Sudden Reversals
or
In My Dark Lord's Service
Dusk was fast falling upon the once emerald valley of Hallowglade, just as it was for the whole of the Iceyene Queen Efaritay's domain. Every flower, every blade of grass of that once glorious glen was stamped and torn to dust, dust which had now been churned into a thick, scarlet mud by thousands of churning feet and the never ending rain of blood.
Lord Valentus Crommyre gazed out across the chaos spread beneath him, a strange mixture of scorn and longing softening his usually stony features. Sitting astride a carnivorous, scarlet eyed black unicorn and clad all in polished, blackened steel, he looked very much like the triumphant, fearsome warlord that he had become. Yet as he looked down upon his subordinates in the valley below- at the pikemen, the longbowmen, and the black clad knights who fought side by side with the werewolves and hellhounds against the hated Saradominist hoards- he could not help but feel the deepest pangs of jealousy.
He had protested being promoted beyond the highest rank of field officer. His place was in the midst of the chaos of war, he knew. Striking left and right with his twin blades and spilling the blood of Lord Zamorak's enemies, that was where he belonged. Yet he had been ignored. Brilliant, tactical minds such as his, he had been told, were wasted in hand to hand combat and were every bit as valuable here on the continent's edge as they were in the central and northern campaigns.
Now he was one of the generals posted beneath the vampyre Draken, and it was his current duty to destroy Queen Efaritay's defenses and initiate the siege of Hallowvale; all to insure that Draken received his apportioned reward for the overthrow of the Empty Lord.
Lord Crommyre raised his visor to spit. He was wasting his time, his talents, and his men to secure a parcel of land for a fickle vampyre lord who's loyalty to Lord Zamorak was questionable at best. The fact that they were destroying one of Saradomin's mightiest servants and her armies was merely a bonus. True enough, it was a great victory for the Dark Lord, but motive mattered to the human general.
Chaos. Lord Zamorak was the god of it and the new master of the dark forces of Gielinor, and it was for this ideal that Crommyre had joined him. Chaos was the natural state of all things, and the desired state of a true warrior, whatever Saradomin's sniveling knights and paladins said. Chaos was change, growth, conflict, battle, the testing of one's strength and skill in a desperate struggle for survival. They were all the same thing to the warlord, and the very reason why this new post as a tactical commander sat not well with him.
To be a tactician made the battle seem far too ordered, too much like a game, too predictable. Press harder or flank to break a line, stretch a unit out too thinly and they'll be broken through. Worse, such lofty positions all too often caused commanders to look at their men as pawns, game pieces to be used as one pleased before being cast aside. Crommyre had seen and been subject to such treatment all too often in the past, by Saradominist and Zamorakian commanders alike, and it was not something that he was too eager to become.
Coming out of his bitter musing to look back down upon the battlefield, the general noticed that one of his lines of knights was beginning to sag, while a far reaching group of enemy paladins had made the mistake of keeping too close together while in range of his siege engines. Turning to his assembled messengers, he sent two off to direct a contingent of werewolves and rangers to reinforce the wavering knights, and another to inform the chaos dwarf engineers of a new spot to direct their ballista fire.
No sooner had he turned his eyes back to the battle when a clear, crystalline horn sounded from behind, the newly dispatched messenger gave a strangled, dying scream, and the constant whir of the siege engines was replaced by rough dwarven cries, and roars and shouts of triumph. The warlord spun his mount about, only to be met by the sight of his artillery being overrun by a battalion of galloping centaurs, fierce white lions, and black clad mace-wielding priests.
An ambush!
With a violent oath, the black general raised a battle horn of demon's ivory to his lips and sounded thrice the harsh notes of assembly as his messengers scattered and werewolf bodyguards hurled themselves upon the enemy.
A perverse joy filled the warlord's mind even as his corrupted steed gave out from under him with an agonized whiny. He was back on his feet in an instant, twin longswords spinning and striking down the centaur that had come bearing down upon him.
Chaos reigned supreme in a vicious life or death struggle. Warlord Crommyre, now joined by the knights, wolves, and hounds of his reserve forces, struggled against the cowardly Saradominist ambush. A small part of the general's mind was filled with furious indignation. Where had his scouts been? Why hadn't those wretched barbarians warned him in time? The vast majority of his mind, however, was….happy, joyous, for he was in his element once more. Chaos! Glorious unpredictability! The primordial battle for survival where strength and cunning alone mattered!
He knew not how long the fighting lasted. The passing of moments could only be measured by the collection of wounds and the falling of enemies, yet even these soon blurred together. Lord Crommyre was only broken out of this euphoric hypnosis when the white knight officer that he had currently been engaged with by a horrible, bloody scream.
Without warning, the white mailed soldier was hoisted into the air, caught by the crimson-stained clutches of a snarling gargoyle. Soon the air was filled with horrible screams and scarlet rain as gargoyles and vyrewatch swooped in with claws and teeth and spears and greater demons dropped out of the sky to land amongst the enemy. Bodies were swept aside effortlessly by steel sinew, or dashed amongst their comrades from sheer drops, or simply mauled into unrecognizable shapes.
In a matter of moments, the Saradominist ranks were shattered and Queen Effaritay's forces were back to Hallowvale. Immediately behind, the wild cries of triumphant Zamorakians echoed throughout the Hallowglade as the men and beasts of the banner of the black and bloody horns pursued.
The black general, Lord Crommyre, gave chase with his subordinates, his elation and sudden energy like that of a new-spawned hellpup. They would cut these fools down to the very gates of the Iceyene's city, even should night envelop them completely before they had made it. Glorious, magnificent chaos! The siege was begun, and it would be but a matter of time until Hallowvale at last lay in ruins.
'Such a glorious thing,' Crommyre thought as he gave in completely to mindless battle fervor, 'To be in my Dark Lord's service!'
Fin