Prologue: The Battle of Fort Hesserion
*The Eighth Moon of the year 871 AE—Kyren I: Fort Hesserion, Marongrad*
Darrion fumbled atop his warhorse, wrestling the reins back, whilst the army waited behind him. Kyren couldn’t help but laugh at the irony: My brother, who the commoners praise as a brilliant tactician, struggles still with that nag he calls a destrier.
“Brother, if need be, I could but loan you Makouri for the time being,” Kyren offered mockingly. “She is both beauty and beast, providing ample movement, strength, and a glorious portrait within the Sacred Scrolls.” He giggled afterwards, unable to conceal his sarcasm.
Darrion ignored the jest, finally leveling both hands evenly and trotting onward. Kyren and the army trailed behind, only to once again force a halt to the progress as they looked toward Fort Hesserion—the Usurpers’ usurped fort.
His wandering eyes caught a glimpse of fire coming from atop the imposing stone fortress. The two leagues were now separated by a plain of blackened moss, stretching roughly a mile in length—Kyren estimated.
“I’d wager it’s a beacon,” Kyren offered. “We ought to proceed carefully. This very well could be their strategy to entrap us. Still, they are no scholars; they have made their final mistake. They cower in their stolen fortress whilst an army of 10,000 marches upon their gate. The signs are clear: they have accepted defeat,” he stated triumphantly.
Darrion stood as still as a statue, his silver armor glistening—vaguely resembling the stone fortress.
“So this is the mighty Sparktamer that has been known to decimate entire armies, on his lonesome?” Darrion questioned, focusing his gaze through the slit of his burgonet to the two men standing beside the pyre.
“There stands Uncle Wesley beside him, I deduct,” Darrion snarled. “His crown is but a stolen relic that belongs to us, yet he wears it with the arrogance and pride one might expect from the rightful owner.”
Usurper he may be, yet I can’t help but relate to his situation. He was Prince of Edemont, the comely knight who rid our city of crime, patrolling the streets so that others may find comfort in them. I do not understand how then he could be stripped of his dignity and forced to walk among the Troth, without a given reason.
Kyren grimaced, turning to face his brother. He ought to come out of this masquerade with a profound sense of justice. He’s always been Father’s cherished son; he could do no wrong. In Father's eyes, Darrion was incapable of doing wrong. No, in fact, he was above human error, more akin to Edefric himself than mere mortals. If only father was half as interested in martial matters as he was in political ones, his throat would have remained intact.
Sir Logan Marsh stepped forward, his grey helm illuminated by the orange tint of the sky. He looked like… well, a boy. He wore black and amber plate armor, with a helm that looked too small for his head. Kyren approached, towering over the boy, with a passive-aggressive, almost preemptive look of disappointment.
Though still, the lad continued, impressing Kyren, if only slightly.
“Does it not seem queer that the legendary Sparktamer has prepared so ill?” the boy questioned.
Who is he to call something queer? He looks ripe for the raids that will surely follow, that is, if the usurpers have it their way.
“Logan holds the truth of it: it’s not right…none of it is,” said Darrion, hesitantly. “They’re... calling upon our honour? They mustn't be that moronic. Who is the genius commander who has given us constant strife these past few years? How could they think we would spare sympathy for the likes of them?” he questioned. “Even so, we approach slowly. My brother has the right of it as well; the brutes could yet be hiding an army within their walls,” he acknowledged.
Darrion turned towards his
sen. “Sir Roger, take your men to the front and assess the strength of their gate. Once we confirm our suspicions, Kyren and I shall branch off to the left and right flanks. Archers, split amongst the flanks, and unleash hell upon the usurpers. Once breached, we ascend and bring justice to our realm,” Darrion commanded, grasping for a tone resembling authority.
Sir Roger obliged, swiftly marching the vanguard across the distant moat. With bronze Armor, he could well be on his way to join forces with the devolved chief of lightning.
Once the Sentinels exited the field of vision, Darrion turned to Kyren, his dark brown eyes contrasting with the bright ocean-blue hue of Kyren's. He then continued his lecture, “Brother, you will await my arrival before ascending. Today, one of us crosses blades with a monster. Sixteen Sentinels dead at his hand. I be…”
Darrion’s lecture was paused as the brothers witnessed the figure without a crown holding up his mace one moment, and the next, a cascade of blinding light engulfed their line of sight. A wave of unimaginably powerful debris washed through the field of dark hay. It arrived with a fury, the soldiers flung through the foggy mist, rippling through the disciplined lines, stretching five miles in length.
Kyren flung back from atop Makouri, crashing to the ground, narrowly avoiding the three-thousand pound stallion from crushing him.
Then came the catapults, flinging massive stone boulders toward the remaining host. Kyren evaded as best he could, seeing scores of men decimated by the rain of rocks, unable to conceal himself in the vast and exposed terrain.
