War of the King

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I know I posted this before, but I already made so many changes that I don't want to edit my original post. So enjoy. Comments and the such are welcome.


Kealen stood by in front of the huge iron gates that stood impassively before him. Craning his head up, he quickly surveyed the walls and towers around the gate, finally resting upon the stone platform which carried the controls to the gate, and the key to West Belsharia. He dropped his head once again to the grass. A spear held ready at his hands. Quickly, he plunged the iron spear, head first into the dirt, around him stood many more spears in the same position, placed strategically around the gates.

He looked over to his left to see two catapults; slings drew back and fitted with large boulders. To his right, was again, another catapult, this one readied with a weak rock, doused in gasoline, aimed at the stone platform above the gates. Further behind him, the dirt path lead to a wide meadow, where the troops were already marshalling, each one garbed in the livery of House Cannaighen.

He strode confidently to the troops, his mithril helm glittering brightly in the sun, his purple cloak hiding his breastplate and sword. He gave a curt nod to the troops, and at once the started to move, stationing themselves upon the hillocks where the catapults stood, and the wide dirt path. The ranks quickly parted before Kealen, and quickly filling up behind him. He slowly drew his broadsword, and swung it down, smiling at low whistle as the keen blade cut through the air. And as one voice, the war cry pierced the air.

“Cannaighen!” The gates started to creek. Inch by inch the heavy iron gates opened, revealing another army, armed with long spears and glaives, as if expecting horsemen. Kealen smiled behind his helm, as he watched the opposing force move, row-by-row, starting as a jog, and breaking into a run. They never got near. Immediately, the ranks were repulsed by a wall. A wall of arrows. The sweet strumming of the hell harps echoed through the air. But the spearmen were able to recover quickly. They charged forth again, faster this time, fast enough to render the bows almost useless. Now the blood bath begins.

The army behind, and flanking Kealen all charged forward, like a huge wave, crashing into another, the two forces met. The commander swung his sword in huge arcs, pushing away enemy spears, and quickly running in to deliver some quick slashes at the unprepared enemy. He looked above the sea of bodies and blood, to see the gate quickly closing behind the enemy.
Once again, locking Kealen out. His broadsword flashed endlessly, striking down the unwary soldier. He was moving forward, towards the gates quickly, too quickly. Leaving the protection of his soldiers, Kealen soon found himself parrying more blows than delivering them. Pushed into the center of a circle of swordsmen, his blocks came at a faster rate. Pushing one blade to the side, and quickly rising to intercept another, then crossing in front of him to push another blade around. His entire body spun around in circles, his feet moving quickly to dodge blows, and his arms moving even faster to block those he cannot dodge. Suddenly stopping his defensive dance, he swung his sword in a wide arc, at neck level, at two unsuspecting soldiers, spraying him, and those around him in warm blood. Letting the momentum of the attack carry him, he was turned around to face the enemy behind him, his blade now out too wide, he shot in with his mailed fist. Slamming his fist into a near soldiers nose, quickly knocking him out, he quickly bent his legs and arced his back, thrusting his sword down into the face of the fallen soldier. He dropped to one knee, and unleashed another arc, swinging his arm in a semi circle, the deadly edge cutting through skin, muscle, and bone. Splitting many in two, and amputating the others.

He snapped his legs up, placing him once again, up right. He dared a glance back, and smiled, his soldiers were nearing towards their commander. He looked back towards the gate and raised his sword.

“Catapults!” he screamed. His cry was soon rewarded with three loud creaks, and crashes. Two boulders from his left flared into life, the runes cast upon them lighting up in a dull red. The two boulders slammed into the towers on the right, toppling the wall, and making a makeshift rubble bridge across the creek. The third catapult released the weakened rock onto the stone platform above the gates, shattering into small, dangerous pieces, immediately clearing the platform. He smiled behind his helm as he charged forward to the bridge. The enemy ranks parted before him, afraid of his wrath. However some were not fast enough, and he got them in his wild slashes with his sword.

