Arcanis Fan Fiction

Shattered Armies

• Part 1: Old Friends (by Derrel Weaver)
• Part 2: Battle of Bloody Glade (by Derrel Weaver)
• Part 3: The Ashes of Ashvan (by Derrel Weaver & Henry Lopez)

A tall, powerfully built man paces in a small tent illuminated by a single slow burning candle. He finally stops his pacing at a small field desk scattered with maps and dispatches. The low illumination reflects off his exquisite full plate armor, making the flame etchings along the edges of the armor dance in the light. A map of Milandir reflects from the light in his gray orbs as he memorizes every minute detail of his upcoming march. His battle-calloused fingers traces over his line of incursion…and stops at Ashvan. Yes, Ashvan will be the first of many cities to be cleansed…but not the last. His master's orders were simple. Lead a small section of the Army of Nier in a pincer movement that converges on Ashvan from the rear. That way, no reinforcements can arrive from other portions of Milandir, and no one can escape. The master said he had something special in mind for the heretics of Ashvan. They will learn the righteous path.

Forcing the smile from his lips, he returns to studying the map. His fingers trace to their ultimate destination. Nothing can stop them. It is the will of Nier. Briefly he wonders how many former friends will die in this campaign…but he forces those thoughts from his head. If they are heretics, they deserve to die. Glancing one last time at the map, he turns and pulls his greatsword from the stand in the corner of the tent and straps it to his back. He then pulls his flaming-red cloak over the shoulders of his armor and fastens it in place with the dual fire opal clasps. The last addition is a brilliantly polished helm with the bright red plume marking him as a General in the Army of Nier. He settles it in place over his equally bright red hair, and takes a deep breath.

He lets the air out slowly and purposefully tips over the burning candle onto the maps and dispatches. The fire catches quickly, spreading from map to dispatch to table to tent. He stands transfixed watching the flames spread…imagining the same spread of the glory of Nier over all of Onara…he can almost smell the burning flesh, and hear the screams of the burning heretics. He finally turns and walks slowly from the fully engulfed tent, out to the assembled soldiers. The effect is very dramatic, his form a dark silhouette against the raging inferno behind him. Almost as inspiring as the appearance of his master…. Leonydes val'Virdan, the Sword of the Heavens.

As one, the thousands of assembled soldiers in his small contingent cheer their General, and the sound is deafening. The young val clears his throat and addresses his men.

"True believers! Tonight, we march on Ashvan, tomorrow, the world!" Again, his zealous soldiers erupt in cheers. Once they calm, he continues, "Let the unworthy of Onara beware. We will purge the heretics, the corrupt, and the weak. We will be the fire that tempers their souls until they are pure! Beware the cleansing flame of Nier, for HE is our leader, WE are his instrument, and our time is at hand!"

Amid the tumultuous cheers of his troops, General Attalus val'Virdan, hero of the Battle of Semar, turns and begins leading the Army of Nier to war...to Milandir.

The tall, broad shouldered val put his foot into the stirrup held by his squire. Arrayed so heavily in his gleaming full plate armor, he needed his squire's help to gain the saddle on his equally impressively armored heavy warhorse. Swinging into the saddle, the Knight of Milandir locked his feet into his armored stirrups and adjusted his sword to hang easily at his side. He then looked down to the youth who had been his charge for nearly 5 years. The boy was more than a squire to him now, he was family, a son in the truest sense of the word.

Smiling at the lad, with his kind old eyes, he said, "Rregtraad, give me my lance. Be quick, we don't want to keep the Nierites waiting."

The young ss'ressen boy from the Black Talon egg clutch moved off quickly, yet gracefully it the manner that could only mastered by the ss'ressen or the elorii. Returning with the silvery tipped lance, the young squire handed it up to his adopted father, and looked deeply into his mentor's gray eyes, his own orbs far wiser than they should have been for one so young as he. Countless words were exchanged in that moment, but they were never uttered, just…understood. Looking away to hide the tears swelling in his eyes, the knight pulled a sealed parchment from his haversack, and used the moment to dry his eyes out of sight of his young charge. When he looked back, the boy made no such attempt, and the tears left a wet trail down his scaly green face.

To his credit, he sobbed softly, and his voice never wavered. "Sir Barnatt, how may I serve you?"

"Take this letter. After I am gone for five minutes, open it and follow its instructions exactly. Do you understand?"

"I understand. But, a squire's place is with his knight on the field of battle. I wish to go with you."

The noble val smiled and mildly admonished his adopted son. "Your place is where I say it is. Do as I ask. You will live to fight another day."

Rregtraad's voice only cracked slightly as he asked, "and you?"

Barnatt val'Ossan's face hardened in resolution as he replied, "I will do my duty, as will you. For king and country!"

"For king and country!" Echoed the young ss'ressen snapping to attention.

With one final fond glance, the Knight turned his steed and rode away to join his unit. Alone, the young boy continued softly to himself, "and for you, father."

Waiting the five minutes seemed like an eternity, but Rregtraad did as he was asked. After the allotted time, he broke the seal to the parchment and began reading.

Dear Son,
I know this is difficult for you, but please do as I ask, or the sacrifices we make today will be in vain. I have packed you a kit. You will find all you need inside. The kit is under the hay in the third stable. Go to the hilltop near the glade and conceal yourself there. Watch the battle unfold and take a full report to Duke Victor as soon as you are able. Pay special attention to the numbers of enemy soldiers, siege engines, and cavalry. Trust your training, and it will get you through this. I only wish I could return to guide you down the path before you, but we both know, I will never see you again after today. Remember what you witness today in the glade. We are duty bound to protect Milandir, and we will make the ultimate sacrifice toward that goal today. We will buy Ashvan as much time as we are able, and we will purchase that time with our blood. Such is the role of a Knight Protector. One day, this path may lay open to you. Do not allow my death to sway your decision, for you must realize that I make this sacrifice willingly for love of my country and kin. If this becomes your path, as it has mine, choose wisely.
With Undying Love,
Barnatt.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rregtraad retrieved his pack, and began walking toward the hilltop…to watch his father die.

