The border of Sullea and Broghe was large and densely packed with trees and brush, interspersed by verdant glades and springs. It was also home to the Sullean watchtowers, lining the entire border, from the Northern Sea to Engel’s Steep in the South.
Wooden parapets peaked above the tops of the dense alpine canopy, watching over the rolling valley many leagues below; the Boræthin river churning and crashing into its rocky banks, twisting and turning behind lush hillocks in the distance.
Cresting the border into Sullea, smoke choked the sky. Swathes of forest ablaze, birds fell from the air into the chaos below— burning up before they hit the ground. As the landscape lit up in a hazy orange and red, armoured men descended from the watchtowers; finding their horses spooked and nowhere to be seen. The wooden towers cracked at the base as their pilons turned to ash, crumbling under its own weight.
Guarding the fortress path, a stone blockade wedged in between two cliffsides, just South of the Boræthin river, now surrounded on all sides by the raging inferno.
Four scouts upon well-trained coursers, charged through the rapidly disappearing path until they had come to the cobbled arch of the fortress exterior. Heavy wooden gates swung open for a moment and shut immediately after the riders entered, flames licking at every weak link.
The scouts dismounted in the courtyard, dripping with sweat and tabards charred around the edges. The open space was full of stretchers, half of them draped in linen and blood stained. They approached a group of soldiers who looked to be in charge, tending to the injured and ensuring the fortress stayed secure.
'Ho! What has happened here, Ser?' One of the scouts stepped forward, unlatching a small bag strapped tightly to his chest.
'Another survivor? Good, you look unharmed,' a soldier dressed in blue from head-to-toe emerged from the group, removing his armet helm and placing it at his hip, 'Our patrols have been torn to shreds, they seem to be coming from everywhere.'
Puzzled, the scout pulled a crinkled roll of parchment from his bag and cleared his throat. 'I have been sent by his grace Harold the Fifth, I regret to inform you that Lord Rusche has passed in battle. Your land and taxes have been claimed by his son, Harold the Sixth...' He became quiet, a shadow now obscuring his face.
A loud *thud* silenced the courtyard as blood spattered everywhere, a disfigured corpse now laying on top of the all-blue soldier. Screeches from above pierced the ears of all who heard, distracting them from the screams of those torn apart as talons descended from the sky.
Limbs flew in every direction, and the gurgling of running water could be heard; nevermind that they were more than six leagues away from the Boræthin.
Scrambling to their horses, the scouts leapt into action and sped towards the opposing gate of the fortress; it's doors lying splintered and battered several feet to the side of the archway. Galloping full speed into Broghe, the screams still ringing out into the cool spring air.
The captain of the scouts, Ben Wroth, lead his unit hurtling into the valley— the hostile brush tearing his soft linen tabard to shreds. As they put distance between them and the bloodbath, they noticed the overwhelming scent of char and soot; clogging their noses and watering their eyes.
They turned around a bend in the valley and were side-by-side with the great river, its waters a messy black and peppered with half-gnawed bodies.
***
----------------------------------------
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
***
Ser Gavin and Ser Alder sat outstretched at the foot of a destroyed tree, catching their breath; slack-jawed at the enormity of their foe.
'This the one that had did it?' The captain huffed, clutching at his shoulder, adding up the cost of repairing his armour.
'Couldn't have been, look at the size of that thing,' Ser Alder laughed, 'It'd have to be the steadiest hand in the world to carve anything that small, or perhaps you thought it had dainty little claws?'
The captain chuckled, groaned and chuckled again, dried blood outlining pale blue lips. He stood, wiping the physician's dagger on his leather fauld. Stumbling towards the corpse he looked towards Kemp, 'Anything we could sell from it? I'm sure there's someone selling rare goods in Alstowe,' he said, 'It's going to take some coin to purchase a new spaulder.'
Ser Alder wrapped the head of the beast in his surcote, jotting down its general features in a small notebook he had tucked in his pouch, then dragged it back to the tree line with the help of Ser Gavin.
'It strikes me now that I never asked your name...' Kemp scratched at his chin, looking towards the outline of Ebbing.
The captain burst into a heavy belly laugh, keeling over and dropping to a knee. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, his hand finding no trouble getting to his face. He paused.
'And it seems I've left my helm at the tavern.' They locked eyes again, a mixture of humour and concern.
Trudging back to Ebbing, Ser Gavin looked again at the head of the creature they fought. He noticed its skin had deeply complex patterns lying just underneath the surface, like it had been tattoed years earlier.
He shrugged at the thought and continued walking, the lingering smell of soot lining his nose.
***
----------------------------------------
***
The humans exited the forest hauling a prize, perhaps the Gorthunk that had been traipsing through the forest earlier.
Strong. Strong. Skin supple for carving. Claw in flesh, like knife in mud. Thought a most peculiar creature. It was perched atop a tree overlooking the valley, flames glinting in the distance from where it smelled the power.
It unfurled a pair of long boney wings from its child-like body, they snapped into place and it stepped forward.
Claws turned to feet and it dropped from the trees, landing softly among the low-lying shrubs. What emerged from the trees was a young boy, perhaps nine or ten, barefoot, skipping towards the river whistling a familiar and somber tune.
***
----------------------------------------
***
Ser Gavin entered his camp, now fully set up and housing his company of eighty three knights, men-at-arms, squires, pages and servants. He briskly walked down the centre of the encampment, heading for the largest tent; supported by large wooden pillars and draped in sturdy canvas.
He strode into the tent finding his squire, James Cully, his servants and Ser Caister. He eyed his servants and they immediately began to remove his armour, a cup of wine maneuvring its way into his hands.
'I've found us some work but it's not pretty,' he began, 'In fact I think it's a royally stupid idea.' James approached the captain carrying a small trunk, placing it on a table in the centre of the tent and opening it.
'Well we've just about nothing left, Ser. Anything is good enough to tide us over until we reach Alstowe.' He said, shutting the trunk and laying it back down on the floor.
Ser Caister remained silent, scratching at a black patch of beard in a sea of grey. Pondering their predicament with a learned poise.
'Oh, I forgot to mention our employer will be staying with us here in camp,' the captain poked his head out of the tent and ushered in a strange man, 'This is Ser Alder Kemp, he will also be aiding us in tracking and slaying the... creatures involved.'
Ser Alder shone a toothy smile and extended his hand for Ser Caister to shake, who took it with a tight grip and an affirming grunt.
Ser Gavin now out of his harness, splayed out on an assortment of soft rugs; contemplating the nature of what he was now hunting.
'I'll show our guest to his lodgings,' James added, 'best be turning in before it gets too dark.' The two left, leaving the captain and Ser Caister alone together.
'I'll be honest Orion, this is not a job I've taken on easily,' the captain admitted, 'this could do us in for good.' He laughed and gripped his shoulder again, forgetting that it was barely intact.
Ser Gavin ran through the fight in his mind, kicking himself at not having brought his equipment; fingering the swelling that had risen out of his shoulder. He imagined ducking away from the beast's charge, cutting down its spine and wrenching the blade upward before it had a chance to touch him.
The image of his mother came to mind, throwing him into the castle pits with the fighting boars.
The look in their eyes, just the same as the beast.
'No such thing as an easy job by the blade m'lord.'
'No, no there isn't I suppose.'