Of all the grisly trophies and artefacts adorning the walls, the skull on a spike was the most enthralling. Scarred, chipped and stained with what appeared dry blood, the loosened jaw and dark, hollow gaze betrayed its silent, eternal scream. I noticed the curator and my mentor, Scholar Grygori, watching me closely, but did not work up the courage to ask him about it for several weeks.
When I did, in almost a whisper, I asked, "Th-that skull... where did it come from?"
Looking up from a tome, quill in hand, he stared at the skull for a few moments and then looked to me, flickering candlelight reflected in his eyes.
"I was raised," he said, his eyes locking mine from under his hood, "in a town called Harven, a full two week’s ride from the other side of the eastern mountains. It was one of the first to fall to the Predains."
He paused, stood and steadily shuffled to the open window. He peered out into the night for a while, before he began to speak again.
It is believed that the Predains arrived on these lands in 612 GDY, eighty-four years ago. Raiders, savages, barbarians; call them what you will, but they were not a people that men of this realm were accustomed to. Some say they came from across the ocean, riding enormous sea dragons that hurled volleys of fiery arrows. Others say they came from the northern mountains of fire, the volcanos, born deep beneath the ground where only demons dare venture. Yet their terrifying reputation was built not on tales of origin, but by the ruthless devastation of anything in their path.
"I have heard tales of the Predains. My father said they were like a plague intent on wiping out civilisation and only interested in laying waste to everything." I said.
Scholar Grygori turned from the window and regarded me for a moment.
"One must be careful when discerning history, for it is rarely veracious. The truth is a treacherous ally, suiting only those that tell it."
I nodded, acknowledging his wisdom as he continued.
The Predains were merciless and savage as they wound their way from the east coast, crossing the icy mountains and down into Garnome Valley. They sought to take control of the Citadel, weak from countless wars and invasions and unprepared for this unpredictable new enemy that fought with sheer ferocity and versatility. The Predainish battle methods and techniques have influenced much of the Citadel's tactics since, such is their relentless efficiency. Yet warriors need leadership and in Emeric Oronovich, they had a brilliant and methodical tactician.
"Oronovich..." I mutter, recalling the name from my scholarly studies, "The Shadow of Demons?"
"That is what the fables call him, yes."
"I have heard Bards sing of him. They say he was a vampire, that he could fly and when his eyes turned red, rivers of blood would flow from all that stared into them. Could it be true?"
"My dear boy, have I not just told you to regard supposed truths with caution? By most hysterical accounts, he was indeed a vampire. However, Bards often aggrandise tales for enjoyment."
"How then do you tell a vampire from a man?"
"A vampire is a still a man, yet not entirely human."
I left Harven several years before the Predains swept through. I have heard many tales over the years of the devastation caused, mostly from Citadel soldiers that had faced the Predain invaders. Desolation was the best they could describe what was left behind. The ground and everything upon it had been turned grey and black as though everything had died. This is where the moniker ‘Predain Plague’ originates. Those that caught a glimpse of the warlord himself say that his intensity was beyond comprehension, his skill in combat unrivalled. It is said that when his eyes turn red, the sky darkens and his warriors become relentless, as if driven by an insatiable hunger for death. Only one has ever sworn he saw Oronovich in flight, transformed into a bat - a King's Wardsman, left alive only to spread word that the garrison he fought with in the Battle of the Buchavoy Fields had been obliterated.
The thought of such a fiendish being ever existing chilled my blood.
"How could anybody hope to defeat such a demon?" I asked. "If the Predains were unstoppable, where are they now?"
As he glanced across to the skull, half a smile twitched across the old man’s face.
After almost a year of marauding, the Predains had made their way into Citadel lands. Oronovich had previously threatened to systematically obliterate all trace of the Citadel if they did not surrender and seemed confident that they would accept his terms. Yet recent battles had swayed his boldness. The Citadel had temporarily allied themselves with the barbarian tribes they had formerly been at war with. If the Predains were to be stopped, they reasoned, all would have to fight under one flag. Oronovich’s juggernaut was so vast that it spread for miles across the land. The Citadel and their new allies began a series of skirmishes and ambushes against isolated sections of the Predain horde, changing their tactics to steadily whittle down the numbers of their enemy. Oronovich, sensing his overwhelming odds were beginning to waver, attempted to bargain with the Citadel. In return for peace, he requested the hand of Lysanna in marriage. Lysanna, daughter of the Citadel’s King Gorek, accepted and so too eventually did her father. This marriage would mean that Oronovich would be entitled to half of the Citadel’s lands. For a time, the Predain warlord was appeased. Fighting stopped for at least a week while arrangements were made. Yet dissent began to rise in the Citadel and not a few days before the marriage was to take place, Lysanna mysteriously disappeared.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Where did she go?” I asked, already sure of the answer.
