The Court of Ghosts Chapter 12

· Stephen Wormwood here. Thank you for clicking. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please consider donating to Nifty if you can (https://donate.nifty.org/), it's more than merited.

· You can find a map of the fictionalized setting of this novel here: https://imgur.com/JtpD8WU (this is my first time using Inkarnate so it might be a little rough!)

· If you end up enjoying this, please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).

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Chapter Twelve: The March of the Wretched, Part 1

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Encampment at Garrow's Heath – The Riot of Dragonspur – Queen of the Commons – "Bring out the Alien"

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Belfort Village, the Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

38^th of Autumn, 801

The mice raced into their niches in a pall of frantic squeaks as the alderman's torch-flame floated down the darkened stairwell into the cellars. Behind him stalked Edith the Exile, sword-armed and plate-armoured, her face fixed with resolve as her guardsman Edward Bardshaw tailed them into the abyss. Where the dusty stone steps flattened into a cracked stone floor, an oaken door emerged ahead of them, barred from without by a plank of wood. Edward pushed forward and lifted it up at the alderman's request, who then gently open the doors.

In ordinary times this was merely a wine cellar – its thirty barrels of Morish red lined up along the side walls, its forty casks of Wallish white stacked up at the back wall. In ordinary times labourers would trouble themselves to carry each barrel up for Lord Monteneau's mid-autumn feasts.

But these were not ordinary times.

And Lord Monteneau, the local burghal lord, sat down not to a supper of his favoured dish (peppered salmon steak, baby potatoes and tartar paired with a customary cup of Wallish white) but to the mercy of his village liaison and the woman to whom he had so recently sworn allegiance.

Upon the arrival of Edith's Army, the villagers, led by the alderman, had Lord Monteneau trussed up and dragged into this wine cellar, lashing him to a rickety chair in the centre of the room – shins fastened to its legs, forearms fastened to its armrest. They jammed a knotted cord between his foaming teeth and stripped him of his clothing, his silken fineries and livery collar. In the darkness he sat naked as the day of his birth, shivering, a flaccid cock flopping between his goose-pimpled thighs. Spilt wine soaked his short peppercorn hair where one of his captors (a labourer perhaps) tipped a bottle over him.

He wept.

Edith smiled like a child admiring a snow angel. "One could only imagine what might bring humble Morishmen to treat their lord with such earnest discourtesy. What did you do to them, Master Monteneau?"

The alderman – some six-and-sixty years of age, twice that of Lord Monteneau – answered for him. "Shaved off temple tithes and pocketed the proceeds, fenced off the common land and filched rack rent off its rightful owners, claimed right of first night on my good grandniece! He even cut out a shepherd's tongue for praising Sage Odo! A pox on him!"

The alderman spat at his bare feet.

Lord Monteneau, still weeping, uttered not a grunt or bleat in protest. He simply sat, blinking away his tears with lizard-like sloth.

"Edward," Edith gestured to the captive. "Let me speak with this man."

The swordsman wondered if they had time for this. The fields around Belfort Village were sufficient to encamp for the night, but the Red Princess had scouting reports to read, disciplinary cases to hear, attacks to plan. Nevertheless, his leader was adamant. She wanted to speak with the lord. And so the guardsman suppressed his natural sigh and pulled the sodden cord from Monteneau's wine-stained teeth.

He gasped for breath.

"There now." Edith leaned forward and met him at eye-level, mail coif and wolf-head embossed pauldrons rattling noisily in the black. "Better?"

Monteneau's only response was to wheeze for air.

"You've been levelled with very ugly charges, ser. I say nothing for any measure of their legality, to be sure, it is only to their rank cruelty that I draw attention," Edith fixed him with a flat glare – eyes burning coldly. "Do you know what I see when I look at you? The vestigial flotsam of a sunken ship. I think the world moves and moves beyond you. And yet? You may still have a place in it."

There was a barrel nearby. And Edith, teeth gritted, dragged it by her gauntleted hands to Lord Monteneau squatted presence. She bade the alderman fetch her something from his hempen pouch; a jar of ink, a quill, and a bit of parchment that read:

I hereby swear, before and upon all four saints and the stars that guide them, to renounce all claim of land and wealth by virtue of blood and title. I hereby rebuke mine own lordship and swear true allegiance to the Morish people of whom I am but one of a commonality. I swear to suffer no Imperials nor traitors and to stand with my compatriots in common cause against the very bane of our realm – the Duke of Greyford.

Signed,

__________________________________________

"All you have to do is sign it," said Edith. "Sign this oath, and you will be released. All misdeeds forgiven."

The alderman bristled at forgiveness of misdeeds... but did not interrupt. Monteneau grimaced at the request, twisting his face into a half-formed mask of incredulous outrage and helpless frustration. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment as Edith twirled the quill into her armoured fingertips.

"Well? Shall I unbind your writing hand? Left or right? Let me know which and I'll set it free."

The march south into the Midburghs took Edith's Army across several burghs, most of whom welcomed her with open arms, garlands, and joyous cheer. Thousands of commonfolk turned out to the heaths to watch them pass, wishing them well, offering them prayer, passing over what little marks or food they could spare.

None had offered resistance – so far. But the deeper they pressed into the Midburghs the less support they received. A few of the villages her army had passed were abandoned, no doubt expecting the worst from the `northern horde' marching its way south. But this burgh, Garrow, was the first to surrender its lord in anticipation of Edith's coming. It was a defensive measure for the township, but also an act of retribution for its people. Edith wanted to make an example of him.

And Monteneau knew it.

And yet, despite his predicament, the humbled lord did not budge. "...I... I would sooner die than lay myself as low as this... insolent rabble of ruffians you've amassed! A pox on me?!" Monteneau's jittering eyes ticked from Edith to the alderman and back again. Then, with what little fortitude left to him, he spat at her. A wad of phlegm struck her painted breastplate and slithered off.

"A pox on you!"

The Red Princess didn't so much as flinch. She sighed. "You disappoint but you do not surprise, master. So be it."

Edith the Exile stood upright. She sighed, stretching out her arms whilst Monteneau trembled with cold and outrage in his chair. She set a hand to her scabbard as she walked around the barrel and the overthrown lord lulling over it... then snatched him by the hair and shoved his face into the grain, almost punching the yellowed teeth out of his gums.

