Manorborn: The Battles Between

Chapter 1

I had thought a time of peace would be at hand. The Midnight King was dead, slain by my hand, and there was the hope that this would bring peace to many.

But this was not the case.

His death heralded increasing conflicts across the worlds. It was as if his death had freed others of dark design to pursue their own agenda; some were Shaiden, but some were simply those who saw an opportunity and rose up to take hold of it.

What we had hoped never came to pass. Barely was I home then news of conflict reached us, and Benjamin, Galen, and I were off on one mission after another. From one conflict to the next, we traveled to counsel, advise and, at times, fight. My father, Garyn, was too weak yet to travel the Way of the Worlds, so it fell to me to represent the Manor with my brothers and strive as best we could to find solutions where we could.

The Midnight King was dead.

And war had begun.

Chapter 1

It was a green land, lush with growth and verdant fertility. A land meant for farming and raising crops, for villages full of life and laughter. Children should have been playing in the trees, or helping their parents bring in the harvest as happy voices filled the air beneath the great yellow sun that shone done from a sky of vibrant purple dotted here and there with fluffy pink clouds that shimmered as they floated overhead.

That is what should have been.

The reality of the moment was altogether opposite of what should have been.

Where fertile green land should have been, great ruts and tears in the veldt indicated where powerful wheels had torn up the earth as they traveled. Flattened grass and flowers revealed the tread and tromp of heavy booted feet as they marched through the growth with uncaring focus and discipline. The living land was wounded deeply, left marred and bleeding by the passing of a horde so focused on their task they did not care the damage they did to the land that they needed for growth and future.

Two thousand warriors marched in time, their feet pounding the earth in syncopated rhythm as they passed over the land. Sunlight flashed off the barrels of muskets and rifles, glimmered along the edge of blades held by officers, and danced over buttons and buckles that held other weapons in readiness for the shedding of blood.

Rolling along with the marchers were mighty machines of war. Driven by steam, they rolled along on great treads that tore up the earth as they rolled over it. The box-shaped structures were squat and unattractive, with two long barrels protruding from the top box, the top box being a turret that could rotate a full 360 degrees on its axis and send great mortars into enemy lines from each barrel. There were 12 of these tanks, and each was manned by three soldiers trained to their tasks with impressive skill.

The tanks rolled on, and the soldiers marched.

They marched for their lord.

They marched for their people.

They marched to kill.

At a given signal from their lord, a man dressed in a trim, well-fitting uniform of black like his soldiers, though his was trimmed in silver at cuff, neck, and shoulder with silver piping down the legs. Mounted atop a grey charger, he cut a fine and dashing figure with his well-trimmed beard, clear eyes, and rugged features. The man giving the signal, their leader, was Lord Malvix, 8th Lord of Kervath, the second mightiest estate in the land.

At his side, dressed in the magenta and scarlet robes that marked his station and duty, rode Lord Malvix's Chief of Counsel, Ashel Verd, a man of medium height, slender form and aquiline nose. He had served the lord for 20 years and guided him well in all matters. Indeed, it was Ashel who had advised his lord to confront and conquer the lands of the Derga, the people who even now his army marched to meet in battle. Many wondered at this, for the Derga, though a member of the Furrah, the Furred Peoples, had ever been allies and trading partners with Lord Malvix's family for many generations. To attack them now seemed uncalled for.