The Black Rose
The flags had just been recently raised over the sight of the battle, signaling the victor.
He had come himself to lead his knights against the clannish skirmishers, instead of relying upon his own force's scouts. The Point of Phemnal had to be retaken, but the King had needed some further convincing before he had allowed the Royal Knights to be deployed in force... since such was an open declaration of war.
Yet King Highland had no idea of the true war to be had, the festering war that would not end even as it had yet to begin.
The man shook his head.
He looked down before pulling his enormous black claymore from the berserker's chest; the barbarian clad in bear furs as if to resemble the creatures themselves. As he pulled the massive sword free, a swirl of dark red light followed the black blade out. Even with the weapon removed, however, festering power continued to consume the flesh of the fallen barbarian, eating slowly through the dead man's torso.
Afterward, the knight stood and turned to look upon the flags that flew over the taken point, one being the blue-and-white quartered flag of Highland, a rampant silver griffon centered upon it. The other was his own personal flag, displaying the sigil of his House. It was a scarlet field bordered in black and bearing a very stylized depiction in its center... that of a black rose.
The Knight-General gazed upon the sign of his House flying opposite the royal flag, his eyes seeing it clearly through the visor of his enclosed helm. It and his armor were of the finest quality, each piece of steel plate enameled black and molded skillfully into the parts of a great demon. The helm sported two large horns protruding from each side of the helm, the pauldrons upon each shoulder resembling the gaping maws of hellhounds with embedded ruby eyes. Bracers became the claws of the demon and armored boots its razored feet. Over the armor, he wore the white surcoat of the Royal Order, a black sword, blade down, centered upon it.
All around him was death.
He thought it was fitting being surrounded so. Since the Fiends had forcibly awakened him, only killing had been able to sate his upwelling rage, which he fought so often to conceal. At many times since awakening, his mind had threatened submission to chaos, that he should spout gibberish like some wild beast.
Oh how the four had failed him. Yet, they had the audacity to expect him to restore them to what they had once been – still failures yes, but less pathetic than the bickering remnants they were now...
Not that it would matter.
The man sighed. He had had a chance at a real life before the Fiends. Ignorant of his dark legacy, he had been reborn nigh-on close to mortal, but now it was all for naught.
Surrounded by a ring of black armored knights, he made a gesture with one clawed gauntlet and a captain came up to bow.
"Gather the dead and ready them to bury. I'll not have them begin to stink before me, Captain."
The man bowed. "Of course, Lord Garland." He then stood and looked up, craning his neck for the Knight-General stood over seven feet. "My Lord, shall I have camp made here, upon the Point. It is the best position to fortify with its view of the surroundings."
The Knight-General nodded. "It is, Captain Hollis, but we will fall back to our previous camp."
The Royal Knight shook his head. "But my Lord, do you mean to leave the Point undefended?"
He nodded. "I do. Now, to your duty, Captain."
The man hesitated only a second before bowing. "As you will, my Lord."
Garland moved off as his knights called in the auxiliary foot to see to the dead. The common soldiers did all the base work, while the lords looked pretty in their armor. Of course, Garland would never stoop to such common labor, but neither could he truly associate with the petty aristocrats.
No, he was something far more than both... again, not that it mattered.
As the Knight-General moved off, he gritted his teeth at such bitter thoughts, and as he did so, the ancient visions began to surface in the recesses of his mind. The memories were there, vague impressions of power beyond comprehension coursing through a consciousness the likes of which only a god could fully ponder. Yet, in a single instant there was a flash of light – the brightest of whites, radiant and glorious beyond the splendor of all known suns – and then the impressions were no more.
All that monstrous god-like power and yet... undone in a single instant.
The memory caused him to laugh bitterly. What do they think they can possibly do, the four fools? As I was, with all the power of the dark gods coursing through my body... I could do nothing... undone in a single flash. What am I know but a pathetic remnant of what I once was. Before that light, I would be swept away into bleakest oblivion now. What can they possibly hope to accomplish...
He already knew the answer, of course. Everyone who had ever studied the fragmented history of the world knew the answer. It had already happened. The Fiends above all should be aware of their fates, since it was laid bare in many tomes of history as the four Cataclysms. Yet, whatever the Fiends' driving notions of revenge, humankind had survived all four debacles and rebuilt civilization each time...
So even if Garland managed to master chronomancy, what could they go back and do besides what had already been recorded? History could not be changed because it had already happened! Garland shuddered with anger. They had destroyed any prospects he had had for a normal life with their own blind selfishness just so they could be sent back to fail again...
Oh, he would do it. He would send them back, but not before they had stood before that light and found themselves judged by its power. Then, broken and weak, he would send them back to have their petty revenge in the forms they favored. That was the only way he could see to do it anyhow, and he already knew the result.
Yet they would not stop pestering him to fulfill his part of this bargain he had been forced into, as if he should be grateful for being awoken. Oh yes, that is certainly what the Fiends seemed to believe he should be.
Now it seemed he had no choice. The mantle of fate had been thrust upon him and there was nothing he could do to change the unchanging. The creature he had been did not exist anywhere but in the past. What he was now was merely a figment of it, still powerful by mortal means but still nothing compared to that ancient darkness.
