Of Warriors and Victims

The heat of the Eternal's golden glows struck Shachil's face, its optimistic glow feeling like a slap he knew no reaction to, as he stood on the battlement next to Goulcrest's king and his Lord Marshal, disorder all around the town, as men rushed up and down the battlements, bringing messages and taking orders from and to the Lord Marshal. It was the Twelfth of Eternal's Embrace, a month that had always been reckoned as one of safety and respite. Yet even the Stormwinds would have provided more respite than what they were up against. It was the third month of the Ravian siege of Goulcrest. Three months longer than they had meant this altercation to take, no doubt.

"We can't take much more of this, Shachil. Our supplies are running dry", his Lord uttered. Shachil looked at the face of the lad, which was running with panic, his eyes darting back and forth between the problem, which was stalking their gates, and Shachil, who seemed to be the only solution. He was still just a spry lad, still a boy, depending on whom you asked, who had inherited the throne of Goulcrest just a year ago, after his brother had died of an illness, and still needed Shachil's guiding hand on most matters concerning both external and internal affairs. Shachil had served both his elder brother and their father before him and now he served Rhinael as well.

"We need to break their siege!", he cried in agony, as he'd now done almost every single day they've stood on the battlements for the last two months and always he was accompanied by the mad chanting of warriors goading their foes.
That much goes without saying, Shachil admitted. He'd often spend his nights lying in bed wide awake, thinking of ways to break the ranks of the Ravians, as their taunting cries shot over the besieged city even in the depth of night. But the Ravians were completely devoid of any diplomatic weakness.

Not through great intellect, but due to their staggering stupidity that results from their heedless lust for slaughter. As such it is a feat of great difficulty to set a trap for them. A surrender would mean little to them, they would just destroy the city, before any ambush could be snapped shut, if they even accepted their surrender in the first place. An envoy carrying gifts would mean even less, the only gift they truly cherished was spreading death and bloodshed. And due to the location of Goulcrest, practically built into the ranges of Rampart Mountain behind them, they were cornered. No supplies could enter, no men leave without having to pass through the line of blood-thirsty barbarians. There were ways out of the city, but it was impossible for anyone but the king and his closest advisors to flee without calling the Barbarians to their attention.

Shachil had thought of waiting the siege out, until the month of Last Fires and the following month of Stormwinds. Even the Ravians would have to break the siege at that point, as there was no way to keep a siege going throughout the Stormwinds. It would be suicide. They would have needed to get to safety, lest the Stormwind rip them away.

But Goulcrest would have to keep strong for another four months until that time comes, time they simply did not have anymore. Every day the Ravians would send out warriors to goad their foes into sending warriors of their own. Often, Shachil would succeed in ignoring the warrior's taunts and calls for combat, skillfully appeasing Inmael, who was so very eager to send men to fight, but sometimes he was overruled by the other advisors around the king's throne, the times they did dare to speak up, and they would indeed send Officers, riding on a mighty steed, their backs arched proudly, a spear or blade in one hand, the banner of Goulcrest in the other, to face the savages' champions.

Rarely they would hold their own for long or even survive a duel, albeit horribly scarred, to die another day. More often than not they would die after several dozen engagements, if they were lucky. It was a horrible loss of men, but it seemed to at least keep the barbarians from storming the city, almost as though this was a game to them.

Shachil felt utterly lost in the face of such uncoordinated wrath. Most foes he could predict and defeat, but the Ravians, predictable as their motives were, seemed to act completely inhuman. Deep down he despaired, much like his Lord. But while his inexperienced Lord showed it openly, Shachil knew that he needed to hide it away. On the outside, he seemed as calm as a tranquil stream.

"And we shall, my Lord", was his only answer to his Lord's pleas for help. It was a cryptic, useless answer. An answer one would give when they can't figure out what to do, as he did now, but wanted to seem wise, as if they had another trick hidden away, like a cheap mage.

