Disclaimer: I only own OCs, of which there won't be many.
"Repeat that." Marth said, his voice shaking as he demanded confirmation of what he just heard.
Ever since they had left Khadein, Wendell has been focusing all of his free time on reading some text that had been recovered from the City of Magic, penned by Gharnef himself. He was, admittedly, fascinated about Imhullu and the powers Gharnef had discovered, though he would never risk trying to use them himself. They were forbidden, and he had never protested Gotoh's decision to forbid them, and he would honor Gotoh's decision, no matter what… benefits, Imhullu might offer.
Now, having read through the files multiple times, he had decided to inform Marth of his findings. He took no joy in informing Marth of what he had found, especially the information pertaining to Falchion, but it was necessary that the prince know.
"Just as I said, sire." Wendell nodded, "The texts clearly states that Gharnef has been attempting to corrupt the Divine Blade by trying to possess it with Imhullu's power. He is doing this to try and have someone wield the blade without being of your lineage." Marth postured, Wendell continued before the prince could say or do anything. "According to these files, he has yet to actually succeed at this. Apparently, the sword seems to somehow forcibly eject Imhullu by itself every time he tries. No matter how much he tries to bend Falchion's holy properties to his purposes, he cannot seem to break down the holy energy storied within the blade."
Marth was still shaking. Not from the cold, though it was getting colder as a drizzle came. It was starting to rain, and there were clear signs that it was starting to fall harder. Though relieved that Gharnef had not yet succeeded in corrupting the sword, Marth was still enraged at what Gharnef was doing.
He had gone straight to Wendell the moment he heard that the Sage felt that he was done with the text. In the end, what he learned from Wendell was the last thing he needed to be told about right now. Between Wolf and Palla's unsettling report about the treatment of the Alteans, and Arran and Samson's first hand recollections of life in Altea… to know that Gharnef was trying to warp Falchion in such a way was the last straw.
He spun around, his fists clenching of their own accord. "We're moving out. Immediately." He half-marched, half-stomped away, to give the order. Wendell said nothing, words weren't going to calm the prince down, and everyone was pining to move out, anyway. Yet, Wendell could only hope that Marth's agitated state would not result in anything… spiraling out of control. Too much rested on the prince's shoulders…
Wendell raised his head up, feeling the rain pelting his aged face. The strength of the rain was increasing… transcending from a drizzle to a much stronger storm. This battle would be wet and miserable, and he knew that none of the League cared.
"So, this is it." Abel muttered, the normally calm knight feeling the fangs of anticipation biting at him. He held his weapon so firmly that his hand began to cramp up, but it didn't bother him. His thoughts were on an old friend, and he wondered how that old friend was doing, if he was even still alive.
"Your sacrifice was not in vain. Here we are, back in Altea, old friend." The hand not holding a weapon clenched into a fist.
"Um… excuse me." A female voice spoke, Abel turned to see one of the Macedonian Whitewings, Palla, quirking an eyebrow at him. "I… forgive me for sticking my nose in your business, but… 'old friend'?"
Abel stared at her for a second, Palla looked slightly ashamed to be prying, but… it was no great secret.
"When we had to flee from Altea when Gra betrayed us, one of us… wasn't able to leave with us." Abel took in a shaking breath at the memory. "The main force of both Gra and Grust appeared, and as we were, we had no hope of defeating them. To preserve prince Marth's life, and in turn, Altea's hope, the decision was reached to create a… decoy."
Palla's mouth opened as she heard the story. Keeping Altea's prince safe had required leaving someone at the mercy of the enemy. And, at the knowledge that they had been duped, Palla could only imagine what Gra and Grust would have done to this friend of Abel's. She looked at Abel, and wonder how it would feel like if she had to watch Catria or Est make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of ensuring Minerva' survival.
"Frey." Abel said in a low voice, his head dipping down. "He risked his life to get prince Marth safely out of Altea, and ensure that hope remain for the entire continent." Abel's eyes shut tightly, "We don't know precisely what happened to him, but, I… I don't think he's still alive."
Palla nodded. "I'm… sorry to hear that." She tried to sound comforting and reassuring, speaking in a manner that would help the man in some way. Just by looking at him, Palla could tell that Abel believed that it should have been him, not this Frey, who made that sacrifice. "The Altean knights are… not together, on a day that they should be. They should be standing shoulder to shoulder, ready to take back their home."
Abel listened to those words, and saw… something, in Palla's eyes, an almost sorrowful glint. "Are the Whitewings all together?"
The look in her eyes disappeared instantly, replaced with concealed shock. "Wha… what do you mean? The Whitewings… are here."
He could see the apprehension building in Palla, he decided to push his point. "In the Lefcandith Valley, I saw this pink-haired girl, her name was Est. She and I got into a fight outside of the village we found Bantu at… I won but… I decided to let her go."
