Tome 1: The Spark of New Beginnings

The Empire's Birth

An epoch on the birth of a new beginning,

A humble start for the father of an empire,

A great leader, a visionary, a king

Whose reign would span across all time.

Amidst the darkness, a light so bright

A great fight against the evil night

The King and his children came unto the world, a hope and bane for all

The spark of a new dawn, its call.

The dawn of a new era, a time of change

His childrens’ power was great and strange

A new form of rule, a new way of life

After all the strife, finally a life of freedom and peace.

Through all the times of doubt, his lineage and kingdom would rebirth like a phoenix

Believing in the power of good, without a doubt

He warred with the darkness, to bring about the light

The dawn of a new beginning, what a sight.

He planted seeds, ones of peace, order, and justice

A respite from the beasts

So that the ones that came after could flourish, free of the pain of Ages past

The dawn of a new beginning, a humble start, was a marvel.

Chapter 1

“No one knows what happened to The Thundering Hills in ancient times, only that the great valley has been cursed for millennia. Earliest records state that anyone from a lost child to the Sun King’s own host have entered and never returned. Records between 909 and the year 916 reported strange tempests forming at random over the haunted hillsides, reaching as far as Dayton. Historians today believe the source of the tempests to be King Ashur ‘The Eagle Eye’, more commonly known as ‘The Wind Wyrm’.”

– "Tomes of Tegonian History: Volume IV” The Year 15 of the Fifth Age

18 Years Later: October 17th, The Year 916 of the Fourth Age

A cacophony of hammers on wood and the screams of the defeated played furiously to the howl of the impressive gusts of wind. The bodies of the slain were piled and lit ablaze across the barren field, plumes of black smoke from the mound darkened the sky. Thick stygian clouds blotted out the blood red sunset, its streaks of scarlet stretching across the crepuscular empyrean. The incense of burning flesh, fresh blood, and rain filled Enyalius’ acute nose, his eyes closed in a state of bliss beneath his royal blue helm before vanishing into something else entirely. The aroma of a victory like this was always rotten, but the stench smelt particularly sweet, like the smell of fresh honey. The change shook Enyalius’ mind.

A mission this rotten is being blessed by an ascendant. Relax, embrace it for once. You’ll have time to reflect later. Mautar and the other men haven’t bothered me yet, I need to enjoy whatever respite I can.

A light breeze brushed past the slits in his helm, gently kissing his nose and eyelids. The state of euphoria began to disrupt when the breeze strengthened to a gust, cutting straight through his armor. At first, the air had felt soothingly cool, lightly kissing his whole body as it surged through his plate armor, but that feeling worsened with every scream he heard. With every passing heartbeat, the light chill morphed more and more into a feeling of bitter cold, and the noise of the wind muted all sound around him. No more screams from the injured or dying, no more death rattles from the enemies, only the deafening cry of the wind. Enyalius opened his eyes and had truly awakened. The symphony of violence that had soothed him only moments ago had contorted to an honest monstrosity, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Enyalius' head snapped from the execution of prisoners of war, removing his helm; shaking his head while doing so like he had a tick. Long, silk-like hair black as the void fell out of the helm, revealing the face of a sweaty, clean shaven, weary man. Wrinkles had started to form on his face, and dark bags lie beneath his bright silver eyes, for sleep had been foreign to him for a fortnight.

“Fucking bastards, all of them,” he angrily muttered to himself as he turned back to face the grisly scene, “it didn’t have to end this way.”

It didn’t have to end this way.

He massaged his temples, thinking of all his host had lost in a battle that now meant nothing. He scanned the pile of dead bodies lying scattered across the barren field. Enyalius walked toward the line of soldiers he had left alive on the enemy’s side, Tyrus natives wearing their standard leather rags. They were awaiting execution and were to be spared should he get what he desires. Enyalius faced one of the older men in the line, looking about the same age as himself. The man, kneeling with the rest of the young men in the line, was the only one not crying or begging, singling him out amongst them. In Tyrus, age and ability were seniority over all: the older you were, meant that you were wise enough to survive long enough in that cursed city, while the young could make a name for themselves from their abilities as pickpockets and hired blades. For a man to be this old meant he could have either or both, and that meant that he had either come to terms with his death or did not fear it at all.

“Old blade, where is Oremir?” Enyalius snapped. Just the mention of that name brought back horrible memories of the start of this war, with his host’s struggle in Griffmount and Dogcrossing flooding his mind with a seething hatred.

“I assume you were a Captain in his little makeshift military, tell me where he went, and I will spare you and his men from true suffering.”

The old man, hair crusted with blood from a blow he had taken to the back of the head, spat at Enyalius’ boots. Enyalius’ eyes widened in fury as he quickly swung the blood and phlegm speckled boot up into the man’s gut. Enyalius left the man doubled over and dry heaving as he went down the line, inspecting every face to find someone else who might talk. Ten men down the line, he noticed another older man, his beard graying just enough to show that he is almost the same age as the other man, maybe a few years younger.

“What say you, Captain? I will not repeat myself a second time.”

“Ain’t no captain,” the man rasped, “Just an Old Blade, and I can tell ya where that bastard went, but only if I have your word that you will spare us. Most of these lads are so green they piss grass, sir.”

Enyalius grimaced as he scanned the young men lined next to the Old Blade, whimpering and trembling like abused runts of a litter.

Damned void, he’s right.

He nodded, “Alright Old Blade, I give you, my word.”

The Old Blade let out a large sigh of relief, “Bastard took most of the company’s best men as his rear guard when we were forming into position. When the fighting started, and you decimated our flank, he took them and–”

“Don’t tell him you bastard, don’t tell him or let the void take you and every damned green lad you save!” croaked the old captain, still doubled over.

