To Harald, the cheerful chirping of the birds and the insistent crow of the rooster were merely the sounds of a clock he wasn’t ready to abide by. He stirred under the heavy, coarse wool sheets, seeking one last pocket of warmth. When the sun finally pierced the window pane, he gave up. He let out a jaw-cracking yawn and stretched until his spine popped, bracing himself for the weight of the day.
Beside him, Velea remained a soft, rhythmic mound under the blankets. He moved with a practiced, silent grace, sliding out of bed so as not to break the spell of her sleep. He wanted her to stay in those "peaceful dreams" just a few minutes longer. The North was a world away; here, at least, the air still smelled of damp earth and lavender instead of smoke.
He pulled his linen shirt over his head, it was thin and frayed at the cuffs, and layered it with his heavy wool tunic. After tugging on his trousers and lacing his mud-caked leather shoes, he stepped to the ceramic basin. The water was bone-chillingly cold, snapping his mind into focus. As he patted his face dry, he heard the bedframe creak. Velea was awake, her hair a messy halo in the morning light, her eyes heavy with the grogginess that always accompanied the first tolling of the chapel bells.
Once the children had been shaken from their pallets, the family gathered at the small alcove in the corner of the hovel. The wooden icon of Arno, Lord of Light, stared back at them with unblinking sun-disk eyes.
"For the bounty we hold," Harald murmured, his voice husky.
They placed a small strip of dried salt-pork and a handful of grain onto the offering bowl. To a lord, it was nothing; to Harald, it was a meal he wouldn’t eat later. But as the smoke rose, thin and blue, he felt a sense of armor settling over his soul. As long as the Sun God looked south, they were safe.
"And for the favor he shows," the children chimed in unison.
The breakfast table was a rare triumph. Velea had outdone herself. Usually, it was pottage so thin you could see the bottom of the bowl and a crust of rye bread hard enough to chip a tooth. Today, the smell of sharp, pungent onions wafted from the steam.
Harald took a slow, deliberate spoonful. The flavor exploded on his tongue, sweet, sharp, and earthy. "Velea... are these onions?"
"They are," she said, watching him with a playful glimmer in her eye as she sliced a wedge of yellow cheese.
Harald’s spoon paused mid-air. "And the cheese? Velea, we can’t afford the Tithe, let alone these delicacies."
"Hush, you," she chuckled. "Father Crulex sent them. He said the meat we gave the temple last week was 'fit for a king.' It’s a gift, Harald. Not a debt."
Harald chewed slowly, the cheese coating his tongue in a rich, creamy film. His pride chafed. His family had been in this Ollanian village since the first stones of the chapel were laid, helping to lay those stones themselves; they were a family that provided, not one that took hand-outs like the hollow-eyed refugees clogging the roads. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop eating. The guilt tasted almost as good as the cheese.
The walk to the fields was a parade of misery that Harald tried to ignore. Caravans piled high with salvaged chairs and crying infants rolled past. These people had fled the "monsters" of the North, the monkey-beasts and the demon-legions of Salroth. Harald looked at the massive stone chapel on the hill, its spire catching the morning light like a golden finger.
Arno is here, he told himself. The Dark Lord is a shadow, and shadows die in the light.
Soon, he was mid-swing with his hoe when the world changed.
It wasn't a sound at first; it was a feeling in the soles of his feet. A low, rhythmic thrum that made the water in the irrigation ditches ripple. It sounded like a stampede of animals coming their way. Then came the birds, thousands of them, a black, screaming cloud erupting from the northern treeline near the edges of the fields that they toiled in.
"Look!" a voice in the distance shouted.
Harald straightened his back, wiping the sweat from his brow. The forest at the edge of the valley was... moving. Massive oaks, centuries old, were being snapped like dry kindling. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then, the scream: "RAIDERS!"
Armored riders burst from the tree line, their horses churning the soil into a brown spray. They carried banners that made Harald’s blood run cold, a dragon coiling around a lion, this was heraldry that Harald was unfamiliar with, belonging to a noble house that he did not recognize.
But it was what followed them that stole the breath from his lungs. A creature, lime-green and slick with a foul-smelling ichor, heaved itself from the woods. It stood as tall as five men, its arms thick as tree trunks .Harald had heard tales of such creatures existing oceans away, in lands so far they felt like myths. To see one here, in the South of Ollania, was unthinkable. It was a nightmare made real.
