Merrick's knuckles blanched while he fell behind, his concerns discarded -- like always. But what else could he expect? The haughty High-Elven Lord Solinaire had never bothered to disguise his contempt, and his stubborn will, never to be eroded by the voice of reason. Honour, loyalty and justice are such fickle constructs, to be woven to fit the tale of the orator, and as of the moment, Oroniel Solinaire controls the narrative. Merrick, the nameless and the disgraced, never had a voice; was never given one. It was the High-Elven Herald's theatre, though Merrick felt it more akin to an arena, where the unwilling were forced to a gladiatorial sport. That summed his experience, except the stake was the life of two; tied to a pole, and in the centre of a pyre, about to be lit -- soon.

"You could try appealing to his sense of reverence for Lord Ellandor." Lucille's eyes darted like swallows trapped, roaming conspiratorially through the rigid faces of one paladin to another. Eventually, running out of paladins and mounted gryphon knights to scrutinize, his attention fell on the assembled peasants. For the first time in his life, humbled by the attitude of Oroniel, Lord Lucille T'Fyrestok felt a kinship with the serfs -- almost one of them.

"I have tried," Merrick said wearily. "But his arrogant hide would not budge."

A snort of derision came from behind Merrick, but he did not turn to look back. He had become well acquainted with that disdainful laughter.

"Merrick, that you should isolate yourself," Oroniel taunted, "It speaks volumes."

Turning, Merrick nodded grimly, lips compressed. "Your soldiers have everyone prepared. Our assistance was not required."

"Perhaps, not assistance, but your support is expected." Oroniel's gauntleted hands slowly clasped Merrick's shoulder. "What good is the enactment of justice behind closed doors, when the masses are kept blind to the crimes committed?" His grip tightened, making a firm statement.

"Must we resort to burning them before the eyes of the whole village? Where is the compassion in forcing families of peasants to assemble, just to watch two women burn?"

Oroniel's gaze shifted. A glimmer of curiosity shone briefly in his eyes. They appraised Merrick and Lucille with amusement. "I have grown tired of your complaints." Forcefully slapping imaginary lint from Merrick's cloak, the High-elf sashayed his importance and swaggered away -- towards the hapless form of Cyrene and Antilorwe bound to the stake.

A pale, gentle face appeared beside Merrick and Lucille, followed by supple fingers smoothing the nape of his cloak. Merrick jolted, trying to see the one who intruded so near, then relaxed again as he recognised the delicate form of Lucille's scribe, Lianna Piers.

"Your Lordships," she murmured, voice too low to be barely audible. "It could be worth an effort to appeal to his vanity."

"Merrick," The panic in Lord Lucille's voice was sheer and undisguised under the sibilant tone of his whisper, "this cannot be allowed. The elves could define their laws for their own, but she is human. One of ours, and a member of the Mage's collective."

"Councilwoman Antilorwe is a representative of Sarenthill. Relationships with the free city will be strained," added Lianna for her part, "even permanently damaged. The Arch Duke would not like his coffers unfilled."

Holding up a hand to stop them from interrupting, Merrick stole the precarious moment to collect his fleeting thoughts. He stood his ground, chin raised and ignoring the sense of dread creeping through his veins. The High-elven woman, shackled to the stake, pleaded with her pale eyes that now held receding light. He gazed intently at that face. When Merrick looked into those hazel eyes, they seemed impossibly lovely, marred by her swollen jaw and the bruise on her cheek. Her torn lips moved with strenuous effort. She spoke no words; merely whispered a plea. Beg for a bargain. An exchange. Her life for her lover's freedom.

The girl chained with her back to the High-Elven woman awoke a teasing memory from the slumbering periphery of his mind. Of defending her honour in a rowdy tavern. She now seemed almost full, more feminine, with rich cheeks and filled lips. Compared to her elven lover, she bore fewer signs of mistreatment -- not that it would be of significant impact, not after the pyre is lit.

Somewhere in the crushing darkness of his mind, still far off, Merrick heard a tiny chorus singing dirge. Words were hardly necessary; each syllable echoed the voice of regret, rising above the crowd to drift across the ring of torches lingering close to the flammable pyre. The sound of his heart held pain, loneliness, and sorrow edged with a wistfulness, and made him consider the impotence of his life's deeds. He had saved her once, only to let her die a more gruesome death. No! To helplessly watch her die a gruesome death.

Closing his eyes, he tried to listen to the whisper of his heart, straining to hear past the throbbing blood in his ears. Then, Merrick made his decision.

"Where is Lord Tristan Kuhnhofer? Signal him immediately while I try to stall Oroniel," Merrick said fiercely, with a predatory squint in his eyes.

Eyes wide open, Lucille gasped at Merrick, the suggestion rippling disbelief through him. Muttering low, Lucille cautioned. "Lord Tristan is nearby, but the stahlknechte are still on the march. It would take five to six days for the full promised force to reach us. You cannot possibly think of rebelling against Lord Ellandor now."