The Old Blade looked over to him with an enraged look in his eyes, “He left you to die along with everyone else, why shouldn’t we just tell? He betrayed us–”

“Enough!” Enyalius interrupted, “Get to the point, Old Blade.”

“Errm, right sir. He took his men and fled north of the Kingsroad.”

The Kingsroad, but that means…

As if reading his thoughts, the Old Blade nodded in response to Enyalius’ silent question.

The Thundering Hills. Fucking void.

Enyalius gritted his teeth before kneeling down to the Old Blade’s level and rested a hand on the man’s firm shoulder; he figured out that this man was a laborer from the touch, for he had the muscle of a man who worked hard to provide.

He has a family to go back to, not many that come from Tyrus can say that.

“Alright Old Blade, my word is my word. You will not come to further harm, but you and your men will be forced to enter my prison back in Dayton until further notice.”

Sweat began to coat the man’s blood caked forehead as he stammered, “B-But sir, I have to go back ho–”

“It’s either you live for the chance to go back home, or you forfeit that chance altogether,” Enyalius said solemnly, “the choice is yours.”

The Old Blade trembled a bit before calming himself in resolution, “aye sir.”

“You void damned bastard,” the captain hissed, “Let your family burn like our home did!”

“And as for you, you damned fool,” Enyalius rasped as his eyes left the Old Blade and darted down the line to the captain, “I have a message to make of you. After what the man you protected did to my men, they will relish the opportunity.”

Rubbing his hands together, memories of his host’s time in Griffmount and Dogcrossing forced his sharp face to contour a twisted smirk at the captain and his men awaiting punishment. He didn’t enjoy all aspects of power. The lives of those in his care carried a great burden on his shoulders, but the power to enact vengeance in this moment would be enough for him right now.

“I do not fear death, Dreadbird.”

Aye, but you will fear this.

“Sergeant Mautar,” Enyalius snapped, rising to his feet and walking over to the captain, “see to it that every one of these bastards are crucified,” he then pointed over to the Old Blade and the young soldiers kneeling alongside him as he turned around to face his sergeant, “but throw those in our cells at the camp, they have earned their lives.” He began heading to the camp his men had made on the battlefield behind him. Mautar, who was several paces behind him, gave him a perfect salute. The Sergeant barked orders at the camp to chop more trees and was answered with a roar of applause from the soldiers in the camp.

I’ll be damned to the void for raising a host that revels so much in this brutality, Enyalius thought as he walked toward his tent. His men saluted him as he passed them, but the men deserved this.

This War is over…

There was no difficulty in convincing himself that his foes reaped what they sowed, for they had been hunting them for four years. What should have been a simple crackdown on a stray capital gang escalated and dragged itself into a guerilla war, and the Dreadbird’s host was tired. Enyalius had underestimated the dependability that the common folk in Tyrus had for The Opal Dragons. The gang abandoned Smuggler’s Lane and dispersed themselves into different cells from the Seven Barrows to the Farshade. Traditional tactics produced middling results, which meant they were fighting a losing war, and to adapt, a lot of innocent people had to be slain by his hand. A lot of his own men have been lost to self-torment and battle too, for his soldiers were not brought up to be soldiers.

They were volunteers from his own home, farmhands, millboys, carpenters, smith’s sons, and tradesmen who took up the sword to defend their home from raiders. They did not have the skill of the sword, nor the will of a soldier, and now they will never return to their old lives again. Enyalius grabbed a bottle of wine and uncorked it, ignoring the cup made for him by a carpenter’s son in his host. The young lad died this very morning, gutted by The Opal Dragons’ flank; he couldn’t even look at that dull cup. He took a swig, closing his eyes and cursing under his breath, before setting his eyes on the cup. Enyalius picked it up, investigating the craftsmanship put into the object.

A Greyhawk covered the bottom, wearing his house’s sigil, this one’s for you, and all the poor lads like you, he thought as he poured the wine into the cup and took a sip. Staring at his cluttered desk now, he scoffed at the thought that all of the maps, strategies, and logistics notes are worthless now. Enyalius was always a tidy man, but he could get sloppy under a great deal of pressure.

Between the pressure from The Great Council, and the startling difficulty of this war with The Opal Dragons, he was surprised he managed to continue shaving. Eventually, he had worn the gang down, whittling their numbers away, cell by cell, man by man. But alas, their leader had fled Tyrus and resorted to a last push, amassing all of his forces to hold as a distraction while he fled into the Thundering Hills. One of the few prisoners he had taken in had spilled that the leader had taken his most trusted men into that hell-pit.

How much they lost, only the gods know. Only a fool would try to take their chances with that cursed valley over a losing battle... What will you see in there, Oremir?

To his disappointment, he will never get the chance to ask him. To journey through there was a suicide mission... He proved to be a great commander, and one had to be fearless in the face of death to manage to tame Tyrus. Enyalius pondered what Oremir faced in the hillside valley, will a tempest destroy him? Perhaps the beasts from the ancient stories reside there, or an undead army. He had heard all of the stories regarding those hills, and he would not rule out any of them. He scoffed at how childish he sounded, musing at the different fantasies that might await the fearless gang leader.

Enyalius rubbed his hand over his brow, for the past few years had been exhaustive. He had taken no joy in how he had to carry this war out, even though it might otherwise be to the families of his victims.

This must’ve been how Ulric felt, the night we went to Agossross…

His head started pounding at the thought of it, a ringing in his ears reminiscent of the screams of the women and children from that time. He shivered at the thought of them, and the fires that engulfed those screams.

