Monday, December 14, 2015

Fall of an Empire: Leon, III

Third chapter. Huzzah. However this shall be the final chapter I'll write on his POV.

And 50th post (from the rather downer start of this blog)! Huzzah.

III
LEON

THE BATTLE WAS QUICK AND BLOODY.

At the high time of Mare’s prosperity and the Emperor's reign, Leon remembered from his studies, the legions of Men of the Plains frequently quarreled with barbarians, and their campaigns most often led them to assault the strongholds and hillforts of the hairy people of the mountains.

Now, that story was written very differently.

A horde of soldiers from Newlane were closing in to Westervell's camp, which were taken aback, still gripped in shock by their supposed ally's treachery. The arrows from the watchtowers, hastily fired, seemed to serve no effect whatsoever on the oncoming massed charge; the thick enemy lines trampled upon the fell bodies of their downed comrades.

The enemy torches seem to grow brighter as they came closer, illuminating the night sky behind the log walls. Leon saw the tension mount in the camp, mixed with the ever present panic as the enemy drew nearer. He saw that the usually organized and disciplined legions of Westervell gradually fall into disarray; cohorts bumped into each other as the cramped camp provided little room to move, and the short time to prepare saw that the knights were not fully equipped in their armor, as most of them were unwillingly taken from their dinner and recreation time in their leather vests, or even wool and cotton tunics; some bare-chested and groggy from their early nap.

There was still hope, however. Leon felt it. He saw in the eyes of his father the King and uncle the General, both had their armor on, the fiery determination and absolute calm in the face of battle. He also saw the knights in mismatched armor, all of them still proudly carrying their fearsome weapons, all of them trained, and the gods know, they know how to kill in the name of the West.

However, Leon was feeling helpless.

He was being tended in front of the king's tent, the blood-drenched cut being cleaned and stitched by a healer. His eyes watered, wincing at the amount of pain, but no, as the heir to Westervell he must be strong, for the sake of his people.

With a last pull of the string, the nurse cut it. She then covered the wound with a soothing salve made from the herbs of the Scorched Desert, the sickly sweet smell in his nose. Finally it was covered with a cotton band, and the arm was tied in a sling. The nurse finished with "don't move your arm too much, my Prince," bowed, and scurried away to tend to another.

Leon pulled a fresh cotton tunic over his bare chest to replace the ruined leather vest, and then his squire came with his armor.

Just then, the north walls burst on fire. The south was also engulfed soon after. The army of Newlane had thrown their torches, and it easily set fire to the timber. Soon, the wall will collapse, and nothing will stop the enemy from pouring in.

Seeing that, in a sudden wave of boldness in the face of imminent danger, Leon said to the squire, "No—they are near and we haven't the time. Please, give me my leather vest."

The squire objected, "Sir, even a dragon’s claw slit right through the leather—!"

"No time to waste, that was an order! Iron takes too long to wear. Best you arm yourself as well." A dragon’s claw could also have sliced tempered steel like a knife piercing tender meat.

The squire nodded and quickly ran inside the tent, and seconds later he carried a black tinted vest outside.

Right before Leon finished buckling up the last strap, the embers of the walls collapsed on itself. Behind the smoke and fire, the traitors charged, crying "For Newlane!"

Leon drew his longsword and joined to stand side-by-side with his father and uncle at the center. King Arvin noticed the article that Leon wore, but gave no remark, given the condition. In the meantime, Anto Longsword yelled as the first Newlanders pushed into the first shield wall of Westervell on both sides. "They are not allies," he cried, "but traitors, no higher than slaves! We shall teach them, how the West fight! Men: form shield wall!"

A rousing cheer came from the knights of Westervell, and shields clanked together to form an impenetrable wall of metal, bristling with spear and the tips of swords. However, their initial blow of surprise already took its toll, for their morale was falling. In a flash of steel against steel, spurts of gore, and yells of pain, the Western resistance stands. The enemy moved ever closer, trampling their dead, while the shield wall became dented, and the chinks became more apparent as the battle became hotter. Still, the high ground of the camp made it sure for the enemy to advance.

