Inch by inch the mighty doors creaked asunder…
The warriors of Axur gazed into the heart of their target. Their quarry lie dead ahead of them. Rows of staunch men clothed in light chain mail and heavy, boiled leather greeted their gaze. Atop their heads sat a metal cap with a single slice running in front of the nose. Two straps secured the flimsy helm to their heads. Armor suitable for archers, but pathetic for footmen. Yet, not a single rattle escaped from their side. Each fearsome glare from the invaders was met with an equally stubborn one of resistance from the defenders. Despite the fact that all they grasped were short-swords, not a single soul backed down in front of the armored warriors. Several men at the front also gripped a long chain, it disappearing behind them as they stood atop most peculiar wooden planks.
All this, compared to the hulks still standing stunned before them. Their monstrous forms, already buffered atop what horses remained, stood almost choked in the gateway.
This battle would be a clash of classes.
Strength against agility.
Power over speed.
But without their bows, they’re powerless, was the single thought that crossed beneath the crimson hat.
Eramas spied across the sea of defenders obstructing his path their general at the rear; and found his own fierce stare reflected back to him. He gave his opponent’s forces one more glance.
The roars began. War-cries crashed through the air to the other side. Armored brutes brushed past the caped commander in their charge towards the fortress guards. Riders galloped over fellow comrades as each man raced forth to draw first blood.
“Now! Tally up!”
The last syllable just barely escaped the Etonian general’s mouth when all the defenders at front tramped two steps back and pulled stalwartly on the chains. The ties jangled irately and then went taunt. With a groan the wooden planks drew themselves up and in front of the defending army, forming yet another wall. Narrow slits revealed the eyes of soldiers holding the barrier up until it was firmly still.
The mounts brought their masters faster to the other side than the invaders on foot. The just raised partition only delayed the inevitable. With a swift kick the riders urged their steeds ever faster. Those left horseless dashed as fast as their bodies allowed, and then even more so. The fleeting distance closed rapidly. The chargers gave a loud shout.
Pikes shot out of the slits just as the attackers reached within arms-length. Every horse was instantly impaled, riders thrown flying off by the abrupt halt, careening over the wall into the hands of certain doom. Those on the ground met a worse fate as their momentum carried them through to the spikes. Others never even touched the wall, their abdomens struck dead-center, hanging off their feet, dangling from the pikes.
The red-general’s eyes widened at the ghastly sight. His already severely diminished legion was falling incredibly at single instants. Eyes narrowing again, his saber whipped out of its sheath and returned home to his right grip. His feet stepped slowly towards the spiked barricade, cape blown back by the ever-present wind.
The legionaries’ eyes followed their leader as he approached the wall. He stopped, and turned his head just enough for one eye to stare back at his men.
“Knock. It. Down!” cried out from behind the red collar.
The left leg slid back as the right one bent forwards. The saber swung ‘round back across his chest. With a piston-pushed leap from his leg, he dashed onwards to the barrier, shoulder at front. His comrades bellowed a cry of support and followed.
***************************************
“Hold your positions! Keep that wall steady!” shouted the Captain of the Guard.
Soldiers were still reeling back from the initial impact. Others lay inert across the ground, knocked unconscious. Men struggled through the masses to reach their fallen brethren and support the barrier. But it was too little, too late…
More cries were heard from behind the barrier, followed by the rampant pound of footsteps.
Heshvan closed his eyes and looked away from the chaos that was the front line. His comrades’ shouting and bustling wreaked only more disorder. He whispered a silent prayer, and reopened his eyes with a grim stare of determination. Knuckles turned white as they tightened around the sword. He moved his way slowly to the front.
The young defender gazed across his brothers-in-arms, and his chest heaved with a sigh. He glanced up at the fortress walls around them; what was home for each of them for so long. He lazily followed his stare to ascend up to the scaffolds.
Both pupils halted at the sight of the one abandoned quiver. Feathered shafts peeked timidly out.
“Here, take my sword,” uttered the archer to a nearby compatriot, “You’ll need it.”
And with that he raced up the ramps.
***************************************
Eramas and his troops ran as a united line. One foot pushed ahead from the other, each person practically launching themselves towards the formidable wall. It was not until they closed in did the line fragment. The aggressors were sure to avoid the fatal spikes and aim straight for the wall itself. They bellowed with the impact.