Reaching the glade where his force would meet the Army of Nier, Barnatt trotted into line with his fellow knights. Looking to his left and right, he was impressed with the speed at which these men were summoned. In two days, he had managed to gather one thousand knights to this action. Although it was not an easy task under any circumstance, the men of Milandir always heed the call when needed. And they were needed now…to buy Ashvan enough time to evacuate. His plan was simple and elegant. The knights would conceal themselves in a tree line at the edge of the glade. The glade would hide their numbers, and provide some protection from siege engines and archers. Once the Army of Nier was in position, his knights would charge in a single frontal assault forcing the Nierites to deploy into a defensive battle formation. They would meet them at the rain swollen-stream in the middle of the glade. Inside the stream, a val’Ossan priest had hidden a little surprise for the enemy. Then, whatever knights survived the initial charge would regroup and harass the enemy’s flanks slowing them and forcing them to deploy again, and again, until the knights were no more. Everyone understood the plan, yet they all remained…ready to defend their beloved homeland and make the ultimate sacrifice.

As Illiir’s brilliance began climbing into the morning sky, Sir Barnatt looked to the horizon, and saw his own doom approaching. By the thousands the Nierites marched toward his position. Wave after wave of invading destruction poured over the landscape. For the first time in his life, Barnatt was truly afraid. Not for himself, but for his country. The army that lay before him was more vast than any he had ever seen assembled. At least thirty thousand soldiers marched toward his position here, and another large force marched on Ashvan from a different direction. The knight swallowed hard when he thought of the two forces converging on Ashvan. Nothing could withstand that assault.

Glancing to his left, Barnatt looked up to the hill where his son should be by now. Though he could not see him, Barnatt was sure he was there, doing his duty as instructed. Looking back to his right, he measured the man next to him. What did he call himself again? Oh yes. Vasilli. Vasilli val’Holryn. Claimed to be a first cousin to Duke Victor. He had to admit that he originally doubted that claim, but now, watching the young val take his place in line, without a word of complaint, he doubted no more. The Altherian medal, Decora ob Virtis that hung from his neck spoke of his bravery. Surely he was of the same stock as the Duke. The young man did not look the part of a knight though; he was the only Milandisian in the formation who did not wear full plate armor. He wore the armor of Coryan, lorica segmentata. Shaking his head at the young val’s choice, he noted the way the Duke’s young cousin was holding his lance, and quietly corrected him.

“Hold your lance like this. Then lock your arm and tuck the back end under your arm when we charge.”

Vassilli took the advice with a nervous smile. “Thank you. I much prefer my Tralian hammer, or my longsword.” Then smiling no more, he added, “It has been an honor to serve with you.”

“And with you. Ready yourself. It will not be long now.”

On the other side of the field, Leonydes val’Virdan, Sword of the Heavens, surveyed the field before him. Turning to address his subordinates, he addressed them with a hard, rough voice, as if he hadn’t spoken in many years.

“They hide in the glade. They will charge and meet us at the stream. Beware the stream for there is treachery within. I will take care of that. Deploy you men as we discussed in preparation to receive a heavy cavalry charge. Proceed when ready. Let the cleansing begin here!”

Without a word, his commanders rushed back into position. The preparations were made in seconds, and the formations shifted with an uncanny fluidness that any military commander would be proud of. The Nierites formed into several ranks. The first rank consisted of sword bearing skirmishers, the second of heavy infantry with large shields, the third contained pike men, and the fourth was filled with archers. Once in their new formation, the Army of Nier resumed its march across the glade. The deployment had taken only ten minutes.

Vassilli val’Holryn swallowed hard watching the Nierites shift formations. They were so well organized. So disciplined. So quick. With a sigh, he realized that this battle would be over in seconds, not minutes. Still, he held his emotions in check. Briefly he wondered why Sir Barnatt kept looking back to the hilltop behind them. But those thoughts were soon forgotten, as Sir Barnatt began giving orders to his men.

“READY!”
At the command, all one thousand defenders of Milandir lifted their lances to the ready position.

“FORWARD-SLOW!”
As one the knights moved from the protection of the glade. Their single line formation moved slowly against the gathered hoard before them. The knights were resplendent. Their armor gleamed in Illiir’s rays, their lances were decorated with many ribbons and dolphin pendants. Many wore immaculate white sashes, and the bells hanging from their armored mounts tinkled in time with the prancing horses.

Across the field, the Nierites continued marching, their pace even and tempered. The fourth rank stopped on an unheard order.

“READY!”
The archers each readied an arrow.

“AIM!”
They raised their bows.

“FIRE!”
Every even archer launched his arrow.

Seeing the swarm of arrows heading towards his line, Sir Barnatt ordered the charge.
“CHARGE!”
As one, the horses lept forward as if Losknek himself was chasing them. The ground shook with the pounding of the horses’ hooves. The noise was deafening, a thundering gift from Hurrian to instill fear into their enemies. Their sudden change of speed allowed the charging knights to pass directly under the arrow volley…just as the Nierites expected, and the Nierites knew no fear.

“FIRE!”
Every odd archer launched his arrow. This time leading the enemy at their new speed.

Vassilli watched in horror as a new wave of arrows was launched so quickly behind the first, and in his heart knew that this was the end.

The arrows swarmed like angry hornets through the knights formation, shredding man and beast. The tinkling of bells and thunderous roar of hooves was replaced by ringing of steel arrowheads impacting armor and the screams of men and animals when the arrows found their mark. Yet, the knights held their charge, 400 strong, they formed back to center and continued charging headlong into the enemy line.

Vassilli’s leg was pierced completely through with an arrow and pinned to his horse. With every movement of the horse, the arrow moved and caused pain. Calling on the power of his blood, he forced the pain from his mind and concentrated on the task at hand. Grimacing, his eyes blazing, he looked to the enemy formation and picked his target. He now knew the face of the Nierite he would kill.

“FOR KING!” Shouted Sir Barnatt.
“FOR COUNTRY!” Answered Vassilli and the rest of the knights.

