Thief on King Street

By Jason McDonald, McDonald and Alan Isom

Sha'iry - priests of the dark god, Sutekh - intend to rule Parlatheas, kingdom by kingdom.  Those who resist them have fallen to plague, civil war, and invasion. In this dark hour, it seems all hope is lost...

Roger Vaughn, thief and spy in service to the Highlord of Gallowen, has one task: steal bac

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parlatheas Press
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781736823545

Jason McDonald

An engineer by day and world builder by night, Jason is an advocate for using both sides of the brain. With his stepfather as a guide, Jason traveled the worlds of Edgar Rice Burroughs, Robert E. Howard, and J. R. R. Tolkien at an early age. As he grew older, he discovered Dungeons and Dragons and the joys of creating his own campaigns.During all this, Jason graduated from Clemson University and embarked on a career in structural engineering. Now, he owns a successful engineering firm, where he continues to design a wide range of projects. His attention to detail and vivid imagination help shape the various adventures that challenge his characters.

Book preview

Thief on King StreetAdventures of Roger Vby Jason McDonald, Stormy McDonald, and Alan IsomParlatheas Press, LLCHollywood, SC

Thief on King Street

Copyright 2022 by Jason McDonald, Melanie McDonald, & Alan Isom

Characters and Setting:

Property of Alan Isom, Jason McDonald, & Melanie McDonald

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the authors, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the authors, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

Parlatheas Press, LLC

P.O. Box 963

Hollywood, SC 29449-0963

https://mcdonald-isom.com

Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. All situations and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is purely coincidental.

Cover Image & Design:  ​C. Jason McDonald

Title Page Design:​             MJ Youmans-McDonald

Title Page Border:​             Rebecca Read (Pixabay.com)

Interior Map:​ ​     C. Jason McDonald

ISBN:  978-1-958315132​  (paperback)

ISBN:  978-1-736823545  (ePub)

For everyone who dreams of magic and traveling to other worlds.

Acknowledgements

The authors would like to recognize the language, culture, traditional medicine, and beliefs of the Gullah community of the South Carolina sea islands.  We offer our deepest respect to the ancestors and keepers of the language and heritage of this rich community.

We would also like to give recognition to the following authors and organizations whose work informed and inspired this story:

Geraty, Virginia Mixson.  Gullah Fuh Oonuh/ Gullah for You: A Guide to the Gullah Language (English and Gullah Edition).  Sandlapper Publishing Company, 1998

Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor.

https://gullahgeecheecorridor.org

http://visitgullahgeechee.com/

McTeer, J.E.  Fifty Years as a Low Country Witch Doctor.  iUniverse, 2013

Montgomery, Jack. American Shamans: Journeys with Traditional Healers. Busca Inc, 2008

Orr, Bruce. Six Miles to Charleston (SC): The True Story of John and Lavinia Fisher. The History Press, 2010

White, John Blake. Essays on Capital Punishment. South Carolina Historical Society, Charleston, SC, 1834

There are so many friends who have helped us hone this story.  Foremost, we'd like to express our appreciation to Dana Isaacson, our editor, and to Scott B., Jake M., and Brad W. for their technical assistance with police procedure.  Last but definitely not least, we would like to thank our Beta Readers, who helped pick apart and polish our story:  David B., Lacy B., Leslie B., Jimmy R., and for critical analysis and five decades of friendship, Ray W.

Map of the Dark One's invasion of Parlatheas showing the advance of troops into the Detchian, Francescan, Espian, and Glaxon countries.

BACK STORY

Their king assassinated and a magical plague running rampant throughout the land, the peasantry and bluebloods of Carolingias fight amongst themselves while an evil priest of the Dark One sits on the throne.  Forced into hiding, the remaining Knights of Carolingias seek out the one person who can unite their country.

Hunted by dærganfae assassins, Ambrose, the last Battenberg heir to the throne, has found refuge in the arms of the rebel leader, Camber.  Driven by hunger, the rebels have infiltrated the capital with plans to liberate the food rumored to be stored there.

On the far side of the city, Roger Vaughn, thief and master spy in service to the Highlord of Gallowen, must create a distraction significant enough to give Carolingias a fighting chance...

CHAPTER 1 - DECISIONS

April 22, 4208

K.E.

