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I. MOURNING’S TWILIGHT
“Mercy of Dawn!” One arm of the grimy faced Arlien soldier had given way to rot, the other lost upon the field. “Just fucking end it already!”
Aichlan bowed his head and ground his teeth. He allowed the request to go unheeded and bleed into a chorus of more than a dozen others. From his compatriots and the Knights of The Order of Dawn to the Arliens he had led to their slaughter. The plaintive wails of his fellow dying soldiers echoed off the high arched ceilings of the hall. Bright banners flew triumphant overhead, mocking the disemboweled and dying sprawled out below.
Aichlan muttered a steady stream of curses as he worked. He fumbled a knife with his wounded hand as he struggled to pry nails from a bench. Ostensibly, he worked to provide material for shoring up the besieged gate. In actuality, it was an attempt to drown out the dying cries of his men with a mindless task. So far with mixed results; while it would have been more alarming if the cries had ceased. They were grating all the same. They were painful reminders.
When Aichlan closed his eyes, he could still see his men in neat and orderly rows. Their crisp white surcoats with bright blue trim emblazoned with the emblem of a sun on their chests. Men who trusted him to lead them. He could see their terror as the swarm of black clothed men rolled in over the hills, like hungry locusts. Their writhing bodies were as the stones on the shore against the ocean of Xanavien soldiers. As in nature, the waves inevitable prevailed. The screams of dying men and the cacophony of clashing steel still rang in his ears. It was no battle; it was mayhem for mayhem’s sake.
Aichlan wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes with the back of his bandaged hand. He ignored the wound as he continued his work. His body had long since gone numb, but his mind still raced and needled him at every opportunity. Reminding him of the terror outside.
He looked and felt like shit. A blue eyed fey from Aes Sidhe who appeared several years younger than he actually was. He scratched his patchy, malformed beard, wishing to shave it off. A lean man of athletic build, he was out of place in a regiment of hulking knights who lifted iron in their spare time. The upper echelon of The Order was incensed when he was appointed Grandmaster. Most Knights had several years or even a decade more service under their belts than he. Many more plain wanted him dead for the nepotism he embodied. That is, until they saw him fight.
Neither he nor his men had slept in two days. The respite offered by their impending deaths was almost enticing by this point. Aichlan wiped the sweat from his palms off on his uniform, stained with blood both fresh and old. Blood which he was uncertain was his or that of countless others. Aichlan took a breath and ran his trembling hands through grimy, black hair.
The soldier cried out again, and Aichlan fumbled his dagger with a curse of fear and frustration. He cast a furtive eye about the hall, trying hard not to linger too long on the broken and dying heaped about the floor. The once majestic fort of the Arlien’s would soon become their gilded tomb.
Aichlan jerked up with a start at the nervous whinnies from two nearby horses. His hand flew instinctively to his sword, the blade was already three quarters of the way out of its sheath before he realized it. The two remaining cavaliers rushed to ease their weary, frightened beasts. A stray arrow had made its way through a crack in the door; one of the wounded riders gave out his last cry as it pierced his chest and he toppled from his mount. Soldiers dragged their heels over to bolster the defenses in response. Calm, such as it was, would brifly return with the patching of the hole. Another being hammered open by the mob outside as they worked, their languid movements speaking to the futility.
Aichlan clenched his fist and snatched his dagger from the tile floor, returning to the futile task with newfound resolve. He tossed a crooked nail into the meager pile as someone granted another nameless, wailing soldier death's mercy. With each frustrated jab into the unyielding wood, Aichlan uttered a curse to the Gods. Not only for the seeming hopelessness of their situation, but for the men who put them there. Those who proclaimed to be the voice of the Eloi among men.
They would not die here, not for his sins. Nor would they perish at the whim of those deemed powerful by virtue of wealth or name, the same cowards that orchestrate conflicts without fear of facing their own mortality. He whispered a silent mantra to himself again and again, attempting to drown out what he knew in his heart to be true.
