Work on the weapon has been going well thus far. The designs for it, as well as the recent advancements we’ve found have allowed us to better use our hallowmancers in the crafting process. Not to mention the brilliance shown by our scientists in its innovation.
-From The Last King of Elneshe’s 1st Note
Duke Lambre Clasken of Phasgoria was having a rough night. He had been assigned to Latren stronghold only a scant few weeks ago, and it was already a pain to stay awake. It wasn’t due to the look of it, no. The stronghold was one any Duke would be envious to guard. It had four spires extending from each of the corners of its square walls, with Afterburners perched atop them. The smooth stone was easy to step over, and the soldiers didn’t cause any more issues than normal.
No, it was the timing of it. Being at the frontier of the war, Duke Lambre had to make sure that he kept vigilant for any invading Ravenishtani forces. A normal shift he could do, even without his powers. But that was the catch. His powers were something that were highly valued by the military. He couldn’t deny that they had part in his placement in such a high position.
He was a decorated general, with dark skin and a short spike of white hair on top of his head. He groomed his bushy moustache often and his skin was wrinkled with age. Though despite that, no one seemed to challenge his wisdom. He knew that was in part due to the armour he wore at all times, but then again one had to maintain their image in front of impressionable youth.
He walked around the stronghold, trying to stifle any sighs that the soldiers might catch. They were similarly listless, polishing their spears and taking stock of their fire lances. Lambre caught one of the boys strapping the fire lance to his spear and stopped to look.
The boy himself was scrawny and untrained. Tsk, why would they send someone like that here? He thought as the boy looked up. He straightened himself and tried to stand up, but Lambre waved him down.
“H-how may I help you, sir?” the boy asked, his voice pitifully weak. Had he not been taught how to speak loud and clearly?
“Why are you modifying your spear?” Duke Lambre asked. He held his hand out for the weapon and the boy obliged, dropping it into his hands.
“The others say it’ll help me when I’m fighting. Let me surprise the enemy before I go in,” the boy replied.
“You’ll surprise the enemy, alright. They’ll be quite confused seeing a child run at them with a stick.”
“Pardon, sir?” the boy asked for elaboration. Lambre showed him where he’d attached the fire lance’s component.
“If you place it so low, there’s a high chance of you blowing out your spearhead along with it. Move it higher along the shaft. And then practice so you adjust to the weight,” Lambre guided him, handing the spear back to the soldier. Hopefully, it meant the boy might survive a bit longer than the other new recruits.
It should have been the purview of his trainer to teach him about these kinds of things, but they hadn’t the luxury at this point to afford tutoring for anyone except their hallowmancers. Those were invaluable in a fray.
Lambre left him and the other soldiers down on the ground as he walked up a staircase towards the curtain wall. He’d have loved nothing more than to head inside the keep and catch up on some rest, but that wasn’t an option.
Mists had rolled in since the evening and they hadn’t left. The thick layer of white had the entire stronghold on edge ever since. Even the Afterburners, itching as they were to fly through the wind like red stars, kept to their perches atop the spires instead of moving around. Lambre was near one of those spires at the moment and he looked up to the Afterburner crouching there.
“Uvean, run another round around the perimeter,” Lambre ordered.
“Can’t, duke sir. Been running low on bewl,” Uvean replied.
“I’ll authorize you five small gems worth of it. Get yourself refilled and report back to me once you’re done.”
The Afterburner nodded and jumped off of the spire. He could have just climbed down, but made a show of blasting off with his jets back into the keep. The waiting didn’t suit Lambre, much as he preferred it to the alternative. They weren’t sure if Ravenishtan would take the cover to attack, but the likelihood of it was far too high to ignore. Uvean returned a moment later, the shine on his body much brighter now that he was refilled. He shot off into the fog, leaving Lambre by himself on top of the wall.
He stared out into the night with his eyes steady. His hallowmancy would do him no good here, so he kept it in check. He could feel that pool of power welling up around his stomach, filled to the brim and waiting to be used. Instead, he used more mundane methods. He walked back over to the perches and signalled for one of the Planars positioned there.
A female Planar saw him and a second later a green-edged rip in space appeared next to him. She appeared next to him and folded her arms behind herself. She had a smooth face that framed her sharp features in a statuesque light. Her eyes faded from a glowing grass green to a much more mundane amber.
“Yes, duke sir?” she asked.
“Just sir will be alright, Anece,” Lambre replied and the woman nodded.