A slurp of cold steel echoed throughout the cellar.

Edward steeled himself as Edith lofted her glinting broadsword, high above the blubbering Monteneau's neck, then winced as she flung it down HARD into its naked nape. A splutter of blood and bile shot free from his mottled lips, splattering over the rim of the barrel as it juddered from the blow, almost bursting its planks. The former lord's head lulled left by way of its half-split spinal cord.

It took two more hacking strikes for Edith to separate Monteneau's head from its shoulders and when she was done the bloody barrel looked more like a butcher's block. A headless, jointed torso slumped softly against it as Edith took her trophy by its knotted hair, dropped it to the floor, and punted it like a football into the alderman's quivering boots.

"Take his head and mount it from the highest spike in the village," Edith cleaned her sword with the unsigned oath as she said it. "And let the people know that his name is Errol Monteneau, the last man of the burgh to claim lordship over his neighbours."

The alderman, wide-eyed, promised to fetch someone for the task. You would've mistaken the severed head for a burning hot coal the way he backed away from it, jogging back up those dusty stone steps to the hardwood hallways of Monteneau's manor. Already the villagers were stripping it. Dozens of them mobbed the defenceless manor, racing up and down its corridors fetching (in items) what their late lord stole from them (in cash). Down came the portraits and buckskins, off went the tapestries and plate. They struck open strongboxes with hammers and plied open floorboards with rusted spearheads. Across the manor they took for themselves food, clothes, books, wine, kindling, parchment, weapons, rugs, tools, horses, pigs, chickens, sheep, cattle, anything they could drag or carry.

If any of them noticed the gore splatter marring Edith's shining armour, they did not voice it, too busy were they with their work. Nor did she chide them.

Looting was strictly forbidden in Edith's Army. She would say, `We are fighting to liberate the country, not plunder it.' and swore fifty lashes and an eye for anyone who dared break the rule. But these villagers were not her men. They threw off the yoke of Monteneau's dominion by their own hands, they had the right to reap the spoils.

Outside, across the harvested crop fields and their slagheap boundary walls, Belfort Village was in uproar. Loose horses galloped through its muddied roads. Men took to the streets singing and chanting. A great bonfire was lit in the market square where Odoist townsmen hurled sheaf after sheaf of star chart records into the flames, ecstatic black silhouettes prancing about a mound of blazing destruction. A group of shepherds looked on, mortified.

Dead men swung from taut nooses tied to the thickest boughs of the local oaks – all of them stripped and pelted with cattle dung. They were, as Edward would eventually learn, a team of ducal surveyors preparing for the winter collection of the bi-annual Guard Tax. They came to Belfort Village two days ago to assess the burghal records for an accounting of the village's population. But once word spread of the Red Princess raising her banner in the Ravensborough town square, the villagers found their courage and stole into the inn where the tax surveyors, and their guards, slept off their nightly glut of ale. They slit the guard's throats before they had a chance to take up their weapons or fix on their armour. The tax collectors came next, though they would see a beating or two before their time came – and now the crows encircled all their swaying carcasses.

Most of the male villagers were gone, mustered by the Earl of Huxton's burgeoning army. Half of those who remained (ostensibly to complete the harvest) now formed up in the outer fields, proceeding on foot with bills, reaping hooks, bows, hammers, and knives to volunteer for Edith's Army.

Those who recognized Edith almost mobbed her when she verged into the village, the alderman shouting for them to calm themselves and allow her past as she caught up to her horse, tethered within the stables of a nearby tavern, where her guards and banner-bearers awaited her return from the manor. It was only a short ride from there to their encampment, a sight that almost took Edward's breath as he watched it expand from the height of the village slope down into the occupied valley.

Hundreds of pitched white tents spread out across the grassy field of Garrow's Heath, teeming with activity, even in the cold of the night. Hammers tinkered with tin. Knives nipped fletching. Whetstones sharpened blades. Needles threaded sigils to leathers. Men sat to logs about the cookfire and told tall tales of their heroism and all the bawdy maids they'd fucked. They polished their boots, filled their quivers, and prayed at makeshift shrines for the blessing of St. Thunos on the battles to come. They poured themselves ale, cut potatoes for the bone broth, dug latrines for their piss and to squat out a few shits. They bundled kindling, mended wheels, fetched messages, spread pallets, rolled dice, laid bets, and dreamed openly of what their world might look like when the war was won. Odoist shepherds – whether or un-ordained or excommunicated – preached of a shining new era for Morland where a true faith might be rekindled, even as the camp followers snuck into the best paying tents and spread their legs for a king's mark apiece.

Edith's banner flocked through the tents as she and her loyal guard rode into the encampment, her men waving their ale cups and cheering as she galloped by. She was gracious – knowing not their names but promising to return for a drink with them when she was caught up on her reports.

The command tent, twice as high and twice as wide as the nearest in size, lay ahead of them. They pulled at their reins until their horses trundled into a stop, dismounting and summoning stable hands to take their mares for a drink and a rubdown. Edith punched open the flap and clunked inside.

"You men go and rest," said Edward to her outriders. They dispersed. He followed her inside.

Owayne mac Garrach was in armour as well as attendance, standing over a tabled map of The Midburghs to point out the city of Greyford (and its key routes of approach) to Kenrick Thopswood. The balding lawyer had his arms folded behind his sheepskin-collared coat as he watched.

Father Godwyn sat to a cushioned side chair. His aides helped him dress into a furred cloak to stave off the night's chill as it played havoc with his ill-mended bones. After that, they brought him a cup of water flavoured with apple drops.

All came to attention at Edith's approach.

Larkyn, that fuzzy-haired boy of diminishing height and dusty clothing, went wide eyed at the bloodstains marring Edith's armour. The Red Princess cupped her page's freckled cheek. "It isn't mine, lambling. Fear not."

Nodding with relief, he went to fetch a wash bowl.

"Hail," said Owayne, also eyeing the bloodstains. "I assume Lord Monteneau said no?"

Edith pulled a playful smile, holding up her plated arms as Larkyn scrubbed her armour clean. "It was the last thing he'll ever say. Now the village has a new ornament for my troubles."

