Conquest of Avalon

Guy V: The Royalist

Guy spurred his horse across the sand, enduring every inch as it slowly crawled onwards. High Summer was here, and with it, the scorched sands of the Giton Desert. They'd hoped to strike in the morning, while the long shadows of the Plumard Mountains remained cast over the land, the hot sun not yet awakened to warm the desert.

Soleil would have granted us grace, Guy could not help but think. If Aurelian had asked him, their path would have been as cool as the breeze, and just as swift. Or we might have taken an entirely different course. He was always the clever one, the ambitious one. A contented soul benefitted mightily from a friend such as that, Guy thought, a reason to look outside one's own circumstances and towards a better future. Aurelian had seen that for his son—and for all that he'd reached beyond his grasp—in the end, he'd secured that freedom for Aubaine.

If somehow a specter of his will could be conjured up and told of what had befallen Terramonde after his death, the hundreds of thousands dead in darkness, Leclaire's ascendance in Malin, peasant rebels seizing a once-great city that the Debrays had built up from nothing, inconsolable in their ingratitude... If Aurelian's shade learned of all of it, Guy doubted he would regret a thing. Aubaine was free, and safe with Fernan Montaigne, whom Aurelian had always trusted for some reason. Even Guy could hardly begrudge that the child was in compassionate hands—that had never been the issue with Montaigne.

But somehow that made it all the worse. Aurelian had abandoned everyone else to protect his son, and now they were forced to make do without his wisdom. Forced to charge blind into the unknown, withered away by long shadows and scorched sands, sable and sable.

Alvis tried his best, and was certainly better at inspiring the knights than Guy could be on his own, but the two of them alone were a candle next to Aurelian's bonfire, in a moment when Leclaire's tsunami threatened to suffocate a way of life that had stood strong for six hundred years. She'll finish the job Avalon started, if we let her. Alvis understood that, even if his skills leading an army through the dunes seemed limited. He hails from Sableton, the town of sand at the edge of this very desert, yet somehow I'm the one keeping things together now.

Guy couldn't really blame Alvis though. He was doing his best, as was Guy, and Alexandre and Madeleine and every other knight with the courage to pick up their sword and purge the corruptive forces of the Fox-King's own beloved wife. They understand that there is no alternative. For all his virtues, Aurelian hadn't. He'd schemed his way to an early grave, leaving his son an orphan, and leaving behind everyone who'd ever valued him.

The plan had been to stay in the Plumards until they'd all-but arrived at Condorcet. That would have worked brilliantly to skirt around most of the desert, gather allies, and position themselves to strike. Volobrin was in full retreat from Glaciel's guns, and not in any position to refuse the Blue Knights passage through his lands, with Lucien Renart still there negotiating with him besides.

He might have joined us, but at least we can be sure we have his blessing.

Fighting Condorcet, despised by all but the vicious Guerron revolutionaries with whom they made common cause, had seemed like a brilliant next step. Fighting Avalon had already gained them allies and accolades, but they could ill afford to continue that fight without Micheltaigne's help. And their true enemy remained in Malin. If only they'd truly been so soft a target. It turned out that being less threatening than the full might of Avalon still left a lot of room to cause trouble.

The shore around the edge of Pointe Gaspard were always stony and spare, but even in the throes of summer, there was a wide enough path to lead their army. It should have worked. It should have worked! But someone must have tipped them off, a betrayer in their midst.

Condorcet had been ready and waiting, hidden in their holes and hovels, miles away from the walled city. The closer they'd gotten, the deeper the sky had dimmed, until their view was worse than the darkest, foggiest night. A few knights had ridden out of formation, and disappeared from the column. Three horses had seen something in the darkness that sent them running, so terrified that their riders had been forced to follow them into the abyss. One had freed himself from the saddle and jumped down, only to plunge down past the ground, his anguished cries fading slowly without ever fully ceasing.

Alvis and Guy had understood what was happening first, exchanging hurried plans and then riding around the edges of the column to keep the knights in tight formation and slow to march. First they'd tried to stop completely, denying their foe the chance to lead them astray, but no sooner had they dismounted than arrows began to fly towards them, the first volley finding easy marks amongst the blinded and bewildered. The arrows stopped flying once they began moving again, but a collapsing cliff had still managed to take out another twenty of them before they emerged from the gloom.

