Hello everyone!
It's the first work that I've done in a long time, but I'm excited to see where this goes.
…
Chapter I
A New Frontier
Italica, Saderan Empire
Count Colt Formal, Patriarch of the Formal Clan, Lord of Italica was a king in all but name. His city was the financial heart of the Saderan Empire, and it was the jewel in the Emperor's crown. His family had controlled this invaluable territory for over ten generations, and his word was law. Every scrap of wealth that the Saderan Empire owned flowed through his streets to reach the capital, more than half the Senate had their fortunes invested in Italica, ensuring his family's continued survival.
With a single letter, the Count knew that he could freeze the Saderan Empire almost entirely, and he knew how much power he held. For all his power, however, he knew that Emperor Molt could crush him without hesitation, for his Legions were as numerous as the stones that paved the roads. He knew that all the Vassal Kingdoms hated the Saderan Empire, from their suffocating tax collectors to the humiliation of kneeling to another; and he knew that the Saderan Empire was on the brink of collapse.
"Another glass of wine my Lord?" A maid kindly asked as she poured yet another round of aged Elbean red wine, each bottle costing more than some kingdoms would make in a year. Colt smiled thankfully and nodded to the woman, a Bunny Warrior named Lili Rathaus, one of the many Demihumans he had brought out of the slave trade. But it was the second man that drew the eyes of all in the room.
"Yes, thank you my dear" his voice reminded Colt of his father during his final days, heavy with wisdom and shaking with age.
For all his power and wealth, the ageing Count could do nothing but stare at the man who sat across from him, smiling happily as he accepted his second glass of wine. Unlike the usual sort of men who had audiences with the Lord of Italica who wore grand clothes and bejewelled hats, this ancient man wore only a set of worn grey robes and tattered boots. His wrinkled head was bald save for a billowing white beard that loomed down past his gut. His grey eyes were bright despite his frailty, and at his side was a massive cracked oak staff. He drank deeply, closing his eyes to savour every moment as both of the men knew that he hadn't tasted such luxury in over sixty years.
"Thank you for coming all this way, Lord Lucius, I only wish my father could have lived to see you again in person. He never forgot what you did for him when you were young, and I am happy that we finally got to meet in person," Colt said as he drank from his wine goblet.
"It is a bittersweet thing that brings us together to be sure. But you wouldn't have shipped me and my troops around the Empire simply to talk." He replied, staring directly into the younger man's eyes as he spoke, raising one bushy eyebrow as he did so. Although his mouth was hidden by his beard, Colt couldn't help but guess the old man was smirking.
"You wouldn't have risked the Emperor's wrath merely to remind me of my debt to your father either, so enough pleasantries and tell me what you want, I'm not getting any younger after all."
Both men chuckled before Colt rose to his feet, gesturing out the window and allowing Lucius Rutilius, Arch Mage and Lord of the Kingdom of Yatra, to rise to meet a city that was slowly rising to meet the day.
It was a dreary, grim day in Italica, but despite the pouring rain and rumbling thunder that had gone unnoticed by both Lords inside their heated room; the endless hordes of merchants began shambling over to their stalls like they did every day. It wasn't the merchants selling trinkets and oddities or travellers from faraway lands that caused the wizened brow of Lucius Rutilius to rise. No, it was the large group of men being led into the courtyard below them. They were shackled around their wrists and necks, joined together in a tight pack by iron chains while they stumbled about in the dim light.
Such a sight was extremely common in the Saderan Empire, but what surprised the ancient mage was the babbling tongues that drifted off the wind and into his ears. They were like nothing he had heard in his ninety years of life; harsh yet beautiful, it was eerie in the alien grace it carried.
"Those men, what language is that, who are they?" He gripped his oak staff with both skeletal hands as he shuffled away from the window; the sounds of that unknown dialect echoing in his ears.
Count Formal sat back down with a sigh, taking another gulp of wine as he did so.
"They are the reason why I've brought you here my Lord, why I spent a hefty price to ensure that your troops were not attacked on sight. I risked everything because my father, to his last days, believed that you had ways of getting things done.
Lucius nodded slowly, one skeletal hand stroking his long white beard as he stared out the window. As if he could divine the origins of those mysterious men below.
"Those men are…. trophies brought back from a new campaign." Colt winced slightly as he heard the words coming out of his mouth.
"I sound like a damn Senator!" He lamented to himself but he paused as Lucius's eyes burned with rage, his face twisting into a sneer to reveal cracked and blackened teeth.
"Is that all? You risk both of our heads because the Emperor let his dogs off their leashes!? I would have hoped that your father had raised a smarter heir than this!" Lucius growled and slowly rose to his feet, his grey eyes burning in righteous indignation. Before he could raise himself fully, Colt started talking, his voice calm and collected.
"My Lord, I know the dangers of your being here to say nothing of your horde skulking about the countryside. This campaign is one that I believe you would be quite interested in."
Lucius paused, his bearded visage breaking into a frown as he leaned on his staff, the ancient wood creaking softly under the strain.
"You have two minutes, then I am gone. I respect both your father and your family, but I will not face the headsman's axe for it!"
Colt bowed quickly at the elderly man.
"Of course, my Lord." Rising back up, the Count waved his hand, sending two maids running off for a moment into another room.
"I wouldn't dream of wasting your time, but I meant what I said; those men below are meant to hurry us along. The Legate in charge of the expedition is rather eager for reinforcements, and so the two of us must move now." Formal said, calmly drinking some more wine.
"While that's all fine and good, you still haven't told me where those men came from. There are no lands nearby to conquer, nothing to justify the risk of gathering this massive number of men that we've brought." Lucius stared hard at the younger man as he spoke, sitting back down as his weary bones were beginning to protest the cruel treatment that was standing.
"That is where you're wrong my friend, this is a new frontier for men with the drive and, more importantly, connections and money to take it! Neither the Vassal Kingdoms nor the Emperor will interfere…for a year at least."
The two maids returned, the first holding a bundle under her arms, while the second clutched a large case of polished wood. The first maid laid a massive map of the Saderan Empire onto the table while the second stood behind Count Formal clutching a large wooden chest in her arms.
Lucius stared at the map in amazement, the craftsmanship was exquisite, reminding the Wizard of just how poor he was compared to the Count of Italica. The cost of the map alone could have sustained his small kingdom for almost a decade. With that sobering thought echoing in his mind, the old man focused his gaze on the masterpiece before him.
Everything appeared to be in order, the Saderan Empire squatted in the center of the continent in its royal purple hue. The royal dragon standard seemingly threatened to consume all before it. Dotted amongst this oppressive shade of purple were countless flags to symbolize the Vassal Kingdoms. The riot of colours and heraldry became more and more nauseating the longer the old man looked at them. Turning his gaze away from that dizzying array, he paused as he noticed a new addition to the map.
Alnus Hill loomed near Italica like the Gods themselves, existing as a constant reminder that regardless of whichever war raged around it, the Gods would remain. But what was once a small territory painted gold on the map was now covered with grey, with a small script written down on top of the Hill was a single word, much to the old man's shock.
"You mean to tell me that a Gate has appeared on Alnus Hill? You said nothing of this in our letters Count Formal, what trickery is this!?" He thundered; the tip of his staff suddenly alighted with a blue flame that painted the room with azure light.
"Calm yourself, my Lord, that was merely a precaution to keep our business a secret. The last thing we'd want is one of our countless possible enemies to accuse us of treason. We will have enough enemies to deal with once we reach Alnus Hill, we do not need any more of them." Colt said as he calmly sipped from his goblet. The elderly man across from him was hardly so composed, his eyes wild as he ranted.
