Chapter 1: Fall of the Crimson Keep

    It was nearing the end of his long and gruelling twelve hour shift; someone would be coming soon to relieve him of his post.  He was hungry, tired, and his legs were tired and sore.  But the thing that weighed most on his weary mind, was getting back to his quarters once he was off duty.  He longed to unfasten his long, heavy crimson cape from his pauldrons; the length of fine red fabric had been wearing at his shoulders for hours and his arms were stiff and ached horribly.  Unfortunately, complaining would grant him no ease, after all, it was his duty to just stand there…  To guard the vaults of the Crimson Keep, not moving, not speaking, not sitting and barely mindful. 

For centuries the Crimson Keep had stood watch over the western coast of Triggual in Mirran.  It served as a bastion,

    The Crimson Keep was the headquarters of the Order of the Crimson Lance, a faction comprising of the land’s finest swordsmen and strategists, men that held the honour of wielding great crimson lances, to fight in great battles and defend the realm from the great threats of the world.  …  But it was Jokun’s duty to wield a great and mighty boring post, guarding the vaults, and defending the area he stood in from dust with his crimson boots.  As a member of the great Crimson Guard, he was sworn to defend and protect a great stone building, centuries old with crumbling walls that were dark and wet!  Alone for hours on end, it was his thoughts that kept him company, and his imagination usually occupied his time by leading him off on one of his own adventures, and how he desperately hoped for one.

   Footsteps could be heard echoing in the distance, bouncing off the red stone walls and matching the flutter of the torchlight that alone lit the darkness of the halls with a rusty, golden-orange light.  Finally!  Jokun thought to himself.  It was taking a great deal of effort for him trying to stop himself from undoing his cape before his shift was officially over.

    He stood there waiting, starting to grow impatient, knowing his relief was coming; his knees were shaking with anticipation.  The footfalls grew louder, and their echoing sounds were finally accompanied by the source.  It was Nathaniel, he was a maybe a year older than Jokun, but a senior member of the guard.  Nathaniel approached him, his cape swaying heavily and falling into correct and orderly folds to his side as he stopped. 

    “Time’s up,” he said, patting Jokun on the shoulder.

    “I can’t wait to get this damned thing off!” complained Jokun, rotating his shoulders and readjusting his cape.  “Could they have made these things any heavier?”

    “Go on, go get some rest, you’re back on tomorrow night,” laughed Nathanial, his deep green eyes sparkling at him through his long white-silver hair.

    “I’m starving!  I’m not sure if I want to eat first or sleep!”

    “Sleep my friend, and enjoy that appetite when you’ve rested.  The food tastes better when you’re not struggling not to fall asleep in it I find,” he chuckled with a smile.

    Jokun had been waiting for this for hours; he could almost hear his bed calling to him, though it was drowned out slightly by the sounds of his empty stomach begging for food.  He bade Nathaniel goodnight and made off down the long stone hallway.  As he left his friend to replace him, he couldn’t help but think that he had seen something in Nathaniel’s eyes, something that he had never seen there before...  fear?  No, it was nothing surely, Jokun reassured himself; he was overly tired and hungry, and he must have imagined it. 

    He was back in his room, a single sheepskin rug adorned the black stone floor, which did next to nothing in breaking up the rooms overwhelming sense of bleakness.  He had a side table in the corner by the room’s single window with a candle stick; in the long dark winters, a single candle made all the difference, saving him from perpetual darkness, as not a lot of light came through the window... ever.  A clothes chest was settled at the foot of his old rickety bed, which, out of everything else in the room, was probably the most forlorn thing in there, but how Jokun loved his bed!  He loved everything about it, from the old and splintered wood, the straw-filled, soft, lambskin mattress, and his warm wool blankets.  It wasn’t much, but he was after all only a member of the guard.  The more lavish rooms were reserved for the knights of their order, and even more luxurious yet were the private chambers of the Crimson Fathers; the Order’s leaders. 