The fort itself was geared more towards entertaining guests and dignitaries. It offered little by the way of interference for invading armies or cover for defending soldiers. Every surface was marked by superfluous ornamentation and stonework. Portraits of frolicking nymphs and stoic rulers of ages past lined the rustic stone walls. Nothing to provide a defensive boon. Merely ornamentation. Aichlan traced the carvings on a nearby pillar with bloody fingers. It was an admirable attempt to mimic the styles of his homeland, Aes Sidhe, a place he would never see again.
“Grandmaster Aichlan—”
He jumped at the sound of his name. Embarresed by his frayed nerves, he waved a hand in dismissal of the event with muttered apology to his adjutant, Lyle.
“What is it?” Aichlan snapped.
“Our attempts to parley with the enemy general have failed.” Lyle mopped the sweat from his forehead with a bloodstained handkerchief. “They seem intent on routing us completely.”
Blood began to seep from Aichlan’s reopened wound. He unclenched his fist and rewrapped his hand with the tattered rag. Envious of his adjutant’s tranquil bearing.
Aichlan leaned in close, conscious of the watching eyes of his subordinates. “What of the knights from Elysia? The Order promised reinforcements weeks ago!”
“No one's coming, Grandmaster. We were but one-thousand when we left. Perhaps Elysia is bolstering its defense following our last missive.”
“Spare me your pragmatism Lyle, it was politics.” Aichlan grumbled and went back to the task. “We die here because of petty politics.”
Lyle shifted his stance and offered a hollow stare to his commander. “Your orders sir?”
Aichlan stabbed and picked at the wood with his dulled dagger as his mind raced with ploys and gambits destined to fail. The idea of shoring up the gate was a foregone conclusion, there would be no stopping the tide of Xanavene. However, the task was a welcome distraction, and kept his mind off his impending end. And the events that led up to this point. The politics in question were regarding his own, proclivities, a guilt he could not seem to shake. Too many had died because others were too cowardly to put him to the axe outright.
“How many of us are left?” Aichlan demanded.
He would not let them all die if he could help it. He would crawl his way back, dragging their broken bodies if need be, but they would not all die here.
Lyle sighed and shrugged as he cast an aching gaze towards the makeshift infirmary along the hall. Around them, the dead and dying were unceremoniously splayed upon expensive tapestries, torn from the walls. The stink of blood and bowels cloyed the close air.
“Two-three hundred?” Lyle clamped his tongue between teeth to prevent the follow up phrase ‘does it matter?’ from escaping.
Aichlan looked away with a snort of disgust; the reality that he could just as easily have wound up in their place was too much to bear at the moment. Some nights he wished he had.
“How many can still fight? Unless your plan is to lay out the wounded and hope that the enemy trips.” Aichlan sneered.
“No sir. There are seven, four Arlien’s and an auxiliary recently transferred from Catharone. Plus, ourselves of course.”
Aichlan forced an ironic chuckle. “Unlucky bastard.”
A loud thud echoed through the atrium as mortar and dust fell from the ceiling. Aichlan looked up as debris continued to rain down, wondering if his death would be so anticlimactic. To crushed by a falling roof. The massive gates, carved from a single tree from the ancient Elven forests of Alfheim, buckled and groaned under the assault. Lyle motioned towards the opulent furnishings, now no more than scrap for a barricade, and the remaining Arlien’s went about their new task.
“Where did those savages get a battering ram?” Lyle mused with an exasperated grumble.
“What of their movements?” Aichlan massaged the bridge of his nose.
Lyle swallowed and paused to parse his words. “The gate will be breeched in a matter of moments- “
“Where are they Lyle?” Aichlan repeated firmly.
“-We need to prepare a series of barricades going back to the main hall—” Lyle continued over the shouts of dying men and bloodthirsty Xanaviens.
“I’m not giving up Lyle.” Aichlan locked eyes with his cagey adjutant. “Where are they?”
“It’s not giving up!” Lyle shouted, eliciting a brief silence in the atrium. “It’s going out with some dignity and taking as many of them as we can with us, fighting to the last man in the last bloody ditch!”
His adjutant’s emotional outburst took Aichlan by surprise, and he found himself at a loss for words. There was no honor in death, but so too was there little gained by ignoring the obvious. Aware of the eyes fixed on him, Aichlan loosened his collar and drew himself up as best his weary body would allow.
