Forgive me if my updates become less frequent. School and finals and whatnot are coming up. Further, it has been harder to focus on this...I've been drafting a FF12 fic just for fun.
Spiral of Truth
April 27th, 999 A.S.
Castle Araphen, Lycian League, Elibe
Although the Western Isles were currently under the rule of Etruria, this was not always so. The land of Durbans had long been a stronghold for pirates, bandits, and outlaws, where the laws of Etruria and Lycia did not extend. Though there were coastal villages along the isles of Caledonia and Fibernia, these people were hardy even by Ilian standards; pirate raids and assaults were often aimed at these coastal hamlets in order to gain a new base. It was not until a mercenary slew the legendary pirate Pwent that the Western Isles experienced a rush of settlers. In a span little under ten years, the population of the isles tripled; most of these settlers were hardy villagers and poor peasants from Lycia, Etruria, and Ilia, seeking to start a new life.
The Western Isles quickly developed into a magnificent trade route, controlling the seas to Ilia and Etruria. The Isles became all seafaring merchants' preferred stops, favoring the unique and abundant materials that were available. The Western Isles had remained largely unsettled even after nine hundred years and as more advanced peoples made their life here, it was discovered that the islands were a literal silver mine. As it was in mainland Elibe, greed managed to claim the hearts of men; bandits and pirates quickly claimed these mines as their own, threatening all of those who dared to come near the silver and copper mines with violence. Although the 'civilized' nations of Elibe wished to claim the mines as their own, they had no legal ramifications to wage such a war against the bandit tribes. However, after the rise of a certain bandit leader, this situation dramatically changed.
Adnon had been the son of a simple Ilian settler who wished to cash in on the booming lumber trade. However, after a pirate raid occurred on the village in which they lived, Adnon fled to the mountains, where he lived for over twenty years. In the course of this time, Adnon assembled a host of men whose brutality and ferociousness were well renowned within the Western Isles. In a stroke of pure audacity, the bandit leader struck out from his mountain stronghold at Djuto and captured the mine of Eburacum, quickly overrunning it with his men. As the mountain scourge overtook the island of Fibernia, those bandit tribes and pirate captains quickly took to his philosophy of strength; swearing loyalty to Adnon, the man was quickly proclaimed as the Mountain King. Viewing this rising threat with increased trepidation, the King of Etruria sprung into action.
Sending the Count of Siene as ambassador to Adnon, the Etrurian government shocked the rest of Elibe by recognizing the Mountain King's domain. This was, of course, an elaborate plot created by the Duke of Phestos for the benefit of Etruria. By recognizing the new 'Mountain Kingdom' as it was called, any military action the Kingdom of Etruria took would be one of war and not of imperialism. This was set up by the Etrurian-sponsored assassination of Count Siene. Claiming that the Mountain King had the man murdered, Etruria declared war upon the Mountain Kingdom.
Although Adnon's men were brutal to the widest imagination of the mind, they were not disciplined in the ways of war. When the Etrurian armies landed on the islands, the bandits fell underfoot to forces led by Great General Douglas and then-Knight General Torthon. However, the forces of the Mountain King made a miraculous turnabout. King Adnon had scoured the depths of Elibe's intellectual institutions until the man happened upon a brilliant strategist and manager. Quickly becoming known as the 'Dread One', Adnon's strategist led what little men the king controlled into battle against General Torthon in what was to be an easy victory for Etruria – however, the final result was much more different.
In a brilliant series of maneuvers, General Torthon's forces were routed and decimated to the man, including the Knight General himself. Rising to meet this new foe, General Douglas forced a confrontation with the Dread One, driving him from the field after a battle that claimed the lives of nearly twice the amount of Etrurians than the islanders. Not possessing the numbers to pursue the Dread One, the Great General retreated to the coastline where he was met by the Dread One's apprentice. The young man offered parlay to the general who agreed emphatically; however, word arose of Adnon's assassination by his own strategist. Utilizing the disappearance of the Dread One and Adnon's death, the Etrurian Army swept through the frail defenses of the Mountain Kingdom, eventually claiming their capital, Djuto which brought an end to the war.
Alongside the human consequences of the war, the Subjugation Wars had a wicked aftermath. As the Kingdom of Etruria seized control of the rich silver and copper mines, they were placed under the control of various barons and counts. Naturally, only a percent of the silver was given to the kingdom; the rest was placed into the personal coffers of these nobles or was used to flood the market. Unlike gold, which was relatively stable due to the lack of deposits, silver and copper fluctuated with the market. As the Subjugation Wars waged on, the prices of silver and copper skyrocketed.
House Cornwell, which had been one of the main bankers of Lycian, specialized in the silver and copper market; loading their banks and coffers with the two metals instead of gold, the fortunes of House Cornwell rose and fell periodically. Compared to Houses Araphen and Laus, which banked Lycia through gold, House Cornwell was the bank of the lower classes. Gold was the preferred currency between rich merchants and nobles while silver and copper was the coin of the lower merchants and farmers. When the Subjugation Wars were waged, the value of silver and copper launched dramatically to where a piece of silver was nearly worth the price of a gold piece. This greatly increased House Cornwell's fortunes to astronomical levels, resulting in the House overspending its budgets.
After the market was flooded with silver and copper by the mine-controlling counts, House Cornwell's assets plummeted. In addition to this, House Cornwell had taken on the debts of many of their investors during the boom period; with the prices of silver and copper halving, these debts became unbearable. In order to save his duchy, Marquis Cornwell enacted the Seventh Article of the Lycian Covenant. The Covenant was developed two centuries after the Lycian League was created after the silver market failed; the Seventh Article stated that once a marquis' debt exceeded half of his assets and income, the marquis is allowed to borrow money from the League to make up for the deficit. House Cornwell enacted this article to save their selves and borrowed vast quantities of gold from Araphen, Laus, and Tuscany to survive the silver depression. Upon receiving this gold, House Cornwell immediately converted the gold into silver and copper, allowing them to regain their economic footing. However, this would later prove to be Cornwell's undoing.
