Glasshold - Prologue

He felt the prickle of magic creep up his spine as his limbs became heavy, as though his armor was laden with winters ice. His sword had become a tree trunk within his grasp; the effort to merely block or parry the enemies’ unrelenting surge was beginning to exceed his renowned talent. He glanced across the battle ground; he was satisfied the spirit of his men had not diminished with the unnatural magic that pervaded them.
         
  The whoosh of a sword, all too close to his head, shocked his feet into movement; but the air surrounding him and his allies had become like water, forcing them to wade through an invisible lake that had been summoned to them.

  “Damn it!” he cursed to himself, “how much longer must we endure this evil!”

As he turned to face his attacker, the weight of the spell that was upon him began to lift. A second attack from the same assailant snapped his attention back to the business at hand and he lifted his shield, deflecting the murderous blow away. A sudden spray of warm blood soaked his face, as one of his warriors cleaved the attacking head in two, brains and flesh spilling onto the already blood soaked earth.
 
  His lungs labored with each breath as he moved to the next Orc. With the flourish of a master, he sliced his sword behind its knees, forcing an almighty yell from his enemy as it stumbled forward, and then a roar, as he buried his sword to the hilt in its back.

  Unexpectedly shards of ice began raining down upon the battle ground like arrows, with no care for whom they hit, downing several of his warriors and, blessedly, many of his enemy. "We must break through to his sorcerers” he thought, “or we are most surely done for.”

He fell forward, tripping over one of the many bodies littering the field in his push forward. An axe swung down towards him as he looked up from the ground, forcing him to roll defensively and counter with a slash of his sword, opening a gash in the Trolls side. Hurriedly he scrambled to his feet, parrying the onslaught of the Trolls axe. The clashing of metal on metal rang in the air, and the charge of the impact ran up his arm. The axe swung down on him again, in impossible succession. As he lifted his shield to deflect the attack, giving him the moment’s chance he needed, he drove his sword into the Trolls gut, burying his sword once again into his enemy.
 
As the fighting continued an unnatural lightning storm was beginning to build above, clouds of black and blue swirling and boiling into an ominous mass. Magic again began to prickle the air, looking up, he was filled with dread. Time began to slow as he asked himself “Is this where it is to end?”

In the surreal slow motion, he continued to March, hacking and slicing through Orc's, Troll’s, and Manticor’s, there was no honor to be had in fleeing. “We shall fight to the last,” he managed to shout between blows,” For it is better to be a hero in the next life, than to remain in this life, a coward!”
 
The battle ground on, the din of metal on metal, the screams and yells of men, monster and beast filled his ears, as it had for the last three hours. 

Wiping his brow, he glanced at the sky, whatever evil the unnatural storm was promising, would soon be delivered. He gathered his energy for what was likely to be his last attack, the shiver of magic becoming unbearable.

Before he could make his final charge, the sound of a horn split the air, an Orcish horn he presumed, judging by its deep guttural note. The enemy abruptly took a defensive stance, then began retreating. His men and their allies were stunned by what they were witnessing. He could not recall such a hasty retreat by the hammers army.
 
There were only a few moments to wonder at what had caused the retreat when his attention was again drawn to the sky by the sound of many beating wings. The menacing clouds had gone. His breath caught in his throat as he saw a legion of dragon riders swoop over the battle plain.

  “Thank the Gods,” he muttered, “there will be no more fighting this day.”

  The Elven dragon riders were a marvel to behold, swooping low over the trees, their  wings beating up a dust storm, sunlight glinting off their scales, and the dexterity of their riders, firing arrows into the now retreating enemy below.

  Prince Alaric paused a moment, pushing the doubts and fears into a corner of his mind to be retrieved later, it was time now to be a triumphant general. To display to all that looked upon him, a resolute hero, which would lead them and show them victory. Alaric swung his shield onto his back, and rested the point of his sword on the ground, clasping the hilt gently in both hands. Slowly and deliberately he drew air into his lungs, adding to his already larger than average frame. His long blonde hair began to wave in the gentle breeze, and his steely blue eyes scanned what lay before him.

