• Published 31st Aug 2018
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SAPR - Scipio Smith



Sunset, Jaune, Pyrrha and Ruby are Team SAPR, and together they fight to defeat the malice of Salem, uncover the truth about Ruby's past and fill the emptiness within their souls.

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Signs and Portents, Part Two (New)

Signs and Portents, Part Two

Professor Leonardo Lionheart did not feel like a well man.

Judging by the feeling in his stomach, he worried that all of this lying was giving him a stomach ulcer.

Certainly, the presence of Lady Terri-Belle in his office wasn’t settling his stomach in any way.

Lionheart’s office was spacious, but seemed less so due to how much stuff he had managed to cram into it: two shelves sat on either side of the door, tall enough to reach from floor to ceiling and absolutely filled with books; the crawlspace above the many windows that lined the exterior walls of the semi-circular room were cluttered with unopened boxes, unused accessories, gifts he had never found a place or a use for, more books. Little tables sat in both corners of the room, surrounded not only by chairs but by more stuff, boxes littering the floor where he had put them down, always intending to find a place for them but somehow never quite managing to find the time. The only place in his whole office that didn’t feel cluttered and crowded was his desk, a semicircle like the office, which was bare except for the screen and for the nameplate that sat in front of it, in case anyone forgot his name.

Actually, it was there as a conversation starter in case any of the students dropped by in need of a chat, or some tea and sympathy. He liked to joke that he had his name on his desk in case he forgot it; he’d found it a way of breaking the ice with a nervous child.

That was part of the reason he didn’t clean up the office; with all the clutter and the junk, there was bound to be something here that would catch a student’s interest, prompt them to ask what it was, what was in that box, where did that come from. It was a way to start a conversation, fill an awkward silence.

Like the awkward silence that now lay between himself and Lady Terri-Belle as she sat on his desk, her back half turned to him, her head bowed, one hand resting on her forehead.

“Do you still run open office?” Terri-Belle asked.

“I do,” Lionheart replied. He forced a laugh. “When there are students here, of course.”

Terri-Belle smiled, though it seemed a smile as false as his laughter, like something stretched across her face against its will. “I remember … it must have been my first week here; I came to you—”

“And asked me if the sole reason I had made you team leader was because of who your father was,” Lionheart murmured. “I recall.”

“And you told me that of course it was because of who my father was,” Terri-Belle said. She looked up. “But that was no reason I couldn’t be worthy of it.”

She looked at him, and her smile seemed a little more genuine now, almost reaching up to her eyes. “Professor, I must confess that I have … not always considered you a good fit for the post of headmaster … but whatever your merits as a teacher, you were always an excellent counsellor.”

“I … thank you, my lady,” Lionheart murmured, feeling as though he had just been stabbed through the gut. He swallowed and tasted bile in his mouth. “I … every headmaster has their own style, of course, but … I’ve never thought that there should be any reason why Haven shouldn’t become a home for the students. After all, it is in the name.”

He tried to smile, although he wasn’t sure what it looked like to Terri-Belle. “Not a Beacon for all mankind, not Atlas rising above the clouds … a Haven. A safe haven for those who come here to learn, and grow, and find themselves. I know that you are far from the only one, my lady, to have doubts about my fitness for this position, and I know that our performances in the Vytal Festival have been frequently disappointing, but so long as the students were happy here … I’m not sure that the rest really mattered.”

“You are a kind man, Professor,” Terri-Belle murmured. “Although … do you keep track of how many of your students yet live?”

“No,” Lionheart said softly. “No, I’m afraid not.” Lately, he would have found it too painful to endure.

“I see,” Terri-Belle said, sounding a little disappointed. She paused for a moment. “How large is this year’s fourth year? Thirty students? Forty?”

“Thirty-two,” Lionheart said.

“Thirty-two, I see,” Terri-Belle repeated. “I believe I see a way out of this, Professor. Next year, sooner than that, in just a few months once the Vytal Festival is over and everything is wrapped up, there will be thirty-two new huntsmen trained and licensed; if we can only reach that point without more losses, that will be an increase in our numbers of half again, not counting the Imperial Guard. If we can reach the end of next year, then that will be another thirty or more, and then next year and the next; if we can only staunch the bleeding and go on with only … only an ordinary level of losses, then our strength will be regained, and more, in no time at all. If we can staunch the bleeding, keep our losses down.”

“Newly-graduated huntsmen,” Lionheart pointed out. “Unseasoned.”

“I know, but huntsmen nonetheless,” Terri-Belle replied. “We need time, Professor. Time will heal all our wounds.”

“If there are no more losses,” Lionheart murmured.

“I know,” Terri-Belle said. “But I have hope. By keeping all information to myself—”

“You cannot go on like that, my lady.”

“I don’t mean to go on forever, only long enough to pick up our numbers and to … this villain will be dealt with, I swear to you. I don’t know exactly how just yet, but he will be dealt with.” Once more, Terri-Belle fell temporarily silent. “In the meantime, I would be grateful if you would ask the professors here to consider taking on some missions. After all, the students are away or not in classes, and to be frank, at present, we have need of them.”

“Oh … of course,” Lionheart said, his voice sounding dull even to his ears. “I will … I can’t make them, of course, but I will speak to them.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Terri-Belle said. She got up off his desk, rising smoothly to her feet. “I appreciate it.”

Lionheart swallowed again. It still left a bitter aftertaste. “You are too kind, my lady.”

Terri-Belle did not acknowledge that, but strode for the door of his office, passing between the two bookshelves as she reached out for the brass doorhandle.

The door was opened from the other side to reveal Arthur Watts standing there.

Lionheart struggled to restrain a choking sound from rising up out of his throat. He could feel his heart pounding more rapidly in his chest, and not just because Watts was here, although that would have been bad enough, but Watts was here now? Now, of all times? And Lady Terri-Belle had seen him? Yes, she didn’t know who he was, and she certainly didn’t know what he was, but that wasn’t the point! The point was that he worked very hard to make sure that no one knew about his associations with any of Salem’s servants, and now, Watts had just walked through the door.

This life was going to be the death of him. It was all he could do not to start hyperventilating.

Watts smiled. “Forgive me, I didn’t realise that Leo had company.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Terri-Belle said. “I was just leaving.”

“I see,” Watts said, stepping aside. “Then by all means, go ahead.”

Terri-Belle glanced over her shoulder. “Professor.”

“My lady,” Lionheart murmured feebly.

Terri-Belle walked away, shooting Watts a curious glance as he did so.

The smile remained on Watts face even after she had left, and he had closed the door behind her.

“What are you doing?” Lionheart demanded. “You can’t just drop in here unannounced!”

“How very nice to see you too, Leo,” Watts replied, his voice as smooth as ever. The smile remained in place, gleaming beneath his moustache. It put Lionheart very much in mind of a shark. “You know, anyone listening would think that you weren’t pleased to see me. They might think that you had something to hide.”

Lionheart forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. “What do you want, Arthur?”

Watts chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Lionheart demanded.

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all,” Watts said, as he slunk over to the sofa on the left-hand side of the office. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other as he spread out his arms. “You know, Tyrian hasn’t heard anything from you lately about the assignments of any Mistralian huntsmen. I think he might be getting a little bored.”

“Well then, perhaps he shouldn’t have…” Lionheart trailed off. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Terri-Belle live. No. No, he couldn’t say that; it pained him to even think it, for all that it would have made many things easier.

He could still remember when Terri-Belle had come to Haven, for all that it was eleven years ago. She had been tall and muscular even then, but far less certain of herself. She had worn high heels and inexpertly applied make-up as though she feared that she were insufficiently feminine. She had grown out of it, and into herself, a strong woman and a leader. For all that she esteemed him little, nevertheless, he did not have it in him to wish her dead.

“Lady Terri-Belle has taken control of all huntsman operations,” he said quietly. “Only she knows what missions have been assigned to which huntsmen.”

“I see,” Watts said. “Can you find out?”

“No.”

“Have you tried?”

“No.”

“Then make the effort,” Watts insisted. “I’m sure that she’ll confide in—”

“No!” Lionheart cried, planting his hands upon his desk as he rose to his feet. “I won’t do it, I’m done! I won’t help you kill anyone else!”

Watts stared at him, his eyes inscrutable, his whole face expressionless. “I see the lion has found his courage,” he observed. “A little late, perhaps, for those who are already dead, but … what’s the expression? 'Better late than never'?” He paused for a moment. “Of course, some might say that if you are unwilling to be of assistance, then you are of no more use to us.”

