Eve of Battle

[The Wizard]

This is another story by me, one I'm still busy with, and until then I'm stalling the work on The Great Story It's going slowly though, and two of the chapters are not entirely to my liking. It's also (albeit loosely) based on BnW, but it is more as I imagined the future of the game when I started to write it, and also a bit of the sequel, BnW2.
(TheWhizz is, btw, my name on those boards and the source of this name. )

EVE OF BATTLE --- BY THEWHIZZ



PROLOGUE

RUN
This was the cry the gate guards of the peaceful farming village of Boughrin heard on an early summer day. It was protected by it's stone wall, and a ridge of high hills. There was only one pass leading through them, and through it, they saw a heavily armed man running towards them. He was wearing plate mail armor, and a large two handed sword dangled along his left leg.
He ran up to the gates. Skeletons Hundreds of them they're coming this way, he screamed to them. Calm, Pogar. What did you see? Skeletons?, the gate guard asked the obviously very alarmed man. Yes, you fool What do you think, that I'm lying to you?, replied Pogar in an angry, rushed tone. To this, the other guard answered: Tut tut tut...you would do well to ease your tone. Skeletons can't be here anyways All skeletal warriors are summoned by necromancers, and they only exist in Ostroan lands, not here in Vysi lands. Don't you understand? Of course I know that all undead come from Ostroan lands, but these are mere raiders They're only here as probes, to see how strong the defences are here, and how the lay of the land is The necromancers can watch through the unholy eyes of their creations, you know, Pogar shouted. Damn country boys They know nothing of the true world All they know about is their surroundings They've never been to a real battle They've never even been near Ostroan lands How can I convince them? That's it...I can't. Damn it Now the only way they'll prepare, is when those skeletal raiders are visible, and they'll have to reach the zenith of the pass for that... Bah...let me in You can do that for me, or can't you?, he asked the guards. Of course we can. Come in, the bigger of the two answered, and motioned the gate openers to open the gate. When the gate was open, Pogar ran into the village, and the gate was closed with a loud smash. He stopped at a relatively small wooden house. His home. He had finally reached it. At that moment, he heard shouts from the gate. By the mighty will of Vys Pogar was right Sound the town bell, shouted the smaller gate guard, the one who had said that skeletons can't reach these lands, deep within Vysi lands. The bell was rung, and a messenger on horseback dashed out of gates before they were assaulted by the nearly two hundred skeletal warriors. They stopped about fifteen meters from the gate. Their black armor and wicked, serrated swords shone in the daylight. But by far the most frightening were their eyes. These 'eyes' weren't literally eyes, but burning orbs of ice blue colored fire. They only waited a few seconds, but after that, they charged the gates. A huge wave of undead smashed against the reinforced wooden gate, shields first, like a huge battering ram. The undead charging the walls went up with ladders. Only some of these were knocked off, and in a matter of minutes, the rampants were crawling with undead. The undead had a sort of fear aura, which paralyzed any normal, inexperienced warrior with fear.
Pogar was in his house. My beloved, you must leave immediately Leave with our child I don't want to die in vain, knowing that I will join those I love more than life in death., he pleaded to a young, beautiful woman with luminous green eyes and chestnut brown hair, which flowed down her shoulders like dark honey. What do you mean, Pogar? Aren't you coming with us? Please tell me you are not serious, she replied, with fear easily audible in her voice. Delüne, I swore in the name of Vys that I would protect this village until death separated me from it. That time has come. I don't want to join the both of you so soon, Pogar replied, anxiously. Very well...once you get something into your head, you'll do it, and no one can stop you., Delüne answered. They went out of the house, to the stables nearby. At that same time, the skeletons smashed through the gates, and those on the walls jumped off them. The militia that were summoned by the town bell immediately charged them, and a battle commenced, with the militia slowly, but quite steadily being pushed back to the town aquare, as more and more of them were killed at the 'hands' of the skeletal raiders. Now rushing through the gates were many skeletal archers, firing there arrows from their large, thick bows. Pogar led his big, brown horse out of the stables, and helped his wife, Delüne, on. He then handed her their son. I trust you'll take the best of care of our son, Garan..., he said, and winked to her. She nodded, and couldn't say a thing, as she was choking in her tears. Do not cry, my beloved...I'll always be with you. With that, he slapped the horse on the thigh, and it set off, to the back gates, to escape through one of the tiny hidden passes out of the valley. Pogar put his helm on, shut the visor over his face, drew his mighty two handed sword, and headed into the fray. He was one of the Elite Guard, pressed with guarding the cities and towns of Vysi lands, so he knew his way around a battle. The skeletal archers were firing wildly and haphazardly at everything that moved. Including the horse carrying Delüne and Garan. Sadly, the three arrows hurtling towards them were well aimed, as opposed to most of the other arrows. One hit the horse in it's neck deeply, the other hit Delüne in her back. The last one struck the ground in front of the horse. The horse tripped due to lack of air, and fell on the ground, bleeding heavily. Delüne was already dead by that time. Miraculously, the baby, Garan, softly fell to the ground, unhurt. It kicked and screamed for its mother, but she couldn't answer. Suddenly, it silenced, for it heard the loud beating of wings in the air. Suddenly, the beating of wings fell silent, and a with a swoosh, the baby was picked up and lifted into the air. It was being carried by a large black dragon, and it flew high over the mountains.
In the meanwhile, Pogar had been battling the skeletons, smashing many of them into piles of bones. But he was getting tired, and with that came lowered reaction speed and strength. He was trying to fight off five skeletons at once, but they didn't tire. They were dead already, mind you. Suddenly one of them slashed him over the chest, and he felt the intense burn that the sword the undead warrior weilded gave him. He was then stabbed, and fell to the ground, joing all the others that had been killed. The pittoresque wooden houses in the village went up in flames, and the smoke could be seen quite far away.
That night, the black dragon, which had saved Garan, settled the child down upon the ground. It then took off to the skies, and waited in the clouds to see who would find the baby. After thirty minutes, a relatively old man found the baby, and picked it up. He walked off with it, trying to sooth it, which did have some good affect. The dragon cast a spell over the farmer, giving him the memory of the baby's past, and then proceeded to cast the same spell over the farmer's wife. It then flew away, leaving Garan in his new father's hands.