Aichlan stepped close and spoke in a stern whisper. “If we fight to the last man, going out in a blaze of noble glory, who do you think will remain to speak of our heroism? When these cravens sack the continent? Now, what are their movements?”
“Reports are dated, but last estimates from tower guards put the enemy massed at the main gate and an egress tunnel on the south wall.” Lyle droned as his eyes wandered amongst his wounded and fallen comrades.
Aichlan’s head was pounding, and he felt the blood trickling down his face from an unknown wound on his head.
“Damn it man!” Aichlan slammed his fist into the bench. “Numbers?”
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“…Close to seventy-thousand, Grandmaster. But with such a large force, there is no real way of telling…”
“Absurd! There hasn’t been an army that large on Silex since the collapse!”
In fact, it was essentially prohibited. Ever since the Asketill uprising some two-thousand years ago, there had been a gentleman’s agreement of sorts that no battle should exceed ten thousand combatants on either side. Aichlan himself had not been in a battle with more than four thousand prior to this. Seventy thousand was not only unwieldy, it was also unnecessary.
“I can only relay what was reported to me, Grandmaster.” Lyle stated with a placid face, his hands splayed in resignation.
Aichlan plunged his dagger into the wood. Several startled men looked in his direction once more. Everyone was on edge. Nerves were beyond frayed by the defeat and subsequent siege. They needed a pillar of strength. They need what Aichlan severely doubted he could provide them, hope. He ran his hands through his hair and bit his lip as he wrestled his dagger free.
“Damn it!” Aichlan abruptly stood and paced back and forth.
The others went back to work after briefly looking up at him once more. There was no way out of this one. They knew as well as he did, but he could not give in. They already had their doubts about him. To be Grandmaster at such a young age was unheard of, no matter whose loins you had sprung from. He had heard their whispers as the campaign first started going south. Their eyes held unbridled contempt for him, for which he could hardly blame them. The least he could do was remain composed, so that those whose lives he had invariably cut short could at least go out with dignity. For all the good such a concept would do for the dead.
“How could they amass so large a force so quickly?” Aichlan hissed through clenched teeth. “Xanavene is nothing more than some backwater tundra, how could they possibly outfit such a massive military?”
The impact of the battering ram thundered through the atrium; the force of the blow knocked those bracing it to the floor. The Xanavien force amassed outside gave up a cheer as they doubled their efforts on breeching the doors of the keep. Soldiers scrambled to pile tables before the gate, using the salvaged lumber to shore up holes. Aichlan stared at the gate as each ram shook dust and masonry from the rafters. He briefly locked eyes with a man peering in through a gap; he bore the look of a feral dog. More than fear, he felt disgust, disgust that such rabble had gotten the best of them. That he would die not to a fellow knight and warrior, but a common band of thugs, there was no greater humiliation.
“Do you still want our men to dismantle the western wall? Or should I have them reassigned?”
“It was already cracked, have they not done so already?” Aichlan demanded.
“The men are half dead and ill equipped for the task." Lyle flinched as another breach in the gate brought more whoops and errant arrows. "We could use the horses...”
“Then why do you stand here? Get to it!”
Lyle closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Grandmaster, Osric’s men prepare to storm the keep as we speak. We don’t have enough men to mount a retreat…” He trailed off as Aichlan glared off into space.
“Osric.” Aichlan wrung his gauntlet as the name burned his ears.
As far as anyone knew, he was some insignificant upstart in the east. A faceless entity that embodied all that was wrong with humanity in his opinion. The name appeared in several reports thrown about various councils by high-ranking officials. Despite no description of the man existing. All they did know was that he worked for the Xanavien Royal Court in Sarevon. That his rise to power coincided with the unwarranted aggressions from that kingdom.
Another impact from the battering ram jolted Aichlan back from his thoughts. Soldiers scrambled to brace the splintered gate as the more daring and bloodthirsty soldiers outside jabbed swords through the gaps.
“Answer me straightly, Lyle, have they discovered our plans?”
His adjutant contemplated continuing his argument but decided against it. A look of grim resignation fell upon him as the battering ram shook the atrium once more.
