An army of five hundred slavers marched under the cover of night, heading straight to a lone town only hours south of the Holding. The town flickered with blue flames, but lacked walls, making it easy pickings for the army that approached. The only thing between them and the town was a far stretch of desert and dune.
The slavers marched through the night using torch bearers. Every sixth soldier, a person was made to carry a large torch of wood and iron casting. The torch was constantly fed with a blue flame of ward dust making sure the army was left untouched by lurking Veiled Ones while they continued to march undisturbed.
However, the dunes were windy at night making the job of a torchbearer much harder. When a gust of wind blew, the torch bearers had to make sure the flame was reignited quickly for the army’s sake. Or else, suffer the wrath of Black Bloods that surely waited nearby.
Like anticipated a gust of howling winds came scorching by the army whilst they traveled across the dunes, only half a mile from the town. The wind was enough to extinguish even the most protected flames at the center of the army. Quickly, the men acted in trying to reignite the fires.
“Get yer flames up, now!” shouted one of the slavers.
Amongst the scrambling panic of the slavers yelled out a voice, “SLAUGHTER EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM!!” The voice that boomed, came from under the sands directly below the slavers.
An ambushing party of less than a hundred soldiers sprang out from beneath the sand being face to face with their enemy. The ambushers targeted the torch bearers slitting their throats before any had a chance of reigniting the blue flames that would save their comrades.
“It’s the Barons army!” shouted a slaver.
Intense pockets of fighting ensued, the sound of clashing blades and roaring men filled the night sky. Soldiers cut down cried for mercy, laying in a pool of their own wet blood. It was a massacre. A handful of slavers fought off the ambushers while swathes of the army broke into a retreat.
Men and women running from the battle hightailed it across the sandy dunes, however, one by one the slavers were dragged off kicking and screaming by swarms of Veiled Ones that hungrily waited nearby. Screams of the damned echoed louder than the roaring battle.
The slavers that held and fought were mercilessly cut down by their assailants. The remaining fighters were overwhelmed by the ambushing party being executed to their very last numbers until the final slaver stood surrounded at all sides by the ambushers. The scared slaver swung his sword maniacally at the soldiers that surrounded him, but no one got any closer.
The crowd of warriors surrounding the scared slaver, split open allowing space for two men to approach. The man in front was far younger than the man standing behind him. He had tan skin with a clean shaven face and short black hair that curled down to his ears.
His eyebrows were thin and neatly plucked, but was dirtied by the blood that dotted across his face. He wore a long sleeved black tunic that draped loosely over him. At the cuffs of his sleeves were long leather bracers wrapped tightly from his wrist to his forearm. Around his neck and draped over his upper body was a bright red shawl that caped back along with the wind.
Dressed similarly was the man standing behind him. A tall dark skinned man that stood at an impressive height of six foot three. With no hair on his head he made up for with a thick black beard resting on his face. The man walked with a hand on the hilt of his weapon which was still sheathed, since he saw no reason to withdraw it. The slaver before them served no threat. Yet, he kept a close eye on the terrified slaver.
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The younger one of the two stepped towards the center of the crowd standing only a few feet from the slaver. He eyed the scared man for a moment and spat on the ground. “My lands and my people are not for you,” the younger man stated.
The slaver widened his eyes as he soon realized who was standing before him, “You’re the Baron aren’t you.”
“That I am,” he paused to look at the crowded warriors all around him. “I am Baron Zrokaan. Bane of King and Clans.”
His words were followed by a roaring celebration from the warriors, arms and swords raised high and mighty to the sky. Chanting of the King’s downfall flooded the dunes.
The Baron turned to the taller man that stood behind him. He gestured for something to be given to him. The taller man reached into the satchel of his belt and pulled out a small sphere that glowed a luminescent blue, handing it to the Baron. “Thank you Solomon,” the Baron said with a slight bow to his head.
The Baron took the sphere into the palm of his hand and looked back to the slaver, “take this ward stone and go back to your clans and let them know it was the Baron that slaughtered your armies.”
The slaver cautiously took the ward stone from the Baron’s hand and listened to the message the young ruler had to say. However, this only made him grin a yellow smile. “You can keep playing ruler of the Red March for now, Baron. But the Old Clans will take what is rightfully theirs sooner or later.”
Solomon moved past the Baron and shoved the slaver just enough to have him stumble back a few feet. “Go. Now. Before I take your head from your shoulders,” Solomon warned.
Taking the warning, the slaver scoffed and walked through a small gap of space provided to him by the crowd of warriors who all glared at him as he walked past. The slaver walked through a field of corpses and disappeared in the sea of darkness behind them clutching onto the ward stone for safety.
Zrokaan moved through the crowd of his soldiers and made way to the top of a dune overlooking the vast desert. From there he felt the night sky's wind, breeze past him fluttering his loose tunic and red shawl. His eyes looked down to be greeted by the crowd of soldiers eagerly awaiting his orders.
“You have all fought proudly to protect your homeland from the Old Clans. Those slavers will think twice before messing with the Red March!” Zrokaan shouted to the crowd.
The crowd of soldiers went wild all chanting the Baron’s name. “Zrokaan! Zrokaan! Zrokaan!”
It had been so long since the Red March had a great leader. Generations of corrupted rule under the Old Clans made life a living hell for the common folk of the Red March. Never again. The Baron with the help of popular opinion washed the corrupted scum out of their society, now he was the one they all looked to for guidance.
“As long as I breathe, I will protect our homelands from King Caldorey in the North and the Old Clans in the south. This, I swear,” Zrokaan continued all whilst his men shouted with morale. “We rest in town tonight and tomorrow we march back to Barinza,” Zrokaan concluded, taking a glass vial of water from his pouch and drinking it.
While the men took their share in spoils, looting the dead slavers for any valuables, Solomon joined the Baron atop the winding dune that loomed over the field of corpses.
“Solomon you’ve once again proven yourself not only to be a great friend but a valuable advisor,” the Baron said, reaching his arm out for a handshake.
Grabbing a firm hold of the Baron's hand, Solomon shook it. “Thank you Zrokaan,” Solomon reached into a satchel on his belt pulling out another ward stone, brilliantly illuminating the area around them. “But it was your idea to use the ward stones, Zrokaan. Likely the advantage we needed to win this battle.” Solomon looked at the Baron with a smile,“so it is you I should be thanking.”
“We need every advantage we can get. With the King at my northern doorstep we can’t afford to lose any land to the Old Clans,” the Baron said, patting Solomon’s forearm with a smile. “Go and get your rest. Tomorrow we march.”
Solomon bowed his head and left the Baron alone to his thoughts. The ward stone protects him from all ghastly things that go bump in the night, but it couldn’t protect him from the unending stress of being a leader. Zrokaan never showed it, but he was worried for the future of his people. Caldorey and his ambitions to unify all of Ikorum under one banner was the biggest threat to the Red March. The Baron swore to never again let his people be enslaved or invaded, but Caldorey was much stronger than the Old Clans. He would be impossible to fight head on, army with army.
And Zrokaan knew this.