CHAPTER I: NEWS

The glare of the sun shone down upon the metal helmet of a wall guard. He was patrolling the rampants of the mighty walls of the capital of the Dysarian Empire, Rynllywynn. He looked out over the plains that stretched out to the horizon, where the plains met mountains. He shielded his eyes from the bright sun, which wasn't unusual in summer. Suddenly, he saw a small figure moving rapidly towards the him, forming a cloud of dust behind it. From years of experience, he knew exactly what it was. Messenger, he called down to the gate guards. How far away?, one of them called back. About three to four miles away Then we still have some rest., came the swift reply. And he was right. About twenty-some minutes later, the messenger had reached the gates. These were beautifully ornated gates, with runes on them, which would glow brightly when the city was under siege. Legends have it that these gates were made out of mithril, combined with stone from the deepest recesses of Eden by the might of Vys. The messenger rode past them hurriedly. He rode through the wide avenues that led to the Government District of Rynllywynn. He dashed over one of the many bridges spanning the river Vysas, named after the God these people beleived in. According to the myth of Vys' becoming, he came from the river, therefore Rynllywynn was built around it. The mighty city was shaped as if one big circle was about halfway absorbing a smaller one. Well, that's if you saw it from a satellite;). It was divided into several districts, because it was such a large city. Our messenger needed to go to the verge between the Temple District and the Government District, where there stood a huge tower, the Grand Temple to Vys. It rose into the sky for hundreds of meters, and amazing sight to one that had never seen such a construction. He had ridden all the way from Boughrin, it had taken him two days. He had seen the smoke that rose from the ruins of the village after the undead raiding party had sacked it. But he didn't go back, of course. He had ridden all day and all night, for two days in a row, until he finally saw the glow of the capital in the sunlight. Now, he was a few hundred meters from his goal: the Grand Temple to Vys, where the High Council was seated. The High Council was a group of the highest priests to Vys, the very highest politicians of the Dysarian Empire, the highest millitary officers of the Imperial armies, the King, leader of the people of the Empire, and the leaders of the Order of the Night, the Paladin order of Dysaria. The messenger had reached his goal. Please, let me in, I have an urgent message from the Northern Farmlands., he told the Temple guards. Oh, very well. But they're busy conversing...so you'll probably have to wait., the guard replied. The messenger didn't pay any heed to this, and rushed through the gates. He got off his horse, led it to the stables, and opened the big doors to the hall leading to the Council Chamber. He walked through the torch-lit, ornately decorated hall, and he could hear the voices of the Council members. You don't believe us do you? Well, that's logical, seeing as you never venture out of the Temple District..., came one of the hushed voices. He heard another, louder voice, with a clear tint of anger in it. What? You would do well to not speak of me in that manner, Paladin. Very well... Calm now, Derosius. Anger is nothing we can use in these times. But what you tell us is quite strange...raiding of the Northern farming communitie--, suddenly, the voice was cut off by a guard: Honorable members of the High Council, may I interrupt thy debate to tell you a messenger has an urgent message from the Northern Farmlands? You may, of course. Let the good man in It was the voice of the so-called Derosius, one of the highest politicians in Imperial politics. The messenger walked through the doors, and onto the platform before him, made specially for messengers that brought urgent or highly valuable information to the High Council. Speak, honorable man So you have ridden all the way here from the Northern Farmlands?, the King said to him. U-uhh...yes, milord., the messenger replied sheepishly. Then you deserve to bring your message to us immediately, the King replied. O...ok, milord. I come from Boughrin..., he started. He told his tale, that he left Boughrin that fateful afternoon, and that it had been attacked by a large raiding party made up of undead. He told them he had seen smoke rise up late that evening, as he looked back over the mountains. Immediately after he finished, the Paladin that had spoke earlier said: See? I told you But no...you wouldn't listen. Calm down now, Darlaer. This is grave news you tell of...an army will be sent to the Northern Farmlands soon, right, my King?, one of the military commanders asked. Of course...unless.....Hydra'in......., there was a pause. You ask my opinion, King?, came a loud, inhuman, infinately wise voice from the shadows behind the circle-shaped chamber of discussion. The messenger took a few steps back, as he saw two yellow orbs in the shadows. My opinion is, that this army should be sent. But remember: these raiding parties are only Ostroan probes, used to see how our defences are., the voice replied. V-very well, Wise One. It shall be done as you, right hand of Vys, say., the King said, subordinance in his voice. I believe you are dismissed, messenger. Go to your home...unless that home was in Boughrin? No...it wasnt, milord...thank you., the messenger answered, turned around, and walked silently out of the Grand Temple to Vys. Maybe now you'll listen to us more?, came the voice of the Paladin.

