- Joined
- Jul 1, 2009
- Messages
- 1,147
I threw together a short story, as I want to be an author in my later years.
This is the first half chapter of a small non-public e-book I intend to write for mostly my own amusement.
I tend to find that I'm too 'to the point' in my stories, and I don't leave any room for imagination.
I'll work on that.
Warning: Explicit Violence.
If you have a weak stomach, stop reading now and leave this thread.
You have been warned.
For those who don't, this is one of my more violent stories, but I've always been fascinated with war scenes.
In my mind the more detailed, the better.
Anyways, enjoy.
The dark silhouette of a glooming Snow Drift mountain peak appeared in the faint distance of an open field. Morning dew was starting to appear on the gleaming grass, and in the horizon birds began to chirp and sing as if unaware of their surroundings. A chilled wind began to sweep into the damp valley, and frost quickly gripped the air. The night had been long and tiring, but morning was finally soon due.
Dark red and brown blood splattered most of what was green in the field. The stench in the air of rotting bodies would weaken even the most hardened soldier, stripping away all of his will to fight. As many men and women have learned through the ages, though, this was not enough to hault the advance into unknown lands to conquer and defeat.
Garen rose as a dark figure began to strut towards him, slightly limping from the wounds suffered the previous day. "Commander," the dark figure boomed, "The caravans were attacked along the way to the battle stations, and our rations are low." With a sigh, Garen wiped the grassy dirt from his shining silver breastplate as he rose. Since he was a child he had always worn some form of protective gear in the night (most of the time being simple thin leather) but the previous night was different. The previous night had kept him up with strong memories of screaming and dispair. He had feared for his life for the first time in many years, and on that night he would not feel comfortable without a full set of heavy plate mail.
"Send a messenger east along the Valarian river and have the first town he comes across send us provisions," he responded. "Make sure he is equiped with some form of ghillie and has a torch incase of emergency." The figure gave him a wearly look, as if to say he disapproved. "Surely you don't want to risk giving away our position, sire?" he whispered, but Garen was unmoved by his most trusted man's speculation. "What would you have me do, starve the men? Now go." he replied. With that, the chief limped away in tainted thought.
Miles was a wise man and Garen had known this, but he was too bias when it came to the lives of the many. He had risen through the ranks fast; he had quickly become the youngest commander in chief to ever serve under the Empire, but he would never truly be a worthy leader. Garen knew this from a very early age. Though he did not like his ideals, he still trusted the man with his life.
Garen walked quickly to his operations tent, with the strut of a man prepared for battle. He and his men had been through a great ordeal, but everyone knew that it was only a short time until they would be thrusted back into combat. "Vigilance is everything," he had once said, "And to be unprepared is to be dead."
As he entered the tent he immediately noticed the fear in his men's eyes. They knew something he did not, and he did not like this. "The fourth infantry platoon was cut off just north of the Fairbank fields. None survived." As if last night's defeat wasn't enough, they were now short another 50 men. Some would argue that it is a small number of men, but in a war like this, every last one counts.
They were now cut off from supply, short-handed, wounded, lacking medical supplies and battle weary. In the years to come, tacticians will question how they ever survived as long as they did.
Four hundred meters east of Garen's deployment, an arrow wisps through the air. It strikes the messenger in the neck, paralyzing him instantly and knocking him off of his horse. He hits the ground, and as he looks at the pieces of his windpipe scattered in the dead grass, he tries to scream but fails. A faint war cry is heard in the distance. His last two thoughts were that whoever had hit him was a hell of a shot, which he smirked to, and then of everything he needed to live for. In the Empire very little is given to the families of deceased soldiers. His children would go hungry until his wife could lay with another man.
By now everyone in the operations tent had known their fate. The situation had been made very clear by general Ryan J. Hirk; a prestigious man that Garen always thought would find a second head in the deep bowls of his ass if he had searched hard enough. Why the one on his shoulders was not there already always puzzled him.
"There is just no way around it this time Garen," Hirk explained, "Our scouts reported a battalion to the north and maybe as many as five thousand held in at King's Crossing."
