Rain. Gods, how Regis hated the rain. Give him stone. Give him arrows. Give him Wyrm’s fire. Anything but rain. Didn't matter if it was a drizzle or a downpour, it was always the same—cold water trickling down your back. Eyes and nose wet with damp. Clothes sticking to you while your boots squelched something foul. Made it hard to listen too. Had to strain himself just to hear through the awful din, like trying to notice thunder through a god's damned crowd.

Indeed, the rain made Regis miss snow the most. At least the stuff merely left you cold instead of damp. Easy enough just brushing it off and letting the fireplace take care of the rest. Quiet too. You never had to talk over a snowfall. The whole world would go still, least as long as the winds behaved.

A fat droplet of rain struck Regis across the nose. He scrunched up his face and sucked in a hiss of air. Would have bellowed a curse out too were he not hiding in the thick underbrush. Gods, how he hated rain. Made him miss Danic just a little more each day. 

Across the clearing, Regis could make out Civis in the brush. He was squatting on his haunches by a nearby tree, flinty eyes watching, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He glanced over at Regis before nodding at the edge of the clearing.

Six rebels emerged from the forest thicket, dressed in rusty scale mail and holding equally rusty blades. They moved cautiously, eyes roaming over the tree line, jumping at every snapping twig and twittering bird as if expecting something ferocious to jump out at any moment, which they had every right to, of course. In every regard, Regis considered himself quite fierce. The act of killing was a specialty of his. 

Regis met the Legate's gaze again and cocked a curious brow. Civis shook his head and held up a finger, eyes darting over the rebels as his mouth worked into a countdown. Regis shifted uncomfortably, the back of his hands itching in his gloves. He squeezed both pommels of his axes, tongue darting over his lips with anticipation.

As the last rebel passed, Civis dropped his finger. Regis lept from the underbrush, heart beating lusty, teeth clenched tight. He let out a roar. The first rebel turned in a fright, mouth open, but the axes took him quicker then the scream. Both weapons bit down hard and the rebel went twirling head over heels into the thicket, spitting blood into the air.

He pressed on, grip white knuckle tight on the axes. The other rebel turned and this time let out a horrid shriek. A primal, screeching sound that died the moment Civis stepped out of the brush. His sword hissed from its sheath, flashing in the dampness as it cut deep through the rebel's neck.

Regis charged, running headlong into a rebel holding a thin sword with trembling hands. He snapped the blade in half with his first ax, the second twirling up and over, burying into flesh. With a tight breath he wrenched it free, pitching the man's corpse into the mud.

The remaining rebels scattered into the thicket. One was shot full of arrows before he reached the tree line. Another had their chest caved in with a mace, toppling belly up towards the gray sky. The last one tried to run, only to trip over a root. He went spinning to the ground, armor clattering, mouth gibberng, screaming nonsense. 

Regis jumped on top of the survivor, pushed his face into the mud, ax raised and ready to put the man out of his misery.

"Stop!" Civis held out a hand out, silver chased blade dripping blood onto the damp earth. Regis eyed him before stepping away wordlessly, wiping both ax heads clean on a dead man's trousers as he watched the Legate work.

Even caked in mud, you could see fear in the rebel's eyes. The man was breathing hard, his gaze solely focused on the sword.

Civis said something in the rebel's native tongue, much to the man's surprise. After a brief exchange, they both nodded. Slowly, the rebel pulled another thin blade out of its sheath and tossed it at the Legate's feet. He placed a foot over the metal. They exchanged a few more words, the rebel's language coming quick and easy like he'd spoken it all his life.

"What's he saying?" Regis asked, eyeing the rebel with suspicion. 

"Say's he's got information. That he'll give it to us if we let him live."

"Shit on that. None of these rebel rats have anything of worth that don't deserve the ax."

"I know," Civis sighed. "But let's see what he has to say first." 

Regis grunted his disapproval but relented. They continued talking, the rebel eager to spill his guts out. He knew feck all when it came to anything that wasn't Byzan or Nornic, but judging by the look on the Legate's face, it wasn't good. The man's brows knitted together, creases wet with damp.

"He doesn't know anything, does he?" Regis asked.

"Same as the last one. He's only a messenger hoping to slip through the blockade. Says his captain was hoping to reach the rebel commander in Tanith for support. Doesn't know we torched the town ages ago."

"Poor bastard." Regis stepped thoughtfully behind the rebel.

"Yeah. Real shame." Civis said something in Orienta to grab the man's attention. He never saw the ax coming. Regis buried it deep into his skull, pitching him face-first into the mud. Nice and clean. Merciful, even. 

For a traitor of the Empire.

Civis pursed his lips as Regis ripped the ax out, heavy rain already washing his weapons clean. Off in the distance, a flash of lightning arced across the sky, a great boom of thunder rolling across the hillside.