Thopswood exhaled. "I... know that our ultimate goal is the dismantlement of all lordship in this realm, but... it would not hurt, at least not initially, to have a few noble `symbols' in our pocket."

"I spit on that sort of politics that defeats its own purpose," said Edith. Larkyn rinsed the cloth in his water bowl before moving onto her breastplate. "I am no butcher, I offered him a choice to redress his cruelties in a better world and he spat at me for it. All lords are moulded in his like. Leave him to the saints now." A sigh. "Where are my reports?"

"Afore that," said good Shepherd Godwyn, stooping over his gnarled cane. "A herald called for ye, child. Sent here by ye grandsire Harcaster."

"Truly?" Edith eyed Larkyn. "Go fetch them, dove."

The boy, mute as Edward understood, scampered off. There was a spare chair next to the table. Edith sat to it and eased off her armour's burdensome weight. "...Any word from our scouts?"

Owayne moved a marker upon his map equivalent to a two days' march south from their present camp. "News from a rider and our scouts. Huxton's amassed his army, and now marches north to intercept us."

"Headcount?"

"11,000 or so even excluding auxiliaries. Infantrymen, archers, light and heavy cavalry..."

Ed sighed. "Saints be. And our forces stand at what?"

"At last count around 3,000 more have joined our cause since the convocation, but a third of them aren't equipped to meet the ducal army in battle," said Owayne. "I would say we have just over 8,000 ready soldiers to field, and another 5,000 fit only for the reserves."

Edith frowned. "And Bacon's men?"

"No word from him as yet, and I doubt our messenger will reach him in time to coordinate before Huxton's forces reach us."

Thopswood bit his nails, eying the markers on Owayne's map. "So the Earl of Huxton has a field-worthy army nearly a third larger than our own and is on the move?"

"Indeed."

"So what do we do?"

"Ye take heart," said Shepherd Godwyn, soberly. "The saints side with ye. They gave ye brains enough to come this far, and heart enough to come this far. Men love and believe in ye. Look for advantage and use it."

And that was what Edith did – look for an advantage. She stood upright, armour clanking with her as she approached the map, and eyed the singular burgh standing between Huxton's army and her own. She pointed out a spot in its centre – Brookweald. "If we cannot field numbers enough to match his own, let us make the terrain our ally. Here. This elevation. Can we use it?"

Owayne eyed the map again. There was a hillock that lay slightly west of the River Tun and around ½ mile north of a village called Tunsford. The open fields beneath its hillside, Brookweald, were hemmed into the east and north by the dense thicket of Oxwood Forest.

The mercenary nodded. "If we rise before sun-up and press hard, we might be able to occupy and fortify it. Might. But even so. I have a plan."

Edith smiled at him. "Exactly what I like to hear."

The tent flat punted open again as Larkyn reappeared with a second man in tow. The messenger. The mud of the road caked his worn leather boots as well as the customary black and gold tabard of the Spear of the North, the Earl of Harcaster's personal army. His half-cloak bore the sigil of House Vox. He knelt down, a gloved hand cradling the brass locket of his empty scabbard, the other removing his feathered cap.

"Greetings and salutations," said he. "I-"

Edith rolled her eyes. "Get your knees off this good fucking floor, man. Say what you have to say and be done with it."

The messenger arose blushing, clearing his throat with an oily cough. "Apologies for my offence. I have come to inform you that to his great regret his lordship the Earl of Harcaster cannot dispatch to join forces with you. His son, Ser Gerard Vox, has been detained at the Duke of Greyford's pleasure and is promised fair treatment only insofar as the neutrality of the Spear of the North is maintained."

`What a lowdown trick,' thought Ed. `Shielding himself with another man's son. And you think you can trust him, Francis?'

Edith smiled back, mirthlessly. "...Not that he would back us otherwise. Nor would he send troops to stop me. He would say, I imagine, that it `grieves him to set Morishman against Morishman'. Have I the right of it?"

The messenger flushed a deeper shade of red.

"Fine. Go tell my grandfather this. Tell him of my unyielding love for both him and my Uncle Gerard. Tell him I bear him no ill will. And tell him that when I am declared regent I will reward his actions accordingly."

Her tone was so flat you could not tell if it was threat or sarcasm. Nevertheless the messenger made note of it, bowed graciously, and then excused himself. The tent door flapped up then flopped back down.

Ed watched Thopswood's shoulders deflate.

"Harcaster's men would've surely tipped the scales in our favour," said the lawyer. "And now..."

Edith tutted. "My grandfather is an honourable coward. I never counted on his support. Mayhaps the Hotfoot will have better luck rallying Ambassador Roschewald to our cause. Either way, we have preparations to make. All of you, ready yourselves for the morrow. We march before dawn."

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Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

39^th of Autumn, 801

Francis Gray, and the capital around him, woke to a foul morning. A fist pounded the door. Fran (knowing instantly to whom said fist belonged) roused himself from slumber, stole out of his cold bed, and padded over to the door.

Indeed, it was Gustave, but a Gustave so unlike his habitual self. His eyes, half-lidded, bore black circles of sleeplessness. Unshaven grain peppered his sinking cheeks. He was truly tired and very much looked it. But then – who amongst the rank and file of Manse de Foy had been afforded much sleep these last few days?

The ambassador and the clerk stood before each other in sequined slippers and nightgowns of eastern silk, though a furred cloak swallowed up the latter's shoulders. One of the halberdiers stood at his back with a lit lantern in his free hand. The sun had risen and yet all the corridor's sconces were aflame.

`He means to go outside the manse grounds,' thought Fran.

Gustave frowned. "Your doors were locked."

His meaning being – I could not enter your chambers last night. Still mindful of his words around his men, Odoist or no, was Gustave. The veneer was thin and ill-kept and yet he held to it oh so fastidiously. But Lothar put it best upon the road to Fludding, Fran could not keep up the pretence.

Ever since that first sleepless night beneath Wallenheim's sunless sky, when he, a mere boy of twelve, was first despoiled and robbed of his chastity, Fran had always hated Gustave. Yet with Lothar at his right hand and The Fiend at his left, he had always found the strength to shroud himself with the falsehood of reciprocal love and work it to his own devices.

