The funny thing about fundamentalists, I mean, not "funny, ha-ha," more like "wryly amusing", is that they're equal-opportunity bigots.

So, while me and Anchorfall might be at the top of their hitlist, it was obvious that the Crusade of the Eternal Flame had plenty of room in their holy little hearts to hate just about everyone else. I mean, they really had the whole spectrum covered in the armies surrounding us: heretics, apostates, infidels, and now, apparently, the Rebel army that was loitering rather close to their lines.

Even the poor guys selling fried roots outside the perimeter checkpoint had apparently warranted some righteous condemnation, though whether that was because of their seasoning blend or their choice of headgear, no one could say.

For the moment, I couldn't quite tell what Dema had done to get that particular hornet's nest all stirred up. However, by the sound of clamour coming from that direction, whatever the Huntress had been up to had hit the Crusade's big, throbbing, heresy-detecting nerve right on the mark.

No sooner was I back behind Anchorfall's walls after telling Katya where to go than I heard, well, not a roar, more like an angry sigh, coming from the direction of the Maker's followers.

I made my way back up to the top of the battlements to look for what was causing all the commotion and spotted the issue immediately: a large, impressively so, considering how hastily I presumed Dema had needed to work, effigy stood smack in the middle of the Rebel camp.

The thing looked like it had been cobbled together from random junk. Every bit of debris, mismatched fabric, and outright nonsense that had been lying around the village had somehow found its way into this towering monstrosity, looming over the Rebel tents like some sort of deranged pagan god.

It had bottlecaps for eyes, a mop nailed to its head, and what might once have been a scarecrow's grin stretched across its warped, misshapen face. Smoke coiled from incense burners wired to its elbows. Someone had even daubed a crude halo above its brow, just in case the message wasn't clear enough.

The effigy itself was unmistakably grotesque. It had two arms raised in supplication, and its legs were splayed in such a way as to suggest that pretty much everyone was welcome, with a face that had been painted in bright, smeared colours to look vaguely like a very, very unfortunate interpretation of the Maker Himself. His head was topped with some kind of papier-mâché helmet, and someone had thoughtfully painted a pair of enormous, surprised eyes on it. The whole thing radiated an aura of half-mad irreverence.

Dema had excelled herself.

The effigy was a towering middle finger to everything the Crusade probably held sacred. What she had somehow snuck into the middle of the Rebel camp didn't just thumb its nose at the Maker's teachings. It laughed, spat, and then probably mooned them all for good measure.

It was practically vibrating with insolence, daring some poor soul from the Eternal Flame to try and tear it down. And you just knew, from the uneasy shifting in their ranks, that at least a few of them were seriously considering it—even if it meant sprinting into open ground, under fire, to smite the idol with righteous fury and a complete lack of impulse control.

Across the effigy's chest, in large, garish letters, Dema had scrawled "THE MAKER SAYS: RELAX, IT'S ONLY ETERNITY". The words dripped messily down the effigy's torso and just below, in a barely legible scrawl that seemed to have been added as an afterthought, was a second line: "Be fruitful, multiply... and maybe have some fun while you're at it."

And if that wasn't enough, there was another smaller slogan painted around its waistline that read: "STRICTLY NO PURE FORMS BEYOND THIS POINT" with a big arrow pointing south. Just below that, in what looked like a rushed addition, someone had written, "Sculpted in the Maker's Image… but He's had a few."

The Rebels were practically tripping over themselves trying to pull the thing down, hacking away at the base like it was about to sprout legs and start dancing.

Someone had thrown a tarp over the effigy's groin, which only made it worse, because now it looked… bashful. A pair of underpants fashioned from burnt prayer flags flapping defiantly in the wind. Half the camp was shouting. The other half was laughing. And somewhere in the chaos, Dema was probably watching with a snack in hand, smug as a cat that'd peed in the bishop's wine.

But it was far too late for any remedial actions from the Rebels. Angry members of the Crusade were already staring, slack-jawed and seething, at this carnival of impropriety. Their chants, which had started as deep, holy murmurs, were now rising in pitch and volume, like a kettle about to boil over, their gazes bouncing from the effigy to the scrambling Rebels with a fury that promised nothing short of holy vengeance.

Scar sidled up beside me. "Dema's got a talent for heresy, I'll give her that."

"She's outdone herself. That thing looks like the Maker if He'd had one too many pints and decided to reinvent Himself as a carnival attraction."

"And the Crusade's losing it," Scar said, pointing to the west. "Look at them, getting all fired up. If we're lucky, that should drop us down their 'to-do' list."

I followed his gesture and saw it, white-robed zealots swarming like kicked ants, dragging out banners, slapping warpaint onto their already disapproving faces. One had climbed halfway up a siege tower and was shouting what I assumed were scripture verses, though from the way his arms flailed, he could've been reciting pub complaints.

Sure enough, the Crusaders were assembling in tighter formations, weapons gleaming as they raised them skyward in unison. Their chanting grew louder, their voices like a storm cloud rumbling over the field. It was a fervour that said, "We're about to drop some righteous smite down on someone." And right now, that "someone" was looking like the Rebels.

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The Crusade's leader, a man draped in what could only be described as sanctified tablecloths, embroidered with shimmering symbols of "purity", was pointing a trembling finger toward the effigy. His voice, when he spoke, rang across the field, distorted by whatever amplification magic the Crusade was fond of using.

"Behold!" he shouted. "A blasphemy of the highest order! This... abomination stands as an affront to the Maker's divine design, a twisted form in mockery of purity itself!"

His robes flapped dramatically, caught by a wind that may or may not have been conjured for effect. He was the sort who practised speeches in the mirror and probably thought "righteous fury" was a suitable seasoning for porridge. Behind him, the Crusaders roared, raising their weapons like they'd just been promised eternal glory and free lunch.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered under my breath. "We get it. The Maker would be horrified, yada yada."

