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Post by longstevo on May 19, 2009 9:21:23 GMT -5
CHAPTER 9 THE WARPATH
A week had passed, and Sirion found himself mounted once again on his reliable war horse. He did not wear armor, for that was packed in bags on his pack horse, which was tethered behind him. His squire, Jacob, rode behind that horse. Sirion kept possession of his long sword, but the other weapons were stowed as well. He wore a long cloak with sleeves to protect against the sun’s harsh rays. Every one of the souls in the long column wore the same. Five hundred mounted knights trudged through the blistering sands, and each of them was accompanied by his squire. And in addition to that, one hundred support personnel were assigned to the armored knights. Eleven hundred men and horses made their way north towards Khai.
Tomorrow morning, the Lhyrnian armada would set sail for the port of Khai to begin their navel assault. The infantry would land just south of the city the day after, and the cavalry would arrive one day after that, if all went according to plan. If everything went smoothly, the city would surrender underneath the massive onslaught. And if they chose not to surrender, Lhyrnia would take the means necessary to crush the city into the dunes from which its foundations were built.
The King rode back to Abbala. in his own personal caravan and would take a ship to Khamir. Princess Alice disagreed with yet another of her brother’s command decisions. She believed an effective leader led from the front, and that is how she’d always done it. Even now, the first horse in the long line of horses was her own. She served as a scout, infantryman, and healer when needed. No job was above her, and the needs of her men came before her own. She was truly loved by her soldiers.
She pondered the purpose of this battle for a moment. She honestly believed that the end result of this conflict could be solved without such bloodshed. The entire reason for the military action was to smash Khai’s resistance into oblivion so the army could march upon the fortress of the Hashashini easily, without involvement from Khai’s army. She believed that if the cavalry landed just south of Khai and rode quickly for the mountains, they could be there within days while the Lhynian infantry would land shortly after that and secure the city’s walls to make sure there was no interference.
She voiced her opinion, but was overruled by men seeking blood and revenge for their king’s death. The leaders were wracked by emotion, and she was pleased when several of the battle worn council members broke to their emotion and spoke of their fondness for their fallen leader. She needed to see that her father was genuinely missed, and his death wasn’t being used for a simple reason to march to war. Her brother took her aside during a moment in the planning and confessed to her his feelings for the king, and he was very saddened by the death. She came away from those two events feeling better, and more motivated for this battle.
As night was falling on their fourth day, Sirion rode next to his good friend Godfrey. The big man required a big horse, and he rode head and shoulders above his partner.
“My friend, are you doing well?” inquired Sirion.
Godfrey smiled through his thick beard, and if it weren’t for the crinkles in the corner of his friend’s eyes, Sirion wouldn’t be able to tell if he were smiling or scowling. “Aye, the water has been surprisingly plentiful. It could be this winter’s rains have the oasis’ swollen with pure water. Ah, it is fine,”
Sirion nodded, “Aye, a blessing that is,” he turned his eyes towards the darkening horizon. It was as flat as the eye could see. There were no terrain features to speak of, and if it were not for the sun, navigation would be impossible. They would stop in a couple of hours to eat and to rest before mounting again and continuing their journey. Supposedly, they were only two days out from Khai, but Sirion could not be sure.
--
That night, Godfrey came up to Sirion and offered him a pouch of water. The ranger thanked his friend and took a gulp. “Could you have found water any warmer than this?”
“Eh, shut up. It was all I could find,” another crinkle of the eye, and Sirion laughed.
“Have you found any rats to cook tonight?” asked Sirion. He was referring to three nights ago when Godfrey managed to catch himself a desert rat and cooked it for dinner.
“Hmm…nothing tonight,” answered Godfrey in his deep voice.
“Why don’t you try that matted beard of yours? I’ve seen rats nest in better looking balls of fur,” This time, there was no crinkling of the eyes, only a sharp look directed the ranger’s way. Sirion laughed and tossed a pebble at Godfrey. That got only a small chuckle from the big man.
Sirion stood and went to find Alice.
When he finally located her, he found her fast asleep underneath her horse. She was curled up with her head resting on her saddle bag. She looked peaceful and serene, unlike the woman warrior her knew her to be. But she was like that, he knew. She possessed a fighting ability second to none in the ranks of any fighting women he’d ever seen, yet when she wasn’t in the possession of a weapon, she could be the sweetest and kindest thing on the planet. He marveled for a minute at just amazing she was, until she stirred and opened her eyes.
She smiled and closed her eyes again, “Morning…” she murmured.
Sirion knelt down beside his love, “Not yet, dear. Get some sleep. I’ll awake you in an hour,”
--
The next day, a massive storm began to brew in the west. Sirion watched the huge cloud of dust stir on the horizon and finally form in to a rolling wall of sand, dirt and grime. The men watched the sandstorm roll towards them. Every rider dug into their packs for face wraps, rags and other cloth to press against their faces to keep from choking in the strong wind.
The wall of sand moved with frightening speed, swallowing dunes and palm trees and whatever else stood in its way. Sirion watched the storm get closer and closer, until finally it was just minutes away. He leaned down on his horse and rested his head on the off-wind side and gripped his saddle tight. He knew this was going to be bad.
The wall of dust hit the column with the force of a tidal wave. The deafening roar of the wind exploded into their ears and visibility instantly went to zero. Many horses stumbled as the wall tore through the riders, and more than one knight was blown from his mount. Everyone tried to hold on to their steeds for any sort of support they could get, and for some, that was not enough. Cloaks were ripped from shoulders, shirts stripped from backs, and even long swords were torn from scabbards.
Sirion looked ahead of him to see Alice shouting something at him, but the only thing filling his ears was wind. He looked to Godfrey next to him, and saw the big man laughing hysterically, even though his laughter was mute in the midst of the storm. There was nothing the knights could do except press on. These storms could last an hour, or several days, and they had their marching orders.
Sirion pulled his steed to a stop and began to let the column pass him. “Grab the baggage straps of the rider in front of you!” he shouted to his passing fighters, “Do not lose visual with the man to your front!” Sirion knew the biggest danger of these sort of conditions was to lose a large amount of their force in the desert because they lost their comrades. “Take hold of the straps and do not let go!”
Dust began to fill the ranger’s mouth with each word he spoke. The sandy wind grained into his eyeballs, forcing him to squint to see his men. Dirt coated his teeth, and he spat to clear his mouth, but it did no good. His fellow sergeants saw what he was doing, and jumped to the side of the moving column to relay the message. Sirion gestured with a thumbs up, and kicked his horse to a trot to return to his position at the head of the formation.
The conditions stayed like that for nearly two hours until suddenly, the wind ceased. The visibility conditions remain poor, as a sort of a dust fog set in. The knights could now see for about fifty meters or so. Breathing was still labored, and dust continued to invade eyelids. But the knights pressed on.
“This is odd,” muttered Sirion. He had never before seen a sandstorm as he was raised in the north.
“Ah, this happens from time to time,” answered Godfrey through his kerchief, “Especially after such a large storm. The wind blows through, and when it is passed, the dust begins to float down to from the sky, and it creates this,” the warrior gestured out into the dust.
Four sergeants galloped up from the rear somewhere. “Sergeant!” they called to Sirion.
“Yes?” the ranger twisted in his saddle to see his men.
“Damage report is minimal, no casualties, but three lost weapons,” the young sergeant gave his situational report in a clear, concise manner.
“Very good, lad,” nodded Sirion, “Return to formation,”
--
It was late that afternoon when the attack happened. Many knights were lulling themselves to sleep, as their horses were trained to follow the steed in front of them. There were quiet murmurs amongst the riders as they made small talk to pass the time. The dust wasn’t much better, and men were coughing to clear their throats.
Sirion wrapped his cloak tighter around him and a layer of dust floated down from his movements. Alice was focused straight ahead, as she was overall responsible for their navigation. She was sure they were headed the right way, but needed to remain focused. Godfrey nodded off to Siron’s right.
The ranger heard hoof beats off to his left. He turned, expecting to see another one of his sergeants coming up from behind to report something. But he saw nothing but floating dust. The hoof beats grew louder, and Sirion guessed at four, maybe five riders coming towards them at a fast pace. As they got closer and closer, the number of riders seemed to increase. It began to sound like a stampede. The knight’s horses began to grow nervous, pawing the ground anxiously.
Suddenly, a black horse exploded from the dust at only fifty yards. The rider was wrapped in a dark cloak, from his torso all the way to the top of his head. Just a small opening was clear for his eyes. A bright red sash was wrapped several times around the black overdress. Very little could be seen otherwise, except for the gleaming scimitar sheathed at his belt and a long wooden lance pointed straight at Sirion.
Sirion barely had time to yank free his blade and parry the spear point away from his chest. The black horse sped by the tip of Sirion’s horse’s nose and crashed into Godfrey’s mount. The momentum sent the knight’s steed crashing to the ground, and the rider with it. And then the black horse was gone, vanished into the dust fog. But it was not the only one.
Sirion managed to keep his mount under control, and whipped the horse around so he could see behind him. All along the column, black horses were speeding out of the fog, running perpendicular to the long line of knights and rushing through the formation, only to disappear on the opposite side. Sirion watched three knights become impaled on the black rider’s lances, which they promptly discarded once the weapon became ineffective with a dead knight on the one end.
When the last horse sped through, Sirion called to the formation, “Defensive posture! Shields up! Defend the right flank!” Upon that command, every knight in the formation rotated ninety degrees to their right, so they would face the direction the horsemen disappeared to. The shields were held high to protect the rider’s vitals. The horses were relatively unprotected, as their armor was still packaged for transport. Even the squires freed their weapons from their scabbards and prepared for the attack.
They waited for it to come, but it didn’t. Sirion strained his eyes hard, trying with all his might to see into the dense cloud of sand which surrounded them. Their entire world was a swirl of tan, brown and orange, even the bright colors on their cloaks were faded with the suffocating dust. And then they heard the second rushing attack.
But it was not from their front, where the first wave disappeared to. It was from their rear, where the first wave appeared FROM. It was a second wave, or maybe the first coming around for a second run, meant to disorient them. Sirion instantly knew their tactics and cursed himself for falling for their trick.
The purpose was to rush through the knight’s defenses and appear to be preparing for an attack from the right side, when a second attack was actually coming again from the left. The knights, their defenses focused on their right side, were very vulnerable to their original left, which is where the threat was coming from now.
“About face!” called Sirion, “Defend our backside!” Effortlessly, the column of knights spun their horses around to face the new charge. Sirion saw the lead horse in the new attack and leveled his sword at the rider.
But the rider peeled off to his right, leading his group of nine or so riders away from the bristling sword points of the knights in a wide arc.
And then Sirion heard the real second charge. It was coming from their current backside, where the first wave had originally disappeared to. Sirion cursed aloud. Now their tactics had become crystal clear. These riders must be professional bandits, for their techniques here were classic brigand strategy.
They would attack from one side and blow through, getting the caravan to focus its defenses on where the attackers went. Then, the bandits would make a fake charge to the original spot of appearance, getting the caravan to face the fake charge, and the original chargers would come back for a second wave, attacking the soft and undefended rear of the convoy. It was quite possibly one of the oldest tricks in the book, but one of the most useful. And it was about to shred the ranks of the knights in all of its bloody effectiveness.
“To the rear!” No sooner had Sirion shouted the command than the lead bandit horseman had reached the line of knights. The wooden lance punched through the young man’s backside and exploded through his sternum. Blood spurted from the knight’s mouth and he collapsed, the lance still impaled in his body.
Sirion, mounted off the side of the column and not on line with the rest of the knights, was still in line with the attacker as he roared through the formation. As the bandit passed the ranger, the black shrouded man’s eyes went wide as Sirion’s blade slashed through the air and bit into the black cloth, sending the man reeling from his horse. The steed continued on into the dust, leaving its rider. With a flick of his wrist, Sirion directed his own horse towards the fallen man, and the trained horse knew what was ordered. With a snort, the horse crushed the skull of the fallen bandit underneath its iron clad hooves.
Other black bandits were rushing from the dust, but the knight’s quick reflexes served them well. They adjusted quickly to defend the real attack, only losing a dozen or so to the surprise charge. Once the knights were back on line, they quickly regained combat supremacy.
The final stragglers of the real charge came rumbling out of the sandy fog towards the line of mounted knights sitting shoulder to shoulder. Seeing their charge was useless, the bandits attempted to pull back, but it was too late. Dozens to Lhyrnian long swords were swinging through the air, slicing flesh and jabbing bone, killing the bandits with extreme prejudice.
But the combat was not over. The second wave of mounted riders that had feigned the second charge was making a real run at the knights. Their pounding hooves echoed off the dust, but with the recent victory, the knights were filled with a sense of confidence. They raised their shields high, expecting another lance and spear charge. Melee weapons is not what they received, however.
Just as soon as the black horses appeared running parallel with the line of knights this time, they disappeared, but not before they fired an arrow from each rider. This attack caught the knights off guard, but the shields protected many men, the missiles impacting harmlessly against the hard grained wood. But not every man was so lucky. Many, even some who were using their shields correctly, suffered arrows buried to their feathers in their soft flesh. They cried out and gripped at the exposed end. Some were hit fatally, and a few others were killed on impact. They fell from their saddles in an unceremonious heap. Still other arrows found a home in the flesh of a horse. Panicking, the wounded animals often reared back, throwing their riders from their backs.
Sir Aran, an accomplished bowman, happened to have his bow tied to his saddle. He reached for it and gathered an arrow from his quiver, and lowered his shield. He kicked his steed just a bit to separate himself from his peers. He sat out there in the open, vulnerable and open to harm, waiting for his chance to kill the enemy. He could have stayed in formation, protected by the men around him, but he knew that is not where he was needed. With a parting look, he nodded to Sirion. His sergeant nodded back.
The wave of black riders were making another missile run. Sir Aran readied his arrow and pulled the string back to its maximum length. He aimed at the point where he thought the riders would emerge. The roar of the hooves became deafening as all the knights looked on, awaiting to see the outcome of what would transpire here.
Finally, the first horse exploded from the fog, and Aran’s arrow was away. It punched through the black cloak and whatever armor was underneath, and the men fell away. Aran quickly readied another arrow as the second rider passed by. The bandit let loose his arrow, but it seemed to fly harmlessly. Aran was ready for his second shot, and that arrow found its way into the eye of the next rider. Brain-panned, the bandit was thrown back from his saddle in rag doll fashion. Readying his next arrow, Aran could not fire on the fourth rider. That man’s arrow found itself shank-deep in a Lhyrnian shield, harmless.
