Thunder roared and rain poured heavily as the forces of Go’Renhor clashed with the Xerxecian army near the treacherous Gorge of Induris Daires.
The Tohoros, a steadfast figure, stood firm in the rocky terrain, hands gripping his great axe with restraint, as he could only stand idly by as his men met a grim fate before his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he absorbed the haunting cries of his men, their last breaths eluding them. Powerless to intervene, a visceral frustration clenched his fists at the cruel reality unfolding — a reality where his people would meet their demise.
With the fall of the last Go’Renhor soldier, the Xerxecians, seemingly unfazed, launched into a furious assault, only to meet a swift demise, evaporating mysteriously before the Tohoros’ watchful gaze. Their initial aggressive growls transformed into uncertain murmurs as they cautiously approached an enigmatic shield.
Amidst the echoing thunder, the Tohoros caught sight of their prince, his prince, moving forward with eyes aglow in an ominous red. The Imperial Prince surveyed the gorge’s expanse, prompting archers to prepare their arrows aimed at the impending threat.
In a decisive gesture, Tohoros raised his arm, commanding a halt to the impending onslaught. Observing the Imperial Prince’s focus on the gorge walls, realization dawned on him. Without hesitation, he bellowed, “Everyone, fall back now!” Swift compliance followed as his forces retreated, leaving him alone to face the enigmatic prince.
The Imperial Prince, undeterred, unleashed a potent punch from his radiant gauntlet, shattering the invisible barrier with a thunderous explosion that echoed through the gorge and illuminated the drenched, dark sky.
As he rose slowly, the lingering smoke dispersed at a snail’s pace, his searching eyes expecting the worst. The realization dawned that, if the barrier lay shattered, he would soon be joining his fallen comrades. His heart beat faster as he awaited for what lies beyond the wet smoke, his grip tightened around his great axe. Yet, as he stood, astonishment seized him—a smirking Tamiron stood amidst the dissipating haze. The prince pivoted casually, orchestrating a strategic retreat for the entire enemy force.
His men came to back him up, but they were equally bewildered, filled with confusion, “Are you alright, Your Highness?” inquired one of his men.
“I am,” he affirmed, gathering his composure, his grip loosened and there he realized as he looked at his hands, as they trembled right before him. “Quick, check for survivors on the other side!” he commanded immediately.
A sudden revelation shattered the tumultuous moment. “Your Highness! General Armido has fallen!” a soldier urgently shouted.
The Tohoros sprinted toward the fallen general, whose collapse seemed incongruent with his legendary strength, often likened to that of a taranos. “What happened to you, Armido?” he implored, cradling the weakened general.
Leaning down, the Tohoros sought an explanation, only to be met with Armido’s whispers, confusing words further deepened his already muddled mind.
They immediately retreated back to their home base to regroup and assess their current situation. The Tohoros, still haunted by the Prince’s sinister smile. Thunder echoed through the skies as heavy rain poured down upon Qqalaro, a large town near the Daires. The imperial army, now based in the region, convened for a meeting, the room charged with tension as chatter filled the air. Drenched but resolute, Tohoros entered the room, receiving a standing tribute before being directed to remain seated. The mood hung heavy as the imperial army grappled with the aftermath of the encounter, uncertainty clouding their collective resolve.
“How is General Armido?” inquired one of the generals.
“He is currently resting. The sight of Prince Tamiron shocked him,” responded the Tohoros.
“He came out of retirement just for the defense of the Empire, and he faints from seeing the Prince? He should’ve stayed retired,” scoffed one officer.
“I will have your tongue and feed it to the fishes if you continue to badmouth someone who has more experience than all of us combined!” Tohoros thundered, slamming his fists onto the table, leaving everyone in shocked silence.
“I’m sorry, Tohoros Venax,” muttered the same general, lowering his head as an apology.
Tohoros huffed and signaled for wine, taking a seat. “Now, General Armido did share crucial intel that I was not made aware of,” he said, gulping down not a cup but the entire pitcher of wine. The other generals and soldiers exchanged glances, uncertain how to react.
“If you were there with me in the front, you would’ve done what I just did,” he gestured to the servant to bring another pitcher. He paused to give himself a breathing room. Unaware for a moment of how to handle the gravity of the situation that may have befallen them.
“I’ve faced the greatest perils the sea has to offer, fought off giant sea serpents—literal spawns of the great Bacunawas. I sailed the dangerous seas of the world, but Prince Tamiron’s gaze scared me more than anything. And it is safe to say that General Armido felt that presence once, in the—” he said as he downed yet another pitcher of wine. A murmur swept through the room, confusion etched on some faces and dread mirrored in others.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean in the past?” another general inquired.