[The Wizard]

CHAPTER II: LOSSES

Two days after the High Council was finally convinced that an army had to protect the Northern Farmlands, the army meant to protect them left it's southern bases to go to the north. They thought it would be a routine job, lasting a few months at most.
Fast-forward twenty years. the army supposed to have been there only a few months, had instead been there for twenty-four years, trying to push the skeletal raiders out, but with no luck. Garan, our little baby, had grown up in the meanwhile. He was a storng young man, in his early twenties. He had seen the Dysarian forces pass the quiet farming community he lived now. But lately, he had been worried for the safety of his parents and his beloved spouse, Tharitha. He had talked to the troops nearby, in Redleaf Keep, the castle overlooking the countryside. They had told him of an Orcish clan nearby, which had done battle with something. They had found corpses the day before. He had talked to them five days ago. He feared the thing that killed the Orcs was something even fouler, skeletons. But he could do nothing. He was only assigned to temporary militia duty if there was danger nearby. So, to try and calm his troubled mind down, he took a stroll into the nearby forest. In the back of his mind, he hoped he would found some clues about what killed the orcs. He went into the forest, to the pool he had found years ago, a place where he could come to complete rest and calmness, especially at night. He spent the entire afternoon there, forgetting his strange youth, his worries, everything, except how beatiful this place was, and how it calmed him. At the end of the afternoon, he went back, with a bit of reluctance, he loved the pool so much. He walked through the forest, enjoying the light summer breeze that was blowing through the oak trees. He walked slowly, so he could stay in this idyllic place as long as he could before he had to return to the troubles of real life. After a walk of fifteen minutes over the beaten path, he reached the end of the trees, and the full shine of the sun hit him, which he enjoyed after having spent well over four hours in the cool shade of the dense trees around the pool. He strolled eastwards, back to his home village. After twenty minutes, he came to a damaged lap of farming land. This got his mind racing: Huh? What happened to this? This is Luttin's piece of land Why is it scorched? Oh no....., he thought. He started running. He ran over the road that led to his hometown, which led across the many fields, which were all scorched on several places, where normally riping crops should have been. And then he reached the top of the hill, which he had to reach to see his town. But he didn't. All he saw were burning ruins of the pittoresque wooden houses that he had always loved so much. His eyes widened, and he stopped running. Oh no My....my village Wha...what happened?, he thought frantically. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and before he knew it, he stood amongst the ruins of houses he had thought indestructable when he was just a child. He looked around in despair. All he saw were motionless bodies he didn't recognise, he hoped. Suddenly, he heard a moan. Wh..Who's there...?, he asked cautiously. He heard another moan. Slowly, he walked in the moan's direction. What he found was more terrifying to him than what he had thought was moaning. He saw his father lying next to the motionless body of his mother. Ga...Garan...It's you...the...the skeletons..., his father croaked to Garan. The skeletons...they...attacked the village...an hour ago...and...killed you mother..., he paused for a breath. Garran looked at the body of his mother, shocked and horrified by what he had just heard, even though this was exactly what he had expected when he first saw the scorched field of his neighbor, Luttin. His father resumed: Garan...Tharitha...she has been killed...her body lies on...on the village square.. Garan's father made a vague gesture towards the village square. Now...now is the time...to tell you...your true history..., the dying old man said in a raspy tone. Garan was already crying, mourning for the lost lives of the one he had loved so much, Tharitha, and his mother, and the fact that he would soon lose his father too. The old man started telling the tale that the black dragon had spun in his head by way of a spell twenty years ago, when he had carried Garan away from the burning remains of Boughrin, also destroyed by the vicious skeletal raiders. He told him of his real parents, how they were killed, and of the fact that he had been saved. But he didn't, however, tell him of the mighty black dragon, that had in fact saved him and allowed his foster father to tell him this. After telling his tale, the old man drew one, horribly painful, raspy breath, and then blew out his very last, dying in the process. Holding his father's cold hand, Garan cried out to the heavens, and slumped next to his father, crying. Suddenly, he got up. There was something gone in his eyes, and mad rage had come in its place. He ran out of the village, to the river. When he reached the bridge over the river, he took one last look at the village, and saw something horrible. A group of necromancers had gathered in the village square. He saw one of them stand over the body of Tharitha. He raised his staff, and a blood-red fire surrounded the the body, and he heard the burning of flesh, and mere seconds later, in the bodies place, there stood a new skeletal raider. It was heavily armoured in black plate mail, which had an eerie shine upon it. It wore a skull cap on its exposed skull, and it wielded a long, curved, serrated blade and a big, round, spiked shield that was made in the same black color as its armor. Two ice-blue, immensely cold looking burning orbs formed its eyes. They were by far the most frightening part of the skeleton. Garan had tried to look away, but his eyes were locked on what was his spouse. The skeleton ran off somewhere, out of his line of sight. Garan's legs were shaking. He was crying unashamedly, many tears flowing down his cheeks. He stumbled backwards, to the edge of the bridge. He tried to hold his balance, but failed miserably, as he was shaking all over from grief. He fell into the fast-streaming river Toltos, the lifeblood of the Northern Farmlands of the Dysarian Empire. All that could be seen of him after he fell in, was his hand, but this too was quickly submerged in the water.

