‘Pigs to the front,’ said the one-eyed battle mage who was a shady, withered man with fraying grey hair and a shredded black cape. He slammed his staff into the dry, dead earth, conjuring magical shock waves that thundered strange enchantments among the amassing pagan forces. At first it dulled their senses, then the agitation built. Veins popped from un-sleeved arms. Warm blood flowed to every limb, and heavy breath turned to guttural groans.
Though Cestmir kept his cooler head, he was not immune from the milder symptoms. And he fought the persistent agitation while trying to corral his soldiers, only to find his voice having dropped a few rungs deeper.
‘You heard him. Pigs to the front,’ said the colossus barbarian, an imposing figure with hands the size of a man’s chest, which were attached to a large but wiry frame. The colossus made doubly sure the term ‘pigs’ referred to Cestmir and the other non-pagan turncoats.
While from Cestmir’s rear, the other foreign pagan forces segregated into their own independent regiments, each faction bickering with their historical rivals about unsettled tribal feuds and prime gate-storming positions behind the non-pagan cannon fodder. Their undisciplined rambling ended with the temporary loss of oxygen as an elite group of wizards assigned themselves the honors of being in the direct center, in the third row.
Of which Verivix found himself seated in his deep concentration as he unleashed his wizard state, sending ripples of shadows out across the ground to the various flanks, where they converged on each other by gravitational orbit until forming a spiraling whirlpool and black pillars of light that conjured all manner of underworldly beasts.
At the same time, a prayer circle of shirtless neck-beaded wizards of colorful tribal tattoos chanted loud hymns. Their combined magical resonance conjured a white glow from the dark-purple skies converging above.
And a group of heavily pierced Norsemen slapped and shoved each other into growing rage, transforming their already muscular frames into ten-foot-tall giants. Their large skulls were unable to appear in proportion to their enlarged oversized frames.
Behind them, the already transformed giants collected their armament, which for one giant was a barrel of water that, after reaching his hand inside, creaked and buckled, bursting under expanding ice. Until from the splintered wood he freed a human-sized war hammer of solid ice.
‘Am I the only one questioning whether we chose the wrong side?’ enquired an ex-Vasierian guard. He was so disturbed that he kept an observant check over his shoulder for potential avenues for retreat. One that would require breaching multiple layers of unfriendly Steppe warriors.
Cestmir focused inwards as he wrapped his tethered cross tighter around his sword hand, with every murmur of defection dragging him further down into that hot-headed agitation festering through his veins. Enough for him to reach out and grab the scruff of his fell soldier. Only to find his grip blunted by the jarring position of the tethered cross lodged in his palm. The simple piece of carved wood tempered the angry voices clouding rational thought. ‘The time to reconsider ended the moment we arrived. Right or wrong, we’re here now. We might as well own it,’ said Cestmir. He then kissed one last silent prey upon his tethered cross, making sure it hanged loose as he drew his sword, before a passing battle mage caught his attention. He was an old timer of straggly beard, who immediately diverted his gaze upon drawing Cestmir’s attention. ‘What about those conjured beasts? Why aren’t they the frontline?’
Cestmir’s calls went unnoticed, except for the accompanying giant who had been sniffing the dry, crusted earth. His voice rumbled the ground as he said, ‘Oh, we have plans for them.’ Then, like a flash of lightning, the giant’s eyes ignited into a smoky yellow haze as he raised his hands to the sky and the sound of thunder churned through the cloudy afternoon sky. This was followed by a cascade of lighting that bombarded the dead man’s zone between both armies.
Across the frontlines, a group of aging wizards chanted curses that summoned orange spheres of mist between their hands. The spheres’ orbital twirls drew dust from the earth and vapor from the skies, and they gave off a deafening howl, like a funneling hurricane. While from the prayer circle, the heavily tattooed wizards found their ink seeping into their veins. And their skin then turned a pale lifeless white, until their magical resonance pulled and ripped the physical realm. Their magic then converted into a blinding flash of fluorescent white, and from their cold, anemic bodies unleashed the glowing ball of destruction up into the skies and arching towards the city walls.
In their wake, they created shifting winds from competing forces. A mismatch of magical dynamism from one wizard to the other, as the pagan camp turned into a chaotic show of disorientating lights and sounds. Until the fog of war emanated out from the front-line wizards.
