Chapter 326 : Riders in the Sky
Chapter 326
Riders in the Sky
Monastery Inner Garden
Crafted of Elven sailcloth and light wood, reinforced with metal in several places, the dark silhouette flew almost without a sound. No larger than a small boat, with wings like a bat, it cleared the Monastery’s rear wall with room to spare. That wall was not as imposing as the front, as it faced the cliffside of the hill. Once inside, the shape dipped low, banking one last time before losing height too quickly and dropping fast toward the Monastery’s vast inner garden.
It narrowly avoided the rows of two-hundred-year-old trees but struck the grassy ground harder than intended. A dull, heavy thud, softened by damp earth, followed as it bounced once over the slick grass and skidded the rest of the way before slipping into a dense shrub near the courtyard's edge, almost as if it had meant to land there.
The bushes trembled for a moment, then stilled.
There was no thunderous crash, no splintering wood or stone. Only a brief rustle as seven men eased themselves from the fallen craft. Four spread out to keep watch, while the other three dragged the glider deeper into the bushes.
The orange glow of lanterns flickered along the distant walls, but no alarm was raised.
No voice called out.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Yet the men had no desire to test their fortune against dozens of Saint Candidates. They lay low, listening for movement, weapons ready, eyes fixed on the clear stretch of stone walkway. The path cut through the greenery, running beside a clipped lawn and low herb beds set in neat squares, their borders dark with damp soil. It led toward a small stone pavilion, its carved details were lost in the dark.
Beyond it, the walkway continued across the open ground toward the Monastery’s cloistered galleries and arched corridors that rose in a ring around the vast inner courtyard.
The night wind brushed through the courtyard. Trees on both sides of the walkway swayed lightly while the stone pavilion stood silent. A few minutes passed, and there was no movement along the galleries. No approaching lantern glow, and no figure crossed the arches.
They were in the clear, at least as far as their eyes could see.
For those without magic, it was hard to see much. The whole courtyard lay almost in darkness. There was little light except for rows of narrow windows that emitted a faint glow. A few cast enough to give them a sense of their bearings.
They had built a mockup of the Monastery’s layout and drilled for days to memorize every detail, so they had some sense of where they were.
Finding no immediate threat, their adrenaline began to wear off, and the pain started to register. Three carefully rubbed sore limbs and bruised ankles. Another took a sip from his waterskin.
While four remained on watch, the other three pushed the glider deeper into the bushes, where the old trees’ branches wove a thick canopy over shrubs and low growth, securing the element of surprise. Now they had until morning, when the Monastery’s men might notice the skid marks on the lawn.
When they had a moment, the Banneret whispered to his comrade, “So what do you think of the glider?”
Sir Harold, checking the black armor he had borrowed from SAR, answered in a low tone, “The flying part was fun. The landing, not so much."
The one who asked, Sir Morton, grinned while his eyes scanned their surroundings.
Sir Harold added, "Now I understand why the Lord is against it.”
“Even the maker, Sir Avery, is against using it," the Mage Knight revealed.
Sir Harold furrowed his brow. “I never heard of that.”
“We’re too busy training,” Sir Morton dismissed it casually.
Confident in the borrowed armor, which was lightweight and matte black, with fabric layers between the plates to prevent noise, Sir Harold muttered, “To think, this would be our first time fighting together.”
The Mage Knight let out a thin, dangerous grin. “I would hope it is not the last. But I am a peaceful man. I would rather we have peace than war.”
Sir Harold risked a brief chuckle. He took a sip from his waterskin and asked, “Tell me, what motivates you to undertake dangerous mission after mission?”
The Mage Knight replied, “I just got married, and this will buy me an estate.”
Sir Harold snorted. “What a hardworking husband you are.”
He knew it was a lie. Sir Harold was driven to hone his skill as far as it could go. For Morton, it was likely the thrill of the fight.
With a young Black Knight in the same light armor, the three headed out. However, as they rejoined their brethren, a problem soon became clear.
They found the SAR Captain bent over one of his men, checking the man’s ankle, while another kept watch.
