[X] The Jack of Hearts
Undisclosed Location, Northern France
July 1431
"Again."
The knight moves. He parries. He dies.
"Again."
The Hire-God steps back, letting the halberd pass through the shadow of where he once was. He raised his longsword up. He dies, the spike of the pole weapon rammed deep in his heart..
"Again."
He takes a deep breath. Ira Dei draws deep into his choler. He steps forward. And he did not die as he stepped inside the guard of the opponent.
For three seconds, at least. Before the good Sister disembowels him with her hand and he dies with his sword halfway in her right biceps.
"And done." And La Hire is back to where he started twenty minutes ago, before the Pater invoked his thaumaturgy.
The knight collapsed where he stood, taking deep exhalations as he grappled with death. Irina is more relaxed, but then again, she had done this for years. The Pater — who to this day refuses to give his name — had done onto them what to La Hire had considered fantasy. He had not died, not in truth. But in spirit, he died as much as a hundred times today alone, for the Pater had casted what is bluntly 'magecraft'.
It is a simple thing, as had been explained to him. Nothing more than a mere perceptional spell that allowed both he and Irina to spar and train the fear of death away. For the Burial Classroom dealt with things far worse than the men he had murdered. For while he oft murdered the English curs in spans of seven seconds a time, he never faced those whose eyes could shatter steel and those whose fists could topple walls.
So he fought the Sister. He had died and murdered, more the former than latter, for the past four weeks.
"Good progress, but not enough. Never enough." The Pater said simply as he proffered the mentally exhausted knight a mug of ale. "We move come the break of dawn. For now, rest and recuperate."
"But this tow-"
"It will survive. For while the burnings continue, we have done what we can." The Pater is right, La Hire knew, but he refused still to entertain the notion that enough has been done. "Don't give me that look, Wrath." He smiles at some unknown joke. "Us two humble Students have done what we can to aid you."
"False humility does you disservice, Pater." La Hire replied with a growl.
"So does blasphemy, I do think. But then, that is our lot's choice."
He can't form a rebuttal to that, so La Hire spits at the ground beside the standing Student. "Night then, Pater." And he left without any other word.
"...That was unusual of you, Father."
"Mmm, I am losing my patience as well. Killing dragons and saving the souls of the land is good and all, but our quarry eludes us that one step ahead for a month now. The one step that would have been closed had we not humour his request."
"Request." Irina repeated blankly.
"He does not command us, no."
"Neither us him. And we deprive France the one strategist it needs."
"The incarnated Servants have with them strategic acumen. Besides which, the Dauphin remains in play." This would not be the first or the last time the two Students have this argument. Not when the stakes are as they are.
After all, a third of the Army threw their lot with the Draconic Menace.
And with them, one of the Marshals of France.
Undisclosed Location, Paris
At the Same Time
"Caster."
The Servant in question stopped his quills from moving and set aside the parchments to face his superior.
"Marshal," He nodded. "What can this defective Servant do for you?"
The countenance of Gilles de Rais has seen better days. His long dark locks are more disheveled than not. His raiment is flecked with drying blood aplenty. There's a haggardness to his frame that bellies exhaustion of a sort.
And then, there's his eyes.
Eyes of those resigned to their condemnation. Eyes of sinners. Eyes that Caster would not mind plucking out of their sockets as the starting measure of fitting punishment.
But he won't, because there remains a conduct to these things.
That, and for as much as his armours are unkempt, his unsheathed blade still gleams sharply despite the heads he cut.
"Do not undersell yourself, Caster. For as much as your summoning is accidental, my maiden seems to be blessed with foresight still, that you would be the one to arrive."
"Bullshit, Marshal." Caster rose from his seat, blood dripping on the floor as he did so. "Your incarnated Avenger is an idiot and your blind devotion does you no good." Caster smiled then, it's an ugly one. "Ah, but you're not blind, are you?"
"Continue that line of thought, then I will sever your head from your body."
"You'd be better served at cutting off my hands. But then, you need them. Your orders then, Marshal." And just so, the Caster bowed deep, as if he had not dealt onto de Rais a skewer through his heart.
"...Behind the frontlines. Take Berserker with you. And do what you do best."
"According to your laws then. By your leave, Marshal."
Domremy, France
Fifteen hours later.
A crack. A displacement of air. A warped space from a void made nearly six hundred years in the future. And just so suddenly, six figures fell like starlight just above the ground of the peaceful village.
And straight down into the group of soldiers hardy with spears and crossbows pointed up the air.
"Well then." Billy the Kid eyed his Master, who remained in her calm repose she stared down the leader of the — here the information repository helpfully inserted — lance, resting atop his steed. "Orders?"