“SHIFT!”
Came the order from the Nierites waiting at the edge of the stream. With that simple order, the first rank shifted to the rear of the third. The second rank formed a shield wall, and the third moved forward presenting their pikes through the wall. And at their forefront, stood the Sword of the Heavens…waiting.

At the enemy shift, several curses sprang to his lips, but before he could utter any of them, Vassilli’s horse was already leaping the stream…directly into the waiting pikes. Sir Barnatt was also leaping the stream, his target…the Sword of the Heavens! Timed with the leaping knights, two gargantuan creatures made of water raised up from the stream and attacked.

Grinning, the Sword of the Heavens unleashed himself upon his enemies. Immersed in a pillar of flames, he struck down the water creatures and vaporized them into clouds of steam. Passing through the steam, Sir Barnatt tried to scream from the pain, but his lungs boiled inside his chest. Blood poured from his mouth over his charred, cracked, and melting lips. His sight was suddenly lost as his eyes sizzled in their sockets until they finally liquefied and ran down his now sagging face. His burning skin began to sag and run out the seams of his armor, and heat and pressure produced a duo of dull popping sounds in his head as his eardrums burst. Sir Barnatt hoped his son wouldn’t be able to see this end…but those thoughts were very brief…and his last.

Vassilli smiled as his lance found its mark and skewered a Nierite though his eye socket with a squishing pop. He smile was soon lost as his horse landed squarely on a Nierite pike. So great was the speed of his charge combined with the weight of his horse, that the pike pierced through the horse, through Vassilli’s armor and into his abdomen before snapping off. Pinned to his horse now in two places, Vassilli flailed helplessly as his mount rolled over him then fell partially into the stream. Vassilli was still struggling to stay conscious, free himself, and keep his head above water, when the Nierite spotted him and charged.

“DIE HERETIC!”
The Nierite brought his flaming greatsword down in a mighty overhead swing. Vasilli shrank under the water and shifted as much as he could allowing his dead mount to absorb most of the blow…but a searing pain in his leg told him that the Nierite had also found his flesh. His hand franticly searching underwater, Vasilli finally found the hilt to his sword, and struggled to free it.

Raising his head from the water to catch his breath, Vassilli spotted the Nierite reverse his sword, point down and raise it for the killing blow. Shifting again, Vassilli felt the pike shaft move inside him and nearly blacked out from the pain, but he managed to snap the arrow shaft pinning his leg, which allowed him to draw his sword. Just as the Nierite’s flaming greatsword began its plunge toward him, Vassilli swung his longsword from underwater in a parry that deflected the blade just enough to move it to the side…through Vassilli’s foot. Vassilli screamed in pain, his voice a gurgle as he still struggled to keep his head above water. As the Nierite strained to free his sword, Vassilli reversed the blade in his hand, and thrust upward between the plates of the Nierites armor, into his chest. With a gasp, the Nierite fell forward onto Vassilli and his mount…and the combined weight pushed them all into the fast moving stream.

Mortally wounded, the Nierite was determined to take Vasilli with him. Pushing down with all his might, the Nierite held Vasilli’s head under water. Vasilli could not free his sword, or reach his hammer, so his hands moved up and found the Nierites throat as the trio rolled together down stream. Pushing his fingers with all his might, his lungs burning from lack of air, Vasilli felt a satisfying snap as he crushed the Nierite’s throat…then Vasilli felt something snap inside his chest as well, he felt a brief but intense flash of pain…and then, he felt nothing. Nothing at all…and his vision faded…

The Battle of Bloody Glade, as it would later be known, was over in two minutes. From his hilltop position, Rregtraad watched as he was instructed. Never had he witnessed such a one-sided battle. Nor had he ever heard of one. But the image that would forever haunt him was the one of his adopted father…burning alive. Slowly, he lowered his spyglass and replaced it in his pack…and that is when he saw it. In the bottom of the pack, he saw the holy symbol of his father, for the god he called Yarris. Gently he reached into the bag and pulled it forth, the chain slowly snaking upward against the leather pack, and then swinging free. Reaching up with his left hand, Rregtraad violently jerked the chain holding the symbol of his own people, the fire dragon.

The chain broke, and he dropped it. Never again would he worship anything to do with fire. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Rregtraad placed his father's holy symbol around his neck and began marching. He would honor his father and fulfill his obligations, and one day, he would return the pain to the Nierites that they visited upon him today.

Several miles away, Rregtraad saw a flicker from something just off the trail. Moving quietly, and cautiously, he drew his shortsword and approached. It was a dead knight. He sighed. Another dead knight. Gently, he rolled the figure over, and jumped up startled. The knight had been killed by someone driving two wooden sticks into his eyes! Those Nierite butchers! They would pay for their...

Realization drew Rregtraad out of his fit of rage. This knight. Vonrad val’Holryn. He knew him. This is the knight his father sent to Ashvan to warn them…and now…it would be too late. Feeling utterly defeated, Rregtraad resumed his trek toward Duke Victor, and said a silent prayer to Yarris for Ashvan.

Willem Brecht inspected the hastily erected defenses of Ashvan, for the third time that morning. The newly turned earth filled the area with the scent of fresh loam. Usually, the smell would bring a smile to his grizzled face, but today it only filled him with dread. The odor reminded him more of a freshly dug grave, than a plowed field ready for planting.

As Knight-Protector of Ashvan, and leader of the relatively new Order of the Spear, he knew that the defenders of the small town were looking to him for strength and confidence. Every order, or word of encouragement he gave, however, rang false in his ears; he hoped no one else could sense his feeling of doom. He knew that Duke Victor could never muster his troops quickly enough to march here and meet the Canceri attack. Success, or failure, rested solely on the shoulders of these cantons, every other one a fresh face that had barely seen fifteen summers.

Looking out over earthen battlements, he stared into darkness. Beyond arched the largest invasion force Milandir had ever faced. Brecht let a nervous breath leak out his cracked lips. They didn't have the brute force necessary to stand against the flaming tide; courage and guile were the only coin he had to pay for the safety of Ashvan. He prayed to grim Hurrian that it would be enough.

