Post by Neko Bazu on Jan 31, 2008 12:11:10 GMT -1
Title: Vir Nocturn
Theme: Snow
Genre: Fantasy/Drama
Rating: 12A
Feedback: Yes, public
Warnings: Violence, death
Notes: There was no way in hell I'd finish this in time, I realised, so I posted up what I've done so far. I'm just disappointed I couldn't show the climax with the rest of it, or what I've got in store for Laesus (I may add the rest once it's finished, depending on whether there's any interest!)
A total deviation from my previous entries, written in my more usual fashion. Let me know if you’d like to see more of this sort of thing – I certainly enjoyed writing it!
Vir Nocturn
The night is cold.
The creatures that so often attack have seemingly given them a temporary respite – it’s been maybe two hours since the last of the previous wave of monstrosities was felled, and the silence that surrounds the citadel’s outer walls now is almost eerie when contrasted against the roars and screams of not so long ago.
Laesus can tell that it’s night only by the slightly increased intensity of the darkness across the land. Darkness is all they know now – all they’ve known for years. Six years, two months and two days, to be exact. He knows the figure so exactly because Sierra, his beautiful sister by all but blood, keeps track of the days on a large boulder by the guardhouse’s east wall. A new scratch for every day; a new scratch intermingled with tears of misery and desperation; so many scratches that the rocky face she carves on has almost become a crevice.
The land never used to be like this. Once, long ago, when Laesus himself was still a new recruit in the army, wet behind the ears, there used to be clear day and night; sunshine and rain; warmth and fresh coolness. Then, one day, word was received from one of the distant outposts of strange inky-black creatures rising from the surface – rising from the shadows of all things in the sun’s light – and attacking. Two days later, they received word again of stronger creatures joining the initial monstrosities. Two days after that, their psychics received the post’s final message.
These creatures are not of this earth. They fall to the sword, and they fall to flame, but they are demons in every way imaginable. They-
So word had it, the psychic unfortunate enough to receive that transmission had to be kept under sedation for two days before she would stop crying, so terrible were the sender’s screams as she was cut off. After relaying what she’d been told, the psychic refused to discuss the matter again, as if pretending it had never happened.
Laesus sometimes wished that option were available to him.
A week after that final transmission, a second outpost had gotten in contact, reporting a strange storm overhead. Their magi had established that the storm was produced by magic, but the magic used was nothing they had encountered before.
Not of this earth.
The storm clouds had been so thick and black that barely any sunlight was able to penetrate, to the point where the only way to tell between day and night under the clouds was the intensity of the darkness. Within days, according to transmissions, the clouds had cast the land into shadow as far as the eye could see. And it was from these shadows that the creatures came.
That outpost was lost in one day.
The lord of the land had wasted no further time, immediately ordering the men at all fortifications to return to the country’s central citadel, and gathering all the people of the land within its protective walls. The city’s magi had put up protective wards around the boundaries, enough to keep the creatures from spawning inside, though they couldn’t stop them walking in, and the army had entered a period of recruitment and training like no other. The defence of the city was left in the hands of the army’s general, and the day-to-day running was left with a committee of advisors. The lord himself left immediately, proclaiming he was seeking The Saviour.
The Saviour. The people of the city spoke of him in hushed whispers, in hopeful undertones and barely-speakable wishes. One day, he would come. One day, he would save them. One day, they would taste the freedom that was only a distant memory to most of them. Their lord believed in The Saviour’s power, so they would too.
Laesus knew there was no Saviour – that was the stuff of fairy tales. He knew the monstrosities were at the gates daily, he knew his men – he had risen to the rank of general now – were dying daily, and he knew there was no help from outside.
If there were a Saviour, he would have to be it.
The clouds had taken a month to reach the main citadel, and the fighting had started. The creatures had evidently not expected such a large and fierce resistance at first, but they had only made that mistake once. Now, all the country knew was war. War, darkness, and the intense cold that surrounded the city. Whether the adverse weather was of the creatures’ doing, or simply a by-effect of the lack of sunlight, no-one could say, but the biting winds that whipped about and the fierce snowstorms that fell many nights were alien to the people of the land prior to the darkness’ arrival.
The night is cold. The winds whip Laesus’ auburn hair about him, and the snow-dust they carry stings his face, but still he watches diligently. He refuses to shiver, just to spite any creatures that may be watching, and his hand never leaves his sword.
He knows they’ll come again. They always come again. And until the next soldier steps up to relieve him of his shift, he’ll keep watch, to make sure that come what may, they’ll be ready.
