[The British Isles, Wessex , Cerne ,March of 793]
The king's host had come at last. Two hundred fyrdsmen, thegns with their retainers, and the huscarls of King Beorhtric encircled the little church of Cerne. The holy hall had been turned into a fortress, its doorway barricaded with benches and tables ripped from within.
Yet the door itself stood ajar, and in that gap loomed a single figure.
A giant of a man, iron-bound from head to heel, with a slab of metal on his shoulder that barely deserved the name of sword.
Sunlight slid across his armor in cold flashes, and though before him stood a king, his nobles, and two hundred spears and pitchforks, he neither bowed nor faltered.
The man officer raised one gauntleted hand, every movement slow, deliberate.
"Which of you speaks for Wessex?"
The fyrd parted with the sound of shifting shields and stamping hooves as the king rode forward. His horse was a broad-shouldered destrier, its harness jingling with bronze fittings.
At his side rode his Archbishop , wrapped in a heavy wool cope, his crozier glinting in the pale light. Behind them a thin, sallow-faced clerk clung to a pony, a wax tablet already in his hands, scratching furiously to record each word that passed.
The king reined in at a safe distance, the ring of huscarls drawing close about him, their mail shirts bright with polished links. His face was hard, unreadable beneath his iron helm, but the weight of his gaze fell on the barricaded church as if he could bore through its walls.
From his side, the royal herald spurred a few paces closer, raising his staff of office. His voice, trained to carry across mead-halls and battlefields alike, rang clear over the gathered host:
"Thus speaks Beorhtric, King of the West Saxons, king anointed by God! You within the holy house , you stand accused of sacrilege, theft, and the seizing of God's servants. In the name of Christ and crown, the king commands you , lay down your arms, release the captives, and trust to his mercy, or face the wrath of his people and the judgement of Heaven!"
The man turned to the church, and as on cue two more men emerged from the church as large as him, their armour a strange attire made to resemble a jester's garb though equally powerful.
The man took off his helmet to reveal a handsome, authoritative face , a pale face with green eyes and black hair. "Thus speaks Augustus, the 41st Officer, representing the Guild of the Radiant Star." He effortlessly lifted his sword and pointed it toward the army.
"By the sword I have seized your thegn and your priory's abbot, and for them I demand a ransom ,their weight in silver. To lift my sword from your necks I demand, in the name of the Guild
Four thousand silver coins, in exchange, the Guild will protect your lands from our brethren who have yet to come upon you, and I promise they will not be as merciful as we. Pay up, king, and our radiant light shall shelter you from what we will inflict upon you if you do not."
Gasps ran among the army. The king and the archbishop were seething with anger , though for different reasons. The archbishop burned with outrage that someone would dare demand a ransom from the Church itself
While the king's anger came from frustration. Things had just become far more complicated. Not only had these invaders shown no respect for his name, but now he was forced to consider damaging , or even burning the church to drive them out.
Damn it, he thought. Why can't anything ever go right for once?
He would have to ask the archbishop for permission to attack or burn the church, and even with the Church's blessing, he was still hesitant.
The church, no matter who or what hid inside it, was consecrated ground. Harming it would be political suicide.
Damn Offa! Damn the bandits! Damnation on them all!
Beorhtric snarled through his teeth, gripping the reins until his knuckles blanched. His temper finally snapped.
He wheeled his horse toward his huscarls. "Enough of this farce! Break the door and drag them out by their throats!" he roared.
The huscarls spurred forward at once, heavy shields raised, axes and spears glinting in the weak sunlight. The fyrd followed, a ragged cheer rising among them
"Do not harm the altar!" the archbishop cried, clutching his crozier, his voice half swallowed by the noise of boots and the bark of orders. "Spare the holy place!"
The king ignored him.
A ram fashioned from a felled tree was brought forth by the reeves and pressed against the church door, which was barricaded with benches and tables from within.
"Strike!" Beorhtric shouted.
[ Inside the church ]
"Uh, Jason," Mark said, voice cutting through the thunder of wood splintering. "Didn't you literally say they wouldn't attack us while we've got a thegan and a bishop?"
Another boom rattled the benches stacked against the doors. Dust fell from the rafters.
"And didn't you also say," Mark went on, louder now, "that no good Catholic from this time would ever attack a church? Like ever ever?"
Every head in the room turned toward Jason. The historian of the group. The expert.
Jason froze mid-breath, staring at the shaking doors. "...Okay, I might've said that, yeah."
"Then," Mark shouted over the next THUD, "WHY ARE THEY RAMMING THE BLOODY DOOR, JASON?!"
Jason's voice cracked. "Because , technically the moment we occupied the church, it stopped being a church and became… a, uh… fortified position."
Mark blinked. "So now it's fine to break it because we're in it?"
"Pretty much, yeah," Jason said, half wince, half nod, as another slam made the whole building groan.
There was a long pause. The firelight flickered across their armor.
At this moment, the bishop and the thegn saw an amazing scene , the bandits, drawing close to death, instead of showing fear for their lives or mourning their soon to be fallen friends, seemed mostly sad about parting with their armor.
If they weren't wearing armor, one might've sworn they were trying (and failing) to… comfort themselves.
Mark exhaled, his voice oddly calm amid the chaos. "Augustus, look man… I'm really sorry for being a dick to you. I think you were a great officer, and for me and Jason — we'll take responsibility for our armor and yours," said Mark, honestly.
Augustus blinked behind his dented visor. "No, no. It's my fault. I'm the officer. I shouldn't've listened to you idiots."
He straightened his back, gripping his sword. "Next time I say something, you listen. Got it?"
"Okay.""Sure.""Fair enough."
Mark nodded, then stepped closer and gently cupped Augustus's helmet between his gauntlets."Since we're all dying anyway," he said, voice low and trembling with adrenaline, "can we do something every real man's dreamed of?"
Augustus thought for a minute and said, "You mean leaving our hostages and fortified position to charge the enemy, kill as many as we can, and die in the process?"
"Yes, please."
"Uh… can I kill the thegn, please?" asked one of the side guys suddenly , Joffrey, the nicest one of the bunch, oddly enough.
"Why do you want to kill him?" Augustus asked, genuinely confused.
"Um… I don't know. I just think it's kind of a waste if we charge and die but the noble stays alive. I think it'll be cool if we just… kill him."
Augustus stared at him for a long second, then shrugged. "You know what? I don't care. Go for it. Just do it fast