ArtStation - Army, Artem Khorchev [https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/000/814/321/large/artem-khorchev-army1.jpg?1443929668]

https://www.artstation.com/artwork/obBrW

Every inch of him filled with the kind of pride that came from serving in the King's Legion, Tragmar, newly appointed High Captain of the 6th Legion, the best force around, rode west on his first assignment.

The years he had spent training, and dreaming about this moment, a pale comparison to the joy he felt at riding alongside five thousand heavily armed legionnaires in brilliant steel breastplates, and ornate winged helms. The golden banners that dipped high in the chill blue sky, carrying the rising phoenix, the symbol of hope, and everlasting life, as well as being the household colors of King Tarok.

Booted feet beating a steady path west, they entered the mouth of the Great Divide, a mountainous region that was split between the Kingdom of Orkeylium, and the savage goblin tribes of Caldasher. Tragmar's first quest. To find, and put an end to the goblin incursions, while also checking up on their great western Fortress Dolomar. The unusually silent stronghold, worrying the King enough that he had sent Tragmar to investigate, and perhaps in the process he could attain more glory.

Lips peeled back into a smile at that pleasant dream, he let his eyes wander to the columns of bronze armored centaurs, and as always felt a touch of awe at seeing their disciplined ranks. The tall majestic warriors that hailed from the Open Plains, stiff as iron as they carried golden pennants up high from their lances. A proud and ferocious people, they fought with bow and lance, and never in the world was there a better cavalry force that could charge an enemy line, or riddle them with arrows. The heavily armed dwarves that moved right alongside, a hard-eyed bunch of stout warriors with long-bearded chins, and battered armor that spoke of years at war, while sewn in among their number, were squadrons of elves and humans, equipped with shortswords and longbows that they wielded to great effect. The light chainmail armor the fae wore, covered in a pale golden tunic, and embroidered with the phoenix on the breast.

But Tragmar supposed if there was one force he was most proud to command, it was the contingent of Honour Blades that had chosen to travel with them, their bright silver mail polished to a brilliant gleam, and infamous greatswords strapped to their backs. The added bonus of having them there had not only boosted morale, but had pushed them to make great time.

The formal request to join their expedition, an excellent surprise that would no doubt create tales of feats that would be spoken about for centuries. If only they would get along with the college mages that had been sent with them.

Treated with fear and suspicion their whole lives, mages had become a prickly lot at the best of times, and yet Tragmar sensed that it was more to do with the way the Honor Blades kept an eye on them, like rabid wolves with no idea when they would pounce.

Gaze shifted to the high plateaus, he wondered how long it would be before they left this canyon behind, when he nudged his stallion into a trot, and joined Gundmar of the Stone Wolves. The stout-faced dwarf with a wide broken nose, looking up at him with weathered blue eyes, before turning his attention back on the road, his gruff voice tinged with annoyance, "if you're done with yer sightseeing, Captain, I'd suggest we pick up the pace, and be done with this place. I do not like the feel of it."

Tragmar who had more than enough of the man's sour-faced griping, retorting back, "honestly dwarf, I sometimes think you were born to test my patience, unless you know something I do not, the scouts say the way ahead is clear."

Teeth bared in a smile that did not reach his dark eyes, Gundmar let out a dry laugh. "Boy, when you have lived as long as I have, you get a sense for these things, and it's not something you can learn in some fool academy. It takes years of getting the shit kicked out of you."

Unable to hide a grimace at the disrespectful tone in his voice, Tragmar got the distinct impression that the dwarf did not like him much. Not that he was exactly surprised, most of those promoted from within the ranks were nothing more than ruffians, scallywags, and ill-mannered brutes who did not understand the true intricacies of battle. Yet it took a man of learning and affluence such as himself for these people to understand that they were nothing more than tools who were struggling against their own nature. It's also why none of the lowly-born could ever become high ranking officers, and why he wasn't going to let this blind old goat ruin it for him now.

Nose lifted haughtily into the air, he replied, "You know, commander, there is a saying among my people, a well-trained ghoul is a boon to the one that owns it, but it should never forget that it is nothing more than a ghoul."

Head tilted back in a snort of amusement, Gundmar snapped back, "oh aye, and a child that wields a sword, is still a child," the swift rejoinder causing more than a few dwarves to chuckle aloud, when Tragmar glared at them.

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His sullen second in command, quiet for the moment as they both gazed ahead, when Tragmar felt a tremor of excitement as he sighted the Fortress of Dolomar in the distance, cutting through the mountains on both sides. It's sheer bluff walls, rose up high into the skies with dozens of bastions, and crenellations. It's power humbling even the greatest armies of the world as patrols of centaurs cantered off ahead, and Tragmar swallowed back a grin. So much for the dwarf's legendary senses.