“Nobody knows. Perhaps she was murdered. Perhaps she ran away, terrified of what she had gotten herself into.”
“So did the fighting begin again?”
As if determined to annihilate the Citadel, the Predains pressed forward with more vigour and resolve than before. Oronovich narrowed the shape of his horde, preferring to invite the Citadel to attack the compact sides of his army in greater numbers. This proved to be a mistake, however, as resources withered and, despite the skill of the Predains, the numbers of the Citadel began to prevail. But the Citadel did not stop there. They knew that the Predains would fall faster if Oronovich was killed and so they made many attempts at assassinating him. Now the Citadel had refused to believe reports that Oronovich was a vampire, but as none of their previous attempts to slay him had succeeded, they tried something different, recruiting a man who claimed to be a monster hunter, specialising in vampires.
“Ah, you’re talking about Vasily Lazarescu!” I said, knowing the name from my studies.
“Indeed. Lazarescu claimed he had killed several vampires, taking their heads as proof. The Citadel were sceptical but saw little reason to turn away any help offered, especially from a former Citadel soldier.”
“The ending of the Bards tales often tell of a fateful meeting between two great warriors.”
Scholar Grygori nodded and continued.
Lazarescu had once been a commander for the Citadel and is regarded as one of their finest ever swordsmen. He retired from the soldier life while still quite young and disappeared for many years. Some say he witnessed horrors of war unknown to most and went insane. Yet he returned, claiming he could defeat Oronovich. Priests proclaimed the two would meet face to face in the Citadel tower overlooking the Cliffs of Abyss, and one was fated to die.
The Predains marched on the capital city and faced the Citadel army in the Vale of Citadea, the magnificent castle rising above the walled city just beyond. Oronovich had seemingly abandoned his archetypal tactics, his horde rushing headlong into the fray. The titanic battle lasted several days, troops cycling from back to front to rest and recover, with little room in the valley for much else. The Predains began to force the Citadel back closer to the city, the walls almost within reach. Yet Oronovich and Lazarescu were nowhere to be seen. As numbers thinned on both sides and the Citadel managed to gain a foothold, forcing the Predains back, word began to spread that the King had been killed by the Shadow of Demons. It seemed Oronovich had made his way inside the castle unnoticed. Suddenly, thousands of hands from below began to point up at the southern side tower. Heads began to turn, to watch two lone swordsmen engage in thrilling combat right above the precipice that bordered the right side of the city. Oronovich and Lazarescu danced about each other, stabbing, slashing and parrying, neither willing to give up ground, both equally determined to run the other through. After what seemed an eternity, Lazarescu managed to force Oronovich’s sword from his hand. As he roared triumphantly, swinging his sword at the warlord’s neck, Oronovich appeared to dodge it faster than the eye could see and rammed the other backwards towards the edge of the tower. Lazarescu dropped his sword, but held his footing. Oronovich charged again and Lazarescu grappled him, but this time could not regain his balance. The two fell in unison off the side, still wrestling, fists flying. The Predains and the Citadel watched them disappear into the mists of the deep ravine below.
It took a few moments to process what I had just heard. I shook my head and coughed cold air up from my lungs.
“What of the aftermath?” I asked, eager to know more.
“Despite both sides losing their respective leader, the battle raged on several hours longer, but in the end the Predains surrendered, outnumbered by the Citadel, exhausted and their morale drained.”
“And what of the Oronovich and Lazarescu?”
“When the Citadel finally made their way down into the ravine, they could not find the bodies anywhere.”
“So both could still be alive then?”
“It is possible.”
“And what of the skull? Who does it belong to?”
“That, my precocious young pupil, is a story for another time. It is late and the Citadel guards will be most displeased if you are out of your bedchamber much longer.”
He shut the window and moved across to the tome, closing it and taking it to its shelf. This, I could tell, was my cue to leave.
“Goodnight, Scholar.”
“Goodnight, Prince Gorek.”
I walked out the door and as I began to shut it behind me I caught a glimpse of Scholar Grygori watching me. A shiver ran down my spine. Perhaps the light was playing tricks on my eyes. Or was it? I thought I had seen a flicker, from under his hood, of the old man’s eyes flashing red.