If one day the Lady Magnhilda was particularly cruel to him, he practiced his nightly arts with particular zeal, and in the sweaty afterglow, would pass casual whispers into Gustave's ear – of how many marks could be saved by trimming his good wife's wardrobe allowance or cutting the household's tenday order of fruit and marchpane to spite her sweet tooth.

But something had changed.

Ever since Ed.

The pretence, the very maintenance of it, was more cumbrous than ever. The lies of love still found their way to his lips, his touch still performed the falsity of tenderness, but a once effortless deception was now a draining one. Fran likened it to a dance. Where once he had a virtuoso's feet he now struggled to follow the steps. How long before he stumbled?

"These are dangerous times, master," said Fran. "I had only thought... `what if the rebels slip into my chamber as I sleep?' I cannot help but feel frightened.'"

Gustave's face remained flat... and unconvinced.

"Put on your cloak," said he, stoically. "And come with me."

He went to his wardrobe and fetched one, obediently, then took up his brass candlestick and followed his master and guard out into the corridor, down the carpeted stairs into the chequered antechamber and out through the arched entranceway onto the gravelled track around the main building. Gustave led the way down its path through the hedges and water gardens to the main gate where two more of his halberdiers stood pensively by its iron bars.

"Unlock the gates," barked the ambassador.

Warily, they did as commanded. And as the black-painted ironwork yawned open, gaping like a maw, Gustave led Fran and the halberdier right through it.

The Wallish chancery, Manse de Foy, stood within a stone's throw of the River Wyvern. Only the uncharacteristically quiet New King's Way laid between the manse's painted walls and the bollarded riverbank.

Ahead of them a cloaked Lothar stood observantly at the river's edge, peering across its 400-foot span to the southern side of the city, where the flames of destruction ran rampant.

And from there, Fran saw them.

The rebels.

It was too far to see their faces. But you could hear them. Hear them chanting DOWN WITH GREYFORD or EXPEL ALL ALIENS or LONG LIVE QUEEN EDITH or DEATH OR THE EMPEROR'S HEAD. You could spot their bobbing polearms as they marched across the southern bank from the east, where much of the poorer quarters now lay in ruin. Hundreds of townhouses had been burnt to their skeletal frameworks, whole temples had crumbled beneath the heat, reduced to smouldering rubble with saints-only-knew how many innocents crushed beneath it all. Black towers of smoke floated into the sky, festooned with sparkling embers, blotting out what scant light the mottled clouds could not.

"Look there," Gustave pointed to his left, eastwardly, at a smoking heap of sundered stone and timber. "Is that not Cromwood House?"

Lothar nodded. "The rebels set upon it yestereve."

Fran at once thought of Lady Clarabella. Then lank Matthias, bad posture and all. Then Ambassador Ludolf, with his broad ivory smile and cloying antagonism. Counterfoils all. And yet?

"I hope they escaped," said the clerk.

He expected Gustave to pull a smirk and utter gleefully some petty insult at Ludolf's misfortune. But Gustave held a frown for the sight of his rival's smouldering property, not a smile. Even he could see there was no victory in it.

Worst still.

The only thing keeping Manse de Foy from sharing a similar fate was the river.

When Wolner's curfew came into effect four days ago, the good Constable of Dragonspur wisely suspended all river travel. His King's Eyes agents punctuated the order by re-occupying the ancient boom towers along the waterfronts and raising their chains to block all boats and wherries from entering the city. It was a wise move. Now the only way for the rebels to cross the river in force was by way of the Three Beasts, Dragonspur's three stonework bridges, which Wolner had seen fit to garrison. The westernmost bridge, Dogford, forded the Wyvern only a few hundred yards shy of Manse de Foy, and now the rebels marched west towards Dogford's southern-side gatehouse in a procession of hundreds, all of them chanting war songs and hurling threats as they went.

KILL THE FUCKING ALIENS OR SEND THEM `CROSS THE SEA! They sang. KILL THE FUCKING ALIENS OR SEND THEM `CROSS THE SEA! KILL THE FUCKING ALIENS OR SEND THEM `CROSS THE SEA, OUR SAINTS SHALL LEAD US TRUE!

Fran shivered watching them march. He could only imagine what havoc they wrought at Cromwood House.

Gustave stroked his naked throat, flushed red with cold. Fran cut a glance at him. Now he looked not merely tired, but frightened. Genuinely frightened. Because now all that stood between his neck and their nooses was a little strip of water and a handful of bridgehead garrisons.

Lothar folded his arms. "They are attacking the gatehouse in waves. This will be the third."

The severed heads of 12 rebel men captured in the first two attempts were mounted upon spikes atop Dogford Bridge's southern gatehouse. It would prove to be paltry deterrence.

"Perhaps we ought to send word to Constable Wolner," said the Wallishman. "Request additional men for protection?"

It was unlike Gustave to posit suggestions. He was more a man of orders. Go here, do this. `He is rattled', thought Fran. But then so was he. So were they all. If the garrison at Dogford fell, then Manse de Foy was their next target.

Lothar answered their master. "I doubt that he could spare the men. But it cannot hurt to try."

A blunt grunt of concurrence. Gustave barked orders at the guards by the gate to send a rider to Staunton Castle with his request. A halberdier followed suit, nodding and withdrawing.

Gustave looked back to the river, shaking his head. And then fear gave way to anger. "What IDIOTS these Morish commoners are! We are the Wallenheim Delegation! We share blood with these people! We are as counterpoised to the Empire as they are, if not more so! What merit has their fury when they aim it at us?! You tell me that!"

`A crowd of angry Morishmen fuelled by resentment after years of ill-treatment is not likely to make that distinction,' thought Fran.

The lantern-bearing guard interjected. "Perhaps we should ride for Staunton Castle instead of asking for help, master?"

Gustave, riding the wave of his anger, grit his teeth. "The Duke gave us orders to remain here. If we breach those orders and flee to him in haste what will he do with that when tensions cool?"

"Master, I hardly think that matters n-"

Fran was cut off by a hoarse cry, a cry of "SANCTUARY!"

All eyes shot rightward, to the west, where a frantic white horse galloped down the silenced street of the New King's Way, thundering past mounds of abandoned clothes, shoes, luggage and furniture left in haste by the thousands of townsfolk who had already fled the city.

