Incursion (Chapter 1 of part 1)

[Incursion]

Chapter 1







The harried footfalls of distant haggard beasts made ripples at the edges of the languid waters of the mossy tarn. Water. The Worldsblood, each body a daughter of great mother Gaia. Laurent could tell from the sight of the lake that she was an old girl. Her waters were deep and clear past the moss that lined her shores. Beneath her stirred lurking things and strange visages made stranger still though he could see them. She lay nestled in the basin of a valley, perfectly reflecting the blue sky above and the dense green canopy of the forest that swallowed the land beyond her midsection.
He was so close.
He could almost taste it. So parched was he, that even the algae was to be a welcome taste. Plate clinked and a loud noise, that of rubber grinding against rubber, sounded through his body. The wobble from it brought him to kneel, his weary muscles spasming. He collapsed onto his arse. His vision spun, yet sweat still didn't bead on his skin and the heat grew stronger still. His stomach churned, already empty of contents. Yet even still he possessed enough presence of mind that he'd not dare take off even a piece of his armor.
He could have been followed.
Desertion was a death sentence and Baron Harlowe suffered no mercy. Not since that infernal Arcanist bewitched him. He'd been through his realm shortly after he'd been taken to squire. Even petty thieves were hanged the day they were caught. He'd been so delighted then it nearly hadn't fazed him, so caught up in the euphoria of escaping peasantry was he that the fine print wasn't spared a thought. Not that he could read it, sudden upliftment didn't come paired with literacy or an adroit mind. He'd always leaped before looking and his mother's incessant warnings echoed in his thoughts, thoroughly vindicated; Sown grain bears chaff and wheat. Her warning was drowned out as he splashed the cool waters against his face. He cupped his hands and when they were full of water he gently guided the water down the hole in his helmet. Peace trickled down his throat. The taste of watered-down blood and oil and lively water filled his senses.
Discarding caution he leaned over to greedily drink straight from her source, sighing contentedly as his warm helmet cooled as it sank partway beneath the surface. His ears drummed with his blood. Behind it, he thought he could hear the beasts approaching. There was something like a whistle and he slammed down into the clear water.
The world went dark.

Tyrald watched the corpse tumble into the water with a lopsided grin. His arrow had, of course, struck true, nailing the man right at the base of the skull. The back of his head throbbed and his throat tasted of algae, blood and oil.
"Was that one one of Harlowe's or a deserter."
"Does it matter?" His voice was distant, even to his own ears, as he spoke. "He was clothed in plate and out of formation, making for the trees."
He turned to look at his "brother-in-arms." Even through the thin visor he could see the man's disgusted expression. Self-righteous twit. Below their brothers were joining into a second formation. Cavalry was soon to clash again. He looked off toward the other end of the other valley across the strange pock-marked field. It was as though someone dug half a pyramid out of the ground hundreds of times. A strangely familiar trepidation welled in his guts.
"I've seen this before." The words echoed, whether in his mind or from his mouth he did not know.
Whatever the case, his comrade hadn't heard it or, as was more often the case these days, ignored what he'd said. He stirruped his horse, the painted draft horse whinnied and trotted down below. He'd gotten this horse from a farmstead only a day ago. The others had taken the faster steeds leaving him with the work mule of the herd. What bothered him more than the disrespect was that he knew he knew this place and yet he recalled as much as the man he'd just waylaid thought.
"Tyrald!" And there he was before Loucester. When had that happened? They'd just been talking atop the incline. Or had he been entering formation? "Raise your lance, the charge is almost upon us. Or do you want your only kill today to be an enemy deserter?"
His form shifted, clinking like a metal puppet. He was surrounded by puppets and he could see their strings. Didn't they know what was about to happen? Then to his horror, he saw strings tug at his hand and it lifted as their command. No, it wasn't only attached to his hands. He felt the strings within him too. tangling with his spine and feeding up into his skull.
What was about to happen?
He knew it was something terrifying. He could feel it.
He'd sworn he'd known it once too. The tavern bedding was itchy and clung to his sweating frame.
He was riding now, in the vanguard, his draft horse unnaturally quick. Each charge rolled down their side of the valley, soon to meet in the field below. Yelling. So much yelling.