Sir Harold spotted Gregory keeping watch. He was the only staff member he had asked to join the mission. He crouched beside him in the shadow of a tall shrub and asked in a hushed tone, “What happened?”
Gregory answered, “Can’t be sure, Sir, but we hit the ground hard. I felt something crack too.”
The injured man, still on the ground, reported, more embarrassed than pained, “Apologies, Sir. My leg.”
The SAR Captain looked up at Sir Harold and replied, “I think it’s broken. He can’t continue.”
Sir Morton crouched nearer and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll carry you on my back. We’ll get you out and complete the mission.”
“Apologies,” the man said.
“It’s my landing, so I’m also responsible,” the Mage Knight muttered calmly. “Besides, we all knew the risk.”
“I’ll splint it with wood and bind it tight. Don’t make a sound,” the Captain warned.
The glider was loaned from the House of Dawn, whose chamberlain had warned it was a failed project, too dangerous for anyone but a seasoned Aviator-Mage. Sir Morton had requested it under the guise of asking the Lord Shogun to improve it. But before they could properly study the craft, they had already found a use for it against the Monastery. With reports of Saint Candidates wielding iron spears on the walls and towers, their airship could not risk an approach.
Thus, the glider had its purpose. An airship could release it from a distance and height no common Mage Knight could spot, delivering an assault team in full stealth.
The Lord was very careful about this. After reports of the Living Saint’s behavior, turning Believers into ghouls and sending them to die against the camp gate, he was ready to raze the entire Monastery. But his Banneret convinced him they could take it by force and gave him peace of mind. After all, the House’s current concern was the stability of the realm. After the rebellion, mishandling the Living Saint might provoke fresh unrest, or even armed resistance.
As the men gathered around the fallen man, Sir Harold alone wandered further. He had spotted a nearby source of light and was drawn to it.
He recalled from the training that kept him from commanding the siege that this area housed a hospice for old and infirm members. He trusted the map his own wife, Clementine, had vouched for. So he crouched, moving carefully through the brush so it would not rustle.
“Oh, what do we have here. What a handsome young man,” came a gentle voice that nearly spooked him.
Sir Harold saw a gracefully aged lady, likely over ninety, her hair fully gray. She sat on a bench under the eaves, wrapped in thick wool. He straightened and said, “Pardon the intrusion.”
“Come closer. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be anymore.”
Sir Harold was dumbfounded by the remarks. She could see him despite the darkness and from afar, meaning she was a Saint Candidate. Yet, because of her warm reception and her age, he signaled Gregory, who had followed, to stop. He alone approached.
The old lady continued, “Ah, charming and tall. That jaw too. If only I were younger.”
Sir Morton offered a polite smile, like a grandchild humoring his grandmother.
“Elder Sister,” a girl who had been hiding behind the old lady said in protest.
“Now, now, no need to be on alert. They mean no harm to us.”
“How do you know?” the girl asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I only hope. Because that man over there,” she turned toward Sir Morton as he walked toward them, “could hurt me badly, even if I were fifty years younger.”
Sir Morton chuckled as he came to a stop where Gregory had stood. “Elderly Lady, how old are you?”
“I’m one hundred and seventeen.”
Her answer bothered the young girl. “But Elder Sister, you’re pushing one hundred and twenty-six.”
She chuckled, her voice disarming. “Silly girl, I’m always one hundred and seventeen. Don’t make it sound like I’m so much older than that.”
“I’m honored to meet a mage of your age,” Sir Morton said as he bowed. “I hope we meet in a better situation.”
“Oh, I’m so forgetful. Yes, there’s infighting outside.” She sighed. “The new leadership doesn’t allow us to learn anything, but even then, we knew we were in the middle of a crisis. Yet, I’m afraid I don’t know the details.”
Sir Harold quickly responded, “We’re looking for Saint Nay.”
“Ah. I suppose she finally poked a beehive she cannot outrun. Silly, silly her. Still, she’s a senior, and I must respect her.”
Again, Sir Harold took a leap of faith. “Will you help us? We want to bring her to justice.”
The old lady didn’t answer right away. At last, she said, “I heard about the rebellion. But even without it, I think she needs to be taken for her other crimes. She killed many, even on these sacred grounds.”