But he fired on the fifth, catching the bandit in the gut. He cried out and grasped at his wound, before sliding off his saddle. Seeing their attack was becoming futile, the bandits peeled away and disappeared into the sand storm. The air became quiet, the only sounds were the moaning of the wounded. The knights remained silent, ready for yet another attack.
But it did not come. Sir Aran had single handedly protected the entire column of knights with his deadly accurate missile fire. In a matter of a single minute, he had slain three speeding bandits, deterring them from further action against the formation. Finally, a cheer arose from the men. Smiling, Sirion brought his horse alongside his friend to congratulate him and offer him his thanks.
When Sirion sidled alongside Aran, the expert archer leaned into his sergeant and rested all his weight on his friend. Sirion grasped the man, who was quickly losing control of his motions. Aran was quickly becoming lifeless, and he looked into Sirion’s eyes with his own faded pupils. “I did it…” he rasped hoarsely. It was then Sirion saw an arrow stuck into Aran’s stomach. It must have been the arrow from the second rider, which seemed to fly astray, but instead found its mark.
Sirion held his friend tightly as the life seemed to fade in front of his eyes. A small trickle of blood formed in the corner of Aran’s mouth.
“You’re going to be fine,” said Sirion softly, but it was too late. Sir Aran was already gone.
--
The mounted knights made camp there for the evening in an effort to collect their dead and wounded. The dust storm lightened, and by nightfall, visibility reached nearly one mile. Guards were posted around the entire formation to watch for a counter attack by the bandits, but it never came.
The final number of dead was twenty three, and nineteen wounded. Their weapons, armor and other items were transferred for able riders to bear. Being on the warpath, and still a day’s ride from the city, the funeral service would have to be one conducted on the battlefield. The knights had no means to carry their deceased, so a funeral pyre was constructed.
It was more of a pile of bodies than a traditional pyre, as there was no lumber to create such a structure. The bodies were buried in a shallow grave and doused with lamp kerosene and lit. The flames reached high into the sky as Princess Alice led her men in the traditional funeral Song of the Warrior. Afterwards, she recited all the names of those who were lost. The service would have to be short, as they would be back on the road in the morning.
Very few tears were shed from the road weary fighters.
--
Late the next morning, the towers of Khai grew in the distance. The sight of their objective lightened the hearts of many riders, and the column picked up speed. They would not ride directly for the city, but link up with the dismounted infantry on the southern edge of Coastwood. They would be there by nightfall.
The battle plan of King Jarod was coming together rather nicely, despite the setback of his cavalry in the desert. His infantry landed safely along with the support staff and had already begun constructing siege engines with the wood from the forest. The naval fleet was well on its way, and was currently rounding the northern point of the Coastwood Peninsula. They would begin their bombardment of the city the day after the next, which meant the infantry and cavalry would march in two days.
The infantry itself was not actually made of up of entirely Lhyrnian men and women. Many of the ranks of the two thousand soldier army came from countries who were loyal and sympathetic to King Jarod’s cause. King Hughes had been kind to many countries in the past, and many owed allegiance to Lhyrnia in one way or the other. The loaning of soldiers in a time of need was a popular way to pay off debts. Nearly half a dozen nations flew their flag alongside the Lhyrnian banner for this battle. And most were no less than proud to do so. They showed this already by hammering away at several siege engines as Princess Alice’s knights came limping over the hills towards their link-up site.
--
Once the nights arrived, they took two hours to unpack their horses, unequip themselves and rest before jumping in to assist the infantry build the batteries that would pummel the city from the south. Once the army began its march towards the city, the support would continue to build the siege engines, as the goal of the King was the utter destruction of the city in revenge for the king’s death.
It was widely known the city of Khai harbored the Hashashini, and was otherwise a den of snakes, thieves, assassins and criminals. If the city was wiped off the map, very few in the world would miss it.
That night, Princess Alice tossed on her bed mat, failing to find sleep despite being exhausted. Her tent walls were still alight with the camp fires of the men around her in other sleeping arrangements. It was protocol for royalty to not sleep in the field, but she was not one for protocol. It was also regulation that she not share her sleeping quarters with anyone not of her marriage. She was not one for regulation, either.
She rested her head upon Siroin’s chest, listening to heart beat in his muscular chest. She was sure the same thoughts were on his mind that was on hers. She decided to speak of them, in an attempt to air her conscious, “He died a hero, right?” she said softly.
Sirion ran his fingers through her hair, “Of course he did. If it weren’t for his actions, I fear many more men would have been killed,”
“Do you think he deserves a place within our Hero’s Hall?” she asked, referring to the hallowed chambers in the palace in Lhyrnia reserved only for the finest heroes in Lhyrian lore.
“I believe so,”
“But his body is buried in the desert, reduced to nothing more than ashes and dust. What will we place inside the halls for his memory?” she was becoming somewhat agitated, the guilt seemed to be wracking her heart.
“Place a statue there, in his image. And a plaque detailing his actions today, for the memory of a hero will always last longer than his bones. And remember, he was given the funeral of a hero last night. No warrior would want anything else. You have no blame to place upon yourself, my love,” Sirion said softly in her ear.
That seemed to calm her, and she nestled up to Sirion even closer than she already was. Slowly, the two drifted off to sleep.
--
Later that night, under the cover of darkness, a foot set down outside the princess’s tent. The soft sound was barely loud enough to cause the stir in a fully alert man, but the honed senses of the ranger heard it as if it were a roar in the night. His eyes opened slowly and took only a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. He remained motionless, listening for any more sounds that.
Then he heard the flap of the tent rustle ever so slightly, and someone stepped in. Sirion sensed Alice laying next to him, so therefore, this person entering the tent was a stranger. In a movement that can only be defined as a flash, the ranger grasped his dagger sitting next to his bedroll and leapt to his feet, lunging for the stranger.
As Sirion collided with the intruder, the stranger let loose a gasp of surprise as the two slammed into the ground. Sirion’s fists flew through the air and smashed into the intruder’s face. But, with skill that came from no simple school of combat, Sirion was thrown across the tent, and the unknown man was back on his feet.
At this time, Alice was awake and attempting to make sense of what was going on. “Stop this! I command it!” But it was no good. The two men in her tent collided in the middle of her tent, tussling in the dark. The intruder’s foot cut out and smashed Sirion in his ankle. The ranger stumbled just a bit, but it was enough to give the attacker as much leeway as he needed. The man ducked, and exited the tent silently.
Sirion climbed to his feet and clenched his dagger. Breathing heavily, he looked towards the princess. “Are you alright?”
--
“It was an assassin! From the Hashashini!” said Agnand loudly.
“Calm yourselves,” shushed Lord Bissot. The two commanders had arrived with the seaborne infantry and support, “Are you even sure it wasn’t one of our own men, drunk and unknowing?”
The leaders of the Lhyrian army gathered in their grand war tent, standing around the great table in the center discussing the events of earlier in the evening.
“Damn it, man, give me some credit. I think I’d know if I were battling a drunken Lhyrnian,” remarked Sirion, “Besides, he didn’t reek of stench,”
Lord Bissot stepped forward, “What are you saying?”
Sirion spread his arms wide, “How many of our men have had baths in the last two weeks? My men have been in the desert, and yours have been crammed into ships. Every one of us reeks with the stink of the road,” he paused just a second, “And this attacker smelled of mandarin and mint,”
Lord Agnand nodded slowly, “Then it is true. An attempt has been made on the princess’s life,”
The gravity of that began to sink in. For one, the inhabitants of this region of the world favored the smell goods of perfumes and colognes. The rarely were without them, while the white men from the north rarely were with them. The fact that the man smelled of such was a clear sign that the attack was not of the Lhyrnian group. The Hashashini’s reasons for her life could be numerous. They may have selected her because she was blood to the king, and therefore in line for the throne. Or it may have been because she was a leader in the war that was about to rain down upon their heads. The possibilities could be endless, and there simply wasn’t time to dwell on the details.
King Jarod, who had been facing the embroidered walls while deep in thought, turned suddenly and strode up to the group. Princess Alice’s head jerked towards him, startled at his sudden presence. Lord’s Agnand, Bissot, Arthur and Commander Talilson stood a little more rigid when he approached. Sirion remained the way he was, slightly slouched with his thumbs hooked in his belt.
The king squinted his eyes at the ranger, “The reasons that have been put upon my sister’s life could be endless. And the questions that have arisen from this night are equally unanswerable. Who could have wanted her dead? How would the murder have been administered?”
The princess flinched at the statement. Commander Talilson added, “It was a good thing Sergeant Sunrunner was nearby, otherwise…”
Then, the question seemed to hit everyone in the room at the same time. Suddenly, the king wasn’t the only one staring at the ranger. “Aye,” Lord Bissot added, “What were you doing in such close proximity to the princess?”
Alice’s eyes hit the floor and her face flushed. Sirion stood defiantly, giving away no indication that he was guilty of anything.
“Sergeant,” Lord Agand asked, “Why were you inside her majesty’s sleeping quarters?”
Looking his friend dead in the eye, Sirion answered, “I was simply walking by, and heard her cry for help,”
“But your clothes,” interjected Arthur, “They are your slumber robes,”
“I had to take a leak, so I arose from my own quarters,” answered Sirion, becoming more defiant with each question.
“Where exactly is your tent, Sergeant?” The king asked this one.
“Near the perimeter, milord,”
“And you were sleeping there tonight?”
Sirion only nodded.
Keeping eye contact with the sergeant, the king simply leaned his head to one side, “Commander Talilson, search the princess’s quarters for anything that shouldn’t be there,”
“Yes, milord,” with that, the young captain turned on his heel and hurried out of the tent.
--
Captain Talilson leaned down and opened the flap of the tent and ducked into the warm and balmy night. He looked around to get his bearings, and saw the princess’s tent only seventy meters away. He leaned forward to take a step.
But in that instant, a large hand grabbed his shoulder and thrust him to his side. He fell to the ground with a thud, and the rough hands that shoved him down picked him back up again and pushed him away from the torches that were posted sporadically throughout the huge camp. The captain tried to cry out, but a hand covered his mouth.
Fearing for his life in the hands of an assassin, the captain felt himself slowly slipping towards panic. He tried to struggle free, but the harder he fought, the tighter the arms around him squeezed until finally, he found it very difficult to breath. He relaxed as his head began to swim from the lack of oxygen.
“Will you stay silent?” a voice whispered into his ear. The captain nodded faintly. And with that, the strong arms loosened their grip, but not enough for Talilson to turn around and see his attacker, “Will you listen?”
Again, the captain nodded. The voice just inches from his ear spoke again, “You were ordered to search the quarters of Princess Alice. If you were to do that, you would find an item or two that does not belong there, that does belong to a friend of mine. If you find those items and report them,” the voice paused, “Well, lets just say I’ve killed more than one man in his sleep. Do we understand?”
Scared now, the captain nodded anxiously. With that, he was thrown to the ground. Upon collecting himself, he whipped around to face the voice in the darkness, but there was none there. Scanning the shadows for a couple of moments, he saw nothing. Looking around, he made his way back to the command tent to make his false report of not finding anything in the princess’s tent.
From the shadows, Sir Godfrey watched as the young captain looked around and found his way back into the king’s tent. He couldn’t help but smile.
--
Back inside his war tent, the king looked sullen as the young captain reported that there was nothing to find in his sister’s sleeping quarters. While he had been gone, the leaders had levied other questions at the ranger, which he staunchly denied any wrong doing with the princess. They had asked Alice the same questions, and she had answered the same. Finally, Sirion had enough.
“Listen here,” he rose up to his full height and leveled himself at the king. King Jarod obviously found offense with this gesture, but the ranger continued before his majesty could voice his opinion, “We find ourselves on the eve of war with an allied nation. The outcome of tomorrow has the potential to spread war across this entire southern continent. A band of assassins has already claimed the life of one of your kin and threatened to take a second. Thank your God that he didn’t,” he paused and let the gravity of those words sink in, “We march against an unknown enemy, with unknown capabilities and unknown numbers. We could march to our slaughter in the morning, and the most you care about is the conduct of your sister’s private life?”
The king opened his mouth to speak, but Sirion talked for him, “This night, you should be making battle plans and attack grids, yet here you are, levying accusations against two of your military leaders. Where are your priorities, really?”
“Silence!” shouted the king. A thick quiet came down over the room, and all of the leaders shifted their eyes one way or the other, unsure of who to look at. The king’s temples were bulging at veins, and his face was a bright shade of red. Obviously overcome with frustration, he didn’t even try to spit out a word.
Sirion raised his right hand in a gesture of peace and spoke calmly, “My lord, if I may offer a piece of advice?”
The king only turned his back and paced against the tent wall. Lord Agnand spoke with a wave of his hand, “Please, Sergeant,”
Sirion began, “Right now, our forces are lined to assault and siege the city of Khai, yes?”
The leaders nodded. Lord Bissot spoke, “Yes. Our navies are ready to strike by midday tomorrow. Our siege engines…” Sirion cut him off with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
“So we will lay waste to the city of Khai?”
Lord Bissot nodded, “Of course,”
Sirion crossed his arms and leaned forward, “Why?”
The Lord opened his mouth to speak, but caught himself. He turned words over in his head for a moment or two before forcing them out, “So we may extract revenge on those who are responsible for our king’s death,”
Sirion nodded in a false show of approval, “Yes, yes. Brilliant. And how do we know those who are responsible reside in that city?”
Lord Bissot stuttered, and looked to his comrades for help. No one could answer that one simple question. Lord Agnand looked to the floor, and the king’s blackened eyes bored holes deep into Sirion’s soul. It was no matter to him, however.
“Can we agree that the main seat for the Hashashini rests atop a grand tower in their hidden fortress in the Varghani Mountains?” Some heads nodded, “So why do we march upon Khai?”
The king pointed his finger at the ranger, “Shut up, you rotten vermin,”
Lord Agnand held a hand up towards the king, “My king, let him speak, please,” the king’s expression was one of incredulousness, but he stopped, allowing the ranger to speak his mind.
Lord Agnand addressed Sirion, “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”
Sirion stepped forward and cast forth an accusing stare at the king. “I suggest,” he started flatly, “that your king has a hidden agenda behind his reasons to attack a friendly city,”
There were a handful of gasps in the room as the king recoiled first, then threw a damning finger pointed in the ranger’s direction. “How dare you!” Sirioin did nothing but stare at the unsettled king.
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Post by longstevo on Jun 8, 2009 9:44:58 GMT -5
“You dare come into my tent and throw insults towards me?” the king’s voice was nearly at a scream even as some of the shock began to melt away at his leader’s faces. “You…you…clap him in irons!”