“Mummy! Mummy!” Laesus cried excitedly. “You’ll never guess what we learnt at school today?”
A soft smile formed on the face of Laesus’ mother. “What, sweetie?”
“The teacher was telling us about ‘leh-junds’,” the eight year-old boy enunciated carefully. “He told us about Elreth and Na’ijar and all sorts!”
“Really now?”
“Yeah!”
At this, Laesus’ face formed a pensive frown. “There was one ‘leh-jund’ that he said he couldn’t tell us though,” he added a little sulkily. “He said it was the best one, but only our parents could tell us it – the ‘leh-jund’ of The Saviour.”
Laesus’ mother smiled knowingly. “And your teacher is right,” she stated, pulling a chair out and sitting at the kitchen table, motioning for Laesus to join her. “The Saviour is the greatest of all heroes; he’s so great, that by tradition, only parents can tell their children about him. He’s that special.”
“What’s tradition, Mummy?”
“Something you must never break.”
“Oh.”
“The Saviour is a mighty fighter – the mightiest of all,” the woman began, smiling as she saw Laesus was immediately caught by the story. “Many centuries ago, he used to travel across many different worlds, protecting all the people there from all the evil that would come up. He could wipe out entire armies of demons in hours, where men could have fought for months and barely dented their numbers. He fought only with the help of a fearsome wolf and a mystical crow, yet no army could ever hurt him. He fought for no reward; only to see that evil was driven away.”
“Then why are there still bad people in the world, Mummy?”
“Well, The Saviour’s power is very special,” she explained. “And power like his mustn’t be used cheaply. He will only come when darkness and fear have clouded everyone’s hearts; when even the proudest, strongest man in the kingdom despairs of any hope. Only when people believe he is their last chance will he come – but when he comes, he will provide for them the strength they’ve always needed.”
“But Mummy,” Laesus pressed, “You said he did this centuries ago, right? How do you know? And why doesn’t he now?”
“We know because parents tell their children,” his mothered answered patiently, the same soft smile still on her face. “And they tell their children, and they tell their children. It keeps his story alive. And as for why he doesn’t now…”
At this, the woman stood up again, stirring the contents of one of the saucepans on the stove. “Well, maybe nobody’s needed him. He can only come if he’s called, after all. Some people think he grew old and stopped, but some say he doesn’t grow, and instead has retired.”
Laesus’ mother turned and prodded her son’s nose playfully as she continued speaking. “And other people say that, from the goodness of his heart, he got a kind witch to seal him and his companions away where time wouldn’t affect them, so that even if they were needed again in two thousand years, he could be there for them.”
“Wow…”
For a few moments, Laesus sat awe-struck at the table, digesting this story. Then, without a word, he slipped down from his chair and ran up the hall to his bedroom, emerging a few moments later with his wooden play-sword in hand. Dashing into the kitchen, he took a few swipes with his weapon before pointing it proudly at the ceiling.
“I’m gonna become as strong as he is!” Laesus declared proudly, before jabbing at an imaginary foe. “And I’m gonna go and save the world too!”
“First, though,” Laesus’ mother interrupted, prying the sword firmly from her son’s fingers. “You’re going to have dinner.”
“Aww, Mum!”
Years ago, Laesus’ memories of that day, of all his childish exuberance and enthusiasm, would have brought a smile to his face. Now, though, it simply left a bitter aftertaste. That legend was the most treasured of the land; the one legend that the people thought may have had a grain of truth to it. Scholars often speculated that the story was born of a great general who repelled invading hordes centuries ago. Learned men suggested it may have simply been a folk-tale; a story that started around a campfire and spread by word of mouth into an epic chronicle. The ordinary people of the land accepted these views as logical; they all realised that the idea of one man destroying entire armies in hours was nigh on ludicrous. Despite this, though, there was always that one question that followed any discussion on the topic.
But what if…?
Laesus had grown to hate the legend.
He hated the false hope that it gave the people. He hated the way they were more willing to entrust their faith in a lie than in each other. He hated the way they were more willing to believe an ancient mystical being could come to their aid than they were to believe he could.
Even if he was their saviour, he could never be their Saviour.
Even their lord had gone out to find this Saviour, or so he said. Did he honestly believe there was some bubble somewhere in the universe – a bubble that was on their world, by sheer chance – where he could find The Saviour and awaken him? Laesus doubted this, but if anyone knew where he’d gone instead, they didn’t speak of it. Would he have just fled, and left them to fend for themselves? Again, Laesus doubted it.