"I'm afraid that he's right, old friend," Miles commented, "We appear to be surrounded." The tent remained silent as they waited for their commander to give them insight. Anything to get them out of this dangerous situation, like he had in the past. But Garen fell silent. He had no words of wisdom, no mentor's speech to sooth the minds of his men, and certainly no ultimate plan to get them out of such a deep bind.
"As it stands the Hakar have us clearly out-numbered and out-manned. However we've been in worse situations and come through valiantly. We will lead our forces to victory once more." Garen stated. "Surely you can't believe that we will come out of this one untouched like before. We all know the only reason we survived that last engagement was because of the sham-" Hirk started, but was quickly cut off. Garen pushed him aside in an attempt to move closer to the map table, and replied "You know nothing of what happened that day. Your arrogance has blinded you, fool. Now prepare the men for a defensive engagement and ensure there is a twenty four hour watch around our perimeter." Hirk hesitated to move at first, but at the first sign that he would not be struck he rushed out of the tent mumbling something under his breath.
As soon as Hirk had left, Garen immediately turned to his other commanding officers with a fiery hatred in his eyes. "I assume none of you have anything else to say on the matter. Or does someone else have a plan they would like to share with the rest of us?" The room remained silent, and Miles rushed out of the tent. That was the last time any of them would see him alive.
Midday was approaching fast, most barriers only half complete, when the Hakar war drum was heard. The first watchman would claim they were three hundred meters away when they heard it, but the second would claim it was close to three hundred fifty. Neither were right, as before they could complete their report to their commanding officer, an arrow struck him in the heart, killing him instantly. Before either one could overcome their shock, three Hakar soldiers pounced on them. The second watchman had his head cut clean off, and thus felt no pain, however his partner was not as fortunate. Instead he was hit below the knee, taking his lower leg three-quarters the way off, and would not bleed out for another seven minutes.
At the seemingly exact time the officer was hit with an arrow, the alarm bells in the camp were sounded. The handful of troops who did not already have their weapons in their hands soon did. Those who were prepared were standing guard at their make-shift barriers, prepared for their inevitable deaths. Only one man fell to his knees and cried, as the alarms brought back memories of the previous engagement. If they had been in their home land he would have been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, but they were far from any doctors. The first non comissioned officer to cross his path, first sergeant Peter K. Thompson, would slit his throat. He would bleed out with teers stretched across his face.
The first wave of Hakar soldiers threw themselves upon the spears of Garen's men. This way they could insure that their brothers behind them could most definitely slay them before they could ready themselves for another long-ranged attack. The second wave threw their hatchets and throwing knives (some used rocks, as long range weapons were given only to those battle-proven among the Hakar soldiers) into the crowd of defending soldiers. Most missed, but a couple hit their targets dead on (a few soldiers recieved a five to seven pound bolder to the face, which crushed their helmets and gave them internal brain hemorrhaging) while others were more fortunate and recieved a knife or axe to the throat or chest. Death came faster if a clean cut was made.
Five hundred feet into the ranks (as Garen was preparing his weaponry inside the operations tent) a torch found its way onto a pile of black powder. The resulting blast would completely annhilate three nearby tents which housed the comissioned officers for two platoons and a company of men. The operational tent was lucky (seeing as how it was moved the previous day due to a persistant rock buried deep in the ground that made the map table unbalanced) and only a quarter was incinerated. The other three quarters caught fire immediately and killed all commanding officers except for Garen, who was bent down behind a stack of bastard swords collecting the straps for his leg guards. However the instant inferno sucked up the oxygen 15 feet in diamtere around the tent and he passed out soon after the explosion, eyebrows singeing as he fell.
The battle seemed to go on for hours to the men fighting it, when in retrospect the entire camp fell in just under six minutes. By the seventh minute, a total of thirteen soldiers survived (eleven critically injured and would die shortly after, one was fortunate enough to pass out in a pile of his own crap as the Hakar believed him to be dead, and one buried himself in a pile of rubble to conceal himself from both his non comissioned officers and the attacking enemies). Later Hakar statistics would indicate that only two hundred seventeen warriors died in combat.
Two miles north of the warzone, Garen's helpless and nearly lifeless body was presented to the commanding chief of the Hakar. It would be the last time Garen ever saw all ten fingers at one time.