Unable to hide a smirk, he turned to say as much to Gundmar, "You see, commander, there is nothing to be--" when something caught his attention on the walls. Small black dots that seemed like ants crawled out of the great gates, first in a trickle, then a flood. The waves of darkness that seemed to flow out of the stronghold, blotting out the sky as winged creatures took off into the clouds, and an army the likes of which have never been seen before, darkened the ground, when in a flash of light, a black tower appeared ahead, and Gundmar spat out a curse.

Not needing to remember the history lessons he had been taught as a child, Tragmar swallowed back his words, and prayed his sweet Lysa would forgive him.

~*~

Two Days Later

Drifting through memories of the battle, Tragmar lay there on the cold hard stone, lifeblood washing out of him, and wondered at how strange fate could be. That it would save him in the one moment, then allow him to die in the next. The faces of those he had sworn to protect, dead all around him, Gundimar of the Stone Wolves, Siorna of the Widow Walkers, Darakan of the Silver Shields, Brokalon of the Truthseekers...All of them dead, torn apart by ravaging tooth and claws. The faces of those closest to him, imprinted into his memory, along with a promise of vengeance, if only he could get up, get up, and fight. Gods dammit! if only he could just stand!

The curses that fell from his lips, dribbled with blood as he began to crawl along the ashen streets of Dolomar, the once great Fortress that had guarded the gap between Caldasher and Orkeylium, sundered by gapings rents in the outer walls. The Guardian of the Realm, and Protector of Orkeylium, destroyed by something so powerful, he had trouble believing it himself, only he had seen the creature.

The hammer stroke that had come down, almost enough to make him weep as he gazed at the broken bodies that lay curled up all around him. The fighting that he could still hear in the distance, the only sign that there were any survivors, while he tried to pick his way through the wreckage, hoping against hope that they would stay alive.

~*~

Thunder still rolling overhead in cascading flashes of light, Gamlen had never once in his life believed himself to be a coward, but when his friends had been torn to pieces by a bare-chested orc berserker, he had run, run as fast as he could, and hid at the bottom of a cellar. The battle that raged through the streets seen through a small glass-paned window above his head as he watched monsters the size of giants sweep into view, their skin covered in bright red scales, leathery wings folded behind their backs as they slashed with swords made of fire. The black-robed figures that followed close on their heels, marked by the same red scales around their eyes, while hundreds of grey-skinned ogrekan in black chest plate armor, broke into homes, and searched for survivors.

The creaking of the floorboards above, letting him know he was not alone, when a knot of fools in steel plated armor, tried to take the mages by surprise, their dying screams twisted into cries of ecstasy as their bodies stood back up with unblinking eyes. The crack of light he saw above him, made him want to scream aloud at what he knew was coming, before he battled his rapidly beating heart, drew his scabbarded sword, and readied himself for death.

~*~

Further into the fortress, atop a wall made of granite, Daystrom studied it all with an expression absent of all emotions. The years of war he had faced in the field, marked on his weathered cheeks, and steel grey eyes with silver hair cropped tight to the scalp.

Eyes watching the flood of survivors into the courtyard below, Daystrom was certain that this was the end for him, his second in command Khorasan, an elven mage, standing right beside him with folded arms. The noise of battle was overlapped by tremors that ran beneath the ground, causing the wizened old mage to brush his fingers through his beard, and mutter something about there being too many, and not enough time. Each of the tremors they felt, almost enough to tumble them over the walls, only Daystrom would not die that way, promised himself he would not. The few companies he had managed to scrape together from the chaos, reformed in the courtyard below, their rippling steel plates covered in blood and dust, as they tightened straps, readied kite shields, and prepared themselves for what might come. Not that anyone could ever have been prepared for anything like this.

At another time or place, he might have blamed the gods or even fate for bringing down such a calamity upon them. But as it was, he had become resigned to his own fate, resigned to dying here. Only that for whatever reason he could not see, these soldiers still looked up to him, looked to him for answers, but when he tried to speak he had nothing. No false promises, gold, or glory would save them. Even Khorasan who was normally so talkative, stood silent, his fingers steepled together at the waist of his robes as he regarded the swarm of enemies that flooded through the streets. All of them knew they would die here, and yet the question remained, how would it happen?

Swinging round to face them, he felt a swell of pride at their orderly ranks, noted their grim expressions, and with a voice used to command, he boomed, "death comes for us all!" And as though to emphasize his words the ground quaked beneath him. "We, who have always known this day would come, welcome her embrace, but to her I say, wait a little longer, my sweet, for there’s killing to be done!"The unexpected roar that came back, making Daystrom grin, before he signaled the advance. They would not die here in vain!

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