The Rebels were still trying to destroy the effigy, as if making it gone would make things all better. One particularly frantic rebel swung a shovel at one of the effigy's legs, which appeared to be made of bundled sticks and some poor soul's bedsheets, but it didn't budge.

Whatever Dema had done to reinforce it was holding strong, and the Rebels' efforts only made them look guiltier.

"Do you think they even know what they're guilty of?" I asked, grinning at the scene.

"Doubt it," Scar replied, watching as the Crusaders readied their weapons with deadly calm. "But I doubt they care. The Crusade sees what they want to see."

Below us, a Rebel officer began waving his arms and shouting orders, but his voice was drowned out by the rising chants. A goat, no one knew where it came from, wandered through the camp wearing a bucket on its head. Somewhere, a trumpet was trying to play a rallying call, but hit the wrong key and sounded like someone strangling a duck.

It was all going splendidly.

"So, what I'm hearing you say is they're zealots who've convinced themselves that that," I gestured grandly toward the effigy, "is enough reason to burn the whole camp down?"

"Everyone's a heretic if you look hard enough," Scar said.

The Crusade leader's voice boomed again. "Hear me, followers of blasphemy! You have constructed an effigy of hideous form, one that stands in direct opposition to the Maker's pure design! This... this idol is a corruption of all that is holy, a distortion of the divine shapes! Prepare to meet your Maker in flames!"

The Rebel camp was now a full-blown scene of chaos, soldiers screaming and scrambling as the Crusade's holy warriors began their advance. From the Rebel command tent, I saw the scary-looking woman – Yvonne the Cruel, Scar had called her, I think – yelling at her men, gesturing frantically toward the effigy and the Crusaders. But it was already too late. The Crusade was on the move, marching forward with an eerie unity, their weapons raised in preparation to cleanse what they clearly saw as a pit of heresy.

A clarion call sounded from within their ranks, pure, piercing, and entirely unnecessary, and somewhere behind it, a line of flamecasters began lighting up their spell matrices with unsettling precision. The first volley wouldn't be warning shots. And the Rebels, still bickering over whether to save the command tent or the mess hall, were about to learn a very painful lesson in religious overreaction.

The Crusaders were now close enough that the Rebels had started to respond, forming a ragtag line of defence, weapons at the ready but looking far less composed than their oncoming attackers. It was like watching a professional fencing team charge at a bunch of kids holding sticks. The Crusade's soldiers moved with an unsettling calm, their chants taking on a terrifying intensity as they bore down on the Rebels.

"Should we do anything to help?" Scar asked, though the humour in his voice suggested he already knew the answer.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I'm wishing I had a pot of popcorn."

As the Crusaders clashed with the Rebels, the field erupted into a full-blown storm of violence and fury.

Shouts and battle cries filled the air, echoing over the clamour of steel against steel. The Crusaders surged forward as their religious zeal drove them onwards. Blazing tendrils of flame arced over the battlefield, crashing into Rebel lines and scattering fiery embers across the grass.

Some poor fool with a wooden shield caught a fireball square in the chest and spun backwards like a poorly made prop, trailing smoke. Others fell, not to magic, but to sheer belligerence. The Crusaders moved as one, cleaving through the front ranks with grim efficiency and no wasted movement.

The Rebels, initially thrown off by the sheer intensity of the assault, quickly adapted. Yvonne the Cruel's voice cut through the chaos as she barked orders, rallying her startled fighters. "Flank left! Shields up! And for all the gods' sake, get that mage unit forward!"

Her rebels obeyed with surprising speed, breaking into smaller formations as they dodged the Crusaders' flames, retaliating with spells and a swift barrage of arrows. As I watched, a handful of nimble fighters slipped around the Crusaders' front lines, darting in and out, delivering quick, vicious strikes before falling back to regroup.

The clash was fast and brutal.

The Crusaders wielded their holy magic with blasts of consecrated fire searing through the air, forcing Rebels to dive out of the way. In response, the Rebels countered with a mix of magical assaults and raw desperation, some casting hexes to slow their enemies, others swinging with raw force to break their relentless advance. Smoke and sparks filled the air, mingling with the cries of soldiers as both sides struggled for control.

A rebel with half an eyebrow missing screamed something profane and launched a bolt of acid into a cleric's shield, which hissed and peeled apart like wet paper. Behind him, two more rebels hauled a makeshift barricade into place—mostly furniture and regret—and braced themselves. The field was a mess of mud, blood, and flickering wards, and the Maker, if watching, was probably shielding His eyes.

Yvonne's voice cut through the chaos again as she directed her archers, "Aim high! Take down their mages. Keep them off-balance!"

The Rebel archers adjusted their positions, sending a hail of arrows arcing over the Crusader ranks, targeting the lightly armoured mages at the back. Several Crusaders fell, clutching their throats or shoulders, and the zealots' line wavered.

But I give this for the Eternal Flame, they had very little quit.

Regaining their footing, they surged forward with renewed zeal, chanting in unison as their leaders pushed them back into formation. One of them raised his staff, and a shield of holy light rippled outward, protecting his comrades as they closed the gap. The Rebels, now within striking distance, met them with equal ferocity.

The fight had been going on for less than a few minutes, and the ground was already littered with fallen soldiers from both sides, but neither showed any signs of retreat.

Scar laughed softly, shaking his head. "Dema really outdid herself."

"Yeah. Here's to the Crusade and the Rebels. May they teach each other a lesson in divine misunderstanding."

Which would have been all gravy if Katya hadn't taken that precise moment to sneak attack our gatehouse.

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