"Run!" Harald screamed, but his own legs felt like they were made of lead.
He saw Nostor, his neighbor of twenty years, raise a heavy iron plough in a desperate, futile stance. A rider didn't even slow down; a flash of steel, a sickening thwack, and Nostor was a heap of red and grey in the dirt.
Harald turned, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He ran toward the village, toward Velea and the children, but the thunder of hooves was already behind him. His lungs burned. The air felt like hot sand.
He looked up one last time at the stone chapel. It looked so small now. So fragile.
He realized he wouldn't make it. He stopped, his chest heaving, and closed his eyes. He didn't see the rider's blade. He only saw his mother’s face, and the warm, golden light of Arno’s hall. He whispered a final plea for his family to be hidden from the shadow, took one last breath of the Southern air, and waited for the end.
The rider’s horse roared past, the wind of its passage nearly knocking him over. Harald opened his eyes, trembling. The raider hadn't even looked at him. They weren't there to kill peasants in the field. They were heading for the village.
Acrid smoke from the burning village still hung thick in the air as Marek and Jorin looked out over the smoldering ruins of hovels and storage sheds. Their horses chafed and shifted uneasily beneath them, ears twitching as armored soldiers swarmed the area like locusts. These were the infantrymen, men with soot-stained faces and hungry eyes, looting the buildings and scouring the surrounding fields for any valuables, information, or scraps of food. Among the human sellswords were grey-skinned orcs with jutting tusks and thick-set shoulders, hauling heavy furniture into the streets. Marek watched as several Arkians, men of fierce, muscular build, moved with a predatory grace, their brown, furred monkey tails wrapped tightly around their waists like belts. They were busy looting the buildings and scouring the fields for valuables, their tails twitching with a restless energy as they burst from a larder, hauling out strings of dried meat to be carted back to the main camp.
Near the old stone chapel, the work was more deliberate. Soldiers were busy fastening thick, oily ropes around the structural pillars and the arched doorway. They hitched the other ends to the massive green ogre who had journeyed in their company. The beast let out a low, wet grunt as he began to lean forward, the ropes groaning under the tension as he tugged away from the ancient stone.
“Did you see that ol’ shit who tried taking me down with his rusty plough?” Jorin said, wiping a smear of dark blood off his sword with a ragged cloth. “Blimey, these fuckin’ farmers are getting more fierce with each village we go to. Did you know that Arlus’ horse was taken down yesterday by some potato farmer with a bow? A fuckin’ potato farmer, ya hear me?”
“Aye, I hear ya,” Marek said. He couldn't take his eyes off the scene, the jewelry being stripped from the necks of weeping peasants who remained in the village and tossed onto wooden carriages. “Can’t really blame them, though. They’re only defending their homes. It’s admirable enough.”
“Can’t blame them? Admirable?” Jorin let out a loud scowl, followed by a harsh howl of a laugh. “I can blame them when they’re trying to kill me with a rusty ass plough.” He went back to scrubbing his blade, but the blood had already begun to tack up, running down the fuller of the steel and staining the bottom of his surcoat. “Shit.”
An armored rider approached on a white horse, his steel plate glinting even through the haze of smoke. His surcoat was halved: one side bore the white field and green dragon of General Erdan’s Pale Company, while the other was a black field featuring a white skull wearing a jeweled, golden crown. He was a league taller than Marek or Jorin, and his frame was broad enough to be imposing even under his heavy plate. As the rider drew near, Marek wiped the sweat from his brow, just beneath the opened visor of his helmet.
“Lo, Captain,” Marek hailed the man.
The rider reached up and flipped open his own visor, revealing the sharp, severe face of a Vastan elf. A long, jagged scar ran over his right eye, a stark contrast to his noble, defined features. Fastened to his breastplate was a small, exquisite carving of a Halloth, the sacred white stag of the Tavnar forests. To a Vastan elf, the Halloth was more than an animal; it was a guide for souls and a servant of the Old Gods, as taught by the Temple of the Sacred Blood. Even the ivory of the carving would have been harvested only from a stag that had died naturally, as killing one was a grave sin.
“Lo, Ishtan,” the elf hailed back, the slur for non-elves sliding off his tongue with practiced venom.