"You cannot seriously think that our combined twenty thousand soldiers are capable of claiming new lands! We know nothing of what is on the other side!" Lucius said as he weakly pounded the table, his eyes alight with anger.
Colt gestured for Lili to come closer with a polite smile, her greying hair and seemingly kind blue eyes being a stark contrast to her callused hands and the scars that adorned her visible skin. She handed her Lord the chest she was carrying, slowly moving away with all the inhuman grace her people were known for.
"That is where you are wrong Lord Rutilius, you and I are merely the reinforcements to the thirty thousand already on the other side. They can be trusted to aid us in our campaign, for much like you my lord, they have no love for Emperor Molt." The Count replied as calmly as he could, noticing that Lucius choked on his wine as his eyes went wide.
"What is Hardy's name do we need fifty thousand men for? What are we facing on the other side, Colt? How in Hardy's name can you afford this?" Lucius stared at his host in a mixture of awe and horror, feeling more and more nervous by the second.
The Count chuckled softly as he leaned in as if to share a secret with the old man.
"I've been planning this for decades my friend, so I figured that a figurative and literal war chest was needed. The Emperor is content to control his capital, enjoying his decadent palace while thinking that I am a loyal sycophant." He chuckled at the idea. The mere fact that his family exclusively hired Demihumans was anything but the actions of a bootlicker.
"But he forgets that nearly all the merchants in Italica are paid by me, their guilds owned by me, everything and everyone in this city that makes money is controlled by me. From the bakers in the market to the damn brothels, my family has control over it all." His eyes flashed with glee as he spoke, taking another sip of wine. "It's taken me almost twenty years to skim the gold I needed, but now I can keep our little venture here running for decades."
Lucius glanced at the Count wearily, stroking his long beard as he did so.
"And what of your family? If you're finishing what your father and I started, then nowhere on this continent is safe."
"Of course it won't be safe, that's why I'll be bringing them through the Gate with me. If anyone bothers to ask why they'll say that they'd miss their father. No one in Molt's employ would question that. Women are the more emotional sex in their eyes after all." He chuckled softly. "I'll enjoy using their ignorance against them, that's half the fun of this plan Lucius; planning every little detail. I will ensure that my family has a better world to inherit, and I don't care what I have to do to achieve that."
He then blinked, as if remembering something. He placed the box onto the table, his blue eyes burning wildly as he opened the well-worn chest and reached inside, carefully placing three items onto the table. The first was a long tube of metal and wood, appearing more like a piece of art over a weapon. And a weapon it was if the crossbow-like trigger was any indication; although what it fired was unknown to the elderly wizard. It was a large thing, easily as long as his staff.
"What is this?" Lucius asked, eyeing the strange device curiously.
"This is what awaits us beyond the Gate, my friend. We don't know the name for it my Lord, but those on the other side of Hardy's Gate used them to fight our forces. They spit metal and breathe thunder, but fortunately for us, they were inaccurate." Colt replied, carefully removing the…. colourful language that was originally in the report.
The second thing that the smiling Count placed onto the table was a grand banner, its beauty marred by several holes that had been torn by stampeding horses and men alike. It was dark blue with an odd symbol in the center, it resembled a golden harp with a woman's likeness meshed into the front; giving it an otherworldly appearance and greatly intrigued Lucius.
It was the third item that caused the ancient man's hunched-over form to lean over the desk, his grey eyes suddenly alight. A large leather bag was delicately placed upon the table, and when Colt opened it, a severed head was revealed in all its fetid glory.
"A tad grisly I know my lord, but out of the countless stories my father told of the old days, there was one that I'd never forget. He only told it once he had too much to drink, you see, something he did often after the war finally ended. But this tale was unique amongst the seemingly unending stories of cavalry charges and Wizard duels." The Count's smile became something akin to a sneer as he continued talking, slowly pulling the severed head out of the worn leather bag as he did so.
"No, this story told that you somehow managed to know the enemy's movements before anyone else, you knew exactly what to say to manipulate the enemy into having 'accidents'. My father would never tell me specifically how you knew these things. No matter how much he drank or how many times I asked, the only answer he gave was black magic." Colt's sneer twisted into a sardonic smirk, handing the dismal trophy to the elderly wizard.
"But of course, that's just a story; nothing anyone could prove. After all, my father's mind was failing him in his last days, he could simply have been making it all up. I never believed that story, after all, I highly doubt that anyone, much less a man of your…. advanced age could do what he spoke of."
Lucius wordlessly stared at Colt, his gaze hardening as he sneered at the obvious jab. With a seer he gripped the head with his skeletal hands, turning it around so he could gaze at its closed gaze, noting that the Count had been respectful enough to close the eyes of this poor man.
"Are you sure that you want your maids here? This magic is rather startling my friend; I wouldn't want to cause anyone to faint."
Colt turned towards his maids, both of them nodding immediately and taking a stance behind the Count. Their arms were folded behind their backs and their gaze staring directly at the ancient man.
"Well then, that answers my question." He said with a small chuckle, the sound reminding everyone there of a man's death rattle.
With that, the venerable Wizard began muttering under his breath, each whispered syllable becoming deeper and twisted until a truly inhuman voice began to hiss out of Lucius's lips. The candles that kept the room brightly lit flickered and began to die out, one by one as the wind outside began to pick up. However, as quickly as it began, it stopped, and for a moment peace returned to Colt's mind.
And then the dead man's eyes opened.
The man's expression was one of pure horror as it tried to scream, only managing to muster a faint hiss as whatever unholy magic that had stirred it was only just beginning its blasphemous work. A cold chill filled the air despite the candles that adorned the walls, so much so that both the Count and his maids could see their breath misting in front of them. Colt's eyes were drawn to the shaking form of Lucius, his eyes burning with power as his bearded face broke into a hideous grin; a rasping laugh that smothered the hissing of his infernal prize.
"You said that they were only stories Colt? You think that I, Lucius Rutilius, first of my name would have stayed in those damn freezing mountains all those years if I was a fraud!? That I would obey your father's command is proof enough of that!" The venerable man rose from his seat, the now wailing head clutched in one hand and his glass of wine in the other. He took one final sip of wine before placing it slowly back onto the table, careful to avoid the resplendent map that lay before him.
"I had sworn to your father that I would aid his family, and by the Gods, I shall not be made a liar! I shall march my troops beyond the Gate, and I shall show you why your father had spent so much to ensure my survival. We shall claim glory, land and I swear to you, the Emperor will know our wrath!" Lucius's frail body then slowly slumped back down into his chair, his chest heaving with exhaustion as his brow was dripping with sweat.
Colt Formal, Lord of Italica, a supposedly loyal servant of the Saderan Empire, began to smile as he turned his gaze once more out the window. Past the horizon and towards the Gate, his mind whirring with possibilities for the things to come.
"Well, you've convinced me, my friend, all I have to ask is this…. when do we start?"
…
Sligo, Sligo County, Ireland, November 1641
Early morning
Gratius Lupicinus, Legate of the East was a man many would call dour at the best of times. His scarred, stern face often unnerved the clean-shaven Senators, reminding them of their inadequacies.
"That's how I keep finding myself in places like this. Expeditions in godforsaken lands with contacts that make me sick. At least it's not a desert, thank the Gods for that small mercy."
He chuckled softly to himself as he slowly rose from his large bed, grunting as his joints protested the harsh conditions that he'd put them through over the years.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he was more than happy about using his position to claim the best loot. If it meant that he didn't wake up to an aching back, bending the rules was more than acceptable. He slowly rolled out of bed, using the one hand he still had to pull his simple trousers on. The ever absent left hand is a constant reminder of his decades of service with the VI Legio.