Indeed, it was hot, as fire raged the trampled tents and wooden towers. The air was full of choking grey smoke, and thus, through the layer of smoke, the enemy inched, ever closer, to the camp center where the Royal family took their stand, the wake of bodies and burning tents behind them.

“Stand! Stand, men! Hold your ground!” yelled King Arvin as he hacked a warrior that managed to breach the line. It was quite difficult to do so, although the camp gates made perfect bottlenecks. However, the massed charge, the surprise… none helped the condition of First Legion. Though large and powerful it was, when the situation developed even worse, when the enemy mobilized their cavalry, none from Westervell could have dealt with it, as their horses were locked behind in the stables. Similarly, when the enemy archers rained fire and steel from above, Westervell’s were pinned inside, with little room to move as they are—and now…

Leon heard the terrifying screech of a beast somewhere beyond the walls, but it became even more deafening each heartbeat, even drowning the rattle of armor and clink of steel and yells of pain all around him; it became closer and closer.

Then he heard a great rush of wind, and all of a sudden dozen heads of dragons flashed from the walls, flying above them.

Their camp had been a death trap—or more likely a great furnace.

The dragons let loose an inferno of dragonfire as they flew quickly by, the flames yellow and white, melting the suits of armor of the proud men of Legion I, and boiling the man under the suit, those around him unable to scream for help. Some Newlander soldiers also got caught in the fiery field, however most survived.

The first Newlane warrior broke through the main street, now emptied of living Westervell legionnaires, and charged away, deflecting the strokes from the King’s Pledge, most still miraculously standing in the middle of the fray. He went right through; running and broadly swinging his broadsword at the King, until his eyes were removed by a perfect slash from Anto Longsword’s signature weapon, the tempered steel blade colored red, gleaming in the moonlight.

“Hold tight,” whispered King Arvin to Leon, and together with Anto they formed a defensive ring, the three of them standing back-to-back, their swords ready to strike. Leon saw that his father had brandished his sword, the fearsome red-tinted crystal blade, the Scorch, that have been passed from generation to generation in the house West. The blade shone from the inside a blood red, as if it was on fire, as it was made of Fire crystals that can sear off limbs upon contact, harvested from the volcanoes to the south and forged by the sorcerer-blacksmiths of the Crystal Brothers such that it will burn anything; the swordmasters that live across the Land, doing justice with their crystal swords.

What they waited for inevitably came, as then even the King’s Pledges were forced to retreat, when the cohorts and auxiliaries, even the hunters, were all but defeated; but proud they were, and they did not surrender, as they fought to the very end. The men were fiercely disciplined even in the face of defeat and death, as Mare’s Legionaries once was and maybe even moreso, Leon remembered, a hundred thousand of them once squared off with thrice their numbers of Westervell, Newlane, and Hart, two and a half thousand years ago, in the olden days, at the time Emperor Marius established himself as Emperor over the Plains.

The survivors huddled close together, retreating to the stables and stockpiles, but even then they found their path cut off by Newlander sellswords. Leon couldn’t help but to notice that this must have been how everybody else, the ten thousand strong knights of Westervell, had died. Brave they may be, but even brave men will yield once their limit is pushed.

Never corner an enemy, Anto Longsword had told him as they passed the great oak gates of River’s Bend nigh a month ago, as the enemy will fight to their last drop of blood. Otherwise they can run away when they soil their breeches. Cornered, they were now, among hundreds of raised swords and spears. So much for omens from the gods. The gods have sent a dragon only to kill it.

A man, clad in a night-blue cloak over a silver armor suddenly appeared from between the enemy masses. He lifted the visor off his great helm, showing dark brown eyes, their expressions unreadable. The man drew his sword, and uttered in cold blood, “By the order of Gallio of House Gerald, the First of His Name, Lord on Valley’s Edge and Emperor of The Empire of the Plains, you shall be executed for defying the commands of His Grace.”

