Beloved

She remembered his last words to her, as the members of his patrol waited for him at the steps of the Chanticort Hall: "Don’t worry, althain. I make this promise to you-I’ll come back to you, no matter what happens."

She had only hugged him back as her worries bubbled within her. How could she tell him to stay at that moment as she felt that some great event in her life was tottering on the head of a pin, ready to fall one way or another with his decision.

Finally, with great reluctance, Rogard let her go, went down the building steps, and mounted his horse. With a cheerful wave of goodbye, her husband led the Horse-Scouts off towards the city gates.

At that moment, as she returned to the present, she felt light-headed and clutched at the parapet stones before her for balance. She felt that she could not breathe, that a deep, ringing cry of anguish was threatening to burst from her chest.

"Ah, althain..." she muttered to herself as she tried not to let her grief take over.

Beloved, she thought, forgive me but there would be enough time to mourn, enough time to remember afterwards. She held her heavy fur coat tighter against herself as she shivered in the cold winter air.

"Ardal-Captain d’Fouchard?"

Lisian turned, snowflakes drifting across her sight, to see Heral-Lieutenant Luc d’Galliard approaching with a determined look on his lined face.

The lieutenant would have made a handsome image of an Arvienesse soldier except for the fresh scar that ran down his right cheek. D’Galliard had been one of the few Horse-Scouts who had escaped back to Arvien and the scar was a vivid reminder for Lisian of the cost of their venture.

"Yes, heral-lieutenant?" answered Lisian, as she brushed a strand of her long hair from her face with a gloved hand.

Luc saluted, fist to heart, and said, "Lord-Marshall d’Antoine is asking for your presence at the council."

Lisian nodded and was about to reply when:

"A meeting for the condemned, eh?" rumbled a voice behind them.

Luc jumped at that and turned around in flushed anger. Looking past the bemused lieutenant, Lisian saw Tesir-Sarjant Marcel d’Lanoire, Lisian’s massive second-in-command, lumbering towards them with a sardonic look on his face.

With all the heavy furs he was wearing, Marcel looked like an epic come to life, of some blood-thirsty barbarian from the ancient past of Arvien. Lisian bit off a remark to either break the ice or dress down her sarjant. The waiting was getting to all of them and Lisian knew that Marcel’s black humor was his way of dealing with the tension.

Still, others did not know of the warrior’s sharp tongue as d’Galliard glared at the bearded Warchilde in the uneasy silence.

Lisian nodded with a tight smile to her sarjant and said, "You have some important duty to do, Marcel?"

"Yes, ardal-captain" replied the sarjant in a meek tone that was definitely at odds with his size. He saluted as he passed by them and strode off.

Lisian watched his retreating back with exasperation and shook her head. She then gave Luc a sympathetic smile and assented, "Well, let’s not keep the Lord-Marshall waiting, heral-lieutenant."

Below them, the undead raised a chilling howl of ululation as they eyed the fortress with an unearthly hunger. It was all that Lisian could do not to shake at that sound.

The first attack started that afternoon, the first wave charging towards the walls regardless of the burning oil-drenched arrows and the stones that flew down to meet them. Legion catapults swept a swathe of destruction amongst the horde while their trebuchets made short, grisly work of the undead bodies. However, they still came on.