"Well, no sense in standing around." Regis pointed towards one of the guardsmen emerging from the thicket. "Get the cart and start loading up the bodies. Take whatever you want. Boots, blades, but leave the armor on." The man snapped a quick salute and beat feet to follow orders.

"Another batch for Culter?" Civis asked sourly. 

Regis gave him a disparaging look. "Captain's orders," he said before squatting down, rifling through a few of the dead men's pockets and scowling at the contents before tossing them aside. "Dux wants the rebels to surrender sooner rather than later. He gave the olive branch, and they spat at his feet, so now they get the sword."

"It's still sickening."

"I know, but this is war. And morals have no place in war." Regis stood back up. "Now, help me toss these dead feckers in the cart." Heaving under the pouring rain, they chucked the bodies unceremoniously, piling them high as if they were nothing more than corded wood. When all six bodies were stacked, the remaining guardsmen pulled the cart away and disappeared down towards the clearing by the main road. Another rumble of thunder took off in the distance and the rain began to pour down faster. Gods, how Regis hated the rain. Let it be hail or arrows. Anything but rain.

It was a long march back to camp. Regis said nothing along the way, and Civis did the same. Nothing to talk about anyways. The act of killing was a hard, solemn affair. Something a man has to come to terms with on his own. Regis couldn't count the number of times he'd stood alone after a fierce fight, like the watchful menhir stones he'd passed countless times back home. 

Even if they were rebels and worshippers of other Gods, he still prayed for them in the end. Let Aurora take them regardless. Their burden was over. Let their souls rise. Let the dead rest. 

Before too long, the forest's thick canopy opened up to a cleared field and a hastily rigged palisade. Beyond the rows of wooden stakes, Regis could make out the tops of tents, flags bristling overhead, their colors whipping proudly in the spring wind. Checkered black and gold. The blazing four-armed cross. A symbol he'd grown fond of in his twenty years of service. Here was a proud clan. A strong clan, in service to the most powerful Empire in all the world. The Vangen Royal Guard.

"I'm heading to my tent," Civis muttered as they marched through the gate.  A few guardsmen on watch snapped a quick salute as they passed, eyes darting to the officer badges pinned to their collars.

Regis watched the Legate go before disappearing round a corner. He stood there, alone, letting the rain wash away the heat and sweat off his body, dripping through his chainmail until it soaked into his furs. Off in the distance, the rebel fort loomed on the hill it squatted over. Regis could barely make out torchlight, the faint silhouette of bodies patrolling the walls. 

He wondered what they were hoping to presrve in their defiance to the Empire? Duty? Honor? There was nothing left in this soggy, forsaken land. It had disappeared the moment the Vangen torched their precious little town. Was it pride then? At the very least, he could understand that. It was a virtue he'd earned a long time ago. In a distant land. At a different age. He gave a ragged sigh and plodded off towards his tent.

For a former prince, his tent was barely a scrap of cloth to call home, but it would have to do. Regis peeled back the canvas flap and shook some of the rain off. His bedroll lay close by, a layer of ragged blankets that stank worse than he did, surrounded by equipment and supplies and an entire armory's worth of axes. 

Regis took his time shrugging off both the lamellar coat and the chainmail hauberk secured around his body. He tossed both into the sand barrel, sealed it shut, gave it a good roll. In a place like this, rust was a bigger enemy than any blade. A good nick, and it'd be your end. He'd seen it happen to warriors twice his size and they'd all died the same. Twisting and mewling like newborn babes, begging to die till sweet mercy came at the end of an ax.

Regis shook away the thought and pulled his furs off, letting the cold air nip at his wet, tired body. He stretched his scarred arms, one side hitching over a puckered wound where a spear had run through him years back. It felt like his body hurt just a little more each day. Twenty years of killing would do that to you. No one ever left this grizzly business unmarked.

He scratched at his beard, running a few fingers down the long golden braids. A few gray curls came back with him, a reminder that if a blade didn't kill him, time would eventually take its toll.

Twenty years. The number didn't feel real to him. Twenty goddess damned years and he was nowhere near closer in getting his revenge than when he'd first joined the Vangen. When the Empress had promised his fiefdom back, he'd expected five years, maybe ten, but not twenty. Every time he thought his service was over, another rebellion would rise up for him to put down. Damned Empire. If he'd known what he knew now, he would have gone elsewhere, but retaking a stolen fiefdom was hard enough on one's own, and the promise of an Empire's help was hard to pass up. 

"Just a little bit longer," Regis muttered to himself. "Just a little more time."

He started at the sound of his tent flap peeling back. A guardsman stood there, wet and dripping.

"What is it?" he growled.

"It's the Captain, sir. He wants all Tribunes reporting to the Commandari at once."

"Tell him I'll be there. Just let me bloody dry off for one godforsaken minute." The guardsman saluted and quickly disappeared, leaving Regis alone with his thoughts. A most dangerous companion to have.