Palla stared at Abel, simply gaping at him. "T…that was, Est, m-my youngest sister. Y-you-" Abel studied Palla's body language, she was growing tense, and he wondered if she might lunge at him simply for having fought Est. Palla's next words would come as a surprise to Abel. "I… t-thank you, for sparing her. If anything happened to little Est, I-"
"Where is she?" Abel asked, looking around himself. "Did something happen to her?"
"She…" Palla bit her lip, "When we heard that princess Minerva joined the League, I wanted all of us to go. Est insisted that there was something she had to get in Grust first, something that was 'personal'. She told us to go ahead and that she'd be right behind. I didn't want to, but… I needed to make a decision before anyone in Grust noticed us." She sighed deeply, feeling like an entire colony of worms were eating away at her stomach. "Catria and I have been with the League for some time now… and we still haven't seen Est coming."
Abel nodded. He felt sorry for Palla, who was clearly blaming herself for Est not being here and confirmed to be safe.
"Then, we should find her." Abel said frankly. "She's out there, somewhere."
"She might be-" Palla trailed off, not daring to say the word that would have been so painful, and perhaps too real.
"I doubt it." Abel said calmingly, "That girl I saw, she couldn't have died so easily. We'll find her before too long."
Palla looked at Abel, she seemed to be somehow… put at ease, by finding someone who was sure that Est was alive and safe. "If she's alive, I know I'll find her." She said after a long moment where the falling rain was all the noise in the air. Her stomach was calm now. "Oh, Abel…"
Abel raised an eyebrow at Palla's softer tone of voice, and silently waited for her to speak again. "Do yourself a favor and don't bring up the fact you fought Est in front of Catria. Her reaction… won't be pleasant. Trust me on that."
He smiled more warmly then he would have expected to prior to this battle. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
Billowing clouds stretched almost ominously over the land of Altea. Dark, nearly jet-black clouds blanketed the sky, then, as if it was the avatar of some weeping deity, the clouds released the water stored in them.
Not a veritable downpour, not yet, but a heavy rain nonetheless. The water splashed down upon the dying land, almost mockingly offering water to the plants that were no longer alive to utilize the nutrients.
The rain fell upon the beaten roads, leaving them wet and slippery and difficult to traverse. Yet still, a Grustian pressed on, heading toward the seat of power of the castle.
The man raised a hand up to shield his face from the irritating rain. His balding head and bearded face were plain as day on this Grustian general. Peculiarly traveling alone on a day not fit for dogs, the man came up to the gates of the New Dolhrian castle.
General Hollstandt permitted the Grustian entry, through he flashed a disappointed look at the man first.
The Grustian paid no mind to Hollstandt and ducked inside the dry castle. He, General Dactyl, took a moment to shake some loose water off of his dripping armor before continuing on. Even with his small shake-off, he left puddles behind him as he walked to the throne room.
Two Dolhrian soldiers were by the doors to the throne room, clearly aware that he was coming. They were standing motionless, but then suddenly moved to open the doors for him, letting him walk into the throne room without losing any stride.
Whether day or night, the braziers in the throne room were always lit, which required that someone always be awake to tend to them. Even with the rain clouds blocking out most of the sunlight, it was bright and… warm, here. Trying his best to ignore the Dolhrian bodyguards in the room that turned to him with unsettlingly piercing glares, Dactyl moved to the steps before the throne and knelt down.
Dactyl kept an outward air of indifference, but a small part of him was unnerved by the Dolhrian soldiers. Unfeeling, almost unthinking, serving Dolhr unconditionally and ready to fight with every last ounce of energy in their body for the sake of their masters.
They were born to live as pawns, they fought for the honor of the Manaketes and died for the glory of Medeus. It was similar to Camus' loyalty to King Ludwik, but somehow, darker, more mindless. Dactyl has pleased that they regarded him as an ally of convenience. He had heard enough stories about their skill and brutality to never want them as enemies.
Morzas sat comfortably, sipping from a goblet of wine. Morzas has grown quite fond of these beverages during his centuries long lifetime. He enjoyed feeling the rich flavor of the drinks rolling down the tongue of his human form.
Dactyl did not dare speak, did not dare invade Master Morzas' delightful bliss. As he looked at the Manakete, Dactyl's heart soared at the idea of pouring some of that into his own mouth, but he kept himself from giving any clear audible clues to that fact.
Eventually, the wine was drained from the goblet, the king's goblet, and Morzas put it down on the armrest of the throne, relaxing himself with a heavy sigh. He looked forward, down to the steps of the throne, and grunted in recognition.
"Ah, Dactyl." Morzas recognized the man he had summoned. The Grustian didn't as much as nod in recognition to the words, he wouldn't do anything before a Manakete without permission, but Morzas could see a crease of irritation on the man's face. He had clearly been kneeling there for some time.