A shudder ran down Lionheart’s body. He was taller than Watts, and broader in the shoulders, but it was not the Atlesian scientist sitting in his office who frightened him. It was not even those he cavorted with like Cinder Fall, as much as he found the psychotic girl intimidating.

No, it was she whom they all served that put the fear in him, the fear that had driven him to this point.

“You … you don’t care about a few Mistralian huntsmen,” he managed to force out. “You still need me to get the Relic.”

“We need the Spring Maiden,” Watts pointed out.

“To open the vault,” Lionheart replied. “I’m the one who knows how to get there in the first place.”

Watts was silent for a moment. “Tell me something, Leo: when you started down this path, did you really believe that no one else was going to have to bleed in order to save your skin?”

Lionheart looked down at his desk. “What … what do you want?” he asked, his voice a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to prepare the next act in the drama,” Watts said. “The curtain is about to fall on Beacon, and when it does … Haven will be next. Tell me, Leo, who in your opinion holds power in this city?”

Lionheart looked up at him. “The Steward—”

“Military power,” Watts said. “Forgive me, I should have specified.”

“Are you worried about threats?”

“Not particularly,” Watts replied blithely. “I’m more interested in making friends.”

“You’re going to recruit?” Lionheart hissed. “But if it gets out—”

“I’m not going to be indiscreet, obviously,” Watts said, holding up one hand. “I’m not looking for another Cinder — one of them was quite bad enough. No, what I’m looking for…”

Lionheart waited. “Yes?”

“I’m not sure you need to know,” Watts declared. “All I need from you are names. Names of those who have swords and spears at their disposal. The rest, I can work out for myself.”

“What are you going to do to them?”

“Talk to them,” Watts said, “that’s all. Every name you give me will end the day as alive and well as they began it. Who knows? They may end the day advantaged. Do sit down, Leo; you look ridiculous standing like that.”

Lionheart sank back down into his chair, his eyes remaining fixed on Watts. “Forces?” he asked.

“Quite so,” Watts agreed.

Lionheart closed his eyes for a moment. “Lady Terri-Belle commands the Imperial Guard,” he said. “Meanwhile, at her recommendation, Mistral has begun to raise the beginnings of an army.”

Lionheart opened his eyes in time to see Watts’ eyebrows raise. “'An army'?” he said. “That’s a development.”

“After the Breach, it was decided that there was a need for Mistral to have its own security,” Lionheart murmured. “More security than could be provided by a small number of huntsmen: soldiers, androids—”

“'Androids'?” Watts repeated. “Did you say androids?”

“Bought from Atlas, yes.”

Watts smiled. “And tell me, who leads this army?”

“Philippa Yeoh is Polemarch of the First Cohort,” Lionheart said. “Under the patronage of Lady Ming.”

“I see,” Watts said. “Anyone else that I should know about?”

“The head of Rutulian Security,” Lionheart said with a nod of his head. “Lord Rutulus.”


Terri-Belle, her guard discarded for the moment, rubbed her brow with one hand.

She was sitting in her makeshift office, examining the latest of a stack of papers sitting on her desk.

Who would have thought that there were this many caravans leaving the city? There seemed to be at least one every day, and they all wanted a huntsman to protect them.

She thought that perhaps she should have known how many. She wondered if her father knew. If he did, she wasn’t going to reveal to him that she didn’t by asking him.

So many caravans. So many jobs to be done. There were more requests for huntsmen than there were huntsmen to do them, even if she included all of her guards — which she would not; she needed someone to stay and defend Mistral, after all. It was very tempting to sit here and prioritise all the requests that came in, decide for herself which were important and which were not, which were an acceptable use of resources and which were not, decide which she would offer to huntsmen looking for work and which she would quietly drop in the trash. But that would be an exercise of her powers too far: she was not the commander of all of Mistral’s huntsmen; she was only facilitating their operations. The huntsmen of Mistral were still free agents, free to take — through her — whatever jobs they wanted.

There was a line, and she wasn’t going to cross it.

However much she might want to.

A knock on the door made Terri-Belle look up. Standing in the doorway was the man whom she had met coming in to see Lionheart just as she had been leaving. He was a tall, lean man, with black hair turning grey at the tips and a fine walrus moustache overshadowing his upper lip. He wore a grey suit with a yellow shirt, and a black tie hanging loosely from around his neck.

Terri-Belle frowned slightly. “Can I help you?”

“That remains to be seen,” the man said, his voice lugubrious as he breezed into her office. “I do have the honour of addressing the Lady Terri-Belle, Captain of the Imperial Guard of Mistral and Warden of the White Tower, do I not?”

“You do,” Terri-Belle said. “And who do I have the honour of addressing, sir? And how did you get in here?”

“My name is Watts,” he replied. “Doctor Arthur Watts, at your service.” He bowed to her, one hand behind his back, the other spread out at his side. “I’ve been authorised to speak with you by the Mistralian ambassador to Vale; I have a letter of recommendation—” He began to reach into his pocket.

“Fine, fine,” Terri-Belle said. She didn’t need to see it, not when he must have shown it to at least one guard just to get inside the palace. “You’re from Vale, then?”

“From Atlas, originally,” clarified Doctor Watts.

Terri-Belle grunted. “Well, as much as I would like to say that it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am rather busy at the moment, so why don’t we cut to what, exactly, I can do for you?”

Doctor Watts clasped his hands behind his back. “What do you want, my lady?”

Terri-Belle blinked. “What do I want?”

Doctor Watts smiled. “Precisely.”

Terri-Belle’s brow furrowed. “What kind of a question is that?”

“A very straightforward one, I should have thought,” observed Doctor Watts.

“What do I want? ‘What do I want,’ what?” Terri-Belle demanded. “What do I want for dinner?”

“What do you want?” Doctor Watts repeated.

Terri-Belle stared flatly at him. “You came all the way from Vale to ask me that? I think you wasted a trip.”

“Is it so difficult a question to answer?”

“Shining Light!” Terri-Belle yelled.

Her sister slunk into the room, her hips swaying a little as she walked. “Yes, sister? Or should I call you captain, since we are in company?”

Terri-Belle ignored that, her attention remaining fixed upon Doctor Watts. “Supposing that what I want is for you to go with my sister here and leave the premises, what then?”

“Then I will depart, of course,” Doctor Watts replied smoothly. “If that is what you want.”

“What I want, what I want, yes! Yes, that is what I want: I want you to get out and leave me in peace,” Terri-Belle snapped. “Leave me to my work.” She looked down at said work: to the caravan, to the one caravan amongst many caravans seeking protection. One caravan amongst many; one piece of paper amongst many; amongst so, so many. So many tasks and so few huntsmen to carry them out.

“Wait,” she said, glancing up to see both Doctor Watts and Shining Light stopped by the door. They both turned to look at her.

A sigh fell heavily from Terri-Belle’s mouth; she was almost surprised it did not thud as it hit the floor.

“You want to know what I want?” Terri-Belle murmured.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Doctor Watts pointed out.

Terri-Belle rose to her feet. “My destiny was laid out for me the moment I was born. I am my father’s eldest daughter and his heir. While he lives, I command the Imperial Guard and serve him as Warden of the White Tower, and when he is dead, then … then I shall take his place upon the Steward’s Chair and rule Mistral as he did, and his father before him. What I want … what I want, Doctor, is for Mistral to be at peace as it was in the days of my father’s youth; what I want is for these dark clouds that gather round our house to be dispelled by the sun of a brighter day; what I want is to call upon the gods of my ancestors to give me back my huntsmen and for my prayer to be answered.”

She paused for a moment, drawing in a breath. “There is … I want my city to be safe. I want my kingdom to be safe. I want my huntsmen to be free to go about their business without … with only an ordinary level of caution, instead of … I want Mistral to be safe and protected and at peace again.”

Doctor Watts was silent for a moment. “I see,” he murmured. “Thank you, Lady Terri-Belle. Now, I believe this charming young lady was going to show me out.”

“Mmm,” Terri-Belle murmured. She had said more than she meant to, the words pouring out of her like a river in spate; a part of her felt as though she had said more than she ought to have done. But they were words, that was all. Words that compromised nothing, that revealed no secrets, words that would not have surprised anyone who knew her well.

Words, that was all, and signifying nothing.

She didn’t bother to watch them go; rather, she sat down and returned her attention to her paperwork.

She had so much work to do.


Not the one, Watts thought, as he walked side by side with Lady Shining Light towards the exit from the palace. Not the one indeed. Lady Terri-Belle was too bound by duty by far to be of any use to them. Someone like her could not be so easily manipulated into serving their ends.