But why was he so insistent on giving people such false hope?
Laesus was drawn from his thoughts as he spotted a small golden twinkle in the distance. For a moment, he wondered if it had just been a trick of the mind, but then he spotted a second, and a third. The telltale golden glimmer was the creatures’ eyes; the one part of them that wasn’t completely black. The deep, burning shade was all too familiar to him by now, and the citadel’s army had long learnt what even one sparkle meant.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Laesus turned and bellowed to the nearest horn-bearer.
“To arms!”
The city’s gates were flung open, and the army, freshly roused from what little sleep they’d had, strode out. Marching had long been rendered a pointless formality, as had vast ranked formations. The creatures apparently hadn’t studied the rules of traditional combat – they fought as skirmishers; as a fearless swelling tide of bodies forever ebbing and flowing, overlapping and engulfing, and ranks were quickly outflanked and crushed. The army instead now fought in five-man pockets, negating the advantage of the creatures’ fluid assault while still maintaining tactical strength. Unlike the mindless onslaught of the black beings, the pockets fought effectively; at least one healer, one long-range fighter and two combat warriors would be in each pocket, with a spellcaster, swordsman or a second ranged fighter making the fifth member. Sometimes, the spellcaster would be offensive, while others provided supporting or protective magic, according to the other fighters’ preferences. The pockets fought well together, watching each other’s backs and effectively dealing with the enemy.
Despite this, they could still be overrun. It never ceased to amaze – and infuriate – Laesus that such stupid beings could prove so effective.
There was, at least, no need for rousing speeches or tactical planning. Every soldier knew what was required of them by now, and knew what to expect – even those wet behind the ears recruits had watched some battles from the ramparts while armed with bows, to save them being thrust into the fray blindly. And when every soldier knew that the lives of their friends and loved ones, as well as their own lives, depended on keeping the creatures at bay until a solution could be found, they needed no further inspiration.
‘To arms’ was all Laesus ever needed to declare. After that, each pocket’s tactics were what mattered.
Laesus’ own pocket of troops consisted of himself, three old friends and one newer member, who’d joined them after another friend had been dragged down four battles ago. They had more battle experience between them than he cared to count, and often took on the larger monsters that appeared – Daedra and the occasional Garguan – leaving the smaller bread-and-butter monsters to the newer troops.
This time, though, it looked like that wasn’t going to be an issue. A cursory glance across their foes revealed that this time, they consisted almost solely of Tendril – the name the smallest enemies had been given – and Termagaunt, the name given to the creatures the next size up. The monsters never seemed to have a standard form – some were dog-like, some were doll-like, while others were reminiscent of serpents, to name but a few – but their sizes were almost always constant. Tendril were usually a little below chest height, head to toe or tail, while Termagaunt were usually a few inches shorter than the average man. Daedra were often two foot higher than Laesus, while Garguan – as the name implied – were enormous, easily standing fifteen feet tall. There was one final class, Desideratum, but the new recruits were never told of them, for fear that they should choose an alternate career path.
“Do they just want to play, this time?”
Laesus was pulled from his thoughts by friend’s wry remark. Merith had joined the army the same day as Laesus, and the two had immediately forged close ties. Were he to consider it, Laesus would probably consider Merith his closest friend and confidant, but such terms were bandied about far too easily. If Sierra was Laesus’ sister, then Merith was his brother, in every sense of the word.
“More likely that they’ve cottoned on that we need sleep much more than they do,” was the general’s answer. “This raid isn’t intended to inflict heavy damage on us; these things are just sword-fodder. They just want to stop us resting properly for their next major assault.”
“That’s a lot of fodder out there, however you want to look at it.”
The other four members of the pocket regarded their newer team mate with a collective look that bordered on amusement. “Is that excitement, or apprehension?”
Delir shrugged. “Both, I guess. Good training day, but I wonder if the less experienced guys will be over-confident. By my reckoning, we’re outnumbered three to one out there – not that that matters a jot to me.”
“Seems ideal, really,” Merith countered with a grin.
At this, Delir shrugged again, though a small smile was on his face too. He was the group’s marksman, and had a specially-built crossbow that could carry and fire up to three bolts at once. Laesus had initially regarded the weapon with suspicion, wondering if it was more impressive to look at than it was in battle, but Delir had long proven that he could use it effectively.
