Winds of War

The Empire's last battalion - the Sparrow's Men - ride out to hinder the forces of the rogue king Harren, in order to buy time for the Capital to prepare.

The line between man and beast is thin, and with each passing war the veil becomes blurred. When the clamor of steel settles and the blood sinks deep into the dark wounds of the earth, you realize that the shadows of war have finally caught up to you.

 

It was in the winter months of the year 1358, and the Empire was at war with king Harren to the West. His army was few in number, and so the Emperor wrote him off as a minor nuisance, sending auxiliary forces to deal with the rogue king. None of his men made it back, while Harren’s army nearly doubled, and soon the scouts starter reporting about strange happenings on the other side. Harren, by unknown manners, had secured the aid of a nameless man from the desert lands; a practitioner of magic who soon became known to the men as the Necromancer - an apt title, for this man had single handedly bolstered Harren’s army with the ranks of the dead. Harren lead the forces of the living and the dead across the border and into the heartland, raising more wraiths with each new battle. However, Harren’s ambition clashed with his men’s morality; they took no issue with slaughtering peasants, but when it came to fighting alongside their dead comrades… Well, the air soon hung heavy with rebellion that even the dead could taste it.

Fearing the loss of his mortal men, Harren executed his final command as the living king of Threce: he had the soon-to-be traitors poisoned and raised as unrelenting servants of undeath. His royal guard were sacrificed willingly - and Harren along with them. The risen were now rotting husks of flesh, but they were not mindless. They retained a part of their former selves, most importantly their combat prowess. It is said they suffered their past, but the Necromancer’s iron grip kept them obedient. The eternal king, now in possession of an army that never hungered, never thirsted, and was never cold - carved a path towards the capital, and this time not even the dead were left behind. The Emperor’s carelessness left him with a single battalion to spare; and so he sent out these tired, weather-worn men to meet Harren’s army, while the rest of his imperial forces were pulled tight into the capital to brace for the final charge. The battalion was led by Commander Vokarian, nicknamed “The Sparrow” by his men. The Sparrow’s Men marched to the edge of the heartland, stopping at one end of the Ravenwood. In the distance the sound of tireless feet and the clash of metal against bone could be heard, signaling that the oncoming army was less than a day’s march out.

The Sparrow’s Men stopped and made camp, but it would be a lie to say that any rest was had. No one spoke, no one save for Vokarian; a man whose voice demanded attention.

“Brothers! Put away your restless thoughts and emotions, and pay attention to my words; but steel yourselves, for they carry no comfort. The Emperor has tasked us with welcoming King Harren and his army, and hours from now we shall do just that. But he has not tasked you with victory, and neither shall I. If the dead do not take us the winter winds certainly will, and if by some miracle we overcome both, it will be hunger that claims us. So do not think of victory or survival, but of your family - of all our families. Think not of the men who cowered away from service, but of the men unable to fight, the children not old enough to, and the women who will carry the burden of safeguarding a fatherless child. We will not crush their army and we will not go home as veterans, retelling the stories of our scars. But if we weaken them, just enough for our brothers in arms to overcome them, and by doing so ensuring that our children will not have to fight another war - against the dead, least of all - then, my brothers, we have surely won. And worry not about your houses, my friends, for our women are restless, our wives enduring. Fight for them, and they will repay us in kind.”

And so Vokarian spoke.

When the words had sunk in, Osmund, Vokarian’s second, added his own.

“The Commander’s words ring loud and true, brothers, but there is another path. However… Honor demands he not speak it. For while I am of one mind with him, many of you may not be. We do not want to admit it, but it is in your power to desert. Go, if you feel it right, and know that we will not think less of you.”

The men exchanged looks, but none stirred, until Marven, the Emperor’s court mage - who had been silent up to this point - took his place at Vokarian’s side and whispered something into his ear.

“No,” Vokarian said, holding up his hand and responding to the question that only he had heard. “Whatever suggestions you have for me can be made in front of my men.”

The mage contemplated Vokarian’s suggestion in turn, then nodded and mustered the Sparrow’s Men around him. He mumbled something under his breath, and the next words he spoke resonated throughout the ranks; he was whispering, but all could hear him.

“I have no tongue for grand speeches, no voice to inspire with. I cannot aid you with sword or rain magical fire upon the undead - contrary to what the rumors may claim. I can, however, offer you my knowledge, which most men of today - save for a few - have long forgotten.”

The magister had all eyes on him, and so continued. “Realistically, your men will not make much of a difference in the enemy’s ranks, Vokarian,” he said, looking over at the commander. “And I would not offer this were there any hope for victory or survival. But, as you have committed your lives… I can give your sacrifice the meaning you had hoped to achieve here.”

“With all due respect, Marven, what can you offer?” The words were Osmund’s, but the doubt was shared by all of the Sparrow’s Men. “You,” he continued, “who has not seen the light of battle since you took your place at the Emperor’s side.”

Marven sensed the men’s doubts, but was nevertheless prepared. “I was one with the land before I entered the imperial court,” he said. “My time at court has not robbed me of the Old Ways. Words are fuel within the inner circles of civilization, but blood is the only currency accepted out here in the wilds.”