As the Kingdom of Etruria discovered the illegal activities of their counts, King Mordred pulled all Etrurian silver from the market to be slowly put back in over a ten year period. As the price of silver stabilized, the coffers of Cornwell blew to massive proportions. Although the common rate of exchange was five silver pieces per one gold, the inflation had led the exchange between silver and gold to become nearly ten silvers to one gold. When House Cornwell had borrowed the gold, the exchange had been at the inflated rate; with the rates stabilized, House Cornwell suddenly found themselves with double the amount they were supposed to have! Accusing Cornwell of stealing from their assets, Araphen, Laus, and Tuscany framed Marquis Cornwell with embezzlement. An official investigation by Uther of Ostia led to the dissolution of House Cornwell and the death of Marquis Cornwell. It was through this incident, which came to be known as the Tragedy of Cornwell, that Araphen became the greatest economic power in Lycia.
Using their newfound position in Lycia, Araphen concocted an economic policy that increased the state's coffers by great amounts. By using a combination of location, shrewd policies, and the Tragedy of Cornwell, Marquis Roran vaulted Araphen's riches in a short matter of ten years. Even after his death and the ascension of Rheims, Araphen's riches increased. Word of Rheims' treasures travelled far beyond the walls of Araphen and into the ears of human crows such as Narshen.
Owing to his greedy nature, the man had summoned the marquis to the now occupied throne room. After his duel with Hector, Zephiel had departed for Castle Bern; Brunya herself had returned to Sacae to oversee the nomads and to ensure no revolts were staged. Leaving Narshen in charge of the invasion of Lycia, Zephiel had ordered that Orer would oversee the logistics of Narshen's campaign. Given the small time span of a few days, Narshen had a short amount of time to discover where Marquis Rheims had stashed his fabulous treasures.
"Marquis Rheims," Narshen smiled wickedly from the throne, "how nice of you to come."
Although the man was a coward at heart, Rheims of Araphen would not bow meekly to men such as Narshen. Refusing to commit suicide as some of his contemporaries had, Rheims had been chained to his own dungeon. Despite this, the man remained defiant as ever. Looking at the arrogant general, Rheims sneered. "Look at how you, a haughty peasant, sits upon my throne. Be honored that I even spare words for you."
"W-What did you say!" The Dragon General leaned forward, eyes wide. "Listen you damned cretin, you will not bring your wealth to hell gates when my blade enters your neck, correct?" Narshen darkened as Rheims began to chuckle at the wyvern lord. "What the hell is so amusing!"
"You're amusing, peasant!" Rheims shook with laughter as his shackled hands and feet clattered against the marble floor. Standing from where he had been forced to kneel, Rheims rolled his eyes at the general. "Look at you, a low-blooded commoner pissant begging a royal noble such as I for coin!"
"Y-You…!" Turning purple with rage, the man's fist clenched as he glared down at the defeated marquis. Fumbling for his sword, Narshen nearly pulled the magical blade out on Rheims when he stopped suddenly. "Marquis Araphen, if you are not going to cooperate," Narshen grinned wickedly, "then I suppose you have no more use. Slater!" Narshen's lieutenant stepped forward. "Take Marquis Araphen to the rear courtyard with the rest of prisoners."
"Sir?" The grizzled knight stepped forward, eyes questioning.
"Are you deaf, man? I said…go take Marquis Araphen to the rear courtyard with the rest of the prisoners." Narshen's eyes widened with fury, causing Slater to silently curse his luck for being assigned under the Dragon General. Narshen's mood swings were infamous in the Bern Army and many in Narshen's division knew better than to wound Narshen's enormous pride and ego. The man considered even a questioning glance to be an affront to his honor; although the man was unable do anything to one of superior rank than himself, woe betide unto those who were of lesser rank.
"Of course sir." Slater saluted sharply and silently prayed that the boot-kissing would assuage the man from violent action. "What shall we do to them?"
Luckily for Slater, the general seemed to be pleased by the armored knight's response. Flippantly fixing his hair, Narshen smirked down at him. "Did you not hear King Zephiel's proclamation? Wait, of course you didn't…you were too busy cowering in fear of Hector."
"I apologize for my unacceptable behavior, General. If you would recite His Majesty's issue, I would carry it to the t." In his mind, Slater wished to scream out to the Dragon General of his embarrassment at Hector's hand. However, the former Black Fang member prudently bit back his words.
"By the gods, the things I do for inferior men…I am such a generous gentleman…" Narshen sighed and placed a gloved hand over his face in mock exasperation. "Before his departure for Bern, His Majesty declared that an honorable burial for Marquis Arlon and…Lord Hector." The Dragon General sneered. "His Majesty also declared that all of the Lycian prisoners are to be executed."
Whatever it was that Slater had been expecting this certainly was not it. The man nearly spluttered over this before nodding dumbly. "Yes sir. It shall be done."
Watching as Marquis Araphen was led away, Narshen turned to his lieutenant. "Slater, I must collect supplies and meet with Marquis Erik to regard our plans for…invasion. You are to hold this castle."
Slater resisted the urge to sigh out loud. To a vulture such as Narshen, 'collecting supplies' was synonymous with 'pillaging villages'. "Of course sir."
"Oh, and Slater?" The armored knight looked up. "Even the gods will not be able to save you from my wrath if you lose this castle."
Slater watched with a heavy heart as Narshen walked from the throne room, leaving Slater to stand alone. Apprehensive and slightly depressed about the task he must commit, Slater rubbed his temples before looking out to the Lycian skies. Less than a quarter candlemark later, Narshen and his battalion were soaring through those same Lycian skies, effectively becoming pirates of the air.
Provincial boundary between Kathelet and Araphen,
Pherae, the second house of the Lycian League and amongst the strongest military force, second to perhaps only Ostia. Famed far and wide and through the ages are the mighty horsemen of Pherae – it has been said that the only individual corps who can equal Pherae's horsemen is the Steel Guard of Ostia and the vaunted wyvern lords of Bern. Long have I dreamed of commanding the Order of the Hawk; to have such a famous and legendary corps at one's disposal is the dream of any strategist. Although some would prefer to claim the ferocity of the wyvern lords, I myself prefer the steadfast courage and stalwartness of Pherae – after fighting alongside four brilliant Order members, and one marquis, I daresay I am slightly biased towards Pherae. In that same sense, I am biased for Ostia as well: luckily for me, I shall have both on my side!