The two other members of Laesus’ pocket were a cleric by the name of Rhisa and a young mage called Elreth, named after the great sorcerer of legend and doing her best to live up to the title. Her prowess in battle was commendable, especially given her tender years (seventeen just two moon cycles ago, if the scholars were still tracking the days accurately), and Laesus in particular was glad to have her fire magic supporting his and Merith’s swords.
“Sir!”
A call from the ramparts drew Laesus’ attention, and he turned to wave at the Watcher, indicating he was listening.
“The creatures have begun advancing! No sign of anything bigger than a Termagaunt; approximately seventy-five percent Tendril out there!”
Laesus nodded once and unsheathed his sword. All across the battle front, similar ‘shink’ sounds of blades being pulled from scabbards emanated, and soft murmurs filled the air as clerics and chaplains began to cast protective magic on their team members. A faint blue glow briefly entered Laesus’ vision as Rhisa cast a protective ward on him, before everything fell silent again.
In the distance, the insect-like chittering of the creatures began to draw louder.
“ONWARD!”
Laesus could rarely remember the battles afterwards.
Yes, he recalled faint snatches here and there. Occasionally, some days later, he might be able to piece together a large portion of the fight. But, whether it was because of adrenaline or because his mind didn’t want to immediately recall the horrors, he could never remember what had befallen him immediately prior to his return to the citadel.
Leading his army from the front, Laesus was the first to clash with the inky black tide swarming toward them. He could smell the creatures long before he could reach them; their rank odour akin to oozing pus and rotting flesh carrying great distances even on the slightest of breezes, eddying about and enveloping him, seemingly following wherever he went. The stench had been nauseating, almost overpowering, the first time he’d encountered it, and even after such frequent exposure, he felt his stomach clench. He was made of stronger stuff than that, though, he reminded himself.
He was to be his people’s saviour.
His blade flashed out in a single swipe as one of the Tendril – this one a strange creature of humanoid shape but with an ant-like head – leapt forward ahead of the other demons. The keen weapon easily cleaved the creature in two, sending a spray of acid-like blood over Laesus’ armour and releasing that disgusting odour even more strongly. A small gobbet splashed onto his face, burning at the surface of his skin, but he didn’t even have time to flinch before the next creatures were attacking. An eel-like Termagaunt burst into flames before his eyes, shrieking in agony as Elreth’s magical fire scorched its skin away, and two more Tendril fell to the floor as Delir loosed off his crossbow. Already, the creatures had swarmed round behind them, and it was only thanks to some quick sword work by Merith that Rhisa wasn’t cut in half by a scythe-like arm on another Termagaunt.
A crossbow bolt whistled by behind Laesus’ head as Delir picked off another Tendril leaping to attack.
Stupid, but effective.
This time, though, one feature of the battle stood out clearly in the fore of his mind, replaying over and over and over again. As he paced up and down a lonely corridor in the citadel’s infirmary, anxiously awaiting any news that should come to him, he tried fruitlessly to remove that scene from his thoughts, that scene that repeated itself endlessly.
He knew he couldn’t have helped; that he had responsibilities to his team first and foremost. He knew it was a risk the psychics took. When they scouted, transmitting what they saw back into the castle to the other psychics, to gather more information on the creatures, their reactions were slowed as they split their concentration. They travelled with pockets of soldiers for safety, but if that pocket began to get overrun, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves.
“SIERRA!”
Sometimes, the psychics would realise in time to break their connection and run, at least to the safety of another pocket. Sometimes, though, they misjudged the situation, and the creatures would catch them.
Laesus thrust his sword into another Tendril, making sure to pull it up as he drew it out in order to widen the wound. The creature had managed to claw at his arm before slumping to the ground, but he had too much adrenaline pumping through his body to notice the pain. The blue glow of a healing spell engulfed him as he spun to hack at another monstrosity, and it was just as the glow faded that he spotted something in the crowd of writhing bodies.
A Termagaunt in the form of a large, bloated ball with three trailing tentacles charged a pocket from the flank, knocking one swordsman to the side. As the second swordsman turned to defend his comrade, another Termagaunt – eel-like, this time – dived in through the opening he left, latching around the waist of one of the pocket members and biting at their neck. At the same time, a scythe cut a gash in her side, before that creature was beaten back by the first swordsman. The damage had been done, though, and the pocket member – a psychic – dropped to her knees. All this had taken place in barely half a second, and the psychic had disappeared from sight after that, but it had been long enough for Laesus to recognise their face.
His beautiful sister, one of the citadel’s most prominent psychics and his beloved friend, Sierra.