He sprinted over the rubble bridge. And launched off at the end, bringing his sword down, cleaving a spearman’s skull open. With lightening speed, he struck out at the soldier to the right of him, and thrust his leg back into the stomach of the one to his left. Pushing the winded spearman over. He lifted his sword, and angled his sword down. He then thrust it down between the throat, and mail. The blade pierced through the leather hauberk and through his sternum, and into his lungs. The fallen soldier gasped and seemed to claw at the air as he slowly fell into death.

Kealen climbed up the stone stairs into the tower, and out into the glaring light of the platform. Already, he saw siege ladders put up on the other side of the gates. Running over to the pair of siege ladder, he braced his leg on one of the ladders, and kicked it off, quickly doing a turn, he slammed his heel into the second ladder, felling it as well. Turning around to the gates controls, he surveyed the battle he had emerged from. Ripping of the fine ivory horn from a leather cord on his shoulder, he placed his foot on the gate wheel and kicked. He blew the horn in a short, but audible blast, and waited.

First there was nothing. Then a slow rumble, as if ice were cracking. The ground began to vibrate, as if holding back a great power. Then they came. The Cannaighen horsemen, rushing down the dirt path, with Kealen’s men parting before them. Giving the riders a strike, deep into the heart of the enemy ranks. Like a lone tree in a hurricane, the enemy ranks were pushed far back, right into their comrades marshalling on the bridge. But even there they found no sanctuary, for the horsemen soon struck at them, and overwhelmed them. The bridge and gate are theirs.

The dust was kicked up in a violent storm, tossed around and settled back on the ground only to be thrown up once again. The noise was deafening, loud clanks resounded through the air, grunts of exertion, commands and war cries yelled, and the screams of one in their death throes. The seen was horrific, the dead lay strewn all over, as if they were sacks of grain, twisted and contorted. All around were the moans of those in their death throes, and grunts of exhaustion. A stale smell of burning corpses, feces, bile, and blood permeated through the air. The earth was stained red with blood, like a river, and covered in bodies. The desolate buildings littered this land as a grim reminder of the on going battle. Death had swept through this land mercilessly in the form of shining armor, knights hacking down defenseless peasants, raiding homes and barnyards, and raping the women. After all, an army’s hunger must be satiated for them to fight.
Fifty soldiers were tightly packed together, moving as one, pillaging as one. To the left flank of the soldiers was a lord atop his horse. He was covered in shining white plate, and grasped within his heavy gauntlet was claymore. The blade was made of mithril, allowing the knight to wield it with one hand; the hilt was made of heavy oak, and the pommel, again, with mithril. Within the pommel, it was rumored, was a relic, a small portion of blood from a prophet of a long forgotten god.

The knight surveyed his handiwork critically, glancing one by one at the bodies, replaying again every parry, thrust, and slash. He compared it to the others he had killed. How he loved this war, it let him develop his art, become a true connoisseur of war and death.
He strained his ears to catch the dying sounds of glorious battle. The smell of newly spilt blood tingling in his nose. His entire body shuddered in glee, he tossed a glance back to his soldiers, before turning back to the road ahead of him.

His eyes blinked away a bead of sweat, as he focused more intensely on the road ahead. Something was wrong, he could feel it. Spurring his horse forward ahead of the men, he road into the thinning have, allowing it to engulf him, until he was greeted by what he sought, a large pair of iron gates. He stood by his horse, stunned by the beauty of it all, the looming walls, and the jet-black iron gates.
His attention was soon brought back by tiny figures pacing back and forth the wall. And then the familiar release of strings, then the hail of arrows. Most of the arrows clattered harmlessly on the floor around him, one hit him square on the chest. The knight nearly fell of his horse from the blow. Catching himself by the reins he spurred his horse back into the dust.
“Archers! Get back! All of you get away from the damn wall!” He yelled at his soldiers as he trotted back towards them. The men at arms stopped dead in their tracks, and edged away slowly. Except for one, a boy just in his sixteenth year, but with the arrogance of a celebrated king. He continued forward, as if to pass the knight. Quickly changing the grip on his sword, he slapped the boy back with the flat of his blade. The soldier fell on his back, blood trickling down the corner of his mouth. Propping himself up on one arm, he looked up at the knight with pure hate burning in his eyes.
“Next time you, any of you, disobey an order, it shall be the edge not the flat. Now get back!” the knight threatened. His words were further empowered by the clattering of arrows not even a meter away.