They'd scarcely ridden two hours, but somewhere along the way, the wet sand of the lakeshore gave way to the endless desert, with no signs of life for miles.

☉

"If you're to have any hope, you must move while you still have the wind behind you." Princess Mars—Queen Regnant but for her stolen sword—looked like another person compared to the Princess who'd rained arrows down from the sky in the Battle of Salhaute. Gone were riding leathers, gone the bow and quiver, and gone the burgundy hood holding back her hair.

In their place, she wore a deep blue dress with pale white wings springing out of the back, somehow moving in perfect tandem with her arms. It looked a shade short, made up for with stockings, as if she'd outgrown her old wardrobe during exile and made do upon her return, but that wasn't something Guy felt inclined to spare much attention for. Now that he was free from Leclaire's grip, there wasn't much need to keep up with the latest fashions, nor to stay abreast of any resulting insults.

Back at his uncle's court, staying au courant had been a constant struggle. Guy was half-convinced that Lucien Renart had let Leclaire dress him, if only to stay abreast of her cutting remarks. He knew little of the details, since Laura hadn't been terribly forthcoming, but Leclaire had just about destroyed her life when they'd been children, and never expressed a shred of remorse about it. Now, King Lucien was abdicating his responsibilities and fleeing to the far ends of the world just to avoid being in the same room with her. Guy could scarcely blame him, and he and Valentine had never had half the love or respect Lucien and his wife had shared.

He's probably forsaking fashion too, free to breathe at last. Something about that thought felt comforting. Lucien had ably led the defense of the city against Glaciel, and could be forgiven for undue deference to a woman he probably still loved on some level, whom he'd known since childhood and watched free his homeland from her oppressors.

The Red Knight loomed silently on the fringes, standing neither with the Micheltine nor the Blue Knights, perhaps because the colors clashed. But they had many allies gathered with them nonetheless. The stalwart core of Varrenes, Lazarre, Sableton, and Guy himself had been augmented first by Sire Reglàce Hauvent, then Sire Miro Mesnil.

The two of them had scurried up and down the Plumards, calling on friends and strangers alike, and managed to scare up a score of knights sympathetic to their plight, each with a sizable retinue. Whether from Sundéré, unwilling to follow Volobrin west to war, Rhanoir who'd fled south down the coast to evade Avalon, or Micheltaigne, still waiting for Mars to bear the sword before swearing their allegiance, they were willing to fight against Leclaire's corruption.

When word began to spread of the Blue Knights' role helping Micheltaigne, and the devious trick they'd played on Avalon to make it happen, other knights and squires began to seek them out on their own. Just as significant were the contributions that came from allies too weak or cautious to fight directly: horses, armor, rations, drums. They were still risking Leclaire's wrath in providing it, and for that Guy couldn't help but be grateful.

To be sure, the lord's portion of the newcomers were of unimpressive pedigree, their retinues half-starved and pitiful, with meager lands and more grievance than sense, but that didn't mean that their contribution was unappreciated. Far from it. They'd gained more than thrice the numbers they'd lost in the battle, and more were trickling in every day. Of course, a lot of that has to do with the letter.

"I would think you'd want us to stay," Alvis de Sableton said as respectfully as he could. He'd augmented his racing uniform with a blue cravat, which worked as a symbol but clashed horribly with his épaulettes—the shoulders were much too busy; he'd have been better served dying them blue and forgoing the neckerchief. "Avalon's forces are gathered in the Arboreum, with the Prince of Darkness holding Charenton. Camille Leclaire is bound to them by treaty, with her husband away in Serpichon. Volobrin and Glaciel's war threatens to encroach into Micheltaigne, as it did in the Winter War, while the violent revolutionaries of Guerron make common cause with the Khali-serving Condorcet. Enemies surround you, Princess Mars."

"Condorcet has practiced their fell debauchery for centuries, but they've never troubled anyone outside their borders. The embargoes keep them weak, while their own degeneracy keeps them fighting amongst each other. While I'm sure the world would be grateful to whoever tried to wipe them out, it's not a fight that needs to be fought today, or even next year. As for Glaciel and Volobrin, my grandfather brought Micheltaigne into the Winter War, and I must refrain from repeating his mistakes.