While finishing preparations, Willem saw the old man walking toward the temple again. The feeble old man with waist-long white hair and an equally long white beard, knotted and matted into a uniform tangle, walked up the temple stairs. Bits and pieces of food could be seen trapped in the morass of hair. He wore simple threadbare-white robes the bottom hem of which was tattered and mud-stained from travel. His eyes were a sickly-looking mess of solid white beneath a bushy uni-brow of white. His face was dirty and wrinkled. His hands matched his face, and in his left hand, he carried a gnarled staff to guide his way. The only ornamentation adorning him was an ancient-looking holy symbol of Illiir.

He slowly walked up to the top of the marble stairs in front of the grand temple to Illiir, just as he had for the past twelve days. Turning to face the city, he began speaking in his high-pitched brogue.

"HEAR ME!
Ashes of Ashvan, flames and fire,
You must flee the danger, your situation dire,
Fear the judgment, for it is near,
Or loose everything you hold so dear!"

Several female citizens walking past the stairs paused to pay heed to the old man's words, concerned over what he was saying, especially since they had heard rumors of an approaching army. The ladies moved forward, intent on the blind old man's words when he continued.

"HEAR ME!
Shapely legs and healthy hips,
Ruby red her luscious lips,
Kiss her twice upon her head,
Grab her arm and head to bed!"

The attentive ladies blushed a deep crimson with this passage, and looked around to see if anyone was watching. One of the younger ladies wore a mischievous grin, and placed a Crown into the old man's hand.

"Have you entertained long?"

Deolpholis' head snapped around in her direction, almost as if he could see her.

"Eh?!? What the? LISTEN TO ME!" Continued Deolpholis, growing frustrated with his young charges.
"Time for wine, and time to dance,
Time to make love and have romance,
No need to argue nor to bicker,
I have a real long tongue and I like to…"

Screams from the edge of town ended Deolpholis' off color remark before it was finished. A low rumble accompanying the screams announced the arrival of the Army of Nier into Ashvan. The very ground trembled with their approach. Thundering hoof beats exploded out of the predawn light, as the Swords of Nier charged the first ranks of the Milandisian cantons.

Leonydes val'Virdan had decided to send a small cadre of horsemen out to test the defenses of the small town. Though he doubted that the townspeople could mount a serious challenge to his army, he knew better than to let overconfidence lead him to rash action.

Unfortunately, the Erdukeens that led the charge did not share his sense of caution. The men defending the perimeter of the town ran like frightened women when confronted by the first charge. They had barely seen the frothing mounts, when they deserted their posts and fled. Flush with success, the horsemen followed the panicked soldiers into their town, confident that their small Copper Tang unit would bring Ashvan to its knees, and present it to their divine leader as a trophy; the first jewel in his Imperator's crown.

But, the Erdukeens were unaccustomed to combat in tight and constricting streets, and quickly fell to several ambushes until they were forced to retreat. For the first time in the battle, a cheer went up from the embattled Milandisians.

Unfortunately for them, it would also be their last. With renewed caution, the horsemen regrouped. Their leader was properly chastised for his ineptness, and his ashes were used to anoint a new commander for the Tang. Thusly motivated, the Erdukeens swept in with a three-pronged attack. Using their bows, they harried the Milandisians and forced them to retreat. With a ferocity born of religious fervor, the Swords of Nier fell upon whatever canton skirmishers dared face them like a fiery storm.

By the time Illiir's Brilliant Eye reached its topmost perch in the sky, all the outer buildings were reduced to burnt husks, and the remaining Milandisians had retreated back into the Knight-Protector's fortress in the heart of the town. Dug in on all sides of the fortress, the barbarians from the Hinterlands gave way for the siege engines to maneuver into position.

It was now time for the Cancerese Nierites to prove their worth in the eyes of the Flaming Lord's chosen.

Night fell and still the inner walls held firm. Within the first few hours of their assault, the massive catapults and trebuchets had turned the outer walls of the fortress into gravel. A grand melee had then ensued in the courtyard, as the desperate defenders launched themselves against the invading Nierites.

The Order of the Spear, once two hundred strong, had been reduced to a mere score of battered and bloodied knights. They paid dearly for the time necessary for the noncombatants of Ashvan to retreat to the inner stronghold. Yet each and every knight fought and died without hesitation, grimly aware as they did so, that others would have a chance of survival.

Aperio hung bloated, and nearly alone in the sky. Viridis, the green moon of Arcanis, could not bear to witness the slaughter below and so turned her face away, giving dominance of the heavens to her pallid sister. Awash in the pale light, the Sword of the Heavens walked over the bodies of the dead littering the courtyard, like a vengeful shade stalking his prey.

Striding up to his Cancerese general, he impaled Eremis val'Virdan with his fiery eyes. "Why have we not yet taken the stronghold?"

Meeting his leader's gaze, General Eremis val'Virdan reported. "The inner gate appears to be reinforced by more than just steel, my lord. I have called for priests from my reserve units, for I believe the Milandisians have invoked a blessing from their patron deity, Hurrian."

"And what of the Flaming Priests which serve our Lord? Is the faith of the Cancerese Nierites so weak that they cannot overcome prayers to the Stormlord?"

"They are dead, my Lord. So great was their wish to gain favor in your eyes, that they pushed through the ranks to engage the enemy first. They died exulting our forces to greater heights of bravery, singing hymns to our Lord of Devastation."

"And yet this damnable town remains defiant. I cannot allow an enemy stronghold standing behind my lines, Eremis. I would think that even you could grasp such an elementary concept."

Taking a calming, deep breath, the Cancerese General continued his report. "I'm still gathering exact numbers, but our forces did not fare as well as hoped, my Lord. Your command that the fortress fall by nightfall required the expenditure of greater resources than originally planned for. However, if I can have until tomorrow morning to bring up fresh troops..."

"The resources expended were as I anticipated, Eremis. I never expect the same level of excellence from those Nierites grown fat and indolent living under Canceri's heretical theocracy than I do from those descended from the loins of my original followers. They have been tested, purified, and tempered in the crucible. Consider this crusade your Nierites' crucible. We shall see if any remain alive to see a renewed Imperium, under the true teachings of the Pantheon, not this fractured heresy."