Marek noticed the way Amuril’s eyes flicked between him and Jorin with a sharp, wary unease.
“Come now, Amuril. I thought we were more acquainted than that,” Marek responded with a slight frown.
“We are acquainted by necessity,” Amuril said, his face unmoving.
“Aye, and it’s by necessity that I don’t take this sword and jam it up your bung-hole,” Jorin chimed in, sliding his blade back into its sheath with a metallic snick.
“Come now, Ishtan. You are more than welcome to try,” Amuril said, looking down at Jorin. “You will find I am harder to kill than the peasants you enjoy brutalizing.”
“I doubt that,” Jorin said, spitting a glob of phlegm into the dirt.
Amuril looked at him, utterly unimpressed. One hand rested casually on the reins while the other sat on the pommel of his sword. “You’re lucky the General prefers you here, or else I’d have you whipped for your crude words. Maybe more, if I were so lucky.” He flicked his gaze toward Marek. “And you, I’d expect you to keep better company than this… filth.”
Marek shook his head and gave a small shrug. “He’s entertaining, what can I say?”
Jorin snorted. “Ya hear that, ya salty shit? I’m entertaining!” He flashed a toothy, yellowed grin. “Besides, we wouldn’t be here if your little group hadn't violated the General’s orders one too many times since the fall of Rohlen. Too many peasants bein’ raped and murdered on your account.” Jorin shook his head in mock disappointment. “The General was clear: burn the villages and take the food. Let ‘em flee to the cities to crowd ‘em out. We only kill in self-defense.”
Amuril’s lip curled, and he finally cracked a thin, mocking smile.
“Smile all ya want, it’s the truth,” Jorin continued, spitting again, this time narrowly missing the hoof of Amuril’s white horse. “And not only have your men been killin’ more than necessary, but the men haven’t been disciplined. This isn’t back home. All ya fancy knife-eared shits don’t get to sit here and do whatever ya damn well please, ya hear me?”
“And back home, degenerates like you would still be in chains, serving their betters and knowing their place,” Amuril countered. “Yet, for someone like you, I figure you’re more savage than a farmer. The fighting pits would be more to your liking… or I could have kept you as a bed slave. Either one works, though you’re much less pretty than what I’m used to. Hmpf.” He spat back at the ground near Jorin’s feet, then turned his horse, prancing off to oversee the grain carriages.
“Don’t know what the fuck his problem always is,” Jorin snorted.
“He doesn’t like authority, or accountability,” Marek replied. “Those elves and their damn pride. They don't like being told what to do by people they think are 'beneath' them.” He shook his head. “He forgets we’re not in Vasthornu anymore. The elves have no seniority here. The only one who decides things is the General.”The Captain and his fellow elven officers were clearly on edge, their movements stiff with a tension that went beyond the heat of battle. Every time Amuril looked at them, he was reminded that he was being policed, his every command scrutinized to ensure he didn't violate the General's strict standing orders. It was a visible blow to his Vastan pride, the weight of the "Ishtan" leash tightening around his neck.
Jorin nodded, but Marek’s gaze drifted back to the chapel. “I don’t understand why I’m even here. Why not send someone more senior to make sure the officers are doing what they’re told? It clearly has Amuril furious.”
“It’s a sign of trust, boy-o,” Jorin said. He watched as the ogre’s muscles rippled, the heavy ropes biting into the creature's green skin. “You’s movin’ up in the world. The General sees promise in ya. Nothin’s wrong with it, just the way it is. Take some pride in it.”
“I guess. I just hope our contract with this ‘Dark Lord’ pans out,” Marek said quietly. “A lot of labor has gone into this. A lot of manpower. Be a shame if it falls apart or if he doesn’t hold up his end of the bargain.”
Jorin let out a barking laugh. “Greedy as ever, aren’t ya? Don’t worry your pretty lil’ head. Accordin’ to the General, payment has already been received. We’re gonna be wealthy men, Marek. Apparently, that ‘dark’ bastard knows money talks, and he knows we’re worth every pound. No other company could’a taken that walled city, Rohlen, as fast as we did.”