Morzas did not bother rising, nor did he give Dactyl permission to stand, but he smiled at the old knight. Old only by human standards, Dactyl was a toddler compared to the several centuries old Morzas. "You have responded to my summon promptly."
Dactyl did not speak. No one did anything before a Manakete until express permission to do so had been given. If Morzas did not kill him, the Dolhrians in the room would tear him apart. Instead, Dactyl simply tilted his head down a little further in recognition.
"You have proven to be a worthy Grust specimen in the past. Obedient and callous, deserving of some… accolades, perhaps." Dactyl silently balked at being termed as 'obedient' like he was some creature on a leash, but was mollified by the mention of accolades. Morzas grinned, sensing a change in Dactyl's temperament. "General Dactyl of Grust, I'm afraid I haven't the time to speak eloquently. There is something you must know… I informed General Hollstandt of this only shortly before your own arrival. The spawn is marching toward the castle."
Spawn? Dactyl blinked, then immediately his head raised and his eyes widened in realization. Prince Marth was coming here… then… surely his orders were to cut the pri-the spawn down before he might reach the castle. His heart seemed to jump at the proposition.
"I shall see to it that the spawn is dead by the end of the day." Dactyl said, so overwhelmed by the thought of the reward he might get that he neglected to remember to not speak until asked to.
Morzas simply smiled as the Dolhrian guards postured in offense. "No." His husky voice was almost melodic, cutting Dactyl's hope down at the knees. "It will be impossible for the people of this land to not notice the fighting that occurs. As fighting breaks out in New Dolhr, many people might presume that now is an opportune time to try to attack us. As the spawn tries to blaze a path straight to the castle gates, you are to ensure that the vermin of New Dolhr remain obedient. No one is to be allowed to leave their villages until I can detain the spawn."
Dactyl felt his good cheer fade somewhat. Then, a question popped into his mind. To his discomfort, Morzas knew exactly what the question was. "I haven't the time to write a complete missive, being focused solely on preparing for the spawn's arrival, so I instead summoned you via messenger. I did not wish to leave a paper trail of this command or these facts, things that could be intercepted and turned to the advantage of the… people. They may be under my heel, but they won't miss a chance to try to force me off. Such is the way of humans… now, return to Castle Helena immediately. Remember… police the people well." Morzas raised his chin slightly, condescendingly. "Discipline the New Dolhrians if you must, every transgression is to be answered with a stiffened corpse in the grass without exception. Do not fear rebellion. Fear facing my wrath, should they slip through your human fingers."
Dactyl gulped, then nodded. Morzas signaled for him to rise and leave. Dactyl rose, not forgetting to bow deeply, submissively, to the Manakete, then turned and left.
"Expendable worm." Morzas mused as the Grustian left. He shook his head, he cared nothing for the man, and in that sense, he was no different then most humans in Morzas' eyes. Dactyl was a man who raised no objections, spoken or no, to Dolhrian rule, but he lacked the capabilities in a commanding officer that Morzas would have wanted. Still, he needed someone to ensure that new, unsightly variables did not interfere.
With a slight grin, he turned to the skull of Queen Liza, sitting on the stand right by the throne. "So, Queen Liza, your son is coming. Tell me, Queen, do you believe he has any chance to topple me?"
The skull sat motionless.
"No," Morzas smirked, "I don't think so, either."
Hollstandt stood motionless out in the rain when he could hold his post just as easily near the gates where it was dry. He was thankful that he was blessed with good eyes, he could see so clearly, it was as if the rain was not there at all.
Dactyl walked past him. "It seems you have your work cut out for you." He nodded, affirming that both were aware of Marth's coming. Dactyl offered a smirk, a cocky and unspoken 'good luck'. Both men were well-aware that their values ran in direct contrast, and Dactyl enjoyed giving Hollstandt a small dig.
"I simply do as instructed." Hollstandt said, hoping that his voice felt like raw anger, and was not laced with the dread he truly felt. He was not looking forward to fighting the League, those who fought the good fight, but he wasn't ready to relinquish his hold on his life just yet. Dactyl paused for a second, looking like he might be ready to say something, but instead just took a breath, and went back into the rain.
Hollstandt watched Dactyl go until he disappeared. His eyes turned skyward to the clouds above, squinting against the rain. The clouds almost looked like a black blanket above him, in fact, they almost looked like the instrument of the gods' will, come here to drown Grust and Dolhr for their brutality. With a sigh, he turned to one of his soldiers. "What is the status of the League? Have they been spotted yet?"
"Sir." The soldier began, looking to the distance, across the rainy fields. "Yes, they've been spotted, General Hollstandt. They've already engaged our army."