“You are a strange man,” Shining Light observed.

Watts looked at her. She was certainly prettier than her elder sister, even if it made him an old goat to think so, and she seemed to know it too, or at least, she wore her hair and made up her face so as to draw attention to it. She walked with a sway to her hips, not a martial gait but rather, resembling the strut of a model. And yet, the sword at her hip was real enough, and so was the armour that she was presently wearing.

“How so, my lady?” he asked.

“To come into the palace of the stewards, into the presence of the Warden of the White Tower, and ask … what she wanted?”

“Yes,” Watts replied. “That is what I asked precisely: what do you want?”

Shining Light snorted. “Is that not strange behaviour where you come from, Mister—?”

“Doctor,” he corrected her. “Doctor Arthur Watts, at your service.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Doctor,” she murmured. “Is this some experiment? Will you publish a paper on the effects of inane questions upon Mistralian nobles? Or is it warriors that concern you?”

“You think that being asked what you want is inane?” Watts deflected.

“Is it not?” Shining Light responded. “Children are asked what they want; adults are expected to grow out of desire.”

Doctor Watts chuckled. “Are you sure that you are not the strange one, Lady Shining Light? Where I come from, adults grow up to call desire ambition.”

“'Ambition'?” Shining Light asked. “Do you call what my sister had to say 'ambition'?”

Watts did not reply to her; rather, he said, “And what if I were to ask you what you want, Lady Shining Light? Would you tell me that you want for nothing, that you have grown out of desire, that you are perfectly content with your station in life?”

Shining Light faltered in her steps, coming to an abrupt halt. “You would use me in your study, Doctor?”

“You are a noble, are you not?” Watts pointed out. “And a warrior.”

Shining Light smiled. “When I was a girl, I used to run up and down these corridors pretending to be someone else. I was a witch, I was a princess, I was an empress.”

“Many children do such things, albeit in less august settings,” Watts observed.

“And then we grow up and realise that we will never be anything but ourselves, disappointing though that may be,” Shining Light said.

Watts felt glad that his moustache hid the smile he could feel growing on his face. “What is it that you want, Lady Shining Light?”

“My sister spoke true: her destiny was set the moment she was born,” Shining Light declared. “Because she was born first, the eldest daughter. She will inherit our father’s seat, and his rule, and all his power, and all the lands and incomes of the House of Thrax besides. While I, a younger sister, may scrape and serve and spend my life at her command and bidding … or be cast out into wretched penury.”

Or find something else to do with your life, Watts thought. Heavens forfend, you could get a job and work for a living. He was no stranger to thwarted ambition, but was there anything more pathetic than frustrated entitlement?

Of course, it was precisely because it was pathetic that it could be useful.

“I would not be a younger sister all my days,” Shining Light declared. “Take you my meaning or not, Doctor, I will say no more but that … that is what I want.”

If Watts had written a paper, it would have been about the willingness of people to spill their hearts' desires to the first person willing to listen to them without judgement or apparent consequence.

It was really rather sad, although wondering what he might have said in this position kept his pity from crossing the line into scorn.

I would have gone off on a rant about James and how weak and short-sighted he was, most likely.

“Fear not, my lady,” he assured her. “I think you’ve said quite enough, thank you.”


Philippa Yeoh, who possessed — as of very, very recently — the rank of Polemarch in the very, very new Grand Army of Mistral, stood in the Campus Martius and watched her troops drill.

The Campus Martius was one of the oldest public spaces in the city; in days of old, it had been, as the name suggested, where the armies of Mistral were mustered for war, where the nobles would review their retinues, where the levies of the people were inducted into the ranks, where the departing soldiers would pledge their loyalty to Mistral and the Emperor, where the crowds would gather to farewell their parents, children, spouses, and sweethearts, sending them off to war with eager hearts … well, sometimes. It was said that during the Great War, as new regiment after new regiment had formed up on the Campus Martius before departing to face the foe, the atmosphere amongst those watching them go had become progressively more funereal, until by the time the last levies set out, there had been almost as many tears for their going as there had been when the news arrived of the defeat at the Battle of Four Sovereigns.

There were no tears today, but there were not many cheers either; mostly, she and her soldiers appeared to be attracting a small degree of curiosity from those who had gathered around the edge of the Campus to watch the parading of the first seed of what would, Yeoh hoped, become a mighty tree, tall and broad and strong enough to shelter all of Mistral under its eaves.

The Campus Martius was a broad expanse, broader than there was flat ground on the slopes of Mistral, and so, a great step had been built in ancient times, extending outwards into the air, casting a shadow over the houses down below. As befitted a square for military assembly, it was a barren space, with nothing in the way of decoration or ornament that would obstruct the massing or the movement of the soldiery, although all around the edges of the square fluttered the banners of Mistral, rippling upon the wind.

It was said that, in the days of Mistral’s greatness, ten thousand men could have paraded in this square.

There were not ten thousand men here now. For that reason, the Campus Martius looked a little empty as her four platoons marched and wheeled. But they were a seed. A first seed. Perhaps nothing more than a seedling. Yet they would grow. There would be more. Many more, if this first experiment proved successful.

Her commission was for a cohort of a thousand men. So far, she had one hundred and twenty, in four platoons of thirty each. But there would be more. Every day, there were more, if only drawn up from the lower slopes by the prospect of steady wages and three meals a day. In time, each platoon would become a company, and in the fullness of time, as the establishment of the army expanded, each company would become a regiment in its own right.

That was why she had named them, instead of giving them numbers. Names were important, names were what bred cohesion in the ranks, esprit de corps, or why were teams of huntsmen given names to call their own, to bear like banners into battle and tournament? For that matter, why did the Valish Defence Forces, enfeebled as they were, retain the names of units which had won great honour in the Great War if not because names mattered?

Conversely, Yeoh had always felt it was an error on the part of the Atlesians to give their infantry units mere numbers, signifying little, if anything at all.

In expectation of her platoons growing to be more than that, she had given them names. There was no First Platoon here; rather, there were the Sacred Band, the Skiritae, the Hetairoi, and the Epilektoi. Yes, she had reached into the past to pluck the names of elite units from Mistral’s rich and illustrious history, for what was the point of having a rich and illustrious history if you couldn’t pluck things from it for the benefit of the present?

These were the first units that Mistral had raised since the fall of Ares Claudandus; they had the right to call themselves the new elite and hold their heads up high above the others.

For the army as a whole, she thought the name ‘Epigoni’ might suit the new soldiery of the kingdom. It meant ‘inheritors’ in the ancient tongue, for these men and women who took up the call and put on the uniform of Mistral would inherit the will of those who had come before them long ago.

Just as she had inherited the will of those who had commanded Mistral’s armies in times past.

She hoped that she would be remembered as one of the better ones.

The epigoni of Mistral were dressed in green; these would not be the final uniforms — those would come later; the designs were still being finalised and would require the approval of the Council — but dress was as important as a name, if not moreso, to the cohesion of a unit. No soldier could take pride in himself dressed in the same clothes he had worn to enlist in. So she had dipped into her own pocket — and Lady Ming, more significantly, had dipped into hers — to kit her soldiers in green green jackets and trousers, and sturdy black boots. Lady Ming had been equally as generous when it came to the MARS-pattern rifles that each soldier carried at their shoulder. At some point, hopefully soon, the Council would release the funds to begin paying for weapons — and more than simple rifles — but again, it was important for morale that the troops be armed immediately. They might be inheritors, but they were also the start of something new, and if their first steps faltered, then it might inform the whole rest of what Yeoh hoped would be a long and illustrious history.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man approaching her across the Campus. He was tall, and although he did not possess a martial bearing, he did possess a very fine military moustache. He wore a grey suit, and a black tie that was improperly tied in a rather slovenly fashion. He approached her without a trace of uncertainty, as though there were no reason in the world why he should not disturb her.

"Polemarch Yeoh, I presume," he said, his voice a lugubrious drawl.

Yeoh's hand drifted to the hilt of the sword she wore at her hip. "You have the advantage of me, sir."

He smiled. "My name is Watts. Doctor Arthur Watts, at your service." He turned to watch her soldiers, saying nothing as he gazed at them. "Now, this is a sight not seen in Mistral for many years."

"A sight not seen in Mistral for too long," Yeoh declared. "We have lived in fear of Ares Claudandus' ghost for long enough."

Watts chuckled. "Something that is perhaps easier for the woman who will command the army to say than for those who will have to live with the concern of what you might do with it."

