Prologue

"Civilization always comes with warfare shadowing."

A troop of knights led by a good overlord were trudging on grubby armored feet, on their way to someplace after being defeated in a colossal conquest of their settlement. All of them wounded―incapacitating gouges and slashes―and had nowhere and no one to seek for redemption. Their king haplessly lost in the battle and his queen was taken along their properties―the castle, the people, the armory, the riches. Lucky for them to evade from the bed of their comrades' carcasses and thick, hovering dusts.

Miles and miles they walked, weathering starve, thirst, weariness, ache; all things they never experienced from their first breath. Till one of them had to take his last. The most wounded could not last to hold on any further. Gloomy woods, steep alps, mad rivers, harsh winters, dying comrades―all of these they had encountered but human hospitability. After sixty days or further of directionless journey―finally―an oasis! A humble place that they were certain of accepting them for the sake of humanity. Indeed like an oasis in the middle of Onil wilderness. Life was never over for our resilient knights.

It had no name back then but the place already housed about fifteen families. Logging was the primary source of livelihood; they were proximate to a nurtured forest that therefore detached them from the civilization. Besides, evident from their houses of sheer wood and greeneries were the gift of nature. It was one ingenuous hamlet roofed by soaring trees, thus, their complexion was predominantly brownish, close to fairness. Lord Ergan and his eight remaining men were received by the chieftain like ordinary stray guests. They were not the first guests to be welcomed, notwithstanding its remote and secretive location. Their gashes and injuries were mended with indigenous medications. As quick as a week or two, they were back on their feet and finally able to mingle with everyone and integrate, until the people got used to having them around. The knights stayed in the hamlet for good. Where could they find as good as the place, anyway? Lord Ergan and his men spearheaded teachings since they grew up in a civilized town―arithmetic, reading, writing, wielding of weapons, hunting, carpentry, etc. That way could compensate the humanity of the hamlet. Lord Ergan, by generally acknowledged acclamation, eventually became the leader when the old chieftain died in ageing after a year. He could make further innovations; that was what the people agreed about. As soon as everyone could find money not only from timbers but from their learning, Lord Ergan began to build a school, amenities, drainages, and more infrastructures, making the old humble Helmdock undistinguishable. Finally, he christened the hamlet that was now a village "Helmdock". Hence, the initial of civilization.

Generations had passed until Lord Ergan's son to a Helmdock native was the newly inaugurated leader, now termed as the king. That was when a castle was erected, towering above the village and revealing Helmdock above the lush foliage of the forest and to the neighboring societies, consequently made the village Onil's main source of lumber. He was King Mirodas, father of Prince Miro.

Helmdock remained as a sanctuary of nature notwithstanding the tremendous developments. The sylvan ambience was never gone. The brook providing water for everyday use was, as before, freely drifting from the evergreen mountain standing where the sun glanced breathtakingly every dawn. The only difference was an arching bridge of absolute ironwood built over it and now served as the moat, secluding the village proper. Across the bridge was where the houses settled, still home-grown oak and cypress but sturdier. Among the domestic buildings added were parlors, boutiques, and bazaars. All of them made of the finest lumber that Helmdock had to boast round Onil. In the midst of the woody structures was the square where it had a small concrete fountain―the heart of Helmdock―and plums and pines to shade every corner. Here, music was occasionally played by resident or visiting musicians as the people passed by, stayed to unwind, or to worship Balaccun for unending cornucopia of blessings. Asters, daisies, lavenders, violets, and other perennials were also planted and landscaped all around for the mountain and forest breeze to be more scented. Then as the sun set, light-bearing stilts would replace. Most of the denizens preferred to stay outdoors at night, beneath the moonlight. Helmdock was now still awake even after the day. Indeed, the old place of Lord Ergan was as if submerged into oblivion. Everything was reasonably metamorphosed.

"Civilization always comes with warfare shadowing," cautioned King Mirodas before he died and before he inaugurated his throne to his one and only son, so Prince Miro was prepared. Knights generally older than the prince were competently and persistently trained though no war had yet to disturb the Helmdock's terrain virginity. Not yet until the prince's dominion. Fortunately, they had won most of the battles against other monarchical troops and races within and even outside Onil for the same cause: to steal in envy Helmdock's foundation of wealth, the forest, and conquest the surrounding lands. Some attempted to set wildfire yet no luck favored their part; native foresters were likewise rigidly trained, attesting that fate and fortune was as if their champions. Most of the battles and encounters they won until…

"I promise you, son," the bravery and robustness of a knight streamed from his words through the squire below him, "this battle will end like the other ones."

