“Your Grace, please wake up.”

Pascal’s consciousness was still forming when a hand shook his shoulders.

“Your Grace.”

“Kaede… stop.” Pascal mumbled as his arm reached up to his throbbing forehead. His cheeks felt the hard, wooden surface that it laid on. It seemed that he had fallen asleep on his desk yet again. “Give me… a minute.”

“I’m not your familiar.” The voice added before Pascal realized that it was masculine, if rather soft in tone. “And we don’t have a minute.”

The fog in Pascal’s head began to disperse. He rubbed his eyes as he sat up and turned towards his visitor. His vision slowly gained clarity as the figure of a disheveled Oriflamme Armiger came into view.

“Sir Robert.”

The handsome young man stood just beside Pascal in his cabin. Judging by the darkness through the window, the sun had yet to peak over the horizon.

“Your Grace, we have a problem,” Robert began. “Captain Erwan…”

Pascal tensed the moment he heard the name. He had sent off Lady Lynette and most of the rangers with Vivienne. This left only a hundred rangers in the main force under the command of Captain Erwan — which Pascal had reorganized into five ‘ranger banners’ using militia volunteers who had extensive woodland experience.

“Captain Erwan reported that one of the screening units he left behind was attacked earlier this morning by Cataliyan light cavalry.”

Pascal blinked twice as his still-drowsy brain thought through what this meant. To protect the army’s back, Erwan left several detachments between eight to twelve kilopaces behind to screen the main force. It wasn’t unusual for them to skirmish with Cataliyan advanced scouts, but…

The young lord stared out the dark window. Not at this hour.

“By how many?”

“At least two hundred, before the Farspeak link was cut.” Robert answered as the door opened to admit Sylviane and her maid Mari into Pascal’s expandable cabin.

“I’ve sent orders to wake the army up.” The Princess declared as her hands were still fixing her tiara and straightening out her hair. “They must be raiding us.”

Pascal pulled out his arcane pocketwatch. It was almost daybreak.

The Cataliyans should know that he had already reached Glywysing. With a town at his back and an early warning to alert them, there was no way a raid could inflict any significant damage. The only value of such an attack would be to disturb the army’s rest. However, that was clearly not the goal when the soldiers were about to wake up anyway.

Yet, if it wasn’t a skirmish between scouts, and it wasn’t a raid, then that left only one option. This was an aggressive, all-out morning assault after a concealed overnight march.

The Caliphate certainly had the motive: to seek vengeance and restore morale after yesterday’s disaster at Lysardh Point. This was especially the case as the Lotharin army was still divided, as a sizeable contingent of rangers and archers had been given to Vivienne and had yet to return.

I really should have expected this. Pascal berated himself. Had he been in their shoes, he might have opted for the same gamble.

“No,” His solemn voice nevertheless remained calm. “They moved up under the cover of darkness. This is a full attack.”

“How do you–?” Sylviane looked back in surprise.

“I will explain later. But right now we need to assemble the entire army into battle order, immediately!” Pascal stood up and strode towards the door.

There was no time to retreat. The Cataliyan force’s combat elements were mostly mounted. If they shed their logistical units and traveled light through the woods, then they were most likely just thirty or so minutes out.

“And Sylv,” Pascal stopped the Princess before she could follow her two armigers out. His concerned eyes met with his fiancée’s pretty wisteria gaze.

This time, they truly had their backs to the wall. There was no river to cover a retreat. The army must stand its ground or be destroyed.

His fiancée’s countenance softened with sentiment. This really could be their last private moment together. Yet, Pascal’s final statement was anything but romantic:

“Give this order to the men,” Pascal said as he pulled out a scroll of paper. “Kaede had drafted this before she left in the case of an emergency. I had hoped that we would not have to use it, as it is rather extreme. However, given the current situation, we must take advantage of every tool at our disposal.”

Sylviane frowned with the faintest scowl as she received the ‘orders’ from Pascal’s familiar. Yet, as she opened the scroll and read its contents, her disapproval vanished into astonishment as her eyes swelled into saucers.

“Kaede wrote this?” The Princess stared back up at Pascal. “I can hardly believe it.”

“Nor could I, if I had not seen her write it herself.” Pascal answered before he joked: “you can also tell by the awful handwriting. She is still not used to writing in our language.”

“But this is so… unlike her,” Sylviane couldn’t help commenting.