[cont'd]
Theme: Snow
Genre: Fantasy/Drama
Rating: 12A
Feedback: Yes, public
Warnings: Violence, death
Notes: There was no way in hell I'd finish this in time, I realised, so I posted up what I've done so far. I'm just disappointed I couldn't show the climax with the rest of it, or what I've got in store for Laesus (I may add the rest once it's finished, depending on whether there's any interest!)
A total deviation from my previous entries, written in my more usual fashion. Let me know if you’d like to see more of this sort of thing – I certainly enjoyed writing it!
Vir Nocturn
The night is cold.
The creatures that so often attack have seemingly given them a temporary respite – it’s been maybe two hours since the last of the previous wave of monstrosities was felled, and the silence that surrounds the citadel’s outer walls now is almost eerie when contrasted against the roars and screams of not so long ago.
Laesus can tell that it’s night only by the slightly increased intensity of the darkness across the land. Darkness is all they know now – all they’ve known for years. Six years, two months and two days, to be exact. He knows the figure so exactly because Sierra, his beautiful sister by all but blood, keeps track of the days on a large boulder by the guardhouse’s east wall. A new scratch for every day; a new scratch intermingled with tears of misery and desperation; so many scratches that the rocky face she carves on has almost become a crevice.
The land never used to be like this. Once, long ago, when Laesus himself was still a new recruit in the army, wet behind the ears, there used to be clear day and night; sunshine and rain; warmth and fresh coolness. Then, one day, word was received from one of the distant outposts of strange inky-black creatures rising from the surface – rising from the shadows of all things in the sun’s light – and attacking. Two days later, they received word again of stronger creatures joining the initial monstrosities. Two days after that, their psychics received the post’s final message.
These creatures are not of this earth. They fall to the sword, and they fall to flame, but they are demons in every way imaginable. They-
So word had it, the psychic unfortunate enough to receive that transmission had to be kept under sedation for two days before she would stop crying, so terrible were the sender’s screams as she was cut off. After relaying what she’d been told, the psychic refused to discuss the matter again, as if pretending it had never happened.
Laesus sometimes wished that option were available to him.
A week after that final transmission, a second outpost had gotten in contact, reporting a strange storm overhead. Their magi had established that the storm was produced by magic, but the magic used was nothing they had encountered before.
Not of this earth.
The storm clouds had been so thick and black that barely any sunlight was able to penetrate, to the point where the only way to tell between day and night under the clouds was the intensity of the darkness. Within days, according to transmissions, the clouds had cast the land into shadow as far as the eye could see. And it was from these shadows that the creatures came.
That outpost was lost in one day.
The lord of the land had wasted no further time, immediately ordering the men at all fortifications to return to the country’s central citadel, and gathering all the people of the land within its protective walls. The city’s magi had put up protective wards around the boundaries, enough to keep the creatures from spawning inside, though they couldn’t stop them walking in, and the army had entered a period of recruitment and training like no other. The defence of the city was left in the hands of the army’s general, and the day-to-day running was left with a committee of advisors. The lord himself left immediately, proclaiming he was seeking The Saviour.
The Saviour. The people of the city spoke of him in hushed whispers, in hopeful undertones and barely-speakable wishes. One day, he would come. One day, he would save them. One day, they would taste the freedom that was only a distant memory to most of them. Their lord believed in The Saviour’s power, so they would too.
Laesus knew there was no Saviour – that was the stuff of fairy tales. He knew the monstrosities were at the gates daily, he knew his men – he had risen to the rank of general now – were dying daily, and he knew there was no help from outside.
If there were a Saviour, he would have to be it.
The clouds had taken a month to reach the main citadel, and the fighting had started. The creatures had evidently not expected such a large and fierce resistance at first, but they had only made that mistake once. Now, all the country knew was war. War, darkness, and the intense cold that surrounded the city. Whether the adverse weather was of the creatures’ doing, or simply a by-effect of the lack of sunlight, no-one could say, but the biting winds that whipped about and the fierce snowstorms that fell many nights were alien to the people of the land prior to the darkness’ arrival.
The night is cold. The winds whip Laesus’ auburn hair about him, and the snow-dust they carry stings his face, but still he watches diligently. He refuses to shiver, just to spite any creatures that may be watching, and his hand never leaves his sword.
He knows they’ll come again. They always come again. And until the next soldier steps up to relieve him of his shift, he’ll keep watch, to make sure that come what may, they’ll be ready.