The squire worded nothing. His hands trembling as he was planting the knight's foot into the quality plate boot. That the knight saw. He knelt on one knee that one knight never did intentionally before a squire. He lifted the young man's downcast face to look into his deep-sea blue eyes that he got from his mother.

"Listen, my son," the knight whispered in a low, sturdy voice but the squire bowed his sad face again to the varnished floor. "We already have bested among the four consecutive battles. And you know that. So, there is nothing to worry about."

Keogh, the yellow-haired seventeen-year-old squire, stared at his father's lighter blue eyes. Before his tears ran free from the darkening sacs, he jumped to his father and wrapped his arms around the neck and wept like a child. This particular scene had been repeated since the first defensive war of Helmdock. The only difference was back on the first war and the next, they had a beautiful woman waiting for them outside the barracks, more terrified and uneasy.

Keogh was scared of losing the only person left in his life―his father, his knight. His parents separated for the same reason that could only make Keogh cry like this: her mother could no longer stand the pain worrying too much while her husband was in the middle of something unsure of death or of breath. They gave birth to Keogh four years before the first war; his father was already one of King Miro's knights at that time. This profession that his father had to receive due to manpower inadequacy was of his mother's absolute disagreement. She could no longer hurt herself once again in heart attack in thinking negatively about each war's aftermath and, for worse, about herself being widowed, sustaining Keogh all alone. She thought it would be best if they would part ways. And she did after the second war. "You can find me in a safer place if you would finally decide to leave knighthood." These were her last words before leaving the walls of her hometown.

"Make Mama regret about leaving us alone, alright?" Keogh sobbed.

His father chuckled. "Never grudge against your good mother, Keogh. You shall be reconciling with her in time."

"That, I never foresee," Keogh pulled himself away from the embrace, looking at the armored face of his father. "Please come back to me alive, Papa. I want you to come home with this helmet still as shiny as how I polished it overnight."

His father said after a deep sigh, "I will."

The knight stood up with his young man. As Keogh handed the scabbard to his father, his closest comrade, Sir Grandt, called his attention to go. He removed his helmet once again, exposing a grownup version of his son's youthful, beautiful face. Then, he bent down to kiss the forehead of the boy before him, not to thank him as his squire but to show love for his only son that he might be seeing for the last time. An old necklace appeared from his father's fist. This slung around Keogh's neck. And the two knights in Keogh's sight left the wooden barracks after receiving two memorable taps on his fragile shoulder. Another tear fell from his eye as he caressed the rusts of the warhorse pendant.

Helmdock's troop of knights accumulated a few kilometers from the village, sighting a long black horizon of army clad in grey or black on a hill. When the overlord announced that they were an army of Diltan as he saw it from the gildings on their black armors and banners, very opposing their silver, the troop glanced at each other in tremor. Diltan was known for their mining industry, recording them with the most possession of gold. Aside from that, they wielded stronger arsenal affected by their affluence. Yet greed dominated their hearts; they were aspiring for more source of wealth to be the richest empire in Onil.

"But be not terrified," King Miro added from his stallion. "Show them how we triumphed from the first four battles!"

That stirred repetitive, long roars of valor to spring from the intimidated troop of less than a hundred, seemingly matching the opponents' number. As the Diltan army had descended from the hill and reached half a kilometer from them, a volley of ligneous arrows, some blazing and some poisoned, came soaring to the vermillion firmaments.

Unmoving, he was left on the glossy floor of the barracks with the other squires, packing up. These squires, he believed, did not have a father fighting on behalf of his family outside unlike his. But he was sure each of them was equally concern about his respective knight. The big difference was his knight was his own father, so the feeling was incomparable to any other squire around him. Keogh volunteered to be his father's assistant to study the profession as early as he could and to be the last face that his father should see before the war. Like his father, he sought to partake in the knighthood―an ambition that his mother never ambitioned of, that was why he chose to stay with his father when her mother left. The inspiring courage that his father had like any other knight was something he wanted to learn, if that was easily absorbable.

Keogh bore a grudge against his mother when she left. He never thought of seeing her face again, or would forever never be ready to. If he could, he would gouge out his eyes that he got from his mother just to leave her trace nowhere. She might have her reason but merely abandoning them was such heart-breaking for him. He could not find the intelligence from her mother's defenses or probably he was too young to understand this kind of things. Even his dream of following his father's trails was somewhat unsupported, something he hardly understood. But losing a mother was tragic in itself―one and only reason. One and only reason to break a son's heart. His father had tried convincing him to forgive and forget yet his fledgling mind appeared to think maturely on how to treat it.

