Deathless

Deathless Chapter Forty-Six: Twilight

Chapter Forty-Six: Twilight

The Battle of Arlenn's Point rages on, spear pitted against spear, sword pitted against sword, brother pitted against brother. The rebel forces pound against the Arlenian host as rain beats against the soil. But the Arlenians do not relent. They give as good as they get, clashing against the rebel forces in a legendary duel of fates.

And on the slopes of the mountain where the empire was born, so too would the empire come to meet its end. One way or another.

All this while three lone warriors, separate from the main battle, go to fight the duels that would determine how the war would end.

Two warriors, armed with a mace, a battle-axe, and a pouch of arcane artefacts, ascend the mountain to meet the mage who would see all of Serenar burn for the sake of his revenge.

The last warrior, a lone wolf, armed with a sword and a crossbow strapped to her back, plods through the battlefield, passing by the dead and the dying on her way to end this war on her terms.

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An hour passes. Then two. The mountain is silent, as if it were holding its breath. The only sound they hear is the rapidly fading clash of steel in the distance.

Vanya does not know how the Arlenian host fares. At this stage, she doesn't particularly care. Nothing matters to her anymore. Nothing, except the longing for Axan's head crushed under her mace.

She becomes aware of her own footsteps, plodding on through the heavily forested slopes of Arlenn's Point. They crunch against the fallen leaves, echoing across the silent forest.

The seemingly peaceful forest betrays itself; these same grounds have been stained with blood many times over. And on this day, Vanya would see to it that the roots would drink blood once more. She clutched her mace tighter still, her fist dampening the weapon's hilt with her sweat.

Not much farther now. Not much farther at all until she would have her revenge.

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Fercen doesn't know how many casualties she passes. She stopped counting at a hundred. She can't even tell if the corpses belong to rebels or Arlenians or Luartians. All are equal in death. Or whatever state of existence these poor wretches could be considered as.

All around her, she hears their cries, their moans, their low growls. The sound of the fallen soldier, itching to have his revenge.

She clutches her crossbow tighter. She needs to be careful, now. The fortress they'd built so many days ago grows nearer on the horizon. Kalun and Isylric must have fallen back to that position. The cowards. The moment the battle turned awry, they decided to flee their posts.

And that will be their downfall, she vowed.

Fercen bites back a sob as she recalls the faces of her comrades falling on the front line. She knew that it would happen. That they would lose people on the path to victory. And she'd lost people before. It had been a long war.

But then their plan had worked so well. The rebels had fallen underneath their charge. She allowed herself to hope that their losses would be low. And then just like that, it was taken away from her. Butchered, right before her eyes.

Fercen tightens her advance.

"To ride and to ruin," she mutters under her breath, her tone almost melancholic, but not quite. An ember of hope remains, however dim.