(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man's voice dropped to a whisper, as if the memory itself might hear him and strike. "Dawn came like a wound. The sky was the color of bruised flesh, and the air was so still you could hear your own heartbeat echoing off the walls. We stood on the battlements, watching the horizon, waiting for the moment when hope would die."
He closed his eyes.
"It did not take long."
— Memory —
They appeared at first light.
Not as a marching army, with drums and banners and the thunder of boots. They came as a river; a slow, inexorable flood of bodies that spilled over the hills and filled the valleys. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Men, women, children. Old and young. Armed with pitchforks and scythes, clubs and kitchen knives, their faces turned toward Lyon with an expression that was not hunger or hatred, but something far more terrifying.
Certainty.
Aurelio stood on the battlements, his hands gripping the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the approaching horde. Beside him stood Captain Renaud, her face hidden behind her helm, her voice flat and professional.
"How many?" Aurelio asked.
"Hard to say. Three thousand. Perhaps four."
"And we have?"
"Eight hundred able-bodied fighters. Another two hundred who can hold a spear if it comes to it."
"Not enough."
"No. But it is what we have."
At the head of the column rode a white horse. On it sat a figure in simple robes, his hands raised to the sky, his lips moving in what might have been prayer or blessing. Even from this distance, Aurelio could see the pale eyes, the gaunt face, the thin smile that never wavered.
Godbrand.
The Prophet of the Cleansing.
The army halted a thousand paces from the gates. The white horse stepped forward, and Godbrand raised his voice. It carried across the field with unnatural clarity, as if the very air bent to carry his words.
"People of Lyon!" he called. "I come in peace! I come with a message from the Almighty! He has seen your suffering. He has heard your cries. And He has sent me to deliver you!"
"Liar!" someone shouted from the walls. Aurelio could not see who.
Godbrand did not flinch. "You call me a liar because you fear the truth. The truth is that the plague is a gift. A purification. A chance to wash away the filth of centuries and start anew. The truth is that the old world is dying, and only those who embrace the new will survive."
"What do you want?" Captain Renaud shouted.
"I want you to open your gates. I want you to kneel. I want you to accept the cleansing. Do this, and no harm will come to you. Resist, and you will be swept away like chaff before the wind."
"And if we refuse?"
Godbrand smiled. "Then you will learn that mercy is a door that closes only once."
He turned his horse and rode back to his army. The column began to move, encircling the city, settling into siege positions. Within an hour, Lyon was surrounded.
"He is not going to attack," Liam said, appearing at Aurelio's shoulder. "Not yet. He is going to wait. He is going to starve us. He is going to let fear do his work for him."
"Then we do not wait. We attack first."
"With eight hundred against four thousand?"
"We do not attack his army. We attack his supplies. His siege lines. His confidence."
Liam was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "It is a risk."
"Everything is a risk."
The first sortie came at midnight.
Aurelio led a small team through the sewers, emerging in a drainage ditch half a mile from the walls. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind clouds, and the enemy camp was lit only by scattered fires.
"Riccio, you are with me," Aurelio whispered. "Liam, take Donata and circle around to the supply wagons. Hit them hard and fast, then fall back. Do not engage unless you have to."
"And you?"
"We are going to pay the Prophet a visit."
They moved through the darkness like ghosts, their footsteps silent on the cold earth. The enemy camp was a chaos of tents and cookfires, of sleeping bodies and pacing sentries. Godbrand's followers were not soldiers; they did not post proper watches, did not dig latrines, did not maintain a perimeter. They were a mob, and mobs were vulnerable.
Aurelio found the Prophet's tent at the center of the camp. It was larger than the others, adorned with a wooden cross and banners painted with flames. Two guards stood at the entrance, their eyes heavy with fatigue.
"Wait here," Aurelio whispered to Riccio. "If I do not come back, run."
He crept forward, his knife in his hand. The first guard never saw him. He was asleep on his feet, his head nodding, his spear drooping toward the ground. Aurelio struck him on the temple with the pommel of his knife, and he crumpled without a sound.
The second guard turned. Aurelio's hand clamped over his mouth, and the knife pressed against his throat.
"Where is Godbrand?" Aurelio hissed.
The guard pointed toward the tent.
Aurelio released him with a shove and slipped inside.
The tent was empty.
No Godbrand. No cot. No belongings. Just a single candle, burning on a small table, and a piece of parchment weighted down with a stone.
Aurelio picked up the parchment. The handwriting was neat, precise, almost elegant.
Grove-keeper,
I knew you would come. I knew you could not resist. You are so predictable, so bound by your own sentiment. Did you truly think I would be here, waiting for you like a lamb for the slaughter?
I am elsewhere. I am everywhere. I am in the hearts of my followers, in the minds of my enemies, in the prayers of the dying. You cannot kill an idea, Aurelio. You can only prove it right.
Enjoy your little victory. Burn my supply wagons. Kill my guards. It does not matter. I have already won.
See you in hell.
—Godbrand
Aurelio crumpled the parchment in his fist.
"Riccio!" he shouted. "We are leaving!"
They ran through the darkness, the enemy camp erupting behind them. Liam's attack had succeeded; the supply wagons were burning, the flames leaping high into the night. But Aurelio felt no satisfaction. Only dread.
Godbrand was not here. He was somewhere else. Somewhere worse.
They reached the sewers as the first arrows began to fall.
The next morning, Captain Renaud reported the damage.
"We destroyed a quarter of their supplies," she said. "They will be hungry in a week. But they are not retreating. They are digging in."
"And Godbrand?"
"No sign of him. His followers say he has gone to pray. To consult with God. To prepare for the final battle."
"He is not coming back," Aurelio said.
Charlotte looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"He was never here. That army... it is not his. It is bait. A distraction. He is somewhere else, doing something worse."
"Where?"
Aurelio shook his head. "I do not know. But I intend to find out."
— Present —
The old man opened his eyes. The fire had been rebuilt, and the flames cast dancing shadows across the walls.
"We spent three weeks in Lyon," he said. "Three weeks of fighting, of dying, of watching the city starve. Godbrand never returned. His followers fought on without him, believing he would come back, believing he was testing their faith."
He looked at the Scholar.
"He was not testing them. He was using them. They were pawns, sacrificed so he could pursue a greater goal."
"What goal?" the Scholar asked.
Aurelio's face was stone. "Rome. Nero. The Shade. He was not trying to conquer Lyon. He was trying to reach the Eternal City before we did."