A Kingdom in Half Light

Chapter 20; A Lost Saviour

The night was deep and empty; a shadow flitted between two trees. It moved silently toward the side of the road, watching, waiting. Then suddenly it darted across, momentarily silhouetted by the moon. There was a slight rustle of leaves and another figure appeared. The swish of a string let loose an arrow. It missed the first figure narrowly. There was a glint of metal and a hail of steel was let loose upon the second man. He fell to the floor and all was silent once more.

I picked myself up off the ground, and indeed saw that the corner was quite empty. Was I mad; am I to loose to that horror which plagues upon the brain? I set off east, hoping that that was an event caused by the ruins and not by an affliction of the mind.

 I passed two more ruined towns over the next few days, and then I reached an empty wasteland, it had obviously once been a huge lake, maybe more than one, but now it was dry and empty. The skeletal outline of a ship was framed on the horizon, casting long murky shadows across the ground.

The days were long and harsh, I could not see for the sand, which blew across the flat earth, and the sun baked me dry. Why had these once plentiful lands turned so bare?

I left that place on the third day, hoping never to return, I next entered back into the common lands to which I had once been. The earth seemed joyously unknowing of the absence of life. And I, the only journeyman to come through here these past years, could not have cared less. At mid noon the sun gazed down at me in wistful thought and during the night the moons mystic watch was upon me. This is how life was for those weeks, a last peace before the war.

It was on the morning breeze one day when I smelt a wafting aroma of fire, I could tell something was wrong for there was also the shouting of men and women. I squinted across the hill, there seemed to be a village south of me that was ablaze. I ran down, the mountainside was steep but I did not care, what was happening.

As I ran a man turned around and asked who I was, I told him that I had journeyed east from the camp.

“Our village has been attacked,” he said, “The southern lords are greedy, even though it was them who destroyed these plentiful lands. We are building an army, you say you have come from the battle camp, we would be honoured of you could help us.”

“What?!” I spluttered.

“We need more men, any one,” said the man, “Two thousand men are coming down from Lorzark, but that is not enough.”

Why should I help them? Why did I help them? Perhaps it was because I felt that I had no meaning, was it battle that called me? I had to know.

“I will,” I said, “But I have no weapons, no armour.”

“Oh we have plenty,” said the man, “I am Darthran, lord of this outpost, follow me the armoury is this way.”

I entered a small building piled high with weapons and armour. It was dimly lit and the windows were obscured from view. I chose a sword of surprising lightness. It was slightly hooked at the end and had signs of having seen battle before. My armour was plates of steel joined by leather and chain mail. On the front was a crest depicting a dragon with green eyes, longing for blood.

Two days passed and most of the men arrived, some having been ambushed on their way. It took a week to reach the border, the edge, the thing which kept peace and insanity apart. We were attacking the fortress of Falmoore, a once beautiful town, turned from its gracious ways by the greed of its leaders. It was well fortified, but we had catapults. Soon the north side of the outer wall had been reduced to rubble, and the troops were sent in, I was part of the charge. The resounding cries of men and the horrible crash of stone seemed to continue forever, like the machinery of hell.

I broke my way into a tower and fought my way up, followed closely by a band of soldiers. Darthran was standing down in the first part of the city, fighting amidst his men.

The tower staircase led its way onto the walkway above the wall; this was where the lightly armoured archers stood. In a pitiless massacre all were slaughtered, and their bodies left strewn like raindrops upon the ground. Soon the whole top of the wall was stained with blood, of our men, and of theirs. The catapults continued their barrage on Falmoore, destroying the obstacles we could not.

I looked down off the wall and saw Darthran. He lay slumped at the base of a building, his hand clutching his chest, a deep crimson liquid seeping from between his fingers. Another catapult fired, and I saw, as if in slow motion, a boulder fly through the air and smash into the building where he lay. There was nothing I could do, I tried to shout to him, but he didn’t seem to be able to move. He looked up and his mouth hung open, before being consumed by rubble. I stared in horror, almost loosing my balance. Another bolder smashed into the city near by, no one seemed to have noticed; they were all too busy fighting. There was a sudden crash bellow me and I realized that the wall I stood on had been accidentally hit, it toppled bellow me and I felt all sanity fall away with it. The moment suddenly became a motionless picture, just sounds, nothing else. Then the world came back and I felt the earth reconnect with me, and my leg was bent backwards.