“General Armido only uttered this name. Now, the name I’m about to say has not been spoken anywhere else, nor in the past years — decades, even. I encountered this name only in ancient books. The name, Arvales,” he revealed.
He observed the generals within the room, noting confusion on some faces and shared dread, akin to what he felt in front of Prince Tamiron. It was evident they were visibly shocked by the name.
“Despite my love for the seas, I ensured that I acquired sufficient knowledge, since the lands and islands of Go’Renhor were entrusted to me. Yet, the only thing I know about this person named Arvales is that he was the reason the Trodonars rose. So, General Harax and Craasq, please enlighten us — share what you know,” Tohoros called out to the two elderly generals after he finished.
The two exchanged glances before slowly standing up.
“The reason you know nothing much about Arvales is that the name itself has been omitted, courtesy of King Madarick II,” General Harax disclosed.
“Wait, King Madarick II? So almost two hundred years ago?” he tried to clarify. “I know that General Armido is the oldest general in the Empire, but two hundred years ago?”
Everyone was trying to be comfortable, as they tried to make sense of the statement. “Tohoros Venax, are you familiar with the phrase, The Red Prince?” he continued.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Then it clicked for Tohoros, realization dawning as his eyes widened. The room echoed with a collective understanding. Most were familiar with the ominous title.
“The Red Prince was the greatest threat that the Imperial Trasidar faced after the downfall of Xerxecia,” General Harax added, emphasizing the gravity of the revelation.
“Now, why did the general mention his name in the first place? We do not know. All I can share is this: The Red Prince of Old nearly destroyed our Empire in the past. He is the embodiment of the end.”
“Is there no additional information you can provide?” he asked, his fists clenched in frustration.
The two generals exchanged glances before Craasq spoke. “I served under General Armido when I was still a lieutenant. He often communicated in riddles, using metaphors that eluded my understanding back then. However, it was a learning experience. When he employed riddles or metaphors, he aimed to convey profound meaning with directness, with fewer words.”
He drew a deep breath, reflecting on his first encounters with General Armido. Their roles were inherently distinct — his expertise lay in naval warfare, whereas the seasoned general excelled in land-based strategies.
“If General Armido mentioned the name of the Red Prince in the aftermath of Prince Tamiron’s presence, it implies that the Imperial Council has not divulged the full extent of the situation. Damn them!” he erupted, slamming his fists onto the table.
“I just don’t understand. How did the shield, painstakingly constructed over weeks by the magisters, crumbled with such ease? Wasn’t it designed to withstand any frontal assault and hold for months?” voiced one general in frustration.
“The problem with fortifying a defensive line is that you actually need to know what you are up against. The shield was made to withstand any blows and even incinerate anything as strong as an armedigor. We never had any idea that the Prince himself could actually punch his way through it,” argued another, shedding light on the unforeseen vulnerability in their defenses.
“Were the magisters not informed of his strength initially?”
“Don’t assume we possess all knowledge. The Imperial Council is unaware of his full strength. Only the Imperial Family has access to this information. We all know what is going on with them now,” he explained as he scratched his beard.
“Now that we know, that shield is like paper to him. We must adapt promptly and redeploy the shield,” he asserted, shifting his gaze to the magister commander. “Advise your magisters to swiftly restore and fortify the shields.”
“But Sire! That could take months! Even more this time! If Prince Tamiron effortlessly destroyed it, as witnessed, how do you propose we delay him with the same shield?”
“Again, we know already the strength of the Prince. Make do with the Intel we just got. Distribute it to every magister in the front lines throughout the border and have them strengthen the shields against the Prince as well.” He directed.
The commander bowed politely and promptly exited the room.
He breathed with a sigh of discontent. He felt like he had failed earlier. No one could’ve anticipated Prince Tamiron’s strength, but it was too much.
“Any word from Barceneim and the other regions?” he inquired suddenly.
“None from the capital or the regional forts. Huertian is still under siege, and more news of towns falling. No reports have been received from Bastominad either,” reported one of the soldiers.
“Bastominad is several days away from the Shardon border. If no updates have arrived in the past months, it may have already fallen,” exclaimed one general.
“All that remains is Melgrace then,” he declared, rising and leaning over the table containing the map of the current battlefield.
“Melgrace is situated on the Huertian side of the Saksoni River. The river is wide and deep, making it challenging to cross. The current is also strong,” pointed out a general.
“And we built a damn good bridge that can withstand even a magister’s bomb,” he remarked, clicking his tongue.
“Melgrace is heavily fortified, arguably the most fortified city after Tamara itself,” commented one general. “I’m confident it will hold,” the general added.