But the real prize wasn't the soft bed or the countless maps that adorned the walls. Nor was it the large collection of unbelievably strong liquor that this house's previous owner had stashed away. No, despite Gratius not normally being a sentimental man, it was the view that took his breath away that was the true prize.
Thanks to the height of this strange building, Gratius was granted the ability to look over the entire town. Even at this early hour, he spied the marching forms of his Legionaries on the streets below, the solidarity eagle standard catching the sun's light. Large numbers of cavalry auxiliary brought over from the East trotted behind them, their tanned skin standing out immensely amongst their fellows.
Like a painting in a nobleman's estate, the first rays of sunlight were slowly breaking through the dark clouds, allowing the Legate to catch glimpses of emerald-coloured beauty amongst the darkness. Those brief moments of sunlight that had brought a small smile to his weathered features had also turned his attention to the second-largest structure that marred the otherwise excellent view.
The marble archway of Hardy's Gate loomed over the rest of the town like the goddess herself was surveying her domain; that ever-present symbol of the home they had left behind being a bittersweet memory for his brave Legionaries.
"You better not let your men catch you smiling my Legate, otherwise you'll never hear the end of it." Gratius whirled around to see the smiling face of Lars, Centurion of the Heavy Dragon Knights. As the black-haired man embraced him, the Legate was happy to see that his friend and partner had remembered to close the door, lest they be spotted.
"Regardless of my rank, we can't be seen together. At least we have these moments, these few moments that we can call our own." Gratius shook those grim thoughts out of his mind, smiling happily at his kindred spirit, returning the embrace. For a brief moment, their lips met, the pleasant sensation chasing the cobwebs out of his mind.
"I'm trembling at the thought of it Lars, whatever shall I do?" The bearded face of the Centurion burst into a hearty laugh when they pulled away, his blue eyes alight before joining Gratius at the window.
"Well, for starters you'd have to retire, we couldn't have the men thinking you're a mere mortal, the poor lads couldn't take it." The two men shared a small laugh as they stared out the window, the silence that quickly fell upon the room was comforting and warm; each man forgetting their rank and letting it slowly drain away.
Gratius stared at his Centurion, the man who had served alongside him for almost thirty years. The edges of his large black beard now mixing with grey being the only signs of age catching up with him. He was by far the more attractive member of two, the few scars that dotted Lars's face only adding a rugged handsomeness to his features. Unlike his injuries turning his visage into an unnerving mask. With a small chuckle, Gratius turned from the window and began putting on the rest of his clothing and armour. The routine was bringing a sort of comfort in this strange land.
"How was your patrol? Did your Dragon Riders see anything of interest?"
Gratius knew that while he had few of the mighty beasts, they could cover much more territory in a fraction of the time that normal cavalry would allow. He spied on Lars turning slowly from the window, his blue-eyed stare seemingly reluctant to leave their spot in the sky.
"Nothing to report my Legate, most of the villages in the surrounding area appear to be mostly abandoned." Lars handed Gratius a roughly drawn map that his Knights had scrawled while flying. It was quickly being compared to the countless maps that adorned the walls of the room. The bizarre languages that adorned them were as confusing as it was infuriating to understand.
"We found a group of scavengers picking the remains of one of the villages, but they scattered before we could capture them. We made our way back here before going any further because for all we know an enemy could have us surrounded, just waiting for a chance to surround us." As Lars was finishing his report, Gratius slammed his hand against the wall, staring at the myriad of alien tongues with anger.
"This land reeks of secrets Lars, it reminds me too much of my war against the Bunny Warriors. We get dragged into an unknown land and are expected to conquer with nothing to aid us! I will not have my men slaughtered for that damn merchant's greed!"
"Be patient my Legate, the Count said that he'd be arriving soon with the last of our allies. With all of us gathered here, we should be able to solve our problems. Please Gratius, let's tour the town and inspect the Legion; that always cheers you up." Lars's arms softly wrapped themselves around Gratius's chest, turning him away from the maps that had brought him nothing but rage for the fortnight they had been garrisoned at this town.
With a deep breath, the Legate let himself be slowly moved towards the door. The stump of his left arm gently brushed the fine craftsmanship as he left the room. As they walked down the halls, each Legionary saluted, their features as harsh and scarred as their leaders. Each man had followed the Legate of the East against Bunny Warriors in the north to the Shah in the east.
"I couldn't be prouder of them." Gratius thought to himself as he passed them, his single hand returning the salute as they passed.
"When all this is over and we can finally retire; what shall we do? All we've known is a war for thirty years, every day a struggle for survival. I….I'm afraid of what will happen to me after all this is said and done." The Legate sighed softly as he turned to catch a glimpse of his Centurion, the man's smiling face briefly chased away those thoughts as sunlight danced off his plumed helmet.
"Whatever happens, I know that Lars will be here with me until the end. And if that is all that remains of my Legion after this last expedition….that is good enough for me."
…..
The first thing that Gratius saw once he stepped outside was the locals. At a shuddering pace, they came. Wounded men hobbling forwards on bandaged limbs, their weapons having long been taken from them. They had been stripped of their valuables and even after these two weeks, they had been resisting.
After the men came to their wives, many were wearing the now torn night clothes that they could throw on during that fateful night. Their numbers had at first been far larger, but many women chose to warm the beds of the Legionaries to save themselves from the lash. Although Gratius despised the practice, he knew that his Legionaries deserved such a reward. They all barked, wept, and cursed in their alien tongue as they lurched forwards. The Legionaries who were guarding them ensured their obedience with the occasional beating.
Despite the beatings of the Legionaries, they continued to shout in one tongue or another as they were forced through the Gate, the unyielding chains forcing them forwards and cutting off their cries as they vanished from sight. Next to the Gate and in front of several smaller buildings was a looming pile of weapons and looted objects. Each one is being logged by a hideously scarred man dressed in the grand clothes of a merchant.
As he walked closer, it took everything he had to stop himself from sneering at the man that sat before him. With a look on his face that could generously be called disinterested, the merchant sighed.
"What do you want Legate? Can't you see I'm busy?" His voice was as grating on the ears as his face was on the eyes.
"I couldn't care less about what you're doing or if you're a busy man, we're here to see the shaman. So either find him yourself or I'll tell him that your pockets look rather full today." Gratius said with a chuckle, his Legionaries guarding him glaring at the now pale-faced merchant.
"Right this way Legate."
With a disgusted sneer, Gratius couldn't help but stare at the bits of jewelry that fell out of the man's pockets.
"Men like him disgust me, but he's only a fly buzzing around a much larger corpse." He grumbled to himself as he marched behind the merchant, his hand itching for his sword.
They walked down that street for several minutes, allowing the Legate to gaze once again at this bizarre town that he now called home. There were countless buildings with letters he couldn't read surrounding him. Those that hadn't been ransacked or demolished by onagers that are. Several cohorts of Legionaries squatted inside the intact buildings, their forms easily spotted in the windows. As they passed by, Gratius could hear the sounds of men being roused from their sleep; Centurions barking orders.
But it wasn't these everyday buildings that seduced the eye, no, it was the building of stone that interested the Legate. It was a simple building made of sturdy grey stone, the only signs that a siege had happened at all was the sight that confronted Gratius. Surrounding this otherwise peaceful building was an army of humanity, foreign and wild, they stared at the approaching soldiers with contempt.
