“In the War against the Elven Enclave, the Ordo Malleus, Ordo Maleficarum, and Ordo Damnatus were the undoubted saviors of the K?nigreich. The ordos routed four Elven armies in the Fields of Angesia, The River Maguros, and into the Elven cities of Valencia, Creicia, and Ponti. They wrought following vengeance on ten million of the accused degenerates and their towns of corruption and slavery. Chief amongst those who won this glory were the Guardians carrying the legacy of Von Reiner in their names. Dumas, Alfred, Grant, and Gwenieve are heroes to the Lightborne people.

  It is said that the fields of impaled they left ran for dozens of miles and were so dense that the Elven armies that came through these ruins became separated and lost in these new, sacred woods. At that time, the necromancers of the Ordo Damnatus executed their grand ritual, and the titan of undeath rose from the combined dead, which wrecked eight months of destruction across the army and city alike. Without this delay, the Lightborne would have fallen at Havenrise and the Somme in the weeks after this glorious campaign.

  Though the Ordos lost many ancient warriors and scholars to these invaders, their survival in the peace talks speaks volumes of the genius of their strategists and the resilience of their warriors. The Ritterdrache and Volksturmtruppen, by contrast, earned deserved purges for their demonstrated weakness. Were the K?nigreich defended by the ordos alone, given proper resources and recruits, we would not have been forced to accept the indignities the Elves forced on us.

  The following record will detail the triumphs of their lightning campaign and how their enlightened leadership mended the faltering loyalty between the colonies and the Fatherland.“

  Excerpt from A Survivor‘s Account of the Enclave War

  3798 A.H.

  I have removed references to some Von Reiner warriors. As requested by the Ordo Malleus.

  -May Melentale preserve the Fatherland and smote all enemies of the Lightborne-

  Note by Jan von Liden, Historian of the Lightborne K?nigreich

  A Place for Furtive Souls

  Early Spring 3806 A.H.

  ******

  “I’d rather not entertain them,” spoke a crooked tooth fiend with blunted claws adjusting the reading lens over his baleful right eye. He held a delicate letter made from nalwood pulp between polished claws. The letter’s gold filigree shimmered in the harsh light. He grumbled some curses as he regarded the imperial command’s terms. Yet again he snorted, a puff of acrid smoke leaving his hellish, black teeth.

  The room’s mechanical clock clicked steadily in the following silence. Sunlight shone through six windows, including a stained-glass relief of Melentale smiting her once-beloved Lord of Murder. The day’s overcast tainted the light and gave a dull glow that cast harsh shadows here. It made the fiend behind this elegant desk into a dark horror with smoldering embers for eyes.

  The horror grumbled like an old man in protest over wrecked knees, trying to adjust an unsettled reading lens with an unwieldy hand of knives.

  Tarus, seated across, extended a gauntleted hand to the demonic creature, his palm opened. The dull metal of a well-worn and cheaply made militia gauntlet carried a luster just as unremarkable. Across the inner wrist was an inscription worn out and barely legible: Everything for the Fatherland.

  With a huff, the fiend removed his lenses and passed them to the Lightborne.

  Tarus brought the optical aide close, grasping the lens and bending it at an angle while reshaping the clasp that locked with his counterpart’s gnarled horn. He inspected his handiwork with brown eyes forced dark by many sleepless nights. He made another adjustment, handling wire metal with the delicacy that defied the worn, scratched leather of his swordsman gauntlets.

  He offered the lens back with a soft smile. His mouth was a pale, chapped line in a black-bearded nest. An effigy cheek scar was barely visible, so thick was his beard—the scar shaped like the reversed hanged man- Pittura Infamante. Or so the Fatherland called it in Old Highgarian.

  “It’s fixed again, Martel,” Tarus said, waking the demon from his thoughts. He rested a fist on his cheek, hiding the scar.

  The demon-kin took the lens. “Someday, I’ll have a pair custom-made,” he said as he donned them again. He looked down at the letter in his clawed hands, the manicured tips dull enough that they merely mangled the letter instead of tearing it.

  Tarus reached for his black tea. The rattlesnake blood and sage aroma bled together for a relaxing bitter taste. He wiped the tea from his dark, black mustache. “We don’t have a choice,” Tarus said with a huff, “for both your reading lens and this imperial entourage.”

  “This letter says there’s a confessor in this party. Melentale’s Ti--”

  “He’ll be a handful, Mantel,” Tarus said, “But he will know you as Lightsworn, like any other demon in this town- suspicion won’t be thrown around thoughtlessly,” he added with a sway of his hand. “He knows we all still hold loyalties to the Fatherland and Melentale.”