An orange mist was then sent forth towards Keesh, a steadily forming circular air flow, from heaven to Earth, then across the battlefield to Keesh before returning to the heavens.
Among this orange mist stood the tall and mighty colossus. His head was a clear four feet above the mist, and he spoke with a voice of a bullhorn. ‘For all those who spent a cold night dreaming of warmer days. Of endless summers abound with feast and splendor. You know what they took from you. For those who bear distant memories of loved one buried under villages of ash. Children indoctrinated, twisted against their own blood. You know what they took from you. Those who look across this field to see the wealth of our people and behind you, the desert of our future. You know what they took from you. The same thing taken from all of us.’ The colossus’ words ended with the deafening burst of unrefined magic, unleashed by the band of pale, shirtless wizards. Its bright fluorescent ordinance launched into the stratosphere as it arched towards the city walls, before splattering against Keesh’s opposing magical field. The substance then dissipated into burning phosphorus rain that harmlessly drizzled down, charring the already dead, dry ground.
Yet it forced the merchant mercenaries to bunker behind the elevated earthworks. Sheltered under layers of full plate armor, they endured the radiance of the super-heated substance.
Only by the grace of God could they explain such a miraculous intervention as the masses exhaled an extended sigh of relief – ignorant of Bishop Arcadius’ blind monks, who sat patiently upon the church grounds, prayer beads threading through their fingers as they spoke in forgotten tongue, each with a wooden cross to one hand, which upon their constrictive grasp, broke and splintered.
It was a backdrop of colourful carnage, held at bay by the forces of good. Or that was all Davos needed to imply as he yelled out from the inner walls, ‘Fear. That fear you feel, it is the legacy of our past, the living memory of our ancestors as they lined the roads to Rowan, their bodies bound to the cross. Our collective wounds inflicted by their pagan masters who sought to wipe our people from existence. Yet here we stand.’
The horror and the beauty as the mist approached like a volcanic plum, turning the dead zone into a cloud of orange, intertwined with the occasional burst of lighting. Hell had arrived, and it felt every bit good verse evil. A battle for heaven and hell, where another white burst of magical destruction was dispersed against the Keesh’s protective field. The hand of God swatting back the dark arts.
‘This is our day of reckoning, where truth overcomes the lies. The light conquers the dark, and the peoples oppressed by a history of persecution vanquish the heretics that would be their undoing. For this is God’s army, and WE SHALL NOT YEILD.’ Davos’ words erupted the ranks of the Keesh defenders as another burst of the unstable projectile tested the protective field. This time, the sizzling heat only added to the sounds of revelry.
While at the far-northern outpost, where the Keesh guardhouse protected the banks of the western river bridge, they could only watch in awe. Their relative distance protected them from the ferocious light show battering the city fortifications. But in their amazed awe, they failed to notice the rustling forests. The shimmer from interspersed clouds that shined flickers of afternoon’s sunset upon shifting shadows.
Until the four-legged crawlers’ impending approach caught the attention of one stray watchman, who barely caught half a breath before the crawlers projectiled themselves onto his platform. However, their attacks amounted to nothing more than painful nips that tied him down while the larger beasts lumbered their way to the outpost walls.
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Demonic, black-skinned ape-like trolls with battering ram-sized fists and overgrown back muscles that were used by the more agile of creatures as launching pads for their assault. The conjured apes climbed the upper walls, where they unleashed a squealing frenzy of hammer fists that crushed the crawler-hampered guards. The prevailing swarm quickly enveloped the guardhouse and ruthlessly evicted its occupants.
The overwhelmed flank went unnoticed among the roar of thunder and explosives.
Sir Bradfrey’s attention lay on the north-western gate, unaware their position was slowly being encircled. He stood in a mix of agitated rage and cold calculus. His hands clenched against the outer stoneworks, trying to make sense of the disorientating light show, which now obscured the entire pagan forces, bare the protruding giants and colossus, whose smoky-lantern eyes hinted their formations and movements.
‘Words from the southern flank, my lord,’ said the messenger.
‘Amos?’
‘He says it’s nice weather for a stroll by the riverside. Shall you like to join him?’
‘What? Is he insane?’ questioned Sir Bradfrey, his head shaking at Amos’ nerve.
The reverent templar had been assigned to the less exposed southern flank and was probably grinding his teeth, hating every minute of inaction.