    The order was made up of smaller factions.  The Crimson Guard was at the bottom of the order, comprising of those only trained to “their” basic standards; although these were still above that of your average warrior.  Above them were the Knights of the Crimson Lance, who made up the majority of the Order’s muscle and had some of the country’s finest swordsmen.  Above them were the Crimson Fathers, seasoned veterans who have, for the most part, dropped their weapons and exchanged them for books or tactical discipline.  And finally, above all of them, was the Highfather, the most powerful and respected man in the order.  The Highfather, together with the other Fathers and a select few of the other faction members, made the Crimson Council, also referred to as the Crimson Court.   So many people above him, Jokun thought to himself, how would he ever be noticed under everyone else?  He would think about that often, at night while looking out of his window, dreaming of when he would finally, if ever, wield his own lance.

    He was standing in front of his mirror, unfastening his armour straps, and at long last dropping his cape to the floor in a heavy mess.  He was tall, lean and had thick, wavy, black hair that gently hung over his shoulders.  His slightly bronzed skin was complimented by his deep brown eyes, which seemed darker due to extreme exhaustion.  He removed the rest of his armour and threw it lazily atop his clothes chest, which he then paced around to the side of and collapsed on.   He realised that his sword was still fastened to his side on his belt, but he didn’t care, he was too tired and so he left it.  He felt himself sink into his blankets as the sounds of the keep were slowly muffled out by exhaustion, and in moments he passed into a deep and heavy sleep. 

    Above him, the keep bustled with commotion, and the sounds of running feet seeped through his ceiling and flooded into his room in unsettling waves.  The sounds added to his dreams...  He dreamt of a battle, he held his own lance.  He stood on the western shores of Triggual, backed by his comrades of the keep.  He raised his lance high, as if offering up to the heavens, and he led the charge against the invading Valeesian Battlesworn from across the western sea.  Men fell at the tip of his weapon; cries of victory rang through his ranks as cries of surrender rang through his foes’.  Though, something was strange.  His allies’ cries of victory soon melted away and were replaced by agonising shouts and chill rendering cries.  The fallen bodies of the Battlesworn turned dark and risen and again took to an opposing stance.  Their eyes now empty, and their bodies twisted...  He awoke.

    Yelling and shouting had broken out above him and woke him up abruptly.

   “What in Hasis?” he exclaimed in a drowsy yawn, rubbing his eyes rather hard as if trying to scrape away the lingering sleep.  He threw his covers off slowly and crawled out of bed.  He made for the door, and just as he was reaching out for the handle �"it burst open!

    “Jokun, we’re under attack!” 

   Panicked, and still confused by sleep he quickly snapped awake and looked for his sword, forgetting it was still hung at his side.

    “What is it?” he cried.  He was still considered “green” within the guard, and in his time within the keep had never had much more than a precautionary drill.  “If this is a drill and you’re having a laugh, then it is in very poor taste!” 

   The look that flashed from within his colleague’s fading eyes was enough to convince him, and Jokun only now noticed that he was clenching his side, trying feebly to stop a downpour of blood through trembling fingers.

   “Sam!  You’re hurt!”  Jokun ran to his side just in time to catch him as he fell.  “Who is it...  who has done this?” he demanded as he helped Sam into his bed, trailing blood across the floor and the sheepskin rug.

    “There’s no time...  You have to get out...”  Sam said feebly through decreased breathing.  “The others are all...  dead...  Kargs...  dozens of them, we were overwhelmed...”  Sam choked on mouthfuls of blood.

    “Kargs!” if it were at all possible that Jokun had thus far eluded feelings of dread, then now found him.

    Kargs were the monsters of tales told at fires, the beasts of dark dreams and days long since past.  The last known karg threat would have been over two thousand years ago when they were nearly wiped out by the Mountain Folk of the cities of the ancient Stone Empire; Teppa, Khalpetta and Foraura.  They suffered such a great defeat that they had slumped back into the ruins of the desecrated city and had since been all but forgotten.  They were, as legends had it, a terrifying and unpredictable foe, even the bravest of knights avoided combat with them.   The thought of these deadly creatures overwhelming the keep was enough to bring Jokun to the edges of his wits.