Navarre descended onto the enemy. His Killing Edge cleanly sliced through the raindrops in the air surrounding him, and for a moment, it looked almost like he was dancing. Yet what he was doing was far from graceful.
Grustian soldiers tried to face him, and were cut down easily. Warm limbs safely concealed under thick armor were effortlessly cut through. Blood fell upon the ground, mixing with the mud to form a sickly concoction that the League and the Grust soldiers fought on.
He fought without feeling or emotion as the blood coated him. In lulls in the battle, he stood perfectly still, looking almost as if he was brooding, his hair falling over his face. His hair was plastered to his face, more of him was wet by blood rather then rainwater. Then, his body jerked to motion, and the Killing Edge slashed fatally across the neck of an advancing Grustian soldier.
The bodies piled up around him, and yet, on this occasion, Navarre was not being the League soldier who was killing the most enemies…
Marth brought the League forward. He felt as if he was somewhere between hatred and fear, but he still flew forward, his Rapier piercing through Grustian armor. He breathed hard, despite the cold rain splashing down on him, he felt hot, almost on fire. There was a spark of rage in him… he and the League went forward.
Caeda looked at Marth with concern. His temperament was… more fierce then usual. As her Pegasus fought against the icy rain, flapping the freezing water off of its delicate wings, Caeda kept her eyes on the prince. Surely he was safe, with Jagen and Catria beside him, and yet… she moved closer to him, trying to watch over him from above. This anger was not like him… he was shaking with rage. Perhaps, should he be live long enough to calm down, he'd wonder how he ever summoned such raw anger. Or maybe he'd think the anger was completely justified.
Marth was nearly a berserker, laying Grustians down with a speed and efficiency that seemed to put Navarre to shame. He, the prince of the all but enslaved nation, was here to break the invaders, and nothing would stop him from doing that.
It wasn't just Marth, the Alteans of the army all seemed to be performing far better then they did in any other fight.
It was their land. It was their home. It was personal. This battle had so much more meaning then the attack on Gra. They pushed more and more skill and strength out of their bodies and their minds. It seemed as though the Alteans could have handled breaking the occupation army in Altea all by themselves.
Abel and Cain went forward, dispatching the Grustians that defiled their homes. Cain felt that, maybe after today, after the prince was back where he belonged, he would be absolved of being forced to abandon his king.
The normally calm Abel was… agitated, on this day. As he marched through Altea, his thoughts traced to Frey, and he wondered if Cain was thinking about the same person. The old friend whose sacrifice was still fresh in their minds the last time they stood on Altean soil. If only he could be here to see that his sacrifice was not in vain, that the courage he showed had brought hope…
Draug moved forward, a mountain of armor ready to collide with Grust's forces. He easily slogged his way through Grust's forces, his lance dotting the Altean landscape with the bodies of these unwanted and unneeded invaders.
Jagen's emotions did not overrule anything about what he was doing. He simply continued his duties as one of Marth's bodyguards. Though he wouldn't deny that he enjoyed watching the Grust soldiers fall, and see Marth come ever closer to taking back his home.
Merric summoned Excalibur, letting the blades of wind leave the Grustians sprawled around in pieces. His actions were swift and efficient, there was nothing self-indulgent in his movements as he directed the wind blades across the land. One could sense that even the light-hearted mage had a personal investment in this battle. Nothing would stop him from seeing Altea be returned to what it once was.
Most of the Alteans felt good, great, their blood boiled with unmistakable enthusiasm as they made deep progress into Altea and began to take their land back. The castle could be seen in the far distance, but Gordin couldn't seem to draw upon any righteous anger.
His arrows sank into the Grustians with lethal effect. He was fighting better then he ever had before, just like the other Alteans, and yet, his mind was not here, not entirely.
Norne occupied some of his thoughts, and even if he couldn't bring himself to talk to her, he was trying to protect her. Other thoughts were on… his brother. Left behind in Altea, he wanted to find him. Yet his duties as a knight took a painful precedence.
He tried to push forward, blocking the thoughts of either person out. Mutely, he put another arrow on his bowstring and took aim, breathing hard, feeling hot even with the cool water splashing down on him. What emotion created the hotness, he couldn't say.
A few of the most prominent of the League went in another direction. They went in the direction of the prison that Arran had pointed out earlier. Prince Hardin, with Sedgar and Vyland, undertook this task for Marth's sake, and at once assaulted the iron building.
In light of the League's attack, the prison did not seem well defended. The number of guards present seemed utterly token. Most of them, Sedgar believed, had been called elsewhere to deal with the approaching Archanean League. Hardin drove his Silver Lance through the chest of one guard as if the breastplate hadn't even been there. Sedgar and Vyland did the same, slaying what precious few Grustians were stationed at the prison before entering the building itself.