5:50 am

Roger Vaughn peered over a frost-limned stockpile of ballast stones and watched stevedores move plague-ridden corpses from a flat-bottomed barge into a wagon. 

Overseeing the task, a bald priest in a grey cassock gripped the wagon's traces.  About the Sha'iry's neck, a thin  chain supported a silver medallion embossed with a forked cross — the symbol of the Dark One.  Originating in Zhitomir, the evil priesthood had recruited men from every country.  Hungry for power, they had turned away from the Eternal Father and sold their souls to Sutekh.

The early morning shadows stretching across the sluggish waters of the Isura River thinned and receded as the sun crept above the tree line.  Although careful to remain physically still and silent, Roger's thoughts never stopped moving.  He reviewed the contents of the burlap sack at his feet, the tasks he had to accomplish this morning, and the timing of events in other parts of the city, all while keeping track of the dock workers' progress.

After the last body was loaded, the Sha'iry guided the blindered draft horses uphill into the warehouse district of York, capital city of Carolingias.  The road held deep wheel ruts, a testament to the number of similar wagons that had traveled this path and the lack of care given in recent months.

Roger scooped up his sack and followed.  Dressed in drab clothes and a cloak covered in strategically placed varicolored patches, he fell in behind a pair of men heading in the same direction as the Sha'iry.  With smears of soot and gravel-dust covering portions of his tanned skin, he appeared to be as down-on-his-luck as his fugacious companions.

Laden with its grisly cargo, the wagon trundled through a maze of twisting streets and lanes.  The warehouse district, once a thriving industry, held abandoned buildings that were boarded up and dark.  Down several of the alleys, people in threadbare clothing hunted rats or scavenged amongst the refuse for food.  Many made a quick sign against evil and kept their eyes averted, not wanting to attract the attention of the Sha'iry.

Roger steeled his heart.  How had it come to this?

The wagon entered a gap in a limestone-capped wall.  Beyond it loomed a red-brick warehouse.

He fixed a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, then pulled up the hood of his cloak, using its mottled colors to conceal him, and crossed the street.  He crouched low and studied the forbidding structure.  Thick smoke plumed from a pair of square, soot-stained smokestacks protruding five-stories above its rear corner.  Grease and grime coated the row of arched windows, blocking all view of the activities within.

Stacks of rotten crates filled the yard, discarded when the Sha'iry took over the building.  Desiccated tobacco leaves spilled from their sides.  Using them for cover, Roger crept after the wagon.

Man and beasts stopped at the base of a wide ramp leading to the main entrance.

Open up! the priest shouted.

At the top of the ramp, wheels rumbled along iron tracks, and the broad wooden door slid open.  Waiting on either side were a pair of Kem'eyu — Sha'iry acolytes — their faces and shaven scalps red and sweaty.  A third figure, wearing a long, black swallowtail vest over leather armor, guarded the entrance.  His hands gripped the hilt of a two-handed greatsword whose point rested on the floor between his boots.  Twisted runic script writhed down a third of the sword's fuller, leaving the remainder empty.  It was a symbol of his power and rank.

Roger swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat.  He hadn't counted on the presence of an Anshu — a Blade of Sutekh, one of the Dark One's warrior priests.

The interior of the warehouse glowed orange and red, giving Roger a glimpse inside the charnel house.  His stomach turned at the macabre sight.  Long rows of bodies were stacked like cordwood, making it impossible to estimate their numbers.

The wagon cleared the opening, and the warehouse door slid shut with an ominous boom.

During the last six months, Roger had seen numerous towns where wagons worked day and night, but it wasn't enough.  Bodies still lined the sides of the road.  People called it a plague, but Roger knew better: it was an attack by the Sha'iry, part of their strategic invasion.

Some, like Roger, were fortunate enough to be immune to the creeping death, but the vast majority lived in fear, clutching at every new 'cure' or 'preventative' concocted by apothecaries and snake-oil salesmen.  He'd skirted remote villages where nervous vultures perched on roof gables and ridges, the dead still inside their homes, uneaten.  Then there were the gangs of men whose greed overshadowed their fear of the disease.  They looted manors while wearing elaborate masks with beaks filled with pungent herb blends purported to keep the user healthy.

