Loomlit

Chapter 1: The Gleaming Citadel

The Citadel is the largest city and the capital of Orsa, by no means the largest country, that goes to Relheim up to the North, but definitely holds its own as one of the most successful in the world. And as such gained the famous title "The Silver City Of Orsa".

It has a place for everyone, opportunities for the poor to make it rich and a veritable center for all the trade in Orsa. It's the beating heart of the country, and with it one of the most defended. Orsa has seen its share of wars no doubt, while we currently live in a time of peace it is still an uneasy one, with small clashes and proxy wars being fought in the world and the more barren regions of Orsa it's not hard to think that a wrong step could lead to another war.

There never was a good war, or a bad peace.

"Hey kid, we're reaching the Southern Wall...it's your stop." A voice rose up from the front of the wagon. Coming from the driver, a stocky but brusk man, dressed in a simple brown leather vest and red shirt, he held the reins to the two horses in front as the whole thing rocked along the road.

"Thanks. I'll get out of your way." Digging through my pocket, I tossed the driver two pieces of silver, the equivalent of 2 weeks of work as I shifted my way to the back of the cart, moving past stacks of crates and barrels filled with produce and food as I hopped out past the drapes and planted my feet firmly on the dirt.

The wagon rattled further away from me as I stood straight and looked around me, tall and thin white-trunk trees flanked the sides of the road, blooming wide sheets of leaves on their branches as they flittered and shadowed the path underneath it. And turning behind me I saw it, the entrance to what I came all this way for.

A massive structure stretching high and mighty, tall black steeled plates formed the gigantic monument that bore itself deep in the ground between the valley. This was it, the Southern Wall of the Citadel, large clamping hooks speared and dug themselves into the stone forming the walls of the valley, snagging themselves in the formidable mountainous rock, holding it tight ensuring that no matter what, the wall wouldn't falter or waver from its duty.

A marvel of engineering and architecture, something I've only ever heard in second-hand accounts and the books telling of the imposing three black walls that defended the capital of Orsa. The Southern Wall, the one most used for traveling traders and foreign merchants coming from the southern regions and one that saw the most grueling battles, most importantly of all stood and defended against the attack and advance of the East Country, Menko's Crimson Army in the Sangrerian War. The conflict that grew violent and ruinous all those years ago when the High Emperor of Menko, Baso Sangrerian and his wife was found assassinated right within his own quarters in Dulva Palace.

Supposedly evidence was found that put Orsa right in the middle of the accusations, and without a proper successor in Menko's autocratic country since the Emperor and his wife were killed and they had no children soon the country found itself in the hands and control of its own army and military, the Crimson Feather Army. Built completely out of personnel born and groomed to be soldiers, the army was created to be the greatest yet, children spending their entire lives training and learning the ins and outs of warfare and combat until they reach the ready age to be deployed.

Whispered rumors or more likely stories coming from Menko about the Crimson Army always speak of something called the Red Feather, no one truly knows what it is but everyone believes that it is the process and ritual a soldier of the army undergoes once they attain the proper age. The rumors always tell of the glowing red bird that shines bright like a sun, bearing wide wings aflame and burning as a plume of blazing flame winds down its back. The bird supposedly bestows the soldier with a single feather taken from it's body, a feather than glows bright orange and red as it is always and forever enwreathed in the birds flame. The feather is branded against the soldiers chest, burning and scarring them as a visage of the very feather emblazons itself in them, granting strength and ruthlessness to serve their Emperor till the very end.

No one has truly ever seen a soldier with the brand since they say the mark wistfully dissipates upon a soldiers death and demise, flying and returning to the bird for yet another soldier to accept and be graced with. While seeming like a far gone folks tale and scare tactic, it would be reasonable to think that no one would really believe it, but most of the soldiers and knights of Orsa actually follow the tale, telling that it might be the only explanation of the Crimson Army's sheer strength and savage in battle, hundreds if not thousands charged against the Southern Wall in the war, crossing the Orsan Sea and channels that stood between Menko and the Citadel, they eventually arrived and in the dark of night began their assault, slamming against the wall with siege weapons from afar and soldiers scaling it with their very weapons, carving their blades into whatever tough metal they could to form holds, and should they fail and plummet to their death, ensure that those after them have a better chance.

The Citadel held them off after two days of constant battle, doing their best to keep any soldier from making it up and over the wall as when the Army ceased their advance and clamber for the top, they retaliated by decimating the rest with mortar and deadly cannon fire from atop the wall and mounting a line along the front base. It would be another week before the Crimson Army finally retreated, carrying their wounded and fleeing while whoever was left fended off and distracted any attempts at taking out the remaining.

Some few elders from Semni could still tell of their own eyes as they gazed on the aftermath of the Southern Wall attack, trees razed and destroyed to their stumps and roots, charred ground stretching for kilometers out from the wall, and the whole place smelled and stained of blood and death for months. Apparently if you go looking deep enough into the forests that cover the path to the wall, you can still find remnants and pieces of the battle, dirt-encrusted rusted helmets and armor, maybe even a Menko sword. Not that there aren't a few that try, some nuts in faraway towns and cities will pay good money for true historical pieces from battles.

And then there's the Northern Wall, by far the most quiet one as the others go, facing Relheim it sees little to no activity other than the occasional traveler. Though it isn't hard to see why, between Orsa and Relheim lies the great Verisian Sea, a giant crossing spanning days over treacherous violent seas, horrible weather and dangerous frozen sheets and icebergs stand between the shore and long journey to the wall. It's considered a miracle for any full ship or passing to make it, and so far there have been little to go around. Only desperate families and people dare to make the crossing, and most lose their lives in the process, leaving Relheim a mostly isolated country, having little means of trade with Orsa or the other two major countries without lengthy travels.

That leaves one more country and facing it is the Northwestern Wall. Dega is what lies ahead of the wall, a short few days travel over mostly populated areas and farmland will leave one standing before the great bridge leading across the sea to Dega. Another marvel of construction and engineering created in collaboration with Dega, spanning across large rivers and lakes while it stretches across a barren landscape of sand and dead life. Making the bridge one of the most safe and guarded passages between the countries, and one of the shortest.

But now what stood between me and the Citadel was passing through the Southern Wall, after that...well I actually never did plan this far, I barely expected to ever even get a mile away from Semni's crooked but comforting stone walls.

Lowering my rucksack to the ground next to me, I brought my hands up to my mouth, forming them into a entanglement of fingers that I didn't even know the steps to as I blew into the twisted horn, emanating a soft but sharp whistling sound into the air. The ringing mimicry of a birdsong as the sound was carried, resonating through the canyon pass.

Almost instantly a response was prompted, up high above, atop the wall a flash of light blinked on and off twice in succession, signifying that they heard the call.

Following the blink was a whistle, barely audible from way up high as the unmistakeable roar of machinery hummed to life, the groan of gears and steam hissed, various vents dotted amongst the top of the wall spewed a cloud of the vapor, announcing the reigniting of the engines that made up the wonder of the walls. Soon, it was clear that the air around me warmed as a flow of the walls breath rolled down the pass. Supposedly, the mechanisms drawing in and expelling air periodically throughout the days would spook nearby dwellings, several hermits and superstitious nomads living nearby believing that a massive giant was on the horizon and seeking them.