"Remind me to station more Legionaries near this section of the city Lars, the last thing we need is another riot" Gratius grumbled to his Centurion, glaring hard at the men and women who had swarmed this strange temple.
"Of course Legate" Lars replied, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword at all times. The Centurion remembered the riot all too well, it had taken his Dragon Knights to force that frenzied throng into line.
The fanatics, led by their Shaman, had swarmed over the city in those first few days, slaughtering those who fought back and enslaving the rest. His Legionaries had been forced to stop mobs of enraged warriors from skinning local priests alive; which quickly spiralled into a riot. The arrival of the Heavy Dragon Knights ensured that order fell upon their new territory.
The sprawling shantytown that had consumed the once serene courtyard of the temple was as alien as the people who squatted there. Warriors adorned with war paint or large wooden masks carved to look like monsters clutched spears and axes as they performed weapons training. Their unknown tongues echoing amongst the stones. All around them, Gratius spied hosts of those dark-skinned warriors sitting around massive bonfires. Some sang, others played drums, but they were celebrating their victory over their enemies, something the Legate understood very well.
As they continued making their way into the temple, the chaos of the courtyard had become more organized. The shantytowns became staggered rows of tents with shamans leading small armies of men and women in prayers, the air filling with the songs of countless souls. A vast flock of strange birds filled the sky around the temple, their eyes constantly staring at the Legionaries.
In the middle of this ordered madness was a banner of the Mwenye Haki, a colourful idol carved in the shape of a monstrous serpent. The eyes were set with precious stones and its fangs were bared in a defiant hiss as it wrapped around the altar it lounged upon.
It was one of many kinds of heraldry that they carried, and it was defended by a small army of the faithful. Every one of them was covered in scars, with light armour being their protection.
"How Count Formal had courted these strangers is yet another mystery." He thought to himself as that simple heraldry fluttered in the wind.
After what felt like forever, Gratius and his guard of ten Legionaries paused as a beautiful sight awaited them. Deep within the temple, there were countless rows of wooden benches, obviously meant for the locals to sit in. High above them were beautiful panes of colour depicting great deeds and unknown heroes, this new alien tongue feeling similar to their language to the others. Gratius could make out a familiar word every so often, but it was so garbled it was gibberish. Candles now left unattended were flickering in their corners, their faint glow slowly driving the darkness away.
But it was the scene playing out before them that broke the serenity completely; several men wearing black robes were forced to their knees with blades being held to their necks. The men were being held over a large bowl that was already halfway filled with a brackish red liquid, and as Gratius walked closer he could smell the stench of blood.
Their captors were an assortment of scarred men, each one having an assortment of trophies around their necks. From the teeth of unknown beasts to even the shrunken heads of defeated enemies, their variety was astounding.
They said nothing as they stared at the two men before them; the first being a tall figure with a large bird on his shoulder, his dark skin covered in scars and mystical charms in equal measure. While the latter was an older man who was sprawled across the floor, his face beaten into a bloody pulp. The former turned to face Gratius, allowing the Legate to formally make the acquaintance of Kayembe, Shaman of the Mwenye Haki.
He was as tall as the Legate, his features were unnaturally calm looking despite the violence playing out around him. But it was his eyes that drew Gratius in, or rather, the lack of them. Where his eyes should have been, there was a simple cloth bandage, revealing the empty sockets underneath.
"You dare enter this place without my permission?" His voice, while quiet, split the silence as his cowering captives muttered in their garbled Saderan.
Gratius stepped towards the Shaman, slowly as not to alert the blind man and his heavily armed guards. He noticed that as he got closer, the large bird that was perched on Kayembe's shoulder turned to stare directly into his eyes.
"With all due respect to you Shaman, for two weeks we have been holding this city. For two weeks my men have ensured that order is maintained. We have rounded up those who have fought against us and cowed the rest." Gratius's voice was stern as he spoke, his bodyguards keeping their shields up as if to block an attacker.
"And in that time, you have done nothing! You hang those heathen priests and leave their bodies for the vultures. How can I maintain some semblance of order over what remains of this city if every day I find more flayed wretches cropping up near this temple?" He stepped forward, slowly putting one foot in front of the other; a look of contempt on his face.
Gratius paused as a lithe form skulked out of the corner. Wearing a simple dark cloak and armed with a pair of knives, his attire alone stood out immensely amongst the heavily armoured bodyguards. But the most startling feature of the newcomer was his singular long, pointed ear. His hair was short and blonde, while a tapestry of scars ran across his face. Those scars ran through one of his eyes, turning it into a murky white slate that stared into nothingness even as he gripped his blades.
"What could a simple man such as you know of his plans?" The Elf replied, his voice little more than a whisper.
"The Shaman has been given orders by the Gods themselves, by all rights, you have no authority over him." He moved silently towards the Legionaries, his blades being twirled slowly about in the air.
"That's enough Ayen, the Legate was just leaving." The voice of Kayembe was filled with dark mirth as his bodyguards chuckled softly amongst themselves.
"Not without him." Said Legate replied, pointing at the older man who lay sprawled across the floor.
"Why? He's far too old to be a slave."
Kayembe said, his eyeless gaze glancing over the beaten man, his calm features twisted into confusion. The large bird took off Kayembe's shoulder with a squawk, all the while staring at everything below.
"Simple, if he's a priest, he's literate. I need someone to translate the local language and so far you've been killing everyone who could help us. Give that man to me, and I'll leave you to your business." Gratius's voice was quiet, but those closest to him saw his jaw beginning to clench tighter and tighter the longer he spoke with the Shaman.
The Shaman waved his hand dismissively. "Fine, take the old man. Now leave before I change my mind."
Without waiting for an order, Lars stooped down towards the balding man, his face covered in bruises and blood from a myriad of blows. He muttered out more of that strange garbled Saderan before falling into unconsciousness.
"I'll take him to the Medici; they'll take good care of him." Lars quickly moved out of the temple, ignoring the scores of fanatics that were surrounding the entrance.
With a scowl, Gratius turned on his heel and followed Lars, his bodyguards close behind as they formed a small shield wall as if to protect him from a hail of arrows. He slowly marched out of that temple with its grisly scene, past the fanatics that sprawled about with abandon; finally entering the main street. As soon as he began walking back to the manor, the air was suddenly filled with the sound of thundering horns and war drums.
Rushing forwards, Gratius spied the green banners of Count Formal bursting forth from Hardy's Gate. Their grand heraldry took the form of a golden eagle in the center of a dark green background; the morning breeze making the majestic bird take flight. Each banner was held aloft by a merchant loyal to the Count, their families following behind them. Their oaths of loyalty ran back generations, and they gladly marched in front of their patron.
Riding behind the banners were the House Guard of the Formal Clan, their dark green armour with grand golden capes catching the light in all their splendour. They held brilliant swords and beautiful shields in their armoured hands, their grandly armoured steeds allowing them to tower over the infantry. Behind them came a small army of servants that carried the many belongings of their lords.
A large host of singing civilians and bards marched behind those men, playing a massive array of instruments. Be they flocks of Harpies who took to the sky to blow majestic notes on horns, herds of Satyrs who played harps, or even an entire clan of singing Elves. Regardless of their race, they all sang of the glory of Italica. They sang of the kind Count who saved them from slavery, of his generosity and grace. They brought with them their families and belongings, their inhuman appearance standing out amongst their human fellows.
Riding at the front of this grand host was the Count himself, his blonde hair was starting to grey while his green eyes were alive with joy as he witnessed the new world around him. Riding next to him were his three daughters, Myui the youngest sister, Loui the middle child and Elle the eldest daughter. They all stared at the scene around them with curiosity, sharing their father's joy at this new land.
