Reveries of the Old Hero

Enthal Isondre emerged from a shimmering arc atop a granite dais. The trio of oceanic rumbling, slashing gust, and overpowering brine welcomed him to Zohrenburg. The familiar discomforts sent the old warhorse half a year back, when he finally wrestled the city from Zunarkian control. He narrowed his eyes towards the Shamanic Sea. Soon, icebergs would visit the harbours, endangering, if not outright blocking, all seafaring – well, all but Zunark’s sea serpents. With the gathering clouds threatening him with an overdue shower, he’d have to worry about that later.

Enthal dismissed the two priestesses flanking the portal with a salute. Pulling a hood over his greying hair, he made straight for the southern gate. Even now, the magnificent city bore the scars of fierce fighting. Before he travelled three blocks, he skirted half a dozen craters, darted through countless houses sliced into halves, and slid under the top half of a snapped spire. Had he not unleashed a divine weapon, their cleaners would still be scraping gore from the streets and buildings.

Once teeming with peddlers and craftsmen, the main roads now granted exclusive passage to soldiers, priests, and architects. The talk of erecting Aquaveils – wards to repel water – along the coastline warmed Enthal like boiled wine. Though Sincrotius Rieva, the Zunarkian archdemon, made no declarations, there was no doubt. The Zunarkians would return for their only enclave on the eastern shores of the Shamanic Sea.

When the head of the Sevanox clan, a lumbering, bookish giant wearing a comically small monocle, opened the Aurael summit, Enthal felt hope. Adjusting his glasses, the man demanded the Finnardians explain the use of a divine weapon. Isabelle replied, with all her diplomatic charm and eloquence, that the Zunarkians using Zohrenburg as a naval base to interdict Finnardian vessels was in breach of the Blue Sea Accords. The ensuing exchange of accusations and insults quickly descended into incoherent shouting. Had there not been a fence of Aurael lancers between the two sides, the parties might’ve given the white tiles of the Winter Palace a fresh coat of red paint.

Instead of futilely denouncing the Zunarkians, Enthal demanded a drink and helped himself to a slice of purple melon. Perrin silver, a renowned sybarite, had prepared an exquisite, if not decadent platter. As a dozen flavours danced on his tongue, his eyes enjoyed a different kind of feast, drifting over the Zunarkian women, beautiful creatures with more sex appeal than modesty. A blonde, in a dress more revealing than undergarments, had the audacity to wink at him.

Wearing a half-smile, Enthal’s eyes crept towards the intended target, Sincrotius Rieva, who was a few seats left of the comely lass. Unlike his peers, the Rieva wore a guise, appeared as a flickering halo. Enthal narrowed his eyes in a burst of concentration, seeking to pierce the visage. Instead, his mind rebounded off a fortress wall. Worse yet, when Sincrotius finally broke his silence, he did not even acknowledge the attempted breach.

“I left a present south of Zohrenburg. I hope it finds you well.”

The journey to collect said present took Enthal toward the abandoned suburbs of Zohrenburg. The sustained bombardment of sorcery had charred even the earth. The last time he stepped on this soil, Enthal was the triumphant commander racing against the mercenary bands for the Zunarkian vaults. Now, he was just a passing warrior, admiring the defences of enemies long since reduced to dust.

Etched into the scarred land were rings of confounding geometry. Together, they formed a stubborn web that would take years to dislodge. Obelisks draped in talismans and ink yet buzzed ominously, leaving the Finnardians no choice but to fence off the vicinity with white rope.

Still, there was progress. The Nightmirrors, burly black plates that reflected spells, were gone. While frontline accounts were as noisy as the Shamanic Sea, there was one constant: the horrors of the glinting nightmares.

Swift and wide strides soon had Enthal staring down the ruined boundaries of Zohrenburg. With the Nightmirrors shielding the inner city, the Finnardians had no choice but to charge the barrier. These bloody skirmishes went on for months. Upon this line, attrition reared its head, turned its baleful profile decidedly east, and opened its insatiable maw. His last grandson, too, fell prey to this monster.

Should he have assigned the bright-eyed lad to a Peacekeeper garrison? Was it his honour, or pride, that killed the boy? For all the quiet jeering Vantis attracted, his scion yet lives. Vivian Monnedge, the only woman currently wearing the red collar, brooked no ambiguity on this question. If only he had a fraction of her firmness.

“How many brave tears must the Isondre women swallow so you can send their boys to die?”

Enthal muttered a prayer as he neared the city gates. A humble spell, it deflected the attention of the stationed guards. If secrecy was ice, then a large escort was salt. Besides, he didn’t know when he would next taste blissful isolation, free from subordinates to order and enemies to slaughter.