But he'd find a way yet, as he always did. But while the answer was obvious in most cases, he'd just need a little more time. Study the enemy and their habits, find openings in their formation, that he could slip a battalion of men through to send for help and supplies. They needed but a breath of fresh air to renew their charge. If they could catch them in a pincer, they would be able to choke the barbarians as they were now choking Goulcrest.
"You keep saying that, Shachil", came the answer of the well-armed Lord Marshal, his greying hair cut short, and his armour, though dented through much use, was shining like a jewel beneath a pile of rocks. He'd just gotten done barking commands at yet another peasant and sent him on his way, "Yet you have not brought us a single scheme in this siege."

Shachil avoided the gaze of the man, lest he find out that Shachil truly had no schemes left.
"There are spies everywhere, Inmael. If I were to share my schemes, they would fall into the enemy's hands."

Not that Shachil really believed the Ravians to be capable of the use of spies. He truly had no schemes left. But if he were to say so his head would roll and end up adorning a pike. The only question left would be which side of the conflict he would decorate.

"Day after day they want us to fight. Every time we send a man he comes back wounded or not at all", Inmael pointed at Shachil threateningly, "If you don't come up with something soon you'll have no men left to carry it out. And I will see your head roll down this tower."

Shachil appeared calm even under this censure. Yet he felt the intensity of the Lord Marshal's threat nevertheless. Though well groomed and appearing quite delicate at times he had a command to his voice that could not be ignored.
Looks can be deceiving.

"Who lives and who dies is my decision to make", their Lord chimed in. His young, anxious voice did not make the impression of either of them that he had wanted it to have but instead made him sound like the boy afraid of his life that he was. Even still it managed to shut the Lord Marshal up, who gave a slight bow and muttered a, "Of course, my Lord", through gritted teeth.
Lord Rhinael took a step closer towards the battlements to look at the looming threat of barbarians camped just out of their arrows reach like a pack of tigers circling their prey. Shachil followed him closely.

"By the Eteranal's Light, look at them", another phrase that their Lord liked to repeat incessantly, "How are we to stand against them?"

Normally Shachil would give a sagely answer, some advice to help the young master. Yet he could only swallow. There was nothing he could do for him now.

As each of them was wallowing in the hopelessness of the situation in their own separate way a drum sounded. Its crushing bangs gave off a murderous rhythm, that all of Goulcrest must have been familiar with by now. It was time for the barbarians to send out another warrior to chip away at their morale, which, at this point, was like flogging a dying horse with increasing brutality.

The drums were drowned out by whooping cries of war, as one singular figure awkwardly walked out of the mass of men and slowly walked half the way towards the great walls, where it came to a sudden stop. Shachil squinted, to get a better look at the figure that so boldly stood before Goulcrest. It was a woman, unsurprising, as the Ravians allowed both men and women to join their army. What seemed incongruous was her appearance. Most of the Ravians cut their hair short, or at least kept it controlable, yet this woman's dark hair seemed to reach all the way down her back and a great plait of the hair, that would normally hang down her brow, were lazily held together by a string above her head. She also seemed to wear little to no armour at all, which was abnormal even for savages as the Ra. Only her chest seemed to have a bit of binding to it, so as to not leave her completely naked, and she wore black leather pants, no doubt it was due to the blood of her enemies, dried into a deep black. All of her dark skin was covered in muscles, which, in turn, were covered in countless of scars, some just a nick of the blade, others as long as an infant's arm and her own arms and legs were as thick as two of Shachil's own.

But her appearance was not the only thing that seemed off. Her stance seemed inhuman. She stood leaning to the right, yet her left foot was caught in a position that should have been quite painful, yet she did not bother to adjust it.

To add to that, she was only wearing a bit of bandage around each of her feet, as opposed to great boots, as would be expected of a warrior. In her right, she held a great axe with a long, curved blade, which she had swung lazily over her shoulder while her left hand was phlegmatically clamped into the front of her pants.

She was an odd sight to behold even for a barbarian.

The drums droned their final notes, as the woman stared up at the battlements, at no one at particular, yet her piercing glare seemed to stab right through Shachil's very being and both Rhinael and Inmael seemed to feel the same.

"Send your strongest warriors to face Nassiah Bloodletter! I lust for combat!"

Goulcrest seemed to be engulfed by silence, if only for a second.

"We need to have someone face her!", Lord Rhinael blurted out, his voice sounding even weaker than it did before.

Lord Marshal Inmael stayed silent. So, did Shachil. Neither did Lord Rhinael repeat his request.