  The abled warriors moved amongst the bodies strewn across the field, helping their injured to the healing tents, and slaying remnants of the enemy that lay bleeding.

  “Brave warriors of Amerul!” Prince Alaric proudly roared, drawing the attention of all before him. “Brave warriors of Amerul! We are once again victorious!” he thundered, bringing cheers from the army. “You have proven yourselves worthy before your King; the forces of darkness have tasted the strength of our swords, and will surely hesitate before standing before you again!” Prince Alaric paused for their cheers. They cheered not only for Alaric, but for themselves and their comrades as well. “Let us meet later this evening to celebrate, we shall regale each other of stories of our glory, and toast our fallen!”

  Alaric savored the rejoicing of his men for some time, motionless, apart from the scanning motion of his head and eyes. There was still much work for them before celebrations could take place, the injured needed attention, and the dead in need of collecting, but this was their moment, the moment that minstrels would sing of for years to come.

    Alaric gave a saluting wave to his army, and then headed back to camp, making his way through the soldiers that were now returning to work, occasionally pausing to congratulate and greet his men personally, as they bowed before him.

  “Prince Alaric” a voice called over the noise. Alaric looked through the crowd noticing a small figure running through, his blonde head bobbing in and out of sight as he hastily approached him.

  “Leo” he smiled to himself, “My most trusted page”

  “Thank the gods you live Sire!” Leo panted.

  “Such little faith you have in me Leo “Alaric laughed, “Did you think I went out there to die?”

  Leo grinned hesitantly, “Well of course not Sire, but when we found Archer cropping grass back at camp, I feared the worst!”

  “Ahh, my fine horse Archer, first chance she gets she returns to camp to eat” Alaric smiled, “ perhaps I need another mount, but where would I find one as loyal as she?” he joked.” I hope she is unharmed by the battle?”

  “No Sire, not a scratch. In fact, she seems quite content where she is” Leo laughed.

  “Well off you go, see to my bath would you? I shall be there soon” Alaric said, gesturing a gloved hand towards camp.

  “Of course sire!” Leo ran back through the crowd towards camp.

  Alaric continued on towards camp.

The camp was about five hundred yards from the battlefield. To one side were the military and servant quarters, ordered rows of dirty white tents with paths that had become mud from the traffic they had carried, running between them like corridors. To the left were much larger tents, armories, food supplies, royal quarters and the healing tent.
 
Alaric concerned himself with the healing tent. There was much activity here, stretcher bearers coming and going, delivering morbid cargo that may or may not be saved. White robed men and women also hovered near the entrance.

Alaric strode through the crush and into the tent, then stopped to survey the scene before him.  Rows of makeshift beds, seven across and ten deep filled the tent. All the beds were filled with fallen warriors with different degrees of injuries. More robed men and women stood over many of the beds, hovering their hands above their patients, creating a shimmering distortion of the light between them and a gentle humming that softly filled the tent. Alaric could once again feel the magic in the air, but without the shadows of despair he felt earlier.

One of the robed healers approached Alaric. He was dressed a little more extravagantly than the others, wearing a dark crimson robe with white trimmings, and seemed somewhat older, with hair whitened by the years, and skin that was wrinkled and marked by age.
 
“We are cursed with new injuries today,” the old man said to Alaric, “The Hammers armies are finding better ways to torment us it seems.”

Alaric nodded an agreement.

“Oh, we have the usual blade and hammer injuries, the ice wounds, but there is a disturbing wounding of the soul that I am sensing.”

Alaric again nodded. “Do we possess the skills to cleanse this?”

  “I cannot say,” the old man mused “perhaps time will fade its effect, I will inform you when we have a clearer understanding.”
 
“Very well, send word of your progress.” Alaric said as he wandered towards the wounded.

“Donavan, I had feared we lost you out there.” Alaric smiled, offering his hand in greeting.