The following morning had a stale wind, and everyone in the Empire had known the mother earth had seen death that day. It was inevitable in these times, but that never appeased the families of those who died to protect them. As the shamans in the north prepared their chants for their dead comrades, the Empire recieved the news of Garen's failure. For the some ten thousand men Garen had set out with only a raven survived to bring the horrible news.
"Have you heard the news, sire?" the squire had asked, but Tosh was too focused to even hear him. Of course he had heard the news, and he had a responsibility to the king to tell his son of what had befallen him the previous day. "Inform the council of what has happened. We need to bolster the northern defenses. The Hakar are sure to push south now that our numbers have weakened," he answered. With a short bow, the squire hurried off into the gloomy distance to do as he was commanded. The great golden pillars of the halls leading to the throne were a bit less shiny this day. It was as if the sun beat down less on those were not fortunate in the war.
As Tosh broke the news to Gabriel, son of the King, the high council was preparing for a meet to discuss what their next form of action would be. Arrogance was ignored in the council, and there would be no dispute as to who would lead them now that their king had been slain. The burden had befallen the chief advisor, Tosh, until a rightful replacement could be selected. The royal bloodline selected Gabriel to rule the Empire, but he was not of age. In a time of peace he could have been given a royal advisory to the crown to be taught how to rule, but in these dark times the most mature of minds were needed in order to bring success.
The Hakar people were a silent race, but deadly none the less. They were barbarians in the eyes of many who dwelled in the Empire, but they were still a large super power, if not the largest. The Empire had known this, and for centuries peace was kept between them. Recently however there was extreme unrest throughout the land of Heronia, as there were food shortages and extreme droughts. Basic commodities became the means of war.
In the field of bodies and ruin, the soldier hiding in the rubble is found by a Hakar warrior who was tasked with ensuring that none had survived the battle. He had been taking the scalps the soldiers who were left when he had made this discovery. He beat the man until every bone in his face was shattered, then dragged him to the Hakar camp. The warrior used a small blade with a neurotoxin painted on the tips. A total of one hundred seventeen cuts were made to the Heronian soldier before he had surcome to his wounds. If his jaw had not been broken, he would have been able to scream in agony. However he still managed to make a high pitch squeel that could be heard nearly four hundred feet away. Even the Hakar warrior knew it was one of the most painful deaths he could imagine, and this pleased him.
The high council was argueing over where they would get their provisions for the war effort as a figure rushed through the gate leading to the main hall. The councilors became silent as soon as the crashing noise in the distance became apparent. A few moments later, footsteps could be heard leading toward them. All remained silent as Gabriel approached the throne and took his seat, with the grace of a boy who knew what was his, and was rightfully taking it. "Sire, I thought you had a date with the royal advisory today?" a voice squeeked from Gabriel's left. But the boy was focused dead ahead of him, as if staring into oblivion. "I have no time for the ignorant remarks of a fool like that. There is termoil in the land, and it must be dealt with," he responded. "But sire," the councilor began, "Tosh was to lead us-" but he was cut off. "Quiet you fool. I am not in the mood to be argueing over whom shall be leading the realm. I am the rightful heir, and that is all that will be said. Now if you would all please leave the grand hall and return to your duties. I have business I must take care of immediately and I require the throne room." For a few seconds the councilors looked at one another, puzzled, but then quickly sat up and moved toward the exit.
Gabriel was only a boy in the eyes of the council, but he was a wise boy at that. He had been tought by the brightest of minds throughout the land of Heronia, and he had been recieving private lessons on leadership by the royal advisory to the crown since he was just a small lad. He was certainly no fool, and would not be made one by the likes of the old bumbling bastards who dared to call themselves hierarchy. He was not always in such a foul mood, but the death of his father brought upon a great bitterness which he feared would never leave him.
Moments after the council had escorted themselves out of the grand hall, a tall man wearing full plate mail entered the room. He was trailed by two elitest soldiers who held their heads high and walked with the sturdiness of battle-hardened warriors. As they approached the king they lowered to one knee and the commanding officer, the one in front, looked up and said "my lord, how may we serve you?" Gabriel stood up and unsheathed his iron, diamond enscrusted sword, then walked toward the leader with a stance that he was about to strike. The leader did not even flinch as Gabriel brought his rapier upon the soldier's neck and said "Heph Stewart, I hereby knight thee and assign thee the duty of commander in chief of the Heronian imperial army. You will serve the crown to the best of your abilities and take orders from none other than myself. Do you agree?" without a moments hesitation, the soldier answered "I do, my lord. Your will is my command." Gabriel smirked, then sheathed his sword once again. "Rise, commander, and tell me of the recent doings north of the mountains."