The fields smelled of sweat, iron, wood and sex.
There was the sound of a woman screaming. But she could wait, his brothers would need his aide soon.
Just then a bone-rattling crack ripped through the world. The doomed soldiers of Baron Harlowe and their forsaken mounts had only time to look down before the right-hand edge of the valley shattered and fell out beneath them as though existence itself had buckled beneath some unseen weight. The shards of the world withered in the darkness waited below till nothing remains. His terrified comrades frozen in time at the precipice of that horrific chasm.
Then from that womb was birthed every nightmare, every sordid tale softened by retellings and ages past, full in their power. As their father had intended. His thoughts turned toward the man he'd shot dead and considered risking a coward's death himself. But to his terrified incredulity, he found himself charging alongside his brothers with his lance at the ready.
The end had come…

… from the slap that broke the terror's hold. Tyrald staggered back, falling out of the bed. And away from the crying woman who smelled strongly of oils and perfume with makeup running down her face. He turned his thoughts to what he'd dreamt but already it had escaped his memory. The only remnant of its existence being the knowledge that he'd dreamt it before.
"Sir." She tripped over the word, as though she'd struggled, and failed, to withhold her utter contempt for him. "The night has passed and you'd best loose a few more lots; I'll be needing them to hide your parting gift." She swept her bang away from her neck to reveal reddened marks. Marks he'd evidently left.
Though he hardly cared. He'd trained at many a brothel and enjoyed many more a lesson. The first of which is that a whore's feelings were priceless, unlike their bodies which they actually valued.
The world was a fury to him and he hated it in return; its burning lights, its rancorous clamor and the settled scent of unwashed coupling had baked in the night's heat mixing with expired oils and the stable out his window.
He patted dimly at his clothes, forgetting where the lottery that had clung to his girdle had slid to. It was a farce to pay her more. He'd surely left marks the night before, but then, all fight had been drained from him the prior night. Pain must be paid for pleasure.
"Here, plus a second tip." He mumbled out the quip then winced as he blooded one of the lots when its tip pierced his forefinger. He withdrew a handful, not bothering to count, he knew she'd accept the amount and loosed them at the foot of her bed. There they clattered and bounced gently upon the straw stopping at her feet.
He heard the whore's joy return, thanking him profusely. Even offering him one for the road!
But the last thing he wanted now was to feed the hunger that brought him this headache. Whores always led to alcohol. The price they paid to drown their hearts. The two of them had already enjoyed enough self-abuse to keep their worlds spinning.
No.
Water was what he wanted.
And he told her as much as he went stumbling down the hallway outside the room, nearly tumbling down the stairs. A memory of the owner warning him of the sharp drop by his room played back in his mind. The first step dropped hardly a finger's distance past the doorframe.
Somehow he'd gotten down the stairs without a tumble and plopped down in a chair shrouded in shadows. There the light couldn't stab at his eyes and given the time of day he might even get some quiet. The whore suddenly appeared walking away from him toward the bar counter. She disappeared behind it and below to the cellar, presumably, and soon she reappeared bringing him a tankard filled with cool water.
Right. Built over a stream. Luciana, daughter Lucinda, descended from Luna. And from there The Wound, source of all the Worldsblood in Glasfal.
He quaffed it down in one greedy gulp. He felt his skull release its hold on his soul. He blubbered for a second one. He must have been clear enough because that wonderful woman, more beautiful than ever, returned with two more tankards in short order.
By the time the men hunting him sauntered over with those self-righteous grimaces, those faces riddled with disappointment and contempt, he'd nearly felt himself again.
"Tyrald." His tone was calm and patient, cloyingly so.
"Loucester." He parried Loucester's blow of disappointment with his contempt. Good, his vigor was returning. It even soaked the name the way he liked. Loucester was a nobleman's son and as such he hated everything about the man on principle. That others seemed to adore him just strengthened his certainty. The man was far too stark a white. Too bright a light for a house like his. There was an off color somewhere in him. There had to be. And when he found that thread he would tug and pull for all its worth.
"Late again, Ribald." Gerald said, leaning forward with a cheeky grin, thumbs pulling at his girdle. "Captain'll be sweating you dry for it, he will!"