Shoulder upon shoulder rammed it at once. The wood shivered with the single collision. Yells of surprise erupted from behind the pikes. Shuffling was heard from behind the partition, chains rattled as they hit the floor. One person screamed.
The vast wall creaked, and shifted once. It groaned again with movement, and started falling backwards.
Not a second was wasted. Each of the invaders pushed with all their might against the wall. Others repeatedly rammed it again and again. Soon enough, the shadow of the divider began to envelope the archers.
The area was too confined, the troop formations too tight. The piked wall arched over the defenders. Those at the front frantically shoved their way through to the back. Those at the sides desperately ran farther to the rear to try and avoid it. Everyone scattered and rushed out of its way. The groans of the wood overwhelmed the screams. Those trapped beneath the shadow were condemned to their fate. The hardwood wall fell atop the poor souls with a sickening crunch, cutting off the screams like a knife.
The deathtrap had just settled atop its grisly cushion when a crimson-clad fiend leapt atop it. Wickedly cast steel battalions lumbered up and paused behind him. The fleeting grace period lasted no more than a moment.
The invaders charged deep into the Etonian lines, like a blade through flesh. The defenders were mowed down with the initial rush, crushed and cut down. The chain mail proved no match at all against such superior armor. The longer, thicker warblades shattered the smaller swords. The bloodletting was relentless. Furious roars stamped out the cries of terror.
And then a single Axurian screamed out in agony, and collapsed to the ground. A single arrow stuck out his back.
Several more shafts zipped through the air, finding their mark every time. One by one, the armored hulks fell with the feathered bolts protruding out from backs and heads like flags. The onslaught paused as various warriors scattered, attempting to run out of the newly appeared sniper’s sights. The brief pause gave birth to a single realization among the fortress defenders.
Their numbers encircled the invaders almost entirely. Hundreds had been lost on the attacker’s part, while the only casualties for the Etonians came from the falling wall. With a shout the defenders pressed back. Military instincts took over from panic’s reign, and the invaders found themselves being repulsed.
Eramas dashed straight into the fury. His left arm reached out to his right, and with a quick jerk flipped out the dagger from the bracer. Charging down into the maw he struck at one chain-mailed figure, knocking him back. Another swung to his left, nearly striking his shoulder. The red commander shifted right, and slashed at his chest. Just as that man fell down another raced to him from behind, sword raised high. The blade cut down, fully intent on slicing open his skull—until Eramas’s dagger thrust itself in the way, trapping the blade in its hand-guard. The defender pushed, urging the sword to throw back the commander’s measly dagger. Eramas flicked his wrist and flipped the stiletto facing away, his opponent’s weapon caught underneath the dagger’s hand-guard. Another flick, and the sword was snatched from the Etonian’s grasp and flung far aside.
Before his saber could finish the job, more threats approached, armed with lances thrust menacingly outward. He only ran towards them. Dagger parried while sword struck, and the shock had barely registered on the lancers’ faces before they were put down.
The battle as a whole, however, was far more of a failure. The light protection and rapid reflexes of the archers drove circles around the heavy-clad Axurians. For every swipe, they dodged. For ever thrust, they side-stepped. For every slash, they evaded. The defenders ducked, slid, and danced around their opponents. Not a single hair on them could be touched.
Yet for every opening left wide by the Axurians, for every stab, strike, and assailment from the Etonians each and every one of those bounced off. The invaders, though lumbering monstrosities, just could not be harmed. Short sword and spear-point cried out for blood, only to be pushed aside by the thick shells of armor. Each attempt to strike at the invaders only clanged back in response. Only the accursed arrows from above gave them caution.
The dagger and sword cut down yet another would be assailant. Eramas peered through the chaos and spied the enemies’ Captain still near the rear, barking some sort of orders. He turned and found two armored warriors being harassed behind him. With quick slash to the backside, the troublesome archers were gone. A swift bang with the dagger’s pommel caught the attention of his two comrades. He jerked his head in a nod towards the enemy leader. The two soldiers nodded in reply and began shoving through the mobs towards him. Eramas flipped his sword sideways and thrust back an onrushing Etonian. With the brief peace allotted to think, he scanned the scaffolds for the origin of those arrows.