Finally, Inmael spoke up as he turned around to a great man clad in a chest plate of steel, who had been standing near the steps that lead into the tower.

"Remethar, ride out to meet her. Take Silvershade from the stalls and the greatest banner you can find."

The man grunted his approval, as he descended the steps to rush to the stalls.

"Bring me that whore's head!"

Shachil stayed silent, as he again eyed the woman in the distance. She stood still unmoving, staring at the great gates of Goulcrest.
The normally quite collected Inmael was raging beside them, muttering and sputtering disconnected sentences and phrases.

"We'll make this day a victorious one. Cut her fucking head off, stick it on a pike. Teach them to be so fucking bold."

A clear sign now of his complete and utter panic, bordering on insanity.

Shachil was the only one left who tried to keep an aura of placidity. In fact, he might have seemed like the craziest one out of all of them.

A great horn toned signalling the advance of their champion and as the great gates of Goulcrest were swung open, Remethar rode out on his steed Silvershade, a greyish horse of the greatest ability. It could ride a thousand miles without tiring and carry as much as three men in full armour. It was a hero amongst all horses, a secret weapon if ever there was one.

Goulcrest's champion held a banner high above his head, proudly proclaiming the might of Goulcrest, a golden tree upon a jade fabric. It was as beautiful a sight to behold as any, especially when held by a warrior such as this.

Remethar rode along the walls for several minutes, giving his comrades, hidden safetly behind the stone walls of Goulcrest, a chance to behold him. The woman just stood where she had stood all this time and observed him, the axe hanging loosely in her hand.

"This will be a great victory", Inmael muttered as he nervously bit on his lower lip, drawing a bit of blood in the process.
"What if he loses?", Lord Rhinael asked timidly, a question that was also on Shachil's mind.

"He won't lose", was Inmael's only respone, as if he was convincing himself most of all, as he wiped the blood off his lips. Shachil sighed, as he leaned onto the battlements, staring again at the woman.

Her facial expression was stoic, as if she didn't care at all. As if all of this didn't matter to her.

"She is showing no emotion at all. No fear, no joy, nothing", Shachil muttered, as the knight spurred his horse on, lifting his sword up to his chest, storming at the woman, the drums of Goulcrest assisting his brutal charge. Both Inmael and Lord Rhinael leaned onto the battlements next to Shachil as the drumming grew louder and the distance between the adversaries grew shorter.

Just as Remethar was nearing the woman, meaning to trample her under Silvershade's horseshoes, the woman corrected her stance slightly, reached her axe back behind her back and swung it forward with an incredible force.

Remethar tried to pull his horse away, to get it to stop or veer off its path, but he was too close to his foe to react.

The axe cut through the horse's throat and went all the way through its body, until it was cut into two clean pieces, blood and guts squirting violently out of the halves. The rider's legs were also caught in the blade's path and lamely dropped onto the dusty ground, as Remethar's body was hurled over the woman's head, his sword and banner leaving his hands and the blood spluttering forth from his dismembered stumps showering the woman below in blood, finally landing on his back several strides from where his steed had been cut in half. He could only grovel and crawl, scream at the indescribable pain he was no doubt feeling. Gone was the image of a battle hardened warrior he'd been just moments ago. Now he was just another fool that wanted so dearly to flee. His adversary had returned to her relaxed position and was making her way towards him, slowly and casually as if she had all the time in the world, lifting her axe and having it slam down on the throat of her rival. There was not even a moment of taunting as she separated the head from its body in a clean chop, not a mocking gesture as she picked it up by the hair to display it to Goulcrest.

"Was this your strongest man?" she screamed, as she held the head high above her own, her body dripping with only slightly less blood than the head of the warrior she'd just killed, "With him your hopes die as well."

The drums of Goulcrest were silenced and replaced with the howling of barbarians, voicing their approval at the gruesome murder they had just witnessed.

Lord Rhinael was reduced to little more than a panicking mess of a man in the face of this beast, heaving at the sight of the blood stained battleground, as the Lord Marshel was fuming, his mouth bleeding from the bites on his lip. It did not suit a man like Shachil, but he had truly given up as well. There was nothing he could do. No way to escape this trap, as their greatest warriors were one by one plucked from them by an enemy that lusted for battle so desperately. Any plan he could still muster would just be an act of desperation.