But you left out the most important foes. "That still leaves Avalon. And Leclaire. Mutual enemies, both."

"Camille Leclaire is not my enemy," she told him bluntly. "She aided us more than I can say, and led the charge to liberate the continent from Avalon. Do you think the Red Knight would have risen up in Lorraine without her example, or that Lyrion could have broken from Avalon?"

"I'm sure the communards were inspired as well," Guy cut in. "Nor would I look to the Red Knight as a paragon of virtue." Relieving the Siege of Lorraine and rescuing Her Verdance had been good deeds, indisputably, but the manner by which this false knight had gone about it... Burning sleeping men and women alive in their ships, stringing up suspected collaborators from the treetops, herding prisoners into hollows and setting them afire...

Five years ago, Guy might have thought it a distasteful necessity. Now that he'd witnessed war himself, the blood and gore of Salhaute, but also the nobility of fighting for a righteous cause, the acclaim that came with honor... The Red Knight's wanton brutality seemed inexplicable, downright villainous, and far beneath the bounds of simple poor taste. He'd voiced as much to Alvis and Mars, even the mercenaries, but few were willing to turn away the help of such a potent warrior.

If the Red Knight was offended, he didn't show it, standing resolute in his armor at the side of the room, either thoughtless or aloof. Emboldened, Guy pushed further. "Without us, you couldn't have retaken your home. Don't be a poor host."

Mars frowned, looking back to the eclectic band of royal guards and mercenaries that had sheltered with her in the mountains for four long years. "Yes, you're heroes. Heroes that cannot stay any longer. Keeping you here risks dragging Micheltaigne into your mess; in fact, it practically guarantees it."

"You're in the mess already—it became pretty much impossible to escape once Avalon killed your king, bombed your country into powder, and took your royal sword as a trophy. If you think they're going to leave you alone now—"

"They might," Alvis sighed in realization, deflating Guy's argument before he could really get it going. "The Prince of Darkness seized the throne in Cambria, while the elder brother escaped. If Lucifer remains in power, he'll follow his policy in Charenton, and leave sovereign nations alone. If Harold rears his head, he'll need every soldier he can get his hands on to press his claim. Until the wind blows one way or another, the Avaline soldiers in Lorraine will stay in Lorraine."

"Precisely," Mars noted, looking impressed, and perhaps a bit surprised that this charioteer had such a keen grasp on Avaline politics. "I have no quarrel with the Empire of the Fox, nor can I afford to throw away this reprieve. Micheltaigne needs to rebuild, to heal. We can't fight your war for you."

"We fought yours for you!" Guy had been personally victimized by Fernan Montaigne, but the mountaineer had never been his man as he had been Leclaire's or the Fox-King's. Now he was beginning to get a sense of the betrayal they must have felt, quite independent of any personal animosity. "And we aren't asking for much. If Avalon will leave you alone, then you can spare the soldiers to help."

"I can't spare anyone right now. We need every hand we can get to rebuild Salhaute. And without Nuage Sombre, my claim rests on sand."

"You, who liberated the capital from foreign invaders? You're just making excuses, you ungrateful—"

"Guy," Alvis cut in. "She has to do what's best for her people, just as we do for ours."

"I can see that," Mars added, sounding surprisingly sincere about it. "And so I shall forgive your insult. I wish you well in your endeavors."

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"As we do for you." Alvis bowed, then dragged Guy out of the room. As soon as they were alone, he turned on Guy with a glare. "I know that four years of prison could not have been kind to your manners, but that is not how we address royalty. Especially not royalty we're counting on for aid and legitimacy."

"Micheltaigne royalty," Guy scoffed dismissively. "They buckled for the Fox Queen, then in the Winter War, and then again when Avalon came calling. All that between a hundred civil wars. Mars isn't even Queen without the sword. We're peers of the Empire of the Fox, which once ruled the entire continent. We serve a higher cause."