He bounded up to a stairwell and tromped up to the ramps, the wood shaking with every step. An arrow fleeted by him. He ducked, and the point of another just grazed the top of his hat. Eramas continued his ascent, this time swinging shoulders widely. The crimson cape flew back and forth wildly, and sure enough a single arrow pierced through it as it swung rigorously to the right. It missed the general’s back completely, as was planned. Any possible aiming was immediately ruined without knowing just where his backside was.
Upon reaching the top, he spared one fleeting look at the outside. Bodies of beast and men still lay covered in arrows across the landscape. Another shaft appeared at his feet, just narrowly missing his toes. The commander’s eyes quickly snapped back to the plight before him. The loud and sharp resonance of a bowstring betrayed the sniper’s position to the right of the commander. He dashed towards the sound.
From behind a crate a young Etonian suddenly rose up and crashed into him, sending the crimson-clad leader backwards against the wall. Eramas, surprised from the attack, shakily drew himself up. White eyebrows furrowed low and pupils became slits. He charged the young archer and swung widely. His wiry opponent ducked to the side, but left his flank wide open. The slash tilted down and across the strap holding the precious quiver.
Heshvan gasped, agape, as it tumbled down below into the pandemonium taking place at the ground level.
“Something wrong? Not quite the fighter without your precious arrows now, are you?” Eramas mocked. He gave a scornful laugh, and lunged, saber outstretched.
Pure, unadulterated, fury clouded the young Etonian’s eyes. Red seemed to fog over everything. Heshvan released his rage into one piercing cry and ducked down onto one knee as his attacker flew forward.
Eramas’s eyes went wide, and the young archer could just barely make out what looked like a gaping, open mouth beneath the red collar. Heshvan’s face stood inches away from black platemail. He thrust upwards with all his might one end of his bow into the crimson-clad throat.
The two fighters collided and rolled into the wall. The Etonian pushed himself away from his attacker and hurried to his feet. On the floor, Eramas gasped and wheezed, his entire body twitching from the near-fatal blow. Heshvan, still breathing heavily from the sortie, swung the wooden bow back around his head. One strike down upon the skull beneath that red hat, and the invaders’ general would be dead. His head high, eyes gazing down in damnation, the archer prepared to end this once and for all.
A crimson-clothed arm shot up and clutched the archer’s tunic. With a swift tug Heshvan was hauled down to the floor. The fallen general stood up and clasped the archer by his lapels and shoved him up against the wall.
Pinned, the young Etonian just stared at Eramas’s face. It contoured in lines of rage, wild white eyebrows touching as his brow furrowed. There was, however, something wet against the collar. Something a shade of red, just barely discernable from the garments themselves. But it was a darker shade of crimson nonetheless, and the runny stain continued to grow. Heshvan allowed a small smirk to beam across his face.
“You. Insolent. Brat!”
Eramas thrust his dagger straight into Heshvan’s right shoulder. He cried out in torment, but the general only drove it deeper into the hollow between the arm and shoulder. The left arm fell limp to the Etonian’s side, and blood flowed freely down it, dripping quickly onto a growing puddle on the floor.
“My…brother…will…avenge me…avenge…all of us!” forced out archer between clenched teeth.
“Then,” spoke the crimson general, “Eramas Cervantes shall be waiting.”
And with that he ran his saber right through his opponent’s left shoulder and drove the tip down towards the dagger’s.
Heshvan yelled out in agony once more; his eyes clamped shut and face ridged. Blood spouted from the other shoulder and dripped off his fingers, forming another puddle at his feet.
The archer cracked one fraught eye open, and smacked his forehead against Eramas’s. Stunned, the red figure staggered backwards, allowing the young warrior to slip away from the wall. Heshvan struggled to raise his bloodied arms, yet they stood limp. The blood was flowing more fervently with all the movement. His impaled form reeled towards the edge of the scaffold. He fell to his knees, barely conscious.
Eramas shook his head once, and sauntered towards his fallen foe. The blood had completely encircled his knelt form. Heshvan didn’t even, couldn’t even, look up to the glaring eyes of his enemy.