"You can't be serious?" Tosh asked in amazement, "Does he know the consequences of his actions?" One councilor stood up and slammed his fist onto the table, "He has no idea what kind of pain and suffering he will bring to this court! He is just a bloody boy! He should not be leading us!" and with that Tosh raised one hand and replied "Quiet you fool. I could have you beheaded for that comment." The councilor then took his seat and remained quiet. "Granted he lost his father and is seeking revenge, but does he honestly believe that we could stand toe to toe with the Hakar? We simply do not have the resources," Tosh continued. "He is too badly hurt to see the error of his ways. He will come to insight eventually," another counsilor replied. "At what cost?" Tosh began, "Another few thousand lives? Our homes and families? If we do not approach this the right way we will all be eating out of the hands of our new Hakar rulers." But with this the eldest councilor rose and began walking to the door. Just before he exited, he said "It no longer matters. We cannot evict him from his throne and he is too much like his father to be convinced otherwise. Tomorrow morning we will send our forces north of the mountains and begin another fruitless assault on their home land. May mother earth watch over us."
Just south of the castle hundreds of non comissioned officers raced through the town, spreading word that they will be deployed the following day. All soldiers of the crown are to report to their respective barracks at nine AM sharp. Failure to show up for duty would lead to charges of treason, resulting in trial before death.
Just north of the Snow Drift mountains, nearly fifty thousand Hakar warriors prepare for an assault of the Heronian castle front. Garen is continued to be tortured, now three fingers short, in through the later hours of the night. He has asked them what it is they seek from him, but the only response he has been given thus far is a smirk followed by another whipping. All hope seems to be lost.
This story is purely fiction and is not meant to resemble any person(s) in real life.
If it has, it is purely coincidental.
This is the first half chapter of a small non-public e-book I intend to write for mostly my own amusement.
I tend to find that I'm too 'to the point' in my stories, and I don't leave any room for imagination.
I'll work on that.
Warning: Explicit Violence.
If you have a weak stomach, stop reading now and leave this thread.
You have been warned.
For those who don't, this is one of my more violent stories, but I've always been fascinated with war scenes.
In my mind the more detailed, the better.
Anyways, enjoy.
Chapter 1
The dark silhouette of a glooming Snow Drift mountain peak appeared in the faint distance of an open field. Morning dew was starting to appear on the gleaming grass, and in the horizon birds began to chirp and sing as if unaware of their surroundings. A chilled wind began to sweep into the damp valley, and frost quickly gripped the air. The night had been long and tiring, but morning was finally soon due.
Dark red and brown blood splattered most of what was green in the field. The stench in the air of rotting bodies would weaken even the most hardened soldier, stripping away all of his will to fight. As many men and women have learned through the ages, though, this was not enough to hault the advance into unknown lands to conquer and defeat.
Garen rose as a dark figure began to strut towards him, slightly limping from the wounds suffered the previous day. "Commander," the dark figure boomed, "The caravans were attacked along the way to the battle stations, and our rations are low." With a sigh, Garen wiped the grassy dirt from his shining silver breastplate as he rose. Since he was a child he had always worn some form of protective gear in the night (most of the time being simple thin leather) but the previous night was different. The previous night had kept him up with strong memories of screaming and dispair. He had feared for his life for the first time in many years, and on that night he would not feel comfortable without a full set of heavy plate mail.
"Send a messenger east along the Valarian river and have the first town he comes across send us provisions," he responded. "Make sure he is equiped with some form of ghillie and has a torch incase of emergency." The figure gave him a wearly look, as if to say he disapproved. "Surely you don't want to risk giving away our position, sire?" he whispered, but Garen was unmoved by his most trusted man's speculation. "What would you have me do, starve the men? Now go." he replied. With that, the chief limped away in tainted thought.