"Well, it's about damn time they arrived." Gracious grumbled as he spied those five thousand men marching out of Hardy's Gate, their faces hidden by beautifully carved helmets.
"You know those merchant types, they always need a dramatic entrance," Lars said as a chuckle burst forth from his lips.
His chuckling quickly stopped however as the remaining forces of the Count appeared out of the Gate.
"By the Gods…." Gratius stared at the first few figures to emerge from the darkness, his mind suddenly began dredging up ancient memories as he laid eyes on them. Already the stench of blood was beginning to fill his nose, and the faint screams of dying men swirled about in his mind.
A war horn split the heavens as a massive host of women found themselves walking those strange streets. Their beauty was matched only by the cruel looks on those scarred faces, their rabbit ears poking out of their helmets. Banners covered with runes followed the host, the heraldry of Count Formal joining the Bunny Warriors. Each of the women was attended to by a small army of slaves, their eyes downcast and their gait slow; many wearing little more than rags. The Bunny Warriors belted out songs of war and conquest, their tongue sounding hauntingly familiar to those who had fought them before.
Riding at the front of this host was a woman with greying hair and her singular rabbit ear that draped down the right side of her head. A chainmail shirt was covered by a pitted and well-worn breastplate, a large circular shield was strapped to her back while an equally large axe was at her side. She rode her black horse forwards, enjoying the stares from the cowering locals and the sneers from the scarred Legionaries. Her blue eyes narrowed as she rode next to Gratius, her grand seat atop the horse allowing the Bunny Warrior to tower over the one-handed man.
"Legate Gratius, it's been many years since we've last spoken." Her voice was harsh but soft, almost a whisper as she glowered down at him.
"Almost a decade if my memory serves, Jarl Rathaus." He replied, suddenly very relieved that he had a company of archers stationed atop his manor. Gratius could feel the glares of the passing Bunny Warriors and despite his fifty years of life, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear.
"We'll have to catch up, we are allies now after all. My warriors will make camp in whichever buildings are available, and we expect the locals to tend to our needs." Her expression was shifting into a sardonic smirk as she kicked the sides of her horse, sending her down the road. It was only after she left that Gratius let go of a breath he forgot he was holding.
"The Count didn't tell us that his forces were Bunny Warriors. Led by Lili Rathaus of all people!" Lars spat the name as if it left a bitter taste behind it.
"We'll have time to wring his neck later, there are more important things to do," Gratius said as he grumbled, the few Legionaries he could see shared the expression.
"Was being a glorified host being one of them my Legate?" Lars's voice was cold, his normally cheerful face was now a dark sneer. Gratius couldn't bring himself to answer his beloved, staring at the scene that was playing out before him.
For almost two hours, five thousand thousand Bunny Warriors marched out of Hardy's Gate, a seemingly endless army of scarred warriors. Behind the warriors came what counted as civilians for the Bunny Warriors. They brought with them massive numbers of livestock and slaves to work the land, their belongings lashed to wagons.
The air was filled with singing voices and the sound of blades slamming on shields. When the last of the Bunny Warriors made their way down the street, an almost deafening silence fell. The few locals who were not enslaved stared at the backs of those women in horror with more than a few making odd gestures across their chests as they did so.
Gratius stared at the marching army, his fingers digging into the meat of his remaining hand.
"How did Formal manage to bring that many of those women together? I thought Zorzal wiped them out." He muttered to himself as he stared at the backs of his new "allies".
"There isn't a man alive that hasn't heard the rumours about the Count, Gratius. His...enjoyment of Demihuman women was something he never bothered to hide." Lars replied as he walked behind the Legate, the beaten man now in the estate.
"It doesn't matter, what's important is that we now have to deal with Kayembe and his zealots alongside the Bunny Warriors," Gratius replied, a headache already beginning to form as he pondered his situation.
"Indeed Legate, but there's still one army left. The Count's letters only said that they're from the Kingdom of Yatra."
Gratius whirled around to stare at Lars, his eyes widening.
"That's half the world away! How in Hardy's name did they get here?"
Before Lars could reply, an alien cacophony suddenly burst forth from the Gate, the unknown sound blasting out from the other side. Out from the shadows came the raucous sounds of large feet stomping against the road. Marching out of the Gate were the Orcs of Yatra. In their hands were scimitars and small shields, their bodies covered with a simple leather and iron armour. Their thundering chants were accompanied by the thundering of what looked like human hide drums. What passed for officers amongst them wore bejewelled helmets made of human skulls.
"Didn't the last Emperor tell the senate that the Orcish Rājya was wiped out?" Lars said with a grim look on his face as the human hide drums continued to thunder.
"Looks like he missed a spot," Gratius replied as the procession continued down the street.
Unlike the other armies before them, no civilians or slaves followed the Orcs of Yatra, only their throng of ten thousand warriors.
Gratius remembered hearing tales of Orcs. For generations they had fought against the Empire, often being ill-tempered and stupid. They were known to wear next to no armour and attack with clubs or rusted swords, which was why seeing such an organized host was so surprising. With a battle cry that caused the very stones to shake, that mighty host of Orcs marched down the street, their well-worn armour adorned with human skulls.
The air was already filled with strange music from a distant land, but a new chorus was flung into the mix as a massive palanquin was carried onto the street. It was an ornately carved thing, its four Orc bearers carrying what must have been an immense weight with ease. Elephant tusks and human skulls tipped the ends, giving it an unsettlingly alien air.
Around this bizarre procession was an ocean of identical flags, a bright yellow triangle with an ornate sphere in the centre. They were weathered and worn, with many being covered in endless patches. As the palanquin was lowered in front of the Legate, an old man stepped out.
To say he was aged was an understatement, he was probably the oldest man Gratius had ever seen. His white beard falling past his stomach, while he clutched a simple oak staff that loomed past his head. His body was hunched over with age, yet his bright grey eyes spoke of immense intelligence. He bowed as much as his body would allow, a faint smile being somewhat visible on his bearded face.
"Legate Gratius, my name is Lucius Rutilius, it is very good to meet you." His voice was heavy with age, yet it was kind, the voice of a doting grandparent.
"Thank you for coming, Lord Rutilius, but I must admit that that Count didn't prepare us for well….this." Gratius gestured with his one hand to the inhuman army, their myriad of colourful skull-tipped banners standing out amongst the dreary skies.
Lucius chuckled softly as he started at the scene. With a grunt, the ancient man slowly drew up to his full height, using his staff as a crutch.
"My forces have been training for this day, as their fathers have. They never forgave the Molt family for murdering their beloved Rājā." He looked like we wanted to say more, but a hideous cough began racking his body. His frail frame shook and contorted from the strain, with a muscular arm reaching out of the palanquin to catch him.
"My Lord has travelled far and is weary. We shall settle our troops near the south of the city and join your legions in their patrols." A rumbling voice echoed out of the palanquin's interior, its source slowly stepping onto the street.
Gratius took a step back and stared at this new arrival, his hand immediately going to the gladius at his side. Looming above him at seven feet in height was an Orc, her single eye a burning orb of grey. They perfectly mirrored the eyes of the now slumped over old man, their combined three eyes staring deep into his soul. The armour she wore was a thing of beauty, lovingly crafted to fit her immense size; while her gargantuan curved sword was kept in a scabbard at her side.
"And you are?" Lars's voice cut through the tension, several Legionaries slowly inching towards the scene with their shields raised.
"My name is Devika Rutilius, Kamāṇḍara and the heir of the Kingdom of Yatra." Her voice was like a force of nature, overwhelming and all-consuming.