Its rider, slouching over and barely clinging on to the reins, found just enough strength to bring the horse to a sudden stop before falling from its saddle and landing with an ugly thump that knocked the breath out of him.

Georg Ludolf.

Gustave, in spite of himself, went to his side, kneeling down to lift him up by his back, ordering the halberdier to help him in the doing. Lothar brought the horse to calm, petting its mane and whistling in its ear.

"Your excellency," said Fran. "Are you...?"

Ambassador Ludolf trembled visibly, wide-eyed with terror. His fine clothes were ripped and muddied, his face motley with oozing cuts and plum-tone bruises. When he parted his crusted lips to speak, his words escaped them in a gibbering, breathless frenzy. "Th-they've – they've killed all my p-people, they've raped all my chambermaids, they-they-they slit my poor Matthias! Oh, Matthias!"

Ludolf burst into tears.

Gustave, reluctantly, looked to his guardsman at hand. "Get him inside. Have the servants fetch him wine and something to wash with. Go!"

Ludolf's horse was a rare breed. White fur, silvery mane. Of the same stock that the Imperial Ambassador gifted to the late King Oswald and Queen Annalena. Such silver-backed stallions were so rare a sight in Morland that few could mistake it. And, across the water, a small contingent of the rebels marching on the Dogford gatehouse noticed it – even at that distance – and correctly surmised who it belonged to.

It was Lothar who noticed these men first, stopping at the distant riverbank, pausing as if to adjust something, lifting their arms, and launching a wave of black missiles into the smoke-thick air.

Arrows.

"EVERYONE RUN!" Screamed the Catspaw.

Gustave bolted. The halberdier abandoned his weapon and lantern to drag Ludolf into his arms and flee. Fran dropped his candlestick and made for the gates. Lothar was already ahead of them when a hail of arrow fire rained down upon the New King's Way with terrifying force, spiking the manse walls, thumping into nearby trees, punching through hedges into soil or clattering off the stone pavement. Fran and the others raced through the gates and dove into the shadows of the manse walls. A cry. Fran looked to his left.

The halberdier protecting Ludolf stumbled into shelter with an arrow shaft lodged inside the meat of his right shoulder, right through the quilted padding of his grey gambeson. He watched the wound flower with a rose of blood until the volley ceased.

Silence.

And then...

"SHUT THE FUCKING GATES!" Roared Gustave.

**********

Oxwood Forest, The Midburghs, Kingdom of Morland

39^th of Autumn, 801

It occurred to him, Edward Bardshaw, that he was right where he never expected himself to be, right where his old master Theopold Stillingford never wanted any Morishman to be – at the head of an army.

`Can you see me, master?' Thought he. `Do you weep from the bosom of the saints?'

What a sight they must have made from the stars above. A great train of men and horses and wagons, slithering through the leafy countryside like some gigantic serpent in search of its morning prey. The mile-long serpent wound its length through muddy trails and grassland valleys, over the hillocks and across the fields towards the ancient hunting grounds of House Drakewell – Oxwood Forest. From here they were only a few days march from their penultimate destination, the city of Greyford, the namesake of their great adversary.

It had come to this.

Yes. He did wonder if dear old Master Stillingford looked at him now with disappointment. His grand dream, his Morish Kingdom of Equity, was never meant to be forged in blood and fire. War was his nightmare, the dark threat of The Phantoma come to ugly fruition. And here was the humble blacksmith's son helping to author that terrible fate.

And yet?

He glanced forward at the barded destrier cantering ahead of him, upon which rode the Red Princess, radiant in her silvery armour and plumed basinet. And when he looked at her it was not guilt or shame that sweltered. It was pride.

`How could it be wrong,' he thought, `to take a stand for what is right? The realm justly revolts against Greyford's dominion because it knows well his oppressions. And the realm rallies to her banner. It may not be what you yourself wanted for them, master, but the people have chosen their champion, and it is Edith.'

Even now, despite all the abandoned villages and townships their army passed through, bands of commonfolk flocked to the roads to cheer and to wave at King Osmund's trueborn daughter. They called her `Queen Edith' and `Queen of the Commons' for they did not know her ultimate designs – the very destruction of all lordship beneath the crown – but she was who they chose, and they chose rightly. Shepherds too flocked to the roads. Many had come to see the Hedge Monk himself, Shepherd Godwyn, his tasselled litter carried along by a team of four, but most came for Edith the Exile. And when her horse passed them by, they put their noses to the grass and delivered her their prayers.

So too had Edward prayed... for a swift campaign and a better world to follow. A better world for himself, for his friends, for his people, and for...

"Ed!"

It was Edith who called out to him, glancing over her plated shoulder and waving for Ed to join her. The blonde man brooked a smile and galloped up to her side.

"Do you suppose they know I dislike kneeling?" She said, lifting up her visor and pointing out the shepherds.

"Fie. Blessings they offer, not deference. As good Shepherd Godwyn says, you have a magnetising spirit. You have their trust."

Edith's smile faded. "Blind trust is not a virtue. Any who call me `queen' cannot truly know my intentions. So how can it truly be said that they trust me... if they know not what they trust?"

`...Philosophy,' thought Ed.

The question put him in mind of firebrand Will Rothwell, bickering with old Stillingford over points of principle. Then Ed recalled the gaunt shadows that Wolner's torturers reduced those sweet men to. Wolner. When they finally marched on Dragonspur, it was the constable's head that Edward Bardshaw wanted most to see on a spike.

Edith eyed him, flatly, waiting for a response.

He shrugged.

"I think perhaps... it does not matter. Whether queen or regent, it is your leadership they seek, not Greyford's. Your purpose is plain."

"And what is your purpose?"

One sprung to mind. Liberating Morland from the rank corruption of the court. But there were others. Revenge. A fresh purpose. An outlet for his angers. A chance to see F—

again. `No,' He stopped his train of thought before it took him somewhere he might mislike. `No. He made his choice.'

Ed heaved a sigh. "My purpose? My purpose is forestalling another eighteen years of Greyford's regency."

"Good answer."

A pause in conversation. And then Edith's smile returned to her. "...Well? Won't you ask me why I'm here?"

"To do the same?"