“Our lives are to be forfeit soon enough. I reckon they’re better paid to you,” Vokarian said, to the agreement of his men.

“Perhaps,” Marven said, with great doubt and hesitation in his voice. “But there are worse endings than death,” he said sorrowfully. Before another word was spoken, Marven stood up, nodded, and departed into the woods.

It would be several hours before the mage would return with a sack full of herbs and a spark of conviction in his dull, grey eyes. All eyes were upon him as he worked tirelessly to prepare, and once the natural darkness took the place of daylight Marven began the ritual that would bind the men in blood.

“Run your blades across your palms and let your blood sink into the cauldron.” The men did as they were asked, but not without question.

“Why blood?” asked a nameless soldier.

“The blood will bind you as brothers,” he said, dashing a handful of plant dust into the cauldron. “When the red haze takes you, it will prevent you from turning on one another.”

“Pacts of blood are ever-lasting,” said another man as he wrapped his bleeding hand. “My nan always used to say as much.”

All waited feverously for the mage to finish his brew. When it was done, they lined up one by one and drank from it, without ever speaking a word.

That night, as the dead approached, a piercing sound arose to meet and match their marching sounds - the sound of a war horn. It erupted from the other end of the forest, rose up above the sound of the wind, the crows, and the trees. It fell and rose throughout the long night and was the only sound to welcome the undead.

When Harren and his army finally exited the forest at daybreak, it was the sound of the horn that greeted them… And its wielder. They saw before them a withered, old man in a dull grey robe and eyes to match. Around him, sprung out on the cool earth, were the bodies of dozens of the Emperor’s men - cold and lifeless. Harren sent his right hand to inspect the bodies, all while keeping his attention on the horn-blower.

“Dead,” the decaying soldier said after inspecting several of the bodies. “Truly dead.”

Harren smirked - as much as his sallow face would allow him. “Not for long,” he said, with a guttural chuckle. “My scouts promised there’d be more - and living at that,” he turned to the man clenching the horn.

“Those two clawed away at their throats, that one threw himself on his sword…” the ghoulish inspector rambled on absentmindedly.

“All of this excitement, this anticipation - the promise of a mustered force after being accompanied by a blasted horn the whole way! And what am I greeted by? A flock of dead loyalists, the dust from the boots of traitors long-gone, and the culprit himself… Holding on for dear life.” Harren urged his undead steed towards the man, tainting the land with each step.

“My men do not require sleep, and so tactically it was a rather futile attempt, on your part.” He moved closer. “But I must congratulate you, for even in my state, I was highly annoyed.”

“Then luckily for you,” the hoarse voice of the man broke out, audible to Harren alone, “you need only hear it once more.”

Harren’s face furrowed. “Go right ahead. Make it loud and long - I’ll need some time to figure out an appropriate punishment for you,” he said, extending his arms wide out.

“Once more,” the man said, lifting the horn ever so slightly, a toast to the king. “To wake the sleepers.”

With that he poured the last of his mortal energy into a final blow. The horn’s bellowing roar echoed and scattered to the four winds, and the man’s life went with it.

“How uncouth,” Harren shouted, offended by the man’s premature death. “Necromancer! Raise this one first; I want his servitude to begin immediately.”

The Necromancer stirred but halted when the wind rose. The dead could not feel it, but he - dark as his arts may be - was still a man. He felt the change in the air, how it shifts in preparation for a storm, and his gaze lead him skyward. He saw ominous forms take shape in the waving trees and witnessed them taking flight. They took to the skies on tar-colored wings, calling to one another in a language he had long forgotten.

“Hah,” said Harren, amused by the Necromancer’s bewilderment. “You see, even the crows depart when they see me.”

The Necromancer did not respond right away. “They are not leaving. They are preparing for a feast,” he finally said, his eyes never leaving the sky.

“A feast?” Harren’s eyes scanned the bodies that slumped before him. “Then it seems they’ll go hungry. I don’t aim to leave anything behind.”

There was another rustle in the wilderness, but it was not the trees this time, nor the crows, but some other manner of beast that stalked the forest as blurs of nature. They announced themselves with a howl. One. Then two. Then many. Silence. Then, they were upon them. Fangs like iron stakes dug into the rotten flesh of Harren’s army, while claws cleaved their armor like scythes through wheat. They came from all sides, pattern-less and unrelenting - and within moments Harren’s formations were rendered meaningless; he had come prepared to face men, but men they were no longer. If the dead could feel fear they did not show it, fighting on to fulfill their new purpose.

Harren spun his mount around and attempted to reel in his army. “Fall back,” he yelled. “Out of the forest. March!” It was the last command Harren issued as the undead king of Threce.

The dead king’s army was broken at the clearing of the Ravenwood, the would-be conqueror foiled. The Necromancer joined the rest of the dead men as food for the crows, and while they did not know it yet - peace had once more returned to the Empire. For the Sparrow’s Men however, the internal war had just began. There was no peace for them in death, and there would be no peace in life. They had gone into the forest as men, and came out as something more. In time they would forget their names, as would the Empire. Scattering to the cardinal winds, they would become hunted by those they had once given their lives to protect. And so, in fighting monsters, they became them.