Kealen stood outside a tent set upon a small hillock. His helm was replaced with an iron circlet to signify his vocation, a battle priest. He stood just outside the flap of the tent, angling in to listen to the happenings inside.

“I do not believe this father, you still keep that wretch among us, while you send your own daughter away?”

“That wretch is your brother, no matter the blood, and your sister is doing us well among the court.”

“The blood does not matter, it is the purity of our lineage I am worried about!”

“You think I want to have a half breed child? You think I pray for this, if it was my choice, I would have caste him over the black mountain my self if I had my choice!”

“Then why do you keep him among us?”

“Because he is the only one who can lead the Lions into battle.”

“I can lead them father!”

“Don’t be stupid boy! They only trust and respect one of their kind. Why do you think I sent him off to the church when he was young? I am as unhappy as you are to be related to a half-breed, but he serves his purpose, and as long as he has his purpose he will stay.”

“Fine, but once his usefulness ends I shall--”
He had heard enough. Kealen knew well his station among his family, as long as he serves his purpose he shall stay, and only the best have a purpose. For as long as he could remember, he had those words smashed into his head. He quickly adjusted his iron circlet around his slightly pointed ears, and pushed his way into the tent. There he saw his father bent over the table studying a mass of maps, his clean gray hair bouncing as he jerked his head to greet his son. His half brother stood at the other end of the tent, his face red with anger, and his arms crossed in anger and defiance. A scowl warped his face as he glared at Kealen.

“Bridge is ours.” Kealen said curtly, expecting an answer.

“The bridge is useless, it is the city I want.” The old man said, his neck craned down as he studied the maps.

“But it is a good start in--”

“But not enough! If you want to make yourself useful set me upon the Lord’s Chair of the Belsharian Manor by tomorrow.” He Kealen bowed at the order and insult.

“I shall need twelve pavaises.”

“What for?”

“The walls and gated are bristling with archers, so I hear from a report, my men and archers need protection.” His father looked up again and nodded to him, granting Kealen the supplies, and dismissing him. Kealen inched himself towards the tent flap, and bowed again and pushed out into the sunlight.

Kealen waded into the stream outside the western gates, opening a small gourd of wine; he poured it onto his unsheathed blade. Changing the grip on his broadsword, he angled it down, and started chanting. His words barely audible at first, as he held his blade over his head. Slowly he lowered his blade into the water, his chant getting louder as the blade lowered. He ended his chant in a booming voice, as he violently thrust the blade into the water. Quickly, with practiced ease, he twirled the blade in his hand, spreading an arch of water into the air, and catching it on the blade of his sword. The baptism of the blade was done; he was now ready to receive souls.

He climbed up onto the rubble bridge where his breastplate and helm lay. Kealen fit the breast plate over his chest, and began to methodically strap the plate down. Checking each of the straps twice, he nodded to himself. He lifted the iron crown of his head and hooked it onto the belt next to his scabbard. Quickly replacing his circlet with the fine mithril helm.

“Men! His voice boomed over the masses. “Today, we have taken one more city from the hand of the damned king of the west! We have beat insurmountable odds together, we have fortresses away from our enemies. And tonight, many a soldiers journey shall end! But no matter! Some may die, but they shall be born again! Upon the Golden fields where peace reigns, and the ale flows free. And those who survive this will feast within the famed halls of Belsharia!” the crowd went mad with frenzy. Bloodlust shone in their eyes. Kealen smiled across the mass, and picked up his horn from the rubble. Raising his polished bone horn to his lips he gave three sharp blasts, drew his broadsword, and pointed towards the bridge, signifying the attack.
He stood upon his vantage point as his men rolled by. First the twelve pavaises, heavy wooden boards lined with leather and steel upon wheels. Then his archers, ready to pick off the enemy, weakening them to the point that the enemy is already half defeated when the melee starts. And finally the Lions, the greatest knights and warrior priests in the land, with their shining armor, glittering lances, and mighty hammers. Each and every one of them bore the image of a roaring lion upon their helm, and wore the liveries of their order, a golden lion upon a field of black. He leapt of his small, rubble platform, and landed onto the cobble floor with a loud clack.

