Ketch was crouched atop the edge of the valley wall, hidden among the tall grasses. She'd been searching for a good pce to skitter down to the Sporaton camp, but had been distracted by her shock.
The Royal Army was in a state of disarray, a disorganized mob pulling back from the Tulian wall, which had a strange gap near the stream which ran through its center. She adjusted the opera gsses Sara had gifted her, trying to figure out what had happened.
The Royal Army was in the midst of returning from a failed assault, that much was clear. One didn't have to be a general to see the dejected way the soldiers carried themselves, corpses littering the field they left behind. As she studied the Sporaton army, Ketch caught sight of something glinting from a jagged tear in the middle of the wall. Just as the soldiers had begun to disperse into their camp, a little cloud of white puffed out from the wall.
Ketch squinted in confusion until, several seconds ter, she heard the rumbling report of four distinct bursts. This was followed an instant ter by a spray of dirt from the Sporaton army, some invisible force ripping through the lines with a brutal spray of soil and blood. Even with her Irregur vision, she could barely track the gray blur bouncing through the camp, shattering limbs and torsos alike.
What had already been a disorganized crowd degraded further, the peasants surging forward in a panic. They began trampling their way through their own camp, knocking over tents and stomping across cookfires in their rush to flee the strange force assaulting them.
Armor-cd nobility immediately began shoving through the tide, trying to call the peasants to order, but it was no use. They had already been retreating, morale weakened. There was no controlling the mob anymore.
Ketch turned her gsses towards the wall, trying to see what was unleashing the brutal torrent. It took some time for the cloud to fade, and when it did, she could only see yellowish metal and little blobs of unarmored soldiers tending them. About a minute ter, the cloud reappeared, and this time Ketch could track the projectiles.
Four gray spheres shot through the air, just rger than could be comfortably held in her hand. They took nearly two full seconds to float over the half mile of fields that separated the wall and Sporaton camp, their curving path almost eerily graceful.
Until impact.
Ketch followed one ball that struck the ground just before the camp's edge, digging a track through the mud before recoiling back up, misshapen by the impact, a low skip sending it through the thick-pressed ranks of soldiers.
The result was... horrifying. Blood and limbs leapt high into the air, the ball slicing through the peasantry with the same ease it had flown through empty space. Screams sounded so loudly that they reached even Ketch's ears, so far away. The ball bounced once, twice, thrice, then finally dug deep into the dirt, burying itself a hundred feet beyond the start of its carnage. Ketch couldn't count the bodies that y in its wake, but there were dozens, at the very least.
The other balls had simir effects, save for one that flew high, entirely overshooting the enemy camp, which should have been impossible. The peasant's retreat turned into a wholehearted rout, weapons flung at their feet as they began a desperate sprint, fleeing from the unseen monster ripping through their ranks.
Ketch held her breath as she watched, turning her attention back to the wall. She didn't understand much about battles, but she'd picked up enough from Sara to know that a rout was the time for an army to cim their victory. She expected a sudden rush of troops from the wall, the Tulian Army running down the enemy.
Instead the weapons continued to fire, no charge manifesting. She didn't understand why, not at first, but the answer came quickly.
The sound of pained screams drew her attention once more to the Sporaton camp. Plowing through their own lines was a force of cavalry, hundreds of them, a diamond-shaped formation of horse-riding Knights that were crushing their own troops under foot as they broke through the press.
The weapons at the wall barked once more, their aim adjusted. Iron balls nded in the general area of the cavalry, but the horses were not as tightly packed as the dense peasant spears. Ketch saw no horses fall, and in short order the cavalry was free of the entanglement of their own troops.
Following the cue of a bugling trumpet, the cavalry picked up speed. Ketch watched in shock as the leading horses, cd head to toe in steel armor, accelerated beyond any steed she'd ever seen.
Eight hundred mounted Knights ran out into the field, the tip of their triangle formation carrying the bulkiest horses, their riders wielding thick nces twice and more the height of a man. The rumble of their hoofbeats became audible, drowning out the panicked screams, the bugle, repcing it all with an avanche's bassy roar.