“How many of our Planars are awake and ready?” he asked her.
“About ten of them are awake at the moment, sir. Would you like me to wake the others?” she asked in turn.
Lambre shook his head. “No, but stay here. I might need you to relay some orders.”
Anece tilted her head to the side in confusion. “Wouldn’t… that be more of your field of expertise, sir?”
“For a distance, yes. But I can’t get everyone at once. Tell me, soldier, what’s your opinion on the chances of an attack tonight?” he asked. A tiredness seemed to creep into the eyes of the woman as she rubbed at them.
“I think we’re being overly cautious. If an attack were to come, we’d still have the advantage considering our position,” she replied.
Lambre folded his arms over himself. His hands were getting cold on the damp stone. His armour provided some relief, but it was more a weight at this point than protection.
“And how so? What makes you so sure that they wouldn’t just create a portal inside or drop bombs through them?” Lambre said.
She pointed out towards the mist with her index finger, dragging Lambre’s attention to a point.
“The mist. We need to be able to see where we make the portals. And if they can see us, we can see them.”
Duke Lambre nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Good. Give more thought to your powers in strategy than you do by yourself. Most hallowmancers’ failing is that they consider themselves above teamwork.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They stood a while longer on top of that wall until Lambre grew impatient. Uvean should have completed his patrol by now. What’s got him so tied up? He peered out over the wall towards the ground. Grass dotted it, interspersed with rocks and hills that rose up towards the mist.
Instinctively, Lambre activated his hallowmancy. Anece backed away a bit as a deep blue pillar of light erupted off of Lambre and several meters into the air. It moved like flames, but gave off no heat.
“Sir, are you alright?” The woman asked.
“Just a bit curious,” Lambre replied. Within his massive range, he could feel the soldiers and hallowmancers inside of the stronghold. He didn’t have an exact count of the soldiers, and some of them might not even be here, but he was reasonably sure of their location. But there was no Uvean around the stronghold.
Lambre tried as hard as he could to find the man but his presence wouldn’t appear on the perimeter of his field. His hallowmancy was only average, but he was sure that Uvean should have been inside. And then it happened.
A single dot appeared in his range, ahead of him. Lambre looked over the edge of the walls towards the mist, trying to get sight of the man. The figure was obscured by the fog, moving closer. An Afterburner wouldn’t do that. What’s going on?
Lambre tried to peer closer, to pierce the mist. And then a spear flew towards his head.
Lambre cycled the bewl through his body. He caught it by its shaft. The tip pointed towards him, inches from his body. It was a beautifully carved piece, but he had no time to appreciate it.
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Ventorius damn these fools, that got too close, Lambre thought to himself as he stared down at the single figure in the mists. More popped out of the covers, appearing inside his Commander field before they came into sight. Or maybe they’re already damned, considering what they’re doing.
“Men! To your positions!” he shouted, his enhanced throat muscles carrying the message across the entire stronghold. The invaders dropped any pretence of a sneak attack and began to rush forward with inhuman synchronicity. They wore masks covering their faces, no doubt to hide among the shadows.
Lambre’s own men scrambled out of their seats and readied their spears to take on the enemy. The Afterburners flew from their perches as Planars created pathways from the camps to the battlefield. Devourers readied their satchels and the sole Necromancer above them stayed behind.
Lambre stood watch from up above the wall, keeping track of the battle that was about to begin through his powers. He took stock of the emotions of the enemy soldiers, a habit that helped him formulate his strategies.
He could feel fear from them, but it was a muted feeling. Some soldiers would become manic in battle, others would disassociate so heavily they couldn’t feel the danger of the battle. But for every soldier present here, Lambre found the same sense of fear. A bit too familiar.
Soldiers poured out of the portals and towards the enemy. Lambre touched upon some of their souls, whispering orders into their mind.
Form a line with the ones next to you. Wait for the enemy and then fire off your lances on my mark. The soldiers did as ordered, creating a wall for the enemies to stop against. Their shields prevented the passage of the enemy, and hallowmancers worked to crowd the enemy together in front of the line.
When they were sufficiently close, Lambre gave his order. Fire! He shouted in their minds. A line of flames burst forth, shooting flying rocks at high speeds into the enemy. Lambre saw blood start to stain the clothes of the enemies and looked on.
When a contingent of them would try to get closer, he would send an Afterburner or Planar after them. When they tried throwing spears, arrows or grenades, he’d have his Planars create a portal in the path of their projectiles.
