Arthurian Cultivation

Our progress continued. No beast attacked us on the other side of the root. Either this part of the forest was unclaimed, or the beast did not like its chances against us. I did feel the sense of eyes watching us, but that could well be the bustling population of the forest.

We found that the East Root was growing. At first, it had been no wider than my wrist when we had found it at the menhir. Now I could have sat upon it like a horse, and with each hour it grew more.

Sticking close seemed to be a safe practice though. Compared to the frantic stories Kay remembered, our progress was smooth.

We did occasionally run into other fae beasts, but they universally avoided us. While none were Iron, where they would have been able to properly gauge our power, our numbers and strength were enough to make them give us a wide berth.

The greater threat was the locations we pushed through and the bounty we had to ignore. I had to turn off the alchemist part of my brain completely. The ground was littered with ingredients. Dappled-spot shrooms, blue moon grass, meld leaf. Only Miss Peaches’ stores could rival the range of wonders I saw lying on the ground.

I was not alone in my suffering. Sephy came across an entire grove of bloodshroom. She could only eat so much in one moment, so had to make do with stuffing her face and taking a little extra to eat as she walked. In theory she could have taken the lot, but again we were all being careful.

Bors pulled up some kind of thing that looked like wild garlic petrified. He choked it down, eyes watering, complaining he could not bring it back to his master.

What helped temper our avarice was that the sense of being watched grew as the hours passed. There were moments where we would hear sounds like muffled conversation, laughter, or the sound of amassed hoof beats pounding across the ground.

The fae were making themselves known.

I could feel the talisman on my chest circling glamour, helping insulate us from these oddities. Occasionally I would feel strange moods come upon me, where the fae and our world were melding to become a chaotic brew.

The whispers were so much worse then, and the talismans grew warm to the touch.

It made me wonder what manner of madness the centre might hold, and I wished fervently that we would not need to find out.

The ruins were more than two days of careful travel from where we started, and it was without serious incident that our first day came to a close.

Arguments were made to push forward, and ignored. Amergin’s advice had proven sound so far. The divine cultivators would either have to pause as we did, or would cease to be a problem.

We made camp in good spirits, given what loomed over us. We found a depression in the land, a hollow formed as a pair of the vast roots of the Grand Oak had risen out of the earth, shaping the land and holding back the soil.

The lay of the land would shield our campfire, which we built up to discourage beasts who might otherwise come to investigate our presence. There was also the unspoken sense that fire was needed. All of us had felt the oddities of the fae nibbling at us over the day, and some flames, fed by fallen branches of course, would help soothe our minds.

None of us were prepared for the night.

I was not a country boy, but in my time since my escape I had come to understand a few things about nature. Prime among them is that a forest is only ever truly silent around disaster, only when the predator has attacked and its prey has screamed its last defiance, scattering birds and stilling other beasts, does quiet descend.

I found myself wishing for such moments.

In the day I had been distracted. The birds had filled the air, their chatter constant. Now, gone, we could hear the land talking.

It reminded me of being on a ship, where the timbers rub and groan as the sea pummels them, the subtle yet huge sounds of giant pieces of wood being twisted by the elements. Where on the ship they rise and fall with the sea, in this place I swear I could hear them talking.

Sounds would come from the east. No wind turned the trees, but still they shifted and spoke. A short rebuttal would come from the west. Bass notes and the occasional lighter shuffle of leafy branches would punctuate the reply.

The east began to groan again, but then the north and south let out a deep, resonant hum, like a giant running their finger across a vast bowstring, one made of tree trunks.

I looked over to my fellow watchman, Tristan, and we shared a moment of utter awe, the kind that I last felt standing before Ursul.

The forest settled down after that, though we were still treated to the occasional grumblings of the trees from time to time.

Of course that did not stop the other noises. There were occasional screeches of owls, a constant rustling as the smaller creatures went about their business in the brush. The worst though, by far, was the eerie whispering of the fae.

We had picked somewhere far from where we had heard the worst of the fae noises. That did not shield us fully. Twice through the night, my hair raised as the sounds of distant revelry echoed around the trees.