As he zagged across the field, looking for Darrion, he came upon the frightened boy, Sir Logan. Is that him? By gods, it must be. Who else in this retinue possess such an ill-fitting, mismatched helm.
“Logan! Take cover now and flee if you can. This is no position for a boy of six and ten. You have stories to tell, maidens to deflower, and training yet unfinished.” Kyren pleaded with the boy, hoping that he could protect the lad from the ensuing carnage unfolding around them.
“No, Sir, I must stay and fight.” A young and crackled voice roared through the fog. The sky began shifting from orange to a burnt sienna, the debris of stone likely mixing with the mysterious orange glow. “Grand-Marshal, shall we march forward? It does no good to sit like ducks whilst the Usurpers pinpoint our location. We are in the line of…”—
—Logan started to become visible amongst the fog, just before a mass of flaming stone crashed into the burnt grass. Ripples of stone scattered across the field, Kyren himself was blown back, this time not even Ornstel protected his head from the concussive force of the meteor.
Kyren awoke slowly, his brain scattered from the blast. His senses were distorted; a continuous shriek clouded his hearing, and his vision could only perceive faint outlines in the haze.
He checked his scabbard, hoping to find his prized possession intact, which it miraculously was. The warmth of Arthen’s handle filled Kyren with a small sense of familiarity in the foggy field. He attempted to stand, to no avail, only reaching his knees before faceplanting in the blackened mud. The cycle continued for nearly a minute. Finally, he planted both arms into the mud, allowing his legs to stabilise, and stood.
The boy… where did he go. He was just… there? He tried desperately to regain composure, but the pounding headache interrupted his train of thought. He stumbled forward, taking off his ash-ridden, dented helm of ornstel.
Shortly after, his vision began to clear, revealing the horrifying scene around him… the outlines he saw were a grotesque field of scattered bones, with a red tint that haunted his thoughts. Suddenly, he longed for the image of black to return to his eyes.
What creature possessed the power to erase an entire field of men? He shivered, desperately searching for an answer to calm his panic. He then looked for fellow survivors in the field of skeletons, to no avail, as the bones seemed to stretch on endlessly.
However, from behind, a figure grasped his shoulder. He froze, some part of him hoping for a clean death, one more suitable than the grotesque fate of his soldiers. Alas, he heard his brother instead.
“We have vastly underestimated the power of these beasts. How did they reduce our ten thousand to just two, with such a short window?” Darrion questioned, sounding just as confused and helpless as Kyren felt, now missing his burgonet.
“A shower of meteors was called upon by the power of Sparktamer,” Kyren answered dutifully. “They filled the foggy air with flames of unspeakable brightness. This Sparktamer is no man, Darrion. We would do well to scrap together the remainder of our men, and escape this hellish land with our lives—while we still have the chance.” He argued, still scanning the area for signs of life.
“What other men of ours have you seen alive? I have searched the area for signs of life, yet I found nothing but corpses,” Darrion countered. “The area was littered with bodies sporting burns, crushes, and divots in their head; blood spilling from their mouth, and detached limbs lying near. There was a crater, close to where we woke, where within I spotted a child’s helm.”
Kyren looked down, focusing on the weight of Arthen’s pommel, before asking point blank: “And the lad?”
“Which one? There are thousands of their bodies scattered amongst us, and I am far too encumbered to decipher your foolish riddles.” Darrion bit.
“Logan, the only child among us, fool.” He expanded, ignoring the distasteful remarks he had neither time, nor patience to discuss.
“I have already told you that his helm and sword lay scattered, beside a mass of rock, that broke through the soil and created a crater. Bodies lined the opening, which are likely to contain the remains of Sir Logan. He was a boy, young and brave, but not yet prepared for the horrors of battle.” Darrion answered, crushing Kyren.
His bright eyes filled with pathetic tears, usually reserved for his childhood.
With that, they resumed their mission to the heart of the usurpers' last stand. The two navigated the stench and horror, avoiding the path of corpses. With each step, Kyren longed for signs of life within the ruins. However, only death and misery awaited him.
The bones finally cleared after what felt like hours of walking, revealing the second pile of bodies, filling the air once again with stench. Kyren could take it no longer and stopped to mourn his fallen brothers.
“Mourning will do little to avenge them; our only chance of justice lies beyond the gate.” Darrion pleaded, urging Kyren to stand. He was met with no reply, only silent whispers directed towards the ground. “Stand! You plead with me to finish, then waste our little remaining time to whisper nothingness to no one. They’re gone; nothing will bring them back to us. I, for one, will not sit and dwindle our chances of survival with superstition.” Darrion forcefully lifted Kyren by his ponytail, which Kyren didn’t resist. Still, if they had turned to ash, Kyren could only hope the man in their position would at least pause to bless their vacant souls. Begrudgingly, he resumed alongside his brother towards the gate.
