The front lines. The place where the intensity of battle was fueled and the line between life and death was to be drawn. Not in some war room, but here; past Clontarf, Dubgall’s Bridge and River Tolka, facing the gates of Dublin City. This was where legends would be made.
Cillian was the representative of Class 1-A of the Templar Academy. He was their strongest warrior. He was the best, but he never felt like it. Not after his humiliating defeat to the unaffiliated swordswoman, Yoon Sun-young. Cillian was born and raised as a footballer. He played at a high-college level and eventually made it to the English Football League. He had never managed to snatch a position in the luxurious Premier League. An athlete of the highest calibre yet not the best. A young man that made decent money and lived a decent life.
It wasn’t just him. Everyone the Templars recruited were athletes of some kind. Very rarely did they recruit ordinary people, unless their aptitude for magic was high. That was the way it was. Competition, competition, competition. It was everywhere and it was tough, regardless of whether it was on Earth or the White Abyss. To stand at the top and to be acknowledged as the best should have been an honour. For him, that was never the case. He was too reserved and calm to gain the respect of the ambitious. He was the best but he was looked up at. He was observed. Then, following his defeat, there was nothing but mocking acceptance of his abilities. Nothing more, nothing less. He was a representative but he did not represent the strength of the class.
Ahead, his class was fighting alongside many of the Holy Knights. Horses were running straight at the gates of Dublin City. Surrounded by stone walls reaching over forty metres, the large wooden gate was the sole way of entry—aside from the supposed backend river according to Kazi Hossain.
Archers stood on the stone walls who attempted to shoot his class off. One of his classmates, an arrogant American footballer, leapt off his horse and charged at the gate with an axe coursing with lightning. The strike landed and the first chip off the gate had broken off.
The real battle was about to begin.
“You were right, Cillian,” the Holy Knight beside him commented. He was the Holy Knight chosen to act as a messenger between representatives. A bit convoluted in Cillian’s opinion, though the Holy Knight representative insisted. “They plan to bring the battle inside the city.”
Cillian didn’t reply. He, as well as a hundred others, remained back. On their horses, they observed the battle of a hundred archers and ground soldiers. That was what set alarm bells off—the fact that there were so few archers. They were luring them into a false sense of security. Cillian wasn’t going to fall for that, so he planned ahead. He sent his classmates whose abilities he knew intimately as well as a decent chunk of the Holy Knights to break into the city. As soon as they found themselves overwhelmed and surrendered (which they would, considering that there were going to be thousands in the city), the mages would create chaos.
Following that, the rest of them would storm into the city. Behind them would be the enemy Vikings coming from the sea, who would be ambushed by the mages and then swiftly intercepted and destroyed by the Dal Cais, Munsters, and Connachta.
In all the ensuing battles, there were elements of timing and two-pronged assaults. If everything went according to plan, it would be a series of one-sided battles.
If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
“Should we send the flare?” the Holy Knight asked. “The battle has begun, after all. Our scouts also saw flares at Howth. That means Dal Cais, Munsters, and Connachta are there.”
“Yes. Do it,” Cillian said. Without further ado, the Holy Knight equipped his flare gun and BANG! Like fireworks, he shot the flare into the air and changed the sky with its red light.
“Shall we get going?”
“No,” Cillian replied. “Let them fight to the end.”
“Won’t they die?”
“That’s to be expected. This is war.”
The Holy Knight seemed pleased. “I understand why they chose you now. You may be quiet but you’re dangerous, aren’t you?”
“I will take that as a compliment from a reluctant ally.”
“No, no, there’s no reluctance here. I am very aware of the history between our guilds. However, that’s here nor there. It has nothing to do with us.”
Cillian side-eyed him, silently telling him to get to the point.
“We should get along, that’s all I’m saying. After this, I hope to see more of you.” The Holy Knights didn’t wear helmets, thus his youthful enthusiasm was obvious. Cillian was in his late twenties and, while not disliking college age individuals, certainly didn’t seek out conversations with them.
“Hm.”
The Holy Knight put away the flare gun and equipped a thin liston knife. He scratched the wrist of his armour, checking its quality. “My knife's so nice and sharp, I want to get to work right away if I get a chance.”
“I see.”
“Are you hoping to fight that woman, Yoon Sun-young?”
The sudden inquiry caught him off-guard and Cillian looked at him again. Under the helmet, his eyes narrowed. “You know about her?”
“Well, that’s what I’ve been hearing from your classmates. She beat you in an instant, right?” He smiled pleasantly, like an innocent boy. “Don’t be too sad about it. She’s very strong.”
Cillian gnawed on his lip. “Mm.”
“If I see her, I’ll clip her ears off,” he joked.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll defeat her myself.” Cillian tightened his hold on the horse reins. His lips felt dry and his throat suddenly wanted to be quenched.
“That’s a good attitude to have.” The Holy Knight beamed at him. The dimples at the ends of his smile lent a genuine credence to him. He wanted him to succeed—to fight against Sun-young and win. His smile suddenly fell and he said, “Everyone else here though…they smell rotten.”
“Rotten?” By the time Cillian turned, the Holy Knight’s face was gone. Replaced by a white mask with a long droplet of red across the cheek.
“Thanks for accompanying me back till I got to work again. You’ll hear all about it when you wake up.”
It was at that moment that Cillian understood that there was something very, very wrong with him. The grip on the reins tightened, his knuckles turning white.
“W—”
A searing pain tore through his body, and his breath caught in his throat as he felt his lungs get swallowed and burned. Gasping, he instinctively looked down, only to witness a nightmarish spectacle. A tentacle of darkness, an inky appendage, protruded from his chest as though the very shadows had become a tangible, malevolent entity.
Cillian dangled helplessly like a marionette ensnared by unseen strings. The world around him became a blur of distorted shapes and colors, and the air seemed to thicken with a suffocating darkness. His vision blurred and he turned his neck over to see the sinister silhouette of the masked man, whose expressionless white mask hid any semblance of humanity.
It wasn’t only Cillian; everyone else at the front was stabbed through the chest and lifted from their horses, except they were filled with multiple iterations of the night-black arms.
In the next instant, heads were severed.
And then, with a sudden, violent motion, the tentacle hurled him away. The Templar was propelled through the air like a discarded puppet and his vision went black. Panic seized him as he hurtled through the darkness, the world spinning in a disorienting blur. Cillian collided with the unforgiving ground, pain surged through every fiber of his being.
He heard screams. He heard pain. He heard death.
It was too late. Everything went to chaos.