  “Good to see you Sire” replied Donavan quietly, somewhat pained by his injuries, but able to shake his leaders hand.

“Have you been tended to by a healer yet?”  Alaric asked.

“Not yet sire, the Hammer only managed to scratch me, I can wait where others cannot.”
 
“You are a good man Donavan, but you will need to move quicker next time,” Alaric again smiled “Take care, I will return tomorrow to see you.”

Alaric believed that his men would follow him to the end of the earth, so, he felt when they were unable to follow, he must go to them.

At the end of every battle, he saw it as his duty to visit the injured. Offering thanks for their service to the kingdom, and the honor they had displayed on the field of battle.
 
Alaric moved amongst the beds, shaking hands, and sharing quiet words. He left a trail of lifted spirits in his wake. A fool can lead in good times, but it takes much more to lead when times were harder, this is what Alaric had been taught.

  “Prince Alaric!” a voice called from the entrance of the tent.

Alaric turned to see Lord Baldric approaching.

“Sire, the King has requested your attendance.”
 
“Can you not see I am busy Baldric” replied Alaric, as he continued moving amongst the tent.

“My apologies Sire, but this cannot wait, “said Baldric a little uncomfortably, “It does not look well, the healers say there is no more they can do for him.”
 
Alaric paused then headed for the door, Baldric following.
 
Alaric’s father, King Althalos, had been unwell for some time, and Alaric was to ascend to the throne, for he was the older of the two children. Alaric began to panic inside, “Am I ready to lead the Kingdom through these rapidly darkening times?” he asked himself. “Will the people accept me?”
 
Before he had time to answer the questions swimming through his mind, they approached the royal tent. It was the largest of the tents in the camp. Flanking the entrance, purple and gold banners fluttered in the late afternoon breeze. Four guards dressed in formal attire bowed as Alaric and Baldric entered.

The King lay on his bed. He looked frail and small in such a large bed, his long grey hair was unbrushed and equally grey stubble on his chin and cheeks. One healer stood beside him, hovering her hands over the King.

  “Father, you sent for me” said Alaric.
 
The king’s eyes fluttered open slowly. Seeing Alaric brought a soft smile to his face. “Leave us”, the King requested quietly. The healer and Baldric left the tent.
 
Alaric kneeled beside his father’s bed, taking hold of his hands, and bowed his head.

“Son” the King said, “My days are at an end; it is now your time to rule.”
 
“But father…” Prince Alaric interrupted, his voice beginning to crack with emotion.

“No son, it is time,” the King continued, “You will be the ruler I have trained you to be. But, the time has also come to call her back. You must call her back if this fighting is to cease. Together, you will defeat Duggor and bring peace to our countries, together, you will be victorious. It is time.” The King paused to catch his breath as Alaric watched feeling helpless, slowly his father was slipping away, in his heart he knew he was soon to lose his loving father, and the Kingdom, their King. 

“Promise me you will send for Her, you will need Her by your side”
 
“I give my word father, I will send for Her immediately,” replied Alaric.

The King smiled weakly, “You have become a great leader to our armies, you will now become an even greater King.” Alaric held back a tear as his father slowly closed his eyes, and breath left the Kings body for the last time.

Alaric kissed his father’s forehead and stood, he heard Baldric shout outside.”All hail King Althalos!”

Alaric slowly backed away from his father’s body, and bowed. Alaric then left the tent, his head spinning with what was left for him to undertake. He strode past Baldric, and the royal guards, to where his officers were assembling.
 
Again Baldric shouted, “All hail King Alaric, King of Amerul!”  With that, the gathering outside the royal tent all fell to one knee, clutching a fist to their chests.
 
Alaric almost dismissed this gesture, as he looked at his officers,. “Caine!” King Alaric called,” We need to send a message to Lord Hector at the Abbey of Mnemosyne with haste.”
 
“Consider it done Your Majesty,. I shall send Robin, our fastest and most trustworthy,” answered Caine, “What shall the message be?”
 
“Tell Lord Hector it is time, She must be returned!”