Marek nodded, but his words were drowned out by a deafening crack. He watched as the first stones of the chapel, the stones laid centuries ago by Harald's ancestors, gave way. The ancient structure groaned, the spirit of the village breaking alongside the masonry, and then it collapsed into a heap of dust and rubble. The ogre let out a furious, triumphant roar that shook the air, and the surrounding soldiers erupted into cheers.
Marek sat cross-legged on the dirt outside the towering walls of Edin. The rhythmic shriek of his whetstone against his sword filled the air, a sharp sound that occasionally drew his eyes toward the campfire where Jorin and the Beast were stationed. Across the landscape, the fires of dozens of surrounding camps cast an ominous, flickering orange glow against the stone walls of the free city. Through the still night air, the faint, wretched sounds of shuffling feet and the distant groans of refugees within the city were barely audible.
The plan had worked perfectly. By sparing the peasants, burning their villages, and driving them toward the city, Erdan had guaranteed a city filled to the brim with mouths to feed and hearts overflowing with fear. For several days, they had sat outside the city, their forces tightening the noose. Edin was holding out longer than Rohlen had, the capital of Ollania, but Marek knew the General wouldn’t allow them to be bogged down. As Erdan had told him before, “War is decided before the first horn is blown.”
The Beast’s eyes remained glazed, staring into the crackling fire as sparks spiraled upward and the logs shifted. He was silent, eerily silent, in a way that made Marek feel uneasy. Despite his years of service to the General and his recent promotion to the personal guard, Marek had never spoken more than a handful of words to the giant creature.
The Beast was a Leonin, a humanoid feline with the massive head and mane of a lion and the body of a man, if you could even call it that. His paws were equipped with claws as sharp as razors that could shred a steel plate like parchment. He stood at a towering eight feet tall, and Marek estimated he weighed as much as a mountain bear. His fur was a striking snow-white, resembling an albino lion, and his bright yellow eyes featured large, dark vertical slits that seemed to swallow the firelight. Strapped to his hips were weapons of staggering size: a giant morning star on one side and a double-edged battleaxe on the other. Either one was heavy enough to require a normal man to use two hands, yet the Beast wielded them effortlessly in one. He was a mountain of muscle beneath his bronze chest plate; the armor didn't even cover his thick arms, as his hide was strong enough to be impervious to most slashes and cuts. He was a force of nature, hence his name.
To break the heavy silence, Marek glanced over at the giant. “So… how did you come to work for the General?” Marek asked.
The Beast’s eyes remained on the fire, the sunset plunging the world into shadows as darkness crept over the siege lines. “I’m not interested in small-talk, human,” he rumbled.
Marek nodded and looked back to his fire, sliding the stone down the edge of his blade.
“Aye, the big cat here isn’t fond of chattin’,” Jorin said with a snort. “Have you not figured that out yet, lad?”
Marek shrugged, his focus back on his steel. “I just figured I would ask since we all serve in the General’s guard. I would like to know my brethren a little better if I am to potentially be dying with them someday. I'd like to know if I am supposed to charge them with protecting me, or if they want me to protect them. Brotherly love, if you will.”
The Beast let out a cackle of a laugh, a sound that was half-amusement and half-predatory purr. He threw his head back, his white mane catching the light. “You think I need you to protect me, human?” His voice was a deep, guttural rumble. “Think again.”
“Probably not, but you might need to save me,” Marek said with a smirk of his own.
The Beast let out a heavy sigh. His nature was that of a solitary creature, but he sensed the boy would only continue to pester him. He gave in.
“I hail from the Tribe Dawntale in the land of Ux Martivir, a land close to here,” the Beast began. “A people of great warriors and renown. Our tribesmen were known throughout the ages for their martial feats. However, I found the Tribe in its current state to be beyond my tastes, they had lost their way. So I joined the Legion and served for several years. I grew tired of the lack of challenges, similar to my life in the tribe, and so I became a mercenary.”
Marek looked at the Beast with wide eyes. He was amazed that this silent lion had finally said more words in a few moments than Marek had heard in years of service. He looked over at Jorin, who had a similar reaction; the veteran’s mouth was almost agape, his yellow teeth on full display. The Beast, however, went back to staring at the fire.
“So then, how did you find yourself in the employ of the General?” Marek asked.