With a triple rank phalanx formation called the Tidebreaker, the Ostian knights have served as the ultimate shield and defense in the realm. Many a charge has broken upon the rock that has been the armor knights, blunted against their thick armor and forced back by their sturdy spears. In this day and age, many contemporary strategists consider the Tidebreaker to be relatively obsolete, due to the much more numerous number of serving mages. However, the Order of the Hawk gladly covers their Lycian counterpart well. With their brilliant charges, the heavy cavalry of Pherae can cut down all foes – anything less than a full phalanx of spearman or a battalion of wyvern lords cannot stop the mighty horsemen of Pherae.
My…just thinking about the pure might at my disposal is making me grin. The Campaign of Fire took months: no allied deaths, the mission accomplished, and only forty three men at my disposal – forty four if one counts the Archsage. If this campaign goes as well as the one twenty years ago, then we shall be home in…three days. Let us pray to Elimine that is the case.
Placing the book inside his satchel, the Famed Genius looked around to his surroundings. After encountering the Pheraen cavalier named Alan, Mark and his escorts had agreed to follow the man to the spot designated for camp. As part of the advance guard, Alan had been entrusted with clearing the road for his liege and pitching camp. When the young lordling had reached their camp the night prior, Mark had opted to desist from troubling the Pheraen heir – Roy had been in conference well into the night, discussing state matters in the privacy of his tent. When Guinevere had finally exited his tent, it had been late into the night, much too late for Mark's liking. When Alan had departed to establish the next forward camp, Mark had slipped away with the red cavalier. Through conversation with the Pheraen vassal, Mark had taken a quick liking to the knight: the man was intelligent, chivalrous, and brave, all qualities Mark admired in a man.
Arriving soon after Alan had pitched camp, Roy had arrived with the rest of the force. With one hundred horsemen and fifty infantry, the Pheraen host was an impressive force to see. Around him, knights diligently performed various duties, never shirking even when their immediate supervisors disappeared. Instead of slouching and lazing when the opportunity presented itself, the Order's finest worked to their fullest. What Mark found most interesting, however, was the pure respect and courtesy that the knights had for the merchants and villagers that milled about their camp. Watching as various numbers of merchants and villagers drifted through the camp to trade with the knights, Mark felt himself shaking his head. 'Only in a Pheraen camp would knights pay and barter for goods instead of taking them outright.'
Mark nearly found himself walking away from the camp to find solace when a sudden shifting of knights caused him to look upwards. Riding in on a white horse was the heir of Pherae, proud yet humble while leading the retinue of knights and mercenaries behind him. His hair was a blazon red, messy atop his head. Like his father before him, he wore a headband to keep the scarlet locks out of his eyes. Garbed in blue armor and carrying a thin sword at his side, the young man was a near replica of his father. The largest difference, Mark noted, was his eyes; while Eliwood possessed eyes that had experience, Roy's eyes carried an innocence that Mark had long thought gone from Elibe.
Pulling his cloak tighter around him, the strategist pulled his ragged hood over his head. Blending in with the poor villagers and merchants, Mark trudged his way to the Pheraen lordling. By now, various traders and peasants were tugging at the noble, only to be swatted away by the flat edge of Marcus' sword. Mark drifted through the small crowd to yank on Roy's cape; the young lord looked over his shoulder, startled, before giving a kind smile.
"Please suh, might I be givin' ya somethin'?" Mark tried his best to keep in tone yet was finding it increasingly hard not to chuckle.
"Kind man, there are many knights who would trade with you." Unused to such an imposing person, Roy managed a careful smile before attempting to gently yanking his cape out the man's grasp; however, Mark was adamant. Grabbing the cape again, Mark tugged on it once more.
"No, suh, I believin' this be somethin' you wan' ta listen ta."
A steel edge rested on Mark's wrist, causing the tactician to look to his right. "I suggest," Marcus spoke through gritted teeth, "that you release Lord Roy before you lose your hand. Now step quickly."
"Ah, my old, dear, gray, wrinkled friend," Mark's eyes twinkled as he removed his hood. "I believe you said those same words twenty years ago. Well, not necessarily those words, but the last three. I think."
"By the gods…" Marcus removed the blade as he stared with incredulity. Standing before him was their illustrious leader of the campaign over twenty years prior. "Mark?"
"Hello, Marcus."
Although his love for extravagance was well known throughout the Army of Bern, not all of Narshen's pleasures were of large proportions. In fact, one of Narshen's greatest loves was his love of flying. Although he was similar to many other wyvern riders in this regard, Narshen took particular enjoyment in the simple act. The second son of a minor lord, Narshen had trained himself since his youth for the army; due to Elibe's practice of primogeniture, Narshen stood to inherit nothing from his father. Quickly using his position as his father's favorite, Narshen had acquired a quick and mighty wyvern from the Bern stalls; this had engrained his love of flying and it had only grown since then.
As the sole wyvern lord amongst the Dragon Generals, Narshen's Third Legion consisted of many of Bern's wyvern riders. Although General Murdock commanded an impressive cadre of wyverns, led by his skilled lieutenant Gale, it was only expected that a fellow wyvern lord, who understood how they thought and battled, would have the highest command of wyverns amongst the Bern generals.
However, a proven rule of war was that no matter the size of the army, if the general is weak then the army is weak: unfortunately for Bern, this held true even to Narshen. As the vanguard in the Battle of Araphen, Narshen's forces had sustained large losses during the siege; this loss of life had been partly due to their role and partly due to Narshen's incredibly folly during the final attack. Instead of holding back his wyverns to allow the infantry to take the brunt of the Lycian defenders, Narshen had foolishly ordered the all-out-attack upon the battlements. Beaten back with gusto, Narshen's numbers had dipped low.
These losses were a portion of the reason why the man was circumventing the skies of Lycia for plunder. With many of their brothers and friends slain at Lycia, Narshen's men's morale plummeted. In order to keep his soldiers appeased and relatively content, the man needed to line their pockets with gold and silver. Obviously unable to inquiry his king for such things, the only remaining option was to sack the surrounding land.
As he flew over Lycia, Narshen spotted a relatively rundown building on Araphen's outskirts. Eyeing the red roof with appraising eyes, the man turned to his wing-mate, who leaned in the saddle to listen to his general. "You are to take the rest of these men and seek out treasure! I shall take six men with me to search that house!" Nodding his affirmative, the captain flew off to perform his commander's bidding.