"Saints, no! I'm only here to find myself a handsome soldier worthy of fathering my pretty children."

Ed chuckled.

Edith grinned at that. "Are you that soldier, Ed Bardshaw? Handsome bastard as you are?"

"Were I so inclined, it would be my honour," said he, his faint cheeks sporting a little blush to match his smile.

And then their seemingly innocuous conversation circled around to a point. "Ah. Harry Hotfoot had the right of it. There will be more than a few girls in my camp disappointed with that news. And a handful of men it will cheer. Unless of course... your heart is set upon another."

Edward paused.

"It is the Lost Lord of Gead, Francis Gray, is it not? The son of my grandfather's old retainer? Hotfoot told me about him too."

`Damnit, Harry...!'

The swordsman quieted his thoughts, looked to the footpath ahead. It veered deep into Oxwood now. It troubled him how good of a spot it was for an ambush, but there were no other roads this side of the River Tun that an army this large could bear themselves south by.

Perhaps sensing his discomfort, Edith saw fit to explain herself further. "Harry trusts you and wants me to do the same, like my grandfather trusted Francis. Is he so like his father, the late Lord Gray?"

`Francis would be a better man if he were,' thought Edward, bitterly. "I suppose."

Edith's expression hardened. "...If Francis retains his loyalty to my grandfather, the Duke might hold him hostage to bolster his position. Or if he falls in with Greyford, I may have to make a hostage of him and Roschewald to keep Wallenheim in line, should they rebuke my offer. Mine own hand might place this man you clearly love in mortal danger. Will your desire to free Morland from Greyford's rule survive that?"

`Now I see the point of this,' Thought Edward, sighing. "You are asking if you can trust me?"

"I wouldn't allow you anywhere near me if I did not trust you," said the Exile, sharply. "I am asking if I can trust your judgement. You are one of the few men amongst my rugged rabble trained in combat, you take well to leadership, you have your uses. Mayhaps the Lost Lord will too. But I will slit your gizzards both before I let your loyalties to each other threaten this campaign. Do you understand?"

A nod.

A nod back. And a smile. And then an armoured pat on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Ed. Spare your pretty face that frown. Let us pray that Roschewald chooses the right side and Francis comes back to your bed safely, hm?"

"RIDERS RETURNING!" Shouted the men ahead. Another soon followed. Then another. Then another, spreading word down the length of the march. Edith looked to Ed, then whipped her reins and spurred her horse ahead. Edward, grateful to be done with the conversation, followed behind as did the other members of her personal guard. They all galloped ahead to meet the riders, a small trio of mounted scouts rushing towards Edith's banner.

They coalesced some fifty yards shy of the van.

"Well met, lads. What news do you bring?" Asked Edith.

The seniormost scout swept his sweating brow. "Nothing good, Edith! Huxton's army's beaten us to Tunsford Hill! They have the high ground!"

Light murmurs of concern rumbled around all those in earshot of the report. Frowns spread. Edward snatched a fist, suppressed a snarl, and looked to Edith to remonstrate with her. But he found no grimace of anger, no flush of irritation to match his own. Instead he found a smirk.

A bloodthirsty smirk.

"So he's anticipated us... very well. Loose your fat hound, Greyford. We're ready for him..." Edith eyed her standard bearer. "Sound a halt! We make camp at the southern side of the forest! Tonight we rest, and tomorrow, we do battle!"

**********

Manse de Foy, Dragonspur, Kingdom of Morland

39^th of Autumn, 801

It took the household the better part of an evening to calm Ambassador Ludolf. Gustave called upon two of his guards to ferry him gently to the nearest anteroom and ordered the manse steward Perrin to prepare suitable rooms as a flock of chambermaids saw to the weeping Imperial's needs. A bowl of warm, petal-scented waters was carried in. The women removed Ludolf's pearl-studded cap and feathered night cloak, soaked their cloths, then carefully mopped the blood from his face and the dirt from his hands. Some of the chambermaids served him wine (to settle his nerves) and day-old bread (to fortify his stomach) whilst they saw to his wounds, stitching his cuts and poulticing his bruises.

He sat to their ministrations in silence.

Off in the distance notes of raging zeal carried along the cold winds – cries of violence. Wooden missiles pelted at stone. Cracks of arquebus shot. Sizzling fire. Dying screams.

But all the while Gustave set about fortifying the household. He reshuffled the guard, posting twelve men to watch duty around the manse walls whilst the remaining men spent the day barring points of entry with what little was readily available – furniture. They carried spare beds, desks, and chairs from the guest rooms to the front gates and stacked them high against the black iron bars. The latticed windows were secured by chair backs, the rear doors similarly so. Only one set of doors remained unbarred, the main doors, but there were pre-emptive furniture stacks nearby them if worst came to worst and the guards had to fall back into the manse. Likewise all weapons and garden tools were brought inside to be distributed amongst the staff.

Every household member was given a weapon to carry, even the chambermaids and washerwomen, all of them too frightened to refuse. Word about the manse was that Inga the cook had forged a compact with its other female members – if the rebels breached Manse de Foy as they had Cromwood House, they would secrete themselves inside the cellars and put their throats to the knife's edge – better that than see their virtue despoiled by blood-drunk droves of outraging Morishmen.

By the time Perrin finalized Ludolf's lodgings for the night, one of the spare bedchambers opposite Fran's rooms, the sun was fallen. The watch staff rotated, a fresh twelve to the walls (whilst the off-duty men slept) halberds and torches in hand as they stood guard.

Fran was his escort. He held out his arm for Ludolf to take then carefully led him up the carpeted steps and down the candlelit corridor to his freshly made rooms. They were only lightly furnished; a bed, a desk, three chairs and a stool, two tables, a wardrobe, a goods chest, a lit hearth. Its bed was made with silken sheets and feathered pillows. Its chairs were cushioned.

Fran helped Ludolf to an armchair and poured him a fresh cup of wine with the silver ewer the chambermaids left for him. He made to leave. Then Ludolf took his arm again.

"Will you... sit with me?" His voice was crystalline, fragile, almost child-like. The plea was genuine. "I do not wish to be alone this night."

