harsh and merciless on these parts!'
When he'd tried to explain why the cold winds were the least aggravating thing about Lord Edis, she'd muffled his protests with a bright red, woolen scarf with little chickens on it : 'Shut--'
He now leaned against the wall close to the hearth, one among the many other mercenaries standing guard over the meeting, and listened.
He tried not to look at a certain bushy head, bobbing over the backrest of one of the chairs.
I will leave the company of mortals. Once and for all.
All things considered, it was better if he did not get too close. Deep down, he was doing Farren an injustice, being drawn to her only because he saw someone else in her, someone no longer of this world.
Leave her company, Xenro. Or you are in for a great torment. His brother's words.
He swung his gaze away.
Ryffin, accompanied by a blond-haired man with a bandage around his head approached the table to take a seat. It took Xenro little effort to identify the other as a Royal Sorcerer, for their gold-trimmed uniform had, by ways of a tragic lack of revolutions in fields of Midaelian fashion, remained roughly the same for five centuries.
"Are you feeling well now, dear friend?" came a smug voice from among the group. The regal young woman smiled up at them, one hand folded beneath her chin.
Ryffin looked away at once, fascinated by a very interesting wall.
"Much better, Your Highness," said the Royal Sorcerer haughtily, shrugging off whatever the princess possibly implied and ran a tentative finger along the gauze piece tied to his forehead. "Thanks to Mr. Wellis, I am feeling fine, and will continue to feel so--until you toss me into that wagon of death again on our way back."
Wagon of death? The God wondered, an amused smile spreading across his face. Are the Dark Saints carriages still just as bad? Last time he and Dresius had hijacked one, they'd crashed it in a swamp and decided to never speak of it again.
Another group of soldiers arrived shortly after he'd entered, and in the lead strode a young man, stern-faced and clad in black from head to toe. A sergeant, by the looks of his silver emblem. Most likely to die from lack of sleep, by the looks of the shadows under his eyes.
Then it struck him.
Xenro recognised not his face, but his soul. This was the same young man he'd helped save the night he had been set free.
Not a trace of sorcery in his mortal soul, but he commanded a powerful aura no less than a skilled mage; his eyes exhausted yet alert, expression stoney and detached, yet aware of every move, each intake of breath in the room. His stormy grey eyes halted at Farren and held her gaze.
"Apologies for the delay, there was quite a... situation at Brittlerock that needed to be taken care of," he announced.
"You are Sergeant Linder, I take it?" asked the captain. "Have a seat. We've only just begun."
Farren gave him a not-so-subtle wave and a grin as he settled down, to which he answered with a solemn nod. Meanwhile Ryffin and the Royal Sorcerer were looking anywhere but each other as though making eye contact would cause them to spontaneously combust.
These folk need to loosen up, concluded the God as he watched the mortals who were unaware of the millenia-old entity judging them in silence from over the rim of his chicken-emblazoned red scarf.
"So," the host turned to Captain Rivera again. "You were about to enlighten us about the Culling."
An awestruck look crossed Linder's face as he faced the captains, but he masked it soon enough.
"I have had to keep my experiences a secret from even those I trust dearly, I'm afraid," said Captain Rivera, eyes on Linder. "But as you now come to hear my tale, I hope you all will understand my reasoning behind it."
"The hatred..." began she, "the sheer resentment Drisian vampire hunters hold toward our kind runs deep. We are naught but monsters in their eyes, unholy demons that must be wiped off the face of earth--that much is common knowledge. This hatred is what fuelled the Culling in the first place."
✦✧✦✧
The red sheen of her eyes caught Xenro's notice. A vampire.
A deep sigh escaped his chest as he listened, back pressed against the wall, guilt of someone else's actions coiling in his heart.
If there was one thing Draedona did that he disagreed with, it was the curse that gave rise to the vampirefolk. The Goddess had aimed to punish one mortal, yet the curse had ended up affecting a considerable number of the population.