The sight was awe inspiring. She'd seen horses run before, some incredibly fast, but those had been Sporaton messenger horses, with light builds and thin riders. The behemoths that made up the charge before her eyes were twice the size and just as fast, a thousand pounds of sprinting fury.
One st ripple of fire erupted from the metal weapons, but these were entirely ineffective, the shots either falling short or overshooting the rapid charge. Ketch's heart pounded anxiously. The charge would be at the Tulian army in a minute at most.
Sara apparently realized the same thing. The bronze weapons were pulled back, the troops operating them lifting their carriages, wheeling them around. Oxen wearing thick, complicated harnesses were herded forward, a half-dozen people hooking the weapon's wooden carriage frames into pce. The oxen were whipped into a run, pulling the wheeled devices out of the gap.
A river of troops from within the wall repced them, armored halberdiers jogging into pce. The first rank didn't carry weapons, but long wooden stakes, which they promptly shoved into the well-churned mud, then retreated behind their fellows.
In a matter of seconds, the well-practiced motion created a bristling row of inset spears, behind which waited a shimmering block of armored soldiers, the hafts of their halberds set firmly against the ground. They froze in pce, helmets staring down the onrushing cavalry. Ketch had to imagine they were as scared for themselves as she was for them, but she couldn't see it behind their visors. The wall of ste-gray steel was unmoving, gring at the Knights as if daring them to try an attack.
It was as sturdy a defense as Ketch could imagine being created in such short order, yet the cavalry charged on. A different bugle sounded, causing the lighter horses to slow their run, the gap between types growing.
Massive nces were lowered, braced against chestptes built for the purpose. Moving with the skill of endless practice, the formation of Lancers bunched together, so tightly pressed that the Knights could have reached out to touch one another. Their armor glowed with enchantment light, even more brilliant than the shining sun bouncing form the metal. She couldn't imagine anything in the world which could stand against such a charge.
The Knights seemed to agree. Even facing the wall of halberds and defensive spikes, they carried on, unperturbed.
Just when Ketch thought the fate of the soldiers was inevitable, a new kind of smoke appeared. A portion of the wall burst into white, a crackling series of pops reaching her ears a short while ter.
The dirt around the cavalry erupted into puffs of dust, invisible hail peppering the Knights. Ketch couldn't believe her eyes as she watched horses rear and riders fall, the formation wavering under the strange assault.
The bulk of the charge carried on regardless, trampling their own fallen comrades. When they were only a few hundred feet from the wall, another cloud of smoke erupted to the left, far rger, and then another, to the right.
Ketch watched with wide eyes as more and more of the wall came alive with smoke, showering the charge with a deadly hail. Knights fell one by one, frequency increasing as they neared the wall and the clouds intensified.
The explosive bangs blended together until they were a continuous crash of sound, a fogbank sinking from the walls to coat the valley floor. It sted for five seconds, then ten, a brutal and seemingly unending volley all the way until finally it abruptly abated, the shots expended.
The cavalry charge, just a few moments before a work of art, was left in anarchy. The horses that had fallen then stumbled those behind them, forcing others to divert or pull their own animals to a halt to avoid the growing pile, lest they end up breaking their legs on the injured, filing beasts. The front ranks continued on, with none having fallen before them, but they were growing progressively more separated from their fellows.
Another bugle sounded, causing the cavalry who were still charging to peel apart to the left and right, abandoning their target. The Knights that had been left behind wrestled with their horses' reins, trying to disentangle themselves from the mess that had been made of their formation.
In the midst of the chaos, a second burst of smoke billowed from the section of wall which had first loosed their shots. Ketch couldn't see who, if any, the shots struck, but the crack of noise startled the already disoriented horses.
The cavalry finally managed to organize their retreat just as other portions of the wall began to open up once more, showering the dirt around them with shots. The Knights returned to their looser formation, reducing the effectiveness of the barrage.
And then, the most difficult thing of all to anticipate:
The Knights began a charge away from the wall, one that was nearly as quick as the one that had brought them there in the first pce.
In their wake, Ketch counted nearly two dozen horses ying motionless on the ground. Seeing as the charge had contained hundreds, it was less than she'd expected. She didn't understand how such a rge attack could have been ruined, when so few had actually fallen.