The Beast finally broke his gaze from the flames and looked at Marek. “I was serving as a mercenary for the Guild on a ship, protecting the cargo. Like before, I was bored. I dared any man on the ship to challenge me, and Erdan came forward.” The Beast looked toward the General’s large, command tent, in which he met with his marshals for the coming battle. “That was the first day I ever lost a fight. I offered to serve him, but he said he didn’t take slaves. And so, I became his soldier of fortune, bound by my own free-will.”
Marek looked at the Beast in awe, as did Jorin. “How the fuck did that grizzly ol’ half-elf best a killin’ machine like you?”
The next morning, Erdan’s host had assembled around the walled city, like a tightening noose. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers surrounded it by land, while their fleet blockaded it by sea and up the river to its north. In the bay, hundreds of ships flew the sails of the dragon and lion, vessels provided by Salroth himself to bolster the Pale Company’s already formidable navy. On land, the morning wind whipped the same standards above a massed army preparing for the slaughter. Today was the day the Free City of Edin would be stormed.
This host was a grim mosaic of races. There were infantry blocks of humans in seasoned leather and plate; orcs in their heavy, crudely forged iron; and Arkians with their powerful, furred tails either hanging loose or wrapped tightly around their waists. They stood at the edge of the treeline, just beyond the reach of the city’s longbowmen. In front of the ranks stood the towering siege towers, winched forward into position. Beside them, hundreds of green-skinned ogres were spread throughout the cohorts of man, beastfolk, and elf, their massive frames casting long, dark shadows over their comrades. Next to the ogres sat the ammunition for the day’s work: "boulders" made of crushed brick, stone, and mortar, the remains of the very buildings they had raided on the march here.
Up on a nearby hill, General Erdan monitored the field. He sat atop a magnificent chestnut steed, his bronze plate shimmering over a fine weave of chainmail. His thick silver beard moved in the wind as he surveyed the city. He was surrounded by his mounted guard, including Marek and the grizzly Jorin, both with their visors raised..
The suspense was deafening. Marek had fought many times, but never on a scale like this. He was used to the blood-slicked sand of the fighting pits, or guarding Guild ships against pirate boarders. He had fought in small skirmishes in faraway lands, but a full-scale siege was a different beast entirely. Luckily, his General was not as green as he. Erdan was a half-elf with decades of martial experience, and Marek placed his complete trust in the man's cold calculations.
Marek’s eyes scanned the mass of soldiers, armed, armored, and ready, yet the General gave no order. It was unlike Erdan to allow the enemy time to prepare. From their vantage point, Marek could see the archers on the battlements nocking arrows, the boiling pots of oil being heated, and the heavy ballistae being cranked into position. Every minute that passed allowed the defenders to bolster their resolve. Yet, Erdan sat like a statue.
The orcs began to grow restless, a low growl rippling through their ranks, followed by the Arkians and the human cohorts. Then, Marek noticed a gap in the formation. Where were the goblins? The spider-cages he had seen on the ships were nowhere to be found. He had assumed they were out scouting, but as he scanned the treeline, they were nowhere in sight.
Then, he heard it.
The distant clang of bells echoed from within the city walls, not in a call to prayer but in a frantic alarm, followed immediately by screams and the unmistakable, wet sound of blades meeting meat. Marek’s eyes widened as he saw flashes of movement beyond the battlements. Soldiers were running haphazardly across the walls, fleeing something inside. He looked at the General, whose face remained as solid as stone, then at the Beast, who stood taller than the men on horseback. Marek pranced his horse over to Jorin.
“What is happening?” he asked.
Jorin shrugged, his armor clinking. “I have no idea, kiddo. You’re just as surprised as me. I wasn’t in that war council last night.”
The screams intensified. Then, a nightmare erupted onto the battlements. Goblins on their massive spider mounts crawled over the lip of the walls, hundreds of the little creatures giggling and howling. The furry, multi-legged horrors used their fangs to rip into the defenders, flinging armored men over the battlements like dolls. The spiders moved with terrifying speed, their sticky legs grabbing soldiers and slamming them against the stone. As the archers tried to retaliate, the spiders would simply scuttle over the side of the wall or onto the ceilings of the towers, reaching places the infantry couldn't touch. One jockey spurred his spider up a tower; the desperate archers inside fired point-blank, but the spider’s weight and the goblin's frenzy brought the wooden structure crashing down, crushing everyone within. The spiders scuttled with terrifying speed, their hairy legs clicking against the stone.