Alvis stared, perplexed, as if he thought Guy had taken leave of his senses. "We're in open rebellion against the woman ruling that empire. I believe it's the right thing to do, but—"

"But nothing. She's a Leclaire, not a Renart. Even after her marriage. Her husband is absent and her children are children. That gives her power, but it doesn't give her the right to wield it."

"I know." Alvis hissed.

"Then you should appreciate this." Guy smiled, pulling the message Miro had delivered from his pocket.

"It's—that's only a single word." Alvis frowned. "What good is that?"

"It's legitimacy," Guy answered, tapping his finger against the clipped handwriting that he'd recognize anywhere. "It's the Fox-King himself giving us his most important command: Proceed."

☉

"It's dark magic," Rosen, the wind sage from the Châlice Mercenaries, had observed. As a way of thanks, Princess Mars had considered their contract fulfilled with the liberation of Salhaute, and allowed them to make another compact with the Blue Knights. "They only have so much to work with."

"That's why they led us into the desert instead of keeping us running around in the dark." Mirielle Delune had jumped at the chance when she heard their plan, a chance to seize the riches of the Pointe that had stood unconquered since they first threw off Plagette's yoke.

Guy thought it better to have their swords than not—unlike the Red Knight, their help wouldn't risk tarnishing the Blue Knights' reputation—but it was a stingy offer compared to Micheltaigne's direct support. The Châlice Mercenaries had already faltered in Guerron when confronted by Fernan Montaigne. They might have spared me four years of captivity, but they preferred to accept my stolen riches and then flee. And they insisted on keeping them!

Guy had seen Mirielle Delune herself wearing a bracelet that his mother had worn on her wedding day. When he'd pointed it out, she'd offered to sell it back to him for five hundred florins, a price both insultingly low and infuriatingly high to return a family heirloom to its rightful owner. He'd had to get a loan from Alvis just to cover it.

Even now Delune was smiling, as if she were the most brilliant woman to ever grace the surface of Terramonde. Guy knew the look well, since he'd had to sit across from it in his uncle's Council Chamber for the better part of a decade. "That gives us an opportunity."

And what an opportunity it was! Chasing after the depleted sages of darkness had seemed like a sensible plan, but when that meant charging pell-mell through the Giton Desert on beasts wildly unsuited to the terrain, it was less of a sneak attack and more of a death march. Whoever survived the day would be blooded and experienced, a boon of its own for those who'd joined after Salhaute, but Guy feared how many they would lose to give the rest that experience. The darkness alone had already cost them dearly.

The Red Knight, for his part, looked less fearsome than Guy had ever seen him before. The sands had dirtied and tarnished his signature armor, under which he must surely be roasting alive. He'd lost two horses already, cutting off their heads in one clean, wearisome swing when they collapsed into the sand. Sire Miro Mesnil had given him the first replacement, then one of the free knights who'd professed gratitude for saving his family in Lorraine.

He wasn't there to save anyone, Guy had wanted to say to the poor naïf. He was there to kill.

For the first time, Guy began to truly wonder what lay underneath the tarnished red helmet. Any normal man would have taken off his armor for the long, grueling march, or at least done so after the death of the first horse, but the Red Knight soldiered on, indifferent. Could it be that he doesn't have a choice? Aurelian had spoken before of the spirit-touched, and Guy had seen it himself with Fernan Montaigne, amongst a handful of others over the years.

It wasn't hard to imagine a capricious spirit binding an impudent man to his armor. Perhaps he didn't even have a body left underneath it, a suit of armor bound by lingering malice or will.

Perhaps all that remained of the man was his hunger for blood.

Delune was the first to spot their reprieve, a gigantic boulder jutting up from the sands, its massive spiky form unnervingly similar to the pillars Valentine had erected in her fight with Montaigne. But this can't be her work. She's back in the old Guerron dungeon. Not a fate she deserved, albeit one she'd bought for herself by staying to fight. Still, Guy hoped he'd have the chance to free her when the time finally came to invade Guerron. He'd sent letters to his father-in-law, trying to arrange a coordinated assault, but Count Cédtric seemed surprisingly ambivalent about the prospect of freeing his daughter, stating verbatim that he found the Blue Knights "unserious allies, led by a fool."

Guy could only assume he was speaking about Alvis.

