Chapter Five: Shores of Fate
The first thing Warmaster Athellenas noticed was the softness of the bed which he was sleeping in. It was a wonderful feeling; something he had not felt for a very long time. It seemed like a lifetime since he had last come to Tethys, the capital of Centralia, with news of the destruction of the border town of Ephyrn. It had been then when King Osman had dispatched him to the Menaphite Desert to fight the first campaign in what was turning out to be a long and bloody war.
Athellenas felt a fleeting moment of guilt over sleeping in a nice bed while the rest of his men in the desert were stuck with bedrolls, but it was only fleeting. He had not been idle all these years; he had been fighting his whole life. He was becoming an old man now and if he got the opportunity to sleep in a comfortable bed, then, damn it all, he was going to enjoy it.
But, nevertheless, all good things must come to an end. The Warmaster gave a long, wearied yawn and stretched his muscles, working out the kinks. He swung himself out of bed and, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, slipped into his everyday cloth clothing. Now fully dressed, he started to pull on his armor. He handled the battered old pieces of red alloy fondly. There had once been a time when the armor had been a bright, blood-red, when it would catch the sunlight and shine like a sanguine star. Now, over the years, it had become more of a rusty-reddish hue.
Athellenas opened one of the drawers and gently picked up the small, greenish-blue flower that rested inside. It was a spiritweed blossom, given to him by a little girl in Port Sarim just before he and his men departed for the Menaphite Desert. It had seemed to bring him good luck during the desert campaign...hopefully it would bring more for the fight that was no doubt approaching in the Hallowlands. The Warmaster tucked it into his chestpiece so it rested over his heart.
The Warmaster strapped his runite longsword to his waist and picked up his helm, pushing open the hut's door and striding out into the cool, crisp night.
The moon was full and the stars were out, casting a pale glow over the palace grounds. Athellenas had slept in one of the huts near the palace itself. King Osman and Paladin Anesti awaited the Warmaster in front of the palace. The Paladin raised a hand in greeting.
"Good morrow, Warmaster," the King of Centralia gave Athellenas a respectful nod.
Athellenas bowed his head. "Sire. Good morning to you, as well."
"I trust you are ready for what lies ahead?" the King asked.
Athellenas gave a dark, mirthless chuckle. "I don't think it is possible for any man to be ready for this war."
"An answer as true as can be," King Osman agreed. "Though I'm afraid it changes nothing."
"I was aware, Sire," the Warmaster gave a resigned smile. He turned to the side and whistled a brief series of notes into the morning mist. A soft whinny was heard across the greens from the direction of the stables. In a few seconds, Onyx came trotting through the mist to Athellenas's side. Now he was truly ready.
"Our navy will be arriving at Uzer within the week," the King informed the Warmaster. "When they get there, Admiral Straume will welcome your men aboard. Be warned, though; Lord Drakan no doubt has naval power of his own. He didn't become such a powerful figure by not having forces at sea. Be ready for anything."
"I'm sure whatever I encounter won't be half as interesting as what Lord Fernando is no doubt going through in the far east," the Warmaster reasoned.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of the King's mouth. He knew as well as Athellenas how…interesting diplomacy with the Ainu people could get. They were as much Humans as Centralians were, but at the same time were a breed apart, what with their strange and different customs and lifestyles.
However strange of a people they were, though, Athellenas envied them their warriors. Not even the top interrogators of Zamorak would be able to make the Warmaster denounce his legions, but Athellenas knew in his heart that one Ainu samurai was easily worth half a dozen Centralian soldiers, skill-wise.
Athellenas was glad that Centralia and the Ainu Empire had never been in a fight against each other. The Warmaster wouldn't want to place bets on an open fight between the Ainu armies and the Centralian legions.
And that wasn't the Centralians' fault; legionnaires volunteered or were drafted to fight during times of war, but they had different lives during peacetime. By contrast, war was life for Ainu samurai. They lived by their code of honor, whatever it was called, and they trained endlessly with the blade or the bow. Their shamans were also forces to be reckoned with.
Athellenas patted Onyx on the nose and gripped his reins. "I pray that when next we meet, Sire, I will be informing you of our victory in the Hallowlands."
"May Saradomin watch over and guide you and your men," the King bowed his head in respect. "Centralia Prevails."