Narshen gestured for six men to follow before slowly descending, flying around in a circle as he did so. As he drew closer to the building, he noted that there were children out and about; upon sight of the Bern riders, a priestly looking figure ushering the children into the home. As the wyverns landed in the small clearing in front of the building, Narshen figured he was looking at an orphanage. The monk walked forward, his arms spread outward, a prayer book in his hands. "Peace be with you, my sons."
Narshen hopped off the temporary wyvern he was riding, two swords strapped to his left hip. "Well, hello Father…quite a…" Narshen crinkled his nose at the orphanage, "lovely place you have."
"We do not have the pleasure of excess money, my son." The man bowed, his long blonde hair falling down his side. "Yet we are content and pious, as God wishes."
"Mmm, yes, quite…" Narshen strutted forward, his left hand resting on the pommel of the two swords. Sneering at the monk, who looked calmly on, he gestured for two of the knights behind him. "Search the orphanage for any valuables."
"Of course, sir." The knights moved to do their general's bidding as Lucius stepped forward, a frown on his face.
"Please, sir knight, we have no valuables. As you can clearly see, we are a run-down orphanage – we have nothing to spare."
Narshen walked to and fro, an arrogant smile plastered on his face. "Is that so? Well, I suppose you shall be singing a different tune once we hack off an arm."
"General Narshen," one of the knights called out from behind him, "look at this lil' one!" Walking forward from the forest that surrounded the orphanage, the wyvern rider held a young girl in his arms. The child, who could not have been older than eight, struggled against the man, crying out in pain as he squeezed her arm. "I know you…appreciate those who are older, yet I suppose someone such as her could settle?"
Inwardly, Narshen felt disgusted at the man. Although the Dragon General had few in the way of morals, he had always felt the need to secure the safety of children – as long as it benefitted him, of course. In this situation, though, a little persuasion could go a long way. "Oh, she'll be fine Henry. It'll be a shame to hear her cry when I rip her li-"
"Put her down." Narshen spun to find Lucius staring at him with eyes of fire.
"Hm?"
Lucius' hands tightened on the prayer book, voice dipping low. "You shall not harm one of my flock, sinner. I shall repeat myself once. Release her or suffer the wrath of God."
His voice brooked no dispute and Narshen sincerely wondered what the monk would do to prevent them from running the holy man through with their swords. The rapid change in the monk's demeanor unnerved the general; a few short moments ago, he had been gentle and soft-spoken, seemingly harmless. As soon as they moved upon one of his charges, his eyes had burned with holy wrath and an aura of power radiated from him.
"Oh?" The wyvern rider leaned forward, his hand moving down the girl's body. "And what would you do if I did thi-"
The knight never finished the sentence. Like the hammer of God, a large burst of light fell from the sky, striking the man dead. His skin smelt of burning flesh as the man fell to the ground, smoking from the magical blast. Incredibly, despite being so close to the now-deceased knight, the orphan had not been harmed by the blast.
"It has been nearly twenty years since I dealt judgment to those who would defile God!" Lucius turned on Narshen, who looked on with completely bewilderment. "As per Elimine's teachings, I shall offer peace – leave now or suffer the wrath of the Lord."
Growling under his breath, Narshen silently swore. The might of the monk intimidated him: he had never seen such magical prowess in the holy magics. Despite this, he needed to maintain face – if he fled now, his men's already low morale would plummet and his own prestige would suffer greatly. "The man who slays the monk gets Henry's share of the plunder!"
Springing into action, the men of Bern were as one, spears jutting outwards and charged at the man. As Narshen stood back, he noticed a flash of green hair in one of the battered windows. 'A shame they shall have to see this simple monk be skewered.'
However, Lucius the Light was no simple monk. A chosen companion on the Campaign of Fire, Lucius had struck down more men than the five charging knights had killed combined. Muttering a short incantation under his breath, Lucius raised his hands before another divine bolt shot down from the heavens. The beam struck down a Bern knight, condemning him to death on the spot; seeing their companion fall, the knights let out a yell before yet another blast of holy magic purged their souls from their body.
Unfortunately for Lucius, the knights were far too close. After striking down the second knight, the monk felt a distinctive pain in his torso. Not even sparing a glance at the lance that protruded from his stomach, Lucius' hands reached forward until they were locked onto the man's wrists. Summoning the last of his fading strength, Lucius fried the man with a final blast of white magic; looking at the smoking corpse with a fading smile, Lucius felt his head dip, awaiting the sword blow to come.
The sword never came.
Although Narshen had every intention of slaying the monk, a hatchet changed his mind. Spotting the projectile out of the corner of his eye, Narshen dropped to the ground as the axe passed overhead harmlessly. Staring at the man near the forest edge, Narshen sneered. At the swordsman's feet was a small pile of logs, likely dropped from when the man had returned from chopping wood.
"So," Narshen grimaced as he stood, hand flying to his hip, "you wish to try me? Foolish man." The sound of scraping metal was heard as Narshen pulled a simple steel sword from his side, leveling it at the swordsman.
If Narshen had believed it was going to be an easy fight, he was sorely mistaken. The red haired warrior darted forward, heavy blade cutting across the arm of one of Narshen's guards. A quick flash of blue was all Narshen saw of the man's sword work before a decapitated head rolled across the ground. Darting towards the remaining rider, the mercenary's blade met the knight's lance with a loud crash. Darting forward, Narshen swept at the man while the mercenary was locked with the knight.
The sword bit lunged for the man as he disengaged too slowly from the stalemate, leaving his ribs vulnerable. Narshen's blade flickered to the right before cutting sharply downwards, gashing across the man's left side. Bulling through the cut, the mercenary's blade cut downwards towards Narshen, who barely managed to deflect the hit. Although the two blades bounced off one another, Narshen's suffered a very noticeable chip in its fine edge. Deeming the blade useless, Narshen tossed it aside before pulling out the other sword in his arsenal. A dull brown in color, magical runes imbued with dark magic flowed down the flat side of the sword. Granted to him by Prime Minister Orer upon his generalship, Narshen prized the blade.