Sirion didn’t move, but neither did anybody else in the room. The generals stood fast, and Alice wasn’t going to be the one to arrest her lover. The king spoke once again, his voice low and menacing, “I told you to arrest him,”
Again, nobody moved. Sirion, not wanting to be part of an organization comprised of such politics, turned for the door. With a sweep of his hand, he was free of the tent flap and striding out into the hot desert night. He heard in a low voice behind him, “Let him go, my lord. He will do nothing against you,”
Sirion simply shook his head as he looked toward the stars. He thought back to his rebirth, and his second chance, and thought of a bird’s feather, floating upon the restless waves of a pond. The feather had nowhere to go, only being directed by the wind above it and the waves beneath it. He thought of himself in much the same way. Lost and without direction in his life, he had thought he had finally found something with this kingdom of Lhyrnia. Come to find out, it was just another stop on the long, tireless road that made up his life. He stopped for a minute to gaze at the moon. Soft footsteps approached him, and he needn’t look to know who came closer.
“Sirion,” a soft voice whispered into the night. The ranger looked down to his sweetheart. Even in the darkness of the moonlight, he could tell she was close to tears. But she had taken measures to steel herself, and seemed determined not to let him see a single ounce of her emotion this night. That was fine with him. Sometimes, emotions were better locked inside than spilt for everyone to see.
“Where will you go?” Her voice sounded strong, but Sirion could tell it was forced. She was doing her best to put her best before him, and he appreciated that.
“I don’t know,” he answered, turning to face her.
“Your men need you,” she said.
“I will not fight in an unjust conflict. I’ve done that one too many times,” Memories of William seared his mind.
Alice nodded in the dark and looked away. Several moments of silence passed between them. Finally, Sirion spoke, “Listen, your best bet is to convince your brother that he is wrong. You have no proven reason to wage war on this city. He needs to focus all his attention on the fortress in the mountains instead of attacking allied cities,”
Alice said nothing, but Sirion reached out to her and pulled her close. Her bent down and kissed her forehead, and the scent of her hair was almost more than he could take. He fought the urge for a tear to escape and pushed her back to arm length, keeping his hands on her shoulders, “Come with me. Leave this corrupt leadership and fight your own battles. Stand with me. Together, we can be a force for good in this world,”
She dropped her head, “I can’t,” She turned away from him.
He nodded to himself, “I understand,” He turned towards his tent and bent down to open the flap, but looked up towards Alice. Their eyes met for a heartbreaking second. He pondered for a moment staying here, fighting the battle he didn’t believe in for the sole purpose of her heart. After all, fighting here could be considered fighting for her, right? As long as he stayed by her side, all his efforts would be for her?
But he ducked inside of the canvas, and as he disappeared inside, he heard her footsteps shuffling through the sand away from him.
--
CHAPTER TEN A NEW PATH-RETRIBUTION
Nearly an hour later, Sirion mounted his horse and began his travels away from the Kingdom of Lhyrnia. The sun was beginning to lighten, preparing itself for yet another day. The ranger wondered what it would bring to this troubled land. Would hundreds of Lhyrnian knights march to their death on this day? Or would thousands of innocent Khains die under misled blades? No one could know. But Sirion was certain of one thing: he would have nothing to do with it.
His plan was as set as steel inside his heart. The organization of the Hashashini had to fall. Its corrupt and conniving ways of eliminating world leaders must come to a halt. It was not their place in the world to decide who is to live and die. And he would use his incredible gift of resurrection to attempt that. Hopefully, in some small way, this would be equal to Emma’s request that he make good use of this second chance. He could think of no other way to use his gifts and skills of weaponry knowledge than to strike at the center of the heart of evil.
He looked to his right. He was not alone. His trusted friend Godfrey rode beside him. He watched the big man turn towards his country’s encampment as it got farther and farther away. If the warrior felt anything, he wasn’t showing it. Sirion looked to his left. His other good friend was also beside him: William.
Since the contest in the gladiator pit at the Lhyrnian festival, the three men had almost been inseparable. They almost always seemed to be in each other’s company, whether in combat, or out of it. They all owed their lives to each other at some point or another.
It had not been difficult to get the other two men to agree to his plan. He came out bluntly and told them the truth of his suspicions of the king’s corrupt plan to siege the city of Khai and the events that transpired in the king’s tent. Both knights were quick to agree that that is what had happened, and had stated that they never harbored much love for King Hughes’ eldest son.
So Sirion told them that he was setting out, and underneath the new leadership that was King Jarod, the two knights weren’t exactly eager, but were willing to follow their friend who had never led them astray.
And so that is how they left. Three knights with hearts of gold turning their back on a royal seat that was quickly falling to decay, in search of other means that called to them.
--
A few nights later, the three men sat at the base of the Varghani Mountains. The next two or three days would be the most treacherous of their journey, for a number of reasons. First off, it would be east to get lost in the rugged ridgelines. They had paid an old hermit they had found along to way to direct them to the Tower. After sketching out a map on a piece of old leather, the strange man had disappeared into the sands without a trace. With questioning looks to each other, the knights had no choice but to press on, but now with a destination.
The second largest problem would be traversing the mountains themselves. While all three men had spent large amounts of time in austere environments before, that in no way made them invincible to the dangers of the mountain range. They would need to stay vigilant, despite their lack of sleep and fatigue constantly gnawing at the lids above their eyes.
And the third most worrisome issue facing them was enemy contact. This is what made Sirion turn every possible scenario over in his head, and when he had thought he’d figured out the answer, another scenario would present itself. The simply truth was they were marching into the dragon’s den. It was quite possible that this Hashashini leader had assassins on every rocky outcropping and behind every tree. If they decided to ambush them, Sirion, William and Godfrey would have no prayer.
This is why they cast away their surcoats and vestiges advertising themselves as hailing from the banner of Lyhrnia. They had adorned simply brown cloaks and other non-descript clothing, and would arrive under the guise that they were seeking employment with the assassin’s organization. Sirion knew that the plan was overused and quite cliché, but he figured it was worth a shot.
--
That night, the three men huddled around a small fire. As they had climbed the passes and canyons in this range, the temperature had steadily dropped. Instead of it being bone scorching hot in the flat plains of the desert, the trees and peaks offered protection from the merciless sun, causing the temperatures to drop by nearly twenty degrees. And this was especially prevalent in the evening, when the moon rose high in the air, and the night sky did all that it could to suck up every ounce of warmth from the land. As of now, it was doing a good job.
William wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The men didn’t talk much. Each of their minds were focused on the mission, and what exactly they would do if things decided to go south. Each of them knew in the backs of their minds that this was surely a suicide mission. But, clinging to the very small hope that it could work, they continued to press on.
“More grub?” Godfrey asked his old friend, as he offered half of a loaf of grainy bread. William smiled slightly and waved his hand. Godfrey grunted and turned to offer the bread to Sirion. Shrugging, the ranger took the bread and tore off a piece.
They sat in silence for a while, before William attempted some small talk. “Have you ever been in such a mountain range, Sirion? Surely, I’ve never seen peaks such as this,”
William was the more sociable one of the three. Godfrey and Sirion could sit in silence for days, never talking or making the effort to interact, but William needed the communication between his comrades. Most of the time, the two friends were none too worried to indulge the slightly younger knight. But, sometimes, the two men just wanted that quiet.
Sirion nodded thoughfully, “Aye, I can say that I have. Have you heard of the Northwind Mountains?”
William squinted and shook his head. Sirion continued, “If you look at a map, the mountains we are in right now actually continue to head north, and the Northwinds make up the northernmost tip. They’re covered in snow and ice year round, and only in the summer time, when the lowest passes melt some of their snow, are they able to be traveled. It has been said that no man has ever seen the tops of the peaks, for even on the clearest days, when the sky is as blue as ocean, the peaks disappear, fading from sight,”
William let out a low whistle, “That is where you used to live, aye? Over by North Gate?”
Sirion only nodded. The dark nightmare of North Gate hadn’t bothered him as much as before, but he still hated the vision of his comrades in arms butchered.
Godfrey spoke, “I traveled through North Gate once. I think we went through the Northwinds. I was but a lad, and my father had taken me with him during a trip to Kherash. You’re right, those mountains are man-killers,”
Sirion only chuckled a bit before telling them that is what started out the organization of the Pass Rangers, and how they would patrol the roads and assist any travelers or merchants that ran into trouble along the way. The men actually found a bit more to talk about that night, before the tendrils of slumber began to wrap its coils around them.
--
Sirion crouched low in the scraggily grass before going to his hands and knees. He made us way up the small rise until he was close to crowning, and them lowered himself to a prone position and crawled on his belly to the top of the hill. Just as he crested, he saw what he expected.
A wide, jagged canyon sprawled out below him, surrounded by imposing peaks in every direction. A rushing river flowed to his south, and the road they followed wound to the north. The road cut away to the right after a good length, while the river maintained a general straight path. Scrubby trees and other vegetation that struggled to survive in this harsh land. Nature’s easel here was a mixture of brown, tan and pale green. As Sirion scanned the scene, he finally saw what he was looking for.
There, straight ahead of him at a straight line distance of maybe two miles, was a prominent mountain peak. But this one didn’t look like the others. Instead of wide, rugged and natural looking, this landmark was smooth, slender and upon further inspection, was obviously man made. As Sirion finally realized what it was, his heart nearly caught in his throat.
They had found the assassin’s mountain fortress. Obviously, most of the complex was concealed in the mountains, but from what the ranger could see, the mere structure struck awe into his heart. Even for the far distance, he could make out the tower, and guessed that it reached a height of maybe three hundred feet. At the top of the tower was a cupola, most likely for observation. Many windows pockmarked the stony face of the tower, and many of them were accompanied with decks. This building would surely be a sight to behold. Slowly, he turned and crawled out of distance, then jumped to his feet and returned to his comrades.
--
“And just how are we going to get inside?”
“Just stay silent, I’m thinking,” Sirion held a hand out at William, motioning for him to be quiet. Sirion was expecting a little bit more of a traditional building, but the immense tower took him off guard. After he had told William and Godfrey of what he had seen, the younger knight became quite uneasy.
“I think we stick to the plan,” rumbled Godfrey. Sirion nodded in agreement, although his head remained dipped in concentration.
“So we simply ride to the front gate and knock on the door?”
Sirion kicked a rock, “Pretty much,”
William spent a moment staring at Sirion before turning and kicking a rock. It would seem the gravity of the situation was beginning to wear on him, “You realize that we’re talking about assassin’s here? Remember, the Hashashini? Trained killers?”
Godfrey interjected, “And you’re a knight of the Kingdom of Lhyrnia. You are also a trained killer, one of the best in the land. And if there was going to be any three people in this region to pull this off, I’d want nobody else beside me,” with a gruff nod, he turned to his horse and mounted it with a graceful leap. Dressed with his traveler’s clothing, he seemed to fit the part very well, with his unkept beard and grizzled appearance. Sirion wondered if he looked the same.
William grumbled something as he turned to his horse as well.
“Very well, men. Follow my lead,” said Sirion.
--
The trio made their way down the old road. The path was barely suitable for carts or wagons, but it was clear where there were those who had tried. Deep and crooked gashes marked the dried mud. The going was easier now in the dry season than if it had been recently wet, but the men were hardly focused that. Rising in front of them was a tall wooden gate. Upon immediate survey, it was clear that this gate was the entrance to the perimeter wall. The stone wall rose up to a height of fifteen feet and went as far as it could in a straight line before cutting away upon running into a rocky cliff. Some parts of the perimeter were un-walled, as the terrain there was so impassible, that not even insects could walk upon it.
But the wall protected a sort of hill, and upon that hill rested another walled in compound, but it was clear that it housed a small settlement. And, beyond that rose the magnificent Tower of the Hashashini. It still seemed as tall as it did from a distance, but now the material could be studied somewhat closer. It looked as if it were only made out of stone, but a dark finish upon it gave it the appearance of being almost black.
“Halt,” an unseen voice rang forth from the tree line only fifty yards away. The three riders pulled their steeds to a stop immediately.
As Sirion scanned the trees, he could not locate where the command had come from. He looked behind every rock, tree, bush and shrub, and nowhere could any man be seen. He saw his comrades searching for the source of the voice as well. None of them could see anyone.
“Lay down your arms,”
There, it sounded like it had come from their right. Slowly and deliberately, the three knights unsheathed their swords and tossed them down. They raised their hands.
“All…of your arms,”
Reluctantly, the men reached back into the folds of their cloaks and produced at least two daggers apiece. They clattered to the ground next to the swords.
Just then, Sirion caught a flash of movement nearby. It wasn’t much, just a fold of a cloth, or a ripple of a muscle, but it was enough for him to locate what he thought was the source of the voice. But, even then, it wasn’t enough time. That small movement that had caught his eye was the string of a bow being drawn back and it was immediately released. A small dart slashed through the air and caught the ranger in the shoulder. He cried out as the four inch dart slammed into his flesh. Godfrey and William also suffered similar injuries.
They yanked out the darts as soon as they impacted, but the results were slow to arrive. Sirion noticed his vision becoming blurry and the ground beneath him began to ripple as if the dirt had turned into the surface of a lake. He became nauseous and toppled from his mount. He clawed at the dirt as the poison began to take its full effect.
--
The world was slow to come to, and Sirion’s vision was the last to return to him. The first sense that assaulted his brain was the return of his nasal factories. His nose was suffocated in the overpowering aroma of mandarin and mint. And the scents seemed to come in clouds, because once that scent disappeared, another was there to take its place; this one included cinnamon and lavender. The smells pleased him and did a little ease his mind.
Just before his vision had fully returned, a soft breeze brushed against his skin, and even though the air was warm, the moving wind was comforting to him. The rush of air brought back the scent of mandarin, and the ranger took in a deep breath of it.
And then he tried to move. He found that he wasn’t bound by rope or chain and was free to move to his will. He brought his hands up to his face and felt his eyes were open, but no image could be seen. He was hoping that the poison was still in effect, and that he had not lost his vision for good. He rubbed his eyes, but it did nothing.
He noticed that gone were his traveler’s clothes. The crusty and scratchy leather had been replaced by a soft silk robe. The short sleeves of which barely covered his upper arms, and the lower hem barely came to his knees. The cool material felt wonderful in comparison to being cramped up in armor for the last few weeks. His bare feet felt amazing against the cool stone ground. And there was another thing. He felt…clean. The funk and gunk of the road had been scrubbed away and replaced by some sort of cologne or perfume. He ran a hand through his hair and noticed that it didn’t feel dusty or grimy. Someone had bathed him.
And then the ranger felt a presence that let him know he was not alone.
“Hello?” he called out into his darkness. A shuffling of feet and a soft clicking noise in front of him sent a jolt of shock through his heart, and he leapt to his feet, fists raised in front of him. “Who’s there?”