The caped commander reached out for his saber with his right hand, and his dagger with his left. His arms crossed across the Etonian’s chest. Eramas pushed the saber and dagger slightly deeper into the prone archer. With a final sneer, he wrenched the blades out across Heshvan’s chest; crushing the archer’s collarbone and slashing open his body.
The eviscerated corpse fell down below. As it tumbled to the ground almost all the combatants gazed upward. Eramas glared back down at them, his arms outstretched, holding his weapons in each hand.
Two armored soldiers broke their way through to the Etonian Captain of the Guard as everyone gawked upwards. His bodyguards rushed in to stop them, but their weapons simply clanged off the invaders’ armor. The Axurian warriors shoved them aside like rag-dolls, and as they finally pushed their way up to the enemy commander, he could only stare defiantly at them.
“You bastar—”
The two armored fiends cut the Captain down right where he stood with two mighty swings.
***************************************
The wind howled again, blowing Eramas’s cape back and forth across the macabre aftermath of war. The stench of death, confined by the walls of the fortress, was only more poignant. Blood-soaked earth made a copper-smelling mud that coated all the combatants and wafted to every nook and cranny. The piles of bodies from both sides alike were to one corner, destined to be cremated. Lines of Etonian prisoners marched off towards the barracks, escorted by his fully armored Axurians. All the prisoners’ weapons and armor was strewn across the middle of the bastion.
An armored figure ran over to him, helm in the crook of his arm. A large banner hung off a pole in his grip.
“Sir, about half a dozen of them escaped. We don’t think they could have gotten far though. Even without the horses, we should be able to catch up with them.”
Eramas stood there a moment, and then gestured to the flag. The banner-holder gave a confused look, but dipped the cloth down to the general. The general casually took the fabric and wiped off both sides of his swords, sheathed them, and then dabbed the blood off his chest-plate.
“Sir! I…you shouldn’t…our banner…” started the alarmed soldier.
A red-clad arm tapped it aside, “I need to make myself look presentable.”
“But, sir, the escaped prisoners?”
Eramas nudged past the confused fighter and simply muttered, “Leave them be.”
He made his way to one of the lieutenants directing the troops. The officer was shouting orders and waving his arms about, telling soldiers to secure the fortress and to get the prisoners locked away. The crimson general laid his hand on the soldier and pulled him aside. Eramas stood close to the startled deputy and asked, “Where is the chapel? I know there’s one here.”
“There appears to be a small one in the eastern half of the fortress, but our troops haven’t cleared that area out yet, sir.”
The red-clothed commander abruptly turned on a heel and began east.
“Get back to your duties soldier.”
“Aye sir…”
***************************************
The tattered cape barely brushed off the stairs as Eramas climbed up them, and at the top awaited two, large, wooden doors. He only sneered, and flung both of them open with his arms and marched inside.
The inside of the chapel was dimly lit; benches stood along the walls with a simple, drab alter at the front. A dank, musty odor permeated the air. The prize however, was well bathed by the stained glass window’s light. The crimson figure approached it slowly. A much worn leather gauntlet reached out for it.
“Barbarian! Unhand the scroll!” an elderly man, swathed in robes and hidden behind a mane of white hair stepped out of the shadows holding up a staff. The robes could not hide the frail form underneath, nor could the tufts of hair mask the deeply wrinkled skin. However, despite the time-eroded visage fierce, green eyes stared back across a sharply wizened nose. Sheer determination was the only strength left to him.
“Release it! It means nothing to the likes of you scum!” the old cleric swung wide at Eramas.
The crimson-clad left arm snapped behind the right, and the dagger slipped out just under the onrushing staff, holding it back from the general’s forehead. The cleric gritted his teeth, and feebly pushed forward. The aged man gave the dagger a quick glance, and immediately saw its pommel. The priest gave a startled gasp and dropped the staff, sending it clattering to the floor.
Eramas flipped the dagger point down with his fingers and slipped it back into its bracer sheath. He turned away from the astonished elder and calmly reached over and retrieved the scroll.
“Does, does this mean—” stammered the cleric. He flanked the red commander as he walked out to the open doors.
“We have need of it once more,” was the only reply.
The priest stopped in his tracks. He reached back and sat down on a bench. His eyes were wide with shock, and blinked.