"King David?" The simple reply, directed not at just her Archer but to everyone else hearing. "You're up."
Two simple words, and all the regal Archer needs to do is to shine his Divinely ordained in a proactive manner.
And the man-at-arms near threw himself from his steed, recognizing the touch of God for what it is.
"Chaldeans? I suppose after everything, I shouldn't be surprised." The man-at-arms, Leroux, nods numbly as he hears the spiel from the Servant known as David. "If La Pucelle and her vengeful spirit came back with dragons, this is… digestible."
The two Masters and David surround the lance leader and give onto one another glances, wondering who should make the first query.
"Explain." Hinako Akuta said, forcing herself to not speak French.
"It's sudden really. We knew that she would be burned at the stake but we did not know that she would return to us in a vengeful manner and seek to burn everything with dragons. Madness, those first few days were. A third of the army joined her because she directed her assault on the damned Burgundians and English. And then she just," He waved his hands helplessly. "Burned. Everything burned. And then- Providence came."
"La Pucelle." The Archer summed up, forming the mental battlements in his mind with the map of what Chaldea knows.
"She came onto the Dauphin and in our time of need and that was that. We organized, we set the refugee lines, and backed with the grace of God against the fires of retribution, the fighting of man stopped. For the most part."
For Ritsuka though, it takes all she can to keep up with the pace of the conversation. But one thing stuck to her.
"Wait, and you're here because…?"
Lances of Domremy: 37
"Because this remains the birthplace of the Maiden, Mistress of Chaldea." Leroux said, with pride clear in his voice. "And we will be here unto death." He pauses. "Or at least, until the kind folks here evacuate. Not that that's happening anyway."
"Explain." Hinako repeated, her tune softer yet more urgent.
"We've but three lances and six horses and no wagons. We cannot evacuate to any safe harbours. Chalons has fallen, and Mâcon will soon follow though…" He looks appraisingly at the group. "I take it you Chaldeans have your own plans."
"We do. We wish to meet with the incarnated Spirit of Jeanne." Hinako said simply. "For we have a plan to help turn the tide."
"That said, it would behoove us to not render aid." The Archer said. "Are you truly so stretched that only three mere lances remain?"
"More or less. Well, we have those ballistae," He points at the trio of warmachines of wood, their bolts at the ready. "But we cannot procure any bombards here."
"That is a sha-" David paused and the instant after, Hinako tenses.
The instant after that, Medea lights up a flare violet.
"An attack." Hinako nodded at the Archer, who manifested his crook and sling as he made himself the image of a Shepherd-King. "Monsieur Leroux, get the villagers to safety and if need be, have them pack up."
"And the ballistae?"
"Use them. Caster!"
"What is it?"
"How many?"
"Twenty drakes."
The man-at-arms stumbled, reeling as if the answer had punched him in the face. "That's-"
"Have faith, soldier. For God is with you. And plenty more besides. Hurry and tend to your charges."
"K-King, sir."
"Now then, Miss Hinako, you are in charge of all this, no?"
"You seem at ease." She draws the blades out of their scabbards and all could see that it is no mere unvarnished blade. They gleam like sun- no, like starfire itself. "Are you sure that you'd put me in charge?"
"You seem to be the one willing to rush straight onto the group. Confident in Caster's pagan ways?" He smiled, not an unkind one despite the jape.
"Confident that they will protect me, yes. But there exist strategies to consider."
"Such as whether it would be wise to march with the villagers or make Domremy our abode?"
"Such as that. I also scarce think it is a coincidence that dragons would attack us so suddenly after we arrive."
"Then we can assume this is to seek the measure of our cloth." He finished the thought. It is refreshing to know a mind canny like her. "Which means, we must pick the cards that we want to reveal."
Hinako considered this for a moment.
Victory is never in doubt. But the method is yet to be fixed, for eyes hostiles may be watching.
So what would the Fourth Master opt for?
[] Brutality, Refined and Pure. Her weapons and raiment know of stars, for the Granddaughter of Helios crafted them. Woe betide those who would side against the Fourth, for her excellency will never be in doubt.
[] Tactics of a King, and Parables Immortal. The foes are not true dragons. There exists ways in dealing with them. The lances fournies of the United Ordinance knows this too. And though the Israelite do not know, both he and the Fourth Master have their sets of knowledge against such menaces.
[] The Greatest of Circe's Proteges. Some say Circe is the daughter of Helios, the All-Seeing Hyperion. Some say she's the daughter of Hecate, the Liminal Witch-Goddess. None said that she couldn't have been born between the communion of both. The Witch of Colchis learned much at the feet of such an august presence. She will mark Domremy with pagan-fire and arrows-mystic, for that is her excellency.