There were a thousand tasks Fran needed to see to. There were letters to facsimile, account books to burn, pay chests to bury. And Fran recalled well the Imperial Ambassador terming him `catamite' at Woollerton Green. And yet? How frail he seemed now. His sunken face was a mélange of stitchwork and cataplasms, his eyes lustreless, his spirit utterly drained of the quick-witted arrogance that once fuelled it. It was as if Fran stared at a painted glass replica of Georg Ludolf, fit to break at the slightest touch.

"Master Roschewald should come to sit with you soon," said Fran. "But until then I shall be glad to keep you company, excellency."

The clerk poured himself a cup of Morish red then sat to the armchair opposite Ludolf's, both of them drawn afore the hearth. A respectful silence settled between them – a silence periodically broken by distant rumblings of conflict.

"Thank you," said Ludolf, softly.

A nod.

Some hours later Gustave did join them. The ewer, almost empty at that point, had just enough for one cup. Fran poured it for him as the Wallishman pulled the third armchair between the two of them and slumped heavily into its cushioned weight.

All three sipped their wine in quietness.

And then Ludolf decided to speak, his eyes locked to the snapping embers and kindling, his throat fumbling to fetch the words his mind provided.

"When..." He took another sip to collect himself. "When the violence broke out we set about securing the grounds, as you have done. We boarded up the windows, barred all the doors, broke glass over the wall tops. The Duke had... kindly bolstered our guard to 40 men. I thought we were safe. Matthias wanted to run but I told him `Oh no-no, we are perfectly protected. The Duke has interest in our safety'. What a fool I was. And then that... crazed horde attacked us! They pelted the house with arrows, the white walls with horse dung, our ears with churlish insults..."

When Ludolf tailed off, thumb and forefinger perched upon his lips to collect himself before he resumed, Fran took a moment to interject.

"Lady Clarabella," said he. "...What of your good wife, excellency?"

Tears welled up in the ambassador's eyes. He pulled a cotton kerchief from his robes, one stitched with the sigil of House Adolphus, the Imperial family, and daubed his eyes.

"My wife is quite safe, thank the saints," he sniffled. "She abides at Staunton. The Lord Seneschal summoned her there to review her credentials before this all started. She is to be made a lady of the royal heir's household."

Their present situation made the admission smaller than it truly was. A few days prior such an admission would've set Gustave's teeth to grinding, another calculated instance of Ludolf and his Imperial Delegation weaselling their way deeper into the Morish court, ever at Wallenheim's expense.

Not that night, though. Not that night.

Fran forced a smile. "She will do a fine job, excellency."

Ludolf nodded, sighed, kept his eyes to the snapping fire. He sipped his wine again. It was nearly dry. "...If ever I have seen men conduct themselves in the manner of animals, it was then... when those raving commoners attacked us! They stole in by the eastern gate, charging through my hedges like madmen. They broke into the property, smashing and looting as they went, breaking open the locked doors and dragging out my women staff! Some of the guards stayed loyal though, aided me out of the house into the stables. That was where we found poor Matthias... where they slashed him... right through the apple of his throat..."

The ambassador paused, collected himself, then resumed.

"I rode out with my life and made for the bridge... those garrisoned there allowed me through, and now I am here."

But something occurred to Fran about the ambassador's unwarranted testimony. "...Excellency, when you say, `some of the guards stayed loyal', do you mean to say that-"

"That your countrymen dishonoured themselves and threw in with the rebels? Yes. I saw as much with my own eyes. I saw a banneret throw down his bardiche and embrace one of the rebel captains. The only one who had keys to the rear gate was my porter. I wonder... if..."

Gustave frowned. "Go on, Georg."

"...I wonder if this treachery was not spontaneous... but prearranged with malice aforethought."

"Prearranged by whom?"

The Imperial ambassador shot his Wallish counterpart only the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to the fire, but it was enough. Fran knew that look. It was the look of a man unsure of unburdening himself, of speaking aloud the name that raced through his thoughts.

Instead he put out his shaky finger and carved the letter "D" into the air. Whether "D" for Drakewell or "D" for Duke Fran could not say, but his meaning was clear.

John Drakewell aka the Duke of Greyford.

Gustave paused, not to delight in Ludolf's misfortune, but because he was genuinely taken aback. As was Fran. `The Duke? He thinks that his closest ally at court would stoop so low as to... what? Pay off one of his own assigned guards to engineer Ludolf's death? But why? For what?'

"Why do you think this?" Queried Gustave. "What brought you to this conclusion?"

His excellency chortled, suddenly, a priggish and curt little snort of wry laughter that more befitted his character. But then it evaporated away all the same. Whatever conclusions Ludolf came to, his petty little diplomat's war with Gustave scuppered them no longer.

"You may as well know, I suppose. This could very well be our last night on saintly earth," Ludolf allowed himself a moment to work up his nerve. "His Grace called me to his offices yesterday morning. He said that with the Standing Guard in the south fighting Odoists, and Huxton's mustered army engaging the Bloody Maid in the north, he needs a host of Imperial soldiers to protect his interests in the Midburghs until such time as... situations are stabilized..."

Fran and Gustave looked on as Ludolf bottomed the last tipple of wine left to him. And Gustave, bored of the inferior vintage yet enthralled to the current conversation, poured what was left of his wine into the older man's cup.

Ludolf bottomed that too. "I had no choice but to refuse."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know why! Saints' blood, you've known all along, you said so yourself, Gustavius! The Empire is crumbling under its own weight! The Emperor is sick and dying, the coffers are exhausted from quashing rebellion after rebellion of these confounded Odoist heretics in the eastern reaches... I cannot in good conscience promise arms and soldiers that the Empire cannot afford to spare..."

Silence.

If Ludolf's admission had but reached him a few days prior, Gustave would've cracked open a cask of his finest Wallish white and thrown a celebratory feast.

But this was not a moment for celebration. And Gustave, ever the aesthete, ever the self-regarded, would not debase himself so – not to Ludolf's face anyway. For now Gustave only glanced at his rival with unblinking eyes, his expression flat, his features solemn.

The Continental Empire was weak, the Emperor was dying... and the Queen of Morland now nourished within her belly a potential claimant for the Imperial Throne.

A sigh.