“Elder Sister,” her young aide protested, fear in her voice.
“Hush, dear. The time has come.” She turned to the two knightly men and asked, “I’ll let my aide help you. She knows the ways. However, in return, you must guarantee to spare anyone who does not wish to fight.”
The two Bannerets glanced at each other, and both nodded.
Sir Harold spoke. “Our mission is to capture, not to kill, anyone who isn’t resisting or impeding us.”
“That’s wonderful. Then my only question is, can you capture Nay?” Her eyes glowed a soft gold. Even as she spoke gently, the warning was plain. She had seen Nay, and she was weighing the Living Saint’s magic against Sir Morton’s.
“She’s powerful. Even for you,” she added.
“I have my friend, and he’s reliable.” Sir Morton patted Sir Harold’s shoulder to reassure her.
“Ah, yes. You’re not ordinary either,” she replied. “I see you married a mage.”
Sir Harold blinked, and Sir Morton chuckled before he explained, “A female mage loves to mark her lover with a sign.”
“A magic kiss,” the old lady remarked merrily. “Mages love marking their territory.”
Sir Harold furrowed his brows, suddenly wary of what had been done to him. Behind him, Gregory stifled a deep chuckle.
“Oh, relax,” the old lady said. “She did it inconspicuously. Only a kiss on your neck.”
“Elder Sister,” Sir Harold called, “you might know her. She’s a Sister here, too.”
“Oh, really?” The old lady’s eyes brightened at once.
The young girl, for the first time, stepped out from behind the old lady. “What’s her name?”
“It’s Clementine,” he answered.
“Sister Clementine...” The old lady frowned as if searching her memory. “Clement. Cassandra. Catherine...” Then her face brightened. “Ah, yes. Clementine. That sweet, chubby girl who once wet her bed and blamed her sister.”
Sir Harold could only grin at the reveal, while Sir Morton snorted softly, motioning the men to disperse. Despite his offer, the SAR Captain was the one who lifted the wounded man with the broken leg.
“She’s not as chubby anymore,” Sir Harold said.
“Of course. She’s grown tall since then. Ah, I remember she was quite the talent. She beat a brother in a fight, and was bold too. Too bold, even. Hard to read her mind. Always confident and assured.”
"That’s Clementine, all right,” Sir Harold confirmed, unable to keep the amusement from his voice.
The old lady took her young aide’s hand. “If he’s married to her, then we’re in good hands.”
“We will guarantee your safety,” Sir Harold promised.
“And everyone else in this wing, and everyone who surrenders. That is the price of my cooperation,” the old lady stated.
“Of course. But many will still answer to the bailiff,” Sir Harold said.
“Agreeable,” she muttered. Then she squeezed her aide’s hand. “Go with them, dear. For everyone’s sake. Take them to the gate, and then down to where the Saint resides.”
The young aide stiffened. Her eyes flicked from the old lady to the two Bannerets. Both were tall and broad-shouldered, the sort of men who looked carved for war, but for a moment she looked as if she might refuse, until she felt the weight of them. Even young, she had the gift, and she could sense that pressing aura only seasoned fighters carried.
She swallowed. “Yes.” She stepped closer, as if the choice had to be made with her feet as well as her voice. “I’ll get you to the gate. After that, I’ll show you the path to her chamber.”
***
Monastery
After days of relentless assault, day and night, by the third day, the Monastery sank into a quiet slumber. Men slept the way the exhausted always do, fast and heavy. Many were wounded, weakened, and wrung out from the constant fighting. And for the first time in too long, they had eaten until they were full, and a full belly made sleep feel irresistible. Yet what truly dragged them under was the lull. There were no trumpets, no war cries, no crossbow duels. Only wind and the steady, soothing melodies carried from the nomads’ morin khuur.
The instrument still sounded foreign, but it gave them a sense of peace.
In their minds, the enemy was unlikely to try anything while music drifted through the dark, gentle, and unhurried.