Her face loomed over the Legionaries as she spoke, a ferocious grin on her massive features. Those passing Orcs chuckled as they spied the looks of confusion and mild horror that was growing on the scarred features of the Legate.
"Are you….?" He stopped himself from finishing, as he suddenly felt rather ill.
"Yes, she is my daughter. That won't be a problem for you my Legate?" Lucius's bearded face had broken into a smile as he spoke. For a moment, a tense silence fell upon the group as that snickering old man stood in the shadow of his monstrous heir.
"Of course not my Lord." Lars's voice broke the tension, his head bowed with his hand over his chest in respect.
"Excellent! I'll be seeing you later today, as a midday nap is sounding very good indeed." With that, the hunched form of Lucius Rutilius followed by the towering presence that was Devika stepped back into the palanquin. After a brief moment, the ornate litter was lifted and carried down the street.
"What the hell have we been dragged into Lars?" Gratius muttered to his Centurion as that monstrous host made their way down the road; their rumbling chants shaking the bones of all who heard them.
"Whatever is it, my Legate, the VI Legio stands with you. I stand with you, now and until the end." Lars gently placed his hand on his Legate's shoulder, leading him towards the manor.
The two men took one last look at their new territory, the sea of new banners and voices turning the morning's air into a blistering cacophony.
"Until the end indeed." He thought to himself as he turned away, his mind already working on a plan.
…..
Legate's Estate
Evening
The manor that the Legate of the VI Legio had claimed for himself was a beautiful thing indeed. A vast array of rooms that had once held an army of servants were scattered throughout the estate. Grand paintings had covered the walls and other garish examples of wealth had mocked the Legate when he had first arrived. In the two short weeks that his army had been stationed here, his guard had claimed those formerly fanciful rooms. As Gratius walked past those rooms, he heard the sounds of his men enjoying their spoils.
From the bellowing laughter of Legionaries drinking the night away to the pounding of men releasing tension; the hallway was almost deafeningly loud. Servants scurried about the empty halls as most were the Legion's camp followers, eager to serve the Legion in this new land. Whatever local servants that had been employed were now serving the Legion in whichever ways those grizzled men desired.
But these matters were of no consequence to those gathered inside the grand dining hall. Out of the dozens of chairs, only eight were occupied. They muttered amongst themselves, drinking what little wine hadn't been looted by the conquering soldiers. The dining hall was nearly filled with various soldiers that each group brought with them. Be they religious warriors, grizzled Legionaries or a hulking Orc; they stared at the other from across the dining hall. Their eyes were drawn to the smiling form of Count Formal as he rose to his feet. With a glass of wine in one hand, he waited for the talking to die down.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming all this way. From all corners of the Empire, you have come because you, like myself, share one common belief." As he spoke, he laid a hand on the sprawling map of the Saderan Empire.
"We all believe that our once great empire is crumbling. Our armies are spread across the entire continent, the nobility is fat and entrenched. Not to mention that our economy is in ruin." As he spoke, he traced each border slowly, as if to savour it one final time.
"You are all here because you are exiles in all but name. Our voices were drowned out by the madness that is the Empire. Our desires are deafened by the debauchery that is the Senate." The crowd muttered their agreements, scowls on their weathered and worn faces. The Count paused, calmly waiting for the noise to die down before continuing. "And so, I've brought you all here to help me change all that."
"And how do you propose we do that? Send the Emperor a strongly worded letter?" Kayembe's booming laugh echoed about the room. Amongst his laughter was the twittering of birds, their strange song being equally frightening and fascinating.
"Not quite, my friend. I have brought you here for, in a single word, rebellion against the Saderan Empire." Colt's tone matched the Shaman's while a small smirk grew on his face as he spoke.
A hush fell over the dining hall as the gathering wearily stared at the others around them. For that long moment, everything was still as everyone waited for someone to say something.
"And how do you propose we do this Count Formal? We have fifty thousand troops here, yes, but we only have a year to conquer these lands. And if our goal is to defy the Saderan Empire, why bother sending tribute back through the Gate at all? Wouldn't it make more sense to keep the slaves and loot for ourselves?" Gratius rose to his feet as he spoke, a frown on his scarred face. His voice was calm, but those closest to him could see a flash of excitement in his eyes as he stood before them.
"We need to pretend that everything is normal, at least for the year. We'll send whatever we can spare back through the Gate, and if we play our cards right, we'll be gaining far more than we lose in this campaign." The hoarse voice of Lucius Rutilius answered in the Count's place, his Orc bodyguards at his sides helping him to his feet.
"And who's to say that we will survive that long? For all, we know we could have a traitor in our midst." The Shaman shot back, his eyeless gaze burning holes towards a specific half of the room.
"What exactly are you implying, Kayembe?" Lucius's voice was almost jovial as he started across the table.
The air felt heavy as Kayembe trembled with rage, his fist slamming against the table.
"What I want to know is why I must share a room with you!" He spat, pointing a finger towards Lucius Rutilius. "You reek of black magic and the world weeps at your presence! Your blasphemous kind cannot be trusted!" His voice rose into a roar as he slammed the table again.
Lucius sneered, his eyes narrowing as his forces drew their weapons. "I don't have to listen to your prattling, you blind dog! The Saderans have taken everything from me!" As he spoke, he slammed his staff against the ground, the top bursting into blue flames. "They've taken my lands, my respect, and my wife!"
Devika's face was set in a cold sneer as she stared at the Shaman, her immense frame casting a shadow over her father. The blue flames painted their features in a ghastly light, and Lucius's features became monstrous as he broke into a hideous smile.
"So don't you dare accuse me of treachery, I made a vow and I intend to keep it. Either the Empire falls or I die trying!"
The two leaders glared at each other from across the table, their knuckles growing white as they clutched their weapons. The air was filled with the sounds of snarling warriors and muttered curses as their blood began to boil. The Legate's guards formed a small shield wall while the man himself had his sword drawn. Amongst the madness, the Count took another sip of wine as a bored expression grew on his face.
The tension was shattered by a large axe slamming through the table, nearly embedding itself into the floor underneath.
"Gentlemen, there's no need for such hostility." Lili Rathaus spoke in a sickeningly sweet tone, a cruel smile on her face.
"We all hate the Saderan Empire for our reasons. Lord Lucius may have lost his lands and family, but I lost my people." As she spoke, her warriors stomped and hissed at the memory. More than a few slammed their aces against their shields. Lili silenced them with a single hand being raised in the air.
"Count Formal has promised that the Bunny Warriors will replace our losses. But since we have next to no men of our kind, we will be using the locals to increase our numbers." As she said this, her warriors nodded amongst themselves. Many had seen more than one of their farmer or fisherwomen already carrying some of the enslaved men as war husbands.
The Legionaries that were standing next to Gratius stirred upon hearing this, their faces twisting into sneers. The expressions of the Legate and his Centurion still gave nothing away, but those standing close to them noticed their jaws tightening.
"Will this arrangement be extended to my troops as well Count Formal? The warriors of Yatra are dangerously few, as most of their wives were killed by the Legions. I assume that the human forces will be given the right of repopulating as well?" Lucius asked, slowly sitting back down.
"Of course my friend, we are not the Empire. There shall be no restrictions on population, no more yearly cullings. I've already begun sending my Demihuman subjects into these lands to settle here. We need a population that is utterly loyal to us, for the coming days will be hard." He stared at the multitude of men and women drawn from all corners of their world and smiled.