“Kaede had told me that in her world, during the decisive ‘Battle of Stalingrad’ that changed the course of a world war, this was one of the most instrumental orders that brought victory to the army of her homeland,” Pascal explained. “Though she also noted that our political enemies will surely try to use this as propaganda to vilify us later, just as it had happened in her world.”

“If we’re still significant enough to be vilified, I’d consider that a success for today,” the Princess answered sarcastically as her fiancé’s lips formed a slight smirk. “I take it that the citation ‘Order 227’ is the original name of this?”

“She is still a scholar at heart,” Pascal nodded with a smile as he straightened his uniform shirt and put on his ‘war face’. His smirk grew even more lopsided as his expression became the very definition of conceit, arrogance, but also confidence.

“Not a step back,” he then declared in the same motto that Kaede wrote before stepping out the door.

 

—– * * * —–

 

Edith emerged from her tent as she finished tightening the straps to her cuirass.

The sun’s halo had just peeked over the horizon. Its rays dyed the skies a dawning red. A low morning mist still enshrouded the camp, and most of its soldiers were either asleep or just waking up. Yet as the Saint marched between tents, she found the Knights Hospitaller of her Steel Lily banner were already assembled in neat rows and waiting.

Despite being a paramilitary religious order and therefore not officially part of the army, the Steel Lily was one of the most elite units in the Lotharin order of battle. Edith had relied on them in every engagement to hold the most critical point in her front line. However, after weeks of ferocious fighting, the banner had been reduced from over two hundred sisters, to just thirty-nine.

King Alistair had left Edith several royal armigers to help replenish her numbers. Yet in this most critical moment, Edith decided that she couldn’t trust them. No, only her sword-sisters would watch her back in the coup today.

Leading the unit was Mother Abbess Anne, who greeted her foster daughter and commander with a knightly salute.

“We’re ready.”

Edith nodded as she took a deep breath. This was truly the point of no return.

The two women paused as they heard a strange, unintelligible cry in the distance. It came from the center of the overall encampment.

“Must be one of the nobles,” Anne remarked with a disapproving gaze. “I told the six of them to marshal their troops within their own encampments to minimize attention…!”

The blast of a distant trumpet then interrupted Anne. A second, prolonged note then followed the first, which meant that it was a call for emergency assembly to battle formation.

“Assemble for…!” Edith could hear the yelling grow closer.

“Someone must have warned them!” Anne glared into the morning mist before swiveling back to the Crusader Saint. “We must act, now! While we still retain an element of surprise!”

However, Edith stopped her with a raised hand.

Something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Edith wasn’t sure why yet. But her intuition was screaming at her to stop.

What is the Holy Father trying to tell me? She thought as her gaze met the eyes of her phoenix Durandal. Yet the bird could only blink back as his majestic blue form perched atop her spaulder.

The trumpet calls spread as more and more signalers woke up and joined in.

“ASSEMBLE FOR BATTLE!” The distant, magically-amplified words rang loud and clear this time.

A column of two dozen noble armigers in half-plate emerged from the mist. They were led by Duchess Jeanette — the same noblewoman who had been insulted by King Alistair several days ago — as they hustled into Edith’s encampment.

“Just what is going on!? What are you waiting for?” The Duchess anxiously demanded.

Yet before anyone could reply, a runner sprinted in from the direction of the central camp.

“We’re… about to be attacked!” The signaler halted before Edith, breathless. “Her Highness… requests for you… to raise the cross!”

“Attacked!?” Anne demanded. “By the Caliphate? How!?”

“I don’t know!” The young man huffed. “Her Highness said… it’s an emergency! And that… and that…”

“And what!?”

“A-any noble or captain… who fails to answer the call to arms… who prepares his soldiers for retreat instead of combat… who deserts the field in the face of duty, is to be summarily executed as a traitor!” The signaler recited with wide eyes as though he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth. “Their titles and lands will be declared forfeit and given to those below them who exemplified themselves in this time of crisis!”

“PREPARE FOR BATTLE!” Yet more yells began to resound across the camp.

“LORDS AND COMMANDANTS TO THE COMMAND CABIN! ALL BANNERS PREPARE FOR COMBAT!”

“I still have other lords to inform. Please excuse me, Milady.” The young man added before running off. He clearly wasn’t concerned about Saint Estelle’s willingness to fight.

“This is a trick.” Duchess Jeanette seethed as she balled her fists. “She knows!”

The Mother Abbess stared back with doubt and turmoil written all over her face. Was this alert real, or a pretense? Were they truly under attack by infidels? Or was this just a ruse to round up the traitors?