“Mummy! Mummy!” Laesus cried excitedly. “You’ll never guess what we learnt at school today?”
A soft smile formed on the face of Laesus’ mother. “What, sweetie?”
“The teacher was telling us about ‘leh-junds’,” the eight year-old boy enunciated carefully. “He told us about Elreth and Na’ijar and all sorts!”
“Really now?”
“Yeah!”
At this, Laesus’ face formed a pensive frown. “There was one ‘leh-jund’ that he said he couldn’t tell us though,” he added a little sulkily. “He said it was the best one, but only our parents could tell us it – the ‘leh-jund’ of The Saviour.”
Laesus’ mother smiled knowingly. “And your teacher is right,” she stated, pulling a chair out and sitting at the kitchen table, motioning for Laesus to join her. “The Saviour is the greatest of all heroes; he’s so great, that by tradition, only parents can tell their children about him. He’s that special.”
“What’s tradition, Mummy?”
“Something you must never break.”
“Oh.”
“The Saviour is a mighty fighter – the mightiest of all,” the woman began, smiling as she saw Laesus was immediately caught by the story. “Many centuries ago, he used to travel across many different worlds, protecting all the people there from all the evil that would come up. He could wipe out entire armies of demons in hours, where men could have fought for months and barely dented their numbers. He fought only with the help of a fearsome wolf and a mystical crow, yet no army could ever hurt him. He fought for no reward; only to see that evil was driven away.”
“Then why are there still bad people in the world, Mummy?”
“Well, The Saviour’s power is very special,” she explained. “And power like his mustn’t be used cheaply. He will only come when darkness and fear have clouded everyone’s hearts; when even the proudest, strongest man in the kingdom despairs of any hope. Only when people believe he is their last chance will he come – but when he comes, he will provide for them the strength they’ve always needed.”
“But Mummy,” Laesus pressed, “You said he did this centuries ago, right? How do you know? And why doesn’t he now?”
“We know because parents tell their children,” his mothered answered patiently, the same soft smile still on her face. “And they tell their children, and they tell their children. It keeps his story alive. And as for why he doesn’t now…”
At this, the woman stood up again, stirring the contents of one of the saucepans on the stove. “Well, maybe nobody’s needed him. He can only come if he’s called, after all. Some people think he grew old and stopped, but some say he doesn’t grow, and instead has retired.”
Laesus’ mother turned and prodded her son’s nose playfully as she continued speaking. “And other people say that, from the goodness of his heart, he got a kind witch to seal him and his companions away where time wouldn’t affect them, so that even if they were needed again in two thousand years, he could be there for them.”
“Wow…”
For a few moments, Laesus sat awe-struck at the table, digesting this story. Then, without a word, he slipped down from his chair and ran up the hall to his bedroom, emerging a few moments later with his wooden play-sword in hand. Dashing into the kitchen, he took a few swipes with his weapon before pointing it proudly at the ceiling.
“I’m gonna become as strong as he is!” Laesus declared proudly, before jabbing at an imaginary foe. “And I’m gonna go and save the world too!”
“First, though,” Laesus’ mother interrupted, prying the sword firmly from her son’s fingers. “You’re going to have dinner.”
“Aww, Mum!”
Years ago, Laesus’ memories of that day, of all his childish exuberance and enthusiasm, would have brought a smile to his face. Now, though, it simply left a bitter aftertaste. That legend was the most treasured of the land; the one legend that the people thought may have had a grain of truth to it. Scholars often speculated that the story was born of a great general who repelled invading hordes centuries ago. Learned men suggested it may have simply been a folk-tale; a story that started around a campfire and spread by word of mouth into an epic chronicle. The ordinary people of the land accepted these views as logical; they all realised that the idea of one man destroying entire armies in hours was nigh on ludicrous. Despite this, though, there was always that one question that followed any discussion on the topic.
But what if…?
Laesus had grown to hate the legend.
He hated the false hope that it gave the people. He hated the way they were more willing to entrust their faith in a lie than in each other. He hated the way they were more willing to believe an ancient mystical being could come to their aid than they were to believe he could.
Even if he was their saviour, he could never be their Saviour.
Even their lord had gone out to find this Saviour, or so he said. Did he honestly believe there was some bubble somewhere in the universe – a bubble that was on their world, by sheer chance – where he could find The Saviour and awaken him? Laesus doubted this, but if anyone knew where he’d gone instead, they didn’t speak of it. Would he have just fled, and left them to fend for themselves? Again, Laesus doubted it.