"I don't care if you're Human or not, all I care about is your devotion to this cause. These new lands will be ours to settle, to shape as we see fit. You weary Legionaries will have the land you were promised. You wandering nomads will have a home away from the Empire's tyranny. And to you whose people were slaughtered at the Empire's hands, I give you a place to rebuild."
The Count raised his glass of wine to all those assembled, a genuine smile on his face.
"I raise my glass to you, my noble friends. For tonight we shall begin on a conquest that the bards shall sing of for a thousand years!" The air was filled with cheers as countless warriors stomped their feet on the floor, some slamming their blades against shields.
Amongst the cacophony, no one noticed a lithe Harpy swooping in from one of the windows to float in beside the Count. She briefly leaned in to whisper something into his ear, causing the man to begin laughing. The unexpected scene pulled the eyes of those nearby, and soon most of the noise died down.
"My friends! My scouts have told me that an army was seen camping near this town." The dining hall was filled with swords being drawn and eager laughter.
"Rally the soldiers, and let us show these fools that their defiance shall not be rewarded! Let us go for gold! For glory! For a new age!" The hall exploded into a deafening roar of cheers, the host bursting out of the room and spilling out to tell the others. Already he heard the mustering horn blaring through the night, and a grin began to form on Count Formal's face.
"A new age indeed."
…
The morning was a beautiful thing, chasing away the alien world of the night, from the ethereal stars to the sounds of those strange animals that dwell in the night. It replaced those heavenly lights with the glorious sunrise, covering the land with its majesty.
The country known as Ireland was no exception to this beauty but to the sprawling camp of canvas tents, it meant nothing. Lord Conn O'Brien sneered as the map that lay pinned to the table, that harsh stench of smoke still clinging to his beard. The entirety of Ireland was in turmoil, with the constant brutal fighting ensuring that no one had any idea about what was going on.
The region around Ulster was painted a bright red on the map to match their English masters, the Protestant traitors acting as their agents. Conn's sneer grew into a scowl as he stared at the red dots that lay scattered about the map. For almost a month, he had marched through Athlone and Roscommon to purge the heathen threat. "I purified every village we marched through. The priests assured me that my acts were righteous, that heathen souls cannot be saved." The portly lord thought to himself as he slowly shook the cobwebs from his mind.
He turned away from the map and staggered out of his tent to see his forces sluggishly rising to meet the day. Those closest to him bowing as was customary. His eyes glanced over to the two thousand militia armed with pikes, which were staggering about in rough formations. They were barely keeping themselves together in a pike wall, their muttered curses being drowned out by marching feet.
Mercenaries in the form of five hundred light cavalry and a single cannon had been hired before his army had begun its campaign. They were dirty, unkempt men that sang raunchy songs long into the night, staggering to their duties in the morning. As they marched past him, they barely gave him a nod of the head, snickering at his enraged expression as they did so.
"If I didn't need them, I'd hang them for the offence." He thought to himself, the image of those filth-caked soldiers swinging from the gallows bringing a small smile to his face.
At the edge of the camp came the sound of thunder and the barking of officers. Scowling men marched behind the ranks of one thousand peasants armed with muskets; screaming at them whenever a mistake was noticed. They fired a mass volley towards some crude targets, with most missing entirely. All around them was the stench of gunpowder and the reek of unwashed men.
As he walked past them, he paused as a series of faint specks could be seen in the sky. Thanks to the sheer height that they held above him, the lord could only wonder what it was.
"My lord! Banners on the hills!" A voice of a scout burst into his thoughts, causing him to whirl around.
"What!? He bellowed towards the beleaguered man, his breath coming out in gasps. As the scout stood before Conn, he noticed that his right arm was limp and covered in dry blood. Sticking out of his shoulder was an arrowhead, its iron tip having punched through the muscle. The shaft of the arrow had a single piece of paper attached to the very back, its tips only lightly stained red.
Ignoring the gasping scout, Conn looked towards where the man had run from. The hills that loomed in the distance were indeed covered with strange heraldry; a flash of green here, a startling crack of yellow there, it all blended from so far away.
"How did this happen!? Why didn't you warn us!?" As Conn screamed at the scout, grabbing him by the bloody shoulder.
"We tried, my lord! We were captured during our nightly patrols and dragged to their camp!" His face went pale as he spoke, his legs starting to shake.
"We were on our patrol, and we saw them. A massive army marching through the night, following the main roads towards the camp. Before we could escape, we were attacked. Somehow, a band of devils had snuck around us and ambushed us from the tall grass."
He paused and shivered as he stared back at the looming banners.
"The damn things swarmed about us, lashing out with axes with inhuman speed. I saw a man's head be cleaved straight off his head, and within moments it was over. I was shot in the shoulder, and before I could do anything, one of those shrieking devils got me in the head. When I woke up, everyone was gone." As the man was finishing his tale, the camp's medic carefully pulled the arrow out of the scout's shoulder. Handing the bloodied weapon to Conn, the lord glanced at it.
Whatever was written down on the end of the arrow, it was in a language he couldn't read. Before he could think more about it, the sound of horns filled the air, drawing his eyes to the nearby hill. A massive flock of birds filled the sky,
Fumbling around his coat, Conn finally pulled out a spyglass and looked through it. As the lens focused, Conn felt his blood run cold.
"Merciful God in Heaven." He whispered to himself.
The nearby hill was alive with activity, with countless banners being raised and the sounds of horns and drums blaring. A lone cavalryman clutching a massive red flag was seen riding which way and that near the bottom of the hill. As Conn focused on one that lone figure, he couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man riding the horse had skin like charcoal, his body adorned with blasphemous idols and tribal charms. But the most startling thing about this man was the fact he had a bandage over his eyes.
Conn couldn't focus on that one rider for too long, however, as all around the bottom of the hill, arising out of the tall grass was a small army of dark-skinned warriors. From all sides of the forest of tall grass, the sounds of drums and bellowing horns suddenly burst forth. More forms were marching in a horde of bellowing monsters, their green skin and tusked faces giving them a demonic appearance. More and more inhuman devils were marching down from the hill, but it was the men that caused his heart to stop.
"Those are damn Romans." He mumbled to himself in disbelief as he looked at the last marching block. Looking as if they stepped out of the annals of history as if conquer the world were indeed the Legions of Rome. Every detail from their rectangular shields to the plumed helmets would have been a beautiful sight if not for the fact it was now marching towards him. Rising behind those ranks of history-made flesh, Conn paused as he spied the forms of catapults on the ridge of the hill.
Like a jolt of adrenaline coursed through him, Conn charged back from the edge of the camp, a string of curses slowly becoming something akin to words.
"Prepare the lines! I want everyone who can hold a damn pike to ready themselves! Get that cannon ready to fire!" He bellowed as he began running towards the center of his camp, mounting his horse. As he raced about the camp, bellowing orders, the crowds of militia poured out of their tents, hastily pulling on their leather coats and grabbing their pikes.
Within a few minutes, the tents were trampled beneath a horde of feet. The rough blocks of pikes and ranks of muskets were set, ready to do their duty. As they began to move towards the foe, Conn paused as he thought he heard something over those accursed drums and blaring horns. For a brief moment, he could have sworn he saw something in the sky.
"What is that?" He thought as he paused near the rear of his men, pulling out the spyglass and gazing once more into the sky.
That group of specks that he had just seen began to grow bigger as they drew closer. For a moment, he could make nothing out, but after what felt like forever, he saw them. Ten hideous winged beasts pulled straight out of legend hurtled above his troops. Their scaled hides shone in the light of the rising sun and their large claws were stained red. To his surprise, he saw that a man rode atop those beasts the way one would ride a horse with large saddles draped around their necks.
