March of the King

Prologue - Struggle

  A silence dominated the field, a low rustling of footsteps and the restless murmurs of the crowds rising up in bubbles amidst the calm. The wind blew in, rolling off the sea and across the hills, tugging at the banners as they arced through the sky, in shades of red and blue, green, gold, white bright emblems embossed upon gaudy silk, as row upon row of warrior formed ranks beneath each one. Glistening blocks of silver and white dotting the countryside each an army unto themselves, flecks of colour thrown in alongside, a the blue of a dragon’s scales as it reared it’s head amongst the infantry, a young maiden wielding a hammer the size of her body with flame red hair marking the vanguard of the troops across the field, beings strange and wonderful strewn amongst the ranks of soldiers, some great lord or lady standing behind them surrounded by their retinue, of creatures and hero's the likes of which would one day fill the annals of history. But for all their glory and there wonder, a stain marked the battle field, a shadow loomed over their righteous war...

  The banner flew in tatters, catching the light of the rising dawn as it peaked its' way up over the ocean, casting rays of gold which bounced and shattered against the rolling waves, the roaring of the sea upon the cliffs barely audible beneath the crackle and thunder of the voices gathered there. They stood in a haphazard collection of leather and iron, distorted faces of grey and blue and green peering out from within their helmets, the rabble seething en masse like a single living thing, looming shapes marked against the horizon, the shadows of monsters, ogres, giants trolls, all manner of creatures no matter how depraved. As long as it could fight, as it could be trained, as it could die it had a place within his army. 

  Garde stood at the fore of the horde, his banner planted firmly in the dirt, a blank sheet of bloodied cloth strung from a rusted partisan, a band of goblins clutching at the base as poll bearers and outside of the computer-screen in which this scene was contained his lips began to curl. Elliot let out a sharp laugh leaning back in his chair, a dim lamp casting his room in warm light, fingers trembling as he took a long swig from a water bottle before laying it down at the side of his desk. He couldn't decide exactly why, why his heart was racing, his fingers twitching, or the palms of his hands slowly beginning to drip; whether it was excitement or terror. It was probably a mix of both thinking about it... He swallowed hard, his throat remaining parched, his eyes tinged red and ringed in darkness from exhaustion, slender arms pulling a bony face forwards closer to the monitor.

  A faint whisper left his lips as his gaze followed the timer slowly trickling down to zero, the faintest of whispers spilling from his lips unknown to him. "Five... Four... Three. Two. One" then a bell rang, blaring through his headset each army stepping forwards into the fray as the battle began. 

  Elliot took in a steady breath, his hands falling still besides him, as he watched each digital army rush across the battle field meeting at the centre in a collision of magic and swords and carnage, his computer lagging every now and then under the strain, and something inside him began to well. His smile grew wider, blood shot eyes frenzied as suddenly his fingers exploded in a flurry of movement, and his clock mounted on the wall continued to tick and tock its inexorable march.

  The Rule of Albion was an online game, one where you were meant to build your castle command your army, nothing that people hadn't seen a hundred-thousand times before. But for some reason it stood out amidst the crowd of carbon copies the game was only in its' beta phase, and anyone could sign up to play, providing that there was still space left on the servers. The game had fifty servers operating around the world just fifty, the project drawn up by a couple of small companies hoping the strike it big, and sure enough they did. The game had risen to prominence for one very important reason, it's method of recruitment. Unlike in most games in the same field, you couldn't just sit back and wait for new soldiers to spawn, you had to go out and recruit them, ordinary people, who would have to be trained, and once they were trained then they'd develop skill and abilities every single soldier possessing their own level with their own stats, skills and abilities. Depending on the training they received and if you were lucky, among the faceless masses you would find a hero. The Game was hard, to the point that it was considered unfair, without heroes whose skills and abilities ensured each and every one of them on par with an entire army, you couldn't hope to challenge the stronger players, players who were willing to invest both their time and their money into the game. That was the one thing that bugged him about Albion, it was only in its' Beta test but they were still selling products in game, of course even with that imbalance the game remained captivating, hunt monsters, challenge missions, go on grand adventures, expand your land and your forces little by little all while aiming for the title of King

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  Of course the Beta test had to end eventually, and to mark its' passing, hidden under the pretext of trying out their tournament system, a message went out to all players a call to arms inviting them to compete in the challenge; 'The trial of the king'. Of course the people came, to test their mettle and vie for the title 'The First King of Albion' as well as the numerous undisclosed rewards. So the fight began, between five-thousand players, and before a week had passed only fifty were left, fifty candidates for the throne who now lay scattered and broken across the battle field, the soil turned to mud mixed with blood and death and decay. 