“War is decided before the first horn is blown,” Marek muttered to himself, remembering the General’s words. He felt his stomach churn as he watched the spiders trap men in the narrow walkways, the goblins cackling as their mounts began to feed.
General Erdan motioned to a mounted soldier with a large bone-horn. He raised his hand, holding it until the chaos on the walls reached a fever pitch.
“Elves to the front,” Erdan said plainly.
The horn sounded, a deep, haunting blast that was answered by dozens of others around the city. From the ranks, the few Vastan elves stepped forward in unison. They marched until they stood behind the massive boulders of recycled rubble. Marek recognized the jagged stone of the chapel they had torn down days ago among the heaps.
Marek gripped the pommel of his sword, watching the elves and the chaos on the walls. The goblin jockeys weren't just killing; they were herding. They were using the spiders’ speed to cluster the defenders into tight circles near the main gates and towers. The defenders were in complete disarray, throwing pikes and arrows at the scuttling monsters in a blind panic.
“Prepare!” Erdan ordered.
A horn rang out. The Vastan elves moved their hands in a wide, sweeping motion, aiming toward the base of the walls.
“Begin!”
The elves moved their arms as if ripping a heavy cloth in half. Marek heard a deep, subterranean rumble, like a bell cracking deep underground. The mortar at the base of the city walls suddenly ripped at the seams, as fissures spread all over it. Stones shifted. Cracks raced upward through the masonry faster than a man could point. The towers began to lurch and tip, needing only one final push.
“Ready!”
Another sharp horn blast. The Vastan elves raised their hands upward, their faces tight with the strain of lifting something immense. In front of them, the massive boulders of brick and stone began to levitate, casting huge, circular shadows over the grass as they rose higher and higher.
Marek’s eyes lit up. The sorcery of the Vastan elves never ceased to amaze him. Their ability to manipulate the earth was a point of awe, a skill he sometimes envied.
“Fire!”
A high-pitched scream erupted from the horns. Each elf, including Captain Amuril, hurled their boulders at the weakened walls. The projectiles flew with the intensity of a catapult, smashing into the softened mortar and the clustered soldiers. The towers came crashing down. The men on the walls screamed as the stone folded inward, the wall "bowing its head" as it collapsed.
The sound was a tectonic roar. Where the towers had stood, there were now jagged slopes of rubble, settling into perfect ramps for the infantry. Most of the Vastan elves retreated, exhausted by the display, though Amuril remained at his post, his eyes fixed on the breach.
“Advance!”
A deep, rumbling horn sounded. The "Forlorn Hope", a mix of humans, orcs, and dwarves, charged from the treeline. They sprinted across the open field toward the breaches. They disappeared into the choking, caustic white fog. Marek watched as they scrambled up the "talus slope", the jagged ramp of rubble the collapse had created. Inside, the defenders had built "retrenchments", secondary barricades made of flipped wagons and heavy furniture. But the Arkians were already over them, using their tails to anchor themselves to the jagged stone and leaping over the defenders' pikes with predatory grace. They poured over the rubble, stomping over the fallen stones and the flailing limbs of those buried beneath the collapse. Inside, the bloodbath was instantaneous.
Marek watched the carnage through the dust. He could see the shadows of the horror inside, the Arkians leaping onto the battlements, their tails lashing as they cleared the remnants of the guard, fire and other magic shooting out of their fists while cutting down foes with their sword-hands. The enemy knights and men-at-arms were routed, their morale shattered by the sight of monsters and magic.
“Send in the heavy infantry,” Erdan commanded.
The senior colonels dismounted and led the shielded infantry into the breach, expanding the foothold. The city was a chorus of steel on steel and the screams of the dying. From the water, trebuchets began firing at the main keep, the heavy stones arcing through the smoky sky to weaken the Duke’s final refuge.
“Quicker than expected,” Erdan said, his face as statuesque as ever. “Ogres to the front.”
Three deep rumbles from the horns sent the ogres into a stampede. The ground shook as the twelve-foot monsters crossed the killing field in seconds, their massive oak clubs smashing into the inner gates with a sound like thunder.
The General looked at the Beast. “Join them. Clear the path for me and secure the outside of the keep.”