    “Wait here Sam, I’ll look for something to! ...” but it was too late.  Sam was gone and his arms had fallen from his side and rolled off the bed.  Jokun’s eyes welled up with stinging tears.

       He wiped them from his eyes, inadvertently exchanging them with Sam’s blood on his hands.  Panic filling his body; he collapsed on the floor next to his bed.  Gods!  What will I do?  He thought to himself, frantically.  

    He sat there for a moment, gathering himself, and trying to regain control of his scurrying thoughts.  I need to get out, I need to tell someone!  He said to himself as he regained control of his shaking legs. 

    He bent over to where he had thrown his armour down, only giving himself enough time to put on his boots.  He ran out of his room and into the main corridor, where bodies laid lifeless all around him, the smell of blood was thick in the air.  Jokun had never seen death before; the carnage of it all, the blood and the fear was filling him.  It took everything he had within him to stay on his feet as he stepped over the bodies, he was nearly slipping in the still warm blood that soaked the stone like hot grease.

    He reached the great hall; the towering wooden and iron doors had been smashed in as if they were nothing more than twigs bolted to iron hinges on a crumbling stone wall.  The tapestries that once beautifully complimented the walls were nothing more than smouldering ashes that piled onto the cracked floor.  Jokun, losing his footing upon entering the room that he once held in splendour, could not believe what he was seeing.  The keep had been desecrated, the lives of those who served under its protection, dead...  It was as if Jokun was staring into a nightmare, and no matter how hard he blinked it would not vanish, he would not awaken.

    Outside, more bodies could be seen, though the majority of the men had fallen within the fortress’s walls trying the hold the enemy back.  There were no war machines, no battering rams or catapults, so how had they managed to do so much damage to the building?  The thought of what power this foe must have in order to wreak such destruction sent a cold sliver twitching up his spine. 

    He heard something.  His nerves, already being on edge, were now ready to explode.  Feeling for his sword, he crouched down low and peered through some bushes.  He saw a figure sitting down, leaning against an uprooted tree.  The figure was wearing crimson armour, it must be another fallen comrade, Jokun thought to himself mournfully.  But then, as he was turning his gaze from the figure, he heard it again.  The figure was a survivor!  Quickly forgetting he was hiding from any possibly remaining enemy troops, Jokun leapt over the bushes with such a noise that the figure turned his head to face the approaching Jokun.

    “Nathaniel!”  Jokun cried with strident relief, “You’re alive!”  He was now crouching down next to him, inspecting him for wounds, as far as he could see there were none.

  “Jokun?”  he asked.  He seemed confused that Jokun should even be there.  “Y-you’re alive!”  He sounded more puzzled than pleased to see his surviving brother in arms.

    “What happened here?  Did you see them?”

    “See w-who?” he asked, blinking slowly as if he had stared too long into the sun.

    “The Kargs!”  Jokun was a little bewildered at Nathaniel’s lack of relief in being reunited with a survivor, but perhaps he had taken a blow to the head, Jokun told himself, that would explain the confusion and fumbling speech, and the lack of any visible wounds after all.

    “The Kargs,” started Nathaniel, his confusion breaking, “There were so many of them Jokun, we were vastly outnumbered.  You would be wise to run.  Go while you still can!  They may have lingering numbers scouting the area.”

    Nathaniel’s voice now rung with determination, and he was speaking clearer.  His eyes were no longer lost in a haze, but focused and directly locked onto Jokun’s. 

    “Nathaniel...  You’re coming with me.  Come on, if there are any of them left we had better move now before it’s too late.”  Jokun stood up slowly and bent down to place Nathaniel’s arm round his shoulder to prop him to his feet.

    “Jokun, you must leave me, go, now while you still have time!”  Nathaniel’s voice was demanding, his face was painted with regret.  His eyes were still fixed onto Jokun’s.

    “Nathaniel, what’s going on?”  The question formed slowly and warily.   He stopped walking and looked intently into Nathaniel’s eyes, which were now looking to the leaf strewn ground. 

    Before he could say anything in return, the sounds of cracking twigs came through the trees.  The bushes rustled and gleaming purple eyes could be seen from within the shadows of the wood.