  Garde stood alone, near the centre of the battle field, planted firmly at the foot of a sloping hill, the light casting his shadow before him, as a new day shone, and the light caught against the wall of steel now arrayed against him marking them out, for one of them would be the first king of Albion.

  Shields spears, axes, swords all were arrayed against him, his forces lay in ruin their bodies piled over the field. A handful of lizard men stood before him royal blue scales burning in the light, backed up by several heroes ringing the summit of the little hill and the woman who stood there. She was a young, fresh, dressed in shinning silver armour, a golden braid slipping out beneath her helm to trail behind her hanging mere inches from the earth yet never touching it, her name was Lyca. Garde’s face contorted into a wicked grin, that played off against hair and eyes black as night thrown behind him in a wild mess immense hands clutching a two handed axe, a bardiche, close by his side, a ragged cloak and roughly beaten armour wrapping him around, and across the field his laughter boomed. He was going to lose that was certain but he hadn't come this far just to win, that wasn't what he wanted; all he really wanted was to bring them down, to show them what gaming was really about; not obtaining some imagined power, but fighting the impossible fights, having the opportunity to defy logic to become a hero and in that respect he'd already won.

  He’d already come this far, with a ragtag army, he’d reached heights already considered impossible, he’d fought tooth and nail to show them, ever last pay-to-win player in Albion, in the world, exactly what gaming was supposed to mean!

  Garde’s laughter ebbed low, an unnerving quiet settling upon the scene as he took that first step forwards. Elliot launched into action activating several skill in short succession, Garde charging up the hill the blade of his axe bursting with a crackling light, a baleful blue as the row of lizard men rushed together forming a shield wall, digging their feet down into the earth as Garde collided with the enemy force, he swung his axe in a wide arc streaks of lightning bursting from the weapon, knocking the lizard men back, breaking the shield wall, and leaving a path to Lyca wide open.

  The Heroes closed in tighter about their commander, a barrage of magic streaking its’ way down the gentle slope of the hill a mix of fire and ice and wind. Garde stood still pointing his axe forwards, the white lightning slowly beginning to form a vortex before him, a shield of lightning which pulsated with an unnatural energy, the wave of magic meeting the barrier for the briefest of instances before the entire world was bleached in the purest white, a second later the sound of roaring filling their ears. Garde rushed forwards through the haze, Elliot watching as his health slowly began to fall, the earth itself thrumming with an electric charge, remnants of fire and ice and wind magic coiling through the air, not that it mattered, Garde was strong, all he needed to do was get in one hit, one hit would be enough to bring her down. The light began to fade, Garde pushing bursting from the flames his gaze focused on the hill above him, Lyca pointing towards him a single finger aimed at his heart, a wave of confusion rising up in Garde’s head, as his axe dropped from his grip an errant hand reaching up to grasp the pearly white shaft erupting from his chest, piercing through the armour, a golden light spreading from the wound, mixing with the crimson of blood. He stole a ragged gasp in that moment, forcing himself forwards another step, his gaze fixed upon Luca, a series of several golden flashes filling the air, a second later near a dozen ivory spears plunged through the air, nailing him to his place, driving deep through armour and flesh and bone, propping him up leaving him unable to fall, his gaze remaining fixated on the woman before him as she stood there a sudden look of terror rising up upon her face, and then everything went black.

  Elliot stopped, his screen now dark, as he pushed away from his desk, teeth grit tight his eyes turning to his ceiling light. He’d lost... He’d never really planned on winning; he’d never even expected to come as far as he had yet still... He’d liked to have won, to have proved it, proved he was a hero. But slowly the light above him seemed to grow dimmer; his eyes drawing closed as if a great weight lay against them and at last sleep claimed him