The ocean winds, the ever-present harbingers of ashes, had buried most traces of war. Yet, the waves refused to let the open flats forget the fighting, washing ashore tattered tents, broken weapons, and bodies in various states of decay. Enthal brushed a frayed blazer, its collar so discoloured he could not make out the Blade’s rank. He wondered if this was one of the many men who set their quarters too far forward, falling victim to mountain-sized Freaks bathed in black flames.

A stone platform, left to the mercy of nature, marked the gate he stepped through when Enthal assumed command. His vociferous opposition to the campaign and the passing of his wife had not stopped Isabelle from sending him forth. He recalled walking into a violent storm and barking for the men to retreat. How the battered soldiers groaned as they dragged their tired flesh through the wind and rain. His second command, dispatching a messenger to request an audience with Saint Bladestorm, was just as popular. Fortunately, this meeting proved more productive than the one in Aurael.

When Kuros emerged with the first ray of sunlight, it became apparent why his peers titled him the Eighth Apostle. Dark muscles forged from purging flames, eyes bright with mellow erudition, this was a Templar drowned in scrolls and tomes. Had destiny not denied his ancestors an encounter with Zunark, this man too, would have sat among the apostles in the Winter Palace. This distinction saddened Enthal.

“I see the Swordwitch grows weary of bleeding men,” declared Kuros. “Great champion of the east, have you come to put my dominion to the sword?”

Enthal shook his head. “I come offering your people safe passage westward.”

“Ah,” Kuros puffed. “I was hoping for single combat.”

“My duelling days have long passed,” said Enthal. “I am to take the city, not scribe another humiliating defeat in our annals.”

“Surely you know I, Saint Bladestorm, falls not to no mortal means.”

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” said Enthal, sighing. “You have three days before my ritual reduces all you hold dear to ashes. Make for the sea, or for my head. The choice is yours.”

“It’d be an honour to die by your hands.”

“Before you do so, could you perhaps indulge this old man one last time?”

Kuros did not begrudge him the Zunarkian blade dance. After offering the hilt to the heavens, the kneeling Templar discarded the sheath. He began with humble slashes and thrusts that quickly evolved into fluid combinations. The great sabre, now a sable river, ebbed and flowed with each stroke as Kuros neared the apocalyptic crescendo. The concluding form, a fleeting flash of darkness, birthed a whirlwind. The maelstrom spewed up geysers of dust and parted the sky. Saint Bladestorm lived up to his name.

Struck with a sudden urge to relive the battle, Enthal spun around to gauge his distance from Zohrenburg. Here he posted the Graystar Company. The mercenaries would make the first of many layers that Kuros would need to peel away, without the cover of Nightmirrors. Not even Zunarkian muscles could keep up with charging men while dragging the burly plates across the expanse.

Enthal strolled up a slight incline. This was where he had stationed the third line, the bedrock of his formation. Blades, split into trios, spread themselves among the sprawling network of gateways. Without the Nightmirrors, the Sunbrand – a terrifying spell that turned sunlight into a molten extension of the sword – was an option again.

And at the rearmost post, Enthal would point a sword skyward, cloistering himself inside a wintry stasis while his men chanted the prayers, beckoning forth the holy beast of Mercy. The Graphalo, an eye rumoured to be the corporeal remains of the Divine Finnardi, erased heresy in a glance. Enthal once celebrated his ability to abbreviate the ritual to three days, a feat that earned him the red collar and his sainthood. Now, he could barely keep his raised arm from shaking, a dread largely unrelated to the Zunarkian daggers never far from his neck.

His immobile state, however, did not spare Enthal the frontline news. He never found out when the Zunarkians overran the Graystars. By the time the first report reached his ears, the Blades in the third layer were already firing Sunbrands into the Zunarkian ranks. Come midday, accounts of heavy casualty trickled in. Did he truly expect Kuros to sail for the west? Or was it his incompetence that frustrated the defence? Had Mercy not blessed him with a clear red sky on the first day, Enthal might not have survived to relive his failings.

The raindrop that struck Enthal’s forehead soon grew to a downpour that drenched him from head to toe. The very same rain washed away the Sunbrand batteries, allowing the Zunarkians to overrun the third layer. By midday, the sonorous cries of Zunarkian Templars shook his footing. As the cacophony of battle drew near, the wounded piled up, fouling the air with a cadaverous perfume. Come night, frontline evacuations ceased.

The concentration of men, enchantments, and the sun periodically peeking through the clouds finally slowed the attack. If not for Kuros spearheading the charge, the irregular Sunbrand bursts would’ve checked the advance. Enthal closed his eyes and once again, found himself in a deadly struggle against the Zunarkian saint.