The winged beasts all opened their maws as if to roar, but Conn O'Brien heard nothing. That was until he was blinded as flashes of light burst forth from those monster's mouths. And at that moment, he knew what they were.
"Dragons."
At that moment, a vision of Hell descended upon the righteous men of Ireland, and Conn O'Brien felt fear.
…
"And so the assault has begun, excellent." Count Formal said as he stared out over the hill, sitting down on a bench.
Their encampment had taken the entirety of the night to build, and as he looked down the hill, he knew it had been the right choice to march at night.
"I can see the entire battle from up here." He mused to himself as he glanced over at his allies. The Legate was barking orders as his servants scurried about, carrying letters for the mounted messengers or bringing large platters of food for the others gathered about the hill.
"We'll have Kayembe's skirmishers led by Ayen slowly flanking around the enemy. The Orcs of Yatra and Lili's Housecarls will charge alongside my Legionaries. While their strange weapons are unknown to us, we know how their pikes work." The Legate had calmed down slightly as he drank from a glass of severely watered-down wine.
"The skies are held by the Heavy Dragon Knights and whatever witchery that Kayembe has used to bind those birds to his will. Our enemy appears to have no Dragon Knights of their own, allowing us to strike with impunity." As if to prove his point, the field below was suddenly lit ablaze by those mighty beasts.
Even from their distance, the Lords couldn't help but wince at the display of power before them. The first lines of pikemen were reduced to packs of blackened corpses, their bits of armour being fused to their flesh. Each Dragon unleashed a blast of flame from their maws before taking back to the skies.
As those scattered men desperately tried to throw themselves together, the air was filled with a hail of arrows and the thundering cry of catapults. The former punctured flesh and sent many staggering backwards as they stared in disbelief at the ancient weapons. The latter slammed into their lines soon after, shattering bone and breaking lines with ease.
Amongst this madness was the cawing of birds that flew around the battlefield, some swooping this way and that to peck at a corpse to dive over the heads of frightened infantry.
"What are those birds doing?" Colt heard Gratius ask Lucius as if the ancient man would divine an answer.
"They are following my orders oh mighty Legate." The sound of a galloping horse was eclipsed by Kayembe's booming voice as he rode up the hill. "Those beasts are mine to command, they are my eyes and ears since I have long lost my own."
"Yes yes, familiar magic is hardly a new venture Kayembe. What specifically are those birds doing? All I see is them swooping about." Lucius's voice cut in, a faint hint of a chuckle on his bearded face.
"I'm having them search the battlefield for enemy officers or possibly the leader of the army. With the birds acting the way they are, this might also aid in keeping our enemy off guard." The Shaman said, his eyeless face staring off towards the battlefield, muttering softly under his face.
From their perspective, the battlefield looked small and almost entertaining. The sounds of shouting men and thundering artillery, broken up by the flashes of Dragon fire was a spectacular thing to behold.
The Lord's reactions to it all were varied as the men themselves, the Legate paused as the alien sounds of those alien weapons reached his ears. They were just as he remembered them from his first battle there, brief claps of thunder followed by a flash of light. They broke up the monotony of the battlefield, momentarily halting the charge of Men, Orcs and Bunny Warriors.
The Lords paused as they gazed over this display, and Formal quickly waved his hand towards a small army of servants behind him. Said host of servants suddenly burst forth from the cooking tents, each one carrying an exquisite dish from their homelands. And so, the Lords feasted happily upon the hill, laughing and joking amongst themselves the battle unfolded below them. While each man laughed, they felt the weight of their venture around their neck like a noose. The slightest mistake, the smallest defeat could mean their demise. But for now, they eagerly drank more wine and feasted, for tomorrow they may die.
…
The battle was reaching its zenith, which was something that even Conn O'Brien could tell from his position. He had watched the battle unfolding before him from the rear, just behind the cannon. The air was filled with the sounds of screaming men and the whistling of arrows, something he never thought he'd see in his life. Using his spyglass, the Lord noticed that the first ranks of musketeers were unloading into the enemy. With a thunderous crack, a thousand muskets unleashed their deadly payload into the enemy. Shields cracked, armour bent, and flesh buckled under the impact; the horrific noise bringing the charge to the shambling halt. For that brief moment, Conn felt hope as he saw the looks of shock and horror on the faces of the Godless.
"Why isn't the cannon firing!?" He bellowed, glaring at the men who were frantically loading the cannon.
"We're trying my lord!"
He scowled as he turned back to notice that a crucial part of his army was missing. The flanks that should have been held by the cavalry were barren, their occupants long gone.
The sound of another barrage from the crude catapults and a hail of arrows slamming into his lines quickly drew his attention. Looking into the spyglass, Conn's eyes widened at what he saw. Whatever shock those warriors had felt was long gone once they realized that the bizarre witchery had faded. Already a group of those green skinned beasts had whipped themselves up into a frenzy, charging directly into the pikes that loomed before them. The already frightened group of peasants began to buckle under the strain of such inhuman warriors; the air filled with their alien chants.
At their flanks were a host of women, their banners covered in what looked like Norse runes. As they got closer, Conn saw their rabbit ears that poked out of their helmets. They ran at inhuman speeds towards his lines, hacking through the musketeers that were desperately trying to fire off another shot. They cheered and whooped out battle cries as they danced about their prey, slicing through flesh with ease.
Skulking about the tall grass were the war masks of the dark-skinned folk, their horns and drums echoing about the grass. Wherever they skulked, a hail of javelins and arrows followed. They moved quickly amongst the tall grass, their lack of armour granting them the speed to constantly harass the tightly packed pikemen. With each kill, that host of birds squawked as if in glee, their numbers dancing around the battlefield, scratching at the eyes and exposed flesh of his men.
And behind it all was the iron bulwark of the Legion. They marched forwards in that famous testudo formation as if they expected a hail of arrows to rain down upon them. Every man stepped forwards as one being, the earth shuddering under the assault as if the long-buried dead remembered them. They shouted no taunts as they marched closer towards his lines, only the orders being barked out by Centurions could be heard. Despite the crack of muskets and the overall chaos of the battlefield, they continued forwards.
"Glorious…." Conn whispered, a disbelieving smile growing on his face.
"I'll have to wake up soon, this can't be real." He thought, hoping beyond reason that this was all a dream. The sound of the cannon firing shattered that delusion. In their rush to fire that engine of destruction, the gunners had aimed slightly too high. Regardless, the thundering cacophony it unleashed nearly deafened all nearby. Conn's horse reared back, throwing the portly lord off his steed and flat onto his back on the ground. As his vision swam about, Conn saw that the deadly payload had sailed over the heads of the invaders, smashing into the hill behind them.
"No…." He whispered as his men were beginning to break, their pursuers tackling some to the ground while yet more hails of arrows were cutting down those that were fleeing. At that moment, his men who had been caught unawares by a brutal and soulless army shattered completely. Swarms of men threw their weapons to the ground and ran as fast as their legs could take them, only stopping if they were caught by their enemies. Small pockets were surrounded and were either dragged away kicking and screaming towards the enemy lines, or were slaughtered where they stood.
The last thing Conn O'Brien, faithful servant of the Kingdom of Ireland saw before his sight was chased away by darkness was a host of those infernal birds. They circled over his head like buzzards, their excited squawking following him into the darkness, as if taunting him of his failure, then all went black.
….
And so my friends, this ends the first steps on a journey that I cannot wait to see.
And for the first time in a very long time, stay classy, stay awesome and have a lovely day.