Stepping aside as his comrade fell to the earth, both of his arms missing, Narshen slashed downwards. Blade met sword with a clang before the two separated. Although Narshen was a man of pride and greed, he did not accompany his position solely for his charm; the Dragon General was an accomplished swordsman, able to duel blades with the best of knights. As Narshen twisted and turned, he made this readily obvious. Although the red haired swordsman had cut down the Bern riders with relative ease, Narshen proved to be a much more impressive opponent. Nonetheless, Raven had served in the Campaign of Fire and had been one of its more valuable members; relying on skills and instincts that had been cultivated on the field of battle over twenty years prior, the man gave as good as he got – which almost overwhelmed the young Dragon General.
As Narshen's runesword clashed against Raven's Regal Blade, the wyvern lord noticed that his sword was slowly beginning to crack and weaken. Although the magical blade was an impressive piece, it paled in comparison to the mighty Regal Blade. Forged centuries ago with metals that were no longer known to man, the Regal Blade was inferior only to the Divine Weapons; naturally, it was only a matter of time before Narshen's sword shattered against the blue sword's might.
Realizing this, Narshen attempted to snake his way out of the blade's path. Although the wyvern lord was able to maneuver his way around Raven's attacks, he couldn't do this forever: fortunately, he didn't have to. Although devoid of their riders, the wyverns of Bern had undergone training just as the knights had; with a vicious screech, one of the serpentine beasts had clasped Raven's leg in its vice-like jaws. Although the wyvern's head had been removed shortly thereafter, the damage had been done; his leg torn asunder by wyvern fangs, Raven hobbled backwards, unable to go on the offense.
Though the mercenary was not able to make concise movements – which limited his offense considerably – he was still able to parry away Narshen's blows, much to the general's annoyance. After deflecting Narshen's sword far to the side, Raven stepped forward to end the duel before stopping abruptly; he was unable to move his left side, feeling paralyzed from the neck down. Watching futilely as Narshen recovered, Raven's eyes closed before the magical sword entered into his chest. Falling backwards awkwardly, Raven reached out with his right hand towards his now-dead friend before giving up the ghost.
Reaching low, Narshen seized the blue blade from Raven's left hand and slid it into his sheath. Not sparing a look behind him, Narshen left his cracked runesword behind before speeding off to the west. Later, when a young green haired mage and a sandy haired thief would go to bury the body of their father and his companion, they would look at the steel sword Narshen had carried. Along the chip in the edge was a slight green color, glistening brightly in the afternoon sun.
Narshen always coated his weapons with poison.
Nestled between the Laus Mountains and the Tuscanan Plains, Caelin stood in the heartland of Lycia. Positioned in at a pivotal crossroads in Lycia, Caelin benefited from the merchants that travelled through the region. Lumber, in particular, was a popular product in the lands of Caelin; within the Laus Mountains grew a particular kind of oak tree grew with success. Valued for its durable yet flexible wood, these trees were valued by the various armies across Elibe – as one of the duchies closest to the Laus Mountains, Caelin benefitted greatly from this trade. Using the lumber as bargaining tools, Caelin merchants and the duchy itself traded this wood for products that could not be found within Caelin lands – namely iron and tin.
As with all lucrative trades, this lumber market attracted those who had less than honorable intentions. The Laus Mountains served as a festering ground of bandits and outlaws who wished to profit from the trade. These villainous men preyed upon the few paths through and near the mountains, often to much success; the forces of Laus, though maintaining peace, often bribed these bandits to seize the lumber goods to force them away from Caelin merchants and give them to their counterparts in Laus. In accordance with this, Caelin's knights gave venom to the men in Laus for these deeds. Although it was often impossible to trace the bandits to Marquis Erik and Laus, it had happened more than once before; coupled with the bitter memory of the Laus invasion twenty years prior, this made Caelin and Laus bitter enemies.
As the Steward of Caelin, Sir Kent held no love for Laus. Forced from his castle alongside the Lady Lyndis, the Crimson Shield spared no opportunity to weaken Laus. Although technically under the jurisdiction of Ostia, Kent held a seat at the annual Lycian Conference but he was not allowed to sit on the monthly gatherings which was reserved only for the marquises or their representatives. Of the seventeen conferences that he attended, Kent had taken the side of Ostia and Pherae for seventeen of them – likewise, he had opposed Erik for the same number. Kent's dislike of Erik was well founded and understood by many; although the Marquis of Laus was respected for his shrewdness and administration abilities, not many were struck by his personality. As if to strengthen the reasons behind his dislike, the Marquis of Laus had moved to dismiss Caelin and to divide its lands amongst Santaruz, Kathelet, and Laus – a movement that was promptly squashed.
It was for this reason that Kent stared out to the east with narrowed eyes. Clutching an oak cane in his right hand, the former Knight Commander of Caelin was incapable of fighting on the field again – yet, this only served to strengthen his resolve. Appointing his lifelong companion Sain as Knight Commander, Kent had sent a great number of Caelin's forces to Araphen to assist Lord Hector. This mass depletion of knights caused a problem on the home front: if bandits were to suddenly attack in great numbers, the knights of Caelin would be hard pressed to defend the castle.
"Ah, Kent," a gentle voice behind him sounded, "I was looking for you."
Although lacking in pure numbers, Caelin had warriors from the Campaign of Fire to defend them. Although the Crimson Shield was incapable of battle, his wife was not lacking in skill; as a valiant and graceful Pegasus knight, Fiora had led Caelin's forces time and again in Kent and Sain's absence.
Steward Kent turned on his heel before wincing in pain as his back twisted awkwardly. "Fiora, what is it?"
Kent's wife of eighteen years sidled up to her husband, grabbing his free arm. Resting her head against his shoulder, she sighed. "I was just…thinking about Thomas."
Kent nodded in understanding. Although he loved his son dearly, he knew that Fiora was especially close with Thomas. Despite the fact that Kent had ordered Thomas to the field, he felt a pang of guilt in his heart every time he saw Fiora. A constant fear and worry was present in her eyes, causing Kent to regret sending Thomas to Araphen. "I…thought about him earlier."
"Do you think we did the right thing?" Fiora shuffled her feet against the stone battlement, her soles flowing easily over the smooth stones. "I mean, I'd trust no one but Sain to lead him and Edward is never more than a stone's throw away, but…"
"No, I know what you're saying." Kent tapped his cane against the ground, something he did when he was thinking. "But like you said, I wouldn't have sent him if I didn't believe he was capable of handling it; further, Sain thinks of Thomas like a son…he wouldn't let something happen to him if he could help it."