A soft and quiet voice answered him, one that sounded like dry oak leaves being rubbed against each other. It was clear the voice belonged to someone of great age, but there was no menace behind the tone, and along with all of his other current surroundings, the man speaking before him also eased his spirits.
“Easy, my boy. For if I wanted you harmed, you’d already be suffering,” a tap on his forehead with some sort of stick made Sirion jump, “See? You’re all but helpless right now,” another tap, this time on his back made Sirion whirl around. The old man laughed softly, “Please, sit down and let us converse,”
Sirion lowered his hands, no longer fearing harm for the moment, “Where are my men?”
“Ah, they have suffered a fate similar to yours,” an emphatic emphasis was placed on the word ‘suffered.’ It would seem that they were being held in a place much like his own. Slowly, Sirion lowered himself to the floor.
“Are you saying they’re ok?”
“Oh shush, they’re fine. Their vision has returned already, and I believe, this very minute, they are enjoying the fruits of my hospitality,”
Sirion’s mind relaxed and he placed his hands in his lap. The old man took no time to launch into his spiel. “You are Sergeant Sirion Sunrunner, formerly in command of a group of highly trained knights of the Kingdom of Lhyrnia. Although you are not of Lhynrian blood, you have been allowed to serve under their banner. Your service to them has brought you into close companionship with one of their royalty…”
Sirion’s relaxed mood was short lived, as this old man in front of him knew way more than he should. He set his head straight and narrowed his blind eyes, and noticed that his dark world was beginning to lighten, “My men talked, didn’t they?”
“Oh, we have spoken, yes. But not about you. You are much too boring to speak about,” Another tap upon his forehead made Sirion jerk back, “No, I know these things, because my own men know these things, and they speak to me,”
Sirion thought hard. Who could this man be? Somehow, their fates had been intertwined at least since his arrival in Lhyrnia. He knew of his service with the Kingdom, his relationship with Alice and all of his activities in Ameristan. What was the common denominator?
“Who are you,” challenged Sirion, “How do you know these things?”
“I had no clue of your existence only one year ago, until a certain little incident that you had partaken in at one festival in Lhyrnia. And then there was another little incident in Khamir, and yet another in New Hope. And your last little escapade came in your army’s encampment on the south side of Khai,” there came another tap on the top of Sirion’s scalp. It was becoming maddening, “Your little adventures have cost me three men, my friend.”
There it was. The common theme of his actions since the festival were the assassins: the Hashashini. The first was the attempted killing of the king, which Sirion had thwarted. The second was the suspect apprehended in Khamir, who committed suicide during interrogation. The third was another suspect in New Hope, another suicide. And finally there was the attempted killing of the princess in her tent. Standing in front of him this very minute was the Grand Master of the Hashashini! It was his target. Now was his chance to end this for good.
He leapt from his sitting position, ignoring his tired leg’s cries of protest. His hands were stretched out before him, ready to strangle the life out of this evil man and to end his campaign of terrorism throughout the land. Once had got his hands on what sounded like a frail old man, peace could reign.
But his hands only grasped air. He crouched into a fighting stance, straining his ears for any sign of the old man, any source of sound that could give away his location. All he heard was silence.
Suddenly, what appeared to be the man’s stick was swinging out, catching Sirion across the ankles and bringing him slamming down against the rock floor, “Now, now, is that any way to thank a host?”
Staring upwards, Sirion noticed his vision coming to. The world was lightening, and he could see a dark shape hovering above him. The ranger climbed to his knees. As his sight slowly came to, what was the dark shape proved to be a small and frail looking man. He stood no more than five and a half feet tall, and looked to barely weigh one hundred pounds. A brilliant white robe fell around his shoulders, and he had a very long beard to match the snow colored robe he wore. His eyes were simply crinkles in a weathered face full of wrinkles. His long mustache concealed his mouth. A hood covered his bald head. And, the tool that had been assaulting him for all this time proved to be a stick; his walking stick that was just about as tall as he was. By the look of him, Sirion thought he could simply break him in half, but something told him there was more to this man that what appeared.
“You are…” Sirion’s words faded, as something about this tiny old man caught his awe and made his voice catch in his throat. The ranger coughed on his words, an in trying to clear his throat, was able to take in some of his surroundings. From his view, he would guess that they were in one of the upper levels of the tower, as clear blue sky was visible through narrow windows and far distant mountaintops could be seen, but no ground nearby. There were two tables in the round stone room, one on either side, and upon each table burned incense, which was the smells in the room. Other than that, the place was bare.
The old man only leaned his head sideways and raised a silver eyebrow, as if he were expecting Sirion to say something. When no words came, the old man began talking in his old and raspy voice, “If you were going to say that I was the leader of a secret organization responsible for the murder and slaying of thousands of innocent people, as the harsh propaganda and lies have said about me and my people, then no. I’m not that man,” He began to walk in a circle around Sirion. It appeared that he had quite a difficult time getting around, and looked to be suffering from some sort of pain in several of his joints. With a ‘swish, swish, click’ of his gait and walking stick, he made a full circle around the ranger.
“But,” the old man punctuated his new statement with a finger in the air, “If you were about to say that I am a leader of a secret society who has dedicated ourselves to the ousting of evil and corrupt men in the positions of power who’s decisions decide the fate of thousands, then yes, I might agree with you,” the old man stopped in front of Sirion and rested his free hand on his hip.
Now Sirion was confused, “Are you not the leader of the assassins? The Hashashini?”
“Bah!” the old man waved a hand in front of him, “Such an ugly word. What does it mean again?”
Sirion was about to speak, but he stopped. He really didn’t know what the word meant. He stayed quiet, but the old man continued to speak, “Evil killers? Shadow serpents, or drug users…or something like that,” he muttered to himself. His vision came to a focus on Sirion, “That is a name that has been planted on us like a curse. We recognize that name not, and you would do well not to use it in these lands again,”
Sirion became bold and asked a question, “But you do lead a group of assassins?”
The old man feinted a look of discomfort and kind of shrugged a couple of times, “Eh…again. That is such an ugly word,” he waved his free hand in the air, “We prefer to call ourselves The Saints of Fate,”
Sirion frowned at this, “The Saints of Fate? How can you summon the gall to even associate yourselves with the word ‘saint?’ You all are nothing but killers,”
The old man hobbled forward and pointed a jagged little finger into the ranger’s face, “My, what the hypocrisy coming from a man who has made his living by the blade. If you would stand to listen to me, I would explain the actions of our group. And, unlike you, we live by a certain code of ethics. We don’t stab our supposed friends in the back, especially in an embrace before a decisive battle…”
Sirion’s eyes widened at the mention of the incident with William. The pain came rushing back to him in a quick instant as he remembered meeting with the Northern commander before the battle as he was the Prince of Edinmarsh, and then stabbing him in the back, leaving the barbarian horde leaderless. It seemed that was a mistake that would haunt him until the end of his days.
“Yes…” muttered the old man, “I know more than you think,” Sirion’s shock was impossible to mask so he stayed silent, allowing the old man to speak. He was still unsure how he could know so much.
The old man recovered his finger and stroked his beard with it and returned to walking circles around Sirion, still kneeling on the ground. “Growing up, many years ago, I had a vision that cast the status of the world into such an ugly mixture of murder, rape and pillage that no one of any good soul would wish to live there. This world was ruled by greed and hatred, instead of generosity and love. Millions would die over the course of years,”
“But, in this fetid cesspool that is our world that I was shown, the people were not the ones to blame. It was their leaders. Is the common soldier to fault for the orders of his captain?” When Sirion didn’t answer, the old man expounded on his point.
“Tell me, lad. If that young soldier does not do what his officer commands, what is his fate?”
Sirion shrugged, “It depends on the officer,”
The old man snapped his fingers, “Exactly. And many officers would just assume kill their own soldier than deal with insubordination. And so, the soldier obeys his orders, despite his personal feelings towards the mission. So, in that vision, many world leaders were using their positions of power for their own gain, and in doing so, would trample over the lives of so many innocents, that something had to be done. Kings and commanders ordered the extermination of entire cities to achieve their goal. Most of the soldiers were unwilling, but again, were at the command of their officers.”
The old man took a sigh, “So, upon waking from that vision, I had an idea of what needed to be done to prevent that reality,” he paused and put his hands together, “If a massive invading army is bearing down on your small village, what is the best way to defeat them?”
Again, Sirion shrugged. He didn’t much like his little test, but saw no choice in refusing to play along, “Assemble all able bodied men and put up some sort of defense,” he stammered.
The old man made a punching motion towards the ranger, “If you wish to get all your men killed before your women, I suppose. I think we need to revert back to an ancient proverb. If one cuts the head off of a serpent, then the serpent dies,” the old man spread his arms wide and raised his eyebrows, as if he were awaiting some sort of approval.
“So, you would target the leader of the army, and upon killing him, the threat is ceased?”
The old man clapped once, “Bravo! And that, my son, is what we do here. Except, usually we operate on a much higher level. Politicians, senators, kings, generals, all their filth is who we target. For once again, if one man is killed, how many others are saved?”
After a questioning look from Sirion, the old man explained some more, “Take this scenario, boy. Two massive armies are facing each other. The armies are utter equals, led by men of similar quality and possess equal arms. Who will lose that battle?”
Sirion shook his head, “The outcome of that battle will depend on the decisions made that day by the commanders,”
“No!” interrupted the old man, “The outcome of that battle will depend on the blood of the soldiers. Whichever army bleeds more will probably win. So, we could be looking at a total loss of life of thousands. But,” the old man pointed his finger in the air, “If we simply kill two men, we could prevent the entire battle from ever happening,”
“Their commanders…” muttered Sirion.
“Yes, but some cases require us to go higher than that. Because, after all, sometimes commanders are nothing more than simple soldiers put into a leadership role. They take their orders just the same…” the king trailed off, waiting for Sirion to fill in the blank.
“From kings…”
“Bravo,” the old man said it quietly this time, his intense stare boring into Sirion’s eyes, “And so now you see, that we Saints of Fate do not simply adventure out for the joy of killing, but we strive to achieve balance within this world. We don’t murder every king or leader, just the ones rocking the boat, so to speak,”
“King Hughes?” asked Sirion.
“That man was profiting off so many wars, battles and combat operations that he could have funded a medium sized nation. And his greed from his profits only had him selling more of his men to the highest bidder. He was creating war just so he could sell his knights. He had to go,”
“And so he did. What about Alice?”
The old man squinted and looked at Sirion, “Alice?”
“Princess Alice, brother to King Jarod of Lhyrnia, why did you try to assassinate her? She’s a fine officer and princess,”
“My boy,” began the old man, “I didn’t want her killed. I wanted her to join us. That man inside her tent, who was so rudely interrupted by you, wanted to deliver a message that invited her to hear what I had to say. I think she would have done well in this organization. She has a heart of gold, you know?” The old man chuckled.
Sirion fell back into a sitting position, not knowing what to make of all this information. For the past few months, he had been told that the Hashashini was the enemy, yet here he was, listening to the leader of that same group telling him something wildly different. It must be contributed to the fact that simply nobody knew what they did. That name was whispered in places of darkness, for fear that displeasing the master would bring death upon any soul. But, it would seem that the old man’s intentions were good, however rash his methods were.
But, then another thought popped into Sirion’s mind, “What gives you the right, Old Man, to pick and choose who gets to live or die? Why is it your decision?”
The old man winked, “Follow me,” he started off walking, troubled as he had been doing during this entire discussion. But then he reached up and snapped his fingers, and suddenly, the pain in the man’s joints seemed to be instantly healed, and the little old man was striding forward at a very fast pace. Sirion found it difficult to believe what had just happened, and had a very hard time keeping up and had to jog every now and then just to keep a reasonable distance behind him. There was something strange about this man.
He led Sirion up nearly seven flights of spiraling stairs, which he had no problems with, but Sirion became very winded around the fifth set. The ranger guessed that they were close to the top of the tower, as the room here was smaller than the one below, but kept the same shape and all. But this floor was different. There was still two narrow windows offering a startling view outside, but there were desks and tables crammed into nearly every available space. And where there wasn’t a desk or table, a bookshelf was placed. Notes and papers and letters and books were littered all about the place. A globe of the world sat in a corner, or what was best served in a round room. And there was something special sitting on an oaken pedestal in the very center of the old man’s chambers. The pedestal came up about three feet with elegant legs. An object resting on the flat surface was obviously round and smooth and covered with a piece of linen. The old man whirled into the room and went right for the pedestal.
“Here we are!” with a cry, he yanked the cloth off the round object and stared deep inside of it. It was a crystal ball, ultimately perfect in its symmetry, was as clear as window glass, save for a floating orb of soft green/blue in the center. Sirion nearly recoiled and covered his eyes immediately.
“A seeing glass! I cannot!” he nearly left the room because of the temptation to look inside the clear crystal and see what secrets lay there.
“Ah, yes, it’s probably best you not,” the old man replaced the cloth. It was common knowledge that if one stared into the depths of a seeing glass, spirits that were frozen inside would grasp a hold of those unsuspecting viewers, and suck their soul from their bodies into the glass to spend eternity inside their own little hell.
Only those trained well enough could bend those forces to their own will. And it was said that the only persons capable of that were wizards, witches and the complete and utterly insane.
“Well, uh, that’s how I do it,” stuttered the old man, seemingly shook up that he had uncaringly risked the life of his new friend.
“That’s all I need to know,” said Sirion, “You keep your magic, and I’ll ask no questions,”
“Very well,” said the old man.
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Post by longstevo on Jun 8, 2009 9:46:14 GMT -5
--
The next couple of hours were spent with the old man pouring over material in his study, showing Sirion this or that. The ranger didn’t really understand or really care about most of it. One thing that did interest him was the ledger of all the names claimed in the name of the Saints of Fate. When the old man handed the book over to the ranger, the weight of the thing nearly caused the ranger to drop it onto the floor, yet the frail little man had no problems hefting the weight.
The book was nearly eight inches thick and sported a large cover. As Sirion cracked open the book and turned to the first page, he was shocked at how neat and orderly the names had been entered upon the parallel lines adorning the book. He took a look at the first name.
James Galding King of Jiberia Corruption and Murder
Sirion studied the entry a little more. He looked at the date. Then he had to look again. He looked to the old man, whose nose was buried in another book. “Hey, the first name is nearly six hundred years old,”
The old man looked up, “Yes, so?”
“How long has this organization been around?”
The man thought a minute before answering, “Oh, about that long,” then he laughed and added, “When that name came up in the seeing glass, I was a little afraid at first, because King Galding was making himself quite the little empire out in the North Fold. His boundaries were beginning to infringe on the home of a friend of mine,”
Sirion, staring hard at the other names and dates, stopped after the man said his last piece. He recounted what was just said and looked up, “You were a little afraid when his name came up?”