"Keogh, are you alright?" Keogh's disconsolate daydreaming was disturbed by a dumpy squire, waving his hand to Keogh's taciturn face to catch his attention.

Keogh simpered back. He wished that gesture responded for him.

"We're leaving the barracks in a bit," the same squire added, "how about you, you staying?"

Keogh was too bothered to talk to people; afraid to speak, afraid to burst into tears. He didn't go back to the squire. No reply, no look in the eye. He just rose from crouching. The squire and the others frowned, conscious and shock as Keogh left the room with held tears hastily. As soon as he stepped past the threshold, an unfamiliar ear-splitting detonation blasted a few kilometers from where he stood stunned. Incomparable to a thunder's long, shattering explosion, it sounded more like a gargantuan war drum in the sky. From the distance, a massive cloud arose from the ground. No cloud from the blue skies but a cloud that he thought originated from something warfare. Everyone rushed out of their houses gaping, some were doubtfully murmuring, most of them began crying in terror. Even the foresters ran back to the village. They knew to themselves Helmdock never had that sort of artillery yet―that sort of thunderous blast. They knew to themselves that came from the challengers.

Keogh felt being tried to push out of the view by the squires like a statue. What was that? Was it from the war? Well, most probably! He was hearing the same thoughts from the young men around him. Tears he held as he walked out of the barracks started to give in―no longer tears of bitterness but frightful ones. His chest never felt this unsure tension before. And he couldn't find those arms to console like he was used to. He had no home to hide from the suspecting anguish or just a window to securely peek at this blast that no one had seen before.

He was all alone, shuddering. He never felt how doubting terror dried up tracks of his tears on his now cold face; he still wiped his cheeks.

"Back to your houses! Now!" an unarmored knight left to be one of the charges of the village bawled at the top of his lungs. His cohorts repeated his order across the place.

The villagers never contravened; straightaway, everyone, including the squires, got back to their homes and from their windows they peeped again at the new horrendous view in the mid-air. Helmdock's streets were cleared, only charges remained standing, whispering to each other. These men knew best about what was happening in the confrontation. Families of the knights from the war never stopped weeping in dread, hugging each other, and their tots clueless in their arms. The elderly were folding their hands to summon Balaccun's salvation. But for Keogh, he was all alone, never ceased thinking about his father that might be bleeding right this moment after hearing that destroying detonation which surely no one could avoid. He tried to solace himself; he was stroking his father's pendant. But he held on to his father's promise before he left―the promise that he always made before him and his mother every before a war, the inevitable promise up to the fourth.

And another one blasted. This time, completely deafening. The same massive cloud arose. This time, coming from the village's adobe front gates.

Helmdock panicked.

"TO THE CASTLE!" the charges howled. The castle could safeguard the denizens! Its bricks were made up of Uriq's hardest clay and frameworks of their very own wood. The charges just hoped these could protect their people.

Terror doubled in the hearts of the villagers. All of them left their houses, heading to the place that the charges were pointing. Some would trip to the ground in hysterical pace. Mothers were holding their wailing children as tight as they could. Others still got some of their properties but most never dared. Some stood, frozen at the sight of a nearby enormous cloud with the color of their hometown's earth, and then ran. Helmdock seemed to be on its downfall. Or yes, it really was on it. Something that no Helmdock dweller ever imagined.

Another one thundered. Not again. The same destructive sound but in a different spot of Helmdock: on one of the protruding walls of the castle. It appeared that they were steered to the wrong place. The people, including the helpless charges, burst out of the castle again, causing a stampede. A part of the castle began to collapse where solid debris also began to fall from overhead and onto some of them.

"The princess!" a charge yelled to his comrades around him and they made their way through the debris to rescue King Miro's betrothed who seemed to be trapped inside.

The beautiful Helmdock was now evanescent. Nowhere was safe now. No one was safe now. Everyone was running for their lives in different directions, overlooking more of the same explosions around the territory. Survival was everybody's pursuit. Several families parted ways as the huge debris were falling. Some didn't make it through the wreckages of the castle that was supposed to be their citadel. Helmdock was someplace unsafe.