"Oh, har har. We both know the lout's still sotted off somewhere. All that Pureblood does is drink. Loucester's the only one who allegedly understands him– Convenient that." He didn't so much as look at them.
"Uncle Giffard is… given to much drink, yes." Loucester pinched the bridge of his nose.
"And is your esteemed Uncle, our Captain, awaiting our return, or am I correct that there another reason why he is late– late enough that our true leader has come to find little old me?"
"He's not our captain." Gerald rebutted.
"Oh? Am I mistaken that the lout that is our nominal Captain wasn't given charge of the reserve battalion precisely because his brother, the Baron, couldn't damage the name of Loucester by retiring his brother?"
"Well, no, but-"
"And that Loucester here is the one that attends all the meetings and reports to his father?"
"...No" Gerald muttered, and Tyrald enjoyed the pained look on Loucester's pampered face.
"Yet, if one of the strangely coherent orders his dear sweet Uncle burps out between bottles were to blow up in all our faces, would Loucester here be held to account?" He didn't wait for an answer. "No. No he wouldn't, even if he was recognized legally as Captain because his blood matters more than ours. That's why his armor's worth the rest of the battalion's. So again, I ask you, Lou, is our sot of a captain there?" He had a point there that he was trying to make, it was that the tip of his spear he called a tongue, but as he heard himself speak he couldn't help but be disappointed he hadn't found it. He'd wanted to stab Loucester with it.
Instead Loucester sighed, his head nearly tilting to look down at floorboards. "No, he is not. Uncle finished his misadventures an hour ago."
The pickled egg had exceeded himself this time. As much as he despised their family, he couldn't help but wince in sympathy. He'd seen people circle the drain before. But. Still.
36 hours of hard drinking?
"We'll leave you to it, we have other matters to attend to; please report to the barracks tonight." With that Lou and Gerald turned and left.
He was silent for a moment before he turned to the girl. He thought of something witty to say, something about following in his captain's example. But found he lacked the taste for it. With a morose expression, he stumbled out the hovel, hobbling toward the barracks. Not like he had much else to do. His life was warring and whoring since he'd been a boy. He was sure his drinking would kill him one day, as was tradition, one of the few heirlooms he'd received as an orphan, but he wasn't about to let his skills rust and fail the others he fought beside.
At least they mattered.
His feet trudged along the loamy road softened up by the light mist. It had rained the night earlier. It was one of the reasons that he'd gone to the inn to begin with. He hated the rain. The harder it poured the more morose his soul grew. Barracks, Inn, Market, Church, Road Patrol; that had been his life since Giffard Loucester himself had trundled his way into the Church he'd called home and conscripted him on the spot. Giffard had first struck him as a portly and self-interested sort when he'd barged in after hours. When he told Father Alan that he'd be putting his younger self to squire he had thought him a god.
He'd been right the first time.
That reality soon became apparent. What remained a mystery was why a nobleman from a Pureblood dynasty, who could trace their lineage to the Hero-King of The Incursion, Artorias himself, would suddenly squire some random peasant orphan. And then forget he exists. He'd never found the reason why. Sure he'd made guesses, lost wager, flight of fancy, but nothing he ever found weight for.
He'd simply been struck with divine favor, as the Priest had explained, when hundreds of others in the small town of Leon, from which House Loucester derives its sigil after they'd successfully raised the crossroads they'd been entrusted with to a proper Barony, languished in destitution. Sure, nowadays it was because the mines had run their course and their primary purpose was to be a bulwark against foreign invaders, which was a polite way of telling them they were first to die should such a thing occur.
There weren't even any Lions here. Not anymore. Old man Rickers was nearing one-hundred and twenty, which was miraculous in-and-of-itself, and he said they'd all gone when his grandfather's grandfather was alive. Which, for a youth of twenty-two, was mind-boggling.
The town wasn't all that large, mostly a collection of hovels surrounding the river that passed beneath the Fort, and claimed only three manors with roughly four hundred souls a piece. Most of the Loucester family lived near The Holy Circle, that giant ivory and gold-lined wall which connected with The Scar to completely surround The Wound. He'd never so much as seen anything from there, let alone been, but he'd heard tales from those who'd made it to that pitch-black sea. It's said to reflect nothing, not even when you lean over and peer into it. No life has ever been trudged up from it, the sand, if it could be called that, was a torturous mix of frits and slivers, and it was said that the water itself was foul to drink.