Confused, the old man nodded, “Yes,”
Sirion pointed to the first name in the book, “When King Galding’s name appeared?”
“Yes,”
“On this date?”
“Well, that was the date he was slain, but yes,”
“Six hundred years ago?”
“Yes,”
Sirion gently closed the book and set it down. He took yet another look around the room before he fell his eyes upon the small old man sitting before him. The ranger squinted hard at the man, “What are you?”
The old man closed his book at the table and leveled his eyes straight at Sirion, “Let’s just say that I come from an ancient time, and during my extremely long life I have picked up some tricks of the trade along the way,”
Having nothing to say but more questions, he let it be at that. “I want to see my men,” he demanded.
“Of course,” answered the old man in his raspy voice, “Ten flights down,”
--
Sirion burst into the door that led into a lavish and plush lounge. The scent of mandarin was nearly overpowering as he stormed into the room. This circular room was also different than the others, as this was furnished with nothing but the finest furniture, couches and chairs. A platter of readied fruit was setting upon a foot table in the center, which happened to sit between two large men: William and Godfrey.
“Sirion, it is good to finally see you,” mumbled William through a mouth full of peach. Godfrey smiled and nodded while lifting up a fresh banana. Both men wore the same sort of relaxed robe as he did, and their faces appeared clean and hair washed. They had obviously received the same treatment. But had the received the same information?
Relaxing upon seeing his men healthy and in good shape, the ranger sat down next to them and helped himself to a handful of grapes. The fruit was slightly chilled, and they might have been the sweetest he’d ever tasted. Three goblets of wine sat next to the plate of fruit.
“Nothing like the royal treatment, eh?” quipped William.
Sirion nodded while chewing before finally asking, “What do you know of this place?”
Godfrey and William relayed the exact same information that was given to Sirion just a while ago. Their suspicions and fears were drained away much like his was. He wanted to feel on edge, like he ought to be expecting something bad to happen here, but he couldn’t bring himself to. This place just felt…right.
“Who wants to wager that this old man invites us into his ranks?” wondered Godfrey.
Although his question seemed preposterous, that was exactly what Sirion had been thinking.
“As assassins?” gaped William.
“Sure. Why else would he be keeping us alive, showing us this hospitality?” Godfrey waved a hand towards the refreshments, “Surely he doesn’t receive houseguests often,”
William nodded thoughtfully and Sirion added, “You may be right, my friend. Now the question is, what do we do about it?”
The old raspy voice called from the doorway, “What will you do about it?”
The three men stood, but not in surprise or shock, but more out of respect to their host. The old man hobbled in with his walking stick leading the way. He leaned on the pole heavily as he came to rest before the trio.
“My lord,” Sirion stopped even as the words had left his mouth. Godfrey and William both looked at him, surprised at the official title their leader had bestowed upon the old man. But he hardly acknowledged the title, and waved his hand before he began talking.
“Bah! What you are saying is correct. All three of you are being offered positions within the ranks of my Saints of Fate. But the question is, will you accept it?”
The four men stood in silence, looking at each other, unsure of what to say. Sirion shifted his feet nervously as Godfrey finally broke the silence.
“I don’t think I can leave the ranks of my countrymen,” he began, “Your quest seems noble, however, I have a home. I cannot work for you,” he stared at the old man’s feet, almost ashamed to be declining the offer.
William shook his head, “I must agree. My home is Lhyrnia, and I’m unable to simply leave the ranks of the knighthood. I must also decline,”
The old man nodded with not an ounce of emotion on his face. He turned his attention to Sirion, “And you?”
Sirion cast his eyes at the ground. Once again, his life was at an impasse. He was beginning to tire of these decisions. Why could his life not simply select a path and stay there? For as long as he’d left the Rangers, he’d been nothing but a rolling stone, serving as a wandering Wildman to a prince, and everything in between. He had made, lost and abandoned friends, family, and lovers. He had killed in the name of more banners than he cared to remember. There simply was no home for him.
But, maybe that was the way it was supposed to be. For all intents and purposes, he owed his life to the Earth Mother now, and her bidding was to be his will. But what was her bidding? He remembered Emma’s echoing words in his mind upon his resurrection. ‘Live life to the fullest, and fill your heart with love.’ Surely here, with the Saints of Fate, he could find a place to do good. After all, their goal was the eradication of evil in the land. Would the Earth Mother find pleasure in what he would do?
Or would she turn her back on him as he stepped upon the treasured gift that was bestowed upon him? From what Emma had told him, it seemed like he was to live his life as a priest, doing nothing but holy goodness upon his beloved brothers.
Sirion clenched his right hand; his sword hand. He had been blessed with another treasured gift first, before the Earth Mother’s blessing. And that was the ability to kill. Not all men were born with the heart or desire to take another man’s life. In Sirion’s own personal code of ethics, it was not the man who killed who was evil; it was WHO he killed. And Sirion had always strived to be on the right side of the sword fight.
If Sirion could use his blade for good, then he might make a difference in the world. If we could slay a single man who would tilt the balance of the world and cost thousands of mothers their sons, would that not be using both of his gifts for the best?
He looked up at his old friends. Godfrey and William had been by his side more the better part of a year now, and they were like brothers to him. He appreciated their company and their companionship, and they felt the same. He smiled slightly and put a hand on each of their shoulders.
“My brothers, you have homes to return to. You have a country to serve,” he began, “I do not have the same. My home no longer exists…none of them do. I serve your flag for pride, and many of my best memories have come at your sides. But, I feel my calling may be leading me down this path. If I have chance to save lives, I must look into it further,”
Godfrey and William nodded and embraced their friend. When they had said their final goodbyes, the old man led them out of the room and directed them outside. As Godfrey turned for one last time, Sirion called to him, “Tell her I’ll see her again.” They both knew who he was talking about, and the knight smiled and nodded. The old man stayed in the doorway and watched the two knights descend the stairwell before facing Sirion and beckoning him to follow.
--
“Whatever became of King Jarod’s siege upon Khai?” Sirion asked the question as the old man led him down the stairs, supposedly to the ground level.
“Ah, the king wisely decided against siege, but the weak Khain government buckled long before a sword could be drawn. They obliged and allowed Lhyrnian patrols to search their city for evidence of…well…me,”
“So everyone is safe?”
“Not a drop of blood was shed,” nodded the old man, as he led Sirion out of the main door of the tower and into the desert forested courtyard surrounding them, “And do you know who’s responsible for that?”
“Probably you, in some twisted fashion,” mumbled the ranger.
The old man stopped and raised a finger, “You are responsible for the lack of warfare in Khai,” When Sirion’s face showed nothing but confusion, the exasperated elder sighed and explained, “The leaders of the knight army were foaming at the mouth to vent their anger on someone. Unfortunately, Khai was an easy target. The new King had sound battle plans that would have laid complete waste to the streets. But, you called him out on his lack of reasoning behind his little war. You rightfully made his leaders and advisors doubt their reasonings, and that is what stopped the war. Do you see now?”
Sirion nodded thoughtfully as the old man continued, “And that brings up another teaching point. Death is not always our goal. Many times we prefer alternate routes other than bloodshed. Intimidation, threats and other non-lethal methods also work,” They strolled down a stone walkway and passed to men walking their way.
The men were about Sirion’s height, their skin olive and their hair jet black. They nodded respectfully to the old man and his guest and continued on their way.
“Now, you have agreed to be accepted as one of us. Is this your final decision?”
Sirion thought for a minute before answering, “Yes,”
“Then you will need to begin your training very soon, for I feel a certain target will appear that will have your name on it,” said the old man sagely, “I know that you are comfortable with a blade, but I assure you, the youngest of my assassins has the capability to defeat you in combat. You will also need to know the art of stealth, for we prefer our kills to be public, which spreads the fear through the people, and most importantly, through the hearts of our enemies. Shall we begin?”
--
The next few months were spent feeling a mixture of fatigue, exhaustion, pain and weakness. The old man’s trainers accepted him gladly into their circle. The ranger was sure that the old man’s endorsement of him meant more than any of his words could have, but it was no matter. The trainers put forth effort into him much as they would any of their own.
The head trainer, named Hasan, started things with weapons training. Sirion was presented with a training sword and pit against a young man, no more than twenty. Sure enough, as the old man had predicted, Sirion had lost the match. But it was pretty equal for most of the entirety.
Through the weeks, Sirion was presented with weapons that he was efficient with, as well as some that he was familiar with, but had never used to a full extent before. Such weapons included daggers, knives, darts, other unconventional means, as well as a new weapon Sirion had never used: the crossbow. He quickly learned the ins and outs of each weapon and began to use each proficiently in training. But weapons was not all he was being taught.
During one training session about stealth, the ranger was warned to keep his eyes and ears open as Hasan lectured him on tactics and techniques. The master had only gotten five minutes into his lesson when someone from behind Sirion had grabbed him around the throat and slammed him to the ground. Sirion looked around, as the two had been alone in an empty courtyard. The ranger leapt to his feet, but his attacker was gone. Hasan only laughed and shrugged, reiterating the point of the importance of stealth.
The was also subjected to lectures from the old man and was given a painfully detailed history of the Saints of Fate. He was taught their code of ethics and coat of arms.
Finally, after several months, he was awarded his first assignment.
--
Rain fell from the sky as if someone were up above pouring a bucket of water down on top of him. Sirion stood up to his ankles in mud and tightened the cloak around his shoulders. He was soaked to the bone and desperately wanted to get out of the rain. He pounded on the door again, the hollow thuds on the wet wood were barely audible out in the street. Finally, he heard the metallic sliding of a lock, and the door opened just a crack.
Dark eyes stared back at him through the inky blackness inside. They studied for a moment before a quiet voice spoke through the crack in the door, “Too bad it is sunny today,”
Sirion thought a moment about the inaccuracy of the statement but went ahead with the code phrase anyways, “It is a fine day for a death,”
The door closed with a thump, but Sirion could hear the workings of several locks and deadbolts, and the door swung open, allowing entrance inside. The room inside was lit by several candles, and cinnamon incense burned in the corner. Other than a few basic furnishings, the room was bare. The man inside beckoned to him to sit on the floor, as he sat down himself.
“You’re Afwandari,” said the stranger in a tongue twisted by an unknown accent. Sirion nodded before the stranger added, “The Falcon,”
Sirion nodded once again. When on assignment, the assassins didn’t use their given names and were instead assigned other names. The name Afwandari was the desert people’s word for ‘falcon.’ It was said during his training that Sirion’s eyes were like that of an angry falcon, so it stuck.
“And you are Gottschalk?” asked Sirion.
The stranger nodded, “You are here for which target?”
“The only one that matters,”
The stranger nodded, seemingly satisfied by that answer. He leaned to his side and grabbed a map of the city they were in, although Sirion didn’t need it. He knew this city well.
“Your man will be here making a speech tomorrow afternoon, given it stops raining. He doesn’t so much like getting wet,” started Gottschalk.
“Yes, I know,”
The stranger stopped a minute and frowned at Sirion, “This isn’t your first time in this city, is it, Afwandari?”
Sirion shook his head, “I know this city well. Edinmarsh used to be my home,”
--
The next day the rain had stopped, which meant the target would be in his designated place making his speech. Sirion was already in place. Gottschalk would be in his as well. Sirion loitered on the east side of the market, pretended to be interested in trinkets or baubles. He pulled his cowl down a little further on his face as a patrol of guards passed by. Sirion drew comfort in the knowledge that, if he wanted to, could face that entire squad of men at the same time in combat, and come out victorious. He went to another merchant’s stand as some peddler tried to con him into blankets from the east.
He glanced to the west side the courtyard, but couldn’t find Gottschalk. But somehow he knew that his new associate would be where he should be. Slowly, the ranger began sidling up to the grandstand, where the speech would take place. He thrust his hands in his pockets, and felt the twin daggers kept tightly close to his body.
Suddenly, two squads of guards came out from behind the grandstand and formed a barrier between the stage and the people, who had started to gather in anticipation of the speech. Sirion surveyed the odds. Twelve men stood on the ground floor with the crowd of people. Another six stood on stage while another six were positioned behind the podium towards the back of the grandstand. He thought to himself that this job may be more complicated that he had first thought.
But the words of the old man echoed in his head. ‘The job must be done publically, and kill no one except the target.’ Sirion knew that last command would be the most difficult. Escaping from here through the nearly thirty guards would be a challenge indeed. And it was by these rules that many of the old man’s young men didn’t survive many assignments. Some jobs, like this one, needed to be done publically, and with the target’s security element always nearby, many assassins didn’t survive the escape.
Finally, the target was coming out. Trumpets and drums announced his appearance and there was a smattering of cheer arising from the crowd. It was obvious the person that was speaking today wasn’t as popular as he used to be, Sirion thought. A bitter taste formed in the back of his mouth as the thought again of who the target was. But he didn’t need to think for long, for immediately after that, the target appeared on stage.
Dressed lavishly in an expensive cape and a fine suit, the slightly overweight man walked directly up to the podium and raised his hands. A hearty cheer arose from the crowd this time, but the trained eye could see that the crowd’s excitement was forced. The man looked to be about sixty or seventy, although he looked somewhat young for his age. His close cropped hair made him look very professional, and the royal crown on his head completed the package.
King Robert of Edinmarsh.
--
Sirion gritted his teeth at the appearance of his former master and father. He remember the false feelings bestowed upon him of importance and rank, yet all of it was stripped away in a matter of minutes upon his exile from the kingdom. It was yet another stop on the long and twisted road that was his life.
He needed to be careful not to become attached to this mission. It was important for the assassin to be personally detached, and had it been other circumstances, another assassin would have been assigned to this case, but Afwandari needed to prove himself.
As the king began to speak, the ranger thought of the dossier given to him verbally by the old man, and the reason that this king was selected. Those words echoed in his mind, as if to give him strength and purpose for this job.
‘The king still moves against his people of the north, despite several outcries of neighboring kingdoms to cease his military action against the Northern people. Even yourself, my boy, moved to stop his slaughter, after you helped partake, of course. But now, he parlays his council for funds to raise an army large enough to wipe the Northerners off of the map. This, of course, cannot happen. Too many lives will be lost, on both sides…’
It maddened Sirion to know that King Robert was still focused on eradicating a race of people. Had he not learned his lessons? Apparently not, as he was not the one impaling innocent women and children on spears and burning them alive. Sirion spat into the wet mud.
The king was beginning his speech now, to which Sirion was deaf to the words. He slid between people and gently pushed his way through the throng that had gathered, mostly against their will. He turned sideways and pressed past a woman holding her child against her shoulder. The small babe looked into Sirion’s eyes.