Fiora shook her teal hair out of her face. Despite being twenty years older, age seemed to barely affect the Pegasus knight. Despite a few creases near her eyes and her hair turning slightly lighter, Dame Fiora looked mostly unchanged. "Sorry, I'm just feeling sorry for myself today. Today was Florina's birthday…"
Kent didn't say a word as he clasped his wife's hand in his. Although the youngest sister had passed away nearly twelve years ago, Fiora never ceased to think about her. Although Kent was never one to reveal his emotions, he was heartless; as far back as he could remember, Kent had only cried three times in his life: the birth of his son, the death of Lady Lyndis, and the death of Lady Florina. He nearly spoke when a recently knighted soldier ran up to him.
"Steward Kent, Lady Fiora!" The young man saluted sharply as Kent nodded dismissively; behind him, Fiora masked her face into that of apathy, eyes not revealing her inner turmoil. "There's a lone knight marching up the hill towards the castle! We've asked to identify himself yet he was unresponsive!"
"Hm. Fetch me my horse…I shall meet with him." The Steward of Caelin squeezed Fiora's hand before limping towards the stairs, where he waited until his horse was drawn.
Leading the horse down the small slope from the castle, Kent shielded his eyes against the afternoon sun. Leading the knight from before, Kent resisted the urge to sigh. He often had met travelers and free knights on this very slope, well within range of the Caelin archers. Unlike this time, however, he did not have Thomas at his back – this little thought caused him to miss his son greatly. However, Kent did not have time to worry and miss his son – the knight from before was nearly upon them, a large lance in his hand.
"Well met, sir knight!" Kent raised a hand in greeting as the horses stopped. "May I inquire your business around these parts?"
"You wound me!" The knight's voice boomed even from within the silver helm as Kent's eyes widened. The voice sounded so familiar. "I would have thought I would receive a better greeting than this – yet I've never been a man of grandeur!"
"May I ask your name, sir knight?"
The knight removed his helm as Kent stared on in shock. "You forget me so quickly? I'm hurt Kent! Or, should I call you Steward Kent?"
"L-Lord Wallace!" Kent allowed a smile to appear on his face as the former Knight Commander grinned widely. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd return back to Caelin; I heard about Lord Hector's call to arms. Knowing you, you'd send every arm available…I figured this old bulldog could lend you a hand."
"O-Of course! We'd be honored to fight alongside you!" Kent held a hand as Wallace grasped it. "Well met, General."
"The pleasure is all mine Kent."
As Kent led the grizzled veteran back to the castle, he couldn't help but be dumbfounded by Wallace's sudden appearance. Although he had long looked up to the Caelin knight, he had lost touch with the man over time. Despite the general's constant denial of dying on a bed, Kent had believe that would eventually be Wallace's fate. At any rate, the mighty armor knight would not be bested on the field of battle!
"So, Kent," Wallace turned to the still-mounted steward, "have you heard from Lady Lyndis?"
"Ah…Lord Wallace, Lady Lyndis died…a few years ago. She succumbed to illness." Kent watched as Wallace's expression changed from one of shock to sadness. Although many had been close to the noblewoman during the Campaign of Fire, none valued Lyndis more than the knights of Caelin.
"Did you get to say your farewells to milady?"
"Unfortunately, no. Sain managed to hold vigil over her, however."
Wallace nodded slowly before smiling, attempting to break the mood. "Sain eh? I've not seen that rascal for nineteen years or so!"
Kent blinked at this. "Nineteen years? He was married nineteen years ago."
"Aye." Wallace slapped Kent on the shoulder when the younger man dismounted. "The lass he married was from the village I found myself in. Gentle thing, she was. I was the sole witness, won't you know?"
"I…believe I know why." Kent shook his head as he recalled his best friend's tales of his marriage. After electing to venture across Elibe as a free knight, the Green Lance had fallen in love with a villager from Ilia. Instantly smitten with her, Sain had accidentally impregnated Elice – they married shortly after.
"What about you? If I remember what Sain had told me, you married the eldest sister…Fiora, right?"
"That's correct." Kent led Wallace to the throne room, where the throne lay bare and empty. It had not seated a soul since the death of Marquis Caelin twenty years prior. "We have a son as well."
"Do you? I'd love to meet him one day." Wallace followed Kent into one of the rooms off to the side of the throne room. A large table rested in the middle of the room, undisturbed since the departure of the Caelin knights two weeks ago. "This room brings back memories."
"Aye…" Kent and Wallace sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, each relishing the memory of their Lady Lyndis. She would gather her most trusted companions in this room to simply speak and inquire about their lives – even Wallace had enjoyed such gatherings. "Lord Wallace, what brought you back here? Surely, and I mean no offense by this, the trek all the way from Ilia must have been…harsh for someone at your age."
"No offense taken Kent. I know I'm not as young as I used to be." Wallace allowed himself to grin widely before the bald general rapped the table with his hands. "I'm back because I was going to serve alongside Lord Hector at Araphen."
"Oh?" Kent frowned. "Why aren't you there now then?"
"Because, Kent," the grin disappeared, "Araphen has fallen."
Scores of miles away, on the outskirts of Araphen's territory, a war council was being held. After an out-rider had informed the Pheraen army of Araphen's fall to Bern, strategies were being made to seize back the castle. Settled within a large pavilion in the middle of camp, the heir of Pherae and his squad captains were gathered around a square table, with Roy at the head.
"Master Roy," Marcus spoke from the side, "perhaps we can circumvent the castle walls to attack the castle in all directions?"
"Impossible, Sir Marcus." Dieck shook his head from where he sat, arms crossed. Although not a knight nor of peerage, the man had been asked to join council due to his experience on the field of battle. "Our forces are far too few to lay siege to the castle from more than one side."
"We cannot simply charge straight ahead, however." As leader of the vanguard and wing respectively, Alan and Lance were two of Roy's squad commanders. Although young in age, the two were battle tried and tested warriors whom even veteran knights acknowledged. "Our casualties would be enormous."
"We have not the capabilities to hold a siege. Our supplies, though plentiful for the march, are too little to lay siege."