“No, my friend,” Lyle sighed. “As I have said, they align their forces upon the eastern and southern gates. The western walls are barren, save for our own dead and wounded.”
“Good,” Aichlan said with newfound resolve. “I refuse to be slaughtered in this Dawn forsaken place. Furthermore, I shan’t abide that fiend Osric to catch Elysia similarly unawares.”
He checked to see that his sword was still at his hip as he tucked his unused gauntlet into his belt. He scanned the hall, and his heart sank at the sight. With so few, they did have a chance of slipping by undetected, though slim. Even so, seven against seventy thousand were not odds, it was a guarantee.
Aichlan drew his blade, a simple arming sword of Aes Sidhean design inscribed with runes of the Sylph his homeland had taken as sigil. Visible only in the morning light; his accompanying buckler was lost long ago in the past battle. His father, The Great General Garrick, had it commissioned for him with the intent that it would be passed on to his son and so on. After countless engagements, the blade had neither chipped nor dulled, a testament to its craftsmanship. That did not change the fact that it would find an ignominious end in this ruin, or worse yet, be carted off as a trophy.
“Grandmaster?” Lyle asked, snapping him from his trance.
A somber nod signaled he was ready to address those that remained.
“Attention!” Lyle shouted above the din.
Although no one assumed the position, the remaining soldiers turned their attention to Lyle and Aichlan. Aichlan cast his gaze across the weary and defeated faces. Briefly meeting the gaze of a fellow knight of The Order; the shared silence said all that they needed. While he was no older than many of the men serving under him, the youth of those few survivors was disheartening.
The solemn knight, the auxiliary who had the misfortune of being tasked to this doomed campaign, pulled on his leather gauntlets and fastened his sword to his belt. The other four soldiers capable of fighting wore the green and yellow coats of Arlien over mail or under gleaming breastplates. They bore the emblem of a hound pinning a stag by the throat upon their chest or their backs. The futility struck him as morbidly humorous; the Xanavien standard was a wolf’s paw. It took all his restraint to keep from laughing, though if it was genuinely humorous or he had finally fell victim to madness was uncertain.
One thousand Knights of The Order had marched on Arlien to fight the menace. Now only three Knights of Arlien, himself, his aide and an auxiliary remained. In the three years he had been grandmaster, he had not suffered such a defeat, and The Order had not lost so many men in a single effort in nearly fifty years.
“The fort is lost; we make our break from a crack in the western wall.” Aichlan shouted over the din. “We will be traveling light with no more than our weapons. We go swiftly, sticking to the tree line along the River Tear,”
The battering ram struck again, sending splinters of the ancient wood careening across the room. Aichlan paused a moment to take a breath and gather his thoughts again before he turned to address the chevaliers.
“You two are to ride night and day to Nassica and get word to the Priestess Renata, to hell with her attendants! If your mounts should die enroute then you continue on foot, this is of upmost importance!”
His voice faltered. His eyes full of remorse upon catching the defeated looks on their faces as they attempted to calm their agitated and weary beasts. They did not hear nor likely care what he had to say. They had resigned themselves to death. Yet he had not. It was as if he still held hope that he would hold her in his arms again.
The gate shuddered under another impact as the remaining soldiers bolstering the gate abandoned their futile efforts to hear him out. Aichlan cleared his throat, attempting to regain his confidence and be the much-needed pillar of strength for his allies, who stood glass-eyed and unhearing. Disgusted by their willingness to roll over and accept death, he picked up a half-dismantled chair and dashed it against the floor. Several men jumped at the randomness of the act, and another broke into tears.
“If we are to die today, then I’ll not suffer it in vain! We shall crawl our way through or float upon the River, but I’ll not give that fiend the satisfaction of a rout!”
A mob of Xanavien soldiers made a small breech in the gate and began to spill out into the atrium, one and two at a time. Their black armor gleamed like the carapace of a beetle in the torchlight. They scrambled and jostled over each other like roaches to carrion. Those too wounded to make the journey feebly took up arms against them, amounting to no more than a brief diversion. Sneers and bloodlust crossed the faces of the mob before them as they edged closer. They bore the look of craven scum, criminals and vagabonds, not professional soldiers. The War cry of seventy thousand soldiers resounded throughout the fort.
