They were exhausted. Their once fine shirts, silk and golden traceries, were shredded and dirty, filthy with sweat and blood. They sat on the cold, worn stone steps, now slick with blood. Steam rose from the gore, tainting the fall morning air. At the base of the wide and winding stair lay a scrum of bodies, corpses of men-at-arms, peasants and nobles alike.
Of the two men sitting atop the stair, one was a horseman, the Baron of D’liesse. His warhorse, a roan he called Thunder, had been killed days ago by a volley of quarrels from archers in hiding. The Baron was of medium build and wore his jet hair short. Normally considered handsome, his face was a motley collection of scars and bruises, jagged tears of soft flesh, and deeper lacerations he’d hand stitched in the brief respite moments not unlike this one.
The Baron’s companion was a scribe, a historian and archivist, raised in the Great Temple-Libraries far to the south. His skin was golden by nature and his eyes dark, like his hair. The scribe was called Masuria, which meant collector in his native tongue. He too, could have been considered handsome by his civilizations standards, were it not for the bandage around his head, his split lip, and both blackened eyes.
Neither man said a word as they sat. The fall air was brisk, but a welcome relief after their seemingly endless exertions. Both had their backs to the heavy iron bound double doors of the temple called God’s Rest.
Drums beat in the distance, shushing the cautiously chirping morning birds, sending them fluttering in the sky.
“Again?” the Baron asked wearily.
“So it seems, Baron.”
The Baron took a deep pained breath. “Let just rest a bit here. They’ll come soon enough.”
The scribe, Masuria, just nodded his head.
“We had a good accounting for our selves.”
“That we did, Baron.”
“Look there.” The Baron pointed to a corpse some ten feet down the steps, still oozing rapidly freezing blood.
“Your Lordship?” Masuria turned his neck with a grimace.
“That man. There. The yellow tabard and blonde beard.”
“I see him, Baron.” The scribe nodded slowly as he spoke.
“I do believe that’s Alfrieg of Millor.”
The scribe nodded. “Indeed, I do believe it is.”
“Well, he was a cousin!” The Baron shook his head. “This has been some nasty business. Nasty indeed.”
“Agreed, Baron. I wonder how the armies fared?”
“I can see smoke in that direction, a lot of it. More than just a flag from horse.”
The scribe nodded. He understood all too well what that smoke meant to the town besieged.
“My God! That there!” The Baron flung his right glove down the steps, it landed next to man who’d been run through and brained by a heavy flanged mace, not necessarily in that order. “That’s the Viscount of Bellanor’s son!”
“Are you sure?” The scribe, despite himself, was somewhat flummoxed at the thought of dying in such prestigious company.
“Sure as sure. He used to fancy my sister and pay these gruelingly awkward visits to my family’s estates.”
“Then it’s a shame things came to this. He might have been your brother in law. And an ally.”
“’Tis true, but I never liked him much. He was hesher, through and through.”
“A hesher, Baron?”
“A mouth breather, scribe. He had no sense of how to comport himself in the company of his peers and betters.”
Masuria frowned inwardly. He’d dispatched easily fifteen or twenty invaders, defending this holy place. Though not a swordsman by trade, he was a quick study and found that his desire not to die in a horrible and messy way aided his technique significantly.
“Up, up, lad.” The Baron stood, slowly, working his stiff shoulders and knees as he stood. He groaned and raised his gore-covered saber. So tired was he that he’d neglected to wipe it clean after their last skirmish. “They’re coming again. Third?”
“Fourth wave, Baron.” Masuria stood and stretched likewise, taking a deep breath to try to still his quivering hands.
The sun was a flaring yellow-white, spearing its first few rays over the nearby hills, the eye-stinging shafts shot straight through the palisades of naked trees on the bluff. Moody clouds slid around above, splotches of grey and off-white.
The sound of boots and jangling armors rose up between the rumbling drums. Masuria and the Baron assume their stance and made ready to hold the curving staircase as long as they could. Resting on the carved stone banister next to them were two flint-lock pistols each.
The Duke of Geoffre led this next charge, supported by twenty quick-footed dragoons, who’d long ago expended their ammunition and lost their mounts. The Baron and Masuria drew their first pistol, each shooting a dragoon square in the chest. The shots punched right through the brittle breastplates of the dragoons and the men tumbled backwards, sending a handful of their compatriots sprawling. Upon seeing this indelicacy on the part of their enemy, the Baron and Masuria rushed forward, sword and drew their second pistol, spearing the men on the ground almost two at a time, and firing their second volley, such as it were, into the men charging towards them, then ran back to the top of the stairs.
“More yellow and green tabards.” Masuria commented, absently, between labored breaths.
“Aye, I noticed.”
Then, at once, the rest of Geoffre’s men, and the Duke himself were upon them. Sabers flitted about and men yelped in pain as the ragged edges of the now worn weapons tore and nipped at their flesh. Here and there, the scribe would thrust through an opponents leg and as he buckled, kick him down the gore and filth covered staircase. The Baron, for his part, was a trained soldier and relished the moment as only a superior swordsman, who is proving it to the world, could.
“Twist the blade when you land a good thrust.” The Baron said as he easily dispatched another dragoon, scouring out the man’s eye, and holing his brain with a rapid thrust.
“W-what? Why?” The scribe was struggling to hold his own, thankfully, the Baron was still wearing his colors and was not only seen a more dangerous target, but a better prize.
“The screaming will scare the piss out of the next charge.”
So, the scribe named Masuria began incorporate a little twist with each solid thrust, eliciting a scream of agony from each of his victims.
Finally, Geoffre himself stood toe-to-toe with the Baron.
“Warren, Baron of D’liesse, I presume?”
The Baron tilted his head and saluted with his dripping blade, flinging tissue and blood onto Geoffre’s spotless tabard, leaving a splotchy, jagged line from shoulder to hip. Geoffre frowned.
“Are you ready?” Geoffre raised his sword.
Masuria shot Geoffre in the face, who crumpled and spilled across the stairs like a torn sack of potatoes.
The Baron nodded and slid down to a seated position, as did Masuria. The morning was getting old, the winds unheard and the scent of so many freshly slaughtered corpses began to rise up, clinging to clothing and circling the nostrils of the two men.
“How much longer can this go on?” the Baron asked, rasping.
“Surely not much longer, Baron. Reinforcements for us or them must arrive.”
“Might I asked you, how a scribe so vicious and without ruth might have come to be one of the last defenders of God’s Rest?”
Masurai shrugged and reloaded his flint-locks. “Bad luck, really. I was just passing through. Delivering letters, really, when the whole countryside lit up with cannon and flame. I even think I saw a caster!”
“Bah! More like one of Gildenhern’s lords run awry.”
“What about you, Baron? Is it your holy duty to defend the Spire of God?”
“Me? No. I’m an atheist.”
The scribe was shocked, but clearly too tired to demonstrate his emotions using his body or face.
“But, then, why aren’t you fighting on the other side? Aren’t Gildenhern and his lot always on about the Truth of Man?”
“Yes, that’s right. They espouse a belief in mankind’s own freewill, our reliance upon one another.”
“And you think they’re wrong?”
The Baron laughed heartily, which rolled into a coughing fit. His face crunched up as he coughed, and a splatter of blood colored the back of his hand. He looked down at a wound in his torso and shook his head.
“No, scribe, they killed my horse.”