But some had died, that much was clear. Among the strung-out line of dead horses, only a select few Knights were dragging themselves to their feet. Their steeds had been struck down, but they had survived their fall by virtue of their armor. Several Knights found riderless horses wandering nearby and mounted them, kicking them into a sprint to rejoin their formation, while others simply ran away on foot. A few even jogged backward, so the strongest part of their armor would be facing the wall.
The charge had been utterly broken. The actual casualties suffered had been light, but the fact remained that the Tulian Army stood strong, stopping the most powerful element of the Royal Army cold.
Relieved beyond belief, Ketch was about to turn her attention back to the camp, trying to figure out how to get in. Before she turned away, however, she caught a glimpse of a single Knight on the field, their leg bleeding profusely as they y low, hiding behind a horse's corpse.
A few shots from the wall thumped into the horse, bouncing off its armor. The fire briefly intensified as Tulian soldiers tried to pick off the Knight, then abruptly ceased, some order calling it to halt. Ketch watched, entranced, as the Knight slowly stood, discarding their massive nce for a simpler side sword.
The formation of defensive halberdiers blocking the wall's gap parted, allowing two distinct figures to step forth. One was dressed in massive bck armor, the other in a tailored red dress. Though it had been months since Ketch had seen them in person, she would have recognized Sara and Evie's silhouettes anywhere.
The Champion marched out onto the field, staring down the wounded Knight. Gestures were exchanged, some conversation occurring. Sara motioned to the wall, to which the Knight shook their head. Sara pointed more insistently, and in response the Knight raised their side sword, leveling it at Sara's heart, the symbol of a duel offered.
Evie stepped forward eagerly, starting to exchange the peculiar wooden pole she carried for her rapier. The Knight shook their head, stabbing their sword at Sara.
The Champion looked to Evie, shrugging her shoulders. Evie visibly defted, but nodded, taking the wooden pole and and putting it to her shoulder.
A small puff of white heralded the explosion of the Knight's head. They dropped like a sack of grain, falling behind the horse that had sheltered them a moment before.
Ketch heard excmations of shock and affront from the Sporaton camp, a rumble of disbelief. To refuse a duel was one thing. To fight two on one another. To simply kill a challenger without warning? Even Ketch knew that was utterly unconscionable.
The offense was made worse as Sara and Evie stepped forward, crouching over the Knight's corpse. They began to strip armor off the fellow, piling it up beside them as casually as one might shuck oysters.
As she watched Sara strip the Knight naked, Ketch wondered if the Champion really understood exactly how horrible the action would look to the nobility of Sporatos. As Ketch had learned during her months in the kingdom, honor, ill-defined as it may be, was everything to them. To so btantly loot a member of the nobility was an offense beyond reckoning.
Yes, Ketch was soon forced to acknowledge, she knows exactly what she's doing.
Sara stood with a bundle of enchanted armor clutched under one arm, her free hand raising a middle finger towards the Sporaton camp. Beside her, Evie loaded her weapon and loosed one st shot, striking down some highly unfortunate peasant, then turned away as well. They returned to the lines of Tulian troops, absorbed within the walls of Fort Midwich.
A short time ter, the bronze weapons were rolled out, another barrage of shots sent flying.
Ketch abandoned her crouch in the grass, retreating out of sight. She didn't know what the range of the weapons were, but she suspected the Royal Army was soon going to learn. Already Ketch could tell it would be some time yet before they managed to pull their troops far enough from the walls to safely make camp once more. Ketch would wait until nightfall to begin her infiltration.
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Lady Vomun – Noctie
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The former Lady Vomun walked straight-backed through the muddy slots of the Sporaton Army camp, gring down at anyone who dared to tread across her path. The peasants invariably fled, leaping aside like deer. Each instance gave her a small thrill, alongside a deeper satisfaction Pride that she could still have effected them in such a manner.
Her new Mistresses may have taken from her the most powerful aspect of her vampiric eyes, but they could not take two centuries of noble bearing. With a firmly set jaw and a haughty irritation suffusing every pore, even the dullest of peasants would instinctually recognize one such as her. The mere thought of interposing themselves between her and her destination never so much as entered their poor little heads.
