Gerald heard a yell come from the soldiers, and suddenly the terror they’d held in for so long was unleashed, and they surged forward. This was no organized manoeuvre, but a mad rush at the enemy, many of whom had turned their backs to run. It was too late to stop it. The captain was yelling and screaming incoherently at the men.

The sergeant stepped forward, determined to stop the madness, but collapsed to the ground, his leg giving out beneath him. He sat, stunned for a moment, staring at the pool of blood forming around him. He’d been cut in the assault, but the numbleaf and adrenaline had prevented him from feeling it. Now, he was bleeding out, too weak to do anything but look on in horror as his life ebbed out of him.

"How did I get here?" he wondered. "How did my life culminate in bleeding to death in this stinking street, of all places?"

Athgar gave a final mighty swing, and the wall partially collapsed, revealing the carnage in the village beyond. Pushing through, he tripped on the debris, tumbling to the ground, the wind knocked from him.

He glanced around, quickly spotting his sister, Ethwyn, in the distance, staggering, a large red gash on her forehead. Even as he lay there, a rider came up behind her, hitting the top of her head with the flat of his blade. Athgar watched, helpless, as she collapsed in a heap.

“Ethwyn!” he cried out.

Drawn by his shout, his attacker reappeared, coming around the side of the hut, which was now aflame. The man paused, lifting his visor to get a better view, and Athgar saw his face, a face that would be forever burned into the Therengian's memory.

A knight staggered out of the building and fell to the ground, blood pouring from her arm. A large man, easily topping the knight by a head, followed her out, his bloodied axe raised for a death blow.

Charlaine drew her weapon and rushed forward to protect her fallen comrade. The axe came down, scraping along her sword blade, deflecting the blow from its intended victim. Its wielder turned on Charlaine, the rage upon his face now directed solely at her.

She backed up slightly and stabbed, the point of her blade piercing his thigh. The man let loose a scream of pain even as he continued his attack, but she easily avoided the blow as he stumbled. Charlaine immediately struck again, sinking her blade into his stomach. She withdrew her weapon and placed it against the back of his neck as he doubled over.

“Cease in the name of Saint Agnes,” she ordered, “or I shall be forced to kill you.”

Cyric stood beside the bed, waiting until the servant left. Something was bothering him, so he examined Duke Emmerich’s body in more detail. The hands looked odd, and he noted the slight darkening at the root of the man’s fingernails. Something was definitely not right here, spurring him on to investigate further.

He was repositioning the body, trying to look at his back, when he first noticed a small discolouration on the back of the duke’s arm. Cyric bent closer, moving the body slightly to see more clearly. There was a pinprick of some sort; evidently, a sharp object had penetrated the skin, leaving a distinctive mark with a slight swelling around the wound.

"How curious," he said aloud, laying the body back down. "Benedict!" he called out to the servant. "Gather all the guests. The duke has been murdered!"