It was a mix of discordant sounds, laughter, shouting, as an erratic orchestra played, one where the musicians had heard music but had not understood the underlying pattern. The drums were quiet and lasted too long with each strike. The lute jumped between chords, each erratic note sharply ending rather than falling away, and a pair of flutes spat notes at each other.

Underneath this cacophony was the constant noise of a crowd. I made out their laughter, yet caught not a word of their speech.

The worst thing about this was that Tristan did not hear it, only I did.

From our discussion round the campfire it seemed I was getting the worst of the fae oddities. The others were not unaffected, but it was a passing whisper of a familiar sound, not the twisted discord I was hearing.

When we switched duties on watch, it took me a long while to fall asleep.

We awoke before dawn the next day. All of us who had been on watch were in poor moods. I think the strangest part was that after that harrowing night, it all seemed so normal. In fact, if you ignored the presence of the Grand Oak’s roots and canopy, it would have looked little different to any of the places we had camped in the past few months.

We all started the morning with our formal bow to the Grand Oak. A ritual I was happy to conduct, and yet could not wait to see the end of.

As we ate some simple cold breakfast, the fire having been extinguished with dawn, Bors came over to us, the long, glass-like crystal he had made for spying clutched in his hands.

"At the very edge of the Folly I can see smoke rising. At least a couple of campfires."

"Bastards."

"All that work and they’re still on our heels!"

"This isn’t good."

"They must have a good tracker."

"Runes and artifice of the priests are quite good at tracking, especially if they’ve got some Inquisitors mixed in, which they should have if this is one of their little crusades," I grumbled.

"I’d say they’re at most a day behind us. Maybe more depending."

"What do you mean? It didn’t take us that long."

"But they have squires with them. Perhaps it will take them longer, or they’ll abandon them. But that would be giving up the one tangible advantage they have," Kay mused aloud. She turned to me.

"You’re still thinking there’s ten Irons among them?"

"It would make sense. A Paladin and priest for every Ray, minus those we’ve killed," I nodded.

"What if they have more?" Bors asked.

"Possible, though unlikely. See, in larger groups where there’s no Saint to head off disagreements of faith, such collective efforts tend to rapidly fall apart. It’s not unknown for Paladins of different Rays to kill each other as their oaths and purposes clash with each other."

"I thought the Inquisitors were the only ones who could pass judgement on the other Rays?" The big man said as he packed up the last of the food. We were already getting moving.

I joined him as we formed up to move out.

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"They are the only ones who can pry and interrogate. The rest, though, can battle each other over public slights and insults. They call it the ‘tempering of the faithful’," I added.

"Surely there might be more than one for each Ray though?"

"Yes, but then it’s only a matter of time before the killing starts. See, if you had four Paladins, two of Mercy and two of Sacrifice, imagine one of those from Mercy dies. When the next danger comes up, who do you think is sent in first?" I was reminded of the Harkleys complaining of how they had lost some vassals in a similar situation.

"I know they’re monsters but this seems unsustainable. Why haven’t they all killed each other yet," Bors growled.

"The Clergy mostly. It’s not too dissimilar to Orders of Knights who work together but hate each other. The main factor that keeps them civil is the powerful Houses of Renown, who watch over them. The Houses are invested in keeping the peace and protecting the groups that their descendants and allies belong to." I shrugged. This kind of politics was a bit beyond me. I knew how people worked, not entire organisations.

"The Clergy, however, see all the faithful as their children. Too bad they’re such abominable parents," I said. The Harkleys had never let us near the Clergy if they could avoid it, worried that we might be pulled away to serve.

"So we’re sticking with five Paladins, five priests, and maybe fifteen squires?" Bors muttered. He played with his crystal. In the morning light he tried to look through the long piece of shimmering quartz.

"Possible they have replacements for Sacrifice and Protection we killed, so at max fourteen Irons, and twenty-odd squires."

"How many of them will survive?"

"Depends on if they don’t piss off the Oak."

"Guiding Star, steady my hand that it may not tremble when I grant them rest.

Let my blade fall as gently as dusk upon a weary field.

Teach me to be swift, that suffering does not linger.