There was nothing complicated about the structure… it held precious few cells. Hardin doubted that Dolhr had much use for a prison with a large quantity of cells, any prisoners would be executed quickly, and the cells vacated quite swiftly.
Yet, if information was to be trusted, there should have been at least one cell that had a prisoner in it. The three went through the prison, killing the occasional guard, and finally found one cell that actually had its door closed and locked.
"Coyote, allow me." Vyland offered, dismounting off of his steed and standing across from the door. He turned to Hardin, who nodded his approval. Vyland smirked with pride, then charged. He pivoted his body, and shoulder-tackled the steel door. Testament to the man's strength, the door, undoubtedly well built and extremely sturdy, burst from its hinges on Vyland's first attempt.
Vyland smirked again, though raised a hand to soothe his shoulder, taking a step back as Hardin and Sedgar stepped forward.
"Excuse me, is anyone-" Sedgar began to speak as he entered, and then his eyes caught a single man dressed in a loose outfit lying on a cold slab of a bed as if the sounds of battle, death, and a door being ripped off its hinges didn't register on him at all. The man lifted his head up slightly and looked dopily at the people who had just entered the cell, then flipped to his feet.
Sedgar took a look at the man. He was… dare he say it, very effeminate looking. The man approached, more accurately, sauntered over tothe Aurelians with an overly casual demeanor, rather inappropriate and odd for someone who was being penned up in prison.
"Are you… the one Dolhr was evasive about killing?" Sedgar asked, trying hard to not raise an eyebrow at the man's peculiar antics.
"Yep." He answered, swaying his head from side to side, the feathers of his headband moving with the motion, then he turned away from Sedgar, turning toward Hardin. "Thanks for springin' me. They kept telling me to do as they say or I'd 'meet my end'." He rolled his eyes, acting as if a death threat was a slap on the wrist. "Tell me, you here to fight Dolhr?" He tilted his head in a manner that seemed playful. If he was trying to put anyone at ease by being casual, he was failing. He was succeeding only at getting under Sedgar and Vyland's skin.
Hardin only looked at the man neutrally. "Yes, we and the Archanean League. We are here to free Altea from Dolhr's stench."
The man grinned playfully. "The name's Xane. I come from a land that's… well, pretty far away. You probably wouldn't have heard about it, I won't waste your time with storytelling."
Hardin didn't say anything, but he could see a slight hint of concealed discomfort on Xane's face, as if he feared being questioned about exactly where he came from. Hardin contemplated speaking, but decided not to.
"If you're the one we were told Dolhr was reluctant to kill…" Vyland began, "Then what is this 'great ability' of yours?"
Xane smiled self-indulgently, "Oh, you know…" he pointed a finger at Vyland and smiled teasingly, his body flashed with light, and the entire room was illuminated. Sedgar and Vyland both raised their gauntlets in front of their eyes in the face of the light, and Hardin had to lightly close his own eyes at the brightness. It was, Hardin noted, almost identical to the flash of light that preceded a Manakete assuming dragon form.
When the light finally dispersed, the three Aurelians found that Xane had vanished, and in his place was…
Sedgar blinked. He turned to his side, Vyland was there, as he had been a second ago. Yet in front of him, where Xane had been a moment ago, stood a second Vyland.
"I can assume the shape of other humans." The second Vyland explained, putting his hands behind his head and tilting himself in an overly friendly manner.
"Creepy." Vyland said, watching the Vyland-Xane start acting in a manner highly uncharacteristic of Vyland himself. The sight more then got under his skin. "Anyway," he tried to change the subject, "Are you interested in helping us fight Dolhr?"
"Sure." Xane said, to Vyland's delight he assumed his old form again. "I don't mind fighting for people with… character. Just tell me where we're going."
"We're to regroup with the rest of the army as quickly as possible." Sedgar replied, "The objective is to storm the Altean Castle and wrest it from Dolhr's hands."
Xane smiled, at this point the smile alone was annoying Sedgar. The weird… Changling, one might call Xane, strolled out of the cell. "Let's get going then. Wouldn't want to be a slowpoke or anything." He turned his head to look over his shoulder at the Aurelians. "Come on, you slowpokes."
Hollstandt watched the scene from a distance. The League was still miles away from the castle, but they were growing ever closer, pushing through the Grustian troops. He nodded in recognition of their skill, but…
"Soldiers of Grust!" He commanded to those around him as he noticed some of them begin to hesitant against the enemy horde. "Fear not their skill or strength! Rise with sword and lance in hand. Charge forth, you, the finest of Grust, second only to the Sable Order! Go, go forth and kill for the honor of King Ludwik!"
There seemed to be a spark in that speech, a spark to ignite the hearts of the Grustians. A rallying cry from the Grust soldiers ripped forth from the lips of what troops were there to hear Hollstandt's words. The wave of cheer seemed to almost beat back the rain for several seconds. Filled with pride, and belief in victory, they surged forward.