All the moment their executioner talked, King Arvin and General Anto had together formed a plan in silence, and the moment he raised his sword to land a blow on Anto, the King slashed Scorch quite precisely, slashing the knight’s sword arm clear off its socket with a sickening hiss of burned flesh, the metal of the armor red hot and melting where it met the Fire crystal, and the heavy broadsword clanking uselessly as it hit the ground. At the same time, The man convulsed in pain, dropped to his knees and for a moment Leon could see the grave face behind, before he needed to take a stab at one oncoming Newlander knight.

The rest of the fight was the same rush, as the three hacked and slashed their way through the enemy lines behind them, retreating to the stables while the last of the King’s Pledge covered their escape route. Behind them, among the mess of fighting soldiers, came the gruff and pain-stricken voice of the enemy commander, the one that very nearly executed the will of the proclaimed Emperor, “Kill them! Kill them all, by the will of your Emperor!

Leon never thought his first battle would be a disaster. The forces of Westervell were beaten; they were killed, routed, or rounded up as prisoners. All around him, the treacherous traitors and backstabbers from Newlane seemed overwhelming. Still, there was hope: if his father could be saved, Westervell could possibly hope to repel the invaders. That shine of light fueled his well-trained blows with the sword, unencumbered by his clumsy and sweltering iron armor. For the first time in his life, Leon felt the thrill of battle, palming his gladius with his one good hand, the muscles rippling with every heave he put into each swing. He thrust and slashed it at the enemy warriors; slashing the neck of an approaching soldier, ducked the attack of a knight and jabbed the blade behind the shoulder, and tore a leg off an archer. He did not even feel the pain of his wound—almost. In the end, the sword gleamed with the red of countless enemies, but it made no matter, as the enemy were a tidal wave in front of the measly defense.

And then Leon heard it again—the shriek of a dragon, ever closer.

But how come? The camp is now full of Newlanders, so if it torches the camp…

Not a dozen flew past, but only one dragon came with the same gust of wind; it was larger than most; black scales gleaming in the flames.

One dragon, even a big one, did not do much to light the whole army afire, but it did its good job of cutting a burning swath through the center of the enemy, and made the perfect distraction for their move.

Step by step they fought to the stables, as many of the Newlanders were taken to scanning the skies, their officers yelling all manners of curses to the sky, their captives seemingly forgotten.

Leon was known to be among the best young swordsman in the castle. He had sparred with the captain of the guard at River’s Bend, and managed to stand his ground for the man to call the little fight a draw. Years of exercise moved his muscles, slashing up, stabbing down, parrying here and there.

He was trained by the best of the best: the King himself, and the legendary Longsword. Their words were fresh in his head as when he first started when he was half his age now: Slash up! Stab down! Parry here! Parry there!

The group retreated, feet by feet, to where they can finally pick up their horses and gallop out of the forsaken camp. By then, Leon had not noticed during the rush of the battle, but by now he was properly winded and his hair a sopping mat on his brow. Finally, finally, after what seemed like hours of clashing with the enemy, came to the stable doors, and fortunately, they found their horses still tied, and have not been loosened or slain, and fresh, unused in battle, though some were whinnying and neighing in fear. As luckily and true to his namesake, Leon’s horse were calm and waiting for his master. They gathered their horses, immediately climbed on them, and set off through the tiny back gate, the only place where the red-and-green banner still flew, behind it, the wooden walls all ablaze, and the screech of the mountain wyvern loomed above.

-o-

Run they did, and for hours through the night they did not stop even for a drink nor a meal. There were twelve of them left, twelve where they had been past ten thousand a mere six hours ago. Leon managed to survive untouched thanks to his gracious swordplay, and his father and uncle escaped along with five Pledges, two mace-wielding knights, and one good longbowman.

The hours passed by as they trotted their horses through the rough rocky fields and walked them back through the mountain pass after circling the taken camp. They know there were scouts and spies behind them, but they have made a good lead on them and they travelled light, but they dared not light a lantern and the path will be more winding as they ascended the mountainside.