During The Incursion, when Devils had ostensibly torn the veil between realms asunder, it was said that that had been where they'd poured out from like a tide as unceasing as it was unstoppable. After it was stemmed, those brave knights, and their successors, were interred with obsidian swords within those walls.
One day Loucester would be interred within those walls, his rotting hands clasped on the handle of an obsidian blade. He spat at the thought. Political theater nothing more, that's what that was. It was absurd enough to claim that Angel's existed, it was audacious to then call some third cousin of a lesser branch of a greater house a Paladin when he hadn't done anything besides keep up appearances. Paladins were said to have Boons from their Guardian Angel. Powers said to rival that of foreign demigods.
Last he checked, the only great power Loucester had was being able to throw around his name. That and the infuriating ability to pick up and master a weapon in months that would take others years.
His comrades, he had no friends, not anymore, insisted that, despite it all, he ought to hold the Loucesters in some esteem. And he tried to. Once upon a time. But Giffard was as capricious as he was a lover of drink. His saving virtue being that he was as astoundingly lazy as his liver was inexplicably functioning. And Loucester always gave him looks that held different emotions, but always made him feel exposed.
A figure sped past him, knocking him back a foot, his left hand swung down to draw his blade. He winced and reached for it with his right as he was trained but the figure had already torn their way down the road where a crowd was gathering.
"Hey! Watch where you're going!" he yelled after the hooded man, or at least he presumed him a man given the height and width of shoulders. Beneath the billowing cloak he saw the head of a hammer pop out from beneath its hiding spot. None of my business, I'm not on duty.
He skidded to a stop at the crowd's edge. He'd lost sight of the man. Turning to look in each direction over the mass of people he found there at the forefront was an executioner's block upon a stage. A rather well-fed fellow already had his head placed upon it and wore a shit-eating grin. To his left stood the executioner and a man in robes of blue velvet. The man in blue robes bowed deeply to another man, this one to the condemned's right; a man in fine linen, white as snow and wreathed in red sashes, each with pinned scrawlings. A Priest of The One. The Priest on his right grimaced and withdrew a scroll from his sleeve. As he unfurled it he read it aloud as if from memory, "Geoffre Stein, you have been found guilty of slaying a youth for which the punishment is Death. Have you any last words?"
"Why bother with the formalities, it was a spot of fun and I paid for the bastard's renewal, why don't we spare the axe the damage?"
"The deceased has given his final words." The Priest said, a vein pulsed in his neck.
'Stein' rolled his eyes in tandem with Tyrald. This wasn't the first time either of them had taken their part in this play. Though it was Stein's wife the last time. She'd been quiet when she'd been brought before him. She'd threatened divorce and he raised her. The crowd stirred into a murmur, many echoing similar sentiments. The word 'farce' was thrown around and the woman on his left glowered at Stein and held her son closer. He sucked in his teeth when he saw the look in the boy's eyes. He'd seen the same look in his comrades' eyes after they came home from clearing out a bandits nest.
"Executioner, I bid you do your task." The Priest knelt and looked up towards the heavens. He prayed for light, and grace, and warmth but the sky remained overcast and the mist seemed now to cling even to Tyrald's bones. The axe descended and cleaved the head from the man's neck.
The Priest stood at once and declared, "Justice has come, now let us enter a time of grace for the time of healing is at hand." The crowd shifted their heads in the same direction in unison. There a rather doddering old woman was helped on stage by a knight. Tyrald's eyes widened when he realized it was Gerald. As he carried up the bag the blood-price within it clanked loudly. The murmuring of the crowd had rose to a growl.
"The Madam would like to beseech the Church." Gerald knelt and proffered up the sack. Madam Felbright, the mother of Giffard Loucester, came from an exceptionally wealthy family from the Inner Circle and it was to her family which she offered any loyalty.
Regardless of their proclivities.
The Priest, Father Alan, looked ill, knowing the man Tyrald suspected he was convincing himself, yet again, he had no choice but to accept the money as it would feed the poor and the orphans for years, at the cost of what little remained of his self-respect and another child down the line. That he was arguably right to do so boiled his piss.