"Help could be arranged," said Lianna with a hint of desperation. "The Pruning Hands are close by. Should we raise the banner, they would reach us in no less than the following day. And their motives never ran against the visions of His Grace."

Despite the veracity and logical stronghold in her assessment, Merrick frowned. He could feel the fragile peace slipping out of his grasp as he continued to receive stares from those two pairs of eyes. He bothered not to ask why The Pruning Hands were conveniently nearby. Not by sheer luck or coincidence.

"Yes, we would need their help. Send word to both."

---

Merrick stalked Oroniel Solinaire who stood with feet spread, firmly planted, hands clasped tightly behind, neck thrust and billowing an amalgamated aura of grim determination and fervent hatred.

"Perhaps, we should wait till Grand Paladin Champion Lord Ellandor arrives," suggested Merrick.

"This is not a dispute awaiting the decision of Mirnovian. They have been found guilty." Not even freshly pressed venom from the dripping fangs of a rock viper could rival the potency of hatred seething in his words. "Fornicating like amorous beasts under the naked sun."

"Your outrage reflects your true feelings," replied Merrick smoothly, hoping to alleviate Oroniel's flaring temper. "A trait unbecoming of a Paladin Herald."

Darting forward, Oroniel grabbed Merrick by the throat, hard enough to make the entire column of Paladins, Mounted Knights and peasants to hold their breath. The tall elf's face pulled hard at one side, exposing teeth clenched tight against the bitter bile surging. "My scouts had to circle their vile manor for days and nights, restlessly. To what extent?” It was no question. Scornful contempt oozed with his words. “To witness them delighting in decadent pleasures."

"Though I am aware of your reservations with High-Elves mixing with other races, there is no law preventing such a union." Feeling Oroniel's vice grip lessen, Merrick continued, "Besides, she is a citizen of Sarenthill and as such should be tried under their law."

Slowly, Oroniel released Merrick, glowering darkly. "We are at war, and she is punished for treason."

"Sleeping with allies is no treason," said Merrick calmly.

The snarl on Oroniel's face vanished in the space of a heartbeat, replaced by a mask of patience. With a flick of his fingers, he beckoned Lord Lucille, but finding the young noble rooted firmly to the ground he stood, Oroniel raised his voice to be heard.

"Lord Lucille, how would you judge this situation: Your steward with the keys to your treasury, slept with your trusty Lady-in-waiting in exchange to turn the other way while she emptied your coffers."

Even Merrick had to agree. The logical argument that Oroniel placed was flawless. "But why the heretic treatment? Had she committed treason, abused her position, she should have been stripped of her status and locked inside a dungeon."

"Do you, perhaps, think the justice I practice and the law I serve, is weak?" A snap of the twisted tongue caused droplets of venom to spatter on Merrick's face. "She violated the trust and misused her station. The justice of the Order of Latent Divinity will not be partial because of her illustrious service. She will be dealt with the same, just like with heretics and blasphemers."

Merrick's disgust only grew; such a blind devotion must bring the worst fanaticism in the Paladin Herald. "Must you shame them by assembling all the nearby villagers? Surely you could understand the need for anonymity in the implementation of punishment." He forced those words filled with wistful thinking. Hoping that his appeal for discretion might even convince Oroniel Solinaire to rescind his harsh judgement. Though unlikely, that would corner them with nothing, but to agree and acquiesce to Oroniel's decision.

"No one has questioned the results of the trial," Oroniel said -- because there was no trial, Merrick thought.

"Their crime has been established." -- Easy to establish when one controls the definition of said crime.

"It would be easy to separate ourselves from responsibility. But my heart cannot allow such." -- The vile darkness residing in the heart forces to seek and validate disgraceful actions, while blind to the beauty and decency shining through.

Unwavering, Merrick pleaded, "I beg of you, to at least reconsider the penalty meted out."

The blow sent Merrick reeling. Landing hard on the cold muddy ground, he was still aware of several sets of eyes -- those of Lord Lucille T'Fryrestok, Lianna Piers, his own men, the villagers and the High-elves in their pristinely gleaming armour. It did little to deter him. If anything, it inflamed him further.

Sarcasm hardened the coldness in Oroniel's glare. "You must forgive me. I do not wish to repeat myself in case our words fall to the wrong ears." Something stirred in the crowd, like a silhouette disappearing from the periphery of his view but when his gaze sharpened, Oroniel was left with nothing but cowering peasants before him.

For a brief intractably defiant moment, Merrick longed for the tangible feel of a blade in his hands. Something deeper, like a yawning cavern in the soul stirred awake by echoes of ignominy. He stood and instead, with his shoulders squared and eyes hard as stone, turned and scurried away, head high, chin thrust forward.

---

Chagrin cascaded through the ancient frame of Altonarrak, the wraith of the tempest brigade. Clutching his tattered cloak tightly to hide his ebony dark features from all. Being old, skin riddled with wrinkles and bones gnarled, helped him avoid scrutinizing eyes. No one spares a second glance at an old man, especially if the old codger is clad in mended robes and a grime-covered cloak. And the smell. Definitely the smell. It kept curious people from getting too curious. He did not smell bad. He stank to heavens. Stench, so bad that even necromancers gave him wide berth. There was a secret to infiltration; not to remain unassuming to be unnoticed but rather be disgusting enough for people to willingly force his image out of their minds.