Yeoh glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Is anyone so foolish as to imagine that I could overthrow the Council with these green boys and girls?"

"They will not be green forever," Watts observed. "Where did you find the NCOs, may I ask?"

Yeoh smiled. "In my younger days, I was a soldier of fortune in Vacuo; when the Steward agreed to appoint me to command these nascent forces, I reached out to a few old friends for their assistance."

"From mercenary to government dog," Watts murmured. "Usually, it's the other way around."

"I prefer not to think of myself as a mercenary," Yeoh said softly.

He chuckled. "Because 'soldier of fortune' makes putting down the desert tribes on behalf of Shade sound more romantic, Polemarch?"

"If we hadn't done it, then Atlas would have," Yeoh replied. "Vacuans claim to have been exploited by the other kingdoms, but if that is so, then they have only themselves to blame; a kingdom that is not a kingdom, a patchwork of tribes and families without settlements, homes, or government, such an anachronism cries out for exploitation. If they would be seen as equals to the other kingdoms, then they must make of themselves a true kingdom, whether it runs contrary to their inclinations or not."

"And Mistral?" Watts asked.

Yeoh was silent for a moment. "In a way, cruel though it may make me sound, I am glad of the Breach in Vale," she said. "I feared that we were on our way to becoming a second Vacuo, a kingdom in name only, a patchwork of disparate lands devoid of strong authority. But now, at last, our spirit reawakens."

"Because you have an army?" Watts asked. "Will your spirit reawaken to put down all those who might wish to do things differently?"

"I believe that those who sometimes think or talk of leaving, as those who dreamt of Oniyuri once did, might do far better to stay and fight for their beliefs as part of a strong and prosperous Mistral," Yeoh replied. "But I do not intend nor wish to use this army I am building against my own people."

"Then what do you want to do with it?" Watts asked. "What do you want, Polemarch Yeoh?"

"I want ten thousand men at my command and ships to carry them into battle," Yeoh replied glibly.

Watts chuckled. "Is that all?"

Yeoh's eyebrows rose. "All the men I have in arms you see before you, Doctor. Is ten thousand not enough to wish for?"

"But for what do you want ten thousand men?" Watts pressed. "What would you do with them, if you had them?"

Yeoh hesitated for a moment. "What do you think of 'Epigoni' as a name, Doctor?"

"'Inheritors,'" Watts mused. "Rather depends on what it is a name for."

"These soldiers," Yeoh said. "My soldiers. Mistral's soldiers. The inheritors of a tradition of valour stretching back generations. Why should Atlas, a land of ice and snow and tinker's toys, stand as the protectors of the world? We are the kingdom of heroes, the kingdom of warriors, the kingdom whose history resounds with the clash of arms. If I had all that I would desire, I would have an army large enough and strong enough not only to protect Mistral from all dangers but also to stride out into the world and say to Atlas 'you may go home now, and warm yourselves by the fire; the real heroes have returned.'"

"A grand ambition indeed," Watts murmured. "Thank you, Polemarch, for speaking to me; I won't take up any more of your time."


Lady Ming wore a gown as red as blood; it trailed behind her on the polished floor of the drawing room as she walked across it. "Would you care for any refreshment, Doctor?"

"No, thank you, my lady," Watts replied. "I still have errands to run after our meeting ends; I cannot delay."

"As you wish," Lady Ming replied. She gestured to the maid — a dog faunus; she couldn't recall the girl's name — and said, "Leave us."

The maid curtsied silently, and equally silently departed from the room.

Lady Ming's drawing room was spacious and airy; it opened directly out onto the rock garden at the back of the house, and the sliding door was slightly ajar to allow a draught to come in from outside — the estate was sufficiently large, and the walls surrounding it sufficiently high and thick, that she had no fear of being overheard. Of furniture, there was very little: a low table, devoid of chairs, and calligraphy scrolls hanging from the walls. It was her hobby, and she liked to be able to keep track of her progress.

Lady Ming sat down on the floor and observed her visitor. He was much as Philippa had described him over the scroll: well-dressed but not smartly, his clothes of good quality but not worn well. She could not help but feel there was a little disrespect in his seeming inability to do up his tie. Still, he had a letter of introduction from the ambassador to Vale, and Lady Ming had known Murakami for some years now, if only as acquaintances. She saw no reason to deny the Atlesian doctor an audience.

"Philippa told me that she confessed her ambitions to you," she observed. "I was surprised that she had been so open with a man she just met."

"I'm a good listener, my lady, if I say so myself," Doctor Watts replied. "People confide in me." He smiled. "Perhaps I just have one of those faces."

"Hmm," Lady Ming murmured. "I do not know what, if any, official connections you have to the Atlesian state—"

"None at all, my lady; I am no spy," Watts assured her. "I am a free agent, nothing more."

"I'm glad to hear it," Lady Ming murmured. "I would hate for Atlas to mistake Philippa's flights of fancy for the aims of the Mistralian Council."

"But you are heavily involved in the creation of this new Mistralian army, are you not?" Watts asked.

"I am Philippa's patron, and honoured to be so," Lady Ming acknowledged. "She has no better friend on the Council than I. In the absence of Council funding, I have personally stepped in with lien for the purchase of weapons and equipment. Philippa is a good soldier; in a kingdom where only the very old now recall when we last had an army, it is a stroke of the greatest fortune to find an experienced soldier of Mistralian origin, rather than having to go appeal to Atlas for someone to school us in modern warfare."

"I can see how that would be humiliating for you," Watts murmured.

"Indeed," Lady Ming muttered. "As I say, we are fortunate that the matter did not arise and that we had in Mistral a native commander to take on the post. Philippa is, besides, a friend. But she is also a romantic. You know she was a mercenary?"

"I thought she preferred 'soldier of fortune'?"

Lady Ming snorted. "Indeed. A romantic, as I said. On a practical level, she is the best person I could imagine to build an army for this kingdom out of labourers and slum dwellers plucked from the lower slopes. But I have no interest in her flights of fancy. I do not want an army that can take over Atlas responsibilities. If Atlas wishes to continue spending vast sums of lien defending kingdoms other than its own, then it is welcome to do so."

Watts clasped his hands behind his back. "Then what do you want, my lady?"

Lady Ming rested her hands upon the table. "It is the Breach in Vale that has brought us to this point," she said, "but in truth, we should have taken this step months ago."

"Yes, I understand there were some troubles with the grimm earlier this year," Watts murmured.

"And during that time, the people began to wonder at the usefulness of a Council that seemed unable to guarantee the safety of the kingdom and those who live in it," Lady Ming added. "We are an old kingdom, Doctor, but since the Great War, the foundations of our state have proven less durable than we would like, or would like to suggest. When the war was lost, the Imperial princess was murdered by an angry mob, and for all the affection now held by the common people for their Princess Without a Crown, at the time, nobody mourned to see the House of Nikos toppled from power. The Faunus War was fought by a kingdom that had not decided how, precisely, to govern itself; the houses of Thrax and Rutulus fought each other as much as they fought the faunus, if not more, and for a while, the faunus themselves took power. It was only the foolishness of Claudandus and the treachery of Crixus that enabled us to liberate ourselves and reestablish proper order. More recently, it was only the actions of a single faunus, born of no family, a cuckoo in the nest of a great house, that turned back a tide of criminality from engulfing our society. We have danced on the edge too many times. What I want, Doctor, is to firm up the foundations of our governance, to make concrete our social order and the place within it of the best. What I want is to proof our system against any more shocks such as we have suffered. An army, such as we are raising now, will silence all of those who say we are not capable of action—"

"And give yourself an armed force to use against those who would take your power away."

Lady Ming looked him in the eye. "Precisely, Doctor."

"Thank you, my lady," Watts said, bowing his head. "I think that I've heard all that I needed to."


Juturna was browsing through the latest copy of Mistral Musical Express. Apparently, Sapphire Shores was going to re-record all of her old songs since she couldn't get the rights back to the originals. Huh. She wasn't Juturna's favourite artist of the moment, but good for her.

She looked up at the sound of a tap on the living room door.

"Sorry to disturb you, m'lady," Opis said, "but there's a guy at the gate."

"'A guy'?" Juturna asked. "What kind of a guy?"

"A doctor, according to him," Opis replied. "He's asking to see you."

Juturna blinked her big blue eyes. "He's asking to see me?" she asked. That was … weird. Nobody wanted to see her. Nobody travelled up to the House of Rutulus in order to speak to Juturna. It just … it wasn't something that happened. "Seriously?"