CHAPTER III: DAWN OF WAR

Baedon awoke to the sounds he knew as a battle drill. .....Huh?, he mumbled, as he tried to get out of bed the right way. The door opened. Baedon What in the name of Kylbodyn, the patron of war, are you still doing in bed?, the soldier, Baedon's friend Farrum, exclaimed. ...But...but...what is happening?, Baedon replied. Oh, for the sake of...you slept through it all? Farrum sighed. Those Dysarians have declared war upon us Quickly, get yourself equipped, before the Sir finds out Ok........, Baedon yawned. Great., he thought. Just when I finally have a good night's rest, those crazy Dysarians declare war upon us. I guess bein lazy will have to wait...yet another reason to hate the Vysi.
Baedon was part of the elite Vanguards, the Paladins of the Ostroan Alliance. These were all elite warriors, very heavily armored and armed. Their skill in arms was only matched by the Paladins of the Vysi Order of the Night. But what made them truly fearsome, was their dedication to Ostro, and their savagery and persistence in battle. But their most fearsome ability was to go berserk. This would increase their strength and speed threefold, and it would make them utterly fearless, even against a complete superior force, which was enormously frightening to those that would be on the recieving end of this berserking. They had their main base twenty-one leagues from the central-western coast of the Alliance, built straight into a big rock outcrop in the middle of the sea. The main keep was a towering structure, being at least fifty meters tall. It was in fact not a keep, but a small city, where the Vangaurds trained in the arts of war, and where they learned new skills and passed old barriers. Next to Vanguards, only a maximum number of fifty Ostroan clerics were allowed in. Below the keep, there were four subteranean levels. The two lowest contained weapon and food storages. The top two levels were used for training. They held two gauntlet runs, an easy and a hard one. Around the rock, on which the keep was built, was the harbor of the keep, known as Berlattstromm. It could hold the massive number of three-hundred of the infamous Ostroan longboats. It was surrounded on all sided by a sea curtain wall, which was eight meters thick, and had been enchanted by ancient mages to strengthen it further. The harbor was divided into five equal parts by walls. Every fifty meters, there was a tower, and each tower held a sige weapon, ranging from simple ballistae to the sheer power of Dwarven cannons. Because of its position, and its massive defences, it was virtually impregnable. Plus it had the advantage that the Dysarians still did not know of its position. But now back to Baedon.
Ah, finally, your here, you lazy runt, shouted Sir Rauth de Hyleon, one of the greatest Vanguards of the world at that time. I was beginning to worry we wouldn't have ya along, a strange thing at the very least, Baedon. Hahahahaha Yes, sir. I just had problems waking up, for once., Baedon replied. Farrum laughed at this. Sir Rauth was beginning to get annoyed. Ok, men Time to board the boats and sail out to the battlefield, which this time is the border with the Dysarian Northern Farmlands. If you didn't know yet, he looked at Baedon, the Dysarians are angry about that the Skeletal Raiders have destroyed many of their villages there. Remember, this time, we'll be forming up into units, so we won't be leading units of axemen separately, but we'll operate in units of forty. Now get on to those boats Baedon and the other Vanguards boarded three longboats, and waited for their leader to board as well. When the boarding planks were pulled in, the mighty sea gates were opened, and the longboats set off. One-hundred and twenty Vanguards in three of the sleek, fast-moving longboats sailed southeastwards, to their landing site in the Karborim fjord.
Three days later, after a two-days march, they reached their destination, the encampment of the army of Baron Feltódinn, which was stationed there to counter any eventual attacks by the Dysarian forces nearby. The moment they arrived, Sir Rauth was ordered personally by Feltódinn to direct a probe attack into Dysarian territoty, assisted by a unit of one-hundred Gorûl Axemen, the infamous heavily armored infantry that filled the ranks of the Alliance armies. They too held the ability to go berserk. Sir Rauth was an excellent general, well able to field large forces, but even more able to field small forces of around the one-hundred and fifty men. They left the instant they had eaten and were a bit rested. Heh heh heh...I hope this baby gets some real action, said Baedon as he swung his axe around in a wide arc. Me too buddy Theres going to be a lot of stains on their ground when I'm done..., Farrum replied, eager to once again taste the wonders of battle (well to him ). And after a two hour march in the mist of the Northern Highlands of the Empire, he did.
Sir Rauth was the first to spot a large group of moving things. He quickly realized these were two formations of men, marching in the small valley below them. He ordered his men to a halt. Look, we're going to wait until they're straight under us. Then, I'll raise my hand, and when I give that signal, we charge. Got that?, he explained to the men. All of those visible to him nodded. Thankfully, the mist thickened, making it impossibe for the enemy to spot them prematurely. But since they had the advantage of height, they could still make out the enemy as they marched along. The Dysarian patrol was made up of a hundred Dysarian Infantry, heavily armored spearmen with big tower shields, and eighty Dysarian auxiliary archers. To Baedon, the moment to their charge lasted an eternity. At last, Sir Rauth raised his hand, and let it fall again. With loud battle cries and horn blasts, the Ostroans charged to battle. Baedon loved doing this. The Dysarians were completely caught off guard, and before they could reorganize to a formation which let them absorb the shock impact, the Vanguards, which were leading the charge, had reached them. None of the archers had his bow ready by that time, so they couldnt fire at the charging army to make some kills before they reached the front lines. The archers weren't even positioned properly behind the Dysarian Infantry, so they were in the line of charge as well, leading to great casualties amongst them, and they were routed quickly. The Dysarian Infantry, however, were highly disciplined and experienced. They didn't rout quickly. They fought on, but they never really recovered from the shock. Baedon was at the front line, and he was hacking away at his foes with wide swipes with his axe. Next to him fought Farrum, who's sword cleaved right through one of the tower shields of the infantry, severing the man's arm with it. Out of obvious pity, Farrum swiftly stabbed him in his chest. Baedon heard vague shouts from behind, but he was too absorbed in comat to really take notice. It was Sir Rauth, who was ordering his Gorûl Axemen to move into a flanking position to end the battle. Almost immediately, the Axemen formed up and withdrew from the melee, and started to move into a flanking position. Once they were in position, the battle between the Vanguards and the Dysarian Infantry had barely advanced, and the Infantry seemed to be slowly winning ground as well. The commander of the Axemen, a brave and honourable man, blew his battle horn, and his unit ran to the deaths of their enemy. Unable to cope with another charge, again in the flank, the Dysarians suffered even more casualties, and soon, their commander sounded the horn for retreat, and the day was for the Ostroans. But this was not the end of the war between the Ostroans and Dysarians, no...far from that.