And while some men would see an act of desperation for what it was, a useless throe of death, other men acted on it. Inmael, wheezing angrily, grabbed a bow leaning at the battlements, drawing and letting fly in just a few moments. The arrow flew quickly, cutting through the air with a violent hiss, as it drilled itself into the left eye of the woman. Shachil opened his mouth slightly, unable to hide the amazement he felt at how masterful the shot turned out to be. His courage seemed to return as ideas on how to end this siege all came flooding into his mind. This was what Shachil and Goulcrest were both waiting for.

But as quickly as he regained his courage he lost it again, as the woman did not react in a human way.

Or any at all for that matter.
No screams of pain, no panic, not even anger.

She only stayed still for a moment and dropped the decapitated head onto the floor with all the care of a servant throwing a sack of rotten fruit into the gutter.

Then she reached for the arrow and pulled it out of her eye socket. Again, there was no reaction, not even the tiniest wince of pain as blood shot forth from the hole that the absence of her eye left in her face. She stared at the impaled eye on the arrow for a moment before pulling it off the steel point and throwing the arrow away, dumping the eye onto the ground before her in the process, lifting her leg and crushing it unceremoniously.

This time the entirety of the battlefield was silent, neither the defenders nor the attackers made a sound.

Then she again lifted her hand, this time to where her eye had been just moments before and started scratching deep scars into the left side of her face, blood shooting out of the wounds as her nails ripped through the skin on her face. Yet she showed no emotion even while harming herself in such brutal a way. Her face was one of complete habitualness, as if she were in thought while washing clothes or preparing a meal, even though the entirety of her face was now covered in blood and torn flesh littered the ground.

Inmael dropped the bow and Shachil's jaw fell along with it. All the glorious plans that had swarmed his mind fled in terror.
As the three men stood in silence, watching the maniac scratch at her face, leaving deep gashes within her left cheek with blood flowing out of the opened cheek in constant streams, a great commotion was building up within the walls of Goulcrest. The sound of metal clanging against metal, the sound of screaming, both in pain and to share commands, followed by the loud gong of a bell, ever repeating.

None of the barbarians had gotten into the city, Shachil was sure of that.

"It's a fucking revolt?!", Inmael uttered hastily, putting Shachil's thoughts into words.

"A revolt?", Goulcrest's Lord sputtered forth, as he stared at Shachil, as if pleading for him to make something happen, "Where did that come from?"

Shachil tried to sound as serene as he could as he gave his answer, which sounded a lot more descriptive than he had meant to, as if he was reciting for an oral exam.

"The enemy can, instead of trying to destroy you in combat, try to get your own troops to revolt against you, by striking fear into their's hearts and making them believe their only way of survival is the surrender accompanied by their own leader's head as a means of compensation."

Rhinael grasped his neck and gave a loud gulp.

Inmael was already ahead of them, grabbing his equipment and urging his men on, who were now one head shorter, due to Remethar's untimely demise, shouting at Shachil "We have to get him to safety! We'll cut a way through this mob, you get him to the castle. Move it, you lazy cunt!"

Shachil had never appreciated the tone Inmael tended to speak to him with, but he was quite thankful that he did not expect Shachil to actually fight. He'd become a tactician mostly to avoid having to do exactly that.

The commotion grew louder, as the royal guard got into position, guarding the stairs to the lower levels of the tower, shields held in front of them, building an impenetrable wall, spears hoisted through the tiny gaps between each shield.

"My Lord, stay with Lord Minister Shachil, you will have nothing to worry about as long as we are defending you."

With a final clap on the young king's cheek, as normally only a father would do to their own son, Inmael put on his iron helmet and got into position behind his soldiers.

Shachil gazed back over the parapets at the woman. She had finally stopped scratching her face like a maddened beast and now just stood there, her arms crossed beneath her chest, as if she was awaiting an answer in a battle of wits, blood sputtering and trickling down her left cheek, dripping down her chin and pooling on the ground, where it mixed with the blood of Goulcrest's deceased champion. The entirety of the left part of her face was ruined. Yet still there was no reaction, or so much as a pint of regret at the pain that should be rushing through her.