    “Kargs!”  Jokun shouted, never seeing one before, only assuming.

    They were surrounded.  The beasts were tall, thin and twisted human shaped figures.  Their skin was blackened and cracked like stone.  Their bodies seemed to emit shadow, a dark smoky energy radiated from the figures and misshapen rags clung to them.  Their fingers were long and narrow, their backs were long, hunched forward and looked like the bones of their spines were trying to pierce through their stony flesh.  As Jokun stared in terror, one of the beasts spoke.

    “Who is this one then, treacherous one?” the beast croaked, seemingly addressing Nathaniel.  His voice was so low that it was barely audible and it rumbled through the ground, shaking and nearly bringing Jokun to his knees.  Jokun hesitantly looked over to Nathaniel, as though looking away from the beast would infuriate it and cause it to attack.  Why would they address him so?  Jokun’s eyes again met Nathaniel’s, this time his eyes were speaking for him.  Why didn’t you run when you had the chance?  They said.  Jokun’s mind was racing now, almost as fast as his quivering heart as separate thoughts within his mind were piecing themselves together.

    “You knew they were here, why didn’t run?” asked Jokun, looking back to the beast that had spoken before, making sure he hadn’t moved any closer.

    “That doesn’t matter now, I told you to run, yet you stayed!  Fool!”

    “Who...  is this...  boy?” asked another one of the beasts, its voice wasn’t as low as the other, but it sounded as if speaking was painful.  Again, the question was directed at Nathaniel.

   Jokun’s face suddenly whitened, he felt dizzy and fell against a tree to keep himself upright.  “You kno-, they know you?” he asked, nearly running out of breath as he spoke.

    “I’m...  I’m sorry Jokun.”  Nathaniel said softly, standing on his own now but slightly hunched over as if standing upright were difficult, or painful. 

    “This one knows now, he must not be allowed to live...” hissed another low and earth shattering voice from among the Kargs.

    “This is your mess, treacherous one.  You must take care of this, then return to the master...” with those last words the figures dissipated from sight, almost as water would evaporate in an intense heat; they seemed to dissolve from right in front of them. 

    The two of them were alone now.  Jokun still clung to the tree as Nathaniel limped around it to meet Jokun’s blank gaze, his face was bloodless.  With the creatures gone it seemed that a looming cloud had passed, allowing more light to penetrate into the area they now stood.  Nathaniel stood there for a moment, barely looking into Jokun’s eyes, fearing the look he might receive.  Jokun blinked slowly in acknowledgement of Nathaniel’s presence. 

    “Are you going to fill me in...?  Or is it safe for me to assume you had everything to do with this?!” Jokun spat, forcing himself away from the tree and lunging towards Nathaniel. 

    Jokun now had Nathaniel’s back against another tree; one hand was gripped tightly around his throat as the other made a grab for his sword.  “Why did you do it?  What could you gain from this, what could any of them gain from this, the unjustifiable slaughtering of our men, the sacking of our home, for what!”  Jokun’s eyes flared with such intensity that they could have burned right through Nathaniel, setting the tree behind him ablaze.  Jokun had forgotten one thing in his anger; Nathaniel was a far better warrior than him…

    Jokun’s stance was weak, and Nathaniel’s was advantageous.  In a second, Nathaniel had swept under Jokun’s arm, and lowered him to the ground.  The traitor had taken hold of Jokun’s sword as he was caught off balance and now leant over his body with the blade at his throat. 

    “I don’t need to waste my words on you!   I told you to run, but you are a fool as always!” he growled, his eyes now burned with Jokun’s former intensity.  “I thought maybe, when I saw you stumble out of the keep, that you would have survived.  If you hadn’t known I was alive we would both be better off!  Now, I have to fix that!”

    “So I don’t squeal to anyone, is that it?” Jokun asked, his voice was bitter.

    “Tell who you want, I don’t care, I’ve never cared for any of them.”  He was lying, as Jokun could see in his eyes.  They grew up together after all, sharing each other’s houses, food, toys, and stories by the fire.  “None of them matter, you don’t matter.  You were always holding me back, keeping me from reaching my dream!”