Hollstandt gripped his lance tightly, his face was wet. Wet by rain, but more from sweat. It was appropriate that it rained so hard today. It was deeply appropriate. He watched the enemy meet the latest wave of Grust troops, and he sighed. Dread built within him at the sight of the skirmish that would decide whether or not he would have to enter the fray himself. He had sent a great majority of the Grust troops at them, and yet, it might have not been enough.
He did not want to die, just like any other regular person did not want to die. He did not know in what way the battle would result, and felt that victory would not be attained easily be either side, but he knew that no matter the result, he would not be pleased.
In no way did he desire to have his corpse tossed upon the ground, to be thrown aside and not be mourned as the League stormed the castle. Yet neither did he want to face the League. They were… fighting the good fight, something that Grust wasn't doing. The stress was building, and bubbling over.
They seem to have attained a new vigor. Hardin noted as he rejoined the battle, killing a Grustian soldier that had tried to jump at the Curate, Wrys. Is it a battle-frenzy resulting from a perceived inevitable defeat, or perhaps…
He thought for a moment, then shook the thought off, killing another Grustian soldier who approached him. No matter what, the march to the Altean Castle has already progressed past its mid-point. The brunt of the Grustian force was here, if the Grust force was toppled in this particular exchange, then the battle outside of the castle was already decided.
The League fall upon their Grustian enemies. They were not even in the castle, and already the fighting had turned furious and bloody. If Altea was to be reborn, it was going to reborn in blood, so, so much blood.
And the Alteans would be the ones to spill the most blood. The soldiers of Altea laid waste to the Grustian cohorts that had been allowed free reign in Altea for far too long. The soldiers of Archanea and the mercenaries of Talys couldn't hold a candle against the performance of the Alteans.
For a time, Astram had believed that Archanea, more specifically, Nyna, was the heart and soul of the League. Yet, he looked at the performance of the Alteans, and begrudgingly saw that they, the Alteans, were at least fangs and blades of this army set to rid the world of Dolhr's stench. Even if they were merely just a part of Nyna's army.
Prince Hardin and his best man Wolf, and the swordsman of unknown origins, Navarre, seemed to be the only ones who were holding a candle to the Alteans. Hardin was fighting just as well as Marth, the two princes fought with equal skill against their enemies, and a bloody swath was cut through the enemy.
Grust was not merely buckling, it was collapsing in its own blood, sprawled out on the land they occupied at the behest of Dolhr. They were being defeated so completely that some of the League soldiers were able to stop for a moment and see the Grustians falling in droves. Some Grustians died mercifully quickly, a stab through the chest or the head, others would not know such a bliss. Some fell with grievous wounds, crying for some manner of aid but were ignored in the cacophony of battle, and they had no choice but to resign themselves to bleeding their lives out on Altean soil.
In time, the skirmish was over, most of the League soldiers had a part of their body soaked with blood, little to none of it being their own. The blood started to wash off in the rain, and without stopping to rest, the League continued on. There were more enemies, and few of the League felt fatigued. Instead, their muscles and minds seemed to remain strong, some seemed to be in the middle of some kind of battle high.
"They're coming." Hollstandt mused. His army was in tatters… the army that had broken resistance after resistance, the army that had slaughtered New Dolhrian insurgencies down to the last man without fail every time…
It was in ruins. Hollstandt had only a handful of men staying with him, the army that had denied so many resistances in the past had been broken in just a few hours by the army of the returning prince. Stress coursed through every fiber of Hollstandt's being, the next fight he would partake in wouldn't be for Dolhr, or Grust, or even King Ludwik. It would be a desperate battle for survival, and one he wasn't sure he would manage to triumph in.
Prince Marth approaching the opposing general slowly, his wet cape seemingly plastered to his back. It almost looked as if he was willing to accept a surrender from Hollstandt.
That would be nice, but life wasn't. Hollstandt still had his pride, stubborn as pride usually was, and he would not surrender. He… doubted that Dolhr would allow him to get away with surrendering, anyway. If Marth let him go, Dolhr would find him, and he'd learn a new definition of pain and suffering at their hands for his cowardice.
"Very impressive." He called to the prince after a moment of silent thought. He might have clapped in congratulations, but he wouldn't dare release his lance. "Many resistances have come before me, and they were all dead before they even reached the palace gates. You have fought well. However, you have one last challenge between you and the palace gates."
His only choice was to fight. Pride would be satisfied.
He wondered if Marth had actually intended to request surrender, but the prince didn't look surprised at all. The League rushed at Hollstandt.
"Together, soldiers!" Hollstandt commanded to his final men, "Stay together!" They held their ground and waited for the League to descend upon them, when they did, Hollstandt himself entered the battle.