No doubt the Newlanders will party with pork and wine tomorrow of this victory, whatever their cost, thought Leon as they returned to walk the stone paths, While we will be eating insects and drinking muddy water by this time one week later. He tried to shake that off.

But one thing he could not remove from his mind is the dragon. Could it be, it was sent by the gods to defend them? Could it be?

Once again, they have returned to the windy canyons of the mountain pass, the night seemingly growing darker and darker and the wind howling even more eerily. Now, the cliff was on their left and the fall to the right as they are retracing the steps franticly. Their horses are all in one line, one flank almost pressed to the craggy cliff, fearing the wind might blow them all.

Finally, the Pledge that rode in the front of the line turned and yelled, “There’s the cave we passed this morning, sir.”

Anto Longsword replied, “We will stay there for the night. We are growing tired, and—” He glanced nervously at King Arvin, who was slumped on his horse, eyes closed. “And the King will need rest.”
Leon again marched Lucky closer to his father. He saw his hand, grasping at the side of his armor, on the chink just below the leather fastener, soaked in blood, where a blade managed to graze unprotected flesh. "Father?" he whispered softly. He can't die now. He will not.

The King grunted, and made little movement until they parked their horses inside the cave. It seemed to get colder and colder as the moon rise, and it was near freezing when they finally went inside the cave, when the moon was at her height, pale white rays spilling into the cave. They lowered King Arvin together and laid him beside a giant boulder.

“Tend the King while I make the fire, Endar,” said Anto Longsword to the archer. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a pretty good healer.”

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the archer. He grabbed his bag from his horse’s saddle and produced a salve from it, and kneeled beside King Arvin.

“Now, the rest of you,” said the General to the others, “Clean the dry blood off your swords and sleep with your armor on.” He turned to Leon, and walked across, the metal sole of his boots echoing a metal rasp. The wind that was howling ever harder, and even two paces from Leon he must increase his voice. “My young prince. It has been a tiring day for you.”

Leon said back, “That was not what I first thought about battle.” Again, the scene of the dead dragon flashed in the back of his eyes, when he closed his eyes for a blink. He shook it off. His uncle was right; his knees were wobbling and his shoulder throbbed once more.

“Yes. Do take a rest. Leave your sword here, I will clean it.”

With droopy eyes, Leon placed his sword on a rock. He then asked, "How will Father be?"

The usually optimist Anto Longsword looked as worried, if not even more, than he was. Somehow, his sea green eyes looked more sunken than usual. "He'll be fine. I—I promise."

The note in his uncle's words, the catch in the word, became apparent to Leon that he was also trying to convince himself. Leon sat down beside a boulder, where the ground was smooth and cool and sandy. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not.

"Look," said Anto as he crouched beside him, "I'm worried. You're worried as well, but we need to stay strong for—," he drew a sharp breath, "for the Kingdom."

Ignoring his drowsiness, Leon snapped back, "I'm fifteen!" Looking at the others, he sunk back when he noticed that every pair of eyes were studying him.

"Your father took the throne when he was seventeen." Anto glanced at the King, who, thanks to Endar, managed to let go of his pain and is now snoring loudly. “You will be the one all of us will choose to save. Without you, Westervell will turn into unrest and… let us hope the gods are good if that happens.”

"I'm not ready, Uncle. Who will listen to a boy? Besides, we are stuck in Newlane lands while the news back home may be that we are dead."

Anto chuckled. "The time will come when the elder lends their ears to a boy. And I have seen a dragon lending his fires of a boy." He placed a big hand on Leon's shoulder. "Look, the people back to the west still have hope. We still have hope. Now sleep, that is a command." He rose, taking Leon's gladius with him, and started to issue more commands to the surviving soldiers.


Most of which he could not hear, because of the winds and because in no time his chin dipped and he was fast asleep, his uncle’s words were magical and charming in its own way, such that the great leader he was.

Finished on 24 July, 2015.

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