Their column had lengthened and lengthened as they lost more knights and horses to thirst, heat, and fatigue. It made the shade of the distant rock seem an oasis unto itself, a chance to regroup before the final charge into Pointe Gaspard. The soldiers and horses could rest and drink, regaining a measure of the strength the desert had sapped from them.

"We need to rest," Alvis admitted when Guy pointed it out. "Just a few hours to regroup. Else we'll fall on Condorcet like a dishrag against stone." His simile was baffling, but at least he was in agreement.

"We'll clear the area," Mirielle Delune volunteered, leading her mercenaries ahead towards the rock. As soon as they entered its shade, they seemed to disappear, dawning a cloak of darkness that seemed such a blessing in the blistering heat.

In fact, it almost looks like the desert itself is swallowing them up...

Guy squinted as the shadow of the rock grew, then grew again, faster than their own strides towards it, too fast to be anything but further magic from the Condorcet. This is how they've held strong for so long against a world that hates them, Guy realized humbly. When the desert alone isn't enough, Khali's darkness protects them.

But Khali was gone, and these cultists only had so much of her power left. Then it would all be gone, and they'd be helpless anew. In its own way, it's encouraging that they see us as such a threat.

"It's an ambush!" Guy yelled, raising his sword and spurring his horse in a half circle to address the disparate column behind him. "Prepare yourselves!"

"Make them bleed!" Alvis cried, joining his voice to Guy's. "Light up the darkness!"

"Light up the darkness!" the knights called back, ragged and distant at first.

"Light up the darkness!" Guy added his voice to theirs, feeling caught up in the moment with reckless abandon for the first time in his life. If I was a hero after Salhaute, just imagine what they'll call me for ridding the last traces of the dark spirit Khali from this world. This must be what Lucien felt in the Battle of White Night, the pure bliss of the righteous fight.

The Red Knight seemed to want no part in it, spurring his horse off to the side and losing himself in the shadows before Guy could call for any kind of coordinated thrust. Good riddance, then. The only thing worse than fighting beside such a dishonorable butcher is doing it with one so weak and useless in the desert.

"Charge!" Guy spurred his horse forward alongside Alvis, straight into the advancing shadow. The ground felt firmer beneath his horse's hooves, whether because they were finally on the edge of the desert or because they were bolstered by bravery and righteousness. This is what knights are for, he realized. This is why we're here.

He felt his sabre slice through flesh, then catch on bone. His horse reared at the sudden stop, but Guy managed to maintain his grip. He wrenched his sword free, then swung again, this time slicing through the Condorcet's arm. And the darkness flickered.

For a moment, in a flash of light, Guy saw three more figures dressed in black, each surrounded by a few dozen soldiers in light brown uniforms, almost blending into the sand. Alvis was ramming through them with a wedge of knights behind him, keeping hold of their horses as the flash of light sent them hurtling forward, spooked.

The Red Knight was nowhere to be found, nor was Mirielle Delune, but a pair of tracks in the sand led off onto the horizon. Did they betray us? Guy couldn't help but wonder. Mercenaries were unreliable, as a rule, and this very lot were worse than most.

And the Red Knight's naught but a thug. We'd have been fools to ever trust him.

Trusting his memory, he wheeled his horse in the direction of their tracks, slicing his sabre wherever he had any inkling of the foe. The sounds of the battle began to fade behind him, his horse's steps more sure. The darkness began to thin, as if the dawn was peeking through, until Guy could see the edge of the desert, sand at last giving way to firm ground. The tracks ended with the sand, but it was obvious they'd gone up the path winding its way around a large hill.

As Guy wound his own way around, he caught a glimpse of the desert battle below, Alvis still holding tight to his formation. But there were fewer knights with him than when he'd started, and most of their wild flailing wasn't touching the Condorcet.

It's interesting that I can see through it once I escape its grasp. Perhaps weakening the effect lessened its drain on the sages' magic. After a century without Khali, their reserves couldn't be much. The last of them to know the Spirit of Darkness personally are long dead, with distant descendants left to learn their craft from a strictly limited inheritance of magic. Guy hadn't heard of such a thing being possible, but with Khali sealed away, he could imagine no other way they were using dark magic at all. No doubt it had been a priority for their sages to figure something out.