The third day descended into chaos. By midday, Enthal had heard at least a dozen claims of Blades who have killed Kuros Solwind. Yet, the noise of fighting drew closer. Three days, an impossibly short timeframe that dangled over the Zunarkians like a headsman’s axe, now felt a decade away.

Come evening, Enthal finally saw fighting in the distance. His vision, sharp enough to distinguish facial features on the horizon, now condemned him to witness the slaughter of his men. Despite his injuries and thinning ranks, Kuros remained at the head of the charge. His sabre, fluid and swift, reduced any Finnardian not shielded in refulgent shrouds, to scarlet ribbons.

The night marked a decisive turn in momentum. Kuros, isolated and exposed, evasive dances replaced decisive charges and killing blows became frantic parries. The Guardians he previously ran through like white sheets were now towering walls. He had bled his army dry.

It was then a warm flame descended onto Enthal, seeping into his veins. Golden spears of light, piercing the clouds, turned night into day. The Graphalo was coming. Dropping his raised arm to the thunderous cheers, the old warrior fell to his knees. It was over. He had survived another campaign. Why did Finnardi preserve his old bones while the young died by the thousands?

A bestial cry. Whistling gust. Incoherent screams. Wet thuds. The sounds, assaulting his ears in concert, forced Enthal into a hasty retreat. A great sword, whirling through the air, tore a fissure into the earth, missing the High Guardian by a few paces. Retracing the trajectory, Enthal found two Guardians. Torsos torn asunder, they died before even hitting the ground. Kuros, but a speck on the horizon, had flung his blade across the battlefield and almost found his target.

Kuros faced the sky with open arms. His men, tossing down their weapons, assumed the same posture. Save for the rolling waves, the world went quiet, as if watching with bated breath.

“Salute!”

Barking his last command, Enthal offered his pommel towards the sky. His disciples went pale at the sight of a Finnardian hero performing the salute of the Zunarkian Templars. Having recovered from the initial shock, they too, fell to one knee and offered their swords to the heavens.

Above, something immense announced its arrival, pushing through the clouds as if they were two door slabs. The ashen welkin roared in outrage, scouring the battlefield with tempest. Covered in tendrils long enough to scrape the depth of the Shamanic sea, the spherical object drifted forth.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Kuros shouted over the swirling gust. “The Eighth Disciple falls to no mortal –”

The tendrils parted, revealing a monstrous eyeball that engulfed the world in golden light. Like an advancing wall, the beam of unadulterated Finnardian wrath washed over the Zunarkian ranks. Groaning, Enthal forced himself to watch as Kuros turned to ashes. He had killed a good man who was too dangerous to let live. That thought, but a minor wrinkle when the battle began, had since grown fangs to sink into his conscience.

Most of the Zunarkians not incinerated in the initial blast stood tall and straight, embracing the brilliant doom like their commanders. Those of lesser mettle dropped to their knees, howling in horror and despair. Some even broke ranks and fled. It made no difference. Within but moments, the Graphalo had reduced them all to specks of grey, leaving nothing to distinguish one from the other.

With leaden soles, Enthal followed the fissure Kuros opened before the Graphalo unmade him. The High Guardian had insisted on erecting the grand sabre as a monument to the Zunarkian saint. A gravestone had since replaced the blade. Frowning, Enthal brushed away the thick crust of dust, uncovering a message.

“The blade of my liege shall join him in rest once vengeance is done.”

Enthal chuckled, sensing a strange kinship with this faceless avenger. After all, the same fervour drove him, a boy who coughed once for every breath he took, into battle. Was he – he hastened south, putting Zohrenburg far behind him, as if to outrun the troubling thought before it could take shape.

Footsteps rustling through the soft ashes, the High Guardian trotted deeper into the desolated wilderness. A giant boulder, buried in thick sheets of dust, turned his jog into a sprint. With most of its mass concealed by an even larger crater, Enthal only realised its true scale as he neared it. The abyss that cupped the monolith – a spherical monstrosity with a diameter exceeding many towers – could easily accommodate a few dozen houses. The unearthly size felt eerily familiar.

Enthal stomped the earth, sending the caked dust clattering down like loose roof tiles. With each tremour, disquiet pulsed through his bones with increased vigour. Eventually, the slag coating collapsed, revealing a cavernous aperture of decaying flesh and dry blood. All the carnage he had witnessed and survived could not prepare the decorated veteran for what he saw.

“Mercy!”

He had found Rieva’s present, a giant eyeball missing its pupil. Something had crushed it from the inside. It was a dead Graphalo.