She licked her lips, turning down another of the muddy pathways, angling her way towards the camp's centermost point. She had never been one for joining the occasional armies which had formed over her centuries of noble rule, and so was not accustomed to the difficulties in their organization. Even still, she was convinced that this was not the standard that the Royalty's previously assembled forces would have been held to.
What few tents had been raised among the peasants were haphazard and spattered with debris, canvas stained from weeks spent hauled on a sweaty commoner's back. The entire camp was chaotic in its yout, far from a simple comprehensible grid, the disorganized sprawl awkwardly hugging the river. Upstream, peasants were hauling out buckets of drinking water, while downstream, they were releasing themselves into the river, uncaring of where their waste was swept away to. In between these two points were shed the shallow-water barges that had so easily carried supplies this far into the riverine Tulian nation, guarded by a collection of tired-looking peasants. Beside them rested a veritable herd of packmules, who were too dull to understand that the barges were the very blessings which had availed them of their burdens, yet bright enough to take well to the opportunity, spyed blissfully out across the grass.
And all throughout her camp, she could smell the scent of blood. Heard the thrumming of blood rushing through veins, blood stirring loudly within those few who were awake, blood rushing quietly among the sleeping majority. She licked her lips once more. If she'd been any less full, there would have been one more peasant casualty of the battle, taken silently in the night on her way to the camp's center.
But she was not hungry, and so they lived. In fact, she reflected, it had been quite a long while since she had lost control in such a manner. Her noble bearing required quite the degree of maintenance, and Daygon's Faithful Hunters were always keen to investigate the homes of those whose staff too often met untimely ends.
She did not know if any of the beast-god's adherents were present in the camp, but it was only safe to assume so. They were persistent little thorns in her side, ever on the lookout for those they deemed "inappropriate" to their god's pns, and like thorns, they rarely showed up in pces convenient to her. She only wondered if they were going to be present in their religious capacity, or as part of a political function. Unlike Otarian's sycophants, their deity did not forbid them from involving themselves in matters beyond their explicit duties.
Still navigating her way through the mess, she wondered if the other political dignitaries present within the army included her former acquaintances. It was almost a certainty, considering the proportion of the army which had been levied from the immediate environs of the capital.
An idle thought flicked through her head. Not all of her old allies were ignorant of her nature; in fact, many were aware of her vampiric status in the fullest of capacities. Something they oft used to their advantage. It was one thing to have an enemy House's agent quietly disposed of, quite another to throw them under the thrall of a Vampire Lord, their deepest secrets borne gleefully to the open air as she drained them. With many hours left in the night, she could easily find them, expin herself, and utilize their resources to extricate herself from her situation. With their aid, she could be back in Sporatos in a matter of weeks, safe and isoted from that which controlled her.
Noctie's firm gait stuttered, mud sucking at her feet as she lost her footing for a moment. A throbbing ache had developed in her jaws, phantom pain pulsing down to her fangs. She involuntarily made a motion as if she were suppressing a yawn, a full-body shiver running down her from head to toe.
And then she steadied herself, shaking her head.
Silly Noctie, she thought, thinking you can get away from her. Thinking you want to get away from her.
She licked her lips as she passed a tent full of wounded, groaning pitiably as they awaited for their army's overburdened healers to recover. The scent of blood floating on the wind was not, she recognized, any less enticing than it had once been. It was simply that she had been shown something better. She could abandon her new Owner here and now. She recognized that.
But why would she? In her Owner's veins pulsed a magic more potent than a hundred tired peasants. Noctie could sustain herself for days upon a handful of drops, weeks with a single mouthful. She had, when they had fled the capital. Noctie had lived in the cramped confines of a cart during the day, the sun's hideous obliteration mere inches away, all for a nightly taste of that blood. And it was a wondrous, wondrous taste, more delectable and satisfying than any amount of her former pride.
She was debasing herself, yes. To so sve over a young woman, to fawn and coo and awe at her every motion like an enraptured child, it was humiliating. At times, as the blood she had been provided had healed the damage of her brief battle with Her mind– and how foolish that had been, to think she could resist Her– she had been beset by the shame of her actions. A deep, perverse horror at her own behavior, at allowing herself to be supplicated beneath what was, in effect, a mere child. Just approaching her second decade of life, while Noctie was well into her twentieth.