Tearing his eyes from the battle, Guy focused on the road ahead to the summit.

The Red Knight and Delune were dueling in the dim light, the dull metal thuds of their swords sounding each time they collided. Remarkably, in all his armor, the Red Knight's primary advantage seemed to be in speed. The lassitude he'd suffered in the shifting sands was naught but a memory now. For every probing strike that Delune threw out, he would block it in an instant without even turning his head. Whenever she left her guard open, he would thrash her back with a wide swing.

One betrayer and one loyalist?

The old Mercenary was deft, still quick on her feet, and keeping pace with the Red Knight better than anyone Guy had ever seen. She swept low, the blow blocked per usual, then slammed her gauntleted fist directly into his helmet, causing a loud clanging to ring out. Guy was close enough now to see her smile at the Red Knight rearing back dazed. Delune followed it up by pulling out her dagger and plunging it up into the gap between the Red Knight's helmet and his chestplate, eliciting an anguished cry from the usually-stoic figure.

He wasn't close enough to do anything about the Knight's rush forwards, nor the sword whose point he slammed through Delune's chest. She gasped, blood dribbling from her lips, and collapsed onto the ground, sliding down off the Red Knight's downturned sword. He stood there for an instant, slowly turning his head back and forth, one hand clutched to the side of his helmet.

"Explain yourself," Guy ordered, hoping against hope that the Knight had held true. I'm no match for him, so if it comes to that, I've no choice but to run. He did not relish that thought, nor the prospect of the Red Knight as a foe, but he would do as he must.

"Guy?" The Knight groaned, his voice sounding a shade less deep than usual. "She was... I saw her taking a bag of coins from one of those women in black."

"Saw it? How?"

"It was weaker this time. Just need to... ungh... train your eyes. If you'd fought in the White Night, you'd have... picked it up."

I wasn't driven enough for that, back then. Honestly, Guy probably should have joined that fight. If he'd fought alongside them against Glaciel's abominable horde, Guerron probably wouldn't have turned on him. He saw the value in it now, protecting the innocent and reaping all the resulting accolades, but at the time he'd primarily been concerned with self-preservation.

Guy spared a moment to grab a purse from the mercenary leader's corpse, fat with Condorcet silver and the florins she'd extorted from Guy, then turned back to the Red Knight, still lying dazed on the ground. "Who are you?" he asked, knowing there would never be a better chance to learn it.

"I am... the Empire's will. I protect all of the Fox-Queen's domain... from Charenton to Hiverre, from the Isle of the Sun to the Isle of the Moon. When the continent bleeds... I'm there."

"There to make it bleed some more. The others might be willing to tolerate you for your prowess, but I see you for who you are: naught but an honorless scourge, a thug, a butcher, a bandit in polished armor. The Fox-Queen would be ashamed of the atrocities you've committed in her name. I'm ashamed to have ever ridden alongside you."

The Knight let out an incredulous laugh. "Really, Guy? Moralizing, from you of all people? You know what I'm capable of. You saw me cut down that traitor before she could sabotage us any further. I've done nothing but what was necessary, fought none but the undisputed enemies of a just society: cultists of Khali, hostile spirit-touched, foreign invaders... If it weren't for me, you'd have been dead years ago."

If you aren't going to be forthcoming... Guy chose his moment and lunged, grabbing the Red Knight's helmet and pulling it free as he sprinted past. In his hands, the menacing aura was gone, merely a tarnished piece of armor bearing a hundred scratches atop a once-gleaming red.

Behind him was the Red Knight, the Butcher of Lorraine, the Scourge of the Plumards, the Bloody Sword, unmasked at last. Blood trickled from a deep gash across the side of his face, enough to leave a lasting scar, already dried and matting in a tangle of long red hair. For a moment it was hard to tell, so disheveled was he, but as soon as the Knight opened his eyes, there could be no mistaking it.

So he did join us after all. Guy sank down on bended knee, bowing his head with all rebukes forgotten. "It's been an honor to fight alongside you, Your Grace."

Lucien Renart let out a pained grunt, then slumped over to the side.