Roger gauged the position of the rising sun.  It wouldn't be long before Phaedrus began his speech.  He wished he could be there to see the faces of both the Carolingians and their Sha'iry oppressors.  The half-elven priest intended to convince the warring Carolingian factions to stand together.

His job this morning was to distract the Sha'iry.  If all went well, they would retake Battenberg Palace and the city before day's end.  He opened his burlap sack, double checking that his gear remained secure.

Now to get inside.  Pulling his cloak tighter about him, he faded into the shadows.

Open up! a rough voice called.

The Anshu slid open the warehouse door.  A burlap sack sat on the ramp.  Taken aback, the grim priest scanned the debris strewn yard before stepping outside, sword at the ready.  He stopped at the end of the ramp and prodded the burlap with the tip of his blade.

Silent as a wraith, Roger came up behind him.  Clamping a hand over the priest's mouth, he shoved a long, silver dagger between the man's fourth and fifth ribs, piercing his heart.  After sliding the body off his blade, Roger snatched his sack from the ramp and dashed inside.  Darting to his left and into a deep pool of shadow, he waited.

One of the acolytes unloading bodies noticed the open door.  His eyebrows rose when he spotted the slain warrior-priest.  He called out, and three Kem'eyu followed as he cautiously made his way down the ramp.

Roger saw the Kem'eyu's lips move as he bent and took the greatsword from the Anshu's nerveless fingers.  He raised the blade in a reversed salute, then plunged it into the fallen priest's chest.

Glistening obsidian flowed up the blade and spread over the young priest, transforming his acolyte's cassock into the armor and swallowtail vest of the Anshu.  In its wake, a single rune remained upon the blade's fuller.  The dead man lay shriveled and naked.

Huor now serves at Sutekh's feet, the former Kem'eyu announced.

Not relying on his cloak to keep him hidden, Roger backed down the aisle and ducked behind an oak barrel bound in metal hoops.  From its shadow, he watched the three acolytes drop Huor's corpse atop the other bodies.

The fourth pointed his new greatsword at the youngest of the others.  Zephrim, find Anshu Luther.  Inform him of what's happened.  Turning to the other two, he ordered, Lock this place down and search for intruders.

Do you think it's Camber's men? Zephrim asked.

How should I know?  Now do as you're told.

But, Gurth, they're supposed to be in town—

Gurth pointed to the door.  Go!  Now!

Yes, Anshu Gurth, the acolyte said with a nervous bow.

Roger smiled.  That's right.  Bring more.  Bring the whole lot of you.

He looked around to get his bearings, and the smile vanished.  Stack upon stack of corpses filled the vast space.  Everywhere he turned, the bloated faces of men, women, and children stared out between twisted arms and legs marred by dark lesions.  Roger's stomach lurched, and he rested his shoulder against the barrel.  Swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, he reprimanded himself before opening the barrel's lid and casting a furtive glance over the rim.  It was half full of lamp oil.

Scattered along the aisles were more barrels.  He could only assume the clerics doused the bodies with oil so they'd burn faster.  It certainly didn't cut down on the stench.

Despite the heat, Roger tugged his cloak tighter and moved closer to the corner of the warehouse where glowing furnaces fed the smokestacks.  Sha'iry scurried about collecting bodies, but word of Huor's death had spread.  Each one kept an eye toward the main door.

Roger avoided them as he veered toward a storage room stacked floor-to-ceiling with oak barrels.  He found a secluded nook inside, reached into his burlap sack, and took out a glass bottle that held less than an inch of water.  A finger-sized piece of waxy, yellowish-white phosphorus inscribed with magic runes rested on the bottom.  Removing the cork stopper, he hid the potion deep inside a dark recess between the barrels.  On the opposite side of the storage room, he picked another recess and repeated the process.

His brow creased as he recalculated the water's evaporation rate.  When air hit the phosphorus, it would ignite, and the runes would magnify the effect.  He wanted to destroy this warehouse and everything it stood for in York without killing himself in the process.  Looking back out at the main warehouse, he could only hope for the best.  After wiping the sweat from his face, he dropped the stoppers into his pouch and crept toward the furnaces.

A cleric maneuvered his loaded wheelbarrow down an aisle aimed in the same direction Roger wanted to go, so he crouched low and followed.  The heat went from stifling to oppressive, and the stench of charred flesh filled his sinuses and coated the back of his tongue.  Roger fought the need to retch and promised himself a stout drink when he had completed this expedition, along with new clothes.