"Well, he did want to see my lord," Opis admitted. "But when I told him my lord wasn't here, he asked to see you instead."

"What about?"

"He won't say; says that he wants to talk to you," Opis said.

Juturna frowned. Why would anyone want to come and see her?

Okay, that sounded kind of sad when she thought about it that way, like she didn't have any friends.

Well … shut up. It wasn't that she didn't get on with people — she was capable of having all sorts of fun with all kinds of different people — she just didn't … care about them that much. And they knew it. Which was why people only really saw her at parties.

Okay, it still sounded kind of sad and pathetic; maybe that was why Turnus wanted her to Do Something.

Which she could do right now! She could see this guy! Maybe he even had a job for Rutulian Security, and Juturna could set it all up, and when Turnus got home, she'd show him.

She crossed her legs underneath her on the sofa. "Well, if he wants to talk to me, then show him in."

"Are you sure, m'lady?"

"Yeah!" Juturna declared. "It'll be fine. It'll be fun. Come on, show him in; what's the worst that could happen?"

"As you wish, m'lady," Opis said, bowing as she stepped backwards, before turning and leaving. Juturna could hear the footsteps of her steel-toed boots upon the wooden floor as she walked down the corridor.

Juturna glanced at the box of expensive chocolates. Most of them had been eaten by now, which was kind of a pity but at the same time meant that she didn't feel guilty about the fact that she didn't really want to share. She picked up a compact from the little table in front of her and checked her face. Hair was still straight, and you could see all the blue streaks really well, eyeshadow still fine … she applied a little more blush to her cheeks. Perfect.

Opis returned, leading a stork of a dude — okay, he probably wasn't quite as tall as Turnus, but he might be taller than Camilla by a little bit, and either way, he was still way taller than her — who looked really thin at the same time, like a rake. He had a moustache like the one Dad used to have, and his hair was even short and dark in the same way.

Juturna doubted that Dad could have ever got that thin though, if he'd lived.

He probably would have worn his tie like that though, just because he could.

Honestly, Juturna kind of liked the slightly scruffy look; Turnus wouldn't have liked it, but Juturna appreciated the guts it took to show up to a house like this dressed like that.

"Hey there," she said. "Grab a seat."

"Thank you," he murmured, but then stopped after a couple of steps when it became clear that Opis, who had settled in by the door, had no intention of leaving the room.

"I was hoping that we might talk in private," he said softly.

"Why?" Opis asked, folding her arms.

The visitor glanced at Juturna. Juturna crossed her arms behind her head. "Everyone here is very protective," she explained.

The visitor chuckled. "I see. Very well then, I suppose it doesn't really matter." He grabbed a chair and moved it across the floor until he was sitting opposite Juturna. "My name is Watts," he said. "Doctor Arthur Watts."

Juturna smiled. "Rutulus," she said. "Lady Juturna Rutulus."

Doctor Watts laughed lightly. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Not that much of a pleasure; you were hoping to see my brother, weren't you?" Juturna asked.

Doctor Watts nodded. "It's true, I was hoping to meet with Lord Rutulus, but I understand that he isn't here."

"He's on a job," Juturna said. "Is that why you're here, you want to hire Rutulian Security?"

"No, I don't need private security," Doctor Watts replied. "So, do you work for your older brother?"

Juturna let out a little laugh. "No," she said. "No, I … I don't work for Turnus, I … I live off him, I guess you could say. He takes care of me."

"I see," said Doctor Watts. "That must be nice."

"You'd think," Juturna replied. "I mean, it is nice. I never have to worry about not having money. Or not having things. I have my own credit card, and Turnus never bothers to check what I'm using it to buy. I don't have anything to complain about, believe me."

Doctor Watts smiled genially. "'But'?"

"But, Turnus sometimes talks like he wants me to get a job," Juturna said. "Which would be … not fine exactly, but I know that if I … let's say I got a job as a bartender, I just know that every night, there would be Camilla or Ufens or even Turnus himself, ready to kill anyone who made a pass at me. And I mean that literally, bro's got a temper on him sometimes, and Camilla … Camilla when she's angry is like ice: cold, deadly, and absolutely unstoppable."

"Do they ever get angry at you?"

"No," Juturna said immediately. "No, no no no, never they … never." She paused, clasping her hands together in her lap. She glanced down at them. "I killed my mom," she said quietly. She smiled. "Not in a child psycho horror movie way, before you get scared, more like a … I took too much out of her, and she didn't get better kind of way."

Doctor Watts nodded. "As a doctor, I'm not unfamiliar with what you describe. It's not as common as it used to be, but still far from unheard of, even in these times, with all the medical enhancements at our disposal."

"Turnus has never blamed me for it," Juturna said. "Not once. Not in any way. He pretends like he doesn't even miss Mom; he doesn't even have her picture in the house because he doesn't want me to feel guilty or to think that he's trying to make me feel guilty. And Camilla … Camilla used to sleep in front of my door when I was a kid to protect me from the monsters. They would never hurt me. They would … I think they'd die for me, which is actually kind of scary when you think about it."

"How so?" asked Doctor Watts.

Because I don't know if I deserve it, Juturna thought. In fact, I'm pretty sure I don't. "Um … it doesn't matter," Juturna said. "Sorry, I … what was it you wanted again?"

Doctor Watts leaned back in his chair. "I must say, my lady, your life sounds quite idyllic."

Juturna snorted. "You'd think."

Doctor Watts' brow furrowed. "Is it not so?"

Juturna spread her arms out across the back of the settee. "Look at us, Doc," she said. "We're rich, we're aristocratic, and we love each other. I even get on with Turnus' security people, like Opis over there." She waved to Opis, who at times had looked as though she'd rather have taken Doctor Watts up on his offer to leave the room. "Sorry, I'll stop embarrassing you in a second," Juturna promised. "Wouldn't you think, Doc, that that was enough for a happy family?"

Doctor Watts hesitated for a moment. "I might, yes," he said.

"Aha, well," Juturna said. "Turnus isn't happy. He's not miserable, but he's not happy. I don't think Camilla's happy either, although she doesn't let on as easily as Turnus does. All these years, she doesn't think of herself as part of our family, and she doesn't feel like she can make a fuss."

"And you?" prompted Doctor Watts.

"I want them to be happy," Juturna said. "That is what I want, that is the only thing I want; I want my brother and my best friend to be happy. I want them to get what they want, I want them to get what they need, I want them to get what they deserve, I want … I want them to be happy. Is that so wrong? Is that so strange or odd in any way?"

"Not at all," Doctor Watts replied. "Although, of course, the question then becomes: what do they want?"

Juturna laughed. "Well, there, it gets tricky," she admitted. She uncrossed her legs and got up. Doctor Watts made to rise as well, but Juturna motioned for him to keep his seat. She began to pace up and down the living room, swinging her arms back and forth as she walked. “My brother wants to rule this kingdom.”

Doctor Watts leaned forwards. “Really?”

Juturna nodded. “Because he’s smarter than I am, or maybe because he cares more than I do, or maybe both, but he can see … he can see all the problems, you know? He can see what’s going wrong, he can see what isn’t working, he can see it all so clearly, I know it! Turnus and Camilla are, like, the best people I know. They have the best of the old ways, but they can see the future as well. With them in charge … Mistral would be so lucky to have them in charge. If Turnus ruled Mistral, with Camilla by his side, then Mistral … Mistral would be like they say it was in the old days, except better, and with no slavery. And then … and then … and I don’t know what he’d do, because he doesn’t talk about it too much. Because he doesn’t think it will happen.”

“He is not willing to try and make it happen?” asked Doctor Watts.

“How?” Juturna asked. “There is no way. There’s no way that he can make it happen, and there’s no way for me to make it happen.”

“And if there was?”

“'If there was'?” Juturna repeated. “If there was, then there is nothing that I wouldn’t do to make them happy. I would … I would do anything. Anything and everything to make them happy. But there’s nothing I can do; I don’t have that kind of power.”

For a second there, it almost seemed as though Doctor Watts smiled. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “This has all been … most enlightening.”

Juturna frowned. “Wait, but we haven’t even talked about why you—”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Doctor Watts assured her. “I’ve already got everything I need.”


In battle, Turnus favoured Atlesian attire. He was dressed in what was, basically, the uniform of an Atlesian infantryman of a grenadier company, complete with red stripes upon his thick white shoulder pauldrons. His armour was otherwise grey-white above the belly, and black beneath, save for the white synthetic vambraces protecting his shins. Only the studded baldrick that he wore across his chest, the tiger stripe sash wrapped around his waist, and the crested Corinthian helmet currently resting on top of his head, but out of the way of his face, distinguished him from a common soldier of the Kingdom of Atlas.