Miles was a wise man and Garen had known this, but he was too bias when it came to the lives of the many. He had risen through the ranks fast; he had quickly become the youngest commander in chief to ever serve under the Empire, but he would never truly be a worthy leader. Garen knew this from a very early age. Though he did not like his ideals, he still trusted the man with his life.
Garen walked quickly to his operations tent, with the strut of a man prepared for battle. He and his men had been through a great ordeal, but everyone knew that it was only a short time until they would be thrusted back into combat. "Vigilance is everything," he had once said, "And to be unprepared is to be dead."
As he entered the tent he immediately noticed the fear in his men's eyes. They knew something he did not, and he did not like this. "The fourth infantry platoon was cut off just north of the Fairbank fields. None survived." As if last night's defeat wasn't enough, they were now short another 50 men. Some would argue that it is a small number of men, but in a war like this, every last one counts.
They were now cut off from supply, short-handed, wounded, lacking medical supplies and battle weary. In the years to come, tacticians will question how they ever survived as long as they did.
*****
Four hundred meters east of Garen's deployment, an arrow wisps through the air. It strikes the messenger in the neck, paralyzing him instantly and knocking him off of his horse. He hits the ground, and as he looks at the pieces of his windpipe scattered in the dead grass, he tries to scream but fails. A faint war cry is heard in the distance. His last two thoughts were that whoever had hit him was a hell of a shot, which he smirked to, and then of everything he needed to live for. In the Empire very little is given to the families of deceased soldiers. His children would go hungry until his wife could lay with another man.
*****
By now everyone in the operations tent had known their fate. The situation had been made very clear by general Ryan J. Hirk; a prestigious man that Garen always thought would find a second head in the deep bowls of his ass if he had searched hard enough. Why the one on his shoulders was not there already always puzzled him.
"There is just no way around it this time Garen," Hirk explained, "Our scouts reported a battalion to the north and maybe as many as five thousand held in at King's Crossing."
"I'm afraid that he's right, old friend," Miles commented, "We appear to be surrounded." The tent remained silent as they waited for their commander to give them insight. Anything to get them out of this dangerous situation, like he had in the past. But Garen fell silent. He had no words of wisdom, no mentor's speech to sooth the minds of his men, and certainly no ultimate plan to get them out of such a deep bind.
"As it stands the Hakar have us clearly out-numbered and out-manned. However we've been in worse situations and come through valiantly. We will lead our forces to victory once more." Garen stated. "Surely you can't believe that we will come out of this one untouched like before. We all know the only reason we survived that last engagement was because of the sham-" Hirk started, but was quickly cut off. Garen pushed him aside in an attempt to move closer to the map table, and replied "You know nothing of what happened that day. Your arrogance has blinded you, fool. Now prepare the men for a defensive engagement and ensure there is a twenty four hour watch around our perimeter." Hirk hesitated to move at first, but at the first sign that he would not be struck he rushed out of the tent mumbling something under his breath.
As soon as Hirk had left, Garen immediately turned to his other commanding officers with a fiery hatred in his eyes. "I assume none of you have anything else to say on the matter. Or does someone else have a plan they would like to share with the rest of us?" The room remained silent, and Miles rushed out of the tent. That was the last time any of them would see him alive.
*****
Midday was approaching fast, most barriers only half complete, when the Hakar war drum was heard. The first watchman would claim they were three hundred meters away when they heard it, but the second would claim it was close to three hundred fifty. Neither were right, as before they could complete their report to their commanding officer, an arrow struck him in the heart, killing him instantly. Before either one could overcome their shock, three Hakar soldiers pounced on them. The second watchman had his head cut clean off, and thus felt no pain, however his partner was not as fortunate. Instead he was hit below the knee, taking his lower leg three-quarters the way off, and would not bleed out for another seven minutes.
At the seemingly exact time the officer was hit with an arrow, the alarm bells in the camp were sounded. The handful of troops who did not already have their weapons in their hands soon did. Those who were prepared were standing guard at their make-shift barriers, prepared for their inevitable deaths. Only one man fell to his knees and cried, as the alarms brought back memories of the previous engagement. If they had been in their home land he would have been diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, but they were far from any doctors. The first non comissioned officer to cross his path, first sergeant Peter K. Thompson, would slit his throat. He would bleed out with teers stretched across his face.