"Kill him!"

Shachil's mind was pulled back onto the parapets as some of their former soldiers finally stormed up the stairs, but they were swiftly dispatched by the spears waiting around the corners for them, that stabbed them through the heart and let their lifeless corpses tumble back down the stairs to serve as stepping stones for anyone trying to advance upon the tower.

"Blow the horn!", Inmael screamed, at no one in particular. At anyone that was still able to waste their time on it presumably. Shachil leapt towards the horn leaning against the wall and held it high. He took a deep breath, sucking up all the air his stomach could muster and blew the horn. The deep sound build up, weak at first, but building up to a roar that split through the air, drowning out the commotion below.

"Charge!!"

With that the guard advanced down the stairs, stepping over the corpses they had built up and killing every soldier foolish enough to approach the moving wall of death. Step for step they descended down the stairs, not a full blown charge, Shachil noted, corpses piling up in front of them or tumbling back down the stairs.

"Why is this happening, Shachil?!"

Shachil had thought he had been clear enough before, but he could understand the panic of the young monarch quite well. One tended to forget details and information when they were panicked. So again, he stayed silent, pretending like he did not hear the monarch, instead unsheathing the rapier from his belt. Not that he wanted to fight, but he needed to be ready for it, at the very least look that way. He'd never learned how to wield the rapier correctly when he was in the Midderlands, studying under the Ku, instead preferring to focuse on his military lessons. The rapier acted as a piece of decoration, more than anything.

"Follow me, my Lord. Careful."

Lord Rhinael also unsheathed his blade, a broader slab of metal than Shachil's rapier, but it had seen very little use, much like Shachil's own blade. Even so it was an impressive weapon in its own right. Not that a nice weapon was going to stop the insurgents, let alone the barbarians.

The pair slowly started to descend the stairs, stepping over bodies that were limply lying on them, their faces cracked open when they smacked against the stone ground, blood pooling on the steps. From down below the sound of fighting and Inmael's commands, as he was directing his group as if they were his very arms, could still be heard.

"Slowly, my Lord. Stay behind me."

Shachil put his hand onto the man's chest to command him to wait, as he listened for specific sounds, to formulate a plan. His vision was blocked, due to the circular nature of the staircase, so sounds were his only option. Shachil visualized the lowest room of the tower, a very simple circular room with a singular exit leading to the main streets of Goulcrest. The main gates were very close, bordered by the stables and the barracks on either side. The barracks was the building closest to this particular tower, so there was a good chance that they were already completely surrounded.
Surrounded by their own troops, who were, in turn, surrounded by the barbarians. The situation almost made Shachil chuckle.

Yet there was no other way out. They would not be able to flee over the parapets, because they would have to climb down on their sides and make their way over the walls, which were no doubt swarming with soldiers as well. It would not be any safer a route.

The fighting from below had moved. The battle, which had before been quite loud had softened down, no doubt Inmael had advanced outside. Other than that, there were no sounds coming from the lower hall of the tower. It was completely silent.
"Now, my Lord", Shachil muttered as he sped down the steps, closely followed by his king. As he jumped down the last step he quickly scanned the room, holding his rapier in front of his body like he'd learned. He had remembered this much from the few lessons he had paid attention to at least.

Safe for the heaps of corpses, blood and broken furniture, it was empty, so he quickly waved his Lord to follow him and sheathed his sword in the process.

Inmael had moved out of the tower and Shachil could see his battalion beating down insurgents from every which side, trying to push them towards the main gate, so their Lord would not be followed when he slipped past. Shachil swiftly closed the great wings of the tower door, closing them off with a thick piece of wood, so that it would not be able to be opened from outside. They just needed a second to catch their breath, to formulate a plan.

"My Lord", Shachil turned to Rhinael, who looked nervously through the room, clearly not in the position to listen, nor was he making an attempt to pretend he was listening, "My Lord, the room is cleared. Do not worry."

Yet Shachil's reassurance did little to calm Rhinael, whose grip around his weapon was as tight as if they were in the middle of combat. Shachil grabbed the boy by the shoulder and smacked him. Normally he would never dare to lay hands upon his Lord, but it was for his own safety.