All those times I cursed you, and swore I would be better… I’m no better than you, just a tool of the Great Council, only to be used to show their ruthlessness. A sobering thought, we’re all just tools of a greater power…

Enyalius released a sigh and began to unstrap his armor. His gauntlets, shoulder plates, and chestplate, all crusted in dried blood, slumped off of his body, clanking to the soft dirt beneath. Tyrus was on his mind, like it had been on most nights these past few years. There was a time not too long ago when the world revolved around that decrepit city. The Sun King was born and raised there and was the reason for why it was both a city of dreams and nightmares.

The Sun King kept his hometown as his capital, Enyalius could still remember the remnants of his monument when he passed through what was once the city’s walls.

How had it not fallen after four cataclysms, four wars, and four razes?

To their credit, Oremir and The Opal Dragons tried to help the city when it was convenient. They rebuilt and fortified Aethel’s Gate around the damned thing, and were even establishing jobs with reconstruction on the statue… And I ruined all of that, turned most of that city to rubble…

To think that there was a time that the Council liked Oremir, Gods, they even helped the bastard escape the capital. If he hadn’t turned on them, he probably would’ve been the first sanctioned Lord of Tyrus to tame the city in generations.

Enyalius shivered as he muttered, “Oremir, you weren’t much different from me, were you?”

We both hated them, we both rebuilt our cities, but you remained true to your people. And me, I ended up a damned pawn of the very people that ruined my city in the first place. Your people said that they served as your manpower for meals, but I doubt that. The amount that fought and died for you proves otherwise, for you had their hearts and spirits. Everything you built and cultivated, from the new Aethel’s Gate to the hearts and souls of the people, I shattered it all…

Enyalius filled his tankard to the brim with wine and downed it all, the taste of wine failing to wash out the taste of disgust he felt in himself. He sits back down on the mattress, and hides his face in his palm, feeling his heartbeat rise, only to steadily slow a few moments later. Calming himself, he again glances back to the desk. The sigil of House Havenrock, a golden column inside a scarlet shield still glistened faintly in the dim candlelight on his chest plate. Glaring at the armor resting on his cluttered desk, he was reminded of his home in Dayton.

“Ah my dear, what I do for you,” he whispered to himself. He had bedded several women, and had sired many children, but his true love was Dayton. His house and country suffered mightily when the Sun King fell in the year 754: The Republic, full of youthful vigor and rage at the time, had viciously lashed back at the regions that remained loyal sabotaging local and noble elections, starving the Northwest, waging a war they cannot escape against the South, and genocide.

He saw much pain in his youth and bore witness to the compassion of his common folk, and the cruelty in their deaths. Starvation gnawed at the very fabric of their humanity and sanity. The other high lords were content on letting his people eat one another and sat idly by when the starvation bred disease. So many of Dayton’s children lay dead, an entire generation lost to forced isolation from the rest of the continent. But his people endured, and their souls were forged and hardened by iron, to be iron in kind. He thought of those nights where even he, a noble, was forced to eat rats, insects, his pets, and even his own clothing; his stomach grumbled in motivating remembrance,

Everything I do... Everything we do… Is for the betterment of our people. Never forget… And we will never forgive.

He felt goosebumps as the cold night air blew into his tent. The draft bit through his scarred, thick chest, prickling the scars on his left peck and ribs. The battle scars throbbed in response to the cold,

I feel it in my bones, another early winter is coming.

Laying on his bed, he drifted off into sleep.

And was thrusted into a world of chaos.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Enyalius stood in a desolate wasteland of blood and flame, the bodies of the slain formed the very ground at his feet. All of their eyes, glowing an ominous black, fixated on him. The sky was a violent orange flame, raging across what would’ve been the horizon. The very air burned his lungs when he tried to breath, his sweat was sizzling off of his forehead and neck. In front of him, a giant of a man, at the very least twice his size, stood in the far distance. Despite how far away the man was, Enyalius could see every detail: Long black hair braided down to the giant’s waste, viciously dancing in the torrent of hot air. He wore plate armor coated in fresh crimson blood, coated from head to toe. A blinding silver flame danced in his pupils.

“Patron?” Enyalius croaked out, his mouth dry.

You have served your purpose, Tool of the Council. However, you have made a grave error, the raspy voice boomed in his head.

Enyalius flinched at that title and dropped to one knee at the shock of the voice running through his mind, “What error, oh Great Patron? I haven’t used the power you gifted me outside of the wars I’ve waged, as per your wish.”

“Indeed, you are correct. But you pushed that man into the Hills,” The voice sneered. The voice grew cold, “Even I fear what he might awaken, for he was much like you, and found out many of Tyrus’ hidden secrets. The Hills will drink the blood you soaked so close to its borders.”

“What secrets?”

“I cannot say. Not here, not now. I have been… Distracted, as of late. I do have a few things to tell you. First, a boy from the Hills is going to cross paths with your camp when you awaken. Harm him if you must, but I must ask that you refrain from killing this child. Naive and foolish bastard that he may be, I have taken interest and invested into his future. News of his death will incur my wrath, follower.”

“A boy? Who is he?”

“You will find out in time, Enyalius. I can even foresee you clashing swords with him in a great battle, but that is based more on what I know of you, and not the actual future. This child… My foresight does not work on him. Should that happen, you have my consent to kill him should it come to that, but now… You must let him walk his own path.”

Bastard, what are you planning? “As you say Patron, so it shall be. And your next topic?”

“A great darkness is stirring, deep in the hell-pits of the world. The void has awakened–”

The voice cut off as the giant’s gaze shot to the ground, Enyalius did the same and looked down. An ear-piercing rumbling shook Enyalius to his bones. He turned to see the Hills themselves moving closer and closer to them, swallowing the bodies that formed the ground he stood on. An arm’s length away, the faces staring at him opened their mouths, releasing breathless groans. Their soulless eyes pools of black void, swallowing the horrified scream coming from Enyalius.

Enyalius awoke with a start.