Everything was rapidly spinning out of control.

A breeze seemed to pick up in the sparsely wooded army encampment as the morning mist began to thin. It was not enough to see into the distance. But it was sufficient to spot a hazy, cerulean halo in the air — the burning-blue figure of an Oriflamme.

Apart from Edith, there was only one other paladin currently in camp: Her Highness, Crown Princess Sylviane.

— And she was headed straight this way.

“Edith!” The Princess’ voice resounded over the air. “Raise the cross! The infidels are coming!”

“This is our chance!” Duchess Jeanette hissed at the Saint from just a few steps away. “Seize command before she takes our heads and finds another reason to withdraw!

“Stand ready!” The Duchess ordered her armigers to deploy into combat formation as the cerulean halo drew closer. Her orders were immediately echoed by Mother Abbess Anne.

“Stand down!” Edith immediately yelled at her own knights. The conflicting orders caused them to all look back at a loss.

Even Anne stared back in confusion. Her widening gaze all but shouted ‘what are you doing?’

The timing weighed heavily on Edith’s mind. The attack, the rally, the orders given that tolerated no retreat of any kind…

This cannot be a coincidence! Her thoughts raced as she faced the incoming princess. Nothing happened by mere coincidence!

She had asked for a sign last night — a sign from the Holy Father which had clearly been given.

“Edith!” The Princess cried as she landed with two armigers in tow. She was no more than twenty steps away with her hands still empty and unarmed.

Sylviane then paused as she looked upon the assembled knights and armigers. Her eyes narrowed as her hand reached up for her necklace.

“Take her!” Duchess Jeanette pointed a steely finger. “Or we will all hang by nightfall!”

Edith had no doubt that the second half of the order was directed at her. But as twenty noble armigers charged forward with their shield and maces, the saint closed her eyes and reached one conclusion.

Thank you, Holy Father.

She felt the flames as the phoenix Durandal merged into her body. Righteous authority coursed through her as she knew with absolute conviction in where her duty lay.

“In the name of the Holy Father, YOU WILL STAND DOWN!”

The leading armiger had already swung his mace. Yet, distracted by the Saint’s orders, his attack was easily deflected by the royal maid’s shield. The rest of the men virtually halted in their tracks. Their turning eyes were bewildered by the clashing orders.

Her Highness, however, did not hesitate. With no doubt of the perpetrator, she materialized her shield and meteor hammer from a cloud of cerulean sparkles that burst forth from her necklace.

“Elspeth!” Sylviane called her bodyguard as she pinned Duchess Jeanette with a death glare.

The petite royal armiger didn’t even voice a reply. With a surge of magic, Elspeth leaped over the heads of the armored troops. She spun once in mid air before flinging out her own meteor hammer. Its steel rope trailed behind as the weighted end shot straight for Jeanette’s face.

The Duchess’ own shield was caught out of position and she barely stepped aside in time. A sharpened spike on the meteor drew a line of blood as it flew across her cheek. However, as Elspeth’s gloved fingers caught the cord and gave it a hard yank to her other side, the retracting weight deployed its four bladed spikes — one of which pierced into Jeanette’s cheeks and sheared off half of her face.

Bloodcurdling screams emerged from the noblewoman as she reached up to her mutilated appearance. Yet even that lasted only seconds as Elspeth landed and released the meteor again. This time the weight plunged straight into Jeanette’s face. Its magically amplified momentum crushed the Duchess’ skull in the process.

With their liege killed before their eyes, the armigers turned their attention back to the Princess. Their glares were a mixture of turmoil, uncertainty, and outrage.

Behind her shield and her royal maid, Sylviane seemed to relax as she loosened her grip on the chains of her meteor hammer. She stood back straight, regal and confident, assured of her divine protection as she offered those present a chance for mercy.

“Do not make me spill another drop of Lotharin blood.” The Princess warned in a deathly calm voice. “Fight, today, not for me or that traitorous bitch, but for Rhin-Lotharingie and the Holy Father, for your home and for your families! Fight with courage, and I swear before the Lord: I will not hold any of you at blame.”

A tense silence passed as the armigers remained still with weapons ready. Some stole peeks at others in confusion at what should be done now.

“ALL BANNERS, PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”

Another round of calls resounded through the camp’s background. The cries to arms seemed to finally break the stalemate.

“We will hold you to your word then,” the leader of Jeanette’s armigers growled back. His tone was still furious, but he nevertheless backed away before ordering his men: “Withdraw! We must prepare Her Grace’s troops for battle!”