“What shall I do, then?”
Eramas paused mid-stride and turned his head around slightly to look back at the cleric.
“Leave this region. Leave the entire South.”
“I, have an apprentice. He’s still outback guarding against those monsters of yours,” stammered the cleric.
“If he’s not already dead, take him with you. But leave this place. The north is your only haven now.”
And with that, Eramas stepped back out into what little daylight remained outside and disappeared from view as he descended the stairs.
***************************************
A newly repaired cape swung back and forth across the palace floor as Eramas stepped towards the Duke’s chambers.
Two ornately armored versions of Eramas’s legionnaires nodded, and turned the latches, opening the way into the inner chambers. As he stepped inside, he caught glance of the bright sun shining through the open balcony. The light shone across tables littered with maps, figurines, and letters. The near wall was lined with tome upon tome, most of which whose pages had never seen the light of day in ages. A small stand next to the door offered a pitcher and goblets of some hard drink, knowing the Duke, most likely ale. At the very back the sunlight glanced off of a huge world map painted on the rear wall. The figure standing before it, though, stood at the one corner where sunlight did not show.
The crimson-soldier approached the man studying the immense map. The shadowed figure continued gazing at the plot paying him no heed. Eramas cleared his throat with a gruff cough.
“Oh, so you’ve finally returned,” the figure turned around and faced the general, “So the southern campaign was a complete success, yes?”
Eramas’s crooked his left arm behind his back, and bowed slightly at the waist while his right hand pulled off his hat and swept it across before him, “Duke Methos…”
“Now, now, Cervantes. At this rate I’ll soon be an emperor!”
The duke returned his attention to his map, and raised his arms high, “The southern lands are now mine, and now all I wait for is the return of my other generals from the east!”
Methos craned his head around and gave Eramas a cold stare, “You did take Etone, correct?”
“Yes, though it was costly—”
“No matter. The southern states were all at war with one another, but with Etone gone the strongest opposition there is no more! The others will surrender rather than taste my legions’ fury themselves!”
The duke gave his complete attention back to his war-map. He took a small cutlery knife and jammed it deep within the spot that represented his latest conquest.
“I find it the most amazing thing,” stated Methos offhandedly as he looked about his map, “Just how you just showed up some day, or so they say, at our city’s gates. And lo and behold, you ascend the military ladder as if it was a mere anthill and here you are; one of my precious generals ready to lead my legions to victory after stunning victory!”
“I just do what must be done.”
“Ah yes, and quite good it is. You’re free to enjoy yourself now. I’ll arrange to contact you once the other generals return from their respective campaigns. I want my armies in full force for my final conquest.”
The crimson swordsman raised an eyebrow, “And what would that be?”
“Why, the western lands, of course. It remains the only one left that is not under my control,” the duke chuckled, “And it contains certain artifacts that I require for my dominion.”
The red general said nothing, but simply returned his hat to its proper place atop his head.
“You are dismissed.”
Eramas ambled back out the chamber doors, past the shining, gem-laid walls and ornate fixtures. Rows of artwork and tapestries hung from every wall, lanterns adorned in every which way as to give the best illumination. He strode past row after row of staunch Imperial Guard posted at each doorway. After finally making it outside the Palace doors he approached the barracks. In the near distance, a company of new recruits rode atop new horses, both getting used to the other. Across from them soldiers wearing full armor sparred.
He beckoned for one of the stable-keepers and asked, “Where is my horse, and the supplies I sent for to be packed?”
“It’s outside, sir. Everything from your quarters is loaded and ready as per your command.”
The stable-keeper escorted the general to a horse readily strapped with packs and satchels. Eramas moved up to one that appeared to be holding some square box. He opened the baggage, and peered inside. Taking out the box, he opened it slightly and looked to see if its cargo was still here. The Etonian scroll greeted his eyes from inside the container. He snapped it shut and repacked the package into its bag.
Sticking one foot into the stirrups, he leaped up and swung his other leg around the horse. After firmly setting his other foot into its stirrup, he tapped the steed to face the front gates.
“Good luck on whatever quest you’re apparently on, sir”
Eramas nodded to the stable-keeper and kicked his mount into a full gallop, northward.
To the ruins…
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