[The Wizard]

CHAPTER IV: THE OTHER SIDE OF IT ALL

The sun had been obscured for today, and Feraene did not like it. She knew that the Dysarian concentration upon crossbowmen would be disadvantageous to them now, as the crossbowmen's accuracy would be diminished by the rain, leaving the Dysarian infantry and cavalry exposed to the bows of the Ostroan battle archers, who maintained relatively the same accuracy as in dry weather. She didn't understand why, but she didn't care either. She felt the first raindrops on her face already. Argh... rain We can't use that The Ostroans and their strange archers are marching upon us, she grumbled. Dralthyr, one of her fellow Paladins, tapped her shoulder, and made her look at the low hill ridge a mile away. Feraene, they aren't marching on us, they are here., he calmly mentioned to her. Hmmm... are there any Vanguards in their ranks?, she mused. Bortor told her, in his heavy voice, their were, on the right flank of the Alliance army. Her Leader, Master Geldyn Singsword, one of the best Paladins she knew, ordered the unit of two-hundred Vysi Paladins to face the Ostroan Vanguards, their eternal rivals.
Lady Feraene Rosekelk, obviously the main character for today, was a member of the Order of the Winged Sword, the order of Paladins, who were all Vysi. This ancient Order had been formed to protect the people that believed in the God Vys, long before the Empire rose to power, just like the Ostroan Vanguards. These became their eternal rivals, and in battles between the Dysarians and the People of the Alliance, the Vanguards and Paladins always sought each other, to test each other's mettle. The Paladins were armoured in varying types of battle protection, but were mostly seen in field plate. Most of them weilded swords, but any weapon was allowed. They were renowned, and feared, for the rigid discipline and prowess in battle, although in single combat they were outclassed by the Vanguards, but they made up for this by their greater agility. Over their battle armour, they always wore white sleeveless robes that reached to just below their knees, with over the chest a red winged sword that pointed to the ground. It was mandatory for them to wear a closed helmet, with a colored horse hair plume, mostly colored a dark purple, the Dysarian color for honour, extending from the top. A breathing slit was cut from the middle of the eye slit, which was just wide enough for efficient melee, down to the end of the helmet. The Paladins sometimes rode horses into battle, but most of the time they acted as a heavy shock infantry, to counter the Vanguards. Most of them had an impetuous folly, which had, at more than some occasions, led to disastrous Dysarian routs. Another problem for the Dysarian generals with units of Paladins in the ranks of their army, was that the Paladins only obeyed their Leaders, which commanded the units, so they could be quit an unruly battlefield presence. Unruly, but feared on the battlefield, and disciplined, to their Leaders, that is. Oh yes, before i forget, they were, like their Ostroan counterparts the Vanguards, quite clearly unroutable, unless ordered to. But now back to the battle at hand.
The Dysarian position was a defensive one, upon a hill, where they looked down upon their enemies, the Alliance forces, who had set themselves up on a lower hill. The Dysarian problem was that, because it would rain all day by the looks of it, their crossbowmen's range would be severely impeded, as well as their usual accuracy. The Ostroan battle archers, however, could see right up the hill with ease in the rain, and their compact bows gave them a great range, plus the fact that their accuracy was relatively unchanged, even in the rain. After fifteen minutes of troop deployment and preparation for battle, the battle commenced, with the Alliance forces advancing down their hill, their fearsome berserkers in the front ranks, already busy with working themselves up into their battle frenzy. When they reached the foot of the hill, the battle archers commenced raining down death upon the Dysarians, who were forced to merely spread out, leaving the battle archers to pick them off. Suddenly, without warning or a sign, the five hundred berserkers charged up the hill in a wild frenzy, and the Dysarian Legionnaires were becoming scared, having heard tales about the terrible berserkers and their antics in battle. Following the berserkers in an uphill march, came the Gorûl Axemen, who made up the bulk of this Alliance army. The Gorûl looked up to the Dysarian Cavaliers, and saw that these were being held back by the Dysarian general. As if the Alliance general had read the Gorûl's thoughts, he ordered his spearmen forward. These spearmen carried long spears, similar to eastern yaris, specifically made for anti-cavalry. The Vanguards, on the Alliance right flank, marched up in a calm pace to their target, as always, the Paladins. To Feraene, they seemed to be marching slower as they came closer to the Paladins, waiting for their enemies to charge them. Damn them... this is smart... waiting for us to pounce, and then run down the slope, making us chase, and then eliminate our hight advantage when we reach the low ground..., she muttered in a muffled voice through her helmet. They waited. And waited. And waited, as the battle had already begun, the beserkers having charged into the ranks of the Legionaires, and the Gorûl now having joined in, while the Cavaliers were fighting the Alliance spearmen on the left flank of the Dysarians. Finally, Master Geldyn gave the sign, and the Paladins charged down the hill to their rivals. Everything went fast for Feraene after that. She remembered charging into a Vangaurd, knocking him over and then killing him, and then fighting in a bloody one-to-one melee, and nearly getting killed, only to be saved by Bortor, who used the opporunity to smash the Vanguard's head clean off with his flail. Furthermore, she remembered hearing the Ostroan horn, meaning that they should retreat, and coming out of the haze she always experienced in single combat. After that, she saw that a lot of Legionaires had been killed, but mainly due to them holding their line,and the fact that all of the beserkers had been killed, the battle had been won. She scolded herself for going into that haze again, only to be laughed at by Dralthyr and Bortor. She vowed to get rid of that haze, one day....