  “The world’s changed past our sanctuary exile,” Mantel said, clicking his fangs. “Old brotherhoods are being forgotten, and with that, eyes are looking for scapegoats. Lightsworn. We are but demons still to these new men, regardless of our beliefs,” His hoof foot gave a frustrated tap on the wooden floor.

  “The betrayal you imply with that. I would not tolerate it.” Tarus answered. “It would end in blood.”

  “I know you will. But this confessor… He will know something is off here,” Mantel retorted. He focused his eyes on Tarus. “The trade loopholes we have. The people in leadership. Our tax records. We are a nail sticking out in the eyes of a hammer, Brother.”

  Tarus took a breath. He palmed his face to try to rip this headache out of his head, feeling the gnarled scar at the tip of his nose. “I know,” he said.

  “We should deny them, then,” Mantel stated. “We are not ready.”

  “Ponder what they think if a colony says they’re ‘unprepared to receive royal guests’. The world can change a hundred times, what inspires suspicion doesn’t. I know what the confessor will feel here, Mantel. It will be like standing beside a shite-pit. General unpleasantness everywhere. If he’s some Eisenfaustian fanatic, he will see the greatest failure in an Arthurian commander,” Tarus placed a hand on his chest. “He would see it’s the Lightborne that failed.”

  “You are the worst thing to make a target here,” Mantel stated as he returned the letter to Tarus. “You were not to have any hidden secrets from the Fatherland. You risk what freedom you have here.”

  Tarus breathed in as he glanced at a painting in the office. It was a landscape of the Battle of the Somme, where mud and blood mixed and a light shone down from murky heavens on a solitary knight standing up from the corpse field of comrades shot dead by grapeshot. It was an exaggeration in all details. It was raining that day. There was little gunfire because of that.

  “Let me end this debate then. Suppose you see this as dangerous,” Tarus started, “In the realm of protecting Hadroan’s citizens, my order supersedes yours, Mantel,” Tarus folded the letter as he spoke. “It’s all a trip to see me after all.”

  Mantel retrieved a bottle of spirits from his desk and downed it before he spoke next. “We’ve cultivated a fragile home here, Tarus. Don’t let the world take it from us.”

  Tarus took another swig of his black tea. “It will outlast us both. I’ll receive the entourage, I’ll entertain them, and you keep the facade up,” he finished his drink. “Our shire of yokels and drunks will keep the imperials at ease. Before they notice the off-color bricks, they’ll be back on the road parading. The boy will see that I got a little fat and am unimpressed, and we won’t hear from them or the capital until it’s time to renew your mayoral certificate. I promise this.”

  Mantel gave that empty, goat-eyed gaze Tarus had learned to read as understanding. “You’ll use his title, right? Remember, he’s not some youngling under your care.”

  “Mantel, I’ve orbited royal circles for three hundred years. I got this,” Tarus gave him a soft smile. “The boy has seen stars around me since I first instructed him on holding a zweih?nder.”

  “This is the heir to the colonial authority. He will be second only to the Kaiser in the Fatherland when he ascends the throne at Havenrise.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Tarus finished his tea. “Listen, you want to fucking host him?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will entertain the kid,” Tarus patted his plain, worn breastplate. “We’ll reminisce, I’ll keep him from alcohol and ambitious maids, and he’ll father neither bastards nor regrets here.”

  “Please cut your hair at least. You’re a proper captain; you should have the distinguished mustache and trimmed hair of one.”

  “It’ll be trimmed and parted as a gentleman’s should be. The beard remains.”

  “Can you dye it a shade browner, too? An Arthurian as a militia captain is unusual to royals--”

  “Am I the host, or are you?” Tarus asked, leaning forward and waiting for the answer.

  Mantel answered with silence.

  Tarus rapped the mayoral desk with an armored fist. “I’ll send your regards, of course,” he said as he stood up. “Mind the silver shipment on the ‘morrow. It’s not supposed to be here. I’ll get the militia inspected and ready to receive. Draft a response. It will say we are honored to receive them.”

  “I will let you know if business requires your discretion.” Mantel gave a flick of his beastly ears, the closest to a smile a Metzger demon could show.

  ******

  “We really gotta wear this stuff?” heavily accented Highgarian resounded through the command ward. The seven-foot, three-inch Lucius swung about from his wall mirror, drawing a sharp laugh from lanky Klaus at how the dress uniform fabric fought a war with a chest three sizes too broad.

  “Wear? Are we asking if you can do that in practice or theory?” Klaus added. His forked beard was extra oily today in the lantern light, as was expected, no matter the discomfort. His parade garb bore a yellow stash around his uniform’s right, puffy shoulder.

  “Your mouth looks like an excited queint, choir boy,” Lucius stated with a half-smile as he returned to his war. “And these damn puffy shoulders, stuffy as a hog’s ass in a bayou."