At the end of the row, the roaring furnaces came into view.  Four arched openings, each large enough to admit a pair of mounted horsemen, gaped hungrily.  Inside, angry flames danced and cavorted to music only they could hear.  Stacks of blackened bodies fed the fire, and Roger knew this was a portal to hell.

One cleric grabbed the arms of the topmost body in the wheelbarrow, another cleric grabbed the feet, and they swung it into the raging conflagration.  A third presided over the sacrifice, offering up the corpse's soul to their dark god.

Moistening his parched lips, Roger searched around and found a half-full barrel at the base of a timber column.  He knelt and placed an opened glass bottle between them.

Two more to go.  With a predatory glint in his leonine eyes, he crept closer to the furnaces.

A restless crowd of peasants and merchants in patchwork tunics gathered in the frost-laden Square of King David.  Many of them wore sashes of scarlet about their waists to proclaim their support of a new Carolingias — one where a man could have a voice in the government.  Hidden among them were another faction — those still loyal to King David and the old regime.  Persecuted by both the Dark One's clerics and the scarlet faction, the loyalists met in secret, recognizing each other by sapphire ribbons embroidered with a single dogwood blossom.  Their detractors called them bluebloods, or simply blues, although not all among them were nobility.

Murmurs passed from one person to the next, rumors of a holy man come to end the city's suffering.  The crowd surrounded the square's central pedestal and toppled statue of Carolingias' first king.  Broken shards of bronze were all that remained of his patina-stained sword and crown.  Beyond empty stalls and across cobblestone streets flanking the square, the remaining citizens of York packed the balconies and rooftop terraces of weathered, two-story rowhouses.

In the square's northwest corner, Ambrose Battenberg tugged her wool coat tighter around her body, pulled her hands inside the sleeves, and held the fabric closed in her clenched fists.  Eyeing the Sha'iry among the crowd, she shuffled closer to the man at her side and whispered, We shouldn't be here.  This could be a trap.

Camber wrapped an arm around her waist.  Don't worry, Ambrosia, I'll keep you safe.  No one will lay a finger on you — except me, he replied with a suggestive grin.  Besides, we're surrounded by my men, and I want to hear what this holy man has to say.

Ambrose tried to return his smile, but she didn't feel the same confidence he displayed.  This morning, Camber had bound his ash-blonde hair in a tight braid with a scarlet ribbon before shaving and donning clothes they'd stolen from an abandoned townhouse.  With the addition of his studded leather doublet, he looked like a wolf in dandy's clothing.  The fighters who followed Camber loved him, both for his style and his daring.  It's what attracted her to him as well.

A hush fell as a slim man wearing light blue, homespun robes stepped out from between two market stalls guarded by men in drab brown cloaks.  His bright green eyes reflected the morning sun as he made his way through the crowd to the pedestal.  A soft breeze teased his pale blonde hair, exposing the pointed tips of his ears and his partial elven ancestry.  Climbing the pedestal, he found a relatively flat spot near the edge and surveyed the people before him.  Despite the Sha'iry law against it, a wheel-cross hung from a leather thong around his neck to rest prominently on the center of his chest.

Carolingians, I wish to speak! Phaedrus announced.  The half-elf's voice travelled across the square, reaching every balcony, every rooftop.  I have watched you fight amongst yourselves.  Why?  What are you fighting for?

We fight for freedom! shouted a peasant wearing a scarlet ribbon.

Equality! shouted another.

The half-elf acknowledged both with a nod.  Lofty and admirable goals, but why are you still fighting?  King David was deposed a year ago.

Silence was their response.

I say it's because you are scared.  Who are you fighting?  The bluebloods?  Why them?

Their taxes were killing us! a peasant shouted.  We didn't have enough left over to buy food or clothing.

But they are your countrymen.

Shouts broke out as many of the peasants raised their fists.  They're not my countrymen!

The half-elf held up his hand, waiting for the clamor to subside.

"I have heard it said those who support the bluebloods support the old regime — a government that is no longer operating.  King David and his heir apparent are dead.  The York you know has fallen!

What do you have now?  Barren fields you cannot till.  Roads you cannot travel.  Families that cannot live together.  A plague that kills by the thousands.  And while you fight amongst yourselves, you have foreigners ruling your home.  Is that what you want?