CHAPTER V: STILL ALIVE

Garan opened his eyes, slowly, painfully. Everything hurt in his body. The sun glared down upon the world, into his painful eyes. He lifted his head, but it fell down again. He felt he was lying on a sand, but he didn't know where in the world he was. He waited, for some time, he didn't know how long, he didn't care. Finally, he made another attempt at looking around. Slowly, he got up, and looked around. He was on a beach, somewhere, he didn't know where. In the distance, at least three tenleagues away, there were mountains. Closer to the place where he has apprently been washed up, there were glades, and bushes with berries in them. Only after seeing these did he realise how hungry he was, he was so hungry that he felt his stomach acid retaliating against his stomach wall itself. He felt extremely weak, and he was also extremely thirsty. For the sake of his life, he hoped there was a pond or a stream nearby to drink from. He tried to get up, but he fell down again. Again he tried to get up, but fell down again. He tried to get up for, to him, a very long time, constantly failing to get up. At last, he stumbled to his feet, and weakly, very slowly, he shuffled over to the nearest berry bush. He started voraciously to eat the berries, but then realised that he was so hungry that he couldn't eat all the berries on the bush, lest he die from eating too much. So he calmly, ever so slowly, by pure willpower, kept his notion to stuff all those berries into his mouth at once under control. After another long time, at least to him, he got up, feeling a lot less hungry and somewhat better. He looked around for a stream or a pond between the trees in the beach-side glade he was in. And sure enough, he saw one, not too far away. By the temperature he deduced it was early fall, and also by the fact that nearby the pool there was a large swarm of mosquitoes dancing in the air. He didn't care, all that mattered was water. When he, after seemingly walking an age, got to the pond, he fell onto his knees, exhausted, but he plunged his head into the water and began to drink, at first with long, deep gulps, but then slower, again keeping his desire to drink the entire pool empty in check with pure willpower. After he was done, he took a long, ragged breath, fell down onto his back into the soft grass, and fell asleep almost instantly.
He awoke again early the next day. This time, he felt better, but still hungry. He got up slowly, and then went further inland, hoping to find something wholesome to eat. To his great pleasure, and great luck, he found the remains of a wolf meal. He went into the nearby trees to get some firewood, and started a fire. He skewered the leftovers of the animal the wolves had killed and roasted them, to a certain extent. He ate what he could take, and filled his empty stomach. After this meal, he took a bath in the pool, and when he was dry again he put his clothes back on. He decided it was time to venture further inland to see if there were any humans here, and if they could possibly help him and tell him where he was. He saw the mountains, and set off for them.
After three days of eating from the lands, sleeping in the open by a fire, and travelling on boots that were not meant to travel long distances with, he could no longer see the ocean, but only now did it strike him how high the mountains were, as he got closer. He judged that he was now at least thirty leagues from the sea by now, and that the foothills of the mountains were mere leagues away. In the afternoon of the third day of his trek in this new land which he did not know, it struck him that he could well be in the realm of Ostro, the hated god that had massacred his village and killed his loved ones. But he also hated Vys, for not doing anything to stop such a vile deed. Just as he felt cold rage welling up in him again, he spotted plumes of smoke over the next ridge of hills. He ran through a small glade of trees on the hill side, and came to the crest of the hill. From there, he looked down upon a triangular valley, in the shadows of the great mountains nearby, and nestled in this valley, was a large village along the river running through it. It was walled, and inside these stone walls were pittoresque wooden houses, built on stone foundations. Near the center of the village, there was a large wooden building, which he recognised as the village center. He walked down the hill, and onto the dirt road leading to the tall wooden gates of the village. There, he walked into the village under strange looks from the gate guards, who wore scale mail, carried spears and an oval shield covered with leather, and had a helmet shaped like a peak. The people walking the streets of the town wore clothes made of a different material than Garan's clothes, and with different dyes as well. Garan didn't know better than to think these must be Ostroans, as he had never seen an Ostroan in his life.
When he got to the town square, where the village center was located, he stopped. There was a market there, with lots of farm animals, foods unknown to him, and other wondrous things were being sold and bought, under the loud noise of talking people, wagons hobbling over the bumpy stones of the square, and noises coming from the animals. It smelled like a combination of dung, mud, grease and animals, which it probably was. He walked up to the guard in front of the village center, a large round building with a wooden dome covering it, he asked where he could find a place to eat and sleep. The guard took one good look at him, and said, Go down the street to the left and enter the large building with the sign with the two crossed swords on it, lad., in the Common language with a strange accent. Garan took his advice and headed down the street, and sure enough, he found the building with the sign. Under the two crossed swords there seemed to be smudged out letters, making it quite hard to discern what was there. So, instead of trying to read the words under it, which were probably in another language as well, he entered the building.
The interior was quite a difference from the smelly outside. Given, it smelled like musk and leather, but it was a lot better than the smell of manure and sweat and grease outside, and it was a lot quieter as well. In common language, Garan asked the man behind the counter in the entrance room of the building if he could get a room and a meal for a few days. The man replied, in the Common language with the same accent as the guard at the village center, Right... if you would like a room and a meal here, you first have to sign this. Ok... I'll do that then., Garan replied. He wrote out his name at the bottom of the paper, after briefly scanning what was written on it. Immediately after doing so, the man behind the counter grabbed the piece of paper, folded it, apparently called two names, and walked into a door behind the counter. Two burly men came walking into the room, and gestured to the door in the right hand corner of the room. One of them said, in broken Common, Barracks are past that door through corridor. Barracks?, Garan replied. The other of the two men said, Yes... barracks. Welcome to the mercenaries.