“Our men are tired, yet you continue to push them priest,” a gruff voice sounded. Kealen looked up at the speaker. And scowled. The knight chuckled and started circling the half-elf. “Leader of the Lions my arse. To cowardly to be with his men. Afraid to lose this day are we?” The rider spat onto the cobbled floor and urged his horse through the gate. Kealen watched him trot off, his face flushed with anger. Jumping upon his own horse, he pushed his horse to pace the knight. Cutting him off he looked him in the eye.

“Watch you tone with me, as a hard task master I may be, I am still high priest of the Lions, and I am still fast enough to take out your tongue right now.” And with this he left the stunned knight in the dust.

The heavy, shining doors swung open in a large arc, letting into the finally decorated ballroom, a flood of the aromatic smoke of incense. A tall figure stepped in, an elf to be precise, dressed in a green tunic with pale linings, white breeches, and finely polished black boots. A gold sash clung to his waste, securing his rapier to his hip by a thin silver cord. The ornate gold pommel of the rapier bobbed with each step the elf took. The black boots stopped moving and clicked together, as the silver and gold basket wrist guard bounced against his leg.

Another figure stepped out behind the noble elf. But the one on his side was rather short and round. He never stepped into the light of the room. No one was able to see him, but they all heard him.

“I bring forward the Count of Treshym and emissary of the Halls of the Shining Sun. Lord Ivellios Jalynt.” The thick brassy voice rang out, curling around the letter ‘r’. The small figure retreated back into the greeting room. The elf glanced around the room, his eyes meeting with the few who noticed his entrance. The others just noticed the entrance of his fine sword.

The count nimbly side stepped the flowing dancers as he threw his eyes from side to side in search of his employer. Not being able to find her, he waded through the sea of people to a long row of tables filled with food. Grabbing a goblet of the table, he swirled the contents, and took a hearty sip.

Quentathel flower wine. He mused, he finished the rest of the wine and dropped the goblet onto the table. Causing blue stains to bloom upon the tablecloth.

“Lord Jalynt.” The elf looked casually to the origin of the voice, and found a woman, beautiful, even by elven standards.

“Lady Miira Cannaighen! How fare you? How is your father? Your mother? Your brothers?” he mocked. Miira smiled courteously at Ivellios and stepped up to him in which seemed like an embrace.

“You are lucky you are the best assassin in this land, or I would kill you myself.” Stepping back, she smiled at the assassin. Ivellios smiled nervously and bowed curtly.

“Yes, very well Lady Miira, is there…anything I can help you with?” he stammered nervously while trying to keep his composure. Miira smiled at him, and withdrew a letter, seemingly from nowhere and handed it to the elf.

“I expect the this commission to be completed in an hour. Any later, it will be your pay…or your head, depending on my mood,” she smiled again, gave a bow, and disappeared into the crowd. Ivellios watched her passing, and wandered off himself to a relatively secluded corner. Checking his surroundings quickly, he tore open the envelope and red the small slip of paper. Espira Alraunt. Written in fine curving letters of exquisite ink. The elf stared down at the name and exhaled sharply. Miira was growing desperate that was for sure. Such a high commission in such short notice.

“No matter.” He hissed to himself. He crumpled the paper and swallowed it. He dropped the envelope and once again, headed for the table he came from.

The problem was not simply killing the witch; lord knows an old hag is easy enough to kill. The problem was to draw the mark away from everyone, then kill her, and return without any questions. Ivellios reached out and grabbed another goblet, it was half way to his lips when he paused and smiled. Returning the goblet to the table, he stopped the first servant that happened on his path. It was a young one no more than sixteen summers.

“Tell the lady of the house that Malom is here, and is waiting in the imperial garden.” He slipped a gold coin in the child’s palm. The child looked down at it wide eyed. Pushing another one into his palm, the child looked up.

“This is so that no one hears of this.” The child nodded eagerly and pocketed the gold. With a hasty bow he departed.

 

Your Story is really good, certainly an improvment on the first version, can you not post more information about the world this is set in tho.

 

Cool story, but I quite didn't get, what races is he half-breed from? Gotta love the bloodshed though...

[ May 06, 2004, 10:22: Message edited by: Caleb: The Chosen ]