The Beast simply nodded. He lunged forward, sprinting at first, then dropping onto all fours like a great white predator. He surpassed the ogres in seconds, his speed inhuman. He disappeared into the city, followed by the green pestilence of the ogres.
As the sun began to wane, Erdan called for his guard to follow him to the citadel. They rode through streets slicked with blood and littered with broken bodies. Marek watched the Beast at work; the Leonin tore through the remaining ranks, grabbing a man by the head and ripping it clean off with a wet, sickening pop before moving to the next.
“Can you imagine being them?” Jorin asked, his usual humor replaced by a grim stare. “These poor bastards grew up on stories about ogres and goblins. Nightmares to scare children. And now…”
“Now the nightmares are real,” Marek finished.
To their right, Marek saw Captain Amuril. The elf was levitating above a circle of quivering soldiers. He descended like an angel of death, hovering in the center of their formation. He unsheathed his curved falconier blade, a shimmering, deadly arc of steel. As the soldiers charged, Amuril moved with a grace that only centuries of practice could produce. He cut them down in a blur of motion, one after the other, until he rose into the air again, seeking more blood.
They reached the heart of Edin to find the citadel gates already open. The Duke’s own guards had betrayed him.
Erdan dismounted, removing his helmet to reveal his cold, intelligent face. A captain of the city guard dropped to one knee. “Sir, we’ve secured the ducal family… for you. The Duke awaits—”
“Where is the Duke?” Erdan’s voice was dangerously soft.
“In the throne room, sir. We… we overthrew him for you. For Salroth.”
Silence fell like an executioner’s axe.
“You betrayed your sworn lord?” Erdan asked.
“We thought the city was lost anyway, and—”
“Hang them,” Erdan said, turning to the Beast. “All of them. I don’t tolerate traitors. A man who betrays one master will betray another.”
The Beast’s massive hand closed around the captain’s throat. Within minutes, the conspirators dangled from the citadel walls.
Inside the throne room, maps were already being spread across tables. Erdan had the Duke and his family placed under house arrest, powerless, but alive.
“General,” a captain interrupted as Erdan inspected the grand hall. “We have a problem. A group of our men killed civilians in the merchant quarter. About two dozen.”
The room went silent.
“Were they resisting?” Erdan asked, not looking up from his maps.
“No, General. The soldiers were… celebrating.”
“Hang them too,” Erdan said, his voice a deadly calm. “Make sure the rest of the men see it. We’re professionals, not savages. The innocent die only when necessary, never for sport.”
As the last of the chaos subsided and the soldiers finished the grim work of securing the city, Erdan summoned his commanders to a war council within the citadel’s throne room. The hall was massive and drafty, the high, vaulted ceilings echoing with the distant sounds of the occupation. Erdan did not sit in the ducal throne himself; he left it vacant, a silent statement that he was a conqueror for hire, not a king. Instead, the heavy banners of the Pale Company, the dragon and the lion, were draped from the interior balconies, casting long, predatory shadows over the room.
Erdan sat at the head of a large, dark oaken table arranged in a horseshoe. Arrayed down the table were the colonels, the veteran leadership of the Company, a diverse assembly of humans, orcs, Arkians, and an elf that served as the backbone of Erdan's multi-racial host. Marek found a place at the back of the room, the Beast standing beside him like a silent, towering sentinel. Both listened intently as Erdan prepared to lay out the next phase of the campaign. Across the hall, Jorin stood near the massive, closed wooden doors near the entrance of the chamber, his thumb hooked into his belt.
However, there was a presence in the room that made Marek’s skin crawl. In the far corner, draped in shadow, stood a man in robes as black as an oil slick. The hood fell just low enough to shroud his eyes, leaving only a glimpse of a pale, sickly jawline. He was short and wiry, his frame so thin that the heavy robes seemed to swallow him. Marek saw the flash of dark, rotted brown teeth as the man let out a silent grin at a colonel’s comment, yet no one dared speak to him.
The man’s mouth and jaw were a map of ink, covered in tattoos of shifting sigils and odd, geometric symbols that Marek didn't recognize. His clasped hands bore the same markings, the ink dark against his pale, seemingly translucent skin. Beside that pallor, the only bit of color was an amulet: a blood-crimson ring of flame that dangled from his neck. Marek tried to look away, but his gaze kept drifting back to the tattooed stranger; the man never paid him any heed in return.