They were all doomed to fail, but what did it matter.
So be it! If he was to be the villain, then he would play the role that fate had decreed. It would be his pleasure, if he could show the Fiends just what it was they were up against. If only they knew what he remembered of that unfathomable light, their arrogance would melt away, replaced by the fear that constantly haunted him.
He sneered within his helm. Lord Lichtenstein, Duke of Dremel and Fiend of Earth; Lord Krekhall, Duke of Himlet and Fiend of Water; Lady Vival Tiam, Duchess of Kard and Fiend of Air; and one more...
Garland walked on, heading straight toward the camp with several knights of his honor guard in tow. The final Fiend came up to his side, a tall woman in scarlet armor, her crimson eyes visible through the visor. She carried a jeweled falchion in each hand and had four more just like them in her belongings, yet was unable to wield them all in her human form. Her armor was as intricate as Garland's, but sported a serpentine motif. Her open-faced helm imitated the head of a hooded cobra with sparkling emerald eyes, her pauldrons a mass of entwined blood-red snakes. Gore covered her blades, which she always referred to as fangs.
"Lady Mari, how unfortunate for you to join us," Garland said curtly.
The lady laughed darkly, an edge to her words. "Unlike my lazy kin, who prefer to take you at your word, Lord Garland, I choose to accompany you, to see to it that you are not unduly wasting our time."
Garland noticed his honor guard glancing at each other before snapping back to follow. Very few people dared to speak to him so. He would have preferred if the Fiend of Fire would watch her words where others could hear, but she was not so inclined.
He hated her most of all. "I shall waste whatever I wish, my Lady, and you and your kin will sit your haunches and endure it!" he retorted brusquely.
She laughed brazenly again. "Do not think we shall wait forever, Garland. And we are not powerless before you, either. You would do well to remember that."
The Knight-General just grunted contemptuously as they entered the camp and the Lady Mari split off from his entourage, heading toward her crimson and gold pavilion in her own little camp separate from the army's.
The general passed the earthworks and palisades that bristled along the front of the fortified position; heading passed neat horse-lines and ordered rows of black tents where the common soldiers slept. Many a lowborn soldier bowed or raised a halberd or spear in salute as the giant man passed, and Garland acknowledged them with a nod. Cheers rose as well, commending Garland on his victory, following him all along the lines until he entered the command tent, his honor guard taking up their posts without as he went into the huge black pavilion marked with his family crest. Once inside, he strode up to a broad circular table of polished ebony wood, filled with maps marked with chess pieces, delineating the disposition of the King's forces within the current theater of operations.
Garland came in and removed his helmet, displaying his broad countenance, his dark eyes intense, cheeks like slabs of stone, his lips pressed grimly into a thin line. His long ink-black hair fell about him in an irrepressible mane, as he set his demonic helm upon the rim of table before the maps.
Three Knights of the Royal Order were across the table from him, having stood from their chairs at his entrance, giving salutes with fists to chests. Garland turned his frown at them despite their respectful salutes. Officially they were his direct subordinates, each in charge of a facet of the army under him. The truth, however, was that they were lackeys of the Fiends, there to keep an eye on his movements so they could report to their masters. Lady Mari, of course, did not have a representative among them, since she was here in person.
Scout-Commander Ryam Hostler was a short swarthy man with a narrow face and black eyes that seemed to blink constantly. Though knighted, he wore dark leather, as befitting a Scout-Captain, the fletching of arrows sticking up from over his back. He was Lord Krekhall's lackey.
The man to his right was Angus Archibald, Knight-Commander of the Order under Garland himself, who oversaw the disposition of the Royal Knights with authority second only to the Knight-General. The Earth Fiend's lickspittle was a barrel-chested monster in black armor, his helmet removed to show his thick square face and beady eyes the color of storms. He harbored a sneer under his thick gray beard, the hair upon his weathered head merely a fringe of gray. He would be an imposing man to any but Garland himself, who was taller and broader besides.
The woman on Ryam's left was Kyra Falea, the only Dame within the Royal Order. Female knights were exceedingly rare, but she had a skill with her twin scimitar that very few other knights had with the sword. Her head was covered with a tight cap of raven hair, her ice-colored eyes and pale skin hinting at ancestry that was not of Highland and its denizens. She belonged to Lady Tiam, and Garland suspected things about her that he would keep to himself to use later in the struggle between him and the Fiends.
Ryam Hostler bowed curtly before he spoke. "Congratulations on your victory, Lord Garland. I hear it took less than an hour for your vanguard to finish the dregs after my skirmishes helped funnel them toward your position."
Angus barked a harsh laugh. "Your cursed blade eats through men like paper, Lord Garland. I hear you spared many of our knights glory by killing most the horde yourself."
Garland's frown deepened. "This was a petty foe indeed, Lord Archibald."
The Dame sneered. "Is the entire Dragon Empire so feeble as this, I think not. Your victory is empty, my Lord, for the true test is nigh. With open war more or less declared, the Dragon will send its dragoons after us, and then we will see if that black blade of yours is truly worth your boasts."