  “Well,” Klaus said and smirked as he joined the slightly taller man at his mirror, “My mouth does excite many a maid—"

  “In the company we’ll keep, such talk is disgraceful,” Edel interrupted. She stood in full hand-gunner regalia; her breastplate scored with medals aligned in four rows welded by hexes. “Give a good showing of Hadroan, sword sergeant.”

  Lucius looked at her armor using his mirror, at a medal of a broken lance. “You didn’t fight in the Somme, Edel.”

  “You don’t craft the medals, Lucius,” Klaus snapped at him as he donned his breastplate with just three medals. He was missing one. The score mark was still visible under what looked to be a messy polish attempt. “You should mind yourself.”

  “I mind much, apple-counter,” Lucius answered. “Myself, I like to mind little of, for it's in good, strong hands.” He smiled at Edel in the mirror. “Edel, I disrespect your way of fighting at the Somme, not your presence there. You turned away from the sword and took up a- what was it- crossbow?”

  “Pike,” she stated, checking her crown braid and a low bun in a hand mirror.

  “I’d believe that,” Lucius grumbled, taking a straight razor to one stubbly patch of his shaven face. “You strike me as one that kills from a few feet back. Can’t look at something in the eyes when you end it. The handgun is a fit for you—"

  “If she shoots you,” Klaus stopped him. “I’m not helping you hobble to the chirurgeon to patch you up.”

  “I don’t know how you tolerate him off-duty, Klaus. I’d take to drink before I was out of my armor.”

  “Who says I abstain around this man? His wit’s as thick as Canterbury mustard.”

  The door to the command ward opened, and a figure entered wearing a full plate and a helmet decorated with the motif of a horned demon. He removed it as the humid, thick air of the outside flowed past him, carrying the stink of stagnant bogs into the room. The three recognized their commander, Edel being the first to snap to him, taking a parade stance and pounding a fist to her heart.

  “Ser Tarus, Melentale’s grace to you,” she beamed.

  Klaus had followed her example, though his fist made hardly a thud on his armor. “Ser Tarus,” he said.

  Lucius turned, one of his uniform’s buttons snapping at last. Silence followed.

  Tarus closed his eyes, taking a short, soft breath. “Edel, Klaus, go to the Silberfeuer square. Lead the inspection of your cohorts. Lucius, stay behind.”

  Edel bowed and walked out, with Klaus following without a word. When the door shut, Tarus drew in a sharp breath. He regarded Lucius for a moment.

  “It’s been a decade and a half. Seems the barley and ale conquered me,” Lucius answered a question delivered in a stare.

  “You’re my sword sergeant,” Tarus released in a breath. “The only person in my militia that’s supposed to be fitter- is me.”

  “Aye. And you’re not wearing your armor from twenty years ago, good ser. I can still drive a zweih?nder through two nalwoods and the vampire behind them.”

  Tarus set down his helmet at a record table. He rested a hand on the hilt of a messer blade sheathed on his polished belt. He approached. His breastplate gleamed with eight rows of medals, some so ancient they were now tarnished and unrecognizable. A true rustchest like any exceptional Lightborne warrior. “Colonial authority is coming by summer, and you’ll look like bagged potatoes slapped to a bull?” Tarus asked. “Do you seriously think that? You want to be noticed like that?”

  Lucius swallowed and seemed to ponder his following words. “I’d rather not, ser,” he said.

  Tarus stepped up to Lucius, looking at him eye to eye. “Looks like a diet of running then, my lad. Now, you’ll don for battle and start inspecting road security from the Belle gate to the southern Imperial watch post and back. I handle your cohort’s inspection separately.”

  “It will be done, but what of my duties? That’s two weeks by foot.”

  “One if you run. You know which I prefer. You’ll leave with only pemmican in your ration bag and water in a skin. Deliver this,” Tarus pulled and pressed a sealed letter to Lucius’ bare chest. “I intended you to do it by mount on the ‘morrow, but by foot and now will serve us both.”

  Lucius took the letter and slipped it between his fingers. He saluted with a resounding fist over the heart. “By Melentale’s grace, it’ll be done.”

  “Oh, by Her grace, many things are about to be done, lad,” He gave the burly man a pat on the shoulder. “Show me you deserve your office.”

  Tarus turned and left Lucius, retrieving his helmet and donning it. “I expect you back in a week,” Tarus stated before he opened the door and departed.

  *****

  The sloped roofs of Hadroan glistened under the twin suns as wisps of steam curled from the gaps between residences. It had not rained in a week, but the cobblestones were inundated with boggish muck. As a woman walked by, the air seemed to split in twine, waves of stagnant heat wisping around with the sharp, vanilla scent of Maynard flowers and smoky Détrempé trees that overran the swamps around Hadroan.