Phaedrus looked at Ambrose, as if the question was meant solely for her.  She tucked her chin, letting her long, auburn hair spill forward to hide her face.  Her darting gaze searched the crowd for anyone who might recognize her.  She couldn't afford to be called out as a member of the deposed royal family.  Not here.  Not now.  As far as she knew, the citizens of York believed the Battenberg line was dead.  If the Sha'iry learned the truth of her identity, not even Camber's army would be able to save her from public execution.  No, it was far better for everyone to believe she was a common strumpet who'd slept her way through the Red Camp and into Camber's tent.

Ambrose didn't want to listen to anything else Phaedrus had to say.  Camber, let's go, she hissed.

Camber's arm around her waist tightened.  Not yet, Ambrosia.  I want to know what Phaedrus is stirring up this morning.

The crowd's murmurs faded, and Phaedrus spoke again, but Ambrose ignored him.  She'd heard it all before.  The talk of peasant freedom and the justifications people made for slaughtering each other, when it all boiled down to fear — fear of hunger, the plague, and death.  What none of them understood was there was no such thing as freedom.  Not really.  There were always rules and responsibilities.  Work of one sort or another to do.  Not even outlaws were free.  She'd seen firsthand the amount of planning and work it took to keep Camber's troops fed and outfitted.

Shouts rang through the air, decrying the indifference of King David and the nobility toward the plight of the people, while others extolled the virtues of the Sha'iry with their gifts of food.

You have food? Phaedrus responded.  "Oh yes, the wagon trains.  Food supplied by the black dogs to keep you going just long enough to destroy the merchants and nobles, but did you know this food is spoils of war from the south?  From Espia, where food can no longer be produced!  How much longer will it last?  Or should I say, how much longer will it be provided for you?

"When the last of those willing to stand against Maa'kheru Bolezni and the forces of the Dark One fall, the black dogs will move north to Gallowen and Tydway — leaving you with barren, untillable fields, and no food.  Leaving you to starve.

Then where will you be?  Free?  Yes, but dying or already dead!  That is not an answer for those who enjoy life.  So now what?

Again, silence washed over the Square of King David.  The Sha'iry slowly drifted away from the crowd.

Ambrose was surprised they didn't pull Phaedrus down from his pedestal.  Though she was only halfway listening, it seemed obvious where the cleric's speech was heading.

Let me step back a moment.  Why are you rebelling now? asked Phaedrus.  Because of tyranny?  Because of a hard life?  Why did you not rebel five years ago?  Or ten?  I say it is because life was not so bad under the old regime.  I am not saying it was perfect.  Certainly, you deserve better.  What I am saying is you did not hurt until King David was deposed.

Ambrose couldn't help herself.  She turned her gaze north, where barren dogwoods lined a wide lane paved with sheered river rocks.  A few short blocks away, an ornate stone arch and wrought iron gate marked the entrance to the palace grounds.  To either side of the archway, low stone walls topped with sharp spikes ran east and west for several blocks before turning the corner.  Soldiers in burgundy livery and mail armor guarded the gate with barbed pikes.

Fifty yards beyond the stone arch rose the three-story behemoth of Battenberg Palace with its copper roofs topped by a forest of chimneys.  Grand blocks of fitted quartzite enclosed the ground floor.  Above, two rows of dark windows with limestone cornices stared toward the city.

Although she couldn't see it from where she stood, Ambrose knew the lane from the square turned into marble bordered by granite pavers beyond the gate.  It continued north through the flagstone concourse to a barrel-vaulted gatehouse, wide enough for eight soldiers to march abreast.  Resting atop the entryway, six fluted pillars with blue and silver veins soared two-stories high to support a limestone entablature and pediment embossed with a shield bearing a dogwood tree on a low hill.  It overhung a cantilevered balcony that once bore flags of state.

Now, the forlorn balcony overlooked a concourse filled with timber X's.  Each held up by a diagonal kicker, the rough crosses bore the limp forms of men, women, and children taken by the Sha'iry.  Ambrose had made the mistake of passing too near the palace once.  The groans and cries of despair she'd heard still haunted her nightmares.

King David was deposed by those black dogs!  The half-elf's shout snapped Ambrose's attention back to the square in time to see him point a finger at one of the Sha'iry.  The crowd parted, leaving the acolyte exposed.