"Centralia Prevails," Athellenas replied, saluting the monarch. The King turned on his heel and started heading back towards the palace.
Athellenas gave a quick nod to Paladin Anesti, who had been standing silently to the side, allowing the King and the Warmaster to speak in private. "Shall we?"
"Yes, let's," the Paladin grasped one of the Warmaster's hands. "I will not miss that sandy hell the Menaphites call home."
The Warmaster gave a low grunt. "Finally, something the two of us can agree on."
"Don't count on it," the Paladin chuckled. He closed his eyes and hummed a few inaudible words. Athellenas winced as the feeling of getting squeezed through a tiny vortex enveloped his entire body. There was a flash of indigo light, and then the palace grounds were suddenly empty.
"Warmaster!" the summons came from outside the tent. The voice was unmistakably that of Sir Derren, the younger knight who was Athellenas's direct subordinate.
The Warmaster had only returned to the 1st Element two days ago, and he already felt like he had been here for a decade. The desert tended to make time stretch on endlessly much the same way being home tended to make it fly by.
But today, things were going to change. The Navy had finally arrived, and the 1st Element was in the process of loading all of its troops and equipment onto the waiting ships. From here, they would sail north to the port city of Burgh de Rott, where they would make landfall, regroup, and march east to the city of Hallowvale. Straightforward, simple strategy.
"On my way, Derren; hold onto your britches," Athellenas grunted as he buckled his runite longsword to his waist. He rolled up his bedroll and gathered up his other possessions, emptying the tent.
Sir Derren was waiting outside for the Warmaster, tapping a foot impatiently on the sandy ground. "You're late."
"Late for what?" Athellenas queried, amused at his subordinate's impatience. Young knights were all the same; always needing to be on the move, always needing to be early. "The Navy is not going anywhere just yet."
"No, but it's best not to keep them waiting," Sir Derren countered, not yet willing to give up his side of the issue.
Athellenas took down his tent and rolled up the cloth, packing everything into Onyx's saddlebags. "I presume you came here for a reason other than to remind me of my own tardiness?"
A grin tugged at the corners of Sir Derren's mouth. "Quite. General Sinclair wishes to report that the IV Legion is aboard the fleet."
"Good, good," Athellenas murmured, swinging himself up into Onyx's saddle. "General Dhalit's men should be well on their way, as well. Why don't you go and check on the artillery's progress; Sir Brezhnov's men should be nearly finished by now. Hyah!"
Athellenas spurred Onyx forward, galloping through what remained of the camp towards the coast.
The 1st Element had been encamped on the coastline east of Uzer ever since the Menaphite capital had been razed by Azzanadra. Great pillars of smoke still rose into the western sky, evidence of the horrible destruction wrought upon Uzer by the hordes of Thammaron, and later Azzanadra, the champion of Zaros.
Because there were no docks, men and equipment were being loaded onto the Royal Navy by rowboats. It took a lot longer than usual, but—all things considered—progress was being made. The men had been busy in the Warmaster's absence.
"Sir Havarell, a progress report if you please!" Athellenas hollered over to his cavalry commander.
The lean, gray-haired knight in charge of the 1st Element's mounted forces gave the Warmaster a rough estimate of the number of his forces that had already been loaded aboard the Navy. That number, too, seemed to be almost near the complete number of cavalrymen.
Athellenas maneuvered Onyx into one of the larger skiffs, which was being loaded with artillery pieces from Sir Brezhnov's gunnery. The trip from the shore to the Resolute, the flagship of the Royal Navy, took about ten minutes.
Two ratings led Onyx away to the stables belowdecks as the skiff's complement was taken aboard.
Athellenas strode onto the deck of the Resolute, exchanging a nod and salute with Hathorum, the commander of the Reolute's complement of marines.
Admiral Straume was at the base of the mainmast, observing a young midshipman who was leading a team of ratings in unfurling the mainsail. The Admiral was the Fleetmaster of the Royal Navy. He was a man of shorter stature, but he looked like he was made for the see, much in the same way Athellenas looked bred for combat.
He had the craggy, weather-beaten features of a man who spent most of his time at sea. His eyes were a faded blue, there was a scar running down the right side of his face, and his thick black beard had been drawn and braided into two separate plaits—classic Fremmenik style. Basically, he looked like the image of a pirate captain, albeit one in a deep blue Royal Navy greatcoat adorned with silver epaulettes.