    “Holding you back?”  Jokun’s voice was thick with confusion.  “How have I ever held you back?”

    “When we both joined the order, and took that test, that worthless physical examination that weeds out anyone who they feel unfit to wield the lance, I botched mine!  I saw you struggling, there was no way you were going to make it into the Knights, and so they stuck you on guard duty.”

    “Botched it?  What do you mean?”  Jokun’s voice was feeble now, desperately trying not to believe that all this was because of a grudge, a stupid grudge!

    “When we were children, you remember how we wanted nothing more than to serve the Order of the Lance, how we used to pretend that we already wore the gleaming crimson armour, how we would run around with sticks as if they shone with the brilliance of the crimson lances we so longed for.  I always knew I was destined for greatness, and I had hoped, truly hoped that you would be able to share in it with me.  I knew I would pass that test, I was a fiercely strong child, and I had no doubt that the examination would merely serve as a stepping stone for me.”

    “Then why did you botch it?”  Jokun asked, still confused.

    Nathaniel rose, relinquishing his hold over Jokun.  “We were such great friends weren’t we?  Inseparable, in fact.  I couldn’t just take my lance, and leave you without yours, to stay rotting in those halls as a mere guard.  No, that’s not what a friend would do.”

    The words pierced Jokun’s heart and felt as though vinegar had been poured over an open wound.  “A friend would not have resented the other for his own choice, and then used it as fuel for a rage that would desecrate our home and destroy our family!”  Jokun followed Nathaniel to his feet, brushing himself off and looking him in the eyes.

    “I didn’t resent you or my decision...  not at first at least...  I used to lie awake at night, looking to the stars from my chamber window, praying for something, for a way to finally break myself free of the ties that bound me to mediocrity.  That’s when I met him, when I was taken from patrol and positioned as his personal guard.  Obviously our superiors knew my talents were wasted patrolling the halls.”

    “Him?  Who’s him?”  Jokun asked, the blankness in his eyes had spread across his face in reflection of the thoughts that his mind was void of.  Nathaniel ignored him, and spoke right through him.

    “I learned so much from him...  He told me I had potential, that I had a gift, one that needed nurturing.  I told him about the test, and the botching.  He said he was sorry... sorry that the fragile ties of such insignificant human lives had kept me shackled away from my dreams, like a bird with clipped wings unable to fly...”

    “And you believed him?!”   Jokun roared, anger now churning his stomach while the confusion dissipated.

    “His words were soft, and understanding.  His voice seemed to resonate with my own desires, and I felt, I knew, that if I heeded this man, I would achieve what I so long desired.  That’s when I began to resent myself, for allowing myself to fall prey to worthless emotions, to this wretched thing called empathy!  And I would do what I needed to do to regain control over my own destiny.  No matter what the cost, even if I had to use every last one of you as stepping stones to get there!”  These last few words seemed to echo into the encroaching darkness that crept upon them as the sun began to fade below the trees, paving the way for dusk. 

    Jokun could not talk; he could not move or even blink.  Who was this man Nathaniel had referred to, was he responsible for corrupting the mind of his best friend, for fuelling him with an evil will void of emotion or remorse?  No, that didn’t matter right now; everyone makes their own choices he reminded himself painfully...  No matter how dire.

    “What now then, are you going to kill me too?  Are you going to use me as fodder for your twisted ambition as well?” 

    “No, not you.  I intend that you live,” he answered slowly, looking at Jokun’s sword, which was still in his hand.  He walked over to Jokun, right past him towards the ruined doors of the keep. 

    Jokun did not turn around, he knew what was coming, and he could feel it before it happened.  He held his breath and braced himself...  For a split second he felt a crushing pain in the back of his head, and then, just as soon as it had arrived it was washed away with darkness as the sounds of Nathaniel’s last words were gently muffled out by unconsciousness. 

    “Don’t do anything stupid...  old friend.”

Author's Note

This is my FIRST novel, so please forgive the grammar mistakes. Thank you all! :D