When a sorcerer from the northern lands sacrificed thousands of innocents in a ritual to achieve immortality, she unleashed upon him an irreversible curse--one that would grant him hundreds of years of life, but he could only survive on blood. One that would make him immensely strong, allow him to see in pitch black darkness, but in darkness he would forever remain, being averse to sunlight.
A curse so enormous did not stay contained within one man. It spread like a disease and transformed the people of the surrounding villages into creatures of the night--further adding fuel to the already roaring chaos of Stormvale.
Captain Rivera was one of them. She spoke of an era of two centuries ago, of a time none of those at this table had seen.
"While you have accepted us the way we are, going so far as to innovate alchemical concoctions such as blood elixirs to sustain us, the Drisians hunted us down, slaughtering entire villages, murdering even children. When I say this, I do not intend to paint us in a perfect light, either. There have always been many among us unable to control their beastly urges, while many others lived a life of peace."
They were neither angels, nor demons. Just... people.
"All our settlements in Drisia were thus destroyed. But one cannot sit idle forever. When your back hits the wall, you have to take a stand. That's what we did in the Culling."
The crackling fire punctuated the pause that followed, all eyes on the vampire, breaths held as they listened to a long-coveted answer. A scrap of history long-lost from old books and tomes, only existing in the memory of an ancient veteran.
"Contrary to what you may be led to believe, for history is written by the conquerors, the name 'Culling' never meant the culling of us. It was the culling of the hunters. And for most of the time the battle raged, it was exactly that. It felt as though a flame drove us. Only in the first two weeks of battle, their numbers had been cut down to half. Our general was near well celebrating, when we drove them out to the northern Autumnwind plains." She gave them a wry smile. "Little did we know...that would be the end of us."
"Why?" Farren nearly sprung from her seat. "You were supposed to win!"
Several stern looks hushed the corporal.
The vampire took this exact moment to take a sip of her red wine.
"Patience, dear. As I was saying, we chased the legions of vampire hunters out to the plains. Up to that point, we'd camped in wooded hills. Plenty of caves, gorges to seek shelter from the sun during the day. Yet as we made camp on the plains, the only thing that separated us from being turned into a pile of searing flesh and bones were our tents."
Captain Rivera set down her empty flagon and folded her pale hands on the table. Ancient scars lined them, much like her face. Nails were missing from two of her fingers, the flesh there gnarled and puckered up.
"Do you know what's the most efficient way to wipe out a company of vampires you cannot best in strength or numbers?" she asked.
No answer came her way, only questioning stares.
"You torch their tents at daybreak, and let the sun handle the rest."
The listeners drew in a sharp breath, almost in unison.
"That's the answer to your questions, people. All those who wondered how an entire company perished overnight."
"Pardon me, Captain," said the Princess, "I'm left wondering how this all helps us deal with the shortage of Sacred Blades."
A bitter smile spread across the ancient warrior's face. "My tale is yet to finish, Your Highness. Do you not want to know how I survived? Earned my befitting title of present?"
"It was a beautiful, bright morning. The sun shone merrily down upon us as we writhed and kicked, skin peeling off our limbs, eyes bursting in our skulls. Those who got caught up in the fire that spread through the camp died in peace, Your Highness. The Drisian troops left us to our inevitable fates."
Xenro could see the effort it took her to utter those words. The faces surrounding her were ashen with morbid curiosity.
"Ever seen rat torture? Seen how the little bastards dig through a man's bowels to get away from the burning coals? The last of us who refused to die were like those rats. There was an area nearby, where days ago we'd cleared away rocks and soil to dig a trench for refuse. We wrapped ourselves in the cloaks of our dead comrades and clawed away at the soil. With bare hands, when blades snapped. When I was done digging a pit, neck deep in filthy soil muddled with blood, the last two of our men fell. And the earth gave away beneath my feet."
Muffled curses tossed themselves around the mortified listeners, quiet, useless prayers to Draedona leaving trembling mouths. Outside, the snowstorm wailed, winds reaching down so far as to tug at the hinges of the doors to the main hall.
