(all characters are over the age of eighteen)
***ARAN***
Aran had spent the majority of his morning learning about Maralon largely by chatting to her citizens, most of whom were friendly enough, or were at least willing to have a conversation. He had learned much thus far, about the Council, the Heralds of Dawn, and the general feel of the people.
Maralon was ruled by a Council of five, elected by the people to govern the city. Currently, the Council consisted of three women and two men, all human. The people seemed satisfied overall with the current Council, finding them to be ruling fairly and reasonably.
The Heralds of Dawn, Aran was concerned to hear, were gaining steady popularity, according to the man Aran was currently speaking with.
Dressed in the fashion of Maralon, the man wore a black cape over a black coat and trousers, and one of those strange high-topped, circular hats. His bushy sideburns shifted with his jaw as he spoke. "I did hear," the fellow said, "that the Heralds were to be granted special permissions by the Council as of this week."
"Special permissions?" Aran asked. "That's interesting."
"Indeed," Sideburns said, leaning forward as if imparting a secret. "I heard from a friend in the uppers who said that the Council is giving the Heralds access to the archives, so they can use the records to root out any family lines still connected to the Order."
Aran's stomach turned to ice. If they traced Sorla's heritage back to the Order, she could be in danger. "Tell me, friend," Aran asked politely. "How do the Heralds deal with those awful people they find who support the Order?"
"Torture," the man whispered. "Or at least that's what I've heard. The Council wouldn't allow it, I expect, so they do it in secret."
"Torture? To what end?" The more Aran learned about the Heralds, the more he disliked them.
"For a confession, of course." The fellow's eyebrows, as bushy as his sideburns, wiggled up and down as he talked. "Once they have the confession, they take the offender before the Council, who decides on their fate. We've had three public hangings so far, and there's likely to be more. Good riddance, I say!" The man continued, raising his voice a little. "Maralon is a fine city, and we don't want anything to do with that filthy, perverted religion!"
Several passers-by turned their heads at the man's rant, many of them muttering agreement.
Swallowing his anger, Aran nodded in feigned support. "Hear, hear," he said, clasping the man's hand. "Enjoy your day, sir. Unfortunately, I must be away."
The ignorant fool returned the sentiment as Aran turned away, his mind churning with the new information. He was worried about Sorla, but the Bond relayed only a peaceful, content feeling, meaning she was safe, at least for now.
So the Council was unaware of the Heralds torturing people, if what the man said was true. Perhaps if Aran could get evidence of the torture to the Council, they would do something about it. Not for the first time, he wondered who was leading these so-called Heralds of Dawn; he had asked the question many times, but was still yet to receive an answer.
There were certainly plenty of Heralds about, moving in groups of two or three, pious-looking men and women with their yellow-lined red cloaks contrasting sharply with the generally dark clothing favoured by the rest of the city. The closer Aran got to the Maralon's centre, the more concentrated the Herald's numbers seemed to become.
Aran stumbled suddenly as emotions crashed through the Bond from Sorla.
Fear. Anger. Panic.
Forgetting all about keeping a low profile, Aran bolted, shoving his way through the crowds, back toward Sorla's house.
***
***MALOTH***
Maloth sat in Shadow's saddle atop a rise, surveying the sleepy town below. The rise sat high enough above the town that it gave a suitable tactical view of the area.
It was early in the evening, and many of the windows in the thatch-roofed cottages were still illuminated by lamp light. The streets looked all but empty, most people having retired indoors.
He remembered Waterfell well, the place he had first met Glinda, and Bound her to him. It was a peaceful village, and as such had no guards, or walls, or anything else that would hinder the force gathered a little ways behind him, just out of sight of the town.
Fifty Wardens of the Dead, all mounted, and their pale-grey Risen of varying races, all with eyes of ghostly white and skin of pallid grey, were grouped together in two ordered columns under the clouded sky, patiently awaiting the order to move out. Queen Morin rode at their fore, accompanied by that stunning Risen Elf, Elegin -- who appeared to be Morin's minion -- and the two massive Orcs that Morin seemed to keep as her personal guard.
