Deathless

Deathless Chapter Thirty-Eight: Shatter

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Shatter

As Iepenel looked upwards at the sun rising over Arlenn's Point, its rays skimming over the edges of its great enormity, he reflected that this may well be his last day on Arlenia.

This was the day that he would meet his brother, Ashmur, for the first time in seven years. He wondered what would transpire. The way he remembered Ashmur was vastly different from the Ashmur he'd seen reflected in the atrocities Ashmur had approved of in this war.

Ashmur had decimated dozens of villages and settlements across Southern and Middle Arlenia, burning down barns and farming villages on the Pass, pillaging fishing settlements along the Frustum. Dozens of refugees fleeing Ashmur's wrath crossed the border into Imperial territory daily, adding to the burden that Northern Arlenia was already forced to shoulder.

This Ashmur now was in stark difference to the Ashmur that Iepenel had known since childhood, the loving, supportive Ashmur, brilliant, steadfast, and cunning, but completely loyal to his emperor. Ashmur had been a man of his principles, who stood by his word no matter what.

And then the day came when Iepenel had received a breathless messenger bringing news that Ashmur had lain siege to Oronthurin, the Capital of the South, and was staking his own claim to the Silver Crown.

Iepenel hadn't known how to respond. He had been forced to wage a long, bloody war against his own brother, their feud watering the soil of Arlenia with blood.

He felt a presence come up beside him, interrupting his thoughts. He glimpsed Captain Cuthlac's physique, broad shouldered and well muscled, with legs long and lithe.

"Sorry to disturb," Cuthlac said, his voice laced with unease. "My lord. The troops are ready. The ballistae are ready. The defences are ready. We await your command."

Iepenel waited a few seconds before he replied. "So it begins."

"Walk with me, Cuthlac," the emperor said, turning towards the camp.

"Of course," Cuthlac said.

Cuthlac was dressed in finely cut leather armour, a bow and quiver slung across his back and a shortsword at his side, the raiment of the Eagles.

They walked back towards their makeshift fortress they'd thrown together in the past couple weeks. It was a measly thing, with naught but wooden walls shoddily wrought together. Barely peeking over the walls were the tips of their siege equipment, ballistae, scorpions, and the like. A trench surrounded the encampment, with only a makeshift wooden drawbridge connecting the two sides.

He could see pikes bristling behind the walls, shaking in the hands of the men who wielded them, some eagerly awaiting the moment that blood would run across those blades, others dreading what was to come.

Iepenel could only hope that they would be able to hold off the rebels for long enough.

Two thousand against a hundred thousand.

The odds were against them, and even with the full might of the rest of the Imperial Battalion they'd only have a hundred thousand fighters numbered among them. The rebels had in their possession a hundred and thirty thousand bloodthirsty wretches. The odds were not as bad as they could be, but they were much less than preferable, especially with the rebels surrounding the Imperial host to the west and south.

Cuthlac left the emperor as they entered the encampment to organise his troops: the few that remained of the Eagles.

Ancelian, dressed in full plate armour, a sword at his belt and a shield slung across his back, approached Iepenel as he arrived.