"Next I awoke, I found myself inside a...barrow. Aye, we sinners had dug our trenches right above sacred burial sites. For days I wandered in those cool shadows, protected by the kindly spirits of the dead. There in the recesses of those stone walls lay armoured corpses, hundreds of thousands of warriors put to rest along with their weapons. Mostly just dust and leather, yet the blades remained intact. Take a guess what those weapons were."
--"Of course!"
The sound of a fist connecting to the table snapped everyone out of their trance. Flagons jumped, mead spilled.
The Royal Sorcerer had gotten to his feet, pale blue eyes wide. "The Site of the Culling...northern Autumnwind plains-- that's the same place where the final battle took place before the Apocalypse. You came across a burial site of the..."
"Chosen Warriors," she finished for him, "Wielders of the Sacred Blades. Why, you are sharp, sorcerer."
Bittersweet relief washed over Xenro. His people, the Chosen Warriors, were not mere sun-bleached bones scattered across the Autumnwind plains, but laid to rest within barrows by their remaining comrades, who later moved on to form the company that surrounded him now. A deep calm passed over his soul.
Deader than your will to live...
Farren's guilty eyes caught his from across the table, but he only offered her a smile. He did not blame her for words spoken out of desperation.
"You mean...there are more of the Sacred Blades to be found in those barrows?" said Captain Walric.
Captain Rivera nodded. "Extraordinary, crystal-bladed weapons they were, untouched by the years... though I didn't recognize those as such back then. But when I came across the dagger at the garrison of Kinallen, and got to know of yours afterwards-- the answer was only too clear."
Yet in Captain Walric's eyes there was still some mistrust. "Truth be told...I don't like the looks of this. The place you speak of is currently part of Drisia. And I do wonder why have you kept silent for this many centuries?"
The vampire scoffed. "So should I have spoken to the Council historians about those barrows? So they can send the mages to dig them up? I knew not the significance of those weapons-- true--but those burial sites are sacred, the final resting place of our saviors. I would be lying if I didn't feel like taking one of those blades, yet I didn't. It felt like desecration!"
"Only those who are worthy of wielding them must have the weapons. I'm not one of them, and neither are those Council fools. But this girl is," said Captain Rivera, finger pointed at a flustered Farren, "and so are all of you people who form this company."
"How do we trust you? Do you have any proof?" asked Gunvald.
"Naught but words and my scars, I'm afraid. And perhaps the hundreds of years of my service in the Midaelian army," she said. "Ask yourself, why would I spin a false tale? One would think I've had my fair share of ridicules in the hands of the Council folk. Why add to the misery?"
Xenro came to the rescue of this centenarian. "Now, I know I am but a mere new recruit, but I wish you would hear me out."
"Go ahead," drawled Captain Walric. "New or old, we value the words of those who share the Nameless One's oath."
"The Sacred Blades were bestowed by the Nameless One to all the Chosens, were they not? And the warriors numbered in hundreds of thousands, perhaps more. Yet come to think of it, we only own a few hundred of those. Makes sense that the rest of them are tucked away elsewhere. Would you not agree?" he said, searching her face for signs of agreement, but was only met with a steely stare.
Xenro redirected his course. "Or it could be that our Lord gave the weapons to a select few only. To his most trusted friends, perhaps.”
"So very unjust!" added Farren. "But indeed, this makes more sense. Come to think of it...the Unnamed never did answer our prayers. Alas, even the divines pick their favourites.”
"Nonsense! The Nameless One treats all equally," said Captain Walric, clutching her pendant. "He would never commit such acts of favouritism."
I am not so sure, lady. I am obviously taking sides here.
"So do I take that as a yes?" asked Captain Rivera, giving Xenro and Farren an acknowledging nod.
The struggle was visible on Captain Walric's face. Having single-handedly coordinated the company for decades, it did not sit with her too well to let others take charge. Xenro was all too familiar with such behaviour, for after ravaging the land with blizzards for months, winter would refuse to give way to spring.