  In the near distance, a formation of five hundred in the square stood with handguns cradled and angled sharply. Red and black uniforms marked the majority, most of them sons and daughters of the first colonials with a few others speckled here and there donning the colors of a province in the Fatherland. The formation was leaving now at the tune of horn blasts, pikemen joined by sword and broad officers and zweih?nders flanked by Lightsworn Metzgers.

  Edel was inspecting the bannerman of the hand gunners now. The flag of St. Hadroan hung from the silvered pole. The image was that of the saint in his final hours, on a knee and facing the sun as a headsman of a traitorous lord readied a killing stroke.

  Tarus lowered his nalwood pipe, blowing out a puff of smoke as he pondered the banner for a spell. One hundred and twelve failed his inspection, double from the prior one five years ago. He built this militia for his gravesite instead of a coronation. It was a stupid mistake.

  He rubbed his brow, sweat pouring through the cracks of his fingers and pattering on his demon-faced helm resting on the railing beneath. He gripped that nalwood rail with his other hand, feeling how spongy the wood had become since last spring. He was just a shadow to the formations in the shade under this gazebo. It was still enough privacy to ponder this heavy hand on his shoulder.

  Why was it coming back? How far could he throw himself and not have old faces seek him out? If he was in the grave right now, would the boy still be coming here to dig him up?

  The questions came and went like pulses in a headache. He took another breath of his pipe to calm his nerves. It was noise in his mind. Since he took that letter from the Imperial’s hands, seeing an ‘envelope’ for the first time instead of a leather satchel, it had just been noise in his thoughts. The letter cost more than the steel sword on his hip. It was never calming to receive something like that.

  Instead, it was the storm on the sea’s horizon, bursting into life with tendrils of light all around, and he was in a rowboat.

  How was he to navigate this?

  The boy is just here to see you, his hope reminded him. No, you are the right man in the wrong place at the right time—only in death does duty end. His experience countered. There were two arguments in his rowboat, and neither one was helping him row.

  “Dad? Everything alright?” A soft voice asked.

  Tarus looked to her, a woman half his height, with eyes that shined with a dim, eerie golden radiance and a mane of hair soaked by humidity. Absently, she slid a few locks to cover an ear that was exposed as she looked up to him. “Hammer-flu again?” She asked, she laid a saucer and cup of tea on the railing. “I figured you’d want a drink.”

  “You were correct,” he said as he took it. “Not about mace-flu. That’s just nonsense.”

  “Getting hit in the head has no consequences?”

  “Death is the only one I know. I’m still breathing, right?” He asked. “I was in my head with thoughts,” he said before she could speak. “Pointless thoughts,” he answered the next unspoken question. “We’re entertaining a royal procession- led by an old friend.”

  “How old is this one?” she said as she gripped the rails with hands half the size of his. Standing beside him, she still looked to be a child, but women younger than her towered over her, and she wasn’t the young terror she once was. She watched Edel conduct herself, something of a trance in her glowing eyes.

  “Thirty years back when I first met him. Ten before you- I’d guess.” Tarus measured the course of his thoughts. He took a sip of vanilla scented tea and a dash of sharp whiskey mixed in. He was delaying himself, and the words he should pass to her now.

  “Cara.” He said.

  The woman looked up to him. “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

  He chose a softer path over the true one. “I need you to take something to heart. There may be a man with my friend when he comes. He will be called a confessor,” Tarus leaned in on the railing. “You are not to be alone with that man at any time. Regardless of his kindness or forcefulness.”

  She moved a hand up to her auburn hair, adjusting it near her ear, which was still hidden. “Would he be so different from the others here?” she asked, looking away.

  “There can daggers in smiles,” he said, and old faces influenced his following words. “Sometimes, there’s nothing behind that smile: no warmth or malice. Just a line stretched across the skin in mimicry. Never mistake that for humanity.”

  Cara passed a soft nod as her eyes seemed to turn again upon the banner in the square, on St. Hadroan’s meditations. As Tarus sipped his tea, she finally turned back to him. “This doesn’t sound like a friend,” she said. “Why bring such a thing here?”

  “The story of half your blood…” he breathed out, tapping his fingers on his helm. “It is long and full of terror. From that terror came vigilance, sacrosanct devotion to safeguard against evil. Eventually, everyone’s soul ended up in someone else’s fist. Such a thing, Cara, it is a reminder that Lightborne remains bound in that concord: Everything for the Fatherland.”

  “Even if we’ve never seen it?”

  “Never repeat those words to anyone else,” he told her. He leaned in on the railing. “I’ve seen much taken from people for saying far less.”