They left without a second of delay, leaving only Princess Sylviane, Lady Edith-Estellise, and their respective entourage still in the compartmentalized camp.

Sylviane closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though the worst was over. Her facade of composure cracked and fell apart. By the time her eyes reopened to meet Edith’s, they were seething with disappointment and betrayal.

Yet, instead of showing anxiety, the Saint smiled a little and breathed a sigh of relief. It was refreshing to know that the Princess still trusted her, enough to refrain from further violence before meeting their common foe. After all, as good as Elspeth and Mari were as armigers, neither of them stood a chance of holding back the Crusader Saint.

“Now you know.”

For the first time in days, Edith felt a burden lift from her soul. There were no longer any plots to hide, any backstabs to scheme. She would face judgment, but with a clear conscience that she had done as the Holy Father commanded in the end.

“I have known, since before Gwilen,” the Princess remarked in a scornful voice. “However, I’d never thought that you would actually go through with it.”

“Neither did I.” Edith closed her eyes as she shook her head. “But even those blessed by the Church cannot always understand the mysterious ways of our Lord. I have erred in my arrogance, and now… my due penance must be paid.”

The Crusader Saint released Durandal from their union. She stepped forward and knelt down on both knees. Her arms reached down as she drew the pristine Sword of Charity and presented it to her liege with both hands.

“Do with it as you will.”

For a brief moment, the Princess stayed motionless, stunned. To a knight of the holy orders, their weapon was the symbol of their monastic life. Whatever else Sylviane had expected, a display of total submission was clearly not one of them.

Edith even bowed her head towards the ground, which would have exposed the back of her thin neck had it not been for the black half-veil that hung behind her head. Given the circumstances, it would be perfectly reasonable for Sylviane to grab the sword and shove it down her spine, to bestow upon her a clean death.

“Your Highness!”

The sound of armored knees hitting ground came from behind Edith as Mother Abbess Anne pleaded for her foster daughter’s life.

“The fault lies with me, not her. If–”

“Mother, please,” Edith interrupted with her head still bowed. “The choice was mine to make. The sin is mine to bear. I must be allowed to take responsibility before the eyes of our Lord.”

She heard the whimper of a mother in anguish. Nevertheless, Anne said no more as Edith made clear her resolve.

The Princess reached out with her hand and settled it on top of the holy blade. Edith felt it as the weight in her palms shifted. Any second now, her sword and life would be taken out of her hands.

Then, it stopped.

The weight of dragon-forged steel soon pressed harder into her fingers, before the Princess’ armored boots stepped back.

“Keep it,” Sylviane declared. “You will need it today.”

The Saint and Oriflamme looked up. Has she really been given another chance?

The Princess’ phoenix-blue gaze remained a whirlpool of emotions. She sighed with exasperation as anger and betrayal mixed with mercy and kindness. However, behind them all laid a firm wall of resolve — a gentle light that reflected from an unyielding wall of steel.

“Edith,” Sylviane began. “I know you’re not loyal to me. You certainly don’t respect me like the way you did my father. But… I also know that you would gladly die for the people of Rhin-Lotharingie, that you would never betray their interests and cause.”

Edith felt the Princess’ hand grasping hers beneath the sword. Sylviane then pulled the Saint back up onto her feet and tapped her armored shoulder.

“Fight well today, and we will never speak of this again.”

It was the ultimate gesture of forgiveness, to wipe the floor clean as though it had never occurred.

Edith bit her lips and nodded. A joyful relief flooded her thoughts. Even a few tears leaked into her eyes as she tightened her fingers around the Princess’ hand.

Why did I ever doubt?

Sylviane had released her grasp and was about to turn away before she stopped to add:

“And Edith — next time you believe the Holy Father has a problem with my decisions, I expect you to challenge me face-to-face, preferably in private so we can talk without some opportunistic noble cutting in. No more of this behind-my-back business. It’s not you. And it plays straight into those worthless schemers’ hands.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Edith bowed low before the Princess.

With one last respectful nod, the Princess turned and took off into the air. Then, before she could rush off to the central camp, Sylviane swiveled to shout back a final order:

“Don’t forget the Cross!”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Time was of the essence, and she flew off without another word.

Edith sheathed the holy sword once more before she closed her eyes to clear the water from her gaze. Her reply then followed in a whispered, barely audible voice:

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

She would have to thank the Lord for his guidance later. But for now, she had another test to face, a battle to win.