Roy contemplated Merlinus' words for a moment before nodding slowly. Although the young man typically deferred to his retainers' plans for battle, it was he who ultimately had the final say in their battle plans. Although the boy was bright, his reluctance for death led to strategies being crucially created and implemented. "You're right. If we are to take the castle, then it shall be quick. How will we force our way through the gates though? Surely, the enemy outnumbers us."
"Sorry to say, Master Roy," the men in the room looked up as Mark walked in, "but that is not true."
"Oh?" Watching as Mark dumped three books and four different maps on the table, Roy gave a questioning look. "Why do you believe this is?"
"The Bern standard flying over Araphen belongs to Dragon General Narshen. As I spoke with the scout we sent, he said that the villagers around Araphen claimed that a corps of wyverns and infantry left many candlemarks ago." Mark shuffled through one of the beaten books before resuming his talk; Roy noted that the man hardly looked up while he spoke, preferring to keep his eyes focused on the side task he was working on. "This information, combined with what I know of Narshen, leads me to believe that he is overconfident in his force. He likely left behind a token force to defend Araphen."
"Ah, so we can take them even with our numbers?"
"Precisely, Marcus." Mark swore softly before picking up another book, leafing through it while moving the other off to the side. "Further, as if to improve our situation, two large holes have been spotted in the castle's walls. The gatehouse is completely collapsed. Our cavalry should have no problem charging these breaches."
"Yes, this does make our task easier…" Roy still frowned, however, causing Mark to look up in annoyance. "We would still maintain losses if we charged though…Er," he noticed Mark's annoyed glare for the first time, "is there something on my face?"
"Pardon my frankness, but I believe there's something on your brain." Mark grumbled before folding a page in the book; setting it off to the side, Mark opened two of the maps before spreading the third across the table, ignoring the insulted looks of Lance and Alan. "You're nativity is, pardon me, appalling Master Roy. Losses must be expected and accepted in war."
Roy found himself silent, though not by being startled. Gesturing for Alan and Lance to settle down, the teen noted that Marcus and Merlinus did not rise to Mark's insult. Knowing the Mark spoke only the truth, Roy nodded. "Yes, I know, Mark. However, if I can lessen our losses while still carrying the day…"
"That is the fine line a general must walk. Regardless," Mark pointed to a spot on the map, "I have a trump card."
"Please, illustrate for us what your 'trump card' is."
Nodding at Roy, Mark allowed himself a slight smile. "Years ago, when I fought in Araphen, I was chanced at the opportunity to witness something that is…most secretive…"
Slater looked out sadly over the assembled Lycian prisoners. Instead of plodding in a mass heap of flesh and cloth, the remaining commanders had ordered the Lycian soldiers to line up rank and file. With the remaining marquises at the forefront, the organized lines moved from marquis to private. Slater noticed that the Lycians did not separate themselves based upon duchy; instead, they were one force, standing side by side. 'They face death yet they stare at us with eyes that could force a man into submission…by the gods, what am I going to do? Elimine shall forsake me to hell for such an act."
Slater sighed as he looked out over the fifty soldiers he commanded. Such a force was incapable of hardly anything. Slater had learned early on in the day that guarding Castle Araphen against attack would be no easy task. If a determined enemy attacked the castle, they would need nothing short of a miracle to hold it. Although the militias or the remaining armies of Lycia had not been seen around them, bandits were a viable threat. In times of war, bandits and vagabonds attacked weakened castles in order to gain strongholds over trade routes. Positioned on a vital trade route between Lycia, Sacae, and Bern, any bandit who controlled Araphen would be a scourge to all merchants and travelers the world over.
As if to compound Slater's worries, the battered walls around Araphen were near indefensible. With large holes in the stone fortification, Slater and his men would be hard pressed to defend Araphen against attack. Although the appearance of the dragons had been the catalyst for Bern's victory, it may have been the main reason they would lose the castle. Although Slater had attempted to build a wooden blockade to seal the gaps, it was a mere patch to a large problem.
"Sir Slater," a guard beside him whispered in his ear, "the Lycians are assembled."
"I can see this." Slater growled before fishing a writ from his armor. "Read this loud and clear to them."
"I-I can't sir…I can't read."
Although the man's illiteracy annoyed Slater, he did not let it show – it was not the soldier's fault. As advanced as Elibe was, much of the population was illiterate. While nobles, scholars, priests, and knights were all taught literacy as part of their studies, many of the villagers and farmers were unable to read or write. Although schools were offered until the age of twelve, many farmers preferred to keep their children at home to assist with the crops.
"Of course not. That is fine." Withdrawing his arm, Slater opted to avoid the hassle and just read it himself. There was a good chance that the other man beside him was illiterate as well and Slater honestly just wished for this horrific deed to be over. "As per His Majesty, King Zephiel of Bern, Conqueror of Ilia and Sacae, and Lord of Castle Araphen, all instigators of rebellion shall be executed. For challenging His Majesty's right to dominion over Lycia, the remnants of the Lycian army shall be executed by beheading. For instigating resistance to His Majesty's right of the land, the Marquises of Lycian shall be executed by beheading."
"W-What!" Emerus of Kathelet attempted to stand before a soldier forced him back down to his knees. "K-King Zephiel p-promised me c-control of Lycia! T-T-There must be some mistake!"
"His Majesty changed his mind." Slater dismissively gestured the executioner forward. "A knight values honor and loyalty above all else, Marquis. Perhaps you should remember that His Majesty is a knight as well as a king."
"P-P-Please!" Emerus threw himself to Slater's feet, much to the disgust of the Lycian soldiers. Even Marquises Rheims and Memnon looked down at the Marquis of Kathelet. "I have m-money! I c-can make all of you very r-rich!"
Slater regarded the man with a scornful eye. "His Majesty of Bern has sentenced you to death. You have been judged and condemned. If there any last requests…I shall hear them." A captain bearing the colors of Kathelet stood, looking over as his lord nearly crawled towards Slater. Hope filled Emerus' eyes as he looked at his captain, who moved to voice his request. Slater held a hand in the air to cut the man off preemptively. "I can grant your request so long as you do not ask for the life over your marquis."
The captain spat at Emerus. "I would spare a mercenary's life over his. A mercenary at least has some honor."
Slater allowed himself to thinly smile as Emerus' eyes widened in horror. "State your request, Lycian knight."