"Rhinael, listen to me! We will have to slip out and move towards the keep! Inmael is creating a buffer so we won't be followed. However, some of the insurgents will no doubt break through and follow us. We need to make a break for the keep. Once we're there your guards will take over and you will be safe."

His Lord nodded and moved behing Shachil, who nodded as well and leaned against the door. Once he'd opened it they would have to run. He took another deep breath. Something was holding him back. But every second he waited was going to make it harder for Inmael and his men to stand strong and harder for Rhinael and Shachil to survive.

Just as Shachil had worked up the courage to finally swing open the door and make a run for it a voice shot from behind him.

"Where'd ya think yer goin'!"

A man came running down the steps, wearing a doublet with Goulcrest's emblem on it. They must have climbed up the tower, knowing full well that they would be cornering the king and his advisor. Quite ingenious for a bunch of rudimentary soldiers, Shachil had to admit, although he didn't expect them to have come up with the idea.

Shachil swore loudly as he grabbed for his weapon to pull it back out, but at the speed the goon was going he was going to have both their heads before Shachil even had his weapon at the ready. But Rhinael acted quickly, blocking the blade of the ruffian with his own and redirecting it against the wall, which he followed up with a quick cut to the chest. The man collapsed under gurgles of protest.

"We must go, now!", he croaked.

Shachil slammed the door open with all of his might and ran out of the guard tower. Inmael and his men were busy fighting back the soldiers. Even if Inmael's guard were the elites, they would not be able to withstand pure numbers for long. And they'd hold out even less if they were surprised by the men that would soon come streaming out of the tower. Shachil had to warn him, yet he could not stop running.

"Inmael! They've climbed the tower!"

"They what?"

"You need to retreat! Pull back!"

"Oh, fuck me! Get the king to the fucking keep!"

Shachil nodded, as he ran past, his Lord, still wielding the bloody blade, in tow. Shachil weighed their options. The streets to the keep should be relatively empty. The soldiers were at the gates, while the peasantry stayed in their homes. Of course, this did not mean, that there was no ambush waiting for them, but Shachil's hope was that word of the revolt had not yet reached all of Goulcrest and that there was no way they had already organized an ambush. After all, there was no way that a bunch of peasants could stage an insurgence in such short a time, when he himself was barely able to sustain the city against the barbarians. Or so he thought, until arrows cut through the air bore into the ground next to them. His reaction was sluggish, as he just stood there for a second before finally moving into cover, where his Lord was already standing, pressing up against a stone wall.

"They anticipated our movements. They're raining down on us from a safe distance."

Fear should have been his main emotion, but for some reason Shachil could not entirely grasp, he felt surprise more than anything. He put the kiss of death on them both with his arrogance, or so it seemed.

"Down here!"

Goulcrest's lord had already made his move, climbing down a hole at the side of the road, which lead into the sewers below the streets of the city, which he had forcefully opened by bending the bars enough for a man to fit through. Quite a surprising feat for a man his age, as these bars were quite thick and definitely not easy to bend, but panic could make a lad shove mountains, Shachil figured.

The sewers were flowing with excrements, especially in this part of the city, as the gates were the lowest part, which meant that it would naturally flow there, and the underground lead just outside of the walls. While the fighting was one of the reasons why Shachil had never wanted to end up as a soldier or a mere officer, stepping through dirt was another thing he'd never liked about the soldier's life. However, it was far better an option than standing in a shower of arrows, and no doubt soldiers were sure to follow soon, to cut off their heads and present them to the barbarians. He had little desire to be cornered either, of course, so wading through waste seemed like a fair compromise, which is why Shachil quickly followed the monarch. As he jumped down the small hole his rapier got stuck on the grating, halting his fall.
"Shit", Shachil swore, as he grasped at his sheated sword, trying to rattle it through the grating, as he heard hurried steps of a dozen feet approaching, accompanied by the clirring of armour. The blade had been hand crafted for him while he was in the Midderlands and he'd cherished it ever since, even if he did not use it, as a sort of proof that he had been with the Ku, so he was hesitant to let it go. However, faced with the option of death he desperately ripped at his belt to get rid of it, to tear the sheath off his belt.
After all, he'd also still have his ring for memories.