But why was he so insistent on giving people such false hope?
Laesus was drawn from his thoughts as he spotted a small golden twinkle in the distance. For a moment, he wondered if it had just been a trick of the mind, but then he spotted a second, and a third. The telltale golden glimmer was the creatures’ eyes; the one part of them that wasn’t completely black. The deep, burning shade was all too familiar to him by now, and the citadel’s army had long learnt what even one sparkle meant.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Laesus turned and bellowed to the nearest horn-bearer.
“To arms!”
The city’s gates were flung open, and the army, freshly roused from what little sleep they’d had, strode out. Marching had long been rendered a pointless formality, as had vast ranked formations. The creatures apparently hadn’t studied the rules of traditional combat – they fought as skirmishers; as a fearless swelling tide of bodies forever ebbing and flowing, overlapping and engulfing, and ranks were quickly outflanked and crushed. The army instead now fought in five-man pockets, negating the advantage of the creatures’ fluid assault while still maintaining tactical strength. Unlike the mindless onslaught of the black beings, the pockets fought effectively; at least one healer, one long-range fighter and two combat warriors would be in each pocket, with a spellcaster, swordsman or a second ranged fighter making the fifth member. Sometimes, the spellcaster would be offensive, while others provided supporting or protective magic, according to the other fighters’ preferences. The pockets fought well together, watching each other’s backs and effectively dealing with the enemy.
Despite this, they could still be overrun. It never ceased to amaze – and infuriate – Laesus that such stupid beings could prove so effective.
There was, at least, no need for rousing speeches or tactical planning. Every soldier knew what was required of them by now, and knew what to expect – even those wet behind the ears recruits had watched some battles from the ramparts while armed with bows, to save them being thrust into the fray blindly. And when every soldier knew that the lives of their friends and loved ones, as well as their own lives, depended on keeping the creatures at bay until a solution could be found, they needed no further inspiration.
‘To arms’ was all Laesus ever needed to declare. After that, each pocket’s tactics were what mattered.
Laesus’ own pocket of troops consisted of himself, three old friends and one newer member, who’d joined them after another friend had been dragged down four battles ago. They had more battle experience between them than he cared to count, and often took on the larger monsters that appeared – Daedra and the occasional Garguan – leaving the smaller bread-and-butter monsters to the newer troops.
This time, though, it looked like that wasn’t going to be an issue. A cursory glance across their foes revealed that this time, they consisted almost solely of Tendril – the name the smallest enemies had been given – and Termagaunt, the name given to the creatures the next size up. The monsters never seemed to have a standard form – some were dog-like, some were doll-like, while others were reminiscent of serpents, to name but a few – but their sizes were almost always constant. Tendril were usually a little below chest height, head to toe or tail, while Termagaunt were usually a few inches shorter than the average man. Daedra were often two foot higher than Laesus, while Garguan – as the name implied – were enormous, easily standing fifteen feet tall. There was one final class, Desideratum, but the new recruits were never told of them, for fear that they should choose an alternate career path.
“Do they just want to play, this time?”
Laesus was pulled from his thoughts by friend’s wry remark. Merith had joined the army the same day as Laesus, and the two had immediately forged close ties. Were he to consider it, Laesus would probably consider Merith his closest friend and confidant, but such terms were bandied about far too easily. If Sierra was Laesus’ sister, then Merith was his brother, in every sense of the word.
“More likely that they’ve cottoned on that we need sleep much more than they do,” was the general’s answer. “This raid isn’t intended to inflict heavy damage on us; these things are just sword-fodder. They just want to stop us resting properly for their next major assault.”
“That’s a lot of fodder out there, however you want to look at it.”
The other four members of the pocket regarded their newer team mate with a collective look that bordered on amusement. “Is that excitement, or apprehension?”
Delir shrugged. “Both, I guess. Good training day, but I wonder if the less experienced guys will be over-confident. By my reckoning, we’re outnumbered three to one out there – not that that matters a jot to me.”
“Seems ideal, really,” Merith countered with a grin.
At this, Delir shrugged again, though a small smile was on his face too. He was the group’s marksman, and had a specially-built crossbow that could carry and fire up to three bolts at once. Laesus had initially regarded the weapon with suspicion, wondering if it was more impressive to look at than it was in battle, but Delir had long proven that he could use it effectively.