Even trained guards found it a hard challenge. Vigilance did not break with a single mistake, but with small surrenders. A blink held a heartbeat too long. A man leaned his shoulder against the wall for only a moment. A torch guttered, and the darkness seemed to soften. Without noticing the shift, parts of the night watch slipped into sleep. Soon, snores threaded through the walls and corridors amid the flicker of torchlight and lanterns.
The Believers had it worse. With little training and a meager amount of food, they quickly relied on their Saint Candidates to cover their weakness. Indeed, the Saint Candidates had night vision to catch movement in darkness, but that meant nothing if they, too, fell asleep.
The two Sisters on guard duty sat with pale ale to pass the hours. They agreed to take turns every few hours, each letting the other rest, since the battlements were quiet and the land below seemed asleep. One Sister kept watch and made her rounds, looking for movement below. But nothing came. She heard no cry, no trumpet.
The cold breeze worked through her woolen cloak while the warmth of ale settled in her belly.
When her watch had run its course, she meant to wake her Sister, but the battlements remained still. She told herself she could go on and spare her Sister another hour. Her eyelids grew heavy, yet she was not alarmed. There was only the night wind and the melodies. Then it felt like only a blink, just a moment of rest, but she slid into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Not only on the battlements, but the same thing happened inside the Monastery.
The gatehouse and the corridors were quiet, filled with the soft echoes of slumber. Some sections fell into complete darkness because nobody renewed the torches or the lanterns.
The carpenters and volunteers who had worked tirelessly to reuse bolts or build hoardings were asleep, wherever they could find space in their stations, wrapped in cloaks, with straw mats and blankets to keep the cold stone from biting too deep.
Nearly everyone was surrendering to the night, as if a spell had settled over the place.
Only outside the Captain’s chamber were two sentries still awake, and the few passages that still mattered were kept under guard. Those men had not taken part in the fighting and kept to their duty as usual.
Aside from them, patrols passed now and then. When they found other watchmen asleep, they dealt with it harshly, with a fist to the chest or a sharp slap to the cheek.
In the quiet, dim gallery of stone and plaster, one of the two guards, in helmet and ringmail, yawned amid the monotony. Both bore light injuries and had been assigned lesser duty. The other sensed something and turned toward the inner courtyard.
The yawning guard saw his comrade shift his gaze, but thought nothing of it, knowing the threat lay toward the enemy, not within.
A sharp crack did alert him, but it was probably someone stepping on a dried branch blown in from the garden. With all the fighting, nobody had been sweeping the galleries properly.
There was little cause for concern until, from the corner of his eye, he saw his brother in arms drop onto his back like a felled log. The sight and the scent of blood had not even registered when he suddenly felt suffocated.
“Hrk.” He grabbed at his throat, searching for fingers, for a cord, for anything to tear away, but there was nothing. Panic took him. He stumbled backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
Then, out from the cloistered gallery, a tall man in black armor stepped into view. The plates swallowed what little light there was, giving back no glint. His hair was long and curled, his chin sharp, his eyes predatory, gleaming with gold.
A Mage Knight.
The guard tried to reorient himself, tried to run, but his boots no longer touched the ground. He was floating a hand’s breadth off the floor. Finally, the shock was too great, and darkness rushed over his vision. His mind went with it.
“Morton,” Sir Harold whispered.
“I know,” the Mage Knight replied softly, and he let the guard fall without killing him. He knew Harold asked not out of mercy, but because they depended on the young girl, now carried by Gregory, to guide them. While they knew the floor layout from Clementine and Monastery turncoats, they still needed the girl’s cooperation to lead them to the Living Saint later, since the lower level was a labyrinth.
The SAR man in front reloaded his cranequin. Their usual XBow was not accurate enough for a clean snipe. Meanwhile, Sir Harold lifted the first fallen guard’s shield over the head. This was the fourth guard they had taken down.
“Where to now?” Gregory asked, careful to angle the girl away from the body.
“The stairs,” she replied, her voice still innocent despite knowing what had just been done to her side. She had seen gruesome deaths before in her lesson, and like a child her loyalty clung to her guardian, not to the Monastery that had bought her from her parents.
“You sure we don’t go straight?” Gregory asked in a light tone.