Should he stand in front of the prim Oroniel, the high-elf would twist his nose as if he smelled the contents of a chamber pot and dismiss. This suited Altonarrak just fine. But what Oroniel Solinaire was about to do, would run counter to all his carefully crafted effort -- and in the most witless foolery. While Merrick would have assayed that the whole farce is nothing but a circus and Lord Oroniel Solinaire a clown, Altonarrak sensed differently. Lord Solinaire was no clown, he was the whole circus.

The devious plan of Altonarrak involved planting seeds of doubts in the minds of gullible Orcs -- to mistrust Urganza. To strip her of her position, her command, and her loyal warriors and eventually to suppress the awakening of her true potential. More importantly, to relieve Rylonvirah of a valuable ally. The travesty that Oroniel is about to commit -- the morality of it bothered Altonarrak least -- had only a singular impact. Urganza's rallying her forces in a final assault against Fort Halcyon. That is where the tapestry of logical deduction bifurcated.

Either Urganza's actions would lead to a total decimation of the Orcs, fulfilling the Thunder Caller Prophecy and Urganza herself, forgotten in a nameless trench. Or she would reach and grasp the sweet seductive power of ascension and together, Urganza and Rylonvirah would defeat Lyllantharas. But they would not stop. Rylonvirah would force Lyria, shred through the shell she is shackled to, and then, together they would wage war -- against heaven and hell and all planes in the void.

Rescuing the two Maiden to Urganza would earn the gratitude of the Orc. But a lone dark elf overwhelming a company of veteran paladins and Mounted Gryphon Knights would trail back to him, eventually forcing an oblivious and adamant Dellynthelaara into a conflict that is not her own. The orc would serve as the bridge connecting the drifting mother and daughter. They would reforge their bond at the wedding, and Dellynthelaara aided by her mothers would wage a war.

Altonarrak slumped, feeling helpless. Every thread of reasoning led to the same inevitable conclusion.

A chorus of voices, a din of the crowd and then the bark of order, followed by flaming torches falling on the pyre. Their brilliant orange flames flickering, dancing, slowly, very slowly, consuming the offered wood.

For Altonarrak, there was only a singular choice left. Intercept Urganza. Provide her with a kind, merciful death, perhaps without revealing the fate of her two lovers. That much compassion, Altonarrak felt, was deserved.

"Under what crime did you sentence them?" The crowd parted, an unseen hand of ephemeral fear guiding them to separate; leaving a clear path for Urganza to walk towards the pyre and in her wake, unchained brutality followed.

---

"Boar woman, this is not Orc Lands, for you to demand answers." Oroniel scowled at Urganza, personally offended by her presence. His knuckles paled on the ivory handle of his longsword. "You have no authority to command here."

"What granted you the authority to capture my wives?" Urganza stalked Oroniel with sleek and predatory steps. Her fierce eyes ignored the notched arrows and drawn bows and focussed intently on the Paladin Herald.

"Your wife?"

"Wives," corrected Urganza.

The circle of High-elven soldiers with the spike of their halberds pointed in a converging circle narrowed around Urganza.

"I demand that you release my wives."

The gleaming tip of the halberds narrowed further, shortening the distance.

With a battle-hardened squint, Urganza drank the sheen in the beak of the halberds. "Your weapons are sharp and shiny."

"Paladins weapons are always well-cared for, Orc." spat Oroniel. Potent venom oozed in his utterance of her race.

"The only sharp and shiny blade is an unused blade. Leave, those of you who can and I will grant mercy." Urganza felt a single brave halberd prodding her. Testing her reflexes but none dared to press.

At a single growl from Urganza, the distance between the threatening halberds and herself widened. Her turbulent aura exuded sheer brutality and savagery. Even gryphons, the apex predators of the sky, undeterred and unyielding in challenging the dragons for supremacy, ruffled their feathers in fear.

"Listen to your beasts. Their instincts guide them well when a higher predator approaches," called out Urganza. Her warnings were ignored.

The orc warrioress advanced with a soft callous thud of earth trodden by her boot soles, rattling the handle of her axe. Drawing her to full height, her body bore scars of a hundred battles and, rippled with undulating muscles beneath. Almost like jagged crags driven deep in mountain ranges, fissures that moved. Seeing the flames yet to engulf the pyre, she stood between her wives and the high elf.

"My wives are battered and I must nurse them, so leave on your fancy gryphon and live. Stay and I will dine on gryphon stew tonight."

Oroniel's slender longsword flashed in his hands, tracing a lazy arc. A calculated blur passed dangerously close to Urganza's neck.

Hefting her heavy-bladed axe, Urganza slipped into her element, indulging in the three actions that she does best: She pointed her axe. Grunted and started splitting skulls.