But each time she had felt that guilt twist up her stomach, the taste of blood had risen to her tongue. The heady, intoxicating glory of it. A pure, crystallized delight, bringing more unadulterated joy in its fvor than the brightest, warmest day she'd ever spent rexing on the summer fields of her nigh-forgotten youth.
Noctie shivered once more, expending the effort required to drag her thoughts away from Owner's blood.
She had a task to do, after all, and that meant she would do it. Only Bad Girls did not do their tasks, and Bad Girls did not get to taste Owner's blood. Only her skin, forced to hide her fangs as she brought pleasure to Owner with lips and tongue. That was nice, wonderful even, but it was not blood. If Noctie did not do a good job, she would not get blood.
No. She refused that future. Noctie found her way to the center of the camp, where the noble tents gathered, and sat herself down, opening a notebook. She was going to be a Good Girl, and that meant she was going to get an extra big taste of Owner's blood when she got back.
Though she was still a few hundred feet away from her target, Noctie had not spent two centuries mindlessly strolling around her manor. She had developed quite the set of Skills, and as she drew upon them, the voices near the tent of her target grew clearer. She eagerly set quill to paper, happily humming.
Oh, yes. She was going to be such a Good Girl.
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Emeric
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Knight Emeric held up the warhammer, turning its blunt end back and forth the in the torch light. He ran the pad of his thumb over it, comparing the sensation to the metal underneath his other hand. A lead ball, a little over a half inch wide, smashed ft and wedged into pce by its impact on Galnt's armor.
He thought the hammer was approximately the same size. The dense lead pellet was heavy, about half as heavy as a longbow's arrow, but traveling at an inordinately increased speed. That it had actually dented Galnt's armor told Emeric only in vague terms how hard it struck, such that he could only be certain it was far greater than any archer's strike. As great, possibly, as a ballistae, but with its force focused upon a much narrower point of impact.
He heard the King speaking behind him, but he did not pay it much mind. He was tending to Galnt, who was still wearing the armor of the day's earlier charge, and he would not let his steed suffer under it any longer. Seeing as they were unsure of the strange weapon's range, he had refused to allow the grooms to dearmor Galnt, fearing that the barrage may resume at any time. Now that it was well into the night, without any resumption of fire, he would tend to his steed himself.
"It's alright," he whispered calmingly, reaching underneath the metal ptes for the many buckles which kept Galnt's armor in pce. There were several dents across the front of his chestpte, with a few more along his neck, and so it was these that Emeric first removed.
Galnt, as always, stood sedately still throughout the process, his training have honed his obedience to the finest of standards. As Emeric removed pte after pte, he felt his stalwart steed's skin jump and shiver at its exposure to the open air, clearly resisting the urge to stretch. Some of the dents were deep enough that Emeric suspected they had dug into his muscles as he walked, but as always, the noble Galnt had refused to show any signs of discomfort.
It took quite a while for him to remove the armor, and all throughout, the King continued to talk. He was addressing a number of the cavalry, personally collecting collecting their reports on the weapons which had– for the first time in the King's forty year rule– fully halted one of the Royal Lancer's charge.
Other charges had failed throughout the years, of course, such was inevitable, but only ever partially. They had failed when mages had conjured a wall of stone to block their approach, or when enemy cavalry had met them halfway, forcing them into a running skirmish which diverted them from their original goal. Cavalry, it was said, was the king of the battlefield, and so the tactics developed to counter it were as numerable as the methods the cavalry themselves employed.
But to simply be... broken? To rout like common peasants? To be so distraught by the appearance of an unknown foe that they stumbled over themselves like children whose sprinting run took their feet out from under them, spilling themselves in the grass?
That simply had not happened. It should not happen. The King, his father, and his grandmother, the st three generations of Sporaton leadership, had diverted inordinate amounts of funds towards the training of the Royal Cavalry. Centuries of careful breeding of warhorses, of artificers developing specialized armor, of theorists and philosophers eborating every conceivable iteration of a cavalry charge and how it may be countered, then how such counters might be overcome, it had all served to create as indomitable a force as could exist.