Studying the inner gates of the keep before him, the Sword of the Heavens continued. "Your troop's incompetence has forced me to intercede personally if I am to remain on my time table."

Eremis watched as the Sword's gauntleted fingers sought purchase within the seam of the gates. Lightening lashed out, but was met by the flaring flames that protected and surrounded Leonydes. It is said that in combat, the Sword of the Heavens cannot be defeated. As the personification of Nier upon the mortal plane, he is unstoppable and relentless; not so much a man as a force of nature.

Eremis knew the outcome was never in question, only how much time the Milandisians had left. He hoped that they could finish their final prayers to Hurrian before the fury of the Flame Lord was upon them. With a final wracked groan that sounded like the cry of the Thunderer himself, the metal twisted and the wood cracked finally snapping in his massive fists. Before the gates hit the stone floor, the Sword was upon the remaining knights.

In one gliding motion, Leonydes drew his flaming greatsword and met the first two that raged towards him. Their blood boiled and flesh burned as his blade sliced through their armor as if it were paper.

From behind them, three knights let loose with spears. The first two arced directly towards his chest, but ignited in the ever-present pillar of flames that surrounded him and fell, charred before his feet. The third he caught with his left hand and drove it into the chest of the knight that launched it at him. Eremis could do nothing more than stand at the opening, entranced by the swath of incandescent death that the Sword was carving through the final defenders.

A dozen knights, arguably the finest that Milandir had ever produced, formed a protective wall between Leonydes and the huddled women and children of Ashvan. Yet, Eremis noted with curiosity that the Sword of the Heavens, even as he parried, sundered and butchered the knights arrayed before him, purposely avoided engaging the eldest knight.

This man, clad in dented armor and bloodied tabard, wielded a magnificent spear that radiated a holy light as bright as Illiir's eye. Could the Sword fear this weapon? Could this be his weakness? Eremis felt himself momentarily hoping that this indestructible creature could indeed be denied; then shook himself mentally. This was his divine lord's avatar. To wish his defeat was to blaspheme against Nier himself. Was his faith as weak as the Sword had so often said?

In the few moments it took for Eremis to wrestle with his conscience, the Sword had cleaved the last young knight from stem to stern; her blood sizzling on his blade before evaporating like the defenses of Ashvan. Finally, only the Milandisian commander was left, bloodied and bruised but not seriously hurt, clutching his spear and standing at the ready. The Sword paused, breathing easy, and wiped his gore-streaked hands on the tabard of the female knight he had just killed. With a predatory smile, he took the measure of the man before him.

"Do you know why I left you for last?"

Though his trembling legs belied his brave front, the elderly knight cleared his throat and looked his death squarely. "What kind of man are you? Are you even human?"

Smiling, the Sword sheathed his greatsword. "What's your name?"

"My name is Willem Brecht."

"Willem Brecht, you could not hope to understand what I am. You have fallen so far from the enlightenment of the Pantheon, that your every breath is a blasphemy. "Do you know why I saved you for last? Why I killed all your knights first?"

The Sword kept smiling, dropped his arms to his sides, and advanced on the armed Brecht, unconcerned. "I killed them first because you hold a holy relic of glorious Illiir in your hands and your very touch must cause Him no end of disgust. I killed them first because I wanted you to understand that even with a divine weapon, you could not save them. Your faith was not strong enough. I want you to go to gentle Beltine's cauldron with the full knowledge that you were not worthy of His trust."

Trembling with rage, Willem Brecht launched himself at his tormentor, the holy Spear of the Lohgin before him. With a contemptuous sneer, Leonydes parried and disarmed the old man. With mere twist of his wrist, he drove the spear through Brecht's chest and then charged the far wall, pinning him like an insect, two feet above the floor. Feet dangling, Willem Brecht's eyes began to glaze over.

Gently slapping his face, Leonydes whispered into his ear. "No, not yet. Stay with me you old fool. Learn what happens to your charges before you go off to the Netherworld."

Turning to Eremis, Leonydes snapped his orders. "Secure the town. Leave a small garrison behind to assure our supply lines remain uninterrupted." Shaking the quickly fading Brecht to assure his attention, the Sword continued, gesturing towards the women and children of Ashvan. "As for these wretches, Nier demands sacrifices for our victories. Make sure the bond fires are white hot before throwing them in."

A feeling of disbelief washed over Eremis. "My lord, I beg you to reconsider. Our Lord craves warriors as sacrifices, not these old women and children. Nier smiles upon us when we vanquish an enemy worthy of our notice."

By now, dozens of Nierite warriors, both Cancerese and Erdukeen, had entered the inner fortress, anxious to see the mayhem wrought by the Sword. Turning to them, Eremis looked into each Nierites eyes, hoping to see some sign of consent or at least consideration. "We are warriors, my lords, not butchers."

His face expressionless, Leonydes nodded as if in agreement. "Perhaps you are right, General. A warrior is a worthy sacrifice to Nier. These Milandisians were hardly that."

At this a nervous laugh filled the chamber. Eremis did not share in this laughter, for he saw in his lord's eyes where this sudden change of mind was going.

Standing so close their chests almost touched, the Sword spoke directly to Eremis but loud enough for all to hear. "You shall take their place, Eremis val'Virdan. But not here, in this piss-hole of a town. You shall be taken back to Nishanpur. I pray you serve Him better in death than you have served me in life."

Turning to his trusted Erdukeen horsemen, the Sword spoke out orders like a stake being driven through a heart. "Strip him of rank, and chain him. Take a century of men to see that he arrives in Nishanpur, and that my decree is carried out. In ten days, Eremis is to be impaled, in the Bone Market, as a symbol and sacrifice, for all to see. The rest of you, prepare to march."

"The First City awaits my return, and all of Onara shall either rejoice my ascending the Throne of Man with cheers willingly, or ripped from their throats by Nier's purifying flames."