No slouch at combat, Hollstandt easily belted a few League soldiers away and advanced, trying to reach one of the army's commanders. What soldiers of his that he had left following him, keeping the League from assaulting his back.
His armor saved his life dozens of times as he waded through the Archanean League. He tried to approach Hardin, feeling that Marth was too well defended to try and attack. He knocked some final League soldiers out of the way… and then felt a sharp sense of pain shoot through him.
Sedgar allowed himself a quick smirk. His arrow entered through a gap in the enemy general's armor quite well. Hollstandt grimaced, and then Hardin attacked him.
The lance thrust did not even crack Hollstandt's armor, but it did force him to take a step back. With a grunt, Hollstandt moved forward again, not even bothering to remove the arrow piercing into his shoulder, and tried another attack.
Hardin dodged the lance thrust, and countered. He didn't try to counter-thrust with his own lance, but instead rode his horse to the side and grabbed the arrow sticking into his enemy's shoulder. Hollstandt yelled with pain as Hardin ripped the arrow out.
Grimacing for a second, Hollstandt pushed the pain away and swung his lance, ignoring the pain that coursed through his arm when he moved it. The swing forced several advancing League soldiers to back away from him and give him a small moment to take a breath and get his bearings.
He charged at his enemies once more, mindful of the fact that some of his men were already down and dead. With what precious few were left, he moved again, once more targeting Hardin.
This time, he dodged Sedgar's arrow and came to the Aurelian prince, planning to take down the Coyote of Aurelis with one fatal blow before the League snuffed his own life out. Thoroughly unimpressed, Hardin held his lance steady and let his enemy foolishly come to him.
Hollstandt thrust his lance at Hardin, but Hardin simply dodged, then grabbed the wooden handle of Hollstandt's weapon, and with a simple motion, tore the weapon from its master's grip.
For one second, one second that seemed to stretch for an eternity, Hollstandt saw that he had been disarmed, and realized all the ramifications of that fact. He understood it all in the slow moving split-second between the lance being torn from his hand, and his eyes widening in surprise.
There was the smallest of lulls in the battle, and then Hollstandt felt a deep pain in his hip. Ogma's heavy sword collided with his side, sending him off with a crack in his armor. Other attacks supplemented Ogma's, dozens of blows tested the strength of his armor until at last, one attack blew a hole in his breastplate.
Camus… Hollstandt's thoughts turned to the man who inspired him so deeply. They are no match for you… I leave the rest in your capable hands.
Hardin thrust his Silver Lance at Hollstandt's chest, his lance perfectly sinking into where the armor had been torn off. Hollstandt gasped as he felt the lance enter his chest, he wondered for a moment if it would pierce through his entire body, and almost as if it was fate's answer, it did just that.
The tip of the lance, now coated in blood, appeared from out of Hollstandt's back, breaking through the armor that had protected his backside. Hardin waited for a moment, then pulled his lance completely out of his enemy.
The blood squirted and oozed out of Hollstandt's chest and back. He raised his hands up, almost looking like he was trying to stop the blood flow. His eyes moved to Hardin with an expression that looked… calm, as if he had no fear of the end. Then, both emotion and color drained from them, and he collapsed on the ground.
He could feel the rainwater hitting his still open eyes, and yet, he didn't seem to have the strength to shut his eyelids. He simply laid down upon the ground, feebly breathing.
Is this… my punishment? His mind conjured its final thoughts, and the images of the cruelty he had allowed to happen in New Dolhr flashed through his mind one final them. Afterwards, he breathed his last as his body shut down, and life abandoned him.
Hardin paused, looking at the remains of the Grustian for an extended moment, then turned around as the last few Grustians fell, cold and silent upon the wet ground.
Marth glanced around, his eyes darting to and fro across the landscape around the castle. He nodded, confirming that no more Grustians were present, he was satisfied with the results of the battle. Turning himself, he focused himself on the gates of home.
The Altean Castle… outwardly, it looked no different then as he remembered it, but he wondered what it looked like inside. He wondered if the throne room was still the same, or his room, or Elice's. So much about what defined his home could have changed so… horribly.
His mind was flooded with memories. They should have been joyful memories, but the events that tore him from his home laced his nostalgia with unexpected sorrow and anger.
It started to rain harder.
"Marth." A familiar voice began to speak, forcefully, but not unkindly. With the battle over, Nyna safely waded through the Grustian corpses and approached him. "Marth, the battle is over."
"The battle outside, Nyna." Marth answered, the hand not firmly wrapped around the hilt of his Rapier clenched into a fist. "There is still the battle within, and it will be Dolhr, not Grust, waiting for us within those walls." His very heart quivered at the knowledge that Dolhr, the instigator of the entire crisis, had housed itself in his home. It was… unacceptable, and something would be done about it now.
