It was early morning in the army camp at the foot of Mount Rhaz. The young warriors were just warming up, lined up to learn the harsh discipline of Rhazgord warfare. They sweated on the hot sands, enduring training that pushed their bodies to their limits. Volmir stood out among the others, but not in a favourable light. His movements were slow and weak; he was frail compared to his peers who ran beside him. He had been in training for some time, and though he had made some progress, Volmir's body had not yet reached the stamina of his peers.
Just ahead of him, Montis was suddenly startled. He felt a strange energy in the air. In the distance, just above the horizon, he noticed clouds of dust approaching fast. Two horsemen were approaching the camp at full speed, and Montis instinctively sensed that what was coming was not ordinary. He squinted as the shadow on his face deepened and he tried to realise who they were.
Zarqa and Baldrek had ridden through the night, trying to find their way under the gloomy moonlight. Exhausted, the horses were panting, their legs trembling, and they seemed to collapse with every step. Their laboured breathing showed how urgent the two warriors were carrying a message. When they reached the camp, their horses almost died before they drew one last breath. Zarqa and Baldrek jumped from the horses without wasting any time. Without a moment's hesitation, they ran towards Valerius' barrack.
Valerius' room had fallen into a heavy silence. He had listened to the soldiers' reports all morning and had just leaned back in his chair. He had taken a moment to relax. But that moment of relaxation was shattered by the sudden opening of the door.
"Has something happened to Corvus?" Valerius asked, his voice both alarmed and threatening. Zarqa and Baldrek were not the kind of people to barge into his room like this, something had obviously gone wrong.
Zarqa shook her head, trying to catch her breath, almost collapsing from exhaustion. "No," he said, short and harsh. Baldrek continued with a tremor in his voice, momentarily forgetting the burning in his lungs. "War... War is coming!"
A spark went through Valerius. He had not seen a real battle for years. The fight against demons was, of course, deadly and bloody, but his instincts as a warrior knew that fighting enemies made of flesh and blood was a different thrill altogether. Baldrek's words had triggered a deep-seated desire to fight. The rhythm of his heart quickened, but he remained professional. He took a deep breath and gestured for the two to sit down.
Zarqa and Baldrek sat almost collapsed in the chairs. With trembling hands, Baldrek opened his bag and handed Valerius the documents. These documents were a harbinger of a much larger plan and impending danger. While Valerius was silently examining the papers, Baldrek was detailing the situation.
"Tanar betrays... Bahoz... Enemy spies are there and the logistics the enemy needs are ready."
Valerius' brow furrowed, his eyes scanning every line of the documents with the attention and intuition of a commander. Zarqa interjected to finish what Baldrek had said:
"Bahoz is preparing for war. Weapons, supplies, men... They are all there. One or all three of the kingdoms of Galir, Behem and Laxon are preparing to attack Rhazgord."
Valerius' eyes slowly lifted from the pages of the document and met Zarqa's. The lines on his face deepened, and the anger and desire for war growing within him became clear. The opportunity he had been waiting for so long had arrived. Still, he took his time and weighed the situation. The three of them argued fervently over these documents for an hour.
By the end of the discussions in Valerius' room, it was clear that war was inevitable. The tense atmosphere inside the room began to spill out of the room and spread throughout the entire camp. Valerius turned to Zarqa with cold determination in his eyes. His features had the sharpness of a commander who had led warriors for years.
"Call my adjutants," he commanded, his voice as hard and sharp as a sword stroke. "And the Sharazirs... All critical figures will be in this room before noon!"
The orders echoed out of the room and across the camp. The whole army began to buzz like a beehive as the rapidly mobilising soldiers relayed Valerius' words to the others. Nothing was hidden anymore. War was at the door.
By noon, the most important leaders in the city had gathered and entered into a heated debate. Every soldier, every Sharazir, was aware of the imminent danger, but this awareness did not cause them fear. On the contrary, they were filled with unexpected excitement and enthusiasm. Valerius, after listening to all the opinions, calmly gave his final order.
"Blow the horns of war!" he said, his voice echoing heavily in the chests of those in the room. "The gods are thirsty for blood!"