The bed he rested on was a pool of sweat, he was panting as he sat up, covering his face with his hands, shivering in fear. The cold wind breezing through his tent reminding him where he was.

Was that a dream, or a vision? Gods, Alysander… What was that? The void has awakened. I’ve been out in the field for too long it seems. Must be my brain telling me ‘Enough of this damned war’. I know one thing for certain, keep me away from those accursed Hills.

Wearing nothing but his plain gray slacks, he walked over to his desk chair, and put on the Ice Wolf pelt he had hanging over it. The coat held the sweetest memories to him, for it was a gift from his father. The Lord Thilgron III of House Havenrock was the opposite of his son in almost every regard. Thilgron III was bookish, much like his father before him, and was frail throughout his life. The Northwestern famine had lasted a majority of Thilgron III’s life, and the weakness that came with it had permanently remained with him. The weakness in his body turned into a weakness of the mind, and Enyalius had borne witness to the humiliation his father had suffered just to get his son a Capital education. The pity and rage he felt toward the man were palpable enough that Enyalius swore to the Old Gods that he would never resemble him.

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However, it was the death of his oldest brother, Thilgon IV that had changed everything, for Enyalius was forced to return home to learn how to rule. It was then that he had learned the ancient secrets of his house, and his father. Enyalius found prideful solace in being able to rekindle his relationship with his father before his passing. The Ice Wolf’s pelt was his father’s coat, and a coat that had been passed down since the famine started. To Enyalius, it was more regal than any other heirloom in the realm: a symbol of light from a better time, a symbol of their strength and perseverance, and a symbol of what the future can hold.

The animal’s pelt layered the inside of his coat, relieving Enyalius with warm comfort. He gently brushed his hand over the silver-colored leather, it smelt worn, but it looked like it did when it was handed down to him; it will still shine in the moonlight; Ice Wolf’s are known for their incredibly durable skin, Enyalius remembers the old stories of Ice Wolf pelts being millennia old, still able to shine as bright as the sun on a moonlit night. The aroma of a campfire and cooked meat filled his nostrils, his stomach grumbled as he trotted out of the tent.

By now the sun had already set, and the dark night crowded around the camp. Half of the field was blanketed by a sea of tents, with campfires spread out across it. Enyalius could hear the symphony of laughter, conversation, and Daytonic music, and warmed him in the cold night. He couldn’t help but smile at the first glimpse of happiness that he’s seen from his men in years. He saw smiles on the faces of every team within his sight as they sawed at their boars, drank their barley ales, and laughed over their fires. The lit campfires scattered around the field served as dim candlelights for the vicinity; Enyalius could see the slumped heads of the men he had ordered crucified, still suspended above the ground by their crosses.

Huh, this reminds me of our last camp before entering the city. Before the war…

About a hundred paces away at the edge of the field, the prisoners sat in large wooden cells that the carpenter’s son had built. Enyalius sat next to Mautar at his campfire, letting its warmth wash over his body.

Mautar was laughing and talking to one of the younger soldiers, his toothy grin gleaming in the camplight. He was startled when he turned his head to see his commanding officer seated next to him,

“ATTEN-TION!” He leapt off the log into a salute, and every soldier in the camp did the same. In an instant, all of the laughter and chatter dissipated as all Enyalius could hear was the cold wind blow.

Such discipline, Enyalius couldn’t hide his pride and joy as a grin crept up his face.

“We stopped nailing when the night fell, milord,” Mautar said, “We’ll be prepared to leave at first light, sir.”

“Well done, Sergeant. At ease,” Enyalius shouted. After he sat down, the chatter, music, and laughter resumed once more. Enyalius leaned close to Mautar and whispered, “Anything odd since I returned to my quarters?”

Mautar locked eyes with his commanding officer, “The wind blows from the North, m’lord,” he looked over to his squad, who were huddled around the same campfire, “Dallerd, give us your storm report.”

Dallerd, a bald middle-aged man with spectacles, respectfully pushed them up his nose in an effort to tidy himself before his lord, he clasped his hands as he whispered, “My lord, it looks like a storm is coming. I’m sure you smelt the rain in the air–”

Dallerd was interrupted by a large belch from the young soldier seated beside him.

“If it ain’t a tempest, we’ve got none to worry ‘bout,” he laughed as he started to pour more ale into his cheap wooden cup.

The campfire went silent, and all eyes around it eyed him with a reprimanding glare, “Fucking Void, Brargo,” Mautar eyed him vehemently, “Show some damn respect!”

Brargo, Enyalius’ ward, shrugged his shoulders and flicked his head back and forth, waving his long, straggly blond hair out of his face, “What?!” he raised his voice defensively, “M’lord was thinking it too!”

Enyalius chuckled before turning to Dallerd, “He’s right, some wind and rain won’t hurt us.”

Dallerd frowned, his spectacles reflecting the light from the flame in front of him, “That’s the problem my lord: The wind shows frightening resemblance to a tempest before it is fully formed. If a tempest rolls in at the same time as the rainstorm, we could get lost in it.”

Enyalius looked around the fire and saw Mautar’s team had a concerned gaze on their faces. Dayton has been a victim to the raging winds of the hills for a few years now, and The Dreadbird’s Host had encountered a tempest on their journey South to Tyrus.

“Alright,” Enyalius pointed to the North, in the direction of the prisoners, “Then I want them nailed to the slab as quickly as possible at first light.”

Mautar and his team nodded. They remained silent for a time, sipping their ale and staring into the flame. Brargo, still staring at the flames, whispered, “It’s over. We can finally return home, right?”

“Yeah kid,” Dallerd took a swig from his cup, some of the ale missing his mouth and landing on his beard. He let out his own belch, “We’ll be home before we know it.”

Tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks. Brargo gave a startled glance at Enyalius and Mautar, “What am I gonna do?” He shakily laughed as he rubbed his eyes dry with his sleeve, “Go back and tend cattle? After all that’s happened?”

“Don’t have to be cattle,” Another soldier sitting around the campfire muttered. He was a mountain of a man, Enyalius gauged from the man’s aging face that he was around his age. “Lots of us died here,” he rubbed his hands in front of the fire and exhaled, “Lots of other jobs that’ll open up.”

Brargo sat still as a statue before cocking his head to the left, “Ya know, you make a great point Rodrick,” he stroked his chin, “Guess I could find other lines of work.”

Enyalius chuckled. Brargo’s relaxed, carefree demeanor reminded him so much of his own son, a bastard around the same age. It was the reason why he took him in as his ward, the boy was an astute learner of the sword for his age and was still able to retain the same attitude he had before the war began. Like a spark in the void.

Aineas should be in his eighteenth year by now, he thought, thank the Elder Gods that he’s bookish instead of a soldier.

The warmth of the fires and camaraderie fled the air at the sound of some shouts at the edge of the camp. All laughter and chatter between men silenced one by one as they all took notice of the shouts. Enyalius heard the shouts coming from the west and instantly realized what was also in that direction,

The prisoners!

He sprung to his feet, Mautar and his team didn’t hesitate to do the same, “Mautar, arm your men! On me, to the defeated!”

Dallerd and Brargo looked at each other with alarmed expressions, sprinting to their tent to grab their weapons. Rodrick and Mautar were already armed, and were ordering the surrounding soldiers to remain at ease, but on guard. Enyalius ran and grabbed his family’s heirloom blade, Souldrinker, and rushed to his killing grounds.

When he got to the edge of the camp, Enyalius met with the shouting guards. The group of tall, burly men yelled out into the night, the dim campfire light barely reaching the first row of bodies, “Sir!” The men said in unison as they stood at attention and saluted. “We have spotted someone over by the bodies!”

“Has it done anything else?” Enyalius asked, Mautar’s team followed up behind him.

The lead guard, adorning a scarlet ribbon atop his helm stepped up and said, “No, sir, but…” He trailed off, inching closer to Enyalius and whispering, “Apologies, milord. The men fear that figure and won’t go near it. They’re whispering that it's the spirit of one of the defeated.”

Enyalius and Mautar somewhat relaxed to that response. Many of the men are still green, it would make sense for them to fear who they’ve become. Enyalius turned to Mautar, “Alright Sergeant, you and your men, on me.”

He turned to his ward, “You too, Brargo.

“Aye, sir.”

The figure turned toward them and began to walk forward.

Enyalius could make out the figure now. It looked like a man, his height, although only slightly smaller in build. As he walked up, the dim light revealed more of him; he wore a dark gray tunic under a black coat that looked like a raven’s feathers, but the feathers were far too long to be from any bird in the area. He could not see the man’s face, for he was wearing a hood as well. The man is cloaked for the night, Enyalius thought to himself.

“STOP! Identify yourself at once!” Enyalius rasped to the tune of the unsheathing of blades from Mautar’s team. All of the other soldiers in the vicinity went to do the same but were stopped by a raise of the hand from The Dreadbird.

The man stopped, scanning the camp before raising his hands in a sign of non-aggression, he spoke with a voice as smooth as the cool wind, “I am but a traveler on the Kingsroad, my lord. I was drawn here by the smell of your food, but I see I might have walked into the middle of something.”

“More like the end of it,” Mautar grumbled, sizing the man up, “How do you want to handle this, Sir?”

‘My lord?’ The boy… So, it was neither a dream, nor vision, but a message… Enyalius was lost in thought as he was astutely observing the man. The man looked too imposing in those garments to be anything more than a soldier. His triceps were slimmer than his but looked incredibly dense. He noticed the white hilt of a blade resting on the man’s black trousers. Looking into his eyes, Enyalius saw the same light gray color that he has.

The man took a few steps forward, and now Enyalius got a clearer look at the man’s face. He had no wrinkles, bags, or blemishes, a clean youthful face with piercing eyes.

This boy, yes, the Lord of War would most certainly have invested in him.

The wind lightly swirled around them, Enyalius could see his feathered cloak fluttering to it.

“Hungry, eh?” Enyalius looked over to his left and saw a campfire of about fifteen paces from them, “How about I feed you, and you answer my questions?”

The boy was silent for a moment, clearly weighing his options, before slowly nodding, “But I keep my blade on me. You’re not the only one on guard.”

Fair enough, Enyalius thought as he nodded. Mautar and his men made sure to surround their leader as they walked to the campfire with him. They stood behind Enyalius, facing the field, while the stranger sat across from them, facing the camp. To his right, he noticed that the prisoners stood up in their cells, taking notice of the newcomer.

“First, before Brargo brings out the ale and boar: Who are you, and where are you from?” It felt like the whole camp was eyeing the stranger. Enyalius swore he could’ve heard a pin drop.

“My name is Ashur, and I come from The Hills.” The camp’s soldiers collectively gasped, Dallerd and Brargo looked at each other with mouths agape, Rodrick’s eyes widened, and Mautar looked pale.

When the commotion quieted down, Enyalius seeked to restore his men’s confidence, “Ashur… I am The Dreadbird, the head of House Havenrock, Lord of Dayton,” he leaned in closer to the flame, whispering in a low tone, “You jest. Those lands are cursed. Not even a host can cross through it.”

Ashur shrugged as he voraciously ripped through the boar meat, “I don’t know anything about that, but it’s been my home for a few years,” he said with a mouthful of food in his mouth.