The Queen of the Dead was dressed in her usual black form-fitting robe which was all but transparent, her slender body pleasingly displayed through the thin material, along with that strange half-wheel that splayed between her shoulders and behind her head, arrayed with a multitude of bones that clattered when she moved.
To Maloth's right rode Shenla, who had managed to find something a little more modest than a series of leather straps for this occasion; instead having squeezed herself into a dress with the skirts divided for riding, the bodice just barely containing her breasts, the two mountainous ruby orbs threatening to burst free any moment.
Grouped around his twin sister were Glinda, Barrog, Torvin, and Kreya, all garbed far more conservatively, except maybe for Glinda, who's own massive bosom -- of a similar size to Shenla's -- struggled within its confines.
Torvin and Kreya were unaccompanied by minions; Maloth had learned that their minions had been destroyed recently, and the day they'd met Maloth, they'd actually been scouting for suitable replacements.
All eyes watched Maloth, waiting for the signal.
Night having fallen, there was no need to wait longer. Without looking away from the village, Maloth raised his hand high before sweeping it down and forward, bringing death and destruction upon the unsuspecting town.
With a roar, the Wardens charged forward, led by Morin herself, topping the rise and galloping down the grassy incline, followed by their horde of the dead.
Maloth remained where he was, as did his party, all of them watching the small force descending upon Waterfell. There would be no need to fight tonight; this would be over quickly.
Screams rose from the townsfolk as Morin and her army flooded the streets, the undead tearing front doors off their hinges and smashing in windows to get at the terrified occupants.
Black-cloaked necromancers stalked the streets, their dark magic dealing with any townspeople that escaped the clutches of their minions.
*
Half an hour later, wearing a satisfied smile, Maloth heeled Shadow to a walk, slowly heading down to the town, Shenla and the others following behind. At this pace, by the time he reached the town proper, it would be done, or close enough.
Once inside Waterfell, Maloth rode to the square in the centre of town - past the necromancers and undead dragging corpses out of the houses and piling them on the paved streets - to where Queen Morin was waiting, her two orcs standing close behind her, truncheons at the ready.
"Lord Maloth!" The queen addressed him, her pretty face flushed with excitement. "You delivered quickly! There must be more than five hundred people living here!"
"This is just the beginning, I assure you," Maloth replied smoothly, reigning Shadow to a halt. "I trust your people know what to do with all these corpses?"
Morin nodded. "They have their instructions. There will be no raising until we have a clear count, then the bodies will be divided up evenly among the Wardens. After I've had my pick, of course," she added smugly. "Being a Queen has it's perks."
As if do demonstrate, Morin turned to her two orc guards. "You know my tastes; bring me any suitable candidates. Go now."
The two hulking brutes shambled off immediately, Maloth watching them warily as they passed. They were even bigger than Barrog, who was the biggest orc Maloth had ever seen, making Maloth wonder where Morin had found them.
Elegin sashayed into the square as the orcs left it, her abundant bosom bouncing unrestrained beneath her filmy black robe -- similar to the one Morin wore -- as she approached. "My Queen," she said in that strange, echoed voice. "I have had the local lord's house cleared, for your comfort."
"Excellent," Morin said. "Prepare food and drinks for myself and Lord Maloth. We will be there in short order."
Elegin curtsied and glided away.
"If it pleases you, Lord Maloth," Morin said respectfully. "I invite you and yours to join me. I'm sure that what Elegin has prepared is the best this town has to offer us in the way of accommodation, lacking though it may be."
"Indeed," Maloth agreed, looking around with distaste at the simple homes surrounding the square. How he longed for the day he conquered a city and acquired his first palace.
He gathered Shadow's reins. "Lead the way, Morin."
***
***ARAN***
Aran knew through the Bond that Sorla was already gone when he reached her house, but he wanted to check it anyway. She was moving north at a slow pace, and didn't feel like she was more than a mile away; he should be able to catch up to her quickly.
It was quite possible the Heralds had discovered Sorla's family history and arrested her, which meant she was bound for torture. He would have to be quick.
Signs of a struggle were apparent as Aran hurriedly searched the house, hoping to find Sara. In the kitchen, a bowl lay on the floor, its contents spilled next to an overturned chair. The front door had been kicked in, and the back door left wide open.