Hearing these words, Deolpholis shook his head sadly, still standing on the stairs of the temple of Illiir, the only structure left intact in Ashvan. Slowly, he turned to enter the temple but tripped and fell on the last stair, his head slamming hard into the marble surface. He lay there wondering why no one ever listened to him. Blood flowed from his head, and tears streamed from his blind eyes. His frail body was wracked with spasms as he sobbed for his many failures. Another failure in a perpetual line of failures.

He wondered when Illiir would forgive him; he wondered when his curse would end. Thinking of the futility of his existence, Deolpholis just lay on the stairs, in the slowly growing pool of his own blood...

The figure lay on the ground in a pool of its own blood. Exhaustion had long ago claimed the young ss'ressen's sense of balance and he now had a very hard time managing the rocky trail. Slowly, he pulled himself off the ground. His limbs were weary from long hours of running, and his legs now felt like rubber, barely able to support his weight. Through sheer force of will Rregtraad continued stumbling down the road toward his destination. His bare feet were broken and bloody, as was his tail from dragging behind him. But the pain was most intense in his side where a Nierite cavalry scout had pierced him with a sword.

Rregtraad managed to escape the scout party, but the wound remained untended, and blood flowed freely down his side. Through his haze of pain, Rregtraad realized that he could not afford to stop and tend his wound. Time was against him, and his beloved nation. He simply had to get his message to the Duke. It was his duty, and he would never let his father down.

They armored riders almost upon him before he realized his peril. The dull thumping in his head masked the approaching beat of the horse's hooves. Adrenaline suddenly surged through his young body, and he reflexively turned and threw his dagger in one motion at the lead armored figure. He could not clearly see him in the darkness, but the loud ring of metal against metal told him his knife found armor instead of flesh.

Frantically Rregtraad tried to focus his fatigued mind to think, to act, to run. If he could only make it off the trail, he could try to loose the cavalry in the river. Focused on his goal, the young ss'ressen turned to run, but his limbs betrayed him. His feet became tangled in his rush to flee, and he fell hard against the rocky trail. Undaunted, the young squire began dragging himself toward the edge of the trail, crawling on split hands and knees, hoping to reach the edge in time. Hoping he could roll down the slope, into the river and escape.

But the riders approached quickly, and the sudden appearance of armored feet barring his path extinguished his tiny sliver of hope. Smiling, blood oozing from his broken lips onto his sharp teeth, Rregtraad vowed silently to not go down without a fight. He brought one arm back to draw his sword and chop at the figure's legs, but one of the boots stomped down, hard onto his sword arm.

The boot produced a loud snapping sound as it shattered his bone, a sharp fragment pierced the skin, and Rregtraad screamed in pain. Focusing on the bloody white fragment protruding from his arm, Rregtraad realized he had failed. All hope was lost.

"I am sorry father," was all he could manage to say before the pain finally claimed him and sent him spiraling into the darkness...

In the darkness, a lone figure lay on the bed, tossing and thrashing. In his sleep, he was dreaming, and his dreams were not pleasant. Several ghostly figures circled him in his dreams, whispering to him in hollow voices.

"You have failed."
"We are damned forever."
"You must save us."
"Bring honor back into our house, or we will never be at rest."
"Paradise will never be ours."

The many voices greatly disturbed the warrior, but none of them more so than the last, the voice of his father.

"You must unite our lands to free us. Help us, my son!"

A loud crash of thunder awoke the High General, his powerful chest heaving, his body drenched with perspiration. The door to his private quarters burst open revealing a shadowy figure silhouetted by the lamps in the hallway, and in the flickering illumination provided by the thunderstorm outside, the general seemed to move with uncanny speed. Before the door was fully open, he had already drawn his sword from its stand near the bed and rolled off the bed onto his feet in a combat stance, his sword point poised for a killing blow at the intruder.

When the lightning flared again, it illuminated the fearful face of the General's aide, Pernicus. The general halted the sword stroke, and instantly relaxed, although he still held his sword at the ready.

Looking to the aide he asked, "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

The young legionnaire, regaining his composure, replied, "You have urgent dispatches my lord, several in fact."

General Menesis val'Tensen accepted the offered dispatches and carefully leaned his sword against his desk. While Pernicus began lighting the lamps in the room, the General deftly sorted the dispatches based on their origins and seals. After sorting them, he inspected the seals for signs of tampering.

Satisfied, he began unsealing and reading them one at a time. Years of faithful service allowed Pernicus an insight into the General's moods. Watching the General, Pernicus could see his muscles tense and relax, much like a cat readying itself to pounce. The scar on the General's face began to twitch as emotions raged war within the General. The most unsettling item however, was the General's eyes.

Eyes that could show such compassion and joy, suddenly went cold…dark…hard…dead. Watching the change in the General, Pernicus could not suppress a shudder. The lifeless eyes lifted from the final dispatch and looked through the aide.

In a voice that matched his eyes, the General said, "Centurion!"

A Centurion guarding the hallway made his way into the room and saluted. "Sir!"

"Summon my council. Send word that all leaves are cancelled and all troops are to be ready to march within the hour. It is time to settle some old debts."

"Yes sir!" With that the Centurion saluted once more, turned on his heel and left the room to do his General's bidding.

Pernicus had already begun to lie out the General's armor and battle regalia, when he noticed his lord had silently moved to the window to watch the storm.

"Is everything all right sir?"

"No, Pernicus, no things are not all right. Right is relative." was the General's enigmatic reply. "When the my council arrives, direct them to the library. I will meet them there."

The General's voice trailed off in thought, and his aide silently padded from the room to make the proper arrangements, thankful that the General did not look at him again with those dead eyes.

Looking out into the storm, the lightning was becoming more intense, flickering, and flashing in a truly magnificent show. For a brief moment, Menesis believed that one of the bolts resembled an outstretched hand, as if beckoning the Coryani val'Tensen back to their ancestral homeland of Morotavia...

The lighting flashing overhead was getting worse by the minute. The young val thought for a moment that one of the bolts resembled a large hand, but he quickly dismissed the notion, deducing that his lack of sleep was finally catching up to him. He rode at the lead of two other equally exhausted men. Every flash of lightning revealed a bit more of the trio of riders, riding at breakneck speed through the storm.