Yes, I am pointing a finger of guilt, but at whom am I pointing?  At the bluebloods?  No!  At the reds?  No!  At the black dogs?  As the Eternal Father lives, YES!  Can I make it any clearer?  The Hounds of the Dark One lie at the heart of your problems!

The Sha'iry fled, and a shadow seemed to lift from the square.

So, what can you do? asked Phaedrus.  "Let me tell you about the great battle that occurred just beyond the western mountains.  A vast orcnéan army travelled south through the plague-weakened lands of Rhodina and Trakya – lands just like yours.  Killing.  Burning.  Looting.  Raping.  Destroying everything.  Never had those lands seen such an army.  Their troops numbered like the leaves in the forest — uncountable.  Nothing seemed to slow them.  No one could defeat them.  With only the sick and dying to defend them, town after town, kingdom after kingdom fell.  The few remaining Glaxons and Detchians could not put aside their differences.  They argued and bickered as you do now.  There was no united stand against these evil forces.  At the western edge of Gallowen, disparate troops struggled against the invaders instead of a united army, and they were pushed back.  Nay, they were defeated!

What I am telling you today is that you cannot stand alone!  No more of this tribalism.  You must unite against the invaders.  Only then will you triumph.

Ambrose felt the crowd's mood shift and the excited tension building in Camber.  Phaedrus was inciting a battle, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Get rid of your sashes and your hate! shouted Phaedrus.  Join together under one color and stand side by side as Carolingians!

Many of the peasants in the crowd raised their knives, their pitchforks, whatever they had in their hand, and shouted.  The clamor grew louder, spreading to the merchants and hidden aristocracy.  As one, the crowd drew closer to the pedestal.  The half-elf raised his hands and waited.

Camber, called Phaedrus.  His eyes sought those of the rakehell.  It is a well-known fact that brave men need a brave leader, and daring men need a daring leader.  What say you, sir, will you join us in our fight?

The leader of the reds stepped forward, despite Ambrose's protests.  If we do this, do things go back to the way they were? he asked.  There has been too much blood spilt to let bygones be bygones.

Sir, whom do you serve: the reds, or the black dogs?  His bright green eyes settled on Ambrose.  Or, perhaps, do you serve Carolingias?

Phaedrus, I serve my people, replied Camber.

Then serve them! the half-elf exclaimed.  You know there is a path forward.  Join us and fight one last time!

Just then, the earth shook.  Ambrose felt a series of hard thumps in her chest as the brick smokestacks at the tobacco warehouse exploded.

CHAPTER 2  - THE ORDER OF CAROLINGIAS

April 22, 4208

K.E.

7:23 am

The crowd in the square stood stunned, many open-mouthed, as a billowing cloud of white smoke blanketed the western edge of the city.  The heavy cloud hung low to the ground as it drifted their way.  Here and there, people threw off their shock and pushed their way through the others and out of the square.  As more noticed the approaching mass, the hurried flight of a few turned into a desperate stampede.

Dropping their brown cloaks and donning their visored helmets, the eight knights who'd protected Phaedrus before his speech now chased the Sha'iry down the tree-lined lane.  Each knight wore a blue and silver surcoat over steel plate armor, which glinted brightly in the morning light.  They wielded cruciform swords and bore kite shields emblazoned with a silver dogwood issuant from a mount vert on an azure field.  Pushing their way through the crowd, the squad stopped at the edge of the intersecting cobblestone streets just outside the palace gate.

Two more explosions rocked the city.  In the yard outside Battenberg Palace, several Kem'eyu slapped a hand on the crucified prisoners, eliciting screams of pain.  The prisoners shriveled and became grey husks of flesh and bone, all traces of life gone.  Yelling at the guards to open the gate, the acolytes raced westward down the street toward the explosions.  In the far distance, gouts of flame shot heavenward.

The pall of white smoke wove through the crowded streets toward Battenberg Palace.  Sir Cerdic Uth Aneirin brought up his sword and bowed his head.  Please, Eternal Father, be with us in this time of need.  By ourselves, there is no hope.  Only through you can we achieve victory over the Dark One and his minions.

He held his breath and clenched his eyes shut.  Even so, the smoke stole the moisture from his nose and irritated his skin.  Tightening the grip on his sword, he waited for the signal from Lord Alfonso.