"Figured we'd cross paths again, Warmaster," the Fleetmaster greeted Athellenas, tipping his three-cornered hat.
"The honor is mine, Admiral," Athellenas clasped his fist to his heart in a salute.
As the remainder of the 1st Element boarded the Royal Navy fleet, Athellenas filled Admiral Straume in on what had transpired in the Menaphite Empire since the 1st Element had landed near Iunu several months ago. The Fleetmaster listened with varying amounts of disbelief and interest as the Warmaster described the demons his men had slain, the horrors they had endured, and the challenges they had overcome.
"A story destined for the history books, no doubt," Straume declared. "And to think I had it bad with those infernal pirates off the coasts of Karamja. At least those battles were fought on relatively equal terms…I could never imagine marching on an elder demon."
"Pray that you never have to," Athellenas agreed.
By mid-afternoon, the last of the 1st Element's supplies had been transferred to the fleet, leaving bare sand dunes and short grass where only a day ago there had been a large, sprawling army camp.
A light, but firm breeze breathed up along the coast just as the ratings up in the riggings finished unfurling the mainsail. The great swathes of cloth caught the winds, ballooning outward.
"You see?" Admiral Straume gestured to the sails and the other ships, which were beginning to lazily turn towards the north, heading with the wind. "Saradomin sending us his regards, no doubt. Though if he really wanted to help us, he should get his holy, divine arse out of Entrana and fight alongside us."
"If Saradomin acted in that manner, Zamorak would likely leave his Necropolis in the Wilderness and fight in person as well," Athellenas reasoned. "That would tear the world apart; two Gods directly fighting each other. Two Gods' armies fighting each other are already doing enough damage."
"I s'pose you're right," Straume conceded. "Bah, ground warfare is a nasty business, wot. Gaining victory only if more of the enemy gets hacked up than you…out here, it's nice and simple. Sink the ship, and it's all over."
The crew of the Resolute quickly got to their posts, spurred on by the lieutenants and warrant officers, while most of Athellenas's men filed down belowdecks. The Admiral ordered the anchor pulled up and the rest of the sails unfurled. By the time these orders had been carried out, the northerly wind was taking the Resolute up and away from the Mesaphite desert at a good, steady speed.
Admiral Straume took in a deep breath, savoring the smell of the ocean and the feeling of sea-spray dampening his face. "A good wind," the Fleetmaster declared, grasping the rail with one of his hands and spreading the other out to the wind. "We should come to the shores of the Iceyene's lands within a week."
"I hope so…" Athellenas murmured, gazing out beyond the prow of the flagship, as if he were already trying to catch a glimpse of the Hallowlands. "If half of what the Iceyene queen tells King Osman is true, they're going to need help fast."
"If they haven't fallen already," Straume added darkly, turning from the rail to face the Warmaster. "I've been around these parts longer than you; I've heard the reports our outposts are sending. Drakan's been hitting the Iceyene pretty hard, but apparently Zamorak, instead of bolstering Thammaron down here, sent his next wave of monsters into the Hallowlands."
Athellenas gave a low grunt. "No doubt to dissuade Lord Drakan from simply taking everything in his own name, and then declaring himself independent. That would cook the Dark One's grills pretty good…"
"And if he takes out the Hallowlands, Centralia will be without allies," Straume finished. "But it gets better…that horde he sent is being commanded by a Mahjarrat. Zemouregal, I believe his name was…"
Athellenas's stomach lurched at the name. He remembered all too well the destruction the Mahjarrat Azzanadra had wrought upon Thammaron and his massive army…now, Athellenas couldn't help but picture that same level of power, only focused upon his own men. It wasn't a pretty thought.
The Warmaster gently eased those thoughts from his mind. If his men were destined to die by the hand of a Mahjarrat, he would deal with it when the time came. Until then, he needed to focus on getting to Hallowvale.
Hallowvale… Athellenas knew that Centralia was where the fate of Gielinor would be decided…but Hallowvale was where the fate of Centralia would be decided. And no matter how much he tried to resist such thoughts, Athellenas could not help but picture Zamorak's filth sweeping through the forests of his homeland.
With the fall of the Menaphite Empire, each passing day made the fall of Centralia seem more and more possible.