As the buckle snapped he fell down uncontrolled and landed in a pool of shit. It was little more than a puddle really, but it was more waste than he was used to being around and far more than he was comfortable lying inside.

"By the Eternal, the smell is unbearable", Shachil lamented as he slowly got back up, scooping the waste off of his clothes, "It's far worse than the above would let on."

The king sheathed his sword, as he looked around into both directions, to find out where they were and where the sewers led.
"This way leads to the gates", the king pointed down the hallway behind Shachil and then down the way he had been facing before, "so this way leads to the Noble Circle and the castle."

"Are you sure, my Lord?", the fall had completely scrambled Shachil's perception. He didn't remember which way was which down here.

"I am. I've studied the town's layout and looked at some of the sewer plans."

Shachil just nodded, as Rinhael started moving with a quickened step. He'd honestly never thought of Rhinael as much of a student of anything. Most of the decisions he'd always leave to Shachil or Inmael and most of his free time was spent on drinking mead or meeting with concubines.

Shachil followed the king, who proceeded with a proud stride, making confident turns whenever they came to a passing. In their entire walk through the waste he did not slow down even once to contemplate or think about the path he had to take, not once asking for advice from his mentor or even so much as an opinion, as if Shachil had become completely useless to the boy.

The turmoil above had quieted down, if not by much and only due to the fact that they seemed to be moving away from it, which was a good sign in and of itself. The city would surely be lost, but maybe they would still be able to get out of here. The barbarians would have their fun in the city, while Shachil would hide out south with the king and his court until the Ra would inevitably leave. They always did, they were nomads after all, always striving for another battle, picking fights wherever they could. After that, taking over the city from whomever grasped control of it after the barbarians had left it would be a straightforward endeavour, if they were to strike at the right time.

"The sewers end here, this part doesn't connect to the castle. Above us are the Nobel circles."

"So, we will have to get out here and make a break for the keep", Shachil tried to,add his insight, as Rhinael already climbed the rocks sticking out of the wall and opened up the grating as he did before. Quite an impressive feat, more so than just opening the grates as he had done before.

As Rhinael slipped through the hole back into the streets Shachil felt a pang of regret that he ever entered the sewers to begin with.

"I can't climb that, my Lord. I'm an armchair strategist."
For a moment, there was no response and Rhinael seemed to be gone entirely. For all Shachil had done for his king, he'd just leave his advisor down here, just to save his own skin? Would he have to starve and die down here, in piles of shit, like a common peasant?

Thankfully those fears did not come to pass as one end of a rope descended into the sewers.

"Hold onto this, Shachil", and he did as he was ordered. Rhinael pulled him out of the sewers, accompanied by strained grunts, as he pulled the strategist out of the waste-filled hole. As soon as he'd left the sewers the sounds of revolt grew loud again. The peasant quarters were burning, smoke rising up into the sky and the gate seemed to be doing little better.
"We have to move, my Lord."

Rhinael just nodded and pulled his sword from its sheath again, running ahead into one of the great buildings of the Noble Circle. Shachil would have enjoyed having his sword with him now. He was supposed to lead Rhinael to safety, but now he felt like it was the other way around.

He was without a weapon, covered in waste and, frankly, scared out of his mind. The way it was now he only had the option to follow his Lord and hope he'd keep Shachil alive until they got to the keep.

"They're closing in", Rhinael stated offhanded as he barricaded the main gate to the great building with tables and cabins. Shachil just watched him, thinking over his options.

"Do you think Inmael has failed in holding them back?"

With a deep sigh Rhinael beheld his handy work.

"I don't know. But this should keep them out for a while."

Rhinael took a few steps into the room, looking deep in thought, while he did so. Shachil slowly followed his king, with a bit of distance between the two. He eyed the great hall they were standing in. It was the great building of the bank system that had been introduced into Goulcrest about a decade ago by the Ku. Of course, it stood empty now, all the bankers have evacuated the city in the first few days of the siege, when there was still a hole in the Ravian's formation they could escape through, but they were sure to return once the siege was over. Shachil had stayed in very close contact with the Ku in the early days of the siege through letters, but it soon became impossible to send men out of the city without having them be intercepted by the barbarians. Since then there had been no answers, most likely also intercepted by the Ravians. And although they must have surely realized that something was wrong, the Ku had not send help until now.