[The Wizard]

I recently wrote this up... yes, I unfortunately lack motivation. =/ Maybe you can spot the difference in writing style between this and the first chapters... well, at least I notice a difference


CHAPTER VI

Mercenaries? Isn't this an inn?, asked Garan, wondering if he maybe should have read that piece of parchment better. An inn?, one of the two burly men chuckled, Nay, young lad, this is the mercenaries' guild of the fair town of Waterglade, if you translate it from our language. Garan's eyes opened wide, and he struggled against the strong grip one of the men had on his arm. What is this? Why didn't you tell me? Release me, this is trickery, he screamed desperately. At this, the man behind the counter frowned. Come now, young master, you signed the parchment. It is your own fault that you are now part of this mercenary guild. You will do as you are told, or else rather.... unpleasant things may happen., the man noted, placing a special, ill-forboding emphasis on the word 'unpleasant'. Now, you're scheduled to get basic training, and next week you'll go with the group that's been hired by the king of Mordyn. Be happy, he ordered heavy infantry, so at least you're less likely to die right away., and he chuckled. Then, he walked through the door behind Garan, whistling a cheerful tone.
The next week, Garan got the basic training the man was talking about. It consisted of simple exercises, practicing against dummies and flails attached to swinning poles, as well as a single, long sparring practice with a captain of the guild. This man told Garan that he was a natural, that he did a lot better than the rest of the new members of the guild. Apparently, he had potential. At least there's some light in this gloom, Garan thought, Employed in an Ostroan mercenary guild... and scheduled to go to some far-off war to fight for some Ostroan king This is terrible... I'll die a vain death there, long before I'll ever get revenge on the Gods, or I'll have to kill more of my friends and family... Aw, c'mon lad, it isn't that bad. Look at me, nary a scar anywhere, and captain of a mercenary guild It's quite a good job, really. It all depends on the job you get. Unfortunately for you, you're scheduled to go off with another one-hundred and fity men to fight as mercenaries in the army of king Uhtred of Mordyn... the man is crazy, he makes war on everything... ah well, I think ya have a pretty good chance of surviving. You're a natural fighter, lad, the captain said to Garan, trying to cheer him up.
But Garan couldn't be cheered up. His family, friends and beloved had been brutally murdered by skeletal warriors, and after that they had been raised by Ostroan necromancers to mercilessly slaughter others By the Gods, he thought the night before he had to march off, maybe I'll be fighting alongside the necromancers No... damn the Gods. Damn them for letting me down. Damn Ostro for murdering my family, and damn Vys for not doing a thing to stop it. The Gods are worthless, and I will have my revenge against them...
Alright LINE UP, the captain thundered the next, cold, morning,I want you dogs to line up in two perfect columns, and only after you've done that we'll be marching Come on, this is the easy part, maggots Garan was up in front, near the standardbearer, who carried a simple shield-shaped banner with the crossed swords emblem and the strange writings below it. He felt uneasy in his new armor. They had given him a simple wooden man-high kite shield, a broadsword, a skullcap, a mail coat, leather gloves and a pair of marching boots. Especially the coat weighed him down, and he wondered if he could reach the other end of those massive mountains before dying of fatigue and cold. All he wore under his coat of mail was a simple tunic, fit for summer and fall, not the coming winter. He couldn't feel the cold of the steel rings through the tunic, but he was certain he would in winter.
At the sign of the captain, they set off, not marching in tune, it rather sounded like the shuffling of a thousand feet. They made good time over the effened path to the mountains. He was told by a fellow soldier that it would take them until nightfall to get to the foot of the pass, and there they would make camp. Early the next morning, he said, they would go through the pass, which was troll-infested, as he said it. However, he was cut off by another soldier, who said that trolls were occasionally seen by travelers in the pass, to the dismay of the first man. It didn't matter to Garan anymore. While the thirst for revenge was embedded within his soul, the cold rage that had consumed him at times now merely smouldered within his mind. He didn't feel like marching off to a far-off land past the mountains, he did not want to fight for Ostroans. All he wanted was to die, to be once more with his beloved. He wouldn't run from the battlefield, he would just be cut down, be it by a troll, a soldier of the Empire, or something else. It didn't matter, he wanted to die, one way or another...
The land he marched through was, in its shape, similar to his own, yet far less tamed. Hills rolled over the landscape for leagues to see, yet after they had marched for a few leagues, there was no farmland to see, no pastures, and the odd cottage between the woods. As they marched on, the path sloped upwards, and the true foothills of the mountains began. The mountains loomed over them like huge, imposing creatures, ever forbidding as clouds obscured their peaks. When dusk settled, they were quite close to the mountains, and the land had become quite rugged. They were high enough now to see the sea behind them, stretching out further than the eye could see. The path wound more and more up the hills, and before long the trees stopped, as if giving up to reach the top. Far below, they could see the peaceful town, and even though Garan had only been there a week, he yearned to return to it for some reason. The mountains obscured the sun as it descended to the horizon, and before long it was dark.