“No, Meister. That way leads to a different chamber. Everyone always goes by the stairs. It leads to the gate.”
Sir Morton climbed first, followed by one SAR member and Sir Harold. Gregory came behind with the SAR Captain and another member, taking turns supporting the man with the broken leg, each keeping a hand on his shoulder. The injured man limped as he went, keeping his crossbow ready.
A strong stench hit them as they neared a wide hall. The air was foul, and fleas and ticks clung to the dirty rushes underfoot. The width of the passage and the way it opened ahead matched what they had memorized from the map.
Sir Morton turned to Gregory, who promptly whispered to the girl, “Are there many people sleeping in the halls tonight?”
“Yes. The Believers, but not as many as before,” she tried to answer in a low voice.
Up front, the SAR asked the Bannerets, “Sir, you smell that?”
Sir Harold nodded. “Incense. A strong one.”
The SAR man in front slipped to the door, took a quick peek, then reported with hand signals. Not dozens, not tens, but hundreds.
“If we lock the hall, where can they go to escape?” Gregory asked.
The girl looked up, thinking, then said, “There’s a passage to the kitchen from there, and another path downstairs.”
The men exchanged glances. Their map did not have every detail. With paths branching from the hall, even if they barred the door, someone would notice the blockage, grow suspicious, and raise a commotion.
Originally, they had meant to bypass the hall, but now it was too great a threat to their plan.
Suddenly, Sir Harold patted Sir Morton’s arm and said, “Leave this to me. You go open the gate.”
The Mage Knight’s eyes went wide. “There are hundreds in there.”
“Someone has to watch over this hall,” Sir Harold said, and began removing parts of his armor. Another SAR man quickly helped.
He added, “You’re needed in case a Saint Candidate appears. Now go.”
Sir Morton disliked the idea but knew it was necessary.
“Request to join, Sir,” the wounded man said from behind. “I can help watch the hall. Besides, if I remember right, there are a lot of stairs from here on.”
The two Bannerets and the SAR Captain traded glances, then nodded. The plan was agreed.
They helped the two into rugged brown cloaks, patched and worn, designed to blend in. Sir Harold lifted the wounded man onto his back. That way, they hoped nobody would be suspicious, just a man helping his friend back from the infirmary or the night pits.
“Remember the signal,” Sir Harold said. Sir Morton stared at him.
“Don’t rely on us to return quickly. We might be swarmed.” The plan was for them to take control of the windlass chamber, open the gate, and defend it for as long as they could.
Sir Harold nodded firmly in acknowledgment.
Gregory saluted. “When it’s done, I’ll rush back here.”
The girl on his back tugged at Sir Harold’s cloak, wishing him luck in silence.
Without saying any more, Sir Morton and the rest advanced. Unencumbered, they moved as fast as they dared, listening for the soft footfalls of patrols.
After listening at the hall and finding only soft coughs and snores, Sir Harold asked the man on his back, “Ready to go?”
“It’s best if you hunch a bit, Sir. You’re too tall for most,” he whispered, as calmly as he could despite the nauseating pain in his leg.
Harold smirked under his cloak. “Good reminder.”
The two walked into the dim hall. Sleepy eyes turned toward them. After a moment, most looked away. Those who kept watching lost interest once Harold chose a spot close to the door and lowered the wounded man down.
He sat as well, pushed his cloak back from his face, and feigned a wide yawn. Training had left him no time to tend to his beard, and now that rough growth helped him blend in.
There the two sat, pretending to rest, while silently watching the Believers. Incense wafted through the hall from a brass censer hung on a chain, its coals breathing out a thin haze that softened faces and lanternlight alike.
For the moment, there was nothing to be done. They waited for the first sign of trouble, the first commotion that would ripple through the sleepers. When it came, they would be ready, even with hundreds inside.
Sir Harold’s eyes moved carefully from man to man. He noted who slept with spears, halberds, or bardiches beside them, and who lay with crossbows within reach. In his mind, he laid the hall out like a board, building a quiet map of threats.
The hall was quiet. One sound would turn it into a slaughterhouse.
***