His Devourers would engage the enemy line, ripping through them with their altered and strengthened bodies. But a worry clouded Lambre’s mind as he shouted off orders to the group below. Where were the enemy hallowmancers? He thought to himself. He swept his senses back and found no Ravenishtani on the other flanks.
Were they not expecting such resistance? Did they think the night would provide them cover? Lambre asked himself. It was a slaughter considering the number of hallowmancers that had been allocated to Latren.
And then finally, a blip on his senses from the opposite side. He thought he’d imagined it, but he looked back anyway. Towards the other wall, towards the mist, where he found a red glow. Lambre ran across the wall, dashing towards the blip. But nothing registered on his senses.
Ventorius help me, they’re playing with my mind. He kept watch over the other side with unblinking eyes. He was the only one waiting, watching. Where are their hallowmancers?
A glow of green draped over Lambre’s body. He darted his eyes up into the sky, and met with a portal half the length of the fortress. Those unhallowed bastards…
Dozens of hallowmancers flew or fell from the portals. All of them strong enough to survive the drop. More portals filled the inside of the stronghold, and even more soldiers came through. Lambre brandished a longsword in one hand and leapt at the two Afterburners that had dropped in front of him.
He slashed the first across the chest and grabbed the second with his free hand. The Afterburner struggled, flying into the air as jets of flame erupted from his hands and feet. He took Lambre into the air with him and the Duke smiled.
He looked down at the stronghold and took stock of the forces. Ten Afterburners. Three Planars who must be out of bewl at this point. Five Devourers. Ventorius save me they brought the whole artillery! He relayed the count of hallowmancers to the troops still within his field, then plunged the longsword into the neck of the Afterburner.
The Afterburner struggled like a fish caught in a hook. He spun wildly in the air, sending the both of them tumbling into the wall of the stronghold. They cracked the wall on impact, landing on the dirt ground of the stronghold.
Lambre’s vision flushed with lights as he tried to sit upright. Or maybe it was the rainbow of colours emanating from the various hallowmancers that was doing it. Regardless, he had a job to do.
He stood up and eyed the boy he had run through the neck. The Afterburner was unconscious, satisfying Lambre. That was always the goal with hallowmancers. They couldn’t heal if they couldn’t think.
He swiped his sword, throwing the blood off of the blade as he entered the fray. His body had resisted the fall, but hallowmancy would only do so much in the face of natural aging. Lambre tried to contact his hallowmancers, but met with more enemies in his path. Two more Afterburners, a group of soldiers and what appeared to be a Devourer who had ingested some metal.
Lambre cursed the visibility of his powers sometimes, but settled into a fighting stance regardless.
“Our general asks that you surrender now, colonel Lambre Clasken,” the Afterburner in front said in Antir. He had the lightish skin and scornful gaze Lambre recognized of Ravenishtani sycophants.
“Duke Clasken. Don’t use my tongue against me, boy,” Lambre replied. The Afterburner brandished his spear in one hand, blasting himself forward. He stabbed at Lambre, but he swept to the side. Lambre held the haft in one hand and broke it with his other. He took the spearhead and lodged it inside the Afterburner’s chest.
A portal appeared above the Afterburner. Lambre tried to grab at him, but the portal disappeared soon after. Ahead of him, the Devourer jumped on top of Lambre. He swiped repeatedly at Lambre’s hands, sending gashes down them and tearing his clothes. Lambre got a foot above him and kicked the Devourer back, but his arms continued to bleed profusely.
The pain stung Lambre, and he backed himself against the wall. Damned badgers of men. He kept his eyes at the last Afterburner, who was holding back for some reason. Lambre focused his powers onto the slashes at his arms and felt them close slowly. His bewl pool ran low, and Lambre cursed his luck again.
He took out his longsword and raised it towards the Afterburners. Instead of approaching though, the soldiers pulled something out of their packs. Oh, damn it.
They threw the tar grenades towards him in succession. The pots broke against Lambre’s body, covering him in a thick viscous and dark fluid. It bound his movements, and he struggled to get free.
Relying on tricks, are we? Lambre swept his senses over the battlefield and the spirits of his own soldiers. He called to his hallowmancers, ordering them to free him. At the same time, his hands and feet heaved slowly through the sticky substance.
It was for naught, however. His powers ran out a moment later, and fatigue hit Lambre like an elephant. He went to the ground, the stabbing pain in his hands much more pronounced. He looked up and saw the fight continue without him. Afterburners duelled in the sky, Planars moved fresh troops closer to the stronghold and injured ones further away.