Some of his men were similarly attired, while others preferred to adopt a more antique appearance, with the armour of the elder days of Mistral, or something else entirely, something that was more unique and idiosyncratic.

Night had fallen, and Turnus' white-grey armour was, at this moment, covered up by a dark cloak as he crouched in the night, a set of binoculars with the night-vision mode enabled raised to his eyes.

It was just as Euryalus had said: one single sentry before the crude wooden palisade.

The fact that their enemy didn’t know that the Rutulians were in the area didn’t make it feel any less insulting to be taken so lightly.

The plan was quite straightforward: Turnus had divided his Rutulians into two groups of equal strength, one under himself and the other under Camilla; his own group was presently waiting out of sight beyond the bandits’ palisade, while Camilla’s group worked its way into position atop the hills on the right flank.

Once they were in position, then Turnus would lead his section in a frontal assault on the bandit camp; Camilla would then follow with an attack of her own into their flank. That would make it even harder for the bandits to rally, and make it more likely that they would break and run.

At which point, he would run them down.

Turnus tapped his earpiece. “Camilla, are you in position?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Turnus turned his binoculars away from the dozy-looking guard to survey the hills that surrounded the camp. He could just make out Camilla, crouched low, leading the way for the others. As a fox faunus, she needed no aids to see in the dark. She glanced his way and waved one hand in a quick gesture to acknowledge him.

A smile crossed Turnus’ face.

“I’ll start the attack imminently.”

“I’ll be ready, my lord,” Camilla replied.

Turnus lowered the binoculars and turned around to face the men behind him. Some of them were hard to see in the dark, mere shadows, vague shapes, but he knew that they were there, just as he knew their names.

“Not long now,” he told them. “Euryalus, do you have him in sight?”

“Give the word, and he’s a dead man, my lord.”

“Nisus, do you have the flares ready?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Pallas, how are you feeling?”

“I’d quite like to get started now, my lord.”

A few hushed, low chuckles rippled amongst the Rutulians.

“As I said, not long now,” Turnus assured him. He waited, counting down the seconds, calculating how long it would take Camilla to array her people. Not long; they all knew what they were doing, and Camilla knew how to marshal them. Ten seconds. Make it fifteen.

“Covers off,” he commanded, and as one, the Rutulians discarded cloaks that had masked armour, pulled the covers off their helmets so that they gleamed in the moonlight once more. It gave them away, but then they were about to do much more to give themselves away than let moonlight glimmer upon metal.

Turnus rose to his feet. With his semblance, he could appear larger or smaller than he really was, could intimidate his enemies with his sheer mass and strength or make them underestimate him with the appearance of frailty and weakness.

Now, he chose to appear a few inches taller than he really was.

“Euryalus,” he barked, “take the shot.”

There was a crack, and Turnus looked into the binoculars quickly to see the sentry hurled backwards into the wooden palisade that guarded the bandit camp.

He let the binoculars fall and slammed his crested helmet down onto his head.

“Nisus!”

Nisus released one flare, and then another, each one exploding like a rocket as a pair of white flares rose, like shooting stars, up into the sky, trailing luminescent smoke behind them, rising high up into the night sky, blazing brighter than the moon above before they began to fall, slowly and lazily, back down to earth.

“Rutulians!” Turnus yelled, brandishing his spear, Furor, above his head. “Forward!”

Turnus charged forward, and his men followed him with a great shout, a war cry as loud as any that ever Eulalia had shouted pouring from their throats as they rushed forwards. Turnus had his double-headed spear gripped in both hands, while at his hip was Eris, the sword given to him by his father when he left for Atlas; Pallas was on his right, A Father’s Blessing gleaming in the light cast by Nisus’ flares; Ufens was on his left, with an axe in one hand, a lever rifle in the other, and a shield slung across his back. There were eighteen of them; did any huntsmen travel in such numbers, fight in such numbers? Eighteen men and women it was his privilege to know, to lead, to fight beside. Eighteen warriors howling as they came.

As they charged, over the din of his own Rutulians, Turnus fancied that he could hear the sounds of alarm in the bandit camp, the sound of men waking from sleep, woken by the sound of the wolves at the door.

Too late. Much too late.

There was a gateway into the palisade, a tall gate of stout wooden posts. Turnus presented his shoulder to it, bellowing yet louder as he quickened his pace. He needed to be the first to reach the gate; he needed to be the first one in. No leader could call themselves such if they did not lead.

Howling and screaming, Turnus struck the wooden gate with his shoulder, striking it hard enough that the stout wooden stakes, each as thick as the trunk of a great tree, shattered in the face of his hideous strength, breaking into splinters as Turnus, feeling only a slight lessening of his aura, burst through into the bandit camp.

The camp was arrayed without discipline, rough tents of red and grey and cyan and brown scattered higgledy-piggledy beside the river bank and under the shelter of the hills, scattered all about with crates of looted supplies, barrels and awnings sheltering more ill-gotten goods. A single great tent, larger than all the rest, perhaps as large as one of the moderately-sized rooms in Turnus’ house, sat at the back of the camp, while a few fires burned in pits between here and there.

Around the fires, and in the camp, stood hard-faced men and women with guns and knives and other such weapons. And more were stumbling out of the tents every moment.

Someone raised a pistol to shoot at him. Turnus twirled Furor before him, deflecting the bullet. He was still twirling his spear in place as he saw a brigand, a red bandana covering one eye, emerging from a tent hard by the gate, holding a rifle in one hand. Turnus fell upon him like an owl pouncing upon a field mouse, driving Furor home into the belly of his opponent. For whatever reason, the man had not activated his aura, and the spear pierced him, sending blood dripping onto the tip and down onto the dust ground that lay between them. He had a surprised expression on his face, as though he were puzzled by his own demise, as the gun dropped from his hand and his body slumped forward.

Turnus twisted Furor and drew the spear out, kicking the dead body back into the tent from which it had emerged. Some of his men had gotten ahead of him, while others had, like Turnus himself, stopped to engage other bandits stumbling out of their tents at the sound of alarm. Some of the bandits were killed, despatched by Rutulian swords or Rutulian bullets, while others threw down any weapons they were holding and put up their hands in surrender.

“Nisus, keep an eye on them,” Turnus commanded, gesturing at the prisoners. He would rather not have taken them, but he could hardly order them massacred once they had surrendered. He would just have to deliver them to the closest form of justice and trust that they would get what they deserved.

“Yes, my lord,” Nisus said, not sounding too happy about it but not arguing against the order either. It made sense to give him the duty; Euryalus was taking position near the entrance to the camp where he could use his long rifle to best effect, and while he could not snipe and watch the prisoners, he could help Nisus if need be.

The bandits who had been sleeping closest to the gateway to their camp either died or surrendered or ran as the howling Rutulians overran their tents, but those who had camped further away, those who had been awake when the attack began, those who had escaped the initial onslaught by fleeing before it, they had more of a chance to organise themselves. They began to form a crude line, thick and bunched up, those with firearms aiming them at the advancing Rutulians.

Then an arrow flew out of the darkness to bury itself in the neck of a man in the front rank. Blood spurted from the wound, and his carbine dropped to the ground with a thud a moment ahead of his body.

More arrows fell, arrows flying like rain from out of the darkness, felling the bandits, scattering those who did not fall, as Camilla led her warriors down the hill and out of the dark.


From her vantage point atop the hillside, Camilla could see the entire bandit camp spread out before her, from the gate to the great tent that surely served as the home of their chieftain.

In some ways, it would have been easier to have foregone the attack and simply rained down arrows on them from up here, but she understood why Turnus had opted for a confrontation; if they shot at them from the heights, they would undoubtedly do damage, but the remaining bandits would flee to regroup elsewhere, and Turnus aimed at nothing less than their destruction.

Camilla’s eyes were fixed upon the great tent. She did not know who resided there, they knew nothing about these bandits, but whoever they were was undoubtedly a figure of strength, for only strength could serve to rule such folk as this.

As the warriors that Turnus had placed under her command gathered around her, waiting for the word, Camilla turned to Mezentius and murmured, “When the attack begins, we will aim for the great tent, but whoever we find there is mine; pass the word.”

Mezentius snorted. “Because you’re the only one who can claim the glory of defeating a great enemy?”