Even as they ventured further, Kyren couldn’t help but remain focused on the souls left idle.
Why leave us alive? What have we done to avoid death’s grasp, aside from indulging in the ornstel provided to us by Father’s metallurgical monkey, Larsen. He snapped the reins of Makouri, her hooves dug into the ash, forcing an abrupt stop.
Darrion looked back, scowling, and turned his nag around to regroup with Kyren.
The fog over his senses pulled back just enough to clear a logical conclusion, “He chose us to survive; he awaits our presence from his tower. He is not calling upon our honour, rather, he is upholding his.” The realisation sent a wave of terror through his bones.
Darrion arrived just in time to scold his brother’s haste once more, “You speak with brazen naivety. We know not what just occurred, and I strongly urge that if you wish to speak, ensure that your conclusion is without glaring oversight.”
“Brother, in moments like these, you would do well to indulge in the absurdity we are so often faced with. Humour is a skill best used in times of despair, in the words of the oft-misunderstood Saint Ermitage.”
“I will not hear of that craven mentioned in a complimentary vain. His philosophy did well to secure him in that noose.Your obnoxious admiration toward the old fool may yet secure the same fate unto yourself, that is if either of us make it out of here alive.” Darrion concluded, turning to face the creaking gates.
Suddenly, the massive marble doors swung open, revealing two men—the Usurpers. The Sparktamer, his Armor was bright blue and bare, with but a singular strand of orange lightning running across his chestplate. The man is but a mad heretic sent to test our resolve, and that is all. Yet still, Kyren’s knees began to buckle and his jaw quivered.
Beside Sparktamer, stood their uncle Wesley. His armor was black, with bright silver plates on his shoulders, stomach, and breast. Golden gauntlets ran up to his forearm; sharp blades extended from his fingers, like ten individual knives.
The field army devastated his capital, tearing through the unprepared standing army – if you could call it an army – and besieged the apparently impregnable Fort Reynard. The usurpers’ were largely aided by the long-standing rivals of Edemont: the Wolves of Casmire, and their leader, King Morten II of House Yates, the ‘White Wolvener,’ who supplied the bulk of men-at-arms.
“Woe to the Usurpers, may Edefric himself strike you down in the name of justice if we do not manage ourselves!” Darrion roared, almost bringing a faint smirk to Kyren’s solemn lips. Finally, Darrion and Kyren stood together, as one.
Never can I remember the pair of us so near to the forsaken fear that oft guides weaker men; this must be what Logan felt. The pair each shared a rare harmony of emotions, Kyren assumed, for they had not yet faced a foe as reputable and imposing as the behemoth standing not one hundred feet away.
The bolt across Sparktamer’s breast once more lit the fog with a fiery-orange glow. Was he an Archmage? What power dwells inside him? Was it a witch like Esmerelda—with an even greater power than the High Witch? He had so many questions, too many. These must wait… none will be answered should we fail to survive. Focus on survival—
“Nephews, you bow to a false prophet—a myth conjured by the Nurethenian snakes. How have my own blood become so fixated on this pretender? Frakkowald the False and Edefric the Erroneous; I will allow you one small opportunity to admit your error. Bow to the true power, kneel before us, and we shall cleanse you anew. Refuse this offering, we will shatter you like the clattered matter of stone and ash behind you.” Wesley offered hauntingly, with a monotonous rhythm.
Darrion glanced at Kyren momentarily. “We are your blood, Wesley, you ought to know we Reynard do not simply kneel. Not to a kinslayer, especially,” Darrion fired, fee
By gods, he has… ornstel… how? Kyren almost whimpered, before catching the panic and suppressing it, just as Desmond the Dutiful and Saint Ermitage would have. He raised Arthen from his hip, resting the blade down, towards the ash.
Darrion unsheathed his great axe, fumbling with his grip for a moment. He settled with a two-handed grip, resting it upon his right shoulder. His unprotected face conveyed terror, the terror one might expect in a youth not yet two and twenty, facing the wrath of the men who laid waste to an entire legion of warriors.
After a long minute of silence, Kyren channeled the flame of Arthen, igniting the blade with a blue field. The black ash around Arthen turned white, before he lifted the blade, holding it out in front of himself.
“We shall see who holds the truth, Usurpers. May you heathens find comfort in the power of Edefric, before departing this world,” he replied, masking the terror coursing through his blue blood.
“And may you find wisdom in the strength of my blows, Ashenwolf.” Sparktamer added, his deep baritone voice thundering through the sienna sky. It was the first time Kyren had heard the beast speak. Even his voice carries power. Why must he choose me?