And but a few hours before, that force had met its match. That so few had died in the ill-fated charge was irrelevant; when the Royal Cavalry took the field, it was to herald the end of a battle. Against an enemy unable to produce an equal force, there was no other result to be expected.
Perhaps the only saving grace, the only thing which preserved their honor, was that it had been a Champion standing opposite them. The Champion of Amarat was not supposed to have any talent for warfare, but clearly the historical records were incomplete. The King was therefore lenient in his punishments thus far, interviewing many of the cavalry's members personally. Emeric knew he would be interviewed in turn, and as the architect and leader of the charge, would be under the greatest scrutiny, but he presently did not care.
With Galnt now wholly out of his armor, Emeric spent several minutes gently running his hands over the animal, searching for any wounds which his hair may hide. He thought he found a few bruises, judging by the snuffling and irritated flicking of the ears that occurred when he prodded certain areas, but he could not be certain. At the very least, he confirmed his steed did not have any outstanding injuries which would require a healer.
That process finally completed, he fed Galnt a sugar cube, then turned to the animal's armor that had been id out on the ground.
Emeric counted five points of impact, marked by dents and smears of gray lead on the armor. One terrified him more than any; a long gray streak running up Galnt's face guard, starting dangerously close to his eye. Had it nded just a few inches northward, Galnt may have joined the lost upon the field.
Shoving aside the ominous thought, Emeric knelt down next to Galnt's breastpte. Right in the center of it, just before the horse's lungs, was the deepest dent, from which Emeric had retrieved the lodged lead projectile. He put the malformed pellet back into the slot, eying it critically as he hefted the warhammer he had selected.
He did not understand how the projectile acquired its hideous speed, but for his immediate purposes, he did not need to. Marking an undamaged pce near the original dent, he flung the blunt warhammer down.
A metal crack split the night air, interrupting the King's discussion with one of the Knights. Emeric felt eyes turn to him, bewildered, but he ignored them. He had not replicated the dent. He raised the warhammer again, swinging with considerably more force.
A second, louder bang sounded, drawing further attention to him. This time, Emeric was pleased to see, he had managed to ever so marginally dent the armor. It was incredibly difficult to do so, but he had managed it.
He raised the warhammer again, high over his head, and took a deep breath. With a furious grunt, he smmed it down with all the force he could muster, the weapon whistling as it rocketed towards the pte.
A third crack split the night, this one setting his ears ringing along with the pte. By then the King and every nearby Knight was staring at him, baffled, which he continued to ignore.
Emeric lifted the pte, turning it towards the torchlight to inspect its surface, plucking the lead pellet out to better compare. The dent he had created next to the first was noticeable, a small circur dip in the steel, but it still wasn't quite as deep, and thanks to the narrower head of the warhammer, only half as wide. He would have preferred a more direct replication, but seeing as he had swung with all his strength, he would have to be satisfied.
He set the pte back down, standing and turning towards the King, who was, as expected, approaching Emeric with a rather curious expression on his face.
"And may I ask, Sir Knight, as to your purpose in so vandalizing your own steed's armor?"
"Testing, my Liege," Emeric replied promptly, presenting the lead pellet. "I wished to see if I was capable of imitating the strange weapon's effect upon the cavalry's armor."
"I have not seen one of the strange projectiles myself," King Sporatos said, taking the lead pellet from Emeric with clear interest. "You are certain this is what wreaked such havoc upon your troops?"
"I am, sir," Emeric said with a nod to the armor. "I found it lodged in Galnt's armor immediately after the battle."
"Fascinating," King Sporatos hummed, turning the pellet over a few more times before handing it back to Emeric. "I cannot imagine the method of its unching. Were it not for the accompanying cloud of smoke and reports of wood and metal polearms of some kind, I would have guessed it were unched from an enchanted sling of some kind. Nonetheless, I expect the mages will have collected their own samples, but on the off chance they have not, I would ask for you to provide them this example for their study." King Sporatos gnced down at the warhammer, still in Emeric's right hand. "But I still do not understand why you wished to further damage your steed's armor."