The first wave of Hakar soldiers threw themselves upon the spears of Garen's men. This way they could insure that their brothers behind them could most definitely slay them before they could ready themselves for another long-ranged attack. The second wave threw their hatchets and throwing knives (some used rocks, as long range weapons were given only to those battle-proven among the Hakar soldiers) into the crowd of defending soldiers. Most missed, but a couple hit their targets dead on (a few soldiers recieved a five to seven pound bolder to the face, which crushed their helmets and gave them internal brain hemorrhaging) while others were more fortunate and recieved a knife or axe to the throat or chest. Death came faster if a clean cut was made.
Five hundred feet into the ranks (as Garen was preparing his weaponry inside the operations tent) a torch found its way onto a pile of black powder. The resulting blast would completely annhilate three nearby tents which housed the comissioned officers for two platoons and a company of men. The operational tent was lucky (seeing as how it was moved the previous day due to a persistant rock buried deep in the ground that made the map table unbalanced) and only a quarter was incinerated. The other three quarters caught fire immediately and killed all commanding officers except for Garen, who was bent down behind a stack of bastard swords collecting the straps for his leg guards. However the instant inferno sucked up the oxygen 15 feet in diamtere around the tent and he passed out soon after the explosion, eyebrows singeing as he fell.
The battle seemed to go on for hours to the men fighting it, when in retrospect the entire camp fell in just under six minutes. By the seventh minute, a total of thirteen soldiers survived (eleven critically injured and would die shortly after, one was fortunate enough to pass out in a pile of his own crap as the Hakar believed him to be dead, and one buried himself in a pile of rubble to conceal himself from both his non comissioned officers and the attacking enemies). Later Hakar statistics would indicate that only two hundred seventeen warriors died in combat.
*****
Two miles north of the warzone, Garen's helpless and nearly lifeless body was presented to the commanding chief of the Hakar. It would be the last time Garen ever saw all ten fingers at one time.
Chapter 2
The following morning had a stale wind, and everyone in the Empire had known the mother earth had seen death that day. It was inevitable in these times, but that never appeased the families of those who died to protect them. As the shamans in the north prepared their chants for their dead comrades, the Empire recieved the news of Garen's failure. For the some ten thousand men Garen had set out with only a raven survived to bring the horrible news.
"Have you heard the news, sire?" the squire had asked, but Tosh was too focused to even hear him. Of course he had heard the news, and he had a responsibility to the king to tell his son of what had befallen him the previous day. "Inform the council of what has happened. We need to bolster the northern defenses. The Hakar are sure to push south now that our numbers have weakened," he answered. With a short bow, the squire hurried off into the gloomy distance to do as he was commanded. The great golden pillars of the halls leading to the throne were a bit less shiny this day. It was as if the sun beat down less on those were not fortunate in the war.
As Tosh broke the news to Gabriel, son of the King, the high council was preparing for a meet to discuss what their next form of action would be. Arrogance was ignored in the council, and there would be no dispute as to who would lead them now that their king had been slain. The burden had befallen the chief advisor, Tosh, until a rightful replacement could be selected. The royal bloodline selected Gabriel to rule the Empire, but he was not of age. In a time of peace he could have been given a royal advisory to the crown to be taught how to rule, but in these dark times the most mature of minds were needed in order to bring success.
The Hakar people were a silent race, but deadly none the less. They were barbarians in the eyes of many who dwelled in the Empire, but they were still a large super power, if not the largest. The Empire had known this, and for centuries peace was kept between them. Recently however there was extreme unrest throughout the land of Heronia, as there were food shortages and extreme droughts. Basic commodities became the means of war.
*****
In the field of bodies and ruin, the soldier hiding in the rubble is found by a Hakar warrior who was tasked with ensuring that none had survived the battle. He had been taking the scalps the soldiers who were left when he had made this discovery. He beat the man until every bone in his face was shattered, then dragged him to the Hakar camp. The warrior used a small blade with a neurotoxin painted on the tips. A total of one hundred seventeen cuts were made to the Heronian soldier before he had surcome to his wounds. If his jaw had not been broken, he would have been able to scream in agony. However he still managed to make a high pitch squeel that could be heard nearly four hundred feet away. Even the Hakar warrior knew it was one of the most painful deaths he could imagine, and this pleased him.