Keogh already cried enough and he should be as strong as his father, especially in circumstances as such. He had evaded from the threats of the castle's debris and to the forest he went. His young eyes could no longer envision which was actually happening or which was too unforgiving to be true? He saw lifeless bodies, even of that dumpy squire and his parents. He saw a child abandoned by his breathless mother on the soil. He heard too much sorrowful screams and cries. He saw houses devoured by the successive detonations. He saw the brook where he used to play paper boats now soiled. He saw how the heart of his hometown was ruined. He saw enough of these devastations. Until he saw a breathing figure behind the thick cloud of dust, followed by more figures slowly approaching.

Sir Grandt! In pain he had to limp and he was covering something sore in the waist. And instead of his, he brought with him Keogh's father's unsheathed sword, and a helmet. Keogh knew his father's weaponry more than anyone else. He was his squire; he knew nearly all of each weapon's details, including the imprinted "Lucky Keogh" on the handle of the broadsword Sir Grandt had in his hand. What he didn't know entirely was the reason of bringing it home without its owner. Then behind him appeared more bleeding knights―maybe as less as fifteen were they―and fugitive warhorses in retreat; one by one they appeared. These knights tried to look for their families but no one was in sight, only heavy airborne dusts and debris keeping on falling. Which one could be Keogh's father among these fifteen expectant casualties?

Papa, I'm over here, he thought, anticipating. Stop searching.

Keogh ran to his father's closest comrade instead. He could hopelessly find an answer from those survivors. As soon as Sir Grandt saw the child's approach, he groaned, "your father…."

Keogh was anxious for the answer that the knight before him provided even without him asking. He peeked with enquiring, unnerving eyes at Sir Grandt's, the left one bloodshot.

"Your father…Sir Harmond," Sir Grandt stuttered in pain. "He wanted you to… Ugh."

Keogh firstly assisted Sir Grandt to a tree trunk nearby for him to sit back and to speak a little easier. Keogh placed his head inches away from Sir Grandt as he settled himself down at ease to hear him better against the continuing explosions behind them. He stabbed the sword into the soft earth to reveal the "Lucky Keogh" levelling Keogh's eyes.

From a deep exhale came audible words of Sir Grandt. "Sir Harmond wanted you to find…your mother―"

"That is not my question!" Keogh interrupted the statement that he begged to dislike. "Where is Papa?"

Sir Grandt just bowed and sniffled. Understood. And Keogh cried along silently, taking time to sink in the reality that his father, this time, broke his promise. Sir Grandt, with his ripped undergarment's sleeve, wiped the dust off one side of the helmet he carried back then handed it to Keogh.

"Like what he promised," Sir Grandt said with a smile. "Forgive me; I soiled it…all over again on my way here."

Keogh received the helmet that was actually his father's. At least, partly, the promise was fulfilled. That made Keogh smile then sniffled, wiping the helmet more with his bare hand.

"He wanted you…to seek for your mother," Sir Grandt started again, holding back his tears. "And take…your father's weapon for your protection."

Keogh's world stood still. He could not really envision which was actually happening or which was too unforgiving to be true. Right this moment, he wanted to think this was not truly happening for it was too unforgiving to be true. He drew himself away from the knight.

"Your mother…must still be across from here till now," Sir Grandt said. "In Jad Hen. That was what…Sir Harmond told me."

But Keogh never liked the idea. He would not want to see her mother's face again, not even a single strand of her hair. He himself had almost cursed that to the moon!

"That I will not do, Sir Grandt!" Keogh obstinately contravened, in tears once again. "Never!"

"Listen, Keogh," Sir Grandt responded in a pacific tone. "Helmdock will never…be Helmdock after this doomsday…or might be tonight. Every little thing…is gone and I am certain…that my wife…too. But you, Keogh…you still have…one more life to devote with someone closest to your heart. You're young and able and bold as your father. You've already…learned sufficient about life. And you still have…a mother to love and to hold. So, you must…leave this place. As soon as you can… N-now. Seek for your mother…and begin another life, a better one than this. All of this I say in…behalf of your late father…who never sacrificed…in vain. Now, go…."

Then, one dissimilar explosion blasted, the largest one Keogh had heard that his ears rang. It concealed the whole vicinity of his beloved Helmdock with dusts as thick as the brown cloud that stunned everyone a few minutes ago. Then, fire. This drove the young man to run away in fear, clasping his father's dirtied sword and embracing the helmet with the other hand against his chest. Farther and faster he went, deserting his life once so beautiful and would be mere ruins of history henceforth.

Farewell, Helmdock. Farewell, Papa.

But never spilled across his adamant mind the thought of heading to that place where her begrudged mother might be. Never.