“But Melgrace is situated on an open savannah. Open rolling fields with its back against the Saksoni river. Unlike Tamara, her guardian buttes, which we’ve even fortified safeguard the imperial capital, plus an outer and inner wall. Melgrace only has one,” he insisted to the others. Shiver then ran down as he quickly realized what will happen next.
“Melgrace needs to be evacuated.”
“I’m sure the Imperial Council has already issued the order,” another general mentioned, but as they exchanged glances, doubt crept into their minds as a collective chill was brought even further into an already cold, damp room.
“Can we contact the Imperial Council now using the Orderian owl?” he suddenly asked. A soldier quickly went to fetch the owl handler. “How many soldiers are stationed in the city?” he quickly inquired.
“With a city that size, I’d estimate roughly twenty thousand strong.”
“And the population?”
“Should be around a hundred thousand.”
“Let’s assume the militia is performing well. Then the City Guard can summon and call to arms around — half?” he tried to do a rough estimate, trying to see himself, to assure himself that they did not just inadvertently seal the fate of thousands.
“I’d say the odds are favorable,” another general commented, a sentiment echoed by the others.
“But we just diverted Tamiron’s army towards them,” he said with a heavy tone as he looked at them, their hope was quickly wiped out by this realization. “Besides the pass we just defended, Melgrace’s Saksoni Bridge is the only other way inside the mainland,” he pointed out, prompting some generals to scrutinize the map more closely.
“We need the entire population, along with the soldiers, to evacuate Melgrace as soon as possible. We can’t let them become fodder,” he declared in distress as the urgency of the situation dawned on the entire room. The men and women inside quickly scrambled.
“Sire, the owl handler is already preparing the owl. He awaits you in the communications room,” a soldier reported.
“Alright. Everyone, ensure the soldiers are prepared. We may receive orders to reinforce other regions. It’s crucial that we must be ready,” he said, and the other generals concurred. They then proceeded to leave the room.
As he made his way toward the Communications room, a cloaked figure intercepted him.
“Who are you?” he inquired, surprised by the figure’s presence.
“We need to talk,” the figure replied, revealing himself to be Yaen Aresa Remolus as he removed his hood.
“Yaen Aresa Remolus. What brings you so far from the Summer Islands? What are you doing here?” he asked, his confusion evident.
Aresa exchanged glances with him, already giving him a hint of what he wanted. “You two go ahead; I’ll meet you there,” he instructed. The soldiers promptly left, and the Yaen followed him to a private room where they sat down.
“What brings you to Go’Renhor, Yaen?” he curiously asked Aresa closely.
“I bring news,” the Yaen declared, placing a scroll with an unfamiliar seal on the table.
“A storm is approaching, and we must prepare so that you don’t face it alone,” Aresa warned.
He looked at the Yaen and then turned his gaze at the sealed scroll, realizing the gravity of the situation. The only lingering question in his mind was when the storm would make landfall.
“Very well. Let’s discuss this later today. There is a more pressing matter I need to address,” he said to Aresa.
“Tohoros!” a soldier suddenly shouted.
“What’s happening?” his brows furrowed.
“The owl for some reason cannot connect outside! We are entirely cut off from the rest of the Empire!” the soldiers exclaimed.
“Tohoros, what’s going on?” Aresa asked with concern.
Confused, a cold sweat dripped down as he contemplated the impending events. He looked at his hands as he did not realize this earlier, as they still trembled.
“Quick! Get a messenger and have them ride to Melgrace! We have to warn them of what’s coming!” he ordered urgently.
The soldiers hastily followed the new command.
“Damn this! Damn all of this!” he shouted in frustration, as he left the room, with Aresa closely behind. He was unable to fathom the impending catastrophe heading for Melgrace. He could only hope that the messenger would reach them in time to provide the necessary warning.
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Not far from the Gorge of Indus Daires, Tamiron, and his Xerxecian army began their return journey. Perched on his horse, Tamiron observed his troops marching in disciplined formation. Flanking him were two Xerxecian lieutenants, and a cloaked figure, surrounded by a dark aura, trailed a few feet behind.
Intrigued, Tamiron approached the cloaked figure cautiously, careful not to get too close. He witnessed the figure casting what seemed to be a spell, and as he glanced in the opposite direction, he noticed something faint yet discernible in the sky—a dark, dome-like aura.
Curiosity piqued, he inquired, “What are you doing?” as the figure completed its spell.
In a somewhat ethereal voice, the figure replied, “Something to prevent the enemy from warning the others.”
Turning to him, the figure extended its palm, which emitted a subtle glow. “Now, go on,” it instructed, urging him to proceed with their plan.
End of Chapter IX