Mezentius had been a friend of old Lord Rutulus, Turnus’ father, but Camilla had never found him a particularly personable man. He was one of the oldest of the Rutulians, his short dark hair turning grey or even white in places, with greying stubble on his cheeks and lines upon his face.

“Because I know I can,” Camilla replied, softly but firmly. “Pass the word.”

Mezentius hesitated for a moment. “Very well,” he agreed, before moving off, crouched, like a crab sidling across the beach, to spread her command.

“You think they’ll be very tough?” Silvia asked.

“I would be surprised if they were not,” Camilla replied. “One doesn’t rise to lead a crew like this without a combination of strength and cruelty.”

“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Silvia said with a grin. “Don’t worry; I’ll leave the glory to you.”

“Hmm,” Camilla murmured. To Lausus, who waited on her right, she murmured, “Lausus, are you prepared?”

Lausus was an old friend of Turnus, although Camilla fancied that he was not so close to him as she herself; his hair was curled and golden, and his face was slender and what some called pretty, especially when combined with his eyes of golden brown. He wore a linothorax cuirass and carried a spear in one hand, with a tower shield slung across his back.

He smiled. “Of course I’m ready. I’m even wearing my lucky tunic; I’m ready for anything.” He pulled the collar of the gold tunic he wore beneath his armour up into view and kissed it.

“I’ve noticed you wear that often outside of battle,” Camilla observed.

“I need a lot of luck, in battle and out of it,” Lausus explained. “Do you think we shall be heroes when this is done?”

“Why?” Camilla asked.

“Something about women,” Silvia muttered.

“I must find a rich wife,” Lausus explained. “And since I am not rich myself, I must look for other advantages, like a reputation as a great hero.”

Camilla snorted, but did not reply. It was good that the Rutulians were in high spirits; it augured well for their success.

As she waited for Turnus to start his attack, Camilla’s crimson, far-seeing eyes scanned the bandit camp for any sign of captives; she could see none. No one was caged, no one seemed to be held against their will. It was possible they were hidden in the tents, but she prayed not.

She prayed that no one suffered as she had once suffered.

She heard the crack of a rifle, and then the rocket-like explosive sounds of two flares going off, before the flares themselves shot into the sky to illuminate the camp for those of the Rutulians that were not faunus, blessed with the ability to see in darkness.

Camilla saw Turnus and his warriors rise up and start their charge, and even those who could not see it heard them as they ran, howling and bellowing like demons. Camilla saw the bandits start in alarm, saw them begin to emerge from their tents — no one from the great tent at the back of the camp, not yet — saw them grab weapons and cry the alarm. Camilla lost sight of Turnus for a moment as he disappeared behind the gate, but then she saw him again as he smashed through the gate, leading his section inside to begin the fighting.

Camilla nocked an arrow to the string of Diana’s Devotion. And as the bandits began to rally from their initial shock, she loosed.

“Now!” she cried, leading her warriors — she would not send them forward and then remain safely on the hilltop herself — down the hillside, loosing arrows as she went. She charged, and the rest charged with her: Mezentius, Lausus, Silvia with the spectral stag that was her semblance glowing in the darkness, all of them rushing headlong down the hill to crash into the brigand ranks like a wave crashing onto shore. The bandits, assailed from out of the dark, attacked from the flank and front, scattered like geese in the face of the Rutulian assault.

All except one.

“You cowards! What are you doing? Stand and fight!”

The one who raged at the fleeing bandits as they ran was a young woman, Camilla’s age at most and smaller besides, with dark hair cut so short that it was clinging to her scalp and revealing the shape of her head. She was dressed in a grey jacket with the sleeves roughly ripped off, and maroon trousers — one leg rolled up almost to the thigh — with black leggings and maroon leg warmers. A thick dark glove concealed one hand, while a black vambrace was strapped to her other wrist. In her hands, she bore a pair of wind and fire wheels: bladed discs, with a section cut out of them to permit the firing of some sort of gun embedded within them. The shape of the discs, and the flourishes added to them near the grip, made them look a little like wings, or like the talons of birds.

She raged at her comrades as they fled, and one or two, she grabbed and tried to force back into the fighting, but they simply shook her off and kept on running as the Rutulians rampaged amongst them, striking down bandit after bandit with sword or spear, or shooting them down like dogs as they ran with gun or arrow.

And so this bandit, growling, decided that since she could not exhort, then she would simply have to lead by example, and plunged head-first into the fray.

She came across Mezentius, who was laughing loudly as he struck down a running brigand; Mezentius had always seemed to enjoy the battle a little too much for Camilla’s taste.

Or perhaps she simply didn’t like the fact that he was honest about it.

The bandit girl leapt for him, and Mezentius turned to meet her with an eager cry, drawing his spear back for a thrust.

He drove his long spear forward. The bandit girl dodged, ducking nimbly beneath his spear and stepping around his shield as he tried to bludgeon her with it. She raised her disc-shaped weapons and fired twice, yellow bolts — Camilla did not think they were bullets — blasting out of the centre of the weapons to strike Mezentius in the side. He cried out in pain, staggering sideways, and as he staggered, the bandit girl leapt upon him, discs sweeping out in wide arcs to carve off slices of his aura as though he were a ham.

Mezentius retreated, bringing up his round shield to guard himself, and with his shield, he fended off two more blasts from the bandit girl’s weapons. She flung one of her discs, which swept through the air in a wide arc to circumvent Mezentius' shield and, before he could react, struck him on the side of the head hard enough to strike off his helm and send him reeling once again. The bandit girl shot him twice with her remaining weapon and charged for him, even as the other returned to her hand, slicing and slashing again and again.

Some of the bandits took heart from her example, although a few well-trained arrows struck down the boldest of them and gave the others cause to think again; they distracted Camilla for a few moments until she heard Mezentius cry out in pain.

She looked to see him on his knees, the bandit girl standing over him, beams of yellow light erupting from her weapon, Mezentius’ aura flickering crimson as it broke.

The bandit girl grinned as she swept back her discs for a slicing stroke.

Lausus slammed into her from the side with a great shout, his shield knocking her off her feet. She rolled away and upright once again as Lausus planted himself between his father and the bandit girl.

The girl growled in irritation.

Camilla nocked one of her dust arrows, one of the special shafts that she husbanded carefully, and loosed it at the girl.

The bandit turned and deflected it with one of her discs; it exploded harmlessly in the air.

But Camilla now had her attention.

“Lausus, Rhaebus, take care of Mezentius!” Camilla commanded. “Leave her to me.”

She kept her eyes fixed upon her enemy, but out of the corner of them, she could see Rhaebus dragging Mezentius away from the fighting, while Lausus guarded both of them, placing himself between them and danger like a mother bear protecting her cubs.

Camilla slung Diana’s Devotion across her back and slowly drew her dust gladius, Valeria Victrix.

“My name,” she said, “is Camilla Volsci. Give me your name, and it will outlast you.”

The bandit girl stared at her for a moment, then spat on the ground.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll kill you. I think you’ll fetch a fine price in the markets of Kuchinashi.” She sprang for Camilla like a lion. “All I have to do is not damage your face!”

Once, but never again, Camilla thought. She was not that child any more, caged and in need of rescue. She was a Rutulian, Lord Turnus’ right arm! Never again!

The bandit girl descended on her, blades drawn back for a long, slashing strike that would rake across her aura.

The discs swept down and forwards, like falcons on the hunt.

Camilla ducked, her long hair, white as snow, billowing all around her, her vulpine ears pressed down to her head, as the bandit’s discs passed harmlessly over her.

Camilla gritted her teeth as she lunged upwards with Valeria Victrix, fire dust chambered in the hilt, and as the blade connected with the bandit’s gut, Camilla pressed the trigger built into the guard, and a blast of fire erupted out of the blade to blast the bandit backwards.

The bandit girl kept her feet, unfortunately, and raised her weapons to start shooting, energy bolts leaping from the centre of both discs. Camilla parried them away with her gladius as she charged, tail and hair alike both streaming out behind her as she ran, Valeria Victrix tracing silver patterns through the air before her. She closed the distance between them, slashing with her sword.

The bandit parried, catching Camilla’s blade in her disc and twisting it out of her hand.

She grinned as she aimed her other weapon into Camilla’s face.

Camilla punched her enemy in hers before she could pull the trigger, hitting her hard enough with her armoured left hand to snap her head backwards and force her to retreat.