They set up camp at the very foot of the mountains, and the pass was at least a hundred meters above them. It was easy to spot it, for it looked like an opening, a gate through the mountains. From the looks of it, the pass arched upways, and Garan was told that the pass led them to the valleys between the mountains. Though the mountains were uninhabited, ages ago a road was created that went through these rugged valleys, going through many passes to reach the other side of the mountain. But that was in the journey ahead.
The next morning, Garan awoke early. The sun had just risen above the sea, as he could see through his tent. He had been having a strange dream, of whispers of an inhuman voice, with wisdom in it ages old, whispers that tugged at him, tempting him, but to do what; he did not know. Outside, as he heard, many men had already been roused and more were being roused at the very moment, judging by the sound of hushed grumbles and a shouting captain. He donned his armor, careful not to wake the nine other men in the tent still sleeping, attached the sheath of his sword to his belt, put on his helmet, slipped into his boots, and made his way outside.
The air was chilly, and Garan could see his breath coming out of his mouth as a whisp of steam. He went to the mess tent, and there sat himself down near the great fire under the hole in the tent, with a bowl of something that looked unsavory, yet was strangely satisfying. After breakfast, it only took a mere twenty minutes before the tents had to be broken down, and the men had to line up once more. With a hornblow, the mercenaries had resumed their march.
When they arrived at the pass, Garan had an unsettling feeling of coming danger, strengthened by the fact that the pass was narrow, and the mountains above seemed to close above it. It was easy to shoot from above without being shot back at, and that was unnerving to him. Yet he could not stop, for the rest of the men were marching on. The pass arched up, and before long they were at a far higher point than where they had begun. It was tiresome to trudge up the slope of the pass, yet at some point the slope became less steep, as if yielding to the tired men's desire of a less hard walk. The pass opened up into a pass that hugged the mountainside, and the valley below was forboding. As opposed to the lush, verdant forests on the other side of the pass, these forests were dark, and a sense of danger permeated the valley. Where there was no forest, there was an arid grassland, lashed by snow, ice and cold. A small, but fast river cut through the mountains, fed by smeltwater from the glaciers further up the mountain. At some point, the path stopped sloping upwards, and a little further began winding its way down the mountain, to the ancient road below. From a distance, Garan saw two great towers along the roadside, and wondered what purpose they had once fulfilled. He also wondered why people had such a great need to cross this dark valley. Surely there were other, more pleasant ways to get past the mountains?
After they arrived at the bottom of the path, they marched over the road all day, passing the two ruined towers, which in some age long past must have been used by roadguards, to protect the road from trollraids. The path crossed the river by means of an old stone bridge, that had weathered time and the elements well. As they crossed the bridge and the wild waters below, Garan had the unpleasant feeling that he and the rest were being watched, that they were being followed as they went through the valley. He tried to see if anything was within the trees, if anything moved between them, but all he saw were the dark pines and the shadows in between. The group marched on, and the mountains blocking their past doomed up before them.
Suddenly, however, javelins landed before them and on top of them. At the head, the captain was looking wildly around them, realising what was happening. Trolls Men Form up into defensive formations and keep your shields high, he thundered. While by far most men knew what to do and started running to their positions, Garan was caught by surprise. He backed up, facing the woods, to the line of the men, and bumped some of them, forcing them to back up under loud complaining and swears. Now he saw what gave him the feeling of being watched, of being followed. Huge, broad, yet somehow misformed creatures were lumbering out of the forest. They were at least three meters tall, with ugly faces, tiny eyes and no nose, only two holes under their eyes. Two large pointed ears jutted out from the side of their heads, and they were rabidly drooling as they charged into battle. They had short legs and long arms, and they looked very strong. One of them charged at Garan, carrying a huge, crude club in its right hand. Garan stood there, nailed to the ground by fear. He had thought he wanted to die, yet now he wanted to live desperately. Screaming, or rather roaring, the troll bore down on him, but instinctively he raised his shield and stood his ground. By luck or by skill, he did not know, but the troll landed square on the shield. He could hear the troll's ribs snapping, and it let out a scream of agony. Pulling his shield back, he slashed the troll's head off. Not a good decision, for blood sprayed out of the creature's neck, and all over Garan. It was grotesque, for it was a slimy, dark-violet substance, which stuck his clothes to his skin. Still, the feeling of killing one of the beasts single-handedly was elating, and he shouted with adrenaline coursing through his body.
As suddenly as it began, it ended. Garan felt a sharp pain in his side, some object that was boring its way through skin, muscle and bone alike. He screamed of pain, and could feel his own blood gushing out of the wound. Light faded from his eyes, and all became dark...