The Knight-General's brow knit further at their galling words. Their masters had infected them with their arrogance, and Garland had to throttle the urge to crush them all, lest his plans be ruined. Instead, he turned his flinty black eyes on the dark elf commander. "Dame Falea, are you really so afraid of the Dragon Lancers, I must say I am surprised. If killing fur-clad barbarians is all you can countenance, then I will send you south with your host of pikes to empty the Deep Forest of their insignificant tribes." That insult shut her up, her smooth features pinching as she glared at him in silent outrage.
Garland turned to Angus. "If you are my Knight-Commander, Lord Archibald, then you are beholden to me and my authority as befits a knightly order. Do not think I cannot have you replaced should you try my patience to the brink. The Royal Order will all share in the glory of the campaign as befits their station as elite soldiers." He paused, feeling the dark power throb through the greatsword he had sheathed at his back, its two-handed hilt sticking up over his right shoulder.
Archibald huffed, placing his armored hands on his hips. "An empty threat, Garland –"
With a rasp, Garland had his enormous sword out of its sheath, its huge black blade six feet long and nearly a foot wide, swirling with deeply red power as its ever-sharp point tickled the throat of the Knight-Commander. Garland's voice became a soft rumble, a whisper for him, and he knew others would have to strain to hear it. "Lord Garland to you, lickspittle." He nicked the man's throat through his beard.
Archibald raised his chin slightly. "The Lord Lichtenstein will hear of this."
Garland almost smiled, but the expression was beyond him. "Oh, I do hope so. It will have to be from a source other than yourself, however." He snapped his armored fingers with his free hand, and the mere scratch on the man's throat suddenly burned. Angus began to cough, and then clutch at his throat desperately as black lines skittered over his flesh and up into his face. In under a minute, the man liquefied into a putrid black puddle, his empty armor falling to clatter upon the ground of the tent. Garland merely sheathed his monstrous sword.
Ryam looked up, his face blanched from watching his fellow knight die. "How dare you! Archibald is a powerful House, you cannot foresee the consequences of this action!"
Garland merely moved his eyes upon the other man and the Scout-Captain flinched. "So, you seemed to imply before that your scouts did all the heavy work, while I and my knights took what was left, Lord Ryam. Unwise, little man, but worry not. I shall grant you a similar chance to van against the Dragon's elite Lancers as well."
That shut his mouth.
The Dame merely sneered at the collapsed armor resting in the black puddle. She looked to Garland. "Good riddance to that fat fop, Lord Garland, but the enemies you have now made does not show the wisdom of a general who knows who he is beholden to."
Garland's face was as stone. "I am beholden to the King, Lady Falea, and you would do well to remember that." The woman did not reply, but outrage was clear on her face. It seemed these so-called dark elves were not easily cowed. "Regardless," he continued, "We will bring our forces back here and allow the Point to be retaken by whatever force the Dragon deems to send in response to our actions."
Falea could not keep silent at that. Her voice was level, though her eyes were ice-blue fire. "We were ordered to take and hold the Point by the King himself, Lord Garland."
His face did not change. "I was ordered to take the Point, my Lady, and I have done so."
"But we shall not hold it? What purpose is there in this? If the enemy gets ahold of the Point again, a force that actually knows how to garrison a position unlike the fool savages we fought last time, attacking the Point a second time would cause a slaughter of any troops forced to storm it. Is this what you intend... a slaughter?"
Garland did not answer immediately, his frown deepening. "I will take the Point a second time. Have no fear of this."
The woman suddenly smiled cruelly. "With no regard to your men's lives. They are loyal to you, Garland, and you would play upon that loyalty." She stood back, folding her armored arms. "Interesting..."
Scout-Captain Ryam looked ill, though he found the courage to speak again. "I will not lead my scouts into a slaughter." Then he hurried around the table as if to pass Garland.
The giant knight stopped him with large armored hand on his shoulder. "Should you think to take your forces out of my theater when they are needed, Lord Ryam, I will make certain the king learns of your desertion with a most unsavory eloquence. Your lands and wealth will be forfeit, your family disgraced. Think on it, my Lord, and be very careful to whom you speak about what transpired here." He removed his hand, noticing the sickening look on the shorter man's face as he scurried out the pavilion.
The Dame was soon ready to take her leave, moving passed Garland, before the man brought her up short. "Lady Falea, please see to the disposition of your pikes and ready them to move back. Spread the word amongst the army that it is to be ready to mobilize."
She turned at the entry flaps, piercing him with one ice-blue eye. His back was turned to her, and he did not deign to face her. "To where will we head, Lord Garland?"
"To the east, toward the ruins."
The woman's surprise entered her dark voice. "But that is two days away from the Point, my Lord, what do you hope to accomplish by retreating so far?"
Garland did turn then, his stone-hard countenance focusing down on the ghostly pale woman. "Never you mind, Lady Falea. That is my order."
The woman nodded, a slight smile touching her lips. "As you wish, my Lord, to the Temple of Fiends it is."