The first man was a huge, muscular young man, with silvery-blonde hair matted down from the constantly blowing rain. His lorica segmentata and the brands on his arm denoted his service to the Empire, and the Legion of the Defiant Shield. He looked very comfortable in the saddle and wore a dopey grin, enjoying the ride in the storm. Lying across his saddle, snoring loudly was an impressive looking black dog with brown markings. The dog wore spiked leather barding made from the hide of a hellhound, and a small silver nametag with the name Calsestus dangled from his spiked collar.

The second figure also wore the armor and brands of the empire and legions. His brand was the Legion of the Silent Hunter. Unlike the lead rider, this one seemed to be almost as one with the darkness, very much a contrast. He wore several bladed weapons and two Altherian medals dangled from chains from around his neck. Though he was a large, powerful looking man, he looked truly miserable, whether from riding on the horse or riding in the rain...or both.

The third figure also looked miserable on the horse in the rain, but he also looked…unhealthy. His skin was cracked and blue gray in color. The legion marks to the Legion of Broken Shadow were branded and scarred badly on his arms, almost as if they were applied several times to make them show up. He wore no armor, but a wicked looking spiked chain hung easily around his shoulders. An intricate looking belt tightened his cloak and an Altherian medallion also swung from his neck, similar, but not the same as the two worn by his companion.

Every once in a while, a small furry figure would peek out from beneath the figure's cloak with words of encouragement, such as, "Hey dummy! Knock it off! I'm trying to sleep!" Or, "Do you think you can find anymore holes in this road?" And finally, "Hey, what was wrong with the tavern? This sucks!"

The riders had been riding for days, hell-bent for a destination known only to the lead rider. Eventually though, all of them succumbed to fatigue and fell asleep, even the rat.

And so the three (and a half) rode into the night, into the storm, towards their destiny...snoring...

The large figure snored contentedly in his bed, dreaming of wine, women, wealth, and power. But something startled the plump Archprelate from his pleasant dreams. Blinking in the darkness, he felt something…something wrong…something dangerous. Calling a protective spell to mind, the man started to recite the ritual, but the darkness moved and a vise-like hand clamped down over the Archprelate's mouth while a slender, impossibly sharp blade pressed painfully against his exposed throat.

"Calm down fat man," a raspy voice called from the darkness. "I have a message for you."

The figure leaned down and whispered into Sabinus val'Assante's ear…and Sabinus relaxed and listened. When the menacing figure finished giving his instructions, he deposited a large, heavy pouch on the Archprelate's impressive stomach, and then the figure vanished into the shadow like a ghostly dream.

After waiting several seconds to be sure the figure had truly left, the Archprelate recited a simple incantation to summon light into the room. Once illuminated, Sabinus made several attempts before finally succeeding in rolling his immense girth from the bed, and toward his desk.

After plopping into his cushioned chair, the Archprelate paused to catch his breath, and briefly wondered if he had just dreamed the whole incident. The trickle of blood from his neck convinced him of the reality of the message, and he quickly began scrawling notes of his own while he absent-mindedly dabbed at the blood around his neck...

The figure lifted his armored gauntlet to his neck, and it came away wet and red with blood.

"Strange. Should I bleed in paradise?"

He tried to shake the fogginess from his head, but he quickly realized that the fog, and the pain he felt were real. Moving his head to look around, Vassilli val'Holryn surveyed his situation. Somehow, he had been washed downstream and survived his encounter with the Nierites.

Somehow, he had been spared. But how and why? The dull blue glowing of his magical healing ring answered his question, and he said a silent prayer of thanks for his good luck at finding such a treasure.

Sitting up in the edge of the stream caused him so much pain, he nearly passed out. The spear shaft was still inside his chest, and the numerous cuts and scars on his armor told him that his trip down the river had not been an easy one. The low fog on the ground smelled heavily of smoke and cut his view of anything nearby.

The only illumination was the pale glow of Aperio. But one thing was clear. Vassilli knew his duty. He was alive, so he must carry news of the invasion to his cousin.

Tentatively feeling around with his arm, Vassilli located the corpse of his horse. His fluttering fingers revealed that the horse still carried his weapons and equipment. Saying another silent prayer of thanks to the gods, Vassilli found and drank a healing elixir.

Feeling a little better, he tried to gain his bearings. Looking to the left, he saw what he feared. A dull red glow illuminated the horizon in the direction of Ashvan.

Drinking another healing elixir, Vassilli felt well enough to gather the rest of his belongings. Standing feebly on his feet, he steeled himself and pulled the arrow shaft from his leg, then the spear shaft from his chest. His angry, wounded cry roared through the woods like a summoned beast, but his anger gave him strength, and his desire for revenge fueled his spirit. Drinking the last of his healing elixirs, Vassilli began walking toward the dull red glow of Ashvan, vowing to make the bastards pay...

The dull red illumination in the room was provided by small red lights emanating from the skulls of hundreds of Elorii. The skulls formed an immense and elaborate bone throne in King Kahss' palatial throne room in Sseth.

Seated on the throne, the Dark Naga King absent-mindedly toyed with his scepter of office while looking into the scrying pool. The scepter was decorated with many thousand Elorii fingernails, each pulled, slowly and painfully from a living Elorii. The King smiled as his fingers ran over the nails. Each fingernail held a pleasant memory for the King. He fondly recalled personally pulling several of the nails from his helpless, screaming victims. Good times.

Forcing himself to leave the fondly remembered past for the moment, King Kahss focused on the mirror. Looking to his son, he said, "Isss everything in plassse?"

The King's youngest son, Ss'rogg leaned over the mirror and summoned an image within it. "Yessss father. Sssseee for yourssself."

The king watched the image…and smiled, his hand moving to stroke the side of one of the Elorii skulls decorating his throne...

The young Ardakene Elorii druid's cheek twitched involuntarily, and for a moment, he felt as if someone just walked over his grave. The thought gave him a shudder, and then the twitching stopped. For some reason, his thoughts were drawn back to the Battle of Semar, where he and several other Elorii were tasked to kill one of the traitorous Elorii who stayed behind to serve the vile Ssethregoran Empire.