The two defenders quickly, though reluctantly, doffed their armor. Those too wounded to escape leaned on their polearms, marching dutifully towards a swift demise.
Aichlan urged his men on ahead of him as they took off down the hall. He had wished that more competent fighters had survived but was resigned to the fact that their fate would be the same regardless. With one last somber glance at the weary seven and those left behind to die, he issued the final order.
“Be as swift as the autumn winds through the eves in Bloodmoon.
* * *
They fled through the hall; a makeshift infirmary made into a funeral parlor. Their footsteps and jingling mail echoed in the stairwell of the cavernous western corridor. Thundering strikes from the enemy battering ram haunted them. The more pronounced sound of splintering timber brought with it a brief tense silence before the next strike. As they approached the bend, Aichlan held out his arm, issuing a halt. Shadows danced in the torchlight, accompanied by the harsh tones of the Xanavien Tongue.
“Light Blasted, shoulda kept ma armor…” A defender swore as he readied his halberd.
“Shh!” Aichlan hissed as he inched forward.
He attempted a quick count. At least a hundred men stood between them and freedom of the Azalea plains and the River Tear.
“Shit.”
The enemy was hesitant, despite their overwhelming numbers, they held back; the significance of this was not lost on him. They were afraid, afraid with no initiative. They were fodder. A brief smirk crossed Aichlan's lips as their chances for success rose, if only ever so slightly. He took up a forward low guard, the fools’ stance, his eyes stoic in a way practiced during countless duels and battles. The fact that today would be his last seemed of little consequence anymore.
“Orders?” Lyle somberly asked as he drew his mace.
Aichlan raised his sword to his waist, the blade leveled behind him as he readied to vault himself into the horde. Several men retreated a step and raised their weapons in a clumsy defense.
“Grandmaster…”
A Xanavien uttered what Aichlan assumed was a curse as he fumbled his pike. They were novices. Their grips were too tight, their stances unstable, they were not soldiers. The weapons they held may as well have been toys. He would have been optimistic if there were not so damned many of them.
“Make them earn their victory.” His words were hardly audible over the clamor, but his expression conveyed all that needed saying.
His fellow knights nodded in grave solidarity.
“Understood. May Dawn light our path.”
Before the words had even left Lyle’s lips, Aichlan charged headlong into the enemy position. His sword was a flash of silver, parrying and deflecting blows with grace. Using only a single-handed blade left him unbalanced, yet his strikes were deft and deadly.
Lyle gave out a mighty shout, startling the poor excuses for soldiers before him, before smashing through two in rapid succession. The impact of the adjutant’s mace against the Xanavien’s armor rang out through corridor, followed by the explosive exhalation of collapsed lungs and the shattering of ribs.
As Aichlan had suspected, they had no idea how to effectively wield the weapons they held, relying on horde tactics for victory. Some of the cravens even turned tail, despite their overwhelming numbers. The armored bodies of the Xanaviens crumpled before them. A mere seven against a legion, such a contest should by all rights not be so close. So hopeful.
Aichlan's disgust at being bested by such crude and dishonorable means fueled him. Soon, he had spearheaded a rift in the enemy ranks. It seemed that the band of seven just might reach their point of escape. The once hopeless pushed forward with newfound vigor, driving the Xanavien horde back to the breech whence they came.
The deafening roar of the main force charging from their rear however, quickly dashed any hope of escape. The pained yelp of an Arlien defender being skewered on the end of a halberd signaled the first casualty. Aichlan glanced back in time to see the man poked and prodded by half a dozen swords eager to taste his blood.
The auxiliary cried out a warning as he shoved Aichlan out of the way, taking an axe to the back that was meant for him. Aichlan pushed aside his fallen comrade and slew two of the three attackers before barreling through an opening.
A loud Fuck escaped Aichlan’s lips as a Xanavien landed a lucky slash across his back. Before the craven could celebrate or try for another, Aichlan had cut him down. He pulled free his blade to see two more knights of Arlien fall. Aichlan cursed as panic gripped his heart and cut a swath through the enemy ranks in a desperate bid to escape. His eyes danced about the horde of faces contorted in rage and bloodlust, in a desprate search for the rest of his group. A squad of enemy crossbowman fought their way to the foreground as Aichlan decapitated a swordsman. He disemboweled another on the backswing as they unleashed their volley of quarrels.