In a single, fluid motion, Camilla grabbed her sword off the floor and swept it upwards, slashing the bandit across the chest. She thrust for her neck. The bandit girl dodged, her whole body weaving, flowing like water as she sought to sidestep around Camilla’s flank. Camilla turned to keep them in view, her tail swirling around her. The bandit girl slashed with her discs, Camilla parried with Valeria Victrix; she countered with her sword, but the bandit parried her strokes in turn.

They both retreated a couple of steps, their eyes fixed on one another.

The bandit girl raised one disc, and three beams burst from the weapon to fly straight at her. Camilla dodged, her body twisting as the beams flew past her, but in that moment of distraction, the bandit threw her other weapon aside.

Camilla turned, but too slow; it struck her on the temple and knocked her aside. The bandit sprang at her again, slashing diagonally across Camilla’s body to—

Camilla grabbed her by the wrist mid-stroke, pulling the bandit forward as she herself stepped aside, slamming her into the ground as she cycled to ice dust in the chamber of Valeria Victrix.

She brought the blade down on the bandit’s hand, enclosing hand and weapon alike in ice, sticking both in place and to the ground.

She grabbed the bandit by her hair, short as it was, and lifted her face up before slamming it down into the ground.

Then she did it again. She made to do it a third time.

A laser blast from the bandit’s disc devoured the ice that had encased it — Camilla had not expected it to be able to make such short work of it — and she twisted to throw the disc at Camilla, who was able to avoid it but only by leaping off her enemy and away.

The bandit girl regained her feet, both discs flying back into her outstretched and waiting hands.

Camilla settled into a guard, Valeria Victrix held before her.

The bandit girl stared — or glared — at her for a moment.

Then she, like the other bandits before her, turned and fled, joining the press fleeing away along the riverbank, away from the Rutulian assault.

Camilla began to pursue, tail flying behind her. She sheathed Valeria Victrix and reached for Diana’s Devotion.

A growl of thunder — but the sky had been clear when the attack began — made her look up, to see lightning lancing down from out of the dark clouds that had suddenly gathered overhead, so much lightning in jagged points, so many spears from heaven falling, bolts that struck from the clouds to make the earth explode all around them.


The heavens opened.

Turnus didn’t know how it had happened. The sky had been clear, the moon and stars alike both visible. The sky had been clear, and there had been no sign of gathering clouds anywhere to be seen. And yet, the clouds had gathered, thick and dark overhead, and now, the heavens were opening, not with rain but with lightning, so much lightning, such a lightning storm as he had never seen before in all his years, nor heard tell of in the years of older men.

Lightning fell like rain would normally fall, lightning fell like missiles fired from an Atlesian cruiser overhead, lightning fell all around them, striking the ground in vast explosions, kicking dust into the air, setting tents alight, destroying supplies stolen from more honest men.

Lightning fell all around and in the midst of the Rutulians. It did not harm the bandits as they fled; it only targeted those who opposed them, and any foes who were unlucky enough to still be caught amidst their forces.

Lightning fell amongst the Rutulians, forcing them to scatter to avoid it, to try and predict where the lightning would fall next, to stay out of its way, even as it seemed to hunt for them.

“Take cover!” Turnus yelled, hoping that his voice was heard above the roar of thunder and the crackle of the lightning and the explosions as it struck the ground.

Fortunately, it seemed that his warriors could guess what to do without being told, although as they scrambled to find cover, or simply threw themselves to the ground, he heard some cries of pain from amongst his ranks.

And Pallas…

Pallas was caught in the open. He yelped in fright as a lightning bolt struck close by, flinching from it, turning away, only to have another bolt land there and only narrowly avoid him. He froze, his eyes flickering this way and that as the lightning fell all around him, boxing him in, leaving him nowhere to turn.

“Down on the ground!” Turnus yelled, but Pallas either couldn’t hear him or was too stunned by what was happening to react.

Turnus ran towards him. If he had to force him to the ground himself and shield him with his body, he would. He ran towards him, arms pounding.

A bolt of lightning struck Pallas squarely in the chest. He did not scream, he did not cry out, he didn’t say anything at all. But as the bolt struck him, his eyes widened, and he dropped to the ground like a puppet with the strings cut, a smoking burn in the centre of his chest.

“No!” Turnus yelled as he reached the body, throwing himself down beside. “Pallas? Pallas!”

He did not answer. He would never answer again. His eyes were wide and lifeless, his breath was nowhere to be felt, his heart was still.

A Father’s Blessing was clutched in his lifeless hands.

A blessing from a father who would never see his son again.

Turnus looked around as the lightning fell. Why? Why was this happening? What was causing this; had they offended Seraphis in some way?

No. No, it was not Seraphis; this was not the doing of the gods. As Turnus looked around, he saw, standing before the great tent at the back of the camp, a single bandit who was not running, who seemed to be covering the retreat of the rest. Tall, they were, and with a lordly bearing, clad in armour of dark red like blood spilled some time hence, their armour in the lamellar fashion. Hair of raven black, thick and long, fell in waves down behind them to below their waist, while their face was hidden behind a mask of bone white, decorated with red markings, that almost resembled the skull of a grimm. A sword was at their hip, but they had not drawn it. Rather, they stood before their tent, hands by their sides, and waited as the lightning fell and all the surviving bandits retreated into the night.

Them. They were doing this. They had done this. Turnus didn’t know how they were doing it — some semblance of extraordinary power — but he knew. He could tell. He could feel it in his bones.

He leapt up, splitting Furor from one great spear into two light javelins, and with a roar, he cast first one half of Furor and then the other.

They turned and dodged the first spear; the second, they caught in one hand, and swiftly turned and threw back at him.

Turnus caught it in turn, though it was so strongly thrown and jarred him so much to catch it that he was unable to throw it back the same way.

They looked at him.

Turnus drew Eris from her sheath as the lightning ceased and the sky began to clear.

The bandit ducked inside their tent.

Turnus pursued him, sword in hand. He pushed aside the flap of the tent and stepped inside to find it empty, or at least empty of people; it was well-appointed with stolen goods.

He strode through the tent, kicking a table out of the way, and emerged out the other side to find … nothing.

There was no one there. No sign of the bandit. Only the rocking, croak-like laughter of a raven somewhere in the night, mocking him for his failure.

Camilla emerged out of the tent to stand beside him. “Where … where are they?” she asked.

“Do you not see them either?” Turnus demanded.

Camilla looked around. “No,” she admitted. “No. I do not. I can see some of the bandits retreating; shall we pursue them?”

Turnus hesitated for a moment. “No,” he replied. “No, not after this.”

At least one man was dead, he knew that others were hurt, and whatever had been done to cause that barrage of lightning had knocked the wind out of their attack.

It had certainly knocked the wind out of him.

“We have wounded them,” he said. “Badly, I think. I do not believe they will remain in this part of Mistral for much longer. They will retreat to safer ground. We have … we have not done all that we hoped, but we have done all that we set out to do.”

Camilla was silent for a moment. “As you say, my lord,” she murmured.

Turnus nodded, before a scream of rage escaped him, a scream up to the heavens. Seventeen years old. Perhaps I should have taken it as a sign when he didn’t get into Haven.

“This was not your fault,” Camilla said.

“He was one of my men; whose fault is it but my own?” Turnus demanded. He took a deep breath. “It will be revenged,” he vowed. “Not now, not while we have wounded to tend to, wounds to lick, not while we are … out of sorts, but it will be revenged.”

“I have no doubt,” Camilla said.

Fortunately, they had lost no one else. Mezentius was wounded, as were Euryalus, Murranus, Ligarius, Metiscus, and Camers.

But only Pallas had fallen.

It was enough.

“Raise up a pyre for him,” Turnus commanded. “There is plenty of wood around. Strip this camp and let us send him on his way.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ufens said, bowing his head.

Turnus gaze fell upon the bandit prisoners. A dozen men, crouched under the watchful eyes of Messapus and Tolumnius. A dozen men, disarmed, kneeling on the ground, fear in their eyes.

He took a step towards them, and another, and with his semblance, he made himself seem to swell in size so as to put the fear in them.

“And put these vermin on the pyre as well,” he declared. “They will escort Pallas on his way to the honour that awaits him.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Nisus, Ufens, even Camilla stared at him with astonished eyes.

“My lord—” Ufens began.

“Do as I command!” Turnus snarled.

Ufens swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

And so, they raised a pyre for Pallas and tied the captives to it, and Turnus listened to their screams as the flames consumed them along with his fallen follower.

It brought him some comfort, as vengeance always did, but so long as that bandit in the grimm-like helm remained alive … it would be business unfinished.

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