At Valerius' command, the great horns of Rhazgord suddenly came to life. A hoarse, ominous sound cut through the city. To the common people this sound would have heralded death and destruction, but to the people of Rhazgord it was the sound of glory. As the horns sounded, the same fire burned in the soul of every warrior in the city.
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While in normal cities the sound would have caused fear and panic, in the streets of Rhazgord it was a carnival. Young warriors poured out into the streets, shouting and beating their chests. Each one of them had a gleam of triumph in their eyes, shouting defiantly at their enemies waiting kilometres away, imagining how they would strike them down in their first battle.
"For Rhazgord! For Sanguinar!" cried one. "I will draw first blood!" another challenged his friends. The streets echoed with the brave shouts of the young warriors of Rhazgord, and the air vibrated with the energy of these young warriors.
But this energy was not limited to the youth. In the depths of the city, in the ramshackle workshops and narrow streets, there was a much deeper preparation. Old warriors were quietly preparing their weapons, ignoring the enthusiastic cries of the young. Most of them had grey hair, their faces were scarred with the lines of the war years. They were preparing for the battle with years of wisdom and ruthless experience. The swords, arrows or axes they held in their hands were like their last possessions left in this world.
They knew that their youth was long gone, that those energetic days were over. But that did not mean that they could not still be deadly on the battlefield. Now they had only one desire: An honourable death. On the battlefield, among the corpses of their enemies who perished under their swords, they wanted to surrender their souls in a manner befitting the gods. Not to die quietly at home, but to die amidst the war cries, on the blood-soaked fields of Rhazgord...
"The gods are watching us all," said one of them, an old warrior, as he continued to sharpen his sword. "But this time, I will earn the right to go to them!"
At the summit of the Rhaz Mountains, the shamans were painstakingly preparing to light the sacred fire. This huge fire would light the night, not only piercing the darkness, but also offering the soul of Rhazgord to the gods. The faces of the shamans, surrounded by white incense, flickered like shadows, and the deep mystical glow in their eyes heralded the battle.
This was no ordinary rite; this was a ritual honouring the blood that would be offered to the gods for the great battle that would decide the fate of Rhazgord. The ancient prayers murmured by the shamans drifted with the wind down from the mountaintop and into the city. These sounds, combined with the war horns echoing through the city, seemed to boil the blood in Rhazgord's veins.
The huge fire created a tension in the air even before it was lit. The hands of the shamans were placing the stones with slow movements, as if sowing seeds on sacred ground, preparing the offering to the gods. When the first spark flew into the air, the fire suddenly burst into flame with a noise reminiscent of the eruption of a volcano. The tongues of fire rising to the sky tore through the dark night as if they were reaching out to the gods themselves.
In the city, with the burning of this sacred fire, the fervour of war reached its peak. The young warriors raised their swords to the sky and shouted in triumph, while the old warriors took a last look at their sharpened weapons and rekindled the fire of war within them. When the Rhazgordians believed that the gods were on their side, there was no power that could stop them.
It was at this very moment that Valerius sent messengers across Rhazgord. This was no ordinary mercenary expedition. There was a threat at the heart of Rhazgord, and this war was now for all Rhazgordians. Every city, every town, every village had to heed the call. Valerius' heralds marched across bridges, across valleys, horns echoing in the foothills of the mountains. The clouds of dust from their horses' feet shouted the importance of their speed. These messengers were running at full speed to mobilise the full power of the Rhazgord.
But this was not Valerius' only plan. Urgent news was also sent to Corvus. These messengers would reach Corvus, a day and a half away, and give him Valerius' orders. Valerius was not content with mere verbal orders; immediately after the messengers, a special group of the most elite Rhazgord warriors set off for Corvus. These soldiers moved swiftly but disciplinedly, carrying the fate of a battle on their shoulders with every step.
While the heralds marched like a vanguard, these warriors, eager to reach Corvus before morning, were ready to fight shoulder to shoulder with him. Their footsteps, breaking through the dark night, made the approach of the battle more palpable every moment. In the land of Rhazgord, where war was inevitable, the echo of these steps, combined with Valerius' commands, shook the entire camp.
And so, the wind of war spread throughout Rhazgord, echoing in the souls of every warrior, both in the streets of the city and at the top of the mountains. The huge Rhazgord army was slowly gathering at the foot of Mount Rhaz.