"The Church accepts the payment." Tyrald heard the puppet say even as the man recoiled within. Appearances were important after all. One must respect the dignity of the station!
"Arcanist Leival, please step forward, the Church has entrusted this task to you." At this, the man in blue velvet, House Loucester's personal Arcanist, stepped forward. He began by drawing a circle around the remains using a staff with a blue gem at the base. The hooded figure from before caught Tyrald's attention as he saw the stranger weave his way through the crowd. Slowly, surely. Like a prowling lion.
And with the consent of the crowd around him, who seemed to know at a glance to move away. The hammerhead Tyrald thought in disbelief. That had to be what the stranger was going for. The College's Ritual can't work if the body is too damaged! Tyrald looked up at Gerald to see if he'd noticed but Gerald was simply staring ahead into the middle distance, much as the Priest was doing.
The circle began to glow and Tyrald started to press through the mass of people. The light began to shine from the base of the head and the top of the neck. Suddenly, the hooded man leaped up, withdrawing his warhammer from his robes as he did so, and swung his warhammer down onto Stein's head. The dead flesh splattered like so much pulp, wood creaked and splintered beneath the strike, and blood pooled around the hammer. Time stopped for just a moment and Tyrald took everything in. The black featureless cloak, the pallid skin of his wrists, the red beard he glimpsed for half a second and the blue pulsating gem in the middle of the hammer's head.
No speech was given, no laughter sounded and no hesitation was had before the stranger spun on his heel and ran off into the crowd of accomplices. As the crowd slowly erupted into panic, and joy, Tyrald caught sight of the Priests' face. The years had disappeared from it, the valleys and crevices carved into it by life had smoothed out into the face of the younger man he'd once been.
All his training buckled under the relief that flooded his system and he approached the stage unsure of his steps. Felbright was screaming, scooping up the remains of her grandchild's head into her hands as if to piece him back together.
Gerald had been barking out orders when he reached the stage and placed a hand on Father Alan's shoulder and gave him a light, but firm, shake. The smile fled his face and the face he'd once worn returned, though, now it seemed more a mask than truth.
Gerald marched over to them and jabbed a steel finger into his chest and bellowed, "Go report to Loucester, now!"
Not half a second after Gerald had shouted the order was Tyrald tearing off through the crowd toward the barracks twisting through every shadowed lane covered by the many two-tiered houses that leaned upon one another for support.
At last the darkness broke and he came upon the drawbridge strewn out over the moat, its furthest edges sinking into the wet mud. His feet sank in the muck, loosing with a loud plop, with each step.
"Hoy, izzat Tyrald?"
"Nah, cannae be, this stranger's got business he cares about." The taller of the gate guardians corrected and shared a laugh at his expense. Then they mockingly crossed their spears, barring his way.
"Stranger, tell us news, what was all that commotion about?" the taller one asked.
"Oh shut it you twits, there's been a murder!" He halted and took a deep breath.
The two knights, dressed in full attire and sporting the burnished bronze lion that was the Loucester sigil, spared the other a quick glance before the taller one on his right spoke, "Aye, that does tend to happen when someone's sentenced to death."
Tyrald could slap himself, "No, no, I mean to say that the condemned's corpse has been defiled– the head's pulp on the stage!"
The taller one motioned in, withdrawing his spear, saying. "Captain Loucester is in the Motte's cellar speaking with his Un–his nephew, go!" The shorter one drew his spear back a moment later.
He crossed the bailey and didn't slow his pace even as the hill grew steep. He barreled into the keep, turning right on a dime. Only then did he slow his pace, the masonry work on the staircase a few feet ahead was nearly treason. Surely such work counted as an assassination attempt? He didn't know which he found more incredulous, that in all his drunken outings Captain Loucester inexplicably suffered no challenge with them, or that he'd yet to find anyone to fix them.
Such suspicion turned to earnest wishes when he reached the bottom of the flight and found the alleged captain possessed by spirits. Beside him knelt the lout's nephew sliding his hands underneath his corpulent form. With strength belied by his lithe form, Loucester scooped his uncle off the ground and slung his arm over his shoulder. He turned to look at Tyrald and motioned toward the large chair in the corner. It was resplendent in white-gold linen and stuffed to the brim with cotton and toppled over before the roaring fireplace. There was also a desk of alabaster, a family heirloom, one carved with ornate depictions of devils climbing up the legs, each had the foot of some armored figure embedded in their face as it pierced the fel beast through the heart. Atop it was adorned an ancient map of Glasfal from the time of King Artorias. Once he'd found it mesmerizing, a one-of-a-kind work of art. But anything seen a thousand times loses its luster as sure as bronze.