Uncanny perception or sheer exhaustion caused Aichlan to drop to the floor, now slick with blood. The quarrels indiscriminately struck friend and foe alike. A horse screamed and toppled its rider, both riddled with arrows and javelins. The sheer numbers of the enemy had effectively separated and surrounded the dwindling group of knights.
Aichlan screamed out in agony as an enemy sword entered his torso just above his navel. He stared at the wound in stunned silence as blood and links of his tattered chainmail fell to the ground. The Xanavien soldier attempted to wrench his blade free, which Aichlan gripped with a firm gloved hand. They wrestled for several tense moments amidst the confused clamor. Aichlan managed to pin the soldier against the wall and maneuver his own blade to his throat. With slow and deliberate movements, he shoved it in, to savor the invaders suffering. The enemy blade slid out as the soldier fell, nearly taking Aichlan down with him. Aichlan clamped his hand over the wound in a feeble attempt to staunch the deluge of blood. Adrenaline and enervation urged him forward. He dragged himself against the wall, in hopes of slipping by in the confusion.
To his left, blood-raged soldiers hacked Lyle to death. With that, Aichlan became the last remaining Knight of The Order. Instinctively, Aichlan raised his sword and charged in to avenge his comrade. A crossbow bolt to the shoulder cut his avenging charge short. The enemy reminded of his presence, he turned and stumbled through the sea of adversaries. He wielded his sword with wild abandon. Form given way to panic and survival.
A horse vaulted over an enemy squadron. An errant kick from the frightened beast doused Aichlan with the brain matter of some craven. The beast bucked in its madness, frothing at the mouth, it dragged its dead rider towards the breach in the wall. The soldiers retreated from the beast, focusing on surrounding Aichlan instead. Still, none dared to approach him, as he swung his blade like a drunkard. A lucky strike lodged his blade in the neck of one of the braver invaders. Blinded by blood and gore as he was, Aichlan kicked him off his blade, and the effort sent him stumbling back. The death had spooked them, and even in his weakened state, they were avoiding him.
Aichlan wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve, smearing viscera across his face. His vision blurred as he leaned on his sword like a crutch in an attempt to catch his breath. He was weak, vulnerable. Three of them could have finished him off if they came at once, yet they all kept their distance. Aichlan stumbled, holding his sword out to deflect a blow that never came. A glance to the floor showed the corridor littered with corpses. Their corpses. A brief smile crossed his lips. They feared him.
Aichlan turned his gaze back to the horse. The half dead beast danced and snorted around its fallen master. With a blood chilling cry, fueled by bravado or fear, a Xanavien charged at Aichlan. Before he even had a chance to swing his axe, Aichlan severed his arm. Before the first man fell, Aichlan cut through a second who dared step within striking distance. Using his one good arm, Aichlan pushed his way through the confused mob in a desperate bid to reach the horse.
He could not manage two full steps, tripped by a corpse. Another arrow found its mark in Aichlan's chest as he fell. Unable to rise, he crawled his way through the fray. Blinded by sweat and blood, on the edge of consciousness, he managed to block an oncoming sword slash. Clawing at his enemies’ uniforms, Aichlan tried to stand and retaliate. An axe to the clavicle from behind brought him down.
The sound of gulls and the ebbing tides replaced the cries for blood of his enemies. Visions of a seaside metropolis played in his mind. He felt himself falling from the chalk cliffs to float over the familiar bay. The scent of olive orchards filled his nostrils. The white marble and stone structures of Port Nassica gleamed in the sunlight below. Growing in brilliance and intensity as he fell. He shielded his eyes, though his arms did not move with the command. The blood pulsed in his ears as the sea might with receding tides, all the while, the light grew in luminosity.
He collapsed in a motionless heap to be stomped by his merciless attackers. Aichlan’s eyes—dull blue and full of sorrow beyond years—glazed over as his life ebbed away.