Brargo rested his hands on top of his head and released a large sigh of exasperation. “Old Gods, what in the cold hell,” Rodrick muttered under his breath, face red with bewilderment. Enyalius had never seen the stoic man so animated, and he couldn’t blame him; It was taking all he had not to explode too.

“Do you live alone? What’s it like living there?” Enyalius asked, trying desperately to hide the awe he felt.

The boy paused for a moment, giving himself time to wash his food down with his ale, before shrugging again, “I lived with my Uncle for a time, it wasn’t too bad. The wildlife in the hills was a bit dangerous, but there’s plenty of game down the valley.” He punctuated the end of his sentence by stuffing more boar meat into his mouth.

“Have you navigated all of it? I would have you plot your journey for us so we can have safe passage through, for we live in Dayton,” Mautar spoke. Enyalius grimaced when Ashur’s eyes traveled to meet Mautar’s, you said that too soon dammit! Where’s your bloody guile, Mautar?!

“I cannot say, I just followed The Old King’s Road,” Ashur spoke, the hint of a cool glare lingering behind emotionless eyes. Mautar defeatedly slumped back, he as well as all of Tegon knew that entering The Thundering Hills through The Old Kingsroad meant death.

“What were you doing to the defeated?” Dallerd asked sternly.

Ashur’s eyes darted from Mautar’s to Dallerd’s, his gaze piercing through Dallerd’s shining spectacles. The glare made the soldier look to the floor and squirm, a sequence which surprised Enyalius. His men were trained to look The Dreadbird in the eye.

And here they are trembling before a child, so green he pisses grass! Damned void, that was such a good line I ended up using it myself. He chuckled as he thought of that Old Blade.

“Before I answer that, why did you nail them to lumber?” Ashur asked, his eyes jumped to Enyalius, “What happened here?” Enyalius thought his voice and gaze this time was as soft as the morning wind’s whisper, young naivete. As intimidating as they see you, I see the innocence within. War has not touched you yet.

“Because we ran out of stone to nail them to,” Brargo muttered, interrupting Enyalius right as he was about to speak. Brargo looked around at all their faces, “Shite, I said that out loud?”

Dallerd and Mautar smirked while Enyalius rolled his eyes and went on, “In Dayton, the most disrespectful form of punishment is being nailed to the slab. We’re a city of stonemasons, the very best in the realm. As per order of The Great Council of the Tegon Republic, our mission was to subdue and arrest Oremir of Warrendil, and his gang of cutthroats, The Opal Dragons in Tyrus,” Enyalius trailed off, trying to gauge how this might affect the green boy, “They were incredibly resistant, they had the people working fo–”

“They used guerrilla tactics,” Ashur leaned forward and cupped both hands over his mouth in contemplation. He turned around to see the faint shadows of the crucified bodies, their dried blood blackening the wood they were nailed to, before turning back toward Enyalius. His gray eyes delivering a glare as cold as ice, “How many?” A light breeze rolled into the camp, very soft, yet Enyalius could have sworn it brought a noise.

Enyalius gauged the reaction of his men, all of whom were dumbstruck that he pieced it together so quickly. He had to wipe the shocked look off his face as well.

This is who Alysander warned me about? I assume Alysander will give him a piece of his spark like he did me, but youth and naivete are written all over this lad’s face. However, only someone experienced in warfare would’ve been able to know Oremir’s strategy so quickly from that little detail. With so many uneducated in this region, this one seems to have learned much.

Enyalius crossed his arms, channeling The Dreadbird, and spoke in the authoritative tone he speaks to all of his subordinates, “The fighting began in Seven Barrows. Oremir abandoned his base of operations in Smugglers Lane completely, opting to hide amongst the people for three years. Because of that, Griffmount and Seven Barrows survived. Bonegate has seen a plentiful harvest in the latter half of this decade, so they were spared and protected on the grounds that they kept my host fed.

The war shifted into our favor when we started indiscriminately killing. Oremir underestimated the loyalty of his men, for some of the leaders of the minor gangs were smited by us into betraying him. I chased him and the core gang out of the city, and I still would have spared his men too had he simply abandoned his plot for war. But he still had the common folk, and he amassed them into an army. The whole city didn’t follow him, but it was enough that it would have angered the Council into doing something far worse than what I have done.

The Opal Dragons dragged us through hell, that cursed city will never be tamed enough to have a government. Order in that city is only attainable through death.”

Ashur never broke eye contact, “Order through death does not last,” he looked over to the prisoners, “What is to become of them?”

Enyalius followed his gaze with a shrug, the prisoners were eyeing both of them with desperate faces, “They are to be prisoners in Dayton, where they will serve in a labor camp. They cannot be freed until the Council takes their eyes off the Northwest, and with how long this war lasted, I’m not sure how long that’ll take,” Enyalius internally grimaced at his own words, “But, with Ashok the Survivor leading forces in the South, it might not take long at all.”

To the bemusement of the whole camp, Ashur rose and walked over to the cells. Several of the men watching nearby unsheathed their swords, and Ashur raised his hands up in response.

Rodrick and Mautar cursed under their breaths, reaching for their swords before being stopped by Enyalius, “Hold men,” he motioned for them to follow him as he trailed Ashur. The camp was now on high alert, every man focused their gaze on the cells where Ashur stood, like predators stalking prey.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Ashur met the gaze of a middle-aged man with a badly bruised face. His beard was brown with strands of gray, and he had short, crop-cut hair. He was two heads taller than Ashur, and overshadowed him with his thick, brawny build. He wore the same rags he fought in, the blood beginning to crust in the cool wind. All of the men were wearing aged leather rags, but none of them shivered, familiar traits among the Tyrus common folk.

“Are you all common folk?” Ashur asked.

“Aye, we were. These are the men that worked with me at one of the Bonegate farms,” he pointed to all of them.