Marek glanced at Jorin, who seemed remarkably unbothered, haphazardly tearing into a piece of salted meat with his bare hands. But the Beast noticed. The Leonin's bright yellow eyes remained locked on the robed figure, watching him with a predatory distrust that Marek had never seen in him before. It wasn't the gaze of a hunter; it was the gaze of a creature sensing something "wrong" in the natural order.
As the colonels ate, bread, roasted vegetables, and ale were spread across the table. They discussed the strategy of the breach, critiquing the morning’s work.
“It was a brilliant move, General,” said a colonel near the center of the table, the human commander of Amuril’s unit, his dark skin contrasted by long, braided blonde hair. “Finding the entrance to the sewers days before we arrived gave the goblins the perfect staging ground. The infiltration was flawless.”
“Hear, hear!” an orc colonel added, raising a sloshing flagon of ale. Erdan simply nodded, his face as stoic and unmoving as the stone walls around them. He was not a man prone to flattery.
After a few moments, Erdan cleared his throat, and the room went instantly silent. “While we have discussed matters of importance tonight and eaten well, as you ferocious bastards deserve—”
“Hear, hear!” Jorin called out, drawing a few dry chuckles.
Erdan continued, ignoring the interruption. “It is vital that you understand the plan for our future here in the Thirteen Realms. As I have stated, His Lordship, Salroth, has already provided substantial payment. It is already secured in our vaults on Tash Lemnvar. I made certain of this before we accepted the contract, given the… unique nature of this work.” The colonels nodded solemnly; they knew the risks of working for a Dark Lord. “If you fall in combat, your contracts remain honored. Your families will receive your share; otherwise, the funds remain with the Company.”
“Salroth has also funded the expansion of our armada,” Erdan continued, his voice cold and measured. “This will allow us to ship men further and faster, pacifying any resistance across the Realms.” At this, the tattooed man in the corner snarled a smile, causing the Beast to let out a low, vibrating growl.
“Furthermore, these ships will ferry in additional companies to reinforce the South, meat for the slaughter, if you will,” Erdan said bluntly. “We will lay siege to the smaller southern cities. Salroth’s forces are pressing from the North; we are the lower half of the pincer. We will use the same tactics: goblin riders in the sewers, elves at the walls, ogres at the gates. Take them from within and without.”
Erdan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at a lanky, burly human colonel. “Torahor, you will lead our forces here in the South in my absence. I will take the majority of the army and push North to Korhal. From there, we join Salroth’s main host to storm the Imperial City. Once the capital falls, we mop up the stragglers and head home.”
Erdan’s expression turned stony. “Torahor, remember: we are here to break armies, not butcher innocents. If I hear of your men celebrating with civilian blood again, I will return to oversee the hangings personally.”
Marek felt a chill. This was conquest by terror, but tempered by Erdan's rigid, unforgiving code.
Erdan paused, then looked over his shoulder at the robed figure. “I almost forgot. Gentlemen, this is an emissary of Salroth, courtesy of the Dark Lord himself. He will be our… point of communication.”
The Messenger stepped forward, gliding out of the shadows. His grotesque, brown-toothed smile widened as the colonels recoiled in visible disgust.
“Hello… distinguished warriors,” the Messenger said. His voice was coarse, sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. “I have a gift from my master that I will bestow upon you.”
He glided past Erdan, who remained statuesque and unbothered, his robes flowing like liquid smoke. He stopped beside Torahor, leaning over the colonel’s shoulder.
“A gift… for you… good sir,” the Messenger hissed, laying a dark glass orb on the table. He bowed low before stepping back. “A means of communication. It will allow us to discuss matters across vast distances… almost as if I am actually there!”
The Messenger let out a loud, coarse laugh that seemed to suck the warmth out of the room. He then slithered back into his dark corner, the eyes of every officer following him like he was a venomous snake.
“Well… I think that’s everything,” Erdan said, his voice cutting through the tension. “Good work, men. Dismissed.”
As the council broke, Marek made his way back into the night air, breathing deeply to clear the smell of the Messenger from his lungs. He looked over the broken, smoldering ruin of Edin. The nightmare was far from over; if Erdan’s plan held, the South would fall like dominoes while they marched toward the heart of the world to meet their dark employer.