‘Inaction,’ Sir Bradfrey mumbled to himself as he surveyed the interspersed lighting to see if the pagan forces had advanced, just as the orange mist finally floated in and loafed up to the upper garrison with mixed effects: from mild irritation to uncontrollable coughing and splattering, but in all cases, incomparable to the plight of the mercenaries below.
The merchant generals screamed and yelled under chocked breath. The general efforts were to no avail, as his mercenaries deserted their positions and clamoured towards the gatehouse. Their cries of mercy and broken morale festered through the upper fortifications held by Sir Bradfrey’s inexperienced peasant soldiers.
‘What do we do, my lord?’ the messenger continued to press the issue.
It had Sir Bradfrey questioning himself, searching his ranks for a solution, only to find the distant northern flank without torch or sign of human activity. ‘They’re not moving. Nothing’s moving.’ His red, swollen eyes traced the thrashing woodlands to the lightly reinforced rear camps. ‘It’s a trap. This is all a show. They’re looking to surround us. The rear is vulnerable; the camps are unprotected. Verivix. He’s going to flank us,’ said Sir Bradfrey in a fit of clarity as he grabbed the messenger to ensure that the boy heard his words loud and clear. ‘Get to Amos. Tell him to ride free or die waiting.’ The screams of agony were building below, cutting Sir Bradfrey short as he turned to the gatehouse. ‘Open the gates, get them inside.’ He then returned to the messenger, speaking with force and unwavering intent. ‘On your way, make ready the trebuchets. Aim them high. High into the sky. Let us rain rock and ore as far as the winds will take them. And never, never stop. Upon my dead body, they do not stop.’ With a torquing twirl and thrust, Sir Bradfrey pushed the messenger towards the connecting over-ramp while Sir Bradfrey took the opposing stairway to the queen’s mounted regiments.
The knights had been patiently waiting with second thoughts as they witnessed the mass of merchant mercenaries blunder in from the gatehouse. They watched the priced warriors as they smudged feral dirt into their eyes to relive the pain of the acidic orange mists.
‘What of us, my lord?’ asked the lead knight. His voice was fluttered, and his face was pale.
‘Ready your horses. We ride,’ said Sir Bradfrey as his squire quickly fastened the remaining pieces of armour and readied his horse.
‘Through that?’ queried the knight. His questioning was reflected in the body language of the entire royal attachment. Though they had yet breathed the acid mist, they all possessed the same quiver of fear to Sir Bradfrey’s suicidal intent, until a firm backhand struck the lead knight from his horse.
‘For those of you not here willingly,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he rode past the queen’s knights. One by one, he gave each a quick shove and jerk to test their mount. ‘Relinquish your horses. Go back to your lands. You’ll not be needed. But those foolhardy enough to believe in a cause worth more than what mortal flesh can offer, relinquish your lands. Forget your earthly possessions. History cares little about such trivialities. For when the morning breaks and the scavengers circle, those still breathing shall stand tallest among legends, and they shall be remembered. Not as the pious and righteous behind guarded walls, but the tried and true. Those who entered hell on their terms and took the battle to the devil himself.’ He then rode the long way around, past walls and stockpiles, where frightened but committed peasantry where clanging metal against metal.
‘All hail Sir Bradfrey. All hail Sir Bradfrey,’ said the garrison.
From artisan to subsistent farmers, every man, woman, and child. All those too poor or insignificant to warrant a mount or coat of arms.
Their chant spurred Sir Bradfrey into a galloping pace around the royal mounts. ‘All those who doubt me bear witness.’ He picked up his pace and headed for the mist-covered north-eastern gatehouse.
The fear of shame turned stationed hooves into staggered movement. Swears and curses abound as the lingering knights brought themselves up to speed behind their fearless leader. Whereupon entering the acid mist, they quickly lost sight and control of his sinuses. Their horses struggled in equal measure, with only blind determination and distorted yells of Sir Bradfrey’s Hail Marys holding them in lockstep.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he held his wooden cross tethered to his riding hand. ‘The Lord is with thee.’
Bursts of lightning broke all around them, dispersing the mist into condensed pockets.
‘Hail Mary, full of grace.’ There were no thoughts of Keesh and Verivix’s conjured beasts lapping the walls and gatehouse. Or of his ill-equipped peasant soldiers and the gargantuan task before them. ‘The Lord is with thee.’