He smiled with the knowledge that his group succeeded where twelve others had failed. But now, Nish'Allien Terestai found himself alone, or nearly alone on the battlefield. He had watched the Battle of Bloody Glade with dispassionate interest.

The humans from Milandir were brave, but foolish. Sitting in his treetop perch, he had watched the slaughter. Then the Nierites, the blasphemers, had set fire to the bodies...and the glade. Nish'Allien had done all he could to prevent the spread of the fire, and had actually succeeded in saving part of the wooded glade. The smoke combined with the moisture and clung low to the ground in a diaphanous fog.

The young druid was nearly invisible in the tree due to his Enhanced Seremasi Cloak. From his hidden perch, he had been alternating between studying a rare tree flower, and watching the figure in black move among the human corpses.

Curious, the Elorii just sat and watched…until he saw the figure begin inserting small black gems into the mouths of the fallen humans. He knew what this ritual was, and it was a blaspheme against Belisarda. He would not allow it.

Slipping down from his perch, the druid approached the chanting newcomer with the silence and grace of a hunting cat. Unfortunately, his pet dire weasel was not as stealthy. The cleric of Neroth spun around at the sound, his spell interrupted. Hate filled his eyes at the sight of the Elorii druid and his animal companion.

Nish'Allien was a bit surprised to be discovered by the enemy, but his course was set. Drawing his Dwarven-made scimitar, he rushed the evil cleric while calling on his animal friend for help. The cleric never moved. A simple word of power blasted Nish'Allien and his animal friend to the ground. They lay there, paralyzed while the menacing priest of Neroth approached with the measured steps of death.

In a calm, sinister voice, the cleric addressed him. "Stupid Elorii. Neroth rules us all, life is temporary, death is eternal…as you shall soon see."

The Nerothian produced a pitch-black bladed dagger from his side and leaned down over his prey. "Living specimens produce more resilient spawn. Have I thanked you for your donation to my lord's cause?" His smile was not a pleasant one. "No matter, I will have ages to do so."

The Nerothian began dragging the dagger around the tip of the Elorii's eye while reciting a magical ritual. The pattern of the dagger was menacing but hypnotic at the same time. Frantically Nish'Allien tried to move his limbs, to think of a way out of his situation, but he found his thoughts turning to darker subjects. If he became an undead, would his soul trapped here, or could it return to the Orumar? His thoughts were brought short however, as the hypnotic movement of the dagger stopped just above his left eye.

Then slowly...ever so slowly...the dagger eased painfully into the eye socket and plucked forth the orb with a sucking-popping sound. Nish'Allien felt the pain, but the paralyzation kept him from even the simple release of screaming. The dagger began to softly glow after tasting blood the Elorii's blood, and Nish'Allien could feel the evil energies begin to swirl within him as the spell began to take effect.

The Nerothian inserted the Elorii's eye into his mouth and began chewing, slowly, savoring the ritual, and the horror reflected in the remaining orb of his victim.

"And now, to complete the ritual…" He said, licking his lips.

The young druid felt the blade drag from his eye socket down to his throat, and knew there was nothing to stop him. Nothing to spare his life. Looking up into the wild eyes of the madman reflected in the pale glow, Nish'Allien knew this was the end...

Looking into the wild eyes of his Emperor reflected in the pale glow of the candlelight, the imperial page began having second thoughts about his choice. He had already bribed the Emperor's guards into letting him interrupt the Emperor from his…slumber, after he had left orders to remain undisturbed. But the page knew this information was truly important, and hoped he would be rewarded for his ingenuity and good judgment.

Calsestus val'Assante' peered out into the hallway from his private chambers. His bare chest gleamed with sweat and his hair was a tussled mess. Long, slightly swollen red lines crisscrossed his bare chest, along with what were obviously fresh teeth marks, and he was breathing heavily.

"Why have you disturbed me? Have the Gods arrived for dinner?" His voice struck the page like an executioners axe.

"Umm…forgive me highness. These dispatches just arrived from Milandir. I believe they are too important to wait."

"YOU believe?!? YOU...DARE to dictate to ME what is important?"

"Of course not highness…um…I just thought…um…that.."

"SHUT-UP!"

Calsestus callously snatched the dispatches from the page, and began to leaf through them. Instantly he slowed and began to read them carefully. With his eyes still on the dispatches, he snapped his fingers with his left hand. "Bring me parchment, ink, and wax. NOW!"

The page scurried off and returned quickly with the requested items while Calsestus finished reading the dispatches. Still standing in the doorway, the Emperor used the page as a desk and hastily scrawled out several pages of parchment.

While writing one of the shorter dispatches, a tanned feminine arm with a delicate hand and long red fingernails slowly stroked across his chest from behind. Rose-colored lips appeared from the shadow at the Emperor's ear and whispered conspiratorial words before suckling his earlobe and retreating back into the darkness.

Calsestus smiled at the words, and began writing another lengthy dispatch. Once finished he carefully sealed each one with his personal seal. Turning the page around to face him, the Emperor addressed him.

"You have done well. Take these dispatches to my assistant. He will know what to do from there. You will be rewarded for your service. Go!"

The young page sprinted off down the hallway dreaming of favors from the Emperor. However, as soon as he rounded the corner, the Emperor looked to one of his guards pointedly.

"Follow him."

After the lead guard had left, he turned to the second, indicating the first. "Follow him, arrest him...and his entire family. Seize all their wealth and properties in the name of the Empire. Sell their worthless hides to the arena merchants for use in the games. You may sell the women to the temple of Larissa if any are worthy. When I say I am not to be disturbed, I mean I am not to be disturbed."

The second swallowed nervously and was thankful the Emperor did not wait for a reply. Another feminine arm, this time with pale skin and pink fingernails slipped up over the Emperor's shoulder and began to rub across his chest.

"Mmm. Such tension and anger… Care to use it creatively?"

Several giggles from different sources in the darkness accompanied the remark, and the Emperor turned back into the room and slammed the door...

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