*****
The high council was argueing over where they would get their provisions for the war effort as a figure rushed through the gate leading to the main hall. The councilors became silent as soon as the crashing noise in the distance became apparent. A few moments later, footsteps could be heard leading toward them. All remained silent as Gabriel approached the throne and took his seat, with the grace of a boy who knew what was his, and was rightfully taking it. "Sire, I thought you had a date with the royal advisory today?" a voice squeeked from Gabriel's left. But the boy was focused dead ahead of him, as if staring into oblivion. "I have no time for the ignorant remarks of a fool like that. There is termoil in the land, and it must be dealt with," he responded. "But sire," the councilor began, "Tosh was to lead us-" but he was cut off. "Quiet you fool. I am not in the mood to be argueing over whom shall be leading the realm. I am the rightful heir, and that is all that will be said. Now if you would all please leave the grand hall and return to your duties. I have business I must take care of immediately and I require the throne room." For a few seconds the councilors looked at one another, puzzled, but then quickly sat up and moved toward the exit.
Gabriel was only a boy in the eyes of the council, but he was a wise boy at that. He had been tought by the brightest of minds throughout the land of Heronia, and he had been recieving private lessons on leadership by the royal advisory to the crown since he was just a small lad. He was certainly no fool, and would not be made one by the likes of the old bumbling bastards who dared to call themselves hierarchy. He was not always in such a foul mood, but the death of his father brought upon a great bitterness which he feared would never leave him.
Moments after the council had escorted themselves out of the grand hall, a tall man wearing full plate mail entered the room. He was trailed by two elitest soldiers who held their heads high and walked with the sturdiness of battle-hardened warriors. As they approached the king they lowered to one knee and the commanding officer, the one in front, looked up and said "my lord, how may we serve you?" Gabriel stood up and unsheathed his iron, diamond enscrusted sword, then walked toward the leader with a stance that he was about to strike. The leader did not even flinch as Gabriel brought his rapier upon the soldier's neck and said "Heph Stewart, I hereby knight thee and assign thee the duty of commander in chief of the Heronian imperial army. You will serve the crown to the best of your abilities and take orders from none other than myself. Do you agree?" without a moments hesitation, the soldier answered "I do, my lord. Your will is my command." Gabriel smirked, then sheathed his sword once again. "Rise, commander, and tell me of the recent doings north of the mountains."
*****
"You can't be serious?" Tosh asked in amazement, "Does he know the consequences of his actions?" One councilor stood up and slammed his fist onto the table, "He has no idea what kind of pain and suffering he will bring to this court! He is just a bloody boy! He should not be leading us!" and with that Tosh raised one hand and replied "Quiet you fool. I could have you beheaded for that comment." The councilor then took his seat and remained quiet. "Granted he lost his father and is seeking revenge, but does he honestly believe that we could stand toe to toe with the Hakar? We simply do not have the resources," Tosh continued. "He is too badly hurt to see the error of his ways. He will come to insight eventually," another counsilor replied. "At what cost?" Tosh began, "Another few thousand lives? Our homes and families? If we do not approach this the right way we will all be eating out of the hands of our new Hakar rulers." But with this the eldest councilor rose and began walking to the door. Just before he exited, he said "It no longer matters. We cannot evict him from his throne and he is too much like his father to be convinced otherwise. Tomorrow morning we will send our forces north of the mountains and begin another fruitless assault on their home land. May mother earth watch over us."
*****
Just south of the castle hundreds of non comissioned officers raced through the town, spreading word that they will be deployed the following day. All soldiers of the crown are to report to their respective barracks at nine AM sharp. Failure to show up for duty would lead to charges of treason, resulting in trial before death.
*****
Just north of the Snow Drift mountains, nearly fifty thousand Hakar warriors prepare for an assault of the Heronian castle front. Garen is continued to be tortured, now three fingers short, in through the later hours of the night. He has asked them what it is they seek from him, but the only response he has been given thus far is a smirk followed by another whipping. All hope seems to be lost.
This story is purely fiction and is not meant to resemble any person(s) in real life.
If it has, it is purely coincidental.
Attachments
Last edited:
)?