“If you worked at Bonegate, why did you fight for their enemy?” Enyalius asked, starting Ashur at how genuine he sounded in asking that question.

“My family lived in Seven Barrows, and Bonegate refused to feed anyone outside of their own district. Oremir was the only one feeding us, he threatened to stop if the men and teens didn’t conscript! Said something about the city falling into Council hands if we don’t defend ourselves.” The man gripped the bars to his cage and gritted his teeth, “We never wanted this war, and you’ll damn near make slaves of us for it!”

“What is your name?” Ashur asked. He smiled at the man’s energy, despite him staring a potential lifetime as a prisoner in the face.

“Drake of Yarven,” the man said.

Ashur thought of an idea, he gave the man a look of quiet confidence, “I have a goal to accomplish that will require help, Drake. If you agree to help me, I will save you all, and I will take you home. Witness this”

The man looked astounded, “Wha—I don’t care what the mission is! Get us free and you’ve got yourself a deal,” he turned and yelled to all the men, “Bow boys!”

Ashur turned around to see and hear every soldier within a hundred paces unsheath their blades and prepare to charge, only The Dreadbird blade remained where it was. A hundred swords at the least shined from the flames around the camp, waiting for his orders.

“I want you to free these captives, my lord. I will challenge you for them,” Ashur prodded as he leaned back on the cage, he then shouted loud enough for the camp to hear, ''Or does The Dreadbird fear a child because of where he’s from?”

Enyalius’ felt a mixture of rage with a hint of embarrassment warm his face, and it took him everything to hide it. The truth was that he was indeed wary of the child, Alysander himself warned him. He doesn’t seem like much of a warrior yet, but the potential for a potent military mind was certainly there.

Blasted void! I don’t want to fight him; I want him to SERVE UNDER me! I do not wish to harm this lad so much that I gain the ire of my patron, but if I refuse in front of the men, they’ll return home with a lesser view of their lord.

“And should I win, and you survive, your new comrades will be forced to join my host, with you as my new ward,” He removed his coat, handing it to Mautar before ordering his men to retreat back to the camp. Enyalius motioned Ashur to walk to the space in the field between the ‘slabs’, and the camp. Every soldier lined up on the edge of the camp to watch The Dreadbird in single combat.

Duels are incredibly important to the political climate of The Fourth Age, and Enyalius was a highly graded duelist. Having always loved the sword, he had trained relentlessly, even during the famine. Enyalius loved to test his wartime experience in duels, but he had far surpassed the best knights in Dayton long ago, so much so that he even accidentally killed one of his best knights. Since then, he never delved into a duel, but tonight was an exception. Tonight, he battles an enigma.

An enigma that gained the interest of my patron.

Enyalius closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. He forced himself to remember the reason he got his nickname. Images of a starry, moonlit night lighting the sky a dark blue full of dazzling lights, followed by the screams of men, women, and children as the image of a torrent of luminous orange flame engulfs a city before him. Eyes still shut, Enyalius unsheathes his sword. In his mind, Enyalius looks down at the sword he had just drawn. The stygian blade, tempered from a lost ancient metal, was painted a dark crimson in blood, casting no glow or light among the lights of the flame, moon, and stars. Agossross… Alysander… I will always remember. Guide me, he felt a heat in his heart. Enyalius kept that vague warmth tempered as he waited for the greenling’s answer.

“I accept your terms.”

The Dreadbird opened his eyes wide, and he released the swelling heat within his heart. An outburst of a blood red flame aura emanated from him, cracking the ground beneath him. Raising his sword in a combative stance, he noticed that the blood that he was on his blade from the battle had been singed off by his heat. Enyalius could hear a roar of cheers from his men behind him, he could not lose.

The applause was interrupted by a terrifying screech, Enyalius turned to witness some of his men drop to one knee, with all of them covering their ears; a flood of wind blew through the camp from the coast in the west, blowing out every campfire in the camp. The camp was engulfed in darkness, with the only lights emanating from The Dreadbird’s blood-red glow, and his foe’s translucent moonlight glow. Enyalius could clearly see the air around Ashur’s blade distorting, the massive torrents of wind screaming out of the blade. He could almost make out what the wind, no–the blade was bitterly singing; it was one word: Ashur!

The sword erupted, and The Dreadbird heard a large pop as a large wall of wind slammed into him. Had his aura not shielded him from the brunt of that attack, he could have been gravely injured. He snapped his head toward the camp to assess the damage, the shockwave from the blade’s explosion sent the spectators to the ground before crashing into the tents, the cries of the blade lingered on, not as loud after feeding off of his aura, but loud enough to gnaw at the back of Enyalius’ mind.

“I hope that wasn’t all you have, all it did was push a few men,” The Dreadbird chuckled. It was then that he came to a startling realization. The boy had no more aura, but his eyes glowed like the silver moonlight.

“It’s ironic, my first test becomes my final test.” Ashur grinned, raising his sword and pointing its double-edged tip toward The Dreadbird’s chest, “Come on then!”

Enyalius felt rage well up inside of him, but he tempered it, this is indeed a worthy opponent. Be wary of his strength but have faith in your own. He lunged toward Ashur and thrust his sword at his chest, but Ashur easily side stepped it and cracked him in the jaw with a headbutt.

The Dreadbird felt a flash of pain, followed by numbness in his legs. For a moment, his body froze, and it took all of his strength to stay upright. He didn’t lose control of his arms however and struck his hand out to grab any part of Ashur, but the boy backpedaled out of reach with lightning quick reflexes and speed. Ashur leapt back into his range, slashing toward The Dreadbird’s exposed left side with fearsome agility. Enyalius countered Ashur, noting that while the boy was superior in speed, his strength was lacking. That slash would’ve been enough to fell any other man in his host, but The Dreadbird was not like other men. He feinted a kick to his head, and to his correct knowledge, Ashur was green enough to fall for it. He dodged the feint, and The Dreadbird released the real kick right into Ashur’s cheek. He stumbled to Enyalius’ left, and when Ashur turned, he was met with a blade swinging toward his temple.

