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| - The magical vortexes had stopped for some time now, the only lights in the sky were the dragon's breath of fire. The wizard must've been inside the tower. The battle was won. Hobenrûd was still holding her shoulders, Marin realized. Was it sweat or tears below his eyes? The soldiers that went up the tower left it now, they were carrying a woman, three peasants, and four unarmed prisoners walked with them. "The wizard wasn't...!" a soldier yelled, while running to Marin's position. "Anita!" Marin yelled, and went to see her friend, "What happened to you?" "Just...my knee. They took me as prisoner...after I fell and...ungh..." she was in pain, that was obvious, and her knee looked quite bad. "Take her to a physician!" Marin ordered the soldiers, "And take care with that knee. Free the prisoners, but ask if they want to join us. Let the peasants go," the soldiers made a salute and went to look for a medic in the back of the front. "I can't believe it," came the surprised voice of Hobenrûd, from behind her, a man, wearing a black hood was limping toward them, "Gilbert! What the hell are you doing!?" "I did what I told you to do. The wizard is dead. I hope it's not too late," he said, not even looking at Marin. "Then thanks for your help, sir Gilbert. This battle could not have been won without you," Marin tried to compliment him, but he didn't answer. Still looking at Hobenrûd, he told him: "I don't want to be a larger burden to this movement. I did what I could when I was useful, now I will leave and try to find something better to do in the meantime." Hobenrûd tried to protest but was cut short, "They must be needing professors of military strategy in Sardina. Goodbye, old friend, if your stupidity doesn't kill you too soon, we might meet again," and chuckled. Hobenrûd smiled wanly as Gilbert left, chaos visibly swirling within him, and as the chaos of the battle subsided, the people assembled around them saw Marin collapse onto a kneeling position before the strategist. "I...I uh, I am sorry. I--I don't know more I can say, but--I just don't want to bear the thought of your leaving--.... what I mean to say, is...uh, just please--give us one more chance. Will..will you? For my sake? Please?" Gilbert stopped in his tracks as he heard those words, and looked at Marin with new eyes. For a split second, his eyes flared with renewed hope. But then, he realized the true face of the situation, and drooping his head, he passed through the crowd of soldiers which had formed around them, not even turning around to face her as the limping man said, "I... Sorry." Another delayed pause later, he stopped for a moment to say, "Oh, and your highness. By what I could see of your abilities, in the time I knew you...I believe you'll be a reasonable political asset to this kingdom." And this was the best compliment he could muster. Marin remained on the ground even after the others had dispersed, deep in thought and remorse. As the sun set across the horizon under the darkening gloom, Hobenrûd finally helped the princess to her feet, and together they returned to their camp. Marin had a single glistening tear on her cheeks. With Gilbert gone, it seemed as if... a chunk of herself, however small, had also gone. "I... understand what you're thinking, Priss, but it's time," noted Hobenrûd along the way. "Are you... all right?" A concerned Marin appeared inside the makeshift hospital that had been established earlier that day. Anita was sitting, on the ground, with her back against a nearby wall, the left leg of her pants was torn, and her leg was maintained immobile by a weird wooden contraption and bandages, "It itches," was her answer. Marin smiled, at least it wasn't anything serious. The medic told her Anita would be walking perfectly fine in three weeks or less, but she couldn't move her leg much, or the healing could be imperfect. So Anita, together with many of the wounded, would have to be carried in carts to Bahemet, for the final assault to the king's castle. The king's army was in disarray, badly positioned, and the Freedom Army wanted to use that opportunity to end this war. The only forces defending the walled city of Bahemet would be Sardinians, Inquisitors, and the royal guard itself. The three formed the elite military forces of Ruivoca, and were all incredibly difficult obstacles to surpass. But the Freedom Army had many willing men and women, many dragons had survived the recent battle, and if they won, the forces loyal to the king would be no more. They were prepared to throw it all in a last strike. "Let me see how yer doin' now, lass," Marin heard a familiar voice from her left side, Drindell went to where Anita was sitting and checked her knee, prodded it around, asked if she felt any pain, smiled, told her there was nothing to worry about, and went to the next wounded, carrying his bag of assorted ingredients, but not before telling Marin: "Ye look awful lass. Let Anita rest and go wash yerself or sumthing." Drindell had restocked his supply of magical ingredients from Filafannel's stash. He was fixing people's armour and healing the ones that had more serious wounds. He couldn't use it all up now though, he had to keep some for Bahemet. Bahemet. Bahemet was the name in all their minds. Everything was centred in Bahemet. The victory or the defeat of revolution would be decided in Bahemet. The future of every single living soul in Ruivoca depended on what happened in Bahemet. The lives of Marin, Hobenrûd, Anita, Drindell...they all could end in Bahemet. There was nothing but Bahemet to think about. Bahemet, Bahemet. Bahemet was the name echoing throughout the minds of all the battered victorious soldiers of the Freedom Army.
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