Teach me to be certain, that doubt does not steal their mercy.

Where they wander in darkness, let me be the last light they see.

Where they cling to false dawns, let me close their eyes in kindness."

Mordred bowed as he prayed. It just so happened he was facing the Grand Oak. He was in no way truly venerating this monument to heresy and demonic taint. He finished his prayer as he stood.

"Count each life I end as one sorrow lifted from this broken world.

And if my heart should soften, harden it, that I may love them enough to finish the work."

"Finally. Now we can proceed," Tobias groaned beside him.

They were beneath the demonic canopy, marching on foot into enemy territory. Their horses, those which had survived the frantic push to catch up with the heathens, had been left in the pass. Mordred looked around. They were five Paladins, five knights, and twelve squires who looked less than pleased to be here.

One had deserted when their location had been revealed. The vile coward had been found, and at Inquisitor Lucinda’s request he had been delivered the final Mercy as an example to the rest.

They had a divine purpose, and they would see it through.

"I still find this distasteful," Mordred muttered. He adjusted the holy ward on his chest. It was a gift from the Saint, given to each of the knights and priests to help keep their minds pure from interference. They did not have enough for the squires, who would have to stay close to benefit from the protection.

"You have made that quite clear. At least the other rules are less arduous," Tobias muttered.

"The others seem annoyed at the final rule."

"Well the scriptures do say that these natural treasures should be considered divine gifts. They object to a demon limiting their access to divine boons," Tobias scowled.

"We are not exactly sure what the limits are on collecting such gifts in this place, but we know that the great demon that watches over this place, the ‘Green Knight’, is willing to bring death to those who ignore the directions. It remains safer to not give him the opportunity."

"The faithful shall know temperance and grow stronger through their rejection of greed," Mordred intoned.

"Scripture also tells us to collect what power we can to bring it to bear on our enemies." Paladin Damas Fallowmere of the Ray of Labour joined them. Mordred did not like him. He had bowed far too quickly to the Oak, and even now he wore a smile, as if in on a joke that only he understood. He was an older man, further along in his path to sainthood than Mordred. Of the Paladins he had seemed to be the only one who had not been angered by how directly the Spear Saint had shown her favour.

His nature grated on Mordred. He darted around, surprising people by arriving behind them. His blessings, one of motion and one of wind, made him the fastest among them. His mastery of air made him an insufferable snoop.

"The strength grown through faith is a foundation of fired clay compared to the dried mud of borrowed power," Mordred pushed back, citing one of his favourite bits of scripture.

"Yet a flawed foundation may in time see its imperfections purged through the dedication to the true path." Again he smiled that irritating smile. "Surely you’re not implying that I am flawed?"

That was the other thing. Damas was also a convert, one who had switched after they had formed their ‘intent’. Mordred never fully trusted such men. Their foundation was settled in heathen style.

"I’m sure Paladin Mordred was making observations of his own path," Tobias jumped in smoothly.

"Indeed. I am not senior enough to lecture on the scriptures," Mordred nodded.

"Yet you are very thorough in your tempering of the others in duels." Fallowmere walked—

"Of course. My knowledge in that area is currently indisputable amongst us. Are you saying you wish to experience such tempering yourself?" Mordred felt his hand drift to his blade before Tobias gave a hasty cough.

"The Saint was clear. No such rites are to be completed on this mission."

"Of course, let us direct that against the heathens, and see our mission complete. I merely wished to exchange pointers on scripture with my ally." Fallowmere smiled. Mordred wanted to punch the man. The convert had needled him, drawing out anger and violence that should have been restrained.

He could have forgiven it if it was to help him in his faith, but Fallowmere was not that kind of man. He just wanted to see Mordred fall. Grinding his teeth, he noticed that Tobias was standing close to him, and the sounds of the forest were dimmed.

"I have made it so he can’t overhear us. Now please calm down." The priest glared at him. Mordred took in a long breath, calming his will.

"I am focused on the mission," Mordred said thrice, before he settled back into the march.

"I’ll believe that when you’re watching him like you’re waiting for a chance to stick a knife in his neck," Tobias said next to him, a faint smile on his lips.