The sounds of trebuchets munitions echoed like God’s hammer upon the ground as the knights exited the mist to a dispersed wall of disorientated colours and figures. Their vision could not see the disjoined pagan regiment rearranging into a lightly spread formation as the pagan forces sought to mitigate the impact of hundred-pound rocks upon their tightly packed lines.
The element of surprise was in Sir Bradfrey’s favour, as neither sight, sound nor shaking earth alerted the pagan army to the armoured chevrons of the royal mounts stampeding in their direction.
Sir Bradfrey’s formations sliced through the frontline and into the unsuspecting warriors from the Steppe, his lance finding its place upon the iron slab-come-chest armour of his closest giant. The impact, however, threw Sir Bradfrey from his horse, as the rest of his regiment charged on – some succumbing to similar fates while their numbers dwindled bit by bit. Yet their charge was timed so perfectly as to allow a mere few to reach deep into the pagan ranks. To the circle of tattooed wizards, just as the magical tear reached its zenith, unleashing its payload upon the surrounding battle mages.
Sir Bradfrey, disoriented and practically blind, staggered to his feet. His helmet was nowhere to be found, his horse dead or bolted, and he had little else to do than strike at shadows before the shadows struck at him. He then hacked and slashed away from the ten-foot giant that was barrelling down on his position, twirling a three-headed mace that with wide, lumbering sways had built up a terminal velocity. It was ready to crush any and everything within its path, only to be taken out by a burst of white phosphorus and the accompanying shockwave that sent the entire pagan forces into disarray.
This was coupled with the late arrival of Amos and his band of mounted crossbowman, utilising standard attack and retreat tactics, and sending the pagan forces in all directions – some trying to protect the remaining battle mages, while others called on a full-frontal attack of Keesh, where they then were engulfed by the acidic mist and succumbed to their own poison.
The confusion provided Sir Bradfrey and his regiment the space to regroup and push on as the north-western gatehouse of Keesh become enveloped in a flood of the demonic. The outer walls were now firing arrows into their own courtyard, and the impaired merchant mercenaries fought to block off the various chokepoints and stairwells, holding out until the last man, in hope that Sir Bradfrey’s heroics were not in vain.
While on the other side of no-man’s land, Sir Bradfrey and the queen’s knights pushed harder, merely to stay in place, as masses of unorganised warriors from the Steppe closed in for the slim pickings of the remaining royal cavalry. They were, however, undermined by the unrestrained giants who wilfully threw their own underfoot as they fought to get the first blows against the straggling survivors.
Such as one icy war-hammer-wielding giant, who trampled several before raising his frosty blunt instrument to its apex. Then, with a force yet seen, the giant’s torso was misaligned from the rest of his body, tossed aside like a rag doll, under the forceful guidance of a blind monk with black ink and laser-red eyes. The red-eyed monk, appearing out of nowhere, walked lone ranger through the chaos, breathing in pure rage that he harnessed into a ball of destruction. That, when unleashed, ripped clean rows through the Steppe warriors, before repeating the process.
The red-eyed monk’s presence emanated a hypnotic pulse through Sir Bradfrey’s. As if a clarity of thought removed all doubt and rendered him impotent to the guided vision that dictated his impending actions. Until his own consciousness diverted into third person, and he watched his body throw away the tethered cross and unleash his own unstoppable onslaught. With superhuman strength, he parried and thrusted with complete premonition, able to act with impunity as his body slashed its way from the encircled knights to the feet of a meditating Verivix, who was met by the full brunt of Sir Bradfrey’s sword.
Whereupon the future became past, and the time between was forgotten, under an endless bur. As the dying minutes of the afternoon’s sky shined freely through the pagan darkness, returning control of his own body back to Sir Bradfrey. And with it, the realisation that his dagger’s final thrust had embedded itself firmly into the side of a pale and bloodied Cestmir.
Sir Bradfrey collapsed to his knees as his body recalibration back to his own consciousness. Its lingering affect left his nerves aching, and his lungs strained too far to speak, while his facial muscles failed to convey the depth of his sorrows while Cestmir’s pale body laid between his limp arms.
All he could do was watch as his old friend exhaled his dying breath and said, ‘Those aren’t your colours.’