The Fires of Cerran

Prologue

Looking out from the parapet, with the morning sun rising across to the East, and the grass covered in a thin layer of morning dew, Lord Commander Assan Maar inhaled a long and thoughtful breath. To either side of him stood fifty archers, spanning across the entire expanse of the Northern Wall of Erengon. Behind them, standing ready against the cool morning breeze, an infantry of 12,000 men stood in perfect rank, bolstered by cavalry which now were pushed against the raised drawbridge. In the silence Maar now turned and looked down to his men. 

  'On this day, with the will of the Gods and strength of our souls, we shall take what is ours. We shall amend the atrocities which have bled these lands dry and we will begin a new, true Kingdom!' He proclaimed, his low voice echoing around the court, his words carried by the wind and flying off into the distance like birds in Spring. Beside him stood his most trusted advisors, three Lords of the West who had come to this man in hope of victory against the Crown. The men roared in mighty unity, and the sound of boots smashing hard into the stone ground beneath them reverberated around Erengon like no sound had done before. Maar smiled, his long auburn hair fluttered softly as the wind began to pick up and in the distance the sound of drumming finally began to arrive. 

  'They are here, My Lord.' Castor Asmara said through gritted teeth, his gaze never faltering from the horizon. Maar turned to face him and putting a heavy hand on his shoulder he shook him slightly.

 'This day shall be remembered until the end of days my friend. Your children will sing songs of you, and so will their children and so on.' Maar said gladly. He took his tankard of ale and took a final gulp before throwing the thing out into the moat below. The drumming slowly rose in sound, until at last the faint silhouette of men came over the hills and began to march down into the green valley below. 

 'How many?' Maar asked quietly.

 'Twenty-five thousand we believe my Lord.' Replied Ser Wexford Barrick, his large imposing frame only accentuated by his thick golden armour. Maar nodded, he showed no fear, it was too far gone for that. Death was inevitable, whether it came today or in thirty years’ time. Either way, it would come for him. But he had come too far now, done too much, to back down. A letter had been sent, signed by the King's own hand, with a final peace offering and a promise that they would live should they surrender. Maar had laughed, spat in the paper and sent the message back to Ceraborn within an hour of its arrival at Erengon. But as the distant hill gave way to the marching men of Ceraborn, Arisen and Tu-Ton, the same could not be said for those who were closest to Maar. Sweat began to bead from Elmar Clayborn's brow as he stood, longsword beside him, staring out into the now shimmering mirage of men. A young man, only now in his twenty-fourth year and soon to be wed to Elsara Cordosi of Cyronos, he had seen little in the way of war. Yes, he had been trained in swordplay by his father and his uncle's, but those were men who never pierced his chest when he moved his shield to clumsily, or sliced his arm when he attempted to balance himself atop the squelching mud of the courtyards of his youth. They had cut him, just as they had been by their own father, for a boy must know of the true dangers a sword possesses. But this was different, this was war. 

 

They watched closely, every man with clear eyes upon the battlefield. The grass, now shaken of its dew, swayed softly in the breeze. Trumpets rang clear, and the drumming came to a sudden halt. The enemy stood in clear lines, six clear cohorts, three lines of light troop. There were perhaps a thousand or so on horseback, a light cloud of steaming breath rose into the clear morning skies, drifting between the banners of Ceraborn and its allies. The valley seemed so small against such a backdrop, and the lands beyond seemed to shrink beyond recognition, as if locking the two sides in place until one came out victorious. Above the rows of men, riding down the hill and into the valley came a small procession of riders, six men in total and each well known to Assan Maar. Brodon’s steed was the finest in the country, a thick purebred destrier with a long shaggy mane of black uncut hair. The King wore his signature golden armour, a mid-length blue cape draped from his shoulders to his waist. Maar placed a hand on his own sallet that sat beside him, the metal shining brightly, his face perfectly mirrored by it. He watched closely as the riders cut through the lines of men, before stopping a few feet in front of the. The King unsheathed his sword and held the grip tightly as he pushed the thing into the air, a thunderous rapture returned from his armies.