"On your honor as a knight," a few Lycians behind the captain nodded, "please grant Lord Hector a proper resting place as a giant amongst men. He should not lie underneath the paltry grave we provided. Please, knight, swear that you shall build him a tomb with the proper trappings as a leader among men."
Slater paused for a moment, taken aback at the request. Looking out of the corner of his eyes at the simple cross covered by rubble from the wall, Slater nodded slowly. "It shall be done on my honor as a knight. Are there any other requests?"
"No sir."
Moved by the Lycians' loyalty to the fallen Ostian general, Slater nodded. "Go in peace." The captain bowed his head before falling back into the ranks. He did not look at his lord even once as the man crawled before Slater. The armored knight nearly barked out a laugh when Emerus moved to speak once more – he already knew the fallen noble would attempt to bribe him with gold and women. "Silence, marquis. Look about you…if you had been half the man Lord Hector was, some of those men would have begged for your life. However, not even a single man wishes your freedom – you have doomed yourself, marquis and now you must lie in your bed."
Emerus sobbed piteously as the guards jerked him to his feet. Joining Rheims and Memnon at the front beside Slater, one executioner stood with a fearsome axe. Although the Lycians had not looked kindly on those who tried to stop Hector, they held their most unkind looks for the Marquis of Kathelet. It was not unknown that Emerus had been the one to open the rear gate to Zephiel and, thus, many Lycians considered the man to be the reason the castle fell.
Memnon looked over Emerus with disgust. "How pathetic. Look how you quiver before death! Although I did not agree with Lord Hector, I shall not meet my end any less honorably!" Memnon turned to the executioner, who stood beside Emerus. "Executioner, let my head be the first to fall! Let it be known that Memnon of Worde shall not second any man in bravery!"
Emerus paled as Memnon's head rolled across the scaffolding. The man quaked with fear as the executioner walked towards Marquis Araphen. Rheims looked upon the armored man with disdainful eyes before offering his neck towards him. "Hack away peasant! I am a noble of Lycia, the Marquis of Araphen! I shall not bend my knee and cower before haughty low-bloods such as you!"
If it were possible, Emerus paled further. The heads of Marquises Rheims and Memnon had been separated cleanly from their bodies. Though messy due to the blood, the execution had been clean and did not mutilate the body. The same could not be said of Marquis Emerus. Quaking and shaking so great from fright, the executioner was unable to get a clean cut. The first blow had cleaved through his right shoulder, causing the man to yell out in pain; the second fared no better, with the axe nicking the man's neck deep enough for blood to flow. Still very much alive, Emerus moved to ask for mercy before the executioner finally found his mark, much to the relief of the soldiers – Bern and Lycian alike.
"Those two died without fear." Slater gestured to Rheims and Memnon, whose heads were being gathered. "Grant their bodies to their families for a proper burial. He," a nod to Emerus' corpse, "shall be buried without trappings in an unmarked grave as befits a traitor to his country."
As two soldiers carried the lifeless bodies of Rheims and Memnon away, Slater glanced out on the faces of his captives. The Lycian soldiers watched as Emerus' corpse was dragged unceremoniously to the side, where a large hole was being dug. Grim satisfaction was apparent on their faces and Slater understood the sentiment; although Rheims and Memnon, though unimpressive in life, did not stoop to the level that Emerus had. The Marquis of Kathelet had sold out the entire Lycian garrison in order to spare his own life – in the eyes of a knight, this was unforgiveable.
"Sir Slater," a purple armored spearman ran forward, "we have a problem!"
'Why don't you just announce it for the captives to hear… ?' Slater sneered at the man, who jogged up to the lieutenant. Despite his annoyance, Slater calmly turned to the footman. "What is it?"
"An army is marching on the castle! Their standard is of a hawk!"
Slater's eyes widened at this. Staring quickly at the Lycian prisoners, he noticed that the soldiers whispered excitedly amongst themselves. All in attendance knew of the legendary hawk standard, Slater included. Turning to the soldier, Slater slapped him across the cheek. "Silence, man! Your dumbfounding yelling may incite revolt! Now…assemble the men to the defense."
"Sir Slater!" An unarmed man ran from the hall that led to the throne room, sweat beading on his exposed forehead. "A problem!"
Slater nearly throttled the man then and there. Biting down his irritation, Slater managed to grit out his reply. "What?"
"A knight in the throne room! He appeared out of nowhere!"
Slater swore under his breath. Since the storming of Araphen, the throne room had acted a temporary headquarters and small armory – if a Lycian knight was there, he was likely attempting to rearm the prisoners. Tell Sergeant Kilnt to lead the men in formation. I shall be with you shortly."
Instructing five men to hold the prisoners at sword-point, Slater marched off to the throne room to fetch his lance. As he passed through one of the openings, he cursed. Off in the distance, beyond the range of a bowman, a dust cloud moved at a furious pace. Although he needed to squint, the hawk standard of Pherae was discernable on the blue and white background. As the Pheraen force drew closer, Slater felt doom grasp his heart; although the number of soldiers was unknown, Slater knew that the Pheraen force would have brought forty heavy horsemen minimum. The only infantry that could stand toe-to-toe with the Order of the Hawk were the armor knights of Ostia – Slater knew that his force would be decimated.
Speeding towards the throne room, Slater walked into the grand room. Locked viciously in battle with a knight was two of Slater's own. Although outnumbering the man, they seem to be faring for the worst of it; the knight spun and thrust, his spear a whirl of color. Darting to seize his javelin, Slater watched with dread as the two Bern men were cut down. The unknown knight turned towards Slater, his jagged lance coated in fresh blood.
"Who are you? Bern or Lycian?" Slater removed his helm so his words could be heard – the young knight wore no protective headgear, his brown hair visible. Raising his javelin towards the Lycian knight, Slater stepped forward. "Wait…you need not answer. I can see the crest of Caelin on your breast."
"If you're here to stop me, don't expect to leave here alive." The knight spun the lance in his right hand before pointing it towards Slater. "Sorry to keep you…you're up next."
Initially, I intended on doing the entire battle in one chapter. However, as I wrote, I just wanted to be done with this chapter. I absolutely detest this chapter with a passion, yet no matter how many times I rewrote certain scenes (some up to seven times), it just did not turn out right. Well, anyways, read and review.