Fist of Sovereignty

Battle of Caer Gwylnos

Rain assaulted the decaying fortress. Lightning flared, revealing it and the nearby landscape, accompanied by the usual boom of thunder.

Caer Gwylnos stood amidst the Mistborn Pass; the only route into Alaria from Czibor. It was a construct of a bygone era, when Alaria's might stretched this far south. Leaders and edicts change however, and with the signing of the peace treaty long ago, the Caer was long forgotten. What few men remained were nothing more than a formality and, despite their efforts, the fortress fell, slowly but surely.

The stormy night sky, obscuring the moons light, afforded little visibility. The Emperor's Imperial Legion would be able to advance in relative silence. As if this fight wouldn't be hard enough thought Seren as she watched from the south west tower.

She looked down into the courtyard as the soldiers prepared; Alwyn, the commander of the keep, sat running a whetstone along the blade of his giant Claymore; Bedwyn sparred with his childhood friend Glyn; Arwen Stood atop the keep's central tower, high up. Her lip curled in disgust. Magic was a vile art; impure and corrupting. Humans were never to have such a power. Seren didn't care what the Witch said, she didn't trust her.

She tore her eyes away from the woman and focused back on the valley below. Small pockets of soldiers waited, hidden in the dense foliage. They were to act as sappers and destroy as many siege weapons as possible. The Witch was supposed to shield them from the rest. These ruined walls wouldn't survive modern trebuchets. The valley itself was mostly covered by woodland, with several streams flowing into a lake on the left side; the bulk of the Czibor army would be channelled down the middle.

Two advance teams lay at half a mile and a mile out from the Caer, they would return as soon as their foe came into view. What remained of the Black Hands had positioned themselves along the ramparts of the keep. Their captain had died in the last skirmish, and as his second in command, they now followed Seren. She briefly glanced down at her left hand; it was covered by a black leather glove, it wasn't hard to guess where their name came from.

The bulk of the forces were located inside the main structure. Although bulk may be too generous of a word; all the soldiers in total didn't number more than seventy. This wouldn't be a fight mused Seren it would be a slaughter

"You should really get some sleep young woman"

The sudden sound from behind caused her to jump slightly. For an older man, and one wearing plate armour at that, Alwyn sure could be quiet. She glanced at him briefly before looking back towards the horizon. "I'm fine" she said.

"Ah, child, but you've been up for hours. We'll have our warning when the scouts return. Get some rest; it'll do us all no good to have you yawning during the fight. Islwyn and his friends prepared some soup, I'll have some sent up" The old commander smiled, a warm grandfatherly smile, and left her perch.

It was about ten minutes later when Trystan approached her with a wooden bowl filled with vegetable soup. Or was it twenty minutes? Time seemed to stand still. The soup was hot, a wonderful change from the cold stormy weather, and filled with all manner of root vegetables; carrot, turnip, parsnips and more. The young warrior beamed at her as he returned to his post. Seren felt sorry for him; he was so young, barely twenty, and so idealistic. She had never met him before a few days ago, but he made a strong impression on her. He reminded her a lot of her little brother Cai.

A cold tear rolled down her cheek. Angrily, she tore her mind back to her role.

Gingerly she placed her bow against the tower wall and huddled down next to it. She was fortunate the roof was still intact. Alwyn was right; she had been awake a long time. Ever since the battle at Gwyliwr sleep had become a luxury. She allowed her eyelids to close and, within minutes, she was fast asleep.