"To see if it is possible to train our animals to no longer fear these weapons, sir," Emeric replied. "Our charge was not stopped by casualties, as you have surely gathered, but rather the shock of our animals, and to a lesser extent, the shock of our Knights." Emeric lifted the warhammer. "If I can strike with equal force to the strange weapons, I can accustom both Galnt and myself to receiving such blows, preventing a repeat of future incidents."
King Sporatos eyed the dented armor. "It does not seem that such training could be maintained for long, though."
"Correct, sir," Emeric said with a nod. "The weapons are clearly beyond most of our cavalry's ability to withstand for extended periods. In my own interviews with our troops, only those Knights who emphasized physical protection to the near exclusion of energetic protection recorded strikes upon their armor which did not permanently damage the pte. If we wish to fully counter these weapons, we would have to modify our armors accordingly."
King Sporatos's eyebrows rose. "And who is to say the weapons are not spellcraft themselves?"
"As I am not a mage, I cannot say for certain, sir," Emeric said with a small shrug. "I only noted the details I have presented you. The expertise of the archmages should obviously overrule my own in this regard. I can, after all, only share the preliminary opinions I have developed thus far."
King Sporatos nodded, stroking his beard. Emeric noted that he, like many of the nobility within the camp, had not eschewed his armor, despite the battle being many hours past. The brutal barrage that had chased them from their original camp after the cavalry had been repelled had left quite the sting impression.
It was also, Emeric quietly noted, a different armor from the set he had begun the day in. There had been rumors in the camp of the King's failed dismounted assault, some ciming that the King himself had nearly died, his legendary armor failing him. Emeric had initially discounted such fanciful rumors, but now he wondered.
"If you believe it possible to train the cavalry's steeds without destroying their armor, by all means, do so," King Sporatos said, after some consideration. "But we cannot modify the armor. Not only do we ck the requisite artificers, but doing so would create an unforgivable weakness against a more traditional, mage-supported army. I will not lose the next war solely to finish this one in shorter order." He held his hand out. "May I borrow your trophy, for a time? I will be seeing the archmages soon, and wish to bring them the projectile you collected, on the off chance they do not have their own. It will be returned, of course, as a due spoil of war."
"Of course, sir," Emeric said, depositing the pellet in the King's outstretched palm. Truthfully, he couldn't care less about the lead ball. Many Knights cared greatly about keepsakes from various conflicts, and while Emeric wasn't without his own collection of trophies, the lead pellet was hardly intriguing to him. He did not enjoy the thought of keeping something which had so nearly killed Galnt.
"Thank you, Knight Emeric." King Sporatos nodded to the damaged armor ptes. "Continue your... experiments. If they bear fruit, notify my staff directly." King Sporatos turned away, then paused, a thought occurring to him. "The army's forges are yours to requisition, as well. Creating sacrificial ptes with which to train the animals may be a better use of resources than damaging enchantments. Pull them off whatever task they are working on at your discretion; you are a bright officer, and I trust your judgement. Perhaps even well suited for ascension, should things go appropriately."
Emeric simply nodded his thanks in response. The King left.
The exchange left him with a mix of emotions. Something about the King's final comments had felt... calcuted, in a way. He thought back to the masked advisors the King had recently surrounded himself with, and of the King's rare comments about Emeric someday being "allowed" to understand their role more fully.
Once upon a time, shortly before and after his Knighting, Emeric would have been overfilled with pride at the notion of being allowed such privileged access to the King. As the years had wore on, however, and his understanding of the Royalty's machinations had grown, so too had his hesitance to involve himself in the Court's politics. For all he respected the rule of w, and dedicated himself to serving his Liege, there was an unavoidable element of politics with which he did not want to entangle himself.
And now, with the King involving himself with what some accused of being a heathen cult? Emeric was as uncertain as he could ever be. In his youth, he would have assumed "ascension" would refer to becoming nded, joining the gentry properly. Now he had doubts.
To distract himself from the uncharacteristic wavering of his resolve, he turned back to the armor pte, raising the warhammer once more. If ever there was a task he knew he could fully lose himself in, it was ensuring Galnt's protection.