Nyna's hand coolly gripped Marth's shoulder. "Perhaps… you should share this moment and your feelings with the soldiers. They've fought long and hard, and you've helped many of them in ways that… could never be conveyed in words. They're about to do the same for you."
Marth's entire body seemed to jerk. He turned to Nyna and nodded.
"Soldiers." Marth addressed, his voice surprisingly calm for a man who seemed to be in the thrall of a berserker rage earlier. Caeda heard the word, and instinctively she realized that Marth's voice was on the verge of breaking. "My land has suffered much under Dolhr, but now I have the chance to correct everything. I… could not have done this by myself. I owe so much to… each and every one of you."
Minerva listened closely. Marth's words would be very different then the ones she would use when they went to Macedon. Marth and her, though good friends, were in completely different situations. She couldn't relate to his problem. Yet as she listened to the words he spoke, she couldn't stop her freezing and wet body from heating up slightly at the thought of Marth having anything to thank her or be indebted to her for.
"The battle isn't over yet." Marth reminded everyone as some League soldiers began to swell with pride, Marth put a hand across his chest. "We have one last fight between us and a liberated Altea. Let us go, and let this be the last day my people had to wake up to Dolhr's oppression!"
A cheer shook the air, and the Alteans shouted louder then any other soldier.
Gordin felt slightly uplifted, and almost smiled. He turned to Norne, who was already looking at him. They both skittishly looked away from each other with a subtle blush, almost impossible to see in the rain. Gordin wanted to talk to her, but couldn't. He shook his head, trying desperately to think about the battle.
If all went well, Altea would be free today. Perhaps that would allow him to speak to her again. If he didn't have the courage to talk to Norne after the battle, he never would. He'd just have to… see, how things would go.
In a manner reminiscent of a mindless mob, the proud League stormed the castle.
"So, my old 'friend' went down fighting, hmm?" Dactyl read the report of the battle outside of the New Dolhrian castle closely, feeling no pity or sorrow at the news of Hollstandt's death.
On one hand, Dactyl felt that he could have defeated the League, captured the prince and, with Morzas' blessings, send him to Medeus. He could bask in the accolades for the rest of his life. On the other hand, he had no interest in trying to stand up against the army that had such a personal stake in this battle. Not to mention the same army that had attained more then a few completely overwhelming victories against seemingly impossible odds.
It was just as well… Morzas would defeat the prince easily, and life would go on as it was in New Dolhr. He could live without glory and honor on this occasion, he supposed.
"What of the people?"
The messenger who handed him the report inclined his head. "They do not know exactly what's going on, but they're aware that something is bothering the Grust troops. It might only be a matter of time before they-"
"Discipline any who show rebellious tendencies." Dactyl responded. "No one is to leave their village, and everyone is to be escorted by Grustian troops when they leave their house. Any who leave unattended is to be killed immediately. Furthermore, tell the soldiers that any New Dolhrians who as much as twitches in a way that they don't like must be put to death. Master Morzas can make further judgments when he comes here himself later, when the battle is over."
"Yes, sir." The messenger responded, "And… what of the outsider? The prisoner?"
Dactyl leaned his head back and sighed. "I had honestly forgotten about the mage." He grew flustered with embarrassment over his forgetfulness. "Execut-" he stopped himself as quickly as he began, raising a hand to order the messenger to not try and carry out the order. "Keep him in chains for now. He may still be of some use to us."
"I understand, sir." The messenger would obey. "That red-haired mage won't escape, he'll stay in the prison until you or Master Morzas decide otherwise."
"Very good. Now, you are dismissed." Dactyl felt no fear or dread, he was continuing on as normal. Though annoyed to miss out on seeing the battle, things would go on as they always had, and all he had to do was sit and be comfortable, here, in Helena Castle.
A Dolhrian knelt before Morzas, he was, unfortunately, about to provide bad news, but he did not relent. "Master, the gates have been breached. The spawn has entered the New Dolhrian castle."
"I don't understand…" Morzas mumbled to himself. "How can he think he can topple Dolhr? We rule all under the watch of our benevolent Emperor. The short-sighted foolishness of humans… I will never understand it. Does honor and pride and their hypocritical idea of 'justice' mean so much to them that they will charge toward death itself shrieking for those very things?"
He thought for a second, then shook his head, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. Then it grew wider, his lips pulling back until his smile resembled a skull, matching the skull of Queen Liza. The spawn's quest… he could not begin to understand the mad reasoning, but he would revel in slaughtering the League like humans slaughter cattle. He turned to the Dolhrians in the room. "Take defensive positions. Do not let the spawn in this room. Kill them. Kill all of them."
The Dolhrian bowed his head to Morzas, then rose and left.
Big fight coming next.
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