He rolled backward, narrowly dodging The Dreadbird’s slash, the blade was close enough that it cut a few hairs from his head, but not deep enough swing so as to kill him. Ashur recovered his footing and set his focus completely on The Dreadbird’s movements. Enyalius started to go on the offensive but was interrupted when Ashur charged as well. The boy’s strikes were light but fast, his opal blade cast a suspicious looking color when clashing among his auras. Some of Ashur’s strikes were breaking through The Dreadbird’s defenses, scratching his left cheek, his arms, chest, and legs. When The Dreadbird started to focus on where the blade was breaking through, he realized that the blade wasn’t actually hitting him, the wind from his blade’s slashes is sharp enough to cut me?! Before he knew it, his front was painted with scratches and small cuts. Ashur backstepped again, crouching into a form that Enyalius had not yet seen.

The wind howled, emanating from the crying blade and swirling around the battleground like a tornado. Enyalius could hardly keep his eyes open, from what he could see of his men, the windstorm had started to tear through their camp. Mautar had started to ignore their fight in effort trying to ground their food and shelter, it was only The Dreadbird and the boy now, isolated in battle. Despite his lack of aura, his eyes still glowed, never once blinking, the storm continued to rage.

“Those storms over The Thundering Hills… The ones that reached my home…” The Dreadbird whispered, the howling tempest drowning out his voice, “You’re the tempest.”

The Dreadbird felt like he toyed with his opponent too much already, and seeked a quick and immediate end to this conflict. He began to attack Ashur with everything he had, but he failed to even clash blades with him, as Ashur dodged every attack, reading Enyalius’ every movement, careful not to attack carelessly, patiently waiting.

Always reading, ever watchful.

Not a single move wasted, his eyes remind me of the Eagles of the ancient stories.

End this… NOW!

The Dreadbird swung his blade down on Ashur, but in his attempt to hold back, the swing was wide, and Ashur spun again to his left side, this time cutting through his side instead of sparing him the damage.

Enyalius dropped to one knee, clutching his side and dropping Souldrinker. He felt his warm, sticky blood gush over his hand. This wound won’t kill him, but he was in far too much pain to even grab his blade.

His aura dissipated, and the whole field was shrouded in the night. The Dreadbird saw the shadow of a man spin from his right to his left, and he heard the sound of a thousand harpies screaming in his right ear. He felt the distorted air of the blade before it reached him, and his life flashed before his eyes. The hungry days as a green lad, bearing witness to his father’s humiliation, the hard days at the academy. His return home, the bonding with his father, the birth of his bastards, the secrets he learned the night of his father’s death. Agossross, Tyrus, all of them presented themselves in his heart and mind. The scream died when he felt the blade lightly tap his shoulder.

The Dreadbird let out a deep sigh of relief and pain as his head sank, I lost.

Enyalius looked around and was relieved to see the silence had traveled across the camp. The violent gusts of wind faded to a gentle kiss as Ashur sheathed his blade, and all of his men stood with their mouths agape at their fallen leader. Mautar begrudgingly motioned the signal to free the prisoners. Drake stepped out of his cage, and clasped his hand together as he bellowed, “I didn’t think a green lad could do it, but I’ve never seen anything like that,” the old blade, along with all of the green lads who escaped the cage knelt in Ashur’s direction as Drake raised his voice even louder, “You have my loyalty, to my dying breath.”

“I’ll take my men and leave, my lord. I won’t forget your honor and hospitality.” Ashur patted the bloody man on his shoulder, before walking over to the cages and breaking the locks with his blade. As each man stepped out and revealed their names, they bowed to one knee, swearing undying loyalty for saving them. All of the men had smiles on their faces, but none of them looked his way.

“Begone with you, quickly now,” Enyalius croaked. Mautar had already started another fire and was resting his sword on top of the wood and coals. All The Dreadbird could think about was how painful this scar was going to be, embarrassed in front of my men, and I ended up failing to execute the last of them. The men are gonna hate this.

Every eye in the camp followed Ashur and his band of prisoners until they disappeared into the dark night. Enyalius could hear the uncomfortable murmurs of his men, he was disappointed that they had to end the war on such a sour note as this one.

“I can send my best men after him, we can slaughter all of them in their sleep before first light,” Mautar angrily proclaimed, removing the blade from the flame, “What are your orders milord?”

Enyalius felt a searing pain enter his side, the heat from the blade echoed through his body, it felt like all of it was throbbing. He would need to have the men build a carriage for him to ride in at first light, since he estimated he would probably need a week or two of bedrest. Despite this pain, his mind remained unclouded, “I don’t know if you can catch a man like that by surprise. I don’t even know if he was a man, from that duel,” The Dreadbird grimaced as he painfully chuckled, his side aching every time. After a moment, his face resmed its general seriousness, “If I were to kill the very man who beat me, I’ll betray my own word. Betraying that, means betraying all of you. If my word means moot, House Havenrock loses value, respect, and reputation. I would rather lose and keep my word, than lose and betray my principles.”

And it seems he has more than one God watching over him as well. Void knows what would’ve happened to all of us if he died by my hand.

He paused again, “Additionally Mautar, send spies toward his direction. I noticed which direction he took The Kingsroad... He’s going to Tyrus.”

Mautar scoffed, “Old Gods help him.”

Stroking the stubble on his chin and staring off into the looming Hills overshadowing the barren blackness of the battlefield in front of him, Enyalius answered, “I think they are, Sergeant.”