The two other members of Laesus’ pocket were a cleric by the name of Rhisa and a young mage called Elreth, named after the great sorcerer of legend and doing her best to live up to the title. Her prowess in battle was commendable, especially given her tender years (seventeen just two moon cycles ago, if the scholars were still tracking the days accurately), and Laesus in particular was glad to have her fire magic supporting his and Merith’s swords.
“Sir!”
A call from the ramparts drew Laesus’ attention, and he turned to wave at the Watcher, indicating he was listening.
“The creatures have begun advancing! No sign of anything bigger than a Termagaunt; approximately seventy-five percent Tendril out there!”
Laesus nodded once and unsheathed his sword. All across the battle front, similar ‘shink’ sounds of blades being pulled from scabbards emanated, and soft murmurs filled the air as clerics and chaplains began to cast protective magic on their team members. A faint blue glow briefly entered Laesus’ vision as Rhisa cast a protective ward on him, before everything fell silent again.
In the distance, the insect-like chittering of the creatures began to draw louder.
“ONWARD!”
Laesus could rarely remember the battles afterwards.
Yes, he recalled faint snatches here and there. Occasionally, some days later, he might be able to piece together a large portion of the fight. But, whether it was because of adrenaline or because his mind didn’t want to immediately recall the horrors, he could never remember what had befallen him immediately prior to his return to the citadel.
Leading his army from the front, Laesus was the first to clash with the inky black tide swarming toward them. He could smell the creatures long before he could reach them; their rank odour akin to oozing pus and rotting flesh carrying great distances even on the slightest of breezes, eddying about and enveloping him, seemingly following wherever he went. The stench had been nauseating, almost overpowering, the first time he’d encountered it, and even after such frequent exposure, he felt his stomach clench. He was made of stronger stuff than that, though, he reminded himself.
He was to be his people’s saviour.
His blade flashed out in a single swipe as one of the Tendril – this one a strange creature of humanoid shape but with an ant-like head – leapt forward ahead of the other demons. The keen weapon easily cleaved the creature in two, sending a spray of acid-like blood over Laesus’ armour and releasing that disgusting odour even more strongly. A small gobbet splashed onto his face, burning at the surface of his skin, but he didn’t even have time to flinch before the next creatures were attacking. An eel-like Termagaunt burst into flames before his eyes, shrieking in agony as Elreth’s magical fire scorched its skin away, and two more Tendril fell to the floor as Delir loosed off his crossbow. Already, the creatures had swarmed round behind them, and it was only thanks to some quick sword work by Merith that Rhisa wasn’t cut in half by a scythe-like arm on another Termagaunt.
A crossbow bolt whistled by behind Laesus’ head as Delir picked off another Tendril leaping to attack.
Stupid, but effective.
This time, though, one feature of the battle stood out clearly in the fore of his mind, replaying over and over and over again. As he paced up and down a lonely corridor in the citadel’s infirmary, anxiously awaiting any news that should come to him, he tried fruitlessly to remove that scene from his thoughts, that scene that repeated itself endlessly.
He knew he couldn’t have helped; that he had responsibilities to his team first and foremost. He knew it was a risk the psychics took. When they scouted, transmitting what they saw back into the castle to the other psychics, to gather more information on the creatures, their reactions were slowed as they split their concentration. They travelled with pockets of soldiers for safety, but if that pocket began to get overrun, they wouldn’t be able to defend themselves.
“SIERRA!”
Sometimes, the psychics would realise in time to break their connection and run, at least to the safety of another pocket. Sometimes, though, they misjudged the situation, and the creatures would catch them.
Laesus thrust his sword into another Tendril, making sure to pull it up as he drew it out in order to widen the wound. The creature had managed to claw at his arm before slumping to the ground, but he had too much adrenaline pumping through his body to notice the pain. The blue glow of a healing spell engulfed him as he spun to hack at another monstrosity, and it was just as the glow faded that he spotted something in the crowd of writhing bodies.
A Termagaunt in the form of a large, bloated ball with three trailing tentacles charged a pocket from the flank, knocking one swordsman to the side. As the second swordsman turned to defend his comrade, another Termagaunt – eel-like, this time – dived in through the opening he left, latching around the waist of one of the pocket members and biting at their neck. At the same time, a scythe cut a gash in her side, before that creature was beaten back by the first swordsman. The damage had been done, though, and the pocket member – a psychic – dropped to her knees. All this had taken place in barely half a second, and the psychic had disappeared from sight after that, but it had been long enough for Laesus to recognise their face.
His beautiful sister, one of the citadel’s most prominent psychics and his beloved friend, Sierra.
[cont'd]