Startled, Afwandari halted, meeting the gaze of the infant. Suddenly jerking itself backwards, the baby broke into a smile and giggled. Frowning, Sirion stared at the child. Could this be some sort of sign? Is this the right course of action? His mind was brought back to reality when he realized that the mother was watching him as he frowned at her child. With a grunt of disapproval, the mother turned away and found another spot to listen to the speech. The child continued to smile at Sirion as he turned away towards the king.
He now stood just two people away from the first guard. He looked closely and began gauging distances. He was standing only six feet away from the one guard, and he was standing three feet in front of the stage, which rose only four feet high or so. Inside himself, Sirion nodded. This could work, but he’d have to move quickly, as the king didn’t have a long speech planned.
He thought once more about was this the right thing to do. He looked back at the babe, who was returning his stare in an intense gaze. The infant boy hardly had a scrap of hair on his head, and he was wrapped up tightly in a wool blanket. Slowly, the babe nodded his head up and down. Sirion decided to take it as a sign from above. He returned the child’s nod, and jumped into action.
--
Roughly, Afwandari pushed the man in front of him to the ground. He leapt up upon the fallen man’s back and propelled himself to the guard in front of him. Staring to his left, the guard had not seen what was happening. Sirion, flying through the air, planted his foot on the shoulder plate of the guard’s armor, and used that to push himself forward to the stage. As he closed the distance to the stage, he reached inside his cloak and yanked free his dagger.
Afwandari landed on the stage with a thump. Immediately, he pushed the two guards next to him off the grandstand. They landed in a heap on the ground. The next five seconds happened in slow motion for the newly minted assassin.
He didn’t watch the knights falling from the stage, instead, his predatory focus was on his target. In the background behind the king, Afwandari saw his associate, Gottschalk, up on the stage and causing the same ruckus. He was more of a distraction, as Afwandari was the one to carry out the mission.
The king was reaching to his own sword at his side, struggling to get it free of the scabbard, but Sirion was on him in a flash. He leapt forward and grasped the king by the shirt and pulled him close and unto his exposed dagger. The metal slid through the silk shirt and into the king’s chest with ease.
The king’s eyes widened with shock and surprise. He looked into his killer’s eyes, and thought he saw something he recognized, but Afwandari lowered his head so their eyes wouldn’t meet. He pulled the king close, and into the older man’s dying ear, he whispered, “Sleep will soon be upon you, take it and rest. Free yourself from the evil that has bound your heart. Soon you will be forgiven for what you have done. Go now…rest,”
Afwandari laid the king onto the ground gently and ran his fingers over those dead eyes, closing their lids for one last time. He stared at the king, his father, for a moment, before he decided that it was time to go.
Time accelerated to real speed once more and one dozen guards came at Afwandari. With nowhere else to go, the assassin leapt from the stage and into the dazed crowd. Shouts and screams arose everywhere as he pushed and shoved his way through the mass of people. He was pressing for the exit to the market, a busy side street to the north, but a squad of guards emerged upon the road, awaiting him.
Taking not a second, Afwandari ducked to his left and into a small shop. The owner let out a startled cry, but the ranger gave him no never mind. He rushed through the dank shop and exploded out the back door. He found himself in an alley and noticed the alarm bell had begun to sound. It meant there was a killer on the loose: him. He looked to his right, which would lead him to the busy street were the guards were waiting. He turned and took off to the left, sprinting south.
He came to an intersection and darted right, flying down the wet street. “There he is!” Afwandari heard behind him and dared a glance. Three armored guards slipped in the thick mud and fell onto their backsides, but three more were giving chase. Sirion had an idea. He took the next street to the right, heading north this time, towards that same busy road. This small road he was on was barely occupied, and has he came within seventy yards of the busy road, he ducked down another ally.
While he was making his way down the alley, he shed his cloak and his dark shirt and tossed them into a refuse pile. From there, he turned right and jogged to the main road where he seamlessly filed in with all the hustle and bustle of the early morning’s market. He thrust his hands in his pockets and clenched his teeth as a group of guards came sprinting by. They ignored him as he found his way into a bread stand.
He kept a lookout through searching eyes and a bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.
“Hamas bread?” the voice made him jump, but it was only a little old lady trying to sell her goods. Annoyed, he waved his hand at the woman.
She squinted at him, “Hey, did you used to be…”
Sirion knew that it was time to move. He ducked his head, no without his cowl and made his way down the street. Another group of guards came running by. He jumped to the side to make way from them as every other citizen did, and then they were gone.
--
Sirion returned late that night to Gottschalk’s house. He had made nearly every turn in the city to make sure that he wasn’t being trailed. The shock of the city, once news was announced of the king’s death, hung over the rooftops like a low hanging cloud. Sitting next to the fire in an attempt to rid himself of the suffocating cold sucking the heat from his bones, Afwandari sat next to his associate, Gottschalk.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. The job was done, and that was that. The death of a man was not a reason to celebrate, but was reason to mourn. Gottschalk hung his head in prayer, grateful to his god that they were able to do what they had to do, and thankful that his god saw fit to spare them both. Sirion shared his prayer, although he was unfamiliar to the god which they were praying to.
The assassins did not take joy in the taking of lives. But they shared the Old Man’s vision, and knew that the death of one could lead to the savior of others. They took solace in the fact that thousands of lives had been spared upon that very moment of Afwandari’s blade penetrating the king’s heart.
“Your name,” said Sirion quietly, “What does it mean?”
Gottschalk looked deep into the fire before responding, “It means the Hammer of the Gods, in the language of the North,”
Sirion nodded and fell back into silence. He was to begin his journey back to the Tower tomorrow morning, but not before he made a certain stop within the city.
--
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Post by longstevo on Jun 8, 2009 13:51:00 GMT -5
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The vast Lhyrnian army stood stretched out before Sirion as he surveyed the field in front of them that could soon hold hundreds of their dead. Nearly two thousand knights stood arrayed in various positions, including cavalry, heavy infantry, artillery and other combat support. Each special unit was assigned a number of Lhyrnian knights for leadership for non-Lhyrnian troops. The forest of spears and swords swung in front of the ranger in sickening waves. Soon, very soon, those points would be soaked in blood.
The sea of men were a blur of vivid blue, snow white and blinding silver and gray, as the colors of their home nation dominated the vast plain in front of them. Sirion adjusted himself on his horse, ignoring the old leather complaining against the movement. He looked to their right flank. Nearly one dozen mangonels lined up, ready to launch their devastating payload upon the Khains. To the left flank, nearly one dozen trebuchets also aimed their deadly missiles at their enemy on this morning.
Rising in a cloudless sky, the sun barely began to illuminate the imposing towers of the kingdom of Khai. The armored turrets barely began to bask in the glow of the warming rays when the first chunks of stone sailed over the deeping wall, crashing somewhere within the city. The knight in charge of the artillery barrage called out corrections, and within two minutes, the catapults had slung another barrage of missiles towards the fortress.
Sirion looked to his right. Sitting next to him was a knight that looked no different than all the others. Adorned with a white surcoat, elegant scabbard, chain mail and a steel bucket helm, Princess Alice could have been mistaken for any number of nameless knights, save for the plume of eagle feathers attached to her helmet, signifying her royalty and command. Turning to face her lover, the emotionless eye slits of the bucket seemed to sparkle for just a moment before the iron mask was once again featureless, fearful, and utterly terrifying. She nodded at Sirion, then looked back to the siege at hand.
Their mission today was not the sacking of the city. Just to the west lay the settlements of Khai. They were designated off-limits to the troops, as they had no intentions of destroying their livelihood. The mission today was spun by the king as purely symbolic. They would lay waste to the fortress that housed the royalty of the city, the military and other important figures, and would raze that to the ground. The king ordered them not to stop until the heavy walls of Khai lay flat with the desert surrounding it.
Sirion had still argued against this needless siege, but even the king’s advisors had stopped listening to him. He was shocked as even Alice began to soften in her opinion against this needless violence. When all the advisors voted for battle, Sirion knew he had no choice. He had thought about leaving, after all, this was not his nation nor his fight. But he knew his love would not follow him. So he stayed for her. They had spent the evening prior together, simply laying next to one another, not saying anything. Nothing needed to be said.
The fortress of Khai was massive, but nowhere near the size of The Citadel. The stone castle inside rose to prominence above the outer walls by nearly fifty feet. A massive Khain flag flew over the tallest tower in a symbol of defiance. As the sun began to bask the fortress in light, the rusty red stones shone even darker, and they appeared as if they were already bathed in blood. It was a humbling sight, and Sirion noticed the murmur of their army quiet a little as the blood red stones became more life-like. That could be a bad omen.
The artillery sergeant didn’t seem to notice has he called out another set of corrections. This next salvo should send the missiles right into the tallest tower. There was nothing better for an army’s morale than to see their own missiles smashing against the enemy’s walls.
But Khai was not without its defenses. The desert city, in its storied history, had been sacked six times; attacked twelve; laid siege to sixteen times and completely destroyed twice. Upon hearing that they stood against the wrath of none other than the Kingdom of Lhyrnia, the Khain engineers were immediately put to work. A venerable maze of spikes and spears had been planted in the acres around the castle walls, effectively preventing any sort of mounted charge and seriously slowing any infantry movement. A deep ditch had been dug on the south side, nearly five hundred yards from the castle, and now only one hundred yards from the Lhyrnian front line. The five foot ditch prevented any siege engines from being moved to within severely effective range. At a distance of five hundred yards, the catapults would still be dangerous, but they would be unable to accurately hit the same spot with every shot. And, immediately after the knights’ fifth salvo, the Khains showed just how seriously they came to play.
A cheer arose from the ranks of the knights as five of the twelve stones crushed themselves against the commanding tower, reduced to pebbles and gravel. The sergeant called for a reload, but a harrowing sight came from the other side of the walls. As silently as a sweeping death, a swarm of missiles arose from the castle in a single wave. A very quick count revealed to Sirion that nearly twenty missiles of all sorts were flying towards them. The stones would be impacting into the ground within seconds. The knights had nowhere to go.
With deafening thuds and whumps everywhere, the screams of the wounded arose sharly through the flying dust and grit. The artillery sergeant called another salvo of his own barrage, and their own wave of artillery was flying towards the mighty city. One of the stones smashed into the closest turret, sending bricks and stones flying, along with bodies and limbs. Another cheer arose from those knights who were watching. Many others had taken to the care of their wounded. As Sirion glanced around, he guessed maybe twenty of their men were injured in the Khain barrage.
Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be the last. A second massive wave of Khain siege engines arose from the walls. The severely disciplined knights stood their ground, knowing that running around in a panic only caused an army to fall apart even more quickly. The twenty or so stones slammed into the sand, crushing another fifteen men.
“Damnit!” cried Sirion, “Where’s our navy?”
--
On the north wall, a man named Jerub kept watch over the sea. That was his assigned sector, but the action was happening on the southern walls. He watched the first wave of missiles sail over the stone walls of his castle and smash into the streets below. He stood on the causeway near one of the northern turrets. There were several catapults mounted on this wall, but most had been redeployed to the south, facing the invading army. He glanced back to the ocean, but whipped back around as a second cloud of artillery came smashing down around the fortress. He looked to the west and saw many of the Khain people fleeing their homes in preparation of defeat. He shook his head. ‘No faith,’ he thought. He knew they could stand up against the knights. But he secretly hoped that his wife and daughter were among the fleeing.
He raised his fist and shouted at the top of his lungs as their own mangonels and trebuchets launched their payload into the air. He couldn’t see the impacts, but knew for sure that they had to have inflicted some sort of casualties. He called down to the Khain artillerymen and urged them to reload faster. Another wave of Lhyrnian missiles came sailing in and smashed against the walls. The stones beneath his feet, even at this height, shook with the impacts.
Crammed into the spaces below was nearly eight hundred fighting men. Some had horses, other didn’t. The mass of men inside were mostly a force scrapped together of military aged males. Their trained army was hiding outside in the Coastwoods to the east. Upon the signal, they would rush forth and engage the Lhyrnians in close combat as the invaders moved to sack the city. He knew they could crush them.
As the second wave of Khain missiles launched forth, he heard his comrade call to him, “Look!”
Jerub didn’t take his eyes off the cloud of artillery as they smashed into the Lhyrnian ranks, “I know! We surely got some on that one!”
“No! Out to sea!”
Jerub turned on his heel and swung his eyes out to the clear blue water. His heart sank like a stone. Rounding into the Bay of Khai was a single ship flying the large banner of Lhyrnia. It was followed by another, and then another, and even more. The massive war galleys, he knew, were capable of carrying two working mangonel catapults on the deck and a trebuchet on the bow and aft each. They were nothing short of a siege engine on the waves, and nearly twenty of them were sailing directly for him.
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Post by longstevo on Sept 18, 2009 1:42:29 GMT -5
--
Sirion watched in horror as another cloud of Khain missiles sailed through the air, rotating in some sort of peaceful motion, before violently slamming into the knight’s ranks. A chorus of screams rose from the army as many held their shields in a vain attempt to protect themselves. Sirion ran the numbers through his head and grimly noted that nearly one hundred men had been killed or wounded in the artillery barrage.
Grim satisfaction gripped his heart as the sound of his own catapults snapped, sending their own battery flying through the air. The infantry was getting restless, and the cavalry was getting antsy. He knew that sending them into action would be sending them to their doom, as it does no good to throw men against stone walls. They needed a breach in the fortification. The last round of stones crashed into a section of the outer wall. A cheer rose, as pieces of the brick and mortar crumbled and fell away. The artillery sergeant called out for another salvo at those same directions. Within minutes, another round was ready. And that was when it finally happened.
The sergeant was ready to call forth his war machines to launch another wave at the fortress, when one of the turrets simply exploded in flame. The artillery master checked his battery to make sure no one had fired prematurely, and when he was sure, he shrugged to the king, who was mounted nearby.
But their questions were answered by a call of an excited knight who seemed to know what was going on, “The navy! They’ve arrived!”
And it was then that a cloud of stones could be seen rising above the tallest towers before falling into the interior. An earsplitting roar came from the ground knights as towers of smoke began to rise from the inside. The Lhyrnians were famous for their use of unconventional warfare upon the high seas, and one of those odd weapons they used was something called naptha. It was a very flammable material, and was bottled into various containers that would survive the launch from a mangonel, but upon breaking all of the target, would splash the deadly liquid over everything nearby. A lit fuse provided a spark which would ignite the naptha. It was particularly deadly, and many men had died in the mishandling of the weapon. But in the hands of the Lhyrnian sailors, it was a lethal device.