Devourers took out groups of soldiers in a sweep and their sole Necromancer lay in a puddle of his own blood. Lambre knew when a battle was lost, and stopped trying to rise. He let himself fall into the puddle at his feet, accepting defeat.
****
When the last of the bodies were gathered together, they burned them. Lambre abhorred the smell that rose from the corpses, yet couldn’t do anything in his state. He was crouched on the ground in front of the gatekeep. They’d put two hallowmancer guards near him, their spears poking into Lambre’s back. His arms were tied behind him as well, though those bonds would only be a momentary distraction if he decided to escape.
Lambre stared daggers into the men that crossed by him. They hunted down his own hallowed, killing those who were too unlucky to escape.
“Did you drag me here just to admire the flames?” Lambre asked. His clothes were still covered in tar, giving a supremely uncomfortable feeling. The soldiers standing in front of the pyre turned their eyes back on him. Chief among them was the Afterburner who had offered him surrender. His clothes were ripped from the front,
“My general only gives me the commands. I don’t need to explain them to dogs like you,” the man said. He looked towards the lowered gate and shouted at the soldiers manning the controls.
“Raise the gate! The general is here!” he shouted, and the troops set into motion.
Slowly, the metal chains creaked upwards. They revealed a small group behind them. A man dressed in a deep green uniform that was buttoned up. He wore no hat on his head, leaving his short black hair visible for all to see. But what struck out to Lambre the most was the size of the man. By Ravenishtani standards, he was a veritable giant.
Lambre took a sharp breath at the sight of him. Dolish Venastian. One of the most decorated generals of the army. Lambre should have expected someone like him to be taking on such an important operation, but the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Which means they’re getting desperate enough that they’re sending their best troops.
Dolish strode towards Lambre with a blank expression. It bore no malice, no annoyance, nothing.
“Ventorius must be smiling upon me if he thought only someone so accomplished could take me down,” Lambre said. Dolish’s expression never wavered, but Lambre could see something in the way that he blinked. It was a bit slow. Tired, perhaps?
“You should have taken the surrender when it was offered, duke Clasken,” Dolish told the man. He had a gruff voice that commanded respect. He spoke in perfectly measured words, not too much or too little.
“And why would I hand over the biggest prize of the century to a bunch of half-witted Ravenishtani ministers?” Lambre taunted. He spat at Dolish’s boots as he spoke, and felt the spears aimed at him push deeper into his back.
Lambre let out a sharp yelp of pain, but Dolish raised a hand and those spears retreated.
“So, deaths could be avoided. If you’d taken my offer as I’d asked, then your soldiers wouldn’t have needed to be wasted,” Dolish told him. Lambre could feel a hint of resentment peeking through his voice as he did. Heh, I’m wasting soldiers?
“You were just afraid we’d find the weapon before you, weren’t you? That’s why your little Armon sent such an abundance of soldiers to reclaim Latren,” Lambre said. When Dolish didn’t reply, Lambre smiled at him.
“Take him away to the quarters and make sure the bars are tight enough,” Dolish ordered his soldiers, who picked Lambre up by the shoulders. Dolish started walking away, his expression still as blank.
He hated the way they handled him, twisting and turning out of their grip before falling back onto the dirt.
“Tell me this, Venastian, how do you do it?” Lambre asked. Dolish stopped and turned back, quirking an eyebrow in his direction. They were on opposite sides of the burning pile of bodies, staring at each other.
“Do what, duke Clasken?”
“Play the hypocrite so sincerely? You wasted just as many of your men in that distraction,” Lambre told the man.
“A real general wouldn’t send his men out there to die with hallowmancer aid,” Lambre said, forcing bewl into his body and struggling against the soldiers that tried to push him down. He stood up to his full height, staring the Ravenishtani down. Dolish’s hands balled up and he paused for a moment.
“I didn’t. Those weren’t soldiers at all,” he replied.
“Prisoners, then? You sent out prisoners to die for you?” Lambre barked. But Dolish shook his head.
“Those were Soulweaver constructs. We filled them with packets of pig’s blood to simulate the effect,” Dolish answered. Lambre searched his face for any sign of dishonesty, but it remained as unreadable as ever.
The hallowmancers at his sides eventually forced him down onto the ground, and Lambre was thrown into the cells unceremoniously. Though it should have been a grim situation, he chuckled to himself. Pig’s blood? Really?