"I can focus on two things at once," Mordred muttered.

"This is not going to be easy," sighed the priest.

"Rays above, what a monster," Fallowmere shouted as the demon beast tore out of the earth. A body went flying through the air, one of the squires no doubt. Mordred growled in response even as he rushed forward.

"You dare take the—"

"Focus, the pair of you. We need to kill the abomination. Squires, keep the priests safe!" Tobias yelled from behind them, dodging a chunk of earth that flew through the air.

Heavy earthen claws came down, landing upon a squire who had tripped on the shaking ground. The blow ripped him in half, carving through man and armour. He did not even have time to scream.

"Watch for other threats. Be wary of scavengers," Mordred commanded his squires as he headed into the fight, joining the other Paladins.

"My lightning does little," the Inquisitor growled, her lightning rolling off the armoured fur.

"Keep it off me. I’ll smite it," Mordred shouted. The other Paladins nodded. While they might bicker and plot outside of battle, the scriptures were unflinching when it came to combat. No matter the grievance or grudge, all Paladins were to work together without hesitation when faced with an enemy.

And with so many priests watching for any ‘creative interpretations’ of that command, there would be none, not even the tried-and-tested ‘offering an ally an opportunity to prove themselves against a greater foe’.

Not that Mordred thought about that. He just trusted in his faith.

"Hear my prayer," Tobias called, his voice melding with the other priests. Mordred felt the power start to flow through him.

"Guiding Star, lay your light upon his blade and make it true.

Let your fire burn through shadow and unmake the thing that crawls there.

Stand at his shoulder, and let no darkness endure his strike."

His blade changed. The light no longer reflected off it, as if it had become a smooth piece of grey stone. The little motes of colour worked into the pommel lost their lustre, as if aged under the sun for a century. Hair stood on end, and those who beheld it felt a shiver dance along their spines.

Mordred stood solemnly, and then strode forth. Blade in a high guard, point fixed between the eyes of the foul creature.

The badger began to retreat. It was panicked, trying to keep one arm free to defend itself from the dreadful force that approached. It was about to slide back into its burrow, but a swift strike from Paladin Damas took its back leg out.

"I judge thee, monster. I smite thee and bring you mercy." Mordred leapt forth. Desperate, the badger snapped out, its teeth clashing at where Mordred’s head would have been. But the Paladin of Mercy was prepared. He dodged low, sliding under the jaw. His other blessing, the blessing of the blade, charged his attack, imbuing his weapon with the edge it needed to cut through the demon’s defences.

He struck, punching through armour and into the soft flesh of its still-hissing throat.

The weapon sank deep, even empowered the physical blade struggled to push through the reinforced flesh of the beast. The wound was significant yet not critical, as the beast’s body and armour were so tough he could not slit the throat wide open. On the surface, it was little better than other Paladins had achieved, but the tangible world was not the threat.

The Blessing of Mercy struck.

The flesh grew weak, the monster giving a gurgling screech, throwing itself onto its hind legs, so desperate it was to escape the power draining its vitality. The exposed belly was instantly set upon by the other Paladins, yet Mordred stayed distant. The creature was already done for. His blessings worked well together, the blessing of blade to carve through defences, and the blessing of mercy to bring low those he struck.

A moment later the beast collapsed to the side, its stomach rent open, revealing a foul stench that had the other Paladins cursing. Mordred decided to ignore that this time. His attention was fixed on the creature’s skull. Surrounding where he had struck there were lines of grey, dead tissue. The creature’s hair had fallen out, revealing withered grey skin. Looking into the throat he could see the same desiccation spreading on the other side of the throat, his blade having cut through almost to the spine.

"You know, I’m bloody glad you’re on our side," Fallowmere muttered, looking over the wound.

"I am nothing without my faith. I must now meditate and see this creature’s soul purified. And I must also set the squires’ souls to rest."

"What do we do with the core?" That came from Paladin Damas.

"We leave it," one of the priests snapped. "No greed. Temper yourself."

Mordred knelt down, ignoring the bickering that kicked off. He had souls to deliver his final mercy unto.