Another wave of ground artillery was launched at the fortress and slammed into the crumbling wall. A piece of it sloughed off, piling on the grass in the plain outside. Sirion clenched his fist in the air. A few more rounds of missiles, and they should be good. A counter salvo came from behind the castle, but there were fewer projectiles. Another wave came up and over the walls almost immediately, but it was clear that they were headed the opposite direction, towards the sea.
“Advance!” came the command from the king, “Bring the trebuchets forward to range!”
Sirion frowned. He thought it was a little early still for foot combat, but he simply followed his orders. He galloped to the front of the column of men he was assigned, nearly twenty knights and seventy fighters. The young faces were a mix of anticipation and sheer terror. He felt his poised stature made a difference in their motivation. He stood up straight in his saddle, grinning widely, raised a hand, and marched on the burning city of Khai.
--
Sirion’s horse leapt over the shallow ditch with ease. This would be the limit for the siege machines. But they wouldn’t need to come closer. Most of their jobs were about to be completed. The trebuchets, massive crossbows that fired spears instead of arrows, could still be utilized. As Sirion looked around him, he saw the entire mass of the Lhyrnian army marching forward as one. The strategy unnerved the ranger a bit. It was wise to keep some men back as reserve, in case things went poorly, but King Jarod was intent on his methods, and no one could talk him out of it the night before. So the Lhyrnian mass came forward as steady as the ocean tide, unstoppable and hungry.
They weaved their way through the forest of spears designed to stop a cavalry charge. It had a dramatic impact on the troop movement, slowing them greatly. Another wave of Khain artillery flew over head and crashed harmlessly behind the force. It was immediately answered by a counter fire, which destroyed a little more of the fortress. Just a couple more impacts and the knights could start entering.
Sirion glanced to his left. Commander Tallilson’s face was covered by the traditional Lhyrnian bucket helm, much like the princess’. The ranger didn’t care for the suffocating feel it gave him, and instead wore an open faced conical helmet with a strip of steel coming down over his nose as protection. The knight’s snow white surcoat fell over his chain mail, and his long sword fell at his left side. A heavy tower shield protected his left side, which bore the symbol of Lhyrnia proudly.
The unstoppable onslaught moved forward.
--
The riders of Lhyrnia dismounted their horses, which were reduced to uselessness amongst the spears and ditches. Sirion stomped to the ground and yanked free his sword. Standing among his men, he did not stand out. But his men knew their leader, and the fact he know advanced on the same ground as they was comforting to them. They continued to move towards the keep, now only one hundred and fifty yards ahead.
The rusty red stones continued to stand, proud and undefeated, despite a very large break in the wall. The gap stretched only twenty or so meters, but it was far from easy ground to take. Boulders and chunks of debris littered the ground everywhere, adding to the other obstacles standing in the knight’s path. Sirion could see men on the causeways above them with bows. He was sure that wasn’t the only trick they had up their sleeve. He set his mind to prepare for rocks and boiling oil. As his men reached archery range, he called a command.
“Shields up! Prepare for arrows!” and the call was just in time. Hundreds of arrows thunked into Lhyrnian shields. They continued to advance that way, their progress slowed even more.
--
Sirion held his shield above him, the great weight of the thing causing his muscles to burn with fatigue. But the thought of what was raining down upon him caused him to draw strength from within, even as another salvo of arrows slammed into the thick, oaken shield.
Nervous cries arose all around him, even as some shrieks of pain and death cut through the air. He called to rally his men, but his voice was barely audible among the crashing artillery, dying screams and other various war cries. His only way of leading now was to push onward. So forward he went.
Another missile smashed into the crack that had developed in the wall. The proximity of the impact to Sergeant Sunrunner’s position began to make him nervous. He suddenly wished that the artillery would stop. The last thing he needed was to worry about his own missiles causing casualties. Kneeling down and taking a quick look from behind his shield to get an idea of what awaiting them at the breach in the wall, the fear began to gnaw up from his gut. What he saw he didn’t like so much.
The breach was no more than ten feet wide and was choked with Khain fighters, awaiting the Lhyrnian charge. Men were clustered at the top of the broken wall, covered by their comrades. The smoke from the boiling oil could be seen even from Sirion’s position. The arrows from the archer’s bows looked like pincushions from way up there.
“Phalanx! Give me a phalanx!” commanded Sirion. Immediately, his men rushed to his side and formed an impenetrable mass of shields. The sergeant crouched in the center. “You,” he grabbed the nearest fighter, a young man of no more than twenty years, “You will run back to the artillery commander and tell him to raise his volley fifty meters. We need the top of the wall to be on the ground! Go!” The young man turned and ran, leaving his brothers in arms holding out against a living hell in what would soon become known as Khain Killing Fields.
--
Sirion stared at the ground and listened to the arrows impact his men’s shields again and again. Arrows were landing and slicing into the shafts of other arrows. He wondered how many steel broadheads were embedded in the oak. He could swear that the shield felt ten times heavier. Some of his men were laughing. Why, he could not tell. But his phalanx was holding out. Not a single man had fallen.
He wondered at what was taking the artillery so long to provide them covering fire. But just has he thought it, the stones began flying overhead, as if they were granite angels slicing through the sky only to smash into a timeless enemy. And they were right on target. The archers standing guard above the open breach were smashed as missiles slammed into their turrets. Bodies went flying, mixed with weapons, stone and mortar and oil. The debris from the impacts showered down on the foot soldiers clogging the middle of their access point. The Khain soldiers were in a state of confusion. Now, would be their time to strike.
“Forward!” shouted Sirion as he leapt from his crouching position and charged the open field. The blood red walls of Khain jutted up from the sandy soil like some sort of defiant god. But Sirion knew the weak point of this god, and he sprinted towards it as fast as his armored leggings would take him. Knowing that this decision was bad in the first place, he tossed his shield aside, for it only slowed him down. With his right hand, he yanked forth his long sword and raised it above his head. He took small comfort in the deafening cry that came behind him, as the entire Lyhrian force followed suit.
He closed the distance to thirty meters. And then twenty. And finally ten. Time seemed to move in slow motion. He saw directly in front of him the masses of Khains picking themselves up from injuries sustained during that last artillery salvo. Men no older than thirty with faces covered in blood and hands holding their throbbing heads. Old men no younger than sixty years stumbling to keep their footholds in the jagged earth. Sirion even thought for a moment that he saw a woman in their midst, but he could not be certain. What he believed to be certain of, however, is that they would all be dead in a matter of minutes.
Shield-less and swing his longsword like a madman, Sirion Sunrunner slammed into the broken ranks of the Khains much like his beloved ‘granite angels’ from only moments ago. He thrust his blade here and there, springing fountains of crimson with each strike. His royal blue cape swung about his shoulders and was quickly darkened with blood. He barely had time for his brain to register each kill, for as soon as he was sure that his victim was slain, he was moving on to the next enemy face, and bringing his long sword to meet it.
The aura of battle had already begun to embrace, but now it was started to suffocate him. With each strike, his enemies lost a little bit more of their humanity. Instead of ending a human life with each crash of his blade, he was simply harvesting grain, or chopping wood. The killing was numbing to him, and soon, the savage reality of battle was gone for him. In this state, he would not have recognized his friends, comrades, or lover. He knew the enemy uniform, and that was all he needed. And so he kept his ground on the broken gap of the wall, an unstoppable warrior forming the spearpoint of an unstoppable army.
Or so they thought.
--
The Coastwood forest was something of a ‘lost forest.’ It was given this title ‘lost’ because it simply should not be growing where it was. The land from which this forest sprouted from was no different from the barren and desert wasteland to the south, west and east, but something was different, for a very healthy and sturdy forest of oaks and evergreens grew straight out of the scalding sands. If one could forgive the sandy soil, it would be understandable to think one was back in the forests of the North.
And it was here in this forest that the Khain’s ace in the hole was resting, and waiting for the signal to attack. Nearly five hundred horses whinnied and nickered restlessly, as they carried their armored cavalry, awaiting the charge. One thousand footmen backed them up. Unlike the untrained men that were being slaughtered right now, the men in the forest were Khain’s best. They were the ‘Wasps,’ named so for the fearsome desert wasp that inhabited the local desert. They were the best training army of the region. Although they had never fought a Lhyrnian face to face, legends and myths were whispered in taverns and inns throughout the land that if a Lhyrnian knight and a Khain ‘Wasp’ ever met in battle, they would both die from exhaustion before one would allow himself to be slain by the other. And it was here, before the Khain Killing Fields, where this legend would be put to the test.
--
Sirion’s arms began to tire with the work of swinging his sword. The bodies were piling up, and his men had not even gained a foot of ground. It was to the point now where the Khains and the Lhyrnians only had room to swing their weapons across a venerable wall of dead nearly chest high. All abilities to maneuver were lost, and at some points of the wall, men could only poke at their enemies by stretching themselves out as far as they could. Usually this only resulted a blade in one’s side, and therefore adding to the grisly mess. Finally, Sirion stepped back.
His shoulders heaved with exhaustion. The Khains stepped back as well. Many were doubled over, grateful for a chance to rest. Sweaty, dirty and bloody, the two sides stared at each other only ten meters apart, but they might as well have been standing on opposite sides of a ravine for all the harm they could do to one another. An eerie silence fell over the breach.
One man coughed. Another man sniffed in an attempt to clear some sort of grit from his nose. A slight breeze picked up, whipping the Lhyrnian cloaks around their ankles. The despondent looking Khains looked on. There was no sense of victory, despite keeping the Lhyrnians out of the city. They surely feared the next day, for they knew they were once again going to be at the points of the enemy’s blades. But this day of fighting was over. There was dead to be tended to, and reinforcements to be made. The night was going to be long and dreadful for both sides.
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Post by longstevo on May 12, 2010 19:32:06 GMT -5
--
Still gasping for breath, Sirion glared across the wall of dead at his enemies, and they did the same. The knight cast his long sword into the soil, and it stayed there, a wavering cross. The sky was turning bright shades of orange and crimson as the sun began to set in the east. The artillery engines fell silent, and the wails of the wounded arose like a fog throughout the city of Khai. Milling about, the knights began to turn away from their battle and retreat to their own battle lines to regroup.
As customary with conventional and somewhat ‘gentlemen-like’ warfare, two sides would fight savagely during daylight hours, but come dusk, an unspoken agreement came into effect and a truce was enacted to allow each side to collect their dead and wounded, and refresh their capable warriors for the day’s next skirmish. At that point, the gentlemen’s courtesy was gone, and the two sides would continue to slay each other. That is how most battles were fought. That was how most forces would show respect to one another.
The Kingdom of Khain was not one of these forces.
As soon as the indigo blue knights turned their back on the city, a shrill horn called from somewhere in the depth of the forest. The woodline rested only three hundred meters away. Every knight on the battlefield whipped their attention towards this new, unseen threat. Their queries would soon be answered, as all five hundred Wasp horsemen exploded from their hiding places, their red and black riders waving shimmering sabers in the air.
Sirion grasped his longsword and yanked it free of the ground. His first thought was how could this force cause any threat, with all the spears and anti-cavalry defenses that were entrenched around the city. But a quick survey of his surroundings caused his heart to sink.
The defenses were arrayed in such a way to stop a force from charging north to south, such as the Lhyrians were advancing. But, if one looked from east to west, such as the Khains were charging, the defenses were actually positioned in rows, allowing for a charging army to advance unhindered, and created killing lanes for the mounted Wasps.
“Fall back!” commanded the sergeant. He knew his men were walking dead if they tried to defend themselves here. They needed to get back to friendly ground. He turned to follow his men as they retreated through the forest of spears. The charging army was too fast. Sirion knew he would be caught in the first wave. As he struggled to fight through the spears, he saw the charge break into two. One wave continued towards him, obviously in an attempt to make safe their city. The second wave redirected towards the knights’ artillery. The same artillery that was unguarded due to King Jarod’s decision to send all knights forward. Sirion spat. This was going to be a slaughter.
--
The first wave of unhindered cavalry thundered over the ground which was strewn with bodies. Sirion ducked for cover underneath a rather large assembly of spears. As he pushed himself up on his elbows in the bloody muck, he saw one of his men stop and turn back to him.
“Go!” shouted Sirion, but it was too late. The lead Wasp horse was upon them. Sirion’s man turned to his enemy and raised his longsword to meet the scimitar crashing down at him. Steel clanged on steel as the knight parried the attack. But the second horseman’s swing succeeded where the first failed. The shimmering blade razed across the knight’s neck, felling him instantly.
Sirion’s world became a thundering world of thunder and roars as two hundred and fifty horses rushed only inches from his head. He gripped the back of his neck and curled into a ball in a vain attempt to defend himself. The seconds seemed to drag by like hours. And then as suddenly as the cavalry was upon them, they were gone.
Jumping to his feet, the only sound he could hear was the deafening roar of cheers and jaunts rising from the walls of Khai. He took quick survey and found that only a dozen or so men were also rising to their feet.
“Come! Back to the lines!” Sirion broke into as fast as a run as possible, with his awkward armor bogging him down among the death lanes of the emplaced spears and pikes. The knights heard the calls from the city getting louder, which could only mean their Wasps were coming back for another run. A quick look to the west confirmed it.
“Run!” shouted Sirion in vain. His handful of knights struggled to make their way back to the Lhyrnian rally point near the artillery. In a fleeting moment, Sirion wondered if they were only jumping from the frying pan into the fire, thinking that the artillery was probably under just as much siege as they were.
The knights cleared the last bit of the spear forest and jumped across the ditch that prevented the forward deployment of siege engines. More than one man failed the long jump and fell in. Their pained screams of agony were probably testament to any number of nasty traps at the bottom. Sirion shook his head as he pushed onward. They were lost to him.
--
Plumes of smoke marked the spot where the artillery battery was once placed. The Wasps had already been here. Bodies were scattered everywhere, and nearly everyone of them wore indigo blue.
“Sergeant!” Sirion whirled his head to see a knight wheeling a horse towards the open desert, “We’re falling back!” And then the knight was off, following a smattering of blue knights racing towards the flat horizon of the south.
“Sirion!” Someone else called to him. He looked to his left. A horseman skidded to a stop in front of him. The rider held the reins of a second mount. “Get on!” There was something about the voice. He stared inside the short slits that ran across the bucket helm. Ice blue eyes peered out. It was Princess Alice.
Sirion leapt on top of the horse, and the two whirled around and raced away from the burning city of Khai. Galloping at top speed, Sirion glanced at his love. “What are we doing?” he shouted.
The faceless bucket turned towards him. Her words rang hollow in the surrounding metal, but he could make them out, barely, “We’re falling back to the desert where we have a chance at setting up a defensive perimeter. We have no prayers in front of that castle.”
