2

10 years later.

The orange of the day’s sunset cast on the horizon sky. Its golden hues radiating to the foreign land, its vast green fields, its mysterious forests in the distance and the worked soldiers as they hammer in the last tents of the war camp. Tattered horsemen gallop in through the gates, returning from scout duty just as fresh scouts, with replenished supplies head out. The light smell of burnt wood from fresh lit torches fills the air and trails of its smoke dissolve above the sharp end palisade walls. The fires that flicker in the wind ready to fend off the surrounding darkness of the night.

With every victory, his ambition grew greater. In his tent, King of the north western kingdom of Genogem, Tidwield Ivandaruth gathered with the men from his war council. “Another great victory” said Salbas, the king’s adviser as he walked around the table with the blood, mud and sweat covered armored men leaning back on their chairs. It had been early at dawn, the camp was just starting to get built, King Tidwield had the numerical advantage but that didn’t seem to matter to them. They had axe in one hand, torch on the other. They charged at Tidwield’s formation, primitive looking men. A straight line to the building supplies. They jumped, crashed, swung their axes wildly trying to get through the lines. Impaled on swords, slashed by swords, one armed, one legged, it wasn’t over till they bled out or got staved in their hearts. The Duesart men’s savagery is well known, but it seems they’re even more savage in their own lands.

“Lord, I have troubling news, that battle from this morning is only the beginning” said Salbas as he sighted. He was a scrawny man, advanced in age, relatively small in stature compared to the rest in the council. He’s known to have witnessed many battles, and for spending countless hours studying their formations, logistics and maps. “Our scouts have reported a large number of Elosian soldiers to the south east, they march towards us. They’ll be here in around two days, my lord” Salbas said, lightly squeezing a rolled paper in his hand.

When ever King Tidwield fought any Elosian army, he made sure to eat half a day before. He preferred to go hungry rather than vomit his food while having to block a blow or swing his mighty sword. The sharp tips of their long pikes would be the first thing you would see from their approaching army. And usually, just below that, a skewered head of a slayed enemy. It wasn’t just heads either. Sometimes it was a newborn child, even unspeakable flesh could be sometimes seen swaying in the long pikes as they marched or thrust. Their black and dark gray cuirass armors matched their pale expressions barely visible in the shadows of the thick steel crevices of their helmets. Crimson red dragon wings, resembling more of flesh than metal were adorned on each ear of their helmets, sharply angled back, almost like an arrow pointing their destination.

Tidwield remembers a young man he used to praise, disciplined in study, a seemingly natural born leader. He also remembers the same young man with a sharp end of a pike coming out of his mouth as his bloodstained face came for him every time an Elosian general thrust at him.

It was not uncommon to see escaped slaves from Elosia with cut off ears and noses in other kingdoms. Most of them were citizens once, and made slaves when they didn’t follow the regime. Elosian torture devices would occasionally show up in the black market. While their allies to the north, the Duesart killed by instinct, Elosians on the other hand did it for fun.

Corc, Tidwield’s young son stood up sharply “Salbas, ready the supplies, were retreating” he promptly ordered. “Hold! Were not retreating” said Tidwield standing up. “Salbas, bring me the map”

Corc, didn’t like being ignored by his father but he was used to it. Though it was not just because he was King Tidwield’s son he was with the highly experienced men. He was a prodigy in his own right, disciplined by Tidwield from a young age. He already had a general’s head to his name. Yet for now, he was down the pecking order. He looked around waiting for someone higher up to voice his concern. But, they all walked to Tidwield’s side as Salbas hastily brought the map and unrolled it in the table.

“Father, you can’t be serious, were as good as dead when they show up. Not even you could take on their combined force.”

“I have to agree with the prince, my lord” said Salbas

“No! Duesart is exposed, don’t you see it?. I’ve have been decimating their armies one by one. I have felt them get weaker and weaker. Them calling on their allies only proves how venerable they are” says Tidwield, His black circled eyes in his dome helmet wanting to swallow the map.

“It’s too risky, my lord” says Salbas as he’d hastily walked to Tidwield’s shoulder.

“Don’t you see? If we retreat now, they’ll replenish and when we come back, we’ll be right were we started” Tidwield drew his sword, the sheath friction with the fine steel blade created a sharp smooth sound that resonated in the tent. He raised his word above, pointing the tip to the highest spot in the tent. “Gentlemen, it has all led up to this. The battle that will decide the fate of the kingdoms”.

Corc, stood there silent, he gave Tidwield a look. Tidwield recognized that look immediately. It took him back to a place, just outside their home as a young Corc waved goodbye to Him. He was heading off into battle. Usually young Corc would part with a wave and smile, but on this day there was no smile, only a blank stare with a loosely hanged jaw and the wave was almost reluctant. When a boy reaches around four years old, he has bundles of experience to draw upon. He used to go to friend’s house but never met his father, he went to burials but showed no emotion for he didn’t know them, but realizing at that age, how cruel and close death lurks always brings more questions than answers. Tidwield remembers it from his father.