A gentle breeze kissed his cheek.

Now.

With the smoke cleared, the knights charged across the street.  Throwing all his weight against the wrought iron gate, Cerdic shoved it open with his shoulder and slammed his shield into the first guard.  He heard the man's nose crunch as blood spattered his armor.  Turning abruptly, he smashed the flat of his blade against the side of another's head.  Even with the protection of a mail coif, the guard went down.

Sir Cerdic, you must kill them! Lord Alfonso yelled over the din.

Yes, milord, Cerdic replied, smashing his gauntleted fist into the neck of his opponent.

The eight knights formed an arc, standing shoulder to shoulder inside the shadow of the arch.  Using both shield and sword, they mowed down the last of the gate guards.  Blood and gore coated the marble flagstones, staining their greaves, sabatons, and spurs.  As one, the knights stepped over the bodies and waited.

From single story barracks flanking each side of the concourse, palace guards wielding pikes rushed toward the knights.  Behind them, eighteen Sha'iry streamed from the vaulted gatehouse in groups of three, each led by an Anshu bearing their distinctive two-handed swords.  A vile, droning chant extolling their dark god rose from their ranks as the Sha'iry charged down the wide lane.

The palace guards formed up in two ranks.  The ones in front held shields and longswords ready.  The second rank snapped their pikes forward over the shoulders of the first with a defiant shout.  Remaining behind the guards, the dark clerics continued to pray to their evil god.

Lord Alfonso raised his sword and shouted, For the Eternal Father and Carolingias!  The eight knights surged forward.

Using his six-foot-four height and long reach to his advantage, Cerdic knocked aside a pike with his shield and drove his sword into the helmet of a guard in the front rank.  Wrenching the blade free, he sliced the arm of the guard holding the polearm.  With a swift push, he shoved aside the two men and plowed into the next.  His blade was a blur as it plummeted down time and time again.  Beside him, the knights gained ground and the line of palace guards faltered.

In response to the Sha'iry's foul prayers, a sickly green nimbus shrouded the dead soldiers at the gate.  Their limbs jerked and spasmed.  Slowly, the bodies climbed to their feet and shambled forward, their movements as clumsy as marionettes controlled by a child.

Rough hands clawed Cerdic's pauldron.  He cast a glance backward and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the dead guard pawing at him.  It crashed against his armor, rocking him forward.

Planting his foot, he whipped around and chopped the undead guard's head clean off its shoulders.  As he did, Cerdic heard a loud scrape along the side of his helmet from a well-placed pike.  Before he could respond, the headless guard pounded Cerdic's back with both hands, driving him to one knee.

More undead guards clambered forward, blocking their retreat.

Cerdic lost sight of the other knights as he raised his shield to defend against the undead warrior.  Spinning in place, he swept his sword across its legs, cutting down the creature like a stalk of wheat.  The stench of decay filled the yard as the thing jerked and bucked.

The palace guards ganged up on the knight, jabbing and prodding his armor from every side in their search for weaknesses.  Their strikes rained down like hail, and a din louder than a dozen blacksmiths working rang off the palace walls.

Cerdic continued his spin.  Pater Aeternum fortitudo nostra, he prayed.  The Eternal Father is our strength.  Clearing a path with his shield, he jerked up with all his might and sliced the nearest guard's throat with the tip of his sword.  Bright blood gushed over rent chainmail links as the soldier fell.

The ferocity of Cerdic's attack shook the courage of his opponents, and they took an involuntary step back.  Sunlight lanced down, and his dented armor glinted through his tattered and bloody surcoat.

The clang of sword on shield and the ring of sword on sword continued all around him.  He couldn't tell how many knights remained on their feet, but he gave silent thanks to the Eternal Father they still fought.

A shadow fell across the knight's opponent, and he chanced a quick look.

Camber brandished a swept-hilt rapier and metal buckler.  The scarlet sash at his waist fluttered like a pennant, and blood spattered his studded leather doublet.  Behind the newly arrived soldier, others like him hacked the zombies in the yard into gory pieces.

Where to, sir knight? Camber asked as he feinted once, twice, and then stabbed a palace guard.

There, Cerdic replied, pointing his sword through the line of guards at one of the Sha'iry.

"Lead the