The Reformation Wars: The Trump of Ibis

Prologue

Ivermoi 2nd, 1020 A.D.

Another long winter night gave way to chilly dawn, at least for those who had lived through the night. The sun rose almost reluctantly, eventually sending down a few feeble rays that shimmered through the canopy of branches and leaves overhead. Only a handful descended low enough to illuminate the wretched underbelly of the forest where a handful of Innutukian soldiers fled the Monteraynian slaughter wherein dozens of their comrades had perished.

Commander Sarenkellan watched his breath proceed from his mouth as a wispy vapor and dissipate seconds later. He tugged his thick fur coat tighter around himself, wiping a layer of condensation off the breastplate underneath as he did so. Seated on a log with his boot propped up against a nearby sapling, he watched over the camp where his four comrades slumbered on the mossy ground.

Sarenkellan would have given anything in the world for some sleep, but with rest of the eyes came trouble for the mind. Fitful naps punctuated by nightmares. He'd spend more time jolting awake with bated breath than actually finding sleep. More than once, he'd contemplated whether surviving the massacre was actually a blessing. Perhaps it was a greater curse to survive than to be released from the perils of life.

"Is it time to move yet, Commander?" one of his comrades muttered, still half asleep.

Sarenkellan shook his head. "Sleep. We'll move in an hour or so."

Before long, Sarenkellan's fellow soldier snored again, leaving him to mull over their circumstances once more. Even the very fact they addressed him as "commander" was a testament to the horrors they'd endured. He'd been nothing but a common soldier like the rest of them before their own commander had met his brutal end. No warning, and no dignity in his death, either.

Sarenkellan still shuddered at the sight of Prince Dustin Rickland's blade protruding from the commander's chest. The image of the balding officer's stunned features remained fresh in his mind. The poor man had no time even to reach for a weapon before collapsing in a growing pool of his own blood.

And then Prince Dustin's band of Monteraynian warriors had descended on the Innutukian camp, slaughtering the unprepared soldiers like animals. Sarenkellan had raced to his tent to grab his gear, and on his way there, he'd witnessed old friends impaled by the arrows of Prince Dustin's greatest friend, the one-eyed archer Jude Holt. Most gruesome of all had been the man whose head had been blown to bits by Kyle Korynn's notorious thunder lance.

Presently, Sarenkellan shook his head. The Innutukians eventually gathered their wits and weapons, managing to put up a good fight, but Prince Dustin and his companions were relentless. Before long, it became clear that only fleeing would give any chance of survival.

The only ones who had survived, it seemed, were the four who'd come to the same conclusion as Sarenkellan. For three days, they'd wandered the forests of Vtusen, always in fear that the Monteraynians would emerge from the shadows to bring about terror and devastation upon them.

These days, he often found his resolve slipping, much as he attempted to hide his doubts from the men. Three years had passed since the great Innutukian Empire had been abruptly brought to its knees and splintered into dozens of smaller states, most of which immediately declared themselves autonomous. When Sarenkellan had enlisted to serve as a soldier, things had been so clear; he'd joined to maintain the stability of the Empire and resist those who would oppose the emperor's vision.

Now, it had grown increasingly difficult to define why he continued to serve. The Empire was gone, and yet he still fought in the name of Innutuk. But Sarenkellan had never picked up his war hammer to defend the honor of Innutuk specifically, only the empire she ran. With the nations fractured, he found himself questioning why he as a Rostacian whose people had declared themselves independent, still fought for a dream the world had awakened from.