"If we get to the keep we can escape through the castle's sewer system, it leads outside, into the mountain range. If we go up the stairs, there'll be a window that'll lead onto the roof of the adjacent buildings."

Shachil just nodded in response. He had not expected such extensive thoughts and knowledge from Rhinael of all people. He'd expected him to be blindly running from the danger behind him, but he'd more of an idea what he was doing than Shachil did right now. Without another word Rhinael made his way up the stairs. Shachil stayed behind for a moment. He felt completely obsolete, replacable almost. Rhinael had a sharper mind than Shachil'd ever expected.

A loud crashing sound and shouting tore Shachil from his thoughts as someone tried to kick open the door.
"This one's barricaded! They're in here! They'll be escaping over the roofs! Cut them off!"

They'd already tracked them this far? This whole ordeal seemed more organized than Shachil had originally thought.

He bolted up the stairs to where his Lord was now standing near a window. He spoke before Shachil even had a chance to warn him.

"Out of the window and over the roofs, which will lead us practically right to the keep. There we can rally the troops and defend it. There might be a chance we don't even have to flee, we can quell this revolt right from the castle itself."

"It seems like we escaped completely unscathed", Shachil added solemnly.

Rhinael nodded, turning at his mentor and smiling.

"It seems that way. I hope Inmael managed to escape as well."
Shachil nodded, staring at the window they were planning to escape through. There was truly no time to waste.

Suddenly it broke into a thousand pieces in a loud clang, as several bodies shot through the window, landing in battle stances, ready to pounce once again. Rhinael flinched as the bits of glass showered over them, holding his blade up to block the first soldier's thrust and countering with a slash that cut through his throat. As the second threw his blow, Lord Rhinael quickly turned around and smashed his shoulder into him, forcing the poor sod to tumble backwards and out of the window, where he went flying to find his doom on the stone below. The third took a step back as he beheld the demise of his comrades, waiting for another couple of men to jump into the room from the adjacent roof.

"Give up, you fuck! We've got ya cornered!", one of them, wielding an axe, grunted.

"'A cornered tiger will fight until the last drop of blood runs from his veins'", Rhinael quoted as he got into a fighting stance. Shachil took a few steps back, until he stood near one of the doors. He couldn't have fought them even if he wanted to after all. Might as well leave enough room for them.

The one with the axe wasted little time on subtlety and shot forth at Rhinael, who intercepted the axe's blade, and took a step back, to let the attacker stumble past him, then spinning his blade around to decapitate the second, who had hoped to stab him in the back. The third, the same who'd tarried before, stood, legs shaking, near the window.

"Prick!"

The axe wielder pulled a knife from his belt, holding it in his off-hand and again charged at Rhinael, striking with the axe from above, while stabbing at the monarch's stomach with the knife, a move that looked quite awkward and unpracticed, like something the man had heard of but never even seen.

Rhinael jumped back, to dodge the axe and grabbed at the arm of the soldier who was now out of balance, pulling him towards the destroyed window, where he would join his comrade in the stone below.

Rhinael gasped at this short but intense confrontation and turned towards the last one, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. As the monarch advanced on the man and pointed the sword at the sod's neck, he threw away his weapon. Shachil observed the arc at which it flew, as it clattered to a halt right in front of him.

"Who is leading this revolt? Tell me!"

"Officer Saphan, my Lord!"

That made Shachil listen carefully. Saphan was leading the revolt? That changed a lot. He had known Saphan for decades and spent a considerable amount of time with him.

"Why is he doing this?"

Shachil kneeled down to pick up the blade that had landed in front of him. It wasn't anywhere near as sophisticated a weapon as his rapier had been or even anywhere close to the weapon Rhinael was wielding, but it would do.

"I don't know, my Lord! I beg of you, don't kill me!"

Rhinael stayed silent for a moment, then he slashed at the man, decapitating him and tossing his corpse out of the window. Rhinael sheathed his blade and gave a deep sigh, followed by a gurgle, as blood shot forth and metal tore through his chest.

If Saphan was the leader of this revolt, then Rhinael's head was Shachil's way to get out of this alive.