He dragged the table out of the way and leaned the chair upright.
Loucester dragged over the now-stirring slug and poured him into his chair.
"Lucille. Lucille?" As he spoke his words slurred and tears fell. Tyrald saw something in his face, a flicker of a man, then it was gone. Drowned. Beneath the wine and years.
"Lucille?" Tyrald asked.
"A cousin of mine, his youngest daughter. She took ill and passed away before my parents followed suit." Loucester replied, wiping his uncle's chin clean.
Tyrald remembered himself and snapped to attention, "Ca-Sir, there's been an incident!"
Loucester turned around, his long golden hair hiding his face from him though he turned in Tyrald's direction. "Report."
"The execution was carried out but someone defiled his corpse."
Loucester flinched as if struck and Tyrald took that as a sign to continue, "in the midst of the resurrection a hooded figure lurched from the crowd and destroyed the head with his warhammer."
"And nobody stopped him?"
"The crowd had been growing restless throughout the proceedings, after the deed was done they dispersed like a swarm of locusts. I couldn't keep track of the man."
"I see. Do you remember anything about him? About his weapon?"
"Pallid skin, blue gem on the hammerhead, black robes and a red beard."
Loucester spun to face him, "Red beard?"
"Precisely, Only redhead in town's the priest and it's turned white."
Loucester narrowed his eyes and glanced over at the table. "Did this blue gem seem to pulsate?"
"Yes. Yes it did, why?"
"Could just be ornamental…" Loucester covered his mouth and stared intently at the map, his fingers slowly ran down his face.
"Not how he used it, it wasn't." Tyrald snorted.
"It's not, I was humoring a notion. Pay it no mind; That weapon is imbued and the only house whose commoners have red hair and money to spare are the Harlowes," Loucester admitted. His uncle stirred beside him as if a nightmare had taken hold.
"We should question Father Alan then, he was born and raised in the Baron Harlowe's bailey."
"Lawrence!" The sudden shout startled them both but more so that it came from the nearly catatonic elder Loucester. "Lawrence, my boy, don't!" His hand shot out like a viper and clenched tight on Loucester's forearm with a strength that shocked Tyrald. Loucester winced and the two watched his vambrace bend under his grip.
"Uncle Giffard?" Loucester knelt beside the man and laid his hand atop the captain's. The sloshed man looked drunk as much on adrenaline as the wine, his face redder than molten steel.
"Liza! Artorias save her!" Captain Giffard exclaimed, apoplectic. Then his eyes rolled up and he fell into a gentler land. His face returned to white and snoring filled the cellar.
After a heavy pause, Tyrald asked, "Liza?"
"A cousin of mine, his eldest daughter. Went missing shortly before my parents died." Lawrence Loucester stood, his face firm like steel and swung his head toward the heirloom. Tyrald could hear his narrowed eyes, "When he and Harlowe went before The Tribunal."
"The Tribunal, the hell for!?"
"Don't know. Uncle was sworn to secrecy– sealed his tongue to be sure. I only know from overhearing whispers."
"Orders?" Tyrald asked.
Lawrence wagged his finger back and forth, trying to point it at something. "You're right, we should talk with Father at once, we need his consent regardless– there's a church-sanctioned reagentier that comes through once a month, he'll be needing a guard and Harlowe is only two fiefs over East. Gerald will stay and you and I, and a few others, will accompany him. Then we'll gather some information."
Tyrald looked at the sleeping man and for once in his life felt pity. "Lawrence, maybe you and Gerald should switch places."
"What?" Lawrence looked offended. The day was full of firsts.
Tyrald nodded at the elder Loucester. Lawrence grimaced.
"And send my men into danger? What message does that send to them?" Captain Lawrence snapped, his piercing blue eyes bristled the hairs on Tyrald's neck.
"Proper command structure?"
If looks could kill.