Sirion’s emotions calmed a bit. He loathed retreating. It made him feel a little better to know that he’d have another crack at his enemies.
--
Chapter 11 Savage Retribution
One hundred knights wheeled their horses in a defensive circle. Longswords waved in the air and men shuffled nervously in their saddles. Over a large sand dune poured nearly five hundred Wasps to their east. Decked in ebony black armor and wielding shimmering scimitars, the hoard was galloping at full speed. Outmanned five to one, the odds were steep even by Lhyrnian standards.
A single blue and white standard waved above the makeshift perimeter of the knights. Sirion looked up at it. Although he didn’t feel a refreshing breeze on his skin, the white canvas fluttered eagerly in the breeze. He stared at it. The tail of the flag fluttered in the unseen wind, flapping towards the oncoming Wasps. It was almost as if it desired blood, and was urging Sirion to draw it.
Acting on this notion, incorrect or not, the ranger pressed his horse through the throngs of men and horse and grabbed the pole that held the flag from the young soldier who carried it. He stood up in his stirrups, longsword in one hand and Lhyrnian standard in the other.
“This flag shall not fall!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. He jammed the spiked end into the sandy soil far enough so that it stood on its own. And with that, Sirion spurred his battle steed into action and galloped at full speed towards the enemy.
--
Sirion’s heroics were not the only ones on that sandy field. Upon seeing one of their leaders rushing to meet their enemies, every knight followed suit. In seconds, all one hundred horsemen were galloping into the black horde, leaving their pure white flag behind, which had ceased to flutter.
Sirion gripped the reins of his steed tightly in his left hand and his sword in his right. He was sure that death would be upon him in seconds, as the lead riders of the black knights refused to yield. But the screams of his sword brothers comforted him. He at least knew that Lhyrnia would go down fighting this day.
The jerking motion of his steed’s movements became oblivious to him as he gritted his teeth, ready to meet the violence that would soon encircle him. He stared intently at his enemy fast approaching. And just before blue and black forces collided, he could see clearly the eyes of his foe, and the fear that danced inside those eyes.
--
If one were watching from the neighboring sand dunes, the collision between the outnumbered Knights of Lhyrnia and the Khain Wasps was a cavalry charge worthy of record in the Books of Ages. Immediately upon contact, weapons, bodies, horses and armor of both sides went flying into the air. Screams of pain, fear as well as rage and hate filled the air. Legend has it that the city of Khai quieted the very moment this desert battle began, for the battle cries could be heard inside the city’s walls.
The small blue sliver that jammed itself into the lead point of the charging Wasps was immediately surrounded by the dark armored riders of the West. Hacking, chopping, swinging and slicing, swords from both sides wrecked havoc upon riders wearing a color other than theirs. The sea of warriors was a glimmering vision with sparkling glints and reflections of the setting sun on shining blades. It was a wonder that even five minutes into the battle, there were still men sitting atop their horses, much less those wearing Lhyrnian blue.
But slowly, more and more of white and blue could be seen in that cesspool of death and despair. One more black Wasp fell to the sand, and then another. And the lead horse of the Knights jutted out from the backside of the Wasp’s flanks. He led a small group of horses out of the knotted group of fighting and galloped away for about one hundred yards, before turning around for another charge. The surcoats of the Knights was more red than blue. The six horsemen charged back into the fray, and with the momentum they carried, inflicted even more casualties on their enemy.
Finally, due to some turn of events in that confusing mass of men and horses, the tide of the battle turned. Less black dominated the group, and white mantles appeared. Finally, only a handful of Wasps remained, but they fought diligently. But, as brave and honorable as it was, useless it turned out to be. They were only cut down to die in the desert.
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Post by longstevo on May 12, 2010 19:32:41 GMT -5
Chapter 12 A New Horizon, A New War
A young man named George Hathaway rubbed a frail and worn piece of paper with his dirty fingers. The sheer cold of his surroundings worked to sap his strength and energy, and he nearly jumped as a savage shiver ran throughout his very being. The frozen dirt he was sitting on teamed with the frigid stone wall he leaned against. He squinted against the freezing air and stared hard at the scribble that adorned the parchment. ‘My dearest George, The past three months have been some of the most wonderful of my life. You were more of a friend and lover than anybody could have possibly hoped for. This departure will be difficult for the both of us, but I think we can weather it through. You are my world, my dear. I will wait for you. I promise Love, Maria’
George wrung the note again and looked at the date. The month and the day were current to that of this day, but the year was not. The letter was dated three years ago. He took a moment from his current surroundings and thought about the day that letter found itself into his hands. Walking hand in hand with his love, the two youngsters walked along a creek bank in a summer evening. The world outside of the two did not exist, for they shut it out and only allowed themselves each other. Maria stopped and looked up into a twenty-year old George’s eyes. They exchanged sweet nothings and kissed as if they were two people preparing to say their goodbyes would.
But for all the promise and excitement of the day, a growing dread gnawed at both of their stomachs. For they were two young people that were preparing to say their goodbyes. The mountain city of Bladeport was under siege by an alliance of evil to the west. And in the historic city’s defense, the garrison at his home town of Sarenton instituted a draft for all able bodied young men. The men would undergo training with the Knights of Lhyrnia in the Griffen’s Keep of their kingdom. After four weeks of combat training, they should sail north with the knights and aid in the strengthening of Bladeport.
--
The city of Bladeport was an ancient city. It’s geographical importance was the reason it had been inhabited for nearly one thousand years. The city itself guarded the Skesgart Sea along the western shore and provided a gateway to the northern nation of Asgirnook. It also supported the remote garrisons that guarded the western mountains against the often hostile dwarves and mountain men.
But geography was not the reason for the dwarves’ interest in the city. Inside the mountains to the north, appropriately named The Icewall, were deep veins of precious gems that swirled down into the mountain side. And the dwarves’ lust for raping the earth for her jewels was quite well known. Legend even had it that one valuable mine consisted of hundreds of veins of ruby, emerald, diamond and gold woven tightly together and stretching along the surface for hundreds of yards before disappearing into the steel rock face of the Icewall. The location of that mine had been lost when the last mining group working on it was lost in a blizzard and avalanche. Since then, the location of the valuable mine was lost, and nearly written off to legend.
In seizing the city of Bladeport, the wild men of the north would gain a foothold in the big scheme of things. It would give them an all-important seaport, one of only two in the region, as well as give them a chance to finally crawl out of the rocks and attempt to civilize themselves and become socially relevant. But, in their narrow minds, the only way to do this was to smash the city to the ground, and essentially force the world to accept the new rule that would come about. In an effort to make their military stronger, they enlisted the aid of the dwarves, promising them free range of the Icewall and permission to dig and mine to their heart’s content. This coalition, although far from something to look it, brought with it a ferocity and vigor only found in the rough and often barren wastelands of frozen nothingness. And, the dwarves brought with them a new weapon.
Gunpowder. Long had man and elves and dwarves and other interested parties found ways to slay each other with shaped metal and wood and stone. Trebuchets, catapults, slingshots and other mechanisms worked with ingenious engineering to throw everything from rocks to naptha at their enemies. But the dwarves had found a new addition to the battlefield.
In an almost irrelevant skirmish at Greyspire, a small battalion of dwarves sacked the massively fortified citadel in less than a day. The battle was the first fielding of the new gunpowder, and it worked to lethal accuracy. Once the new cannons were wheeled onto the scene, the long barrels flinging steel balls crushed the stone walls that had stood for centuries and brought the intimidating tower crumbling to the ground. Not a soul was saved.
--
George tucked the letter from Maria into a pocket covered by his breastplate and brought his hands up to his mouth, where he tried to warm them with his breath. A comrade sat only feet in front of him, facing towards him. They sat in a narrow trench that was dug about five feet deep. George looked to the sky. Even though he and his friend sat in the bottom of a ditch, the sky was crystal clear. At least the sky to the south was clear. The sky to the north was concealed by the Icewall.
The range of mountains ran east and west for nearly two hundred miles and conquered an elevation of nearly twenty thousand feet. The Icewall was exactly that: a wall of rock as hard as steel and snow and ice. It was in penetrable. But, the lower cliffs and mountain tops offered a commanding view of the Vinojar Plains directly to the south. And that is where the Battle of Calythir was taking place.
Bladeport was the northernmost city of the Free Cities of Calythir. It was named so for the monk who came to this region in an attempt to spread his religion. Monk Calythir fought and struggled against the locals and finally developed a small foothold in the barren wasteland that this region was, and with the sea just nearby, the region began to flourish. And so, five completely separate cities were spawned, each offering something different to the each other. Bladeport offered jewelry and minerals. Beren was an excellent fishery and livestock producer. Ilidar was famous for its artists an silk. Gremhil was a lumber exporter. And Celigast was the second main trading port. Together, the small nation of Calythir managed to do quite well to fend for itself.
But its military was not something to be desired. Even under constant threat of the West, there simply was no military training available. So when the men and dwarves descended upon the small nation, they fell easily. They needed help. Old alliances were called upon. Mercenaries were purchased. And finally, the Kingdom of Lhyrnia was called. And it was with that first wave that George Hathaway arrived.
--
George looked up and down the trench. Bodies littered the ground, both alive and dead. Smoke rose from all around the small fortress they held. Men shouted. Wounded cried. But always the dead were silent. And it was the silence that unnerved George. Even after three years of vicious warfare, he could never get used to the dead’s unstaring eyes. A pair of those eyes gazed at him from mere feet to his right. This is why he focused so hard on his friend, Hector.
Hector was a man of close to George’s age. Boyish in looks, he was a man in stature. Except when it came to combat. Then his youth shone through and the timid man he really was became apparent. Even now, Hector had both of his hands clamped over his ears, pressing into his long blonde hair trying to shut out everything, including the explosions long past.
Silently, the young man rocked back and forth, eyes clenched shut in an attempt to shut out the world around him. He didn’t want that dead man slumped over across the trench. He didn’t want the plate and chain armor draped over his shoulders. He didn’t want the long sword that lay useless upon the ground. And mostly, he simply didn’t want to be here. Where his mind wandered, George didn’t know. And he didn’t have time to wonder.
“Artillery!” the command roared up and down the trench line where the two men huddled. Leaping up, George ignored the blistering cold and rushed to the nearest catapult. There, a ragged team of loaders were struggling to place a large stone upon the sthingy. Placing the ammunition upon the weapon with a grunt, the men stepped back upon hearing the “Clear!” signal. Then the trigger was set and released, and the wooden beam that made the brunt of the catapult flashed forward and cracked against the restraint with an explosion. The stone was sent hurtling through the frozen fog toward an unseen enemy. Up and down the entire line, similar cracks were heard, releasing a hail storm of deadly projectiles.
When the call to reload didn’t come, George wiped a gauntleted hand across his face. He wasn’t sure why, when all it did was treat him to a moment of sheer cold with the frozen metal. He shivered within his armor. When he had been fitted for it nearly a year ago, the suit fit him snugly. Now, after all that time in the trenches, it hung down from his shoulders like a child wearing his father’s coat. The fact that he had survived all this time while dodging enemy strikes was amazing itself. And the fact that he had survived while facing nature’s worse might be just that impressive.
George stumbled down the line towards Hector. He was no longer rocking back and forth, but speaking. George first thought this was a good sign, until he saw who he was holding a conversation with. Hector made hand gestures towards his conversation mate, but the dead soldier he was speaking to didn’t have too much to say. Even when a pair of youths came to haul the deceased man away, Hector continued to speak. Shaking his head, George turned and left.
--
“Incoming!” The call rang forth up and down the trench, shattering the early morning still. Men jumped forth and ran for cover. But those who had been on the Icewall for more than three months knew that cover didn’t necessarily mean safety. Many of the veterans stayed put, whether they were on their sleeping mats or manning the guard towers. If the dwarven shells didn’t kill you when they landed, then your clock was still ticking. If, however, the strikes were fatal, then it was just your time. There wasn’t much more to it than that.
George was a veteran. Three years hovering near and around death earned him that title. He remained huddled up in a dark recess in the labyrinth of tunnels that were dug throughout the mountainside. The impacts of the artillery seemed to shake the mountain to its roots. Cries of pain resonated throughout the hallways. Medical personnel and healers rushed to the wounded men’s aid. But George stayed put. He knew better.
But only one wave of missiles came in this time. George had seen nights where it seemed the entire sky seemed to explode all night. Those were the worst. Men sat underneath cover and thanked their lord for each explosion they could count. For their ability to count the explosions meant they were still alive. But with each shell that fell on top of them, less and less men were counting. It was taking its toll. Now, as the region came out of winter, the possibility of victory was growing more and more slim.
As the ice began to recede from the fields at the foot of the Icewall, it meant that troops and armies could maneuver closer to the men’s final stronghold. But disturbing news came from the south that no reinforcements were coming to relieve the knights and the fighting men of Calythir. They were on their own. There simply were no more men to send to the grinder. As the news of this sunk into the men, their feeling of isolation was nearly complete. But one man was fighting two wars on this barren ridgeline. Their commander, in addition to vowing to destroy the wildmen and the dwarves, he was fighting to keep his men’s morale and determinations on track.
George scurried out to the rampart to assess the damage. It appeared that most of the impacts flew high, and landed harmlessly above them. Although that was initially good news, wild impacts like this always increased the likelihood of avalanches and rockslides. Their other stronghold directly to the west was wiped out in a massive avalanche caused by impacting artillery six months ago. Twenty five hundred men were wiped out in minutes. Even now, recovery parties couldn’t be assembled to recover their comrades. Over two thousand of their fighting comrades had been permanently lost to the Icewall.
As George put his hands and looked out over where the southern plains were clouded in a freezing, misting fog, he heard a commotion behind him. Coming through the tunnel to the rampart he was standing on, the command staff strode out to check for damage; to check for bodies.
Leading the way was a man standing about six feet tall. The armor encasing his chest and shoulders made him appear as thick as a tree trunk. A cape flowed down his back, shimmering blue with the colors of the country with which he served: Lhyrnia. Looking into his face, the years of warfare were evident. Crows feet stretched from his eyes almost to his hairline. His beaked nose stood prominently from the rest of his features. His stern mouth was worn in a tight line. The gray eyes which had seen so much death and destruction were the color of the fog in the sky. Snow white hair cascaded down his neck. Unkept and messy from sleepless weeks and constant warfare, the white hair flew away in several places on his head. While his dress made him look like a royal court knight, his bodily features gave way to the fact that this man was a grizzled veteran in the middle of a struggle to survive.
“Sir!” George snapped to attention and saluted his commander. One of the sergeants following the commander called out as they stepped outside.
“Commander Sunrunner present! Attention!”
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