"...A small portion of the Standing Guard has been recalled from the Lowburghs to assist Wolner in the suppression of the rebels here in the capital." Ludolf resumed his admissions with sunken shoulders. He looked so plundered of spirit. "This is what the Duke confided in me before he dismissed me. Let us pray they can restore order here before long. But then, even if they can, my wife and I shall be homeless..."

Fran cared nothing for any of this talk. He would rather find Lothar and query his retrieval of the bitterblack. And yet something in this moment made him entertain it. Pity, perhaps. "The Duke is frustrated, excellency. Give him time to cool and you will return to favour."

"It is no longer that simple," Ludolf smiled bitterly. "And if it were... then once again we would be enemies."

"Not tonight." Fran rose from his chair. "I shall fetch us some more wine."

He did not wish to trouble the chambermaids. They worked their fingers raw for the household these past few days (as had the halberdiers) better to let them rest. It was earned. Fran took himself to the cellars, retrieved a stoppered cask of Imperial white, along with a fresh ewer and three cups. He returned to Ludolf's rooms and poured three bubbling helpings. He sat down. Kept his silence whilst Gustave and Ludolf spoke soberly into the dying hours. And then he fell asleep.

"Fran? Fran...!" A rough hand shook at his shoulders. "By the will of the fucking saints, Fran, WAKE UP!"

The voice was crude and harsh and hoarse. It tore him from Edward's loving arms, his sea-swept eyes, his commanding kiss... from the soft comforts of their marital bed. Piece by beautiful piece the fragments of his dream peeled away from the bitter reality they once concealed.

His eyes fluttered open.

And at once he heard them – the rebels. Not across the water, not at the bridgehead.

Outside.

The rebels had taken Dogford Bridge.

There was a woollen blanket around him. It fell from Fran's shoulders as he rose at Gustave's command, who paced towards the curtained windows with a dagger at his belt. He peeled back one of its tasselled folds (as did Fran) and peered out of the latticed glass across the gardens to the grounds' walls and the hundreds of raving men now gathered at them; hooting, hollering, heaving with rage and righteous indignation. They pumped their weapons into the smoky morning air – fire torches, sticks, sharpened boughs, cudgels, knives, chains, bricks, billhooks, fagging hooks, hammers, hoes, longbows – even crossbows. A massive double-shafted banner unfurled from the crowd's heart bearing the cassocked and tonsured visage of Sage Odo, bleeding from his neck in testament to his beheading by the Imperial authorities. Together, the furious masses of the rebel city folk crushed against the barred iron gates, pressing back the stacked mound of furniture into the feet of the halberdiers straining to keep it in place as the rebels chanted:

"BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN! BRING OUT THE ALIEN!"

Georg Ludolf whimpered in his armchair with his patched face buried in tear-soaked hands. "Oh no! Oh no, oh no! They have come for me...!"

Fran watched Edrick blear his whistle. Those men posted at the surrounding walls held fast at their positions, but the other halberdiers charged out of the entranceway onto the gravelled forecourt where they raced to support their new Captain of the Guard. Five more men pressed back at the makeshift barricades to shove the gates back in place, whilst more formed up at the south-facing wall, polearms at the ready, to strike down any who might attempt a leap over. But for every one halberdier there was another ten rebels, a throng of hundreds raging at the other side of the gates.

Missiles began to fly. Coins and bricks, iron poles and spikes, wooden planks and dislodged keystones. Anything the rebels could get their hands on they hurled over the manse walls to pelt and overwhelm its guardsmen. Archers drew back from the throng, all the way up to the river's edge where the arrow-shot carcass of Ludolf's horse lay in a dried puddle of black blood. They fetched arrows from their hip-held quivers, nocked, drew, then loosed in a collective wave of piercing fire that crested over the manse walls and smashed through the southward windows of the second floor, including Ludolf's. Fran and Gustave ducked for cover as speeding shafts burst open their window, tore through its velvet curtains and thumped into the far wall. Ludolf cried out with shivering fright.

`...This is it...' Thought Fran, heart pounding. `...Wolner cannot be too far. This is my last best chance...'

He was terrified. He was shaking – almost as badly as Ludolf was – but it was not fear that made it so. It was anger. For once upon a time on Gead, a crowd did gather about the Gray Manor in a similar fashion, the angry townsfolk of Stoneport massing around his home to terrify him, cursing his father's name, calling his mother a whore, lambasting them all as traitors, demanding Lord Gray surrender the Sage to the Imperial galleons to end the siege. And now here they were again. Bearing the banner of the same man they once demanded his Lord Father condemn...

AND NOW YOU SEE PLAIN THESE MEN YOUR BELOVED EDWARD STRAINS SO HEEDLESSLY TO PROTECT! HEH, HEH, HEH! Sniggered The Fiend. HEAR THE RIGHTEOUS HYPOCRITES CRY, THESE IGNOBLE BUFFOONS, THESE IGNORANT FUCKING COMMONERS...

Fran seethed.

The Fiend barked on. THEY CAN SERVE ONLY ONE PURPOSE! NOW IS YOUR CHANCE, BOY! SEIZE IT!

Fran steeled himself.

In The Phantoma, Theopold Stillingford once wrote of pivotal moments where the fate of worlds rested on the decisions and actions of a key few, some single shale upon which the tides of history might break. In that moment, Fran made a decision that would come to shape the rest of his life, and in turn, that of Morland.

`Wolner...' thought Fran. `I gamble all on you. There isn't a moment to spare...'

The clerk turned to Gustave.

"I must speak with their leader!" Said he.

The Wallishman's eyes bulged. "...Are you out of your mind?! What makes you think any of them would listen to you?!"

He patted his chest. "Because I am the only one here who is Morish. I will not leave the grounds; Edrick and the men are there to protect me. Let me escort the ambassador to the cellars and then I will see to this. Trust me, master. Trust me."

This was it. This was the moment. This was Fran's best chance. Not to protect Georg Ludolf or back down the rebels or to buy the women of the household time to perform their bloody suicide pact. This was Fran's last best moment to kill Gustavius von Roschewald cleanly. And he had to take it.

"...You must take every precaution," said Gustave. "But very well. Go down then."

**********

· Thanks again for reading everybody! Stay tuned for more. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com .

· Please read some of my other stories on Nifty: The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).