Apparently, mortals dealt with it better than all-powerful Gods with egos the size of a continent, for she complied shortly after.
"Very well. I'll look into it, see whether my men are willing to make the trek. It'll be appreciated if you'd lend us a hand."
Captain Rivera grinned. "My patrollers are ever ready to march. Just say the word," she said, and settled back into her chair.
"With that out of the way..." Captain Walric looked expectantly at the others.
"Allow me." Linder now rose from his seat, hands planted on the table before him. "I'll get straight to the point, Captain, for we have little time. I hope you will excuse my hastiness."
"On the contrary, Sergeant. Please begin."
"I greatly appreciate you all agreeing to work with us. Surely we can count on the assistance and aid of the Sacred Blades?"
"We'll be the poisoned arrow at your arsenal, ready for the moment opportunity strikes," said Gunvald, and nodded at both Linder and Lysandra. The princess inclined her head gracefully.
"Your Highness," said Linder, "I believe I have found a foe on whom to unleash that first deadly blow."
"I'm sure you have heard of the staged bandit raid that took place in Kinallen. It was a part of an investigation to track down an assassin hiding among the ranks-- one who allegedly attempted to kill Commander Karyk. Most of our suspicion had wrongfully fallen upon Alastair Henris."
"We were led to believe he had been hired to kill the commander. Although the real culprit was one of the archers, Dion Edsley," he continued, "and it turns out his target had been Alastair."
The Captain's eyes narrowed. "Isn't he the youngest of the Henris?"
"Indeed. And it is his older brother, Alfred Henris who hired the killer. Yet it goes beyond mere family feuds, as
Corporal Clearstrike will tell you." He gestured to Farren.
Farren told them about the exchange between Dion and Alfred she'd witnessed in the Henris manor. "Alfred Henris is prone to treason. Reylan wants the layout plans of the royal palace-- and Alfred would deliver them to him at any cost-- because his ships are at stake. He is desperate, Your Highness. Reylan already threatened him through Dion."
"Dion revealed in his interrogation that Captain Reylan is planning a siege. Once Byton falls, so will the rest of Midaelia," Klo said.
A tense silence fell across the table.
"Reylan...I have heard of this man,” said Princess Lysandra. “I have come to discover he is now a general, and the most powerful weapon at King Krugmann's disposal. I should be able to convict Alfred, if you provide me with solid proof."
"Well, I am giving you proof, aren't I?" said Farren.
"While I believe your words, I doubt my father would. The fact that Alfred Henris has a lot of influence upon the Royal Guards doesn't help. Since I'm not yet crowned queen, the rein of power still remains in his hands. I'm afraid an overheard conversation won't suffice, Corporal. Alfred is a cunning man, and he'd turn that against you in no time."
"We can get Dion himself to testify before His Majesty. The fact that he is a hired killer is clear even to the Council. The mages saw the Death Ring he summoned, and we all heard what he said beforehand. Our squad stands witness to it all," said Klo.
"That would have to work." Princess Lysandra tapped her chin with her finger. "And we must set this plan in motion before Alfred gets his hands on the plans and it's too late. Now Captain, I need you and your company by my side. The Royal Guards are no longer to be trusted. Best you get done with your little plan with Clearstrike and set foot in the city. I've made arrangements for your accommodations."
"Just say the word, Your Highness. My lads are ready."
"Are you sure? There are about two hundred of you..."
Captain leaned back in her chair, arms folded behind her back. "Been preparing for this my whole life, Princess. Give us the sign and out we'll go. Tonight, if you wish, as soon as the storm dies down."
"Tonight it is, then." The look in the princess's eyes was solemn, sharp jaws set. Her dark eyes met the affirmative looks that answered her from around the table.
A sigh of despair sounded, and the Royal Sorcerer